The quitter

Chapter I

A shaft of light from the late afternoon sun streamed through the window, filling the room with warm radiance and throwing into bold relief dull de¬ signs on the dark portieres. Tinged with the glory of the maple trees outside, it fell upon a great polar bear rug stretched in front of the fireplace, turning it a soft rose color, making a bright spot against the back¬ ground of the polished floor. It was a quiet, restful room, bookcases lining the walls on either side of a black onyx mantelpiece and in an alcove by the door¬ way a baby-grand piano, standing now with the cover over the keyboard closed and the piano stool pushed away underneath.

Craig Hallowell, nervously pacing to and fro, glanced at the clock for the hundredth time. What a terrible strain this day had been! Why didn’t the doctor come? This awful day, would it