CHAPTER TEN

"_When You Have Been Grass-Widowed, It's Different_"

"Oh, is it Mr. Wyeth? How-do, Mr. Wyeth. Come right in and be seated. I shall be in presently." Whereupon, for the fraction of a second, Miss Palmer gave him a smile that was bewitching.

It was Sunday, and a beautiful cool day in July. A rain had fallen the night before, which made the air cool and radiant. Just a day for an outing. To go forth into the forest on a day like this, in company with the lady of his choice, was a pleasure all men could wish. And to go forth today, to the forest about Effingham, which could be seen from almost any part of the city, was, to say the least, a treat. From the summit of any of the many points, the observer could gaze down full upon all that makes Effingham.

And it was for such a purpose that Sidney Wyeth called upon Miss Annie Palmer that day.

Miss Palmer had been good to him. And he, a man of experience and adversities, was not the kind of man to be indifferent to her courtesy. And, besides, Miss Palmer was fairly well endowed with the art of making it pleasant. Especially was this so when it happened to be a young man who had captivated her, and, apparently, without any effort on his part.

It is said that curiosity is the inspiration of invention, and that women, although with no great record as inventors, cannot stand to be held in doubt. Sidney Wyeth had aroused Miss Palmer. It was whispered that other men had done so before, but no one spoke ill of Miss Palmer. It was so told here and there that she desired to marry. Miss Palmer found it difficult to keep Sidney out of her thoughts; daily, hourly and, sometimes she sighed, it seemed minutely. So, when he had suggested an outing, she had accepted with all the grace of which she was capable. It had been arranged for this day. She had worked hard every day preceding it, and had sold a number of books. As we now know, Miss Palmer was the mother of a very young son, and she had always had to work to care for him, herself, and her mother, who was somewhat of an invalid. Perhaps this was the best excuse Miss Palmer had for not having remarried. It was a plausible one, no one could deny. It sufficed to arouse sympathy for her, and she had many friends who unhesitatingly spoke of her in such terms.

"Miss Palmer has a hard time," said one.

"What kind of a deal--that is, what kind of a husband was the man she married?"

"A half white nigga from Ohio, whose parents made him mistreat her, because she was not brighter in color. They never forgave him for marrying anything but a 'high yellow.' So they, through their treatment of her, snubbing her whenever they could, simply broke them up. She was a good girl," so everybody said about Miss Palmer, "and she worked night and day to help him, but he drank. His parents kept up the game of spoiling him, even after he was the father of her child. So, in the end, when there was nothing else for her to do, she had asked for, and was duly granted a divorce. That ended it. The school board, although they were overrun with applications from multitudes of colored girls, to teach in the city schools (because teaching is about the only thing they can get to do to make some money and a living for themselves), had reinstated her, and she went back to teaching, after four years of unhappy married life."

It was thus Sidney Wyeth had found her. Miss Palmer was a human being with a heart that cried silently for the love of a man, as all other women's hearts do, who happen not to be so fortunate as to have one. She had been to school, and graduated from a normal academy, that taught English as far as it goes, and, likewise, compelled the girls to learn how to cook, sew and save. Miss Palmer was mistress in all these arts, and some more. It was her delight to show them by a demonstration, whenever she could. She had proven all this to Sidney Wyeth, and he had thought it practical in her. He had said as much, but he would have said as much to any other, no doubt. And of the many good things we now know of Miss Palmer, let us not forget that she was selfish to a degree.

Unfortunately, many of us are. But when Miss Palmer became the recipient of such kind words from the lips of this man of mystery, for as such she regarded him, and believed it, she was subtly delighted. So she had done all she could as a saleswoman of the book she was positive he had written, to prove further her ability to help him. (?) Today they would be all alone, together. She had looked forward to the same with all the anxiety of the anxious, and the day had come at last. And such a day!

She dressed in her best for the occasion. We shall not attempt to describe her; but when she appeared at the end of an hour, she was a delight to observe. "Indeed!" exclaimed Wyeth frankly, "I didn't know you could look so well!"

