The first part of autumn was as dry as summer. The long drought continued until well into October. Then, about the fifteenth, the heavens opened.
After three days, when the falling wall of water did not show any signs of thinning, the river began to rise. It rose within a foot or two of its banks, a phenomenon never seen in that generation. The country folk became uneasy; they stood in thick groups about the river, watching the muddy and rushing waters with deep gloom. If it kept on, there would be a flood. The late crops were already being destroyed; down the valley there were reports of lost cattle, where the river had risen higher.
And still it rained, and still the river rose. There were reports from distant places that houses were being swept from their foundations. All the bridges had become unsafe; only the one at Big Bend, between the valley and Whitmore, was showing no signs of weakness. And then, after two weeks, all the bridges but that one went down, the lower valley was flooded, scores of cattle were lost, and there were several deaths reported in isolated parts of the valley.
Even when the rain stopped the streams continued to rise, swollen, red-brown, ferocious; trees sent bridges thundering down, swept whole herds to death, and spread a watery desolation over two-thirds of the valley. Each day brought reports of other deaths, of children and old people, and even of strong men and young women.
John Hobart suffered the least. His lower acres were inundated, but two-thirds of his land was still above water, and there had been no threat to his home. The house was situated on rising land; though from the windows, to the east, could be seen shining breadths of water where green fields had been. At night they could hear the distant thundering of the river, but they knew they were safe.
The Hobarts, the Brownlows, the Kings, the Holbrooks, and the MacKensies escaped most of the general destruction, as did another half-dozen families. But for the rest, there was only bereavement and ruin.
Everyone lent his hand, his home, and his fires to aid the sufferers. Personal differences went down before common sympathy as the land and the bridges had gone down before the flood. But for a few days John Hobart did nothing.
Then one night he came to Margaret, who was sewing before the fires as her two little boys played on the hearth. He came in, muddy and tired, his boots squishing water on the clean rugs. Gregory rose up with a shout at the sight of his father, struggled on his short legs to him, his hands outstretched. But Dickie merely glanced up idly, then leaned against his mother’s knee. She laid a gentle hand on his head, and they smiled at each other.
John’s tired face lit with a fond smile as Gregory clung to his great legs, than he swung the child up in his arms. Gregory sat on his shoulder, and, carrying the child so, John approached his wife.
“Maggie,” he said abruptly. “Aunt Betsy’s movin’ in here tonight. I’m turnin’ the old house over to the folks that need it. ’Bout three, four families. They ain’t got no place to go, and everybody else’s crowded. So, you’d better get out any blankets you can spare, and vittles and coal oil, and look down in the cellar and see what you got that can go over there. Jack and I and the other fellows’ll carry them over right away. The folk’ll be here in a minit or two; a whole hay wagon full of ’em.”
Margaret continued to sew for a few moments; then she put her work on the table beside her and rose. She looked directly into John’s eyes; her lips had whitened.
“I have nothing to give these—people, John,” she said calmly. “Nothing.”
He stared at her as though he had not heard right. Then dark color rushed into his face, and he sputtered, “What’s that? What’s that you say, Maggie? You ain’t got nothin’? That’s a lie. We’ve got enough for fifty people, a hundred people. We’ve got—”
“We’ve got—nothing,” said Margaret. Her voice was very quiet, but she was ashen. “I’ve got nothing for them. Not a crust of bread, not a blanket. I won’t have them here. I won’t lift my hand for them. You can do what you want with them, keep them, turn them out to starve or rot. I’ll have nothing to do with them.”
In spite of her quietness there was something so violent in her manner that John turned cold. He let Gregory slip out of his arms; he took Margaret’s arm in his strong fingers, held her close to him
“Do you know what you’re sayin’? Before God, I don’t believe it! Turn those folks away? Not give them somethin’ to eat? Not put a roof over ’em? Folks that’ve lost every damn thing in the world? Everybody’s taken in all they can. They can’t take no more. Do you understand that, Maggie? Are you sick—in the head?”
She pulled her arm from him, sprang back a step and faced him. All the accumulated hatred of the years, rushed out upon her face.
“You fool!” she cried. “How could I expect you to understand? Don’t you know I’ve waited all my life for just this minute? I’ve hoped for a chance to do just this, to have them coming begging at my door, and then to turn them away. I’ve watched them watching me, hoping in their black hearts that something would happen to me, something that would leave me at their mercy. But now they’re at my mercy. And I’m going to show them none.”
John seemed more aghast at her manner and her words than he did at their meaning. Was this Maggie, this halfwild creature with bloodless lips and glaring eyes? He was terrified. He took her by the shoulders, shook her a little.
