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to talk despondently about missionaries.
One of Ours 89
"I could go to her," he complained, "but what good would that do? I'm not in sympathy with her ideas, and it
would only fret her. You can see she's made her mind up not to come home. I don't believe in one people
trying to force their ways or their religion on another. I'm not that kind of man." He sat looking at his cigar.
After a long pause he broke out suddenly, "China has been drummed into my ears. It seems like a long way to
go to hunt for trouble, don't it? A man hasn't got much control over his own life, Claude. If it ain't poverty or
disease that torments him, it's a name on the map. I could have made out pretty well, if it hadn't been for
China, and some other things.... If Carrie'd had to teach for her clothes and help pay off my notes, like old
man Harrison's daughters, like enough she'd have stayed at home. There's always something. I don't know
what to say about showing these letters to Enid."
"Oh, she will have to know about it, Mr. Royce. If she feels that she ought to go to Carrie, it wouldn't be right
for me to interfere."
Mr. Royce shook his head. "I don't know. It don't seem fair that China should hang over you, too."
When Claude got home he remarked as he handed Enid the letters, "Your father has been a good deal upset by
this. I never saw him look so old as he did today."
Enid studied their contents, sitting at her orderly little desk, while Claude pretended to read the paper.
"It seems clear that I am the one to go," she said when she had finished.
"You think it's necessary for some one to go? I don't see it."
"It would look very strange if none of us went," Enid replied with spirit.
"How, look strange?"
"Why, it would look to her associates as if her family had no feeling."
"Oh, if that's all!" Claude smiled perversely and took up his paper again. "I wonder how it will look to people
here if you go off and leave your husband?"
"What a mean thing to say, Claude!" She rose sharply, then hesitated, perplexed. "People here know me better
than that. It isn't as if you couldn't be perfectly comfortable at your mother's." As he did not glance up from
his paper, she went into the kitchen.
Claude sat still, listening to Enid's quick movements as she opened up the range to get supper. The light in the
room grew greyer. Outside the fields melted into one another as evening came on. The young trees in the yard
bent and whipped about under a bitter north wind. He had often thought with pride that winter died at his front
doorstep; within, no draughty halls, no chilly corners. This was their second year here. When he was driving
home, the thought that he might be free of this house for a long while had stirred a pleasant excitement in him;
but now, he didn't want to leave it. Something grew soft in him. He wondered whether they couldn't try again,
and make things go better. Enid was singing in the kitchen in a subdued, rather lonely voice. He rose and went
out for his milking coat and pail. As he passed his wife by the window, he stopped and put his arm about her
questioningly.
She looked up. "That's right. You're feeling better about it, aren't you? I thought you would. Gracious, what a
smelly coat, Claude! I must find another for you."
Claude knew that tone. Enid never questioned the rightness of her own decisions. When she made up her
mind, there was no turning her. He went down the path to the barn with his hands stuffed in his trousers
One of Ours 90
pockets, his bright pail hanging on his arm. Try again--what was there to try? Platitudes, littleness,
falseness.... His life was choking him, and he hadn't the courage to break with it. Let her go! Let her go when
she would!... What a hideous world to be born into! Or was it hideous only for him? Everything he touched
went wrong under his hand--always had.
When they sat down at the supper table in the back parlour an hour later, Enid looked worn, as if this time her
decision had cost her something. "I should think you might have a restful winter at your mother's," she began
cheerfully. "You won't have nearly so much to look after as you do here. We needn't disturb things in this
house. I will take the silver down to Mother, and we can leave everything else just as it is. Would there be
room for my car in your father's garage? You might find it a convenience."
"Oh, no! I won't need it. I'll put it up at the mill house," he answered with an effort at carelessness.
All the familiar objects that stood about them in the lamplight seemed stiller and more solemn than usual, as if
they were holding their breath.
"I suppose you had better take the chickens over to your mother's," Enid continued evenly. "But I shouldn't
like them to get mixed with her Plymouth Rocks; there's not a dark feather among them now. Do ask Mother
Wheeler to use all the eggs, and not to let my hens set in the spring."
"In the spring?" Claude looked up from his plate.
"Of course, Claude. I could hardly get back before next fall, if I'm to be of any help to poor Carrie. I might try
to be home for harvest, if that would make it more convenient for you." She rose to bring in the dessert.
"Oh, don't hurry on my account!" he muttered, staring after her disappearing figure.
Enid came back with the hot pudding and the after-dinner coffee things. "This has come on us so suddenly
that we must make our plans at once," she explained. "I should think your mother would be glad to keep Rose
for us; she is such a good cow. And then you can have all the cream you want."
He took the little gold-rimmed cup she held out to him. "If you are going to be gone until next fall, I shall sell
Rose," he announced gruffly.
"But why? You might look a long time before you found another like her."
"I shall sell her, anyhow. The horses, of course, are Father's; he paid for them. If you clear out, he may want to
rent this place. You may find a tenant in here when you get back from China." Claude swallowed his coffee,
put down the cup, and went into the front parlour, where he lit a cigar. He walked up and down, keeping his
eyes fixed upon his wife, who still sat at the table in the circle of light from the hanging lamp. Her head, bent
forward a little, showed the neat part of her brown hair. When she was perplexed, her face always looked
sharper, her chin longer.
"If you've no feeling for the place," said Claude from the other room, "you can hardly expect me to hang
around and take care of it. All the time you were campaigning, I played housekeeper here."
Enid's eyes narrowed, but she did not flush. Claude had never seen a wave of colour come over his wife's pale,
smooth cheeks.
"Don't be childish. You know I care for this place; it's our home. But no feeling would be right that kept me
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