"Why are you flat?" she complained, with a frown; and then she added softly: "You could be otherwise."

"We will catch the Tidewater and get off at Jewell Junction, and take the Relay. That will take us to the summit of Baldin Knob. From there you can see everything this state possesses for fifteen miles," she said, as they walked cheerfully in the direction of the car line.

Never had either experienced such a delightful ride, as the heavy tidewater cars gave them that morning. The Relay unloaded them forty minutes later at the highest peak of which the Red Mountains boast. Below lay Effingham, the iron city, a medley of smoke and many little points. Only the blast of the furnaces, and the heavy smoke they belched forth, met their gaze, as they saw it now. It seemed hardly possible that it was a city of so many thousands, it seemed so small at this distance. A mass of uneven timber appeared all about and below them, and far away were a thousand peaks. Broken by hundreds of ravines and draws, that split and tore the mighty range, they saw the city beyond. A dull haze as of Indian summer hung in the distance, as their gaze sought the horizon.

Then they walked down a slope to a spot they had seen. She stepped on a rock that lay buried beneath many leaves, and turned her ankle so severely, that he feared it had been sprained. It hadn't; but, as a precaution, he took her arm, and that, perforce, brought them closer together. Thus they walked, until, at the foot of a pine, lay a fallen tree conveniently. They sat themselves thereon, and, leaning their backs against the tree, for a minute, possibly more, they heard their own breathing.

After saying many things that meant nothing, she said:

"Now, you are going to tell me all about yourself today, aren't you?" She ended this beautifully, and waited likewise. His reply was not gallant, if such it could be; but he merely added:

"There is little to tell, Miss Palmer--so little, I'm sure telling it would be dull for you to listen to."

"You have beautiful ways of saying anything," she said, and gave him her best smile. He looked at her now, but without any apparent enthusiasm. His smile was a little tired and weary and sad. Very often he was this way.

"Do you know," Miss Palmer now said, "you have impressed me wonderfully."

"I didn't, I'm sure; but you are complimentary." He was now a mite more cheerful. "In what way, I beg, have I impressed you? In that I can sell books?"

"I don't mean that, and you know I do not," she pouted. "And you can be so innocent, when you want to be. Oh, you are artful. But I mean, if I must say it and then explain why, there is something about you that is unusual. You are in disguise, going through the country studying people, yes, people and what they are, have been and are likely to be." She was thoughtful now, as she sat in serious mood for some time. Presently, she said:

"I've been reading that book, and, of course, I understand you better. Is all that you say in it true?" She was serious now, and anxious too. She waited eagerly for him to speak.

He laughed. Then he said nothing in the affirmative, but indulged in words concerning other topics.

"You are more than a book agent. You have, at least, been a man of means. Really, I would be pleased to know from your own lips," she now sighed.

"I wish we could talk of something else, that would be more interesting. Cannot you suggest something?" he turned to her now appealingly.

"I cannot. Yourself is the most interesting thing I care to talk about. I have been thinking of the terrible secret you disclose in the book. Won't you please tell me if it is all true?"

"I suppose if _the_ book is published as a true story, then it must be so," he said evasively.

"And she was a weak woman. No strength and conviction; nothing to protect a home. You and she will not remain as you are, will you?" Silence. "There is nothing the matter with you--and her. I sympathize with _this fellow_." Miss Palmer was more serious now. "Because, apparently, he wanted, tried to do the right thing, and was not allowed.... I know somebody else that wished to do likewise, and was not allowed.... Life is a strange thing, isn't it?"

"Indeed so," he agreed.

"And on this pilgrimage you study the lives of others, many others, and it reveals so much to you that would, could not be possible, otherwise?"

He agreed with her again.

"And on this pilgrimage you have met _women_, and you have studied them and their way of seeing things?"

"Possibly. They are all in the same category."

"Yes; but somebody said: 'I bet that fellow has _so_ many girls!' I didn't agree with them. I don't think you have any; you are too preoccupied to give them serious thought. Perhaps that is why the girl allowed herself to be taken away...."

He now looked at her. His lips, for one moment, had started to speak, and then he seemed to think better of it, and said nothing.

"Everyone I sell the book to cries when they have read it: 'If I had been that fellow, I'd have kicked that old preacher into Hades.' It's what you tell in the last part of the book that arouses the people. But they all think _he_ acted with poor judgment in the end; but if _he_ hadn't allowed that to come to pass, I would never have known you." Miss Palmer was tantalizing.

"Out in this _Rosebud Country_, of which the story is told, are there no colored people?"

"None."

"I should think it would be dreadfully lonesome."

"Why so? The white people are kind and sociable."

"Yes, but I would prefer my kind. Still, I suppose if one lived there and had their all there, it would be different."

"Yes," he agreed, "it would be different."

"You will, no doubt, marry one of the many girls you meet before you return, and then live happily ever afterwards."

"That is nice to listen to. Nice girls, that is, girls who are willing to sacrifice to an end that would help both, are, to say the least, hard to find."

"Yes, in a sense; but there are plenty. And all want husbands. Of course, when you have been widowed, grass-widowed, it's different...."

"Well, yes; but I see no reason, if she is the right kind of girl, why she cannot re-marry and be happy in the end."

"Oh, you don't," she essayed. "Well, there is. A woman is never regarded as the same. The looks she gets are not like the ones bestowed upon her when she, or before she married. They are looks--looks that are not honest," she sighed. He was silent.

"And the men are the cause of it. All of it. Sometimes I hate men."

He saw her now, calmly. She was uneasy under the look he gave her. And then he was silent again. She went on:

"Of course, there are some that are different. Yourself, for instance."

"In what way?"

"So many I hardly like to say. So unassuming, for one. And then you--oh I won't say it."

"Please do."

"Not until you have told me more about yourself. Has it occurred to you that you have told me nothing, absolutely nothing about yourself?" She was looking at him now. He winced.

"Of course, if a woman is--is--well, easy enough to go into the mountains and on an outing with the man--a man who has told her nothing of himself, then, it--he cannot be censured." She watched a pine squirrel now that played near, and who regarded them out of eyes that made Miss Palmer feel guilty.

"You are like a stone wall when it comes to secrets. Did you ever really love anyone?"

"Yes."

"Oh, you don't mean it!" she cried in feigned surprise. "Who was it?"

"You would be no wiser if I told you."

At this moment, a blast in a mine near, which they did not see, went off. It broke the silence so sharply, that both sat quickly upright. In doing so, their hands met. His clasped hers. In a moment the tension was released, but the hands were not. Slowly their hands clasped each others tighter. He was in some way conscious of the fact, while she was dreamy. He looked by chance into her eyes, and they were more dreamy still. Their shoulders touched. She sat at his left, and it happened singularly to be his right hand that held hers. In that moment they seemed to feel lonely, very lonely. Both had suffered--and, to a degree, their suffering had been similar. To give up and to be human, unconventionally so for just a little while, seemed a mad desire. She swayed perceptibly. Suddenly his left arm stole about her waist and encircled her body. Mechanically he looked down, and into her eyes, that were upturned. They seemed to tell the secret behind. To be loved for one minute was what they asked. He lingered a moment, and then his head went down. When it had retained its former position and was erect, he had kissed Miss Palmer.

He was standing now, and was looking down upon Effingham. It lay silent and gray from where he saw it. In that moment he wanted to be back there. He felt guilty. He turned and beheld Miss Palmer. He felt more guilty than before. She lay against the tree with her face turned the other way. He felt very sorry for her then. Yes, Miss Palmer would, he believed, do the right thing. _She would be glad_ to do the right thing. Oh, she had had her troubles. And Sidney Wyeth knew that when people had suffered, especially when it had been their great ambition to do the right thing and be happy, they would go through eternity to make happiness possible. He spoke now.

"Don't you think we had better be going, Miss Palmer?" She heard him, and his voice was kind, she thought. She rose, and together they went back over the hill and caught the Relay.