“Maggie, you ain’t well,” he said hoarsely. “Maggie, darling, sit down. There now, sit down just a minit, and listen to me. What’s wrong with you? Somethin’ botherin’ you? Got that pain in your head again? Maggie, look at me. Honey, stop that shiverin’ and look at me. Look, Maggie, want me to send for ole Dr. Brewster? I’ll send the trap for him—”
She shook off his hands. She pushed her hair from her forehead. She shook her head jerkily.
“Oh, what’s the use, anyway?” she sobbed dryly. “Leave me alone, John. You couldn’t understand. You always were stupid. You never understood, nor cared, what I thought about you. You never cared to know how I’ve hated you all this time, dreaded the sight of you, wanted to run from you. You’ve done only what you wanted to do; you never cared to ask what I wanted to do. And now, when you’ve got a chance to help me you ask me if I’m sick! Yes, I am—sick. Sick of you, sick of all these people, sick of everything. I only want to get away from you.”
John stood before the fire, staring at Margaret, his hands hanging slack at his sides. His eyes were empty, his face the color of wet clay. The little boys began to whimper. A long silence fell, broken only by the sound of the dropping coals and the distant creak of a heavily loaded cart. Margaret did not look at her husband; her head had fallen back against the chair; her eyes were closed. But in the firelight he could see the throb of the pulse in her white throat. She looked exhausted and infinitely broken.
John felt as if his whole world had fallen about him with an enormous crash. He turned from his wife; he was swallowing hard. He put a hand on the mantelpiece, supported himself by it. He seemed to sag.
“They’re here, John,” said Miss Betsy from the doorway. “I’ve sent the girls to look for things, and you’d better call the men and have them taken over to the house.”
Very slowly John turned to her. His aunt stood in the doorway, a black shawl about her head and shoulders, the wool glistening with drops of water. Though her controlled expression did not change, her eyes were bitter with compassion. How long she had been there, how much she had heard, neither husband nor wife knew. The children stood on the hearth, side by side, staring.
“All right, Aunt Betsy,” said John heavily. He looked for a moment at Margaret; she did not stir. “All right,” he repeated. His step, as he went toward his aunt, was slow and heavy, as though he had suddenly become old. When he had gone, Miss Betsy stood there and looked at Margaret. Then she too slowly went out.
After a long while Margaret sat upright. She began to sob. The tears rushed over her cheeks. She struck her hands together. She sobbed for several minutes without control. Something ached in her chest and she did not understand it.
John worked for hours among the families in the old house and Miss Betsy worked with him. Lights glowed from every window; a lamp was set in the attic where three men and six boys were bedded. Margaret was left alone in the deserted house with the two children; she put them to bed. Little Gregory fell asleep immediately, his fist in his cheek, but Margaret knelt beside Dickie’s bed and held his hand. The child watched her gravely in the dim light. She held his hand suddenly against her breast.
“Oh, Dickie, Dickie!” she whispered. “If I could only talk to you! Dickie, I’ll take you away from here!”
“Yes, Mamma,” said Dickie, uncomprehending.
“I’m going to protect you!” she whispered fiercely. And then it seemed to her that a cold and detached voice asked: “From what?” She stood up, puzzled. From what? She could see the lights of the old house through the window, could see the passing shadows of those who were making the refugees comfortable. She pulled the shutters closed against the night and went from the room.
Downstairs she sat before the fire. She tried fo sew, to read, but could not. The clock chimed nine, then ten. John had not returned. She went up to her room. The hearth was gray with ashes. She built a fire, shivering in the dank chill, and then sat before it.
She had fallen asleep in her chair when she heard the door open and John come in. She did not turn to him, though the painful throbbing had begun in her chest again. She knew that he stood for a long time, watching her. Then he went to his chest of drawers and began to pull blankets from it.
“Those are the only ones left, John,” she said sharply. He continued to pull bedding, from the drawer for several moments before he answered. He did not look at her.
“I want them for myself,” he said expressionlessly. “I’m movin’ over to the bedroom across the hall.”
She stood up; her right temple began to pound and she put up her hand to stop it.
“You mean—you’re going to sleep over there tonight?”
“Yes. And every other night.”
She stared at him. He looked exhausted and dirty. She took a step toward him, then stopped. She pressed her hands together and swallowed.
“It’s cold and unaired over there, John. We haven’t used it since Greg was born. Wait, I’ll get sheets for you, and some fresh pillows—”
“I don’t want you to do nothin’ for me—ever,” he said.
He clutched the blankets in his arms and started toward the door on stumbling feet.
“John!” she cried. “Wait, just a minute. John, I’m—sorry for what I said to you tonight! I—I didn’t really mean it. Please believe me. I was—just that I hate them so that I wanted to hurt you as you were hurting me, helping them. Please try to understand!”
He stood with his back to her for a long moment; she did not know that she was crying desperately, but it seemed to her that she must stop him at all costs, that if he went out of the room something would be lost to her for all time. When he dropped the blankets on the floor and turned slowly to her, her relief was so great that she sobbed loudly. But his face was still heavy and drained.
“I don’t understand you, Maggie.” His voice was emotionless. “It wasn’t long ago, before Dickie was born, when you wanted me to let young Townsend have more time on account of his six kids. Remember that? You was always doin’ somethin’ for the no-accounts in Pine Hollow. And then, when I bring these folks to the old house, you raise a row.
“Now, wait a minit. I’m agoin’ to do the talkin’ for a few minits. I’v got a lot to say to you, Mag, and might’s well say it now and have it over. I’ve wanted to for a long time, and I’m agoin’ to say them now.
“You hate all the folks hereabouts. You got your reasons. I ain’t in love with ’em, either. But that don’t mean I can’t be friends with ’em. I can’t go all my life with everybody against me. T’aint only the business side of it, either. I wondered for a long time why they ran away when they saw me, but, now I know. It was because of you. And now I know I can’t have things like that: I got kids to think of. This is their home, and they’ll want friends. Besides, it ain’t healthy, no matter how much money you’ve got, to have everybody’s hand against you. I can’t let my kids grow up where every breath they take in their lungs is full of pizen. No, ma’am!
“I don’t go around with my heart bleedin’ over the trouble folks get into on account of their own damfoolishness. But, when somethin’ like this happens, like this here flood, it ain’t nobody’s fault. And everybody’s got to help. It’s just plain human decency.
“They got young uns in there, like mine. Young uns that ain’t been eatin’ regular. Aunt Betsy’s over there now, takin’ care of one that mightn’t live until mornin’. I looked at them kids, and I thought, what if they was mine? If you’d any of that heart I thought you used to have, you’d be over there, too.
“But all these things tonight just made me realize that they wasn’t nothin’ in themselves. They just made me sort of realize what’s wrong between you and me. What’s always been wrong. I always knew you had funny ideas that wasn’t connected with real livin’, but I thought you sort of loved me, underneath. And so, I held on, standin’ lots of things no other man’d stand from his woman.
“But now I know that things’ll never be any better. You wouldn’t let ’em be better. You’ve got somethin’ in you that’d never let you be happy, and wouldn’t let you let anybody else be happy. What it is I don’t know. And somehow, now, I don’t care. That’s somethin’ you got to get over yourself, or die in. It’s—it’s a sort of spell on you.
“I didn’t think you hated me. But I saw it in your eyes tonight. I didn’t need any of your words. I saw it plainly.
“And so we can’t be a man and his woman any more. T’aint my doin’; it’s yours. You’ll go on makin’ a misery for yourself, but, by God! you ain’t goin’ to make a misery for me and the young uns no more! I’m agoin’ to see to that, myself.
“You ain’t got any kin, there ain’t a soul that’ll take you in. If there was, I’d say to you, ‘Go away, where you won’t have to see me, pore soul, and where you’d have your sickness by yourself.’ But, you ain’t got nobody. So, I want you to stay here; I won’t ever bother you agin.
“I’m sorry for you, Maggie. Right sorry. Livin’ here all these years in your misery when you might’ve been happy, if it wasn’t for your own self. You miss a lot, Maggie. You used to like to run around and sit on the hills; seemed like you was part of them, part of everythin’ that growed, and I loved you for it. You’ve lost that, too.
“Seems like only God can help you. I can’t. I tried. T’wasn’t any use. And that’s all I got to say.”
He looked at her steadily. For the first time she saw compassion and real, impersonal grief in his eyes. While he had been speaking it seemed to her that the conflagration within herself had grown to terrible proportions, that she was being consumed in it. She could not endure the anguish of it. Worse, she did not understand it. She wanted to cry out to him: “John! Don’t leave me! I’ll die if you leave me!” But she could not. There were so many things clamoring in her to be said, but now that they had become articulate she was only terrified, dumfounded. She made herself speak, and loathed herself for the words.
“You thought I didn’t know, John, but I’ve known for three weeks that Bill King came back, that’s he’s staying with his folks until they get out in the spring. And you never said anything to him—”
He looked at her for a long moment before replying. Then he smiled sadly.
“Maggie, that wasn’t what you wanted to say. Perhaps, one of these days, you’ll say it to me. But until you do, we won’t be seein’ much of each other. All I can do is wait. Good night.”
He picked up his blankets and went out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
For a long time Margaret stood where he had left her, in the center of the room. She stared at the closed door. It was as if a part of her had run out after John, screaming wordlessly.
Finally she flung herself across the bed, limp, and deadened. When dawn came into the cold room, she was still lying there, fully clothed, in a deep sleep of exhaustion, her hair strewn about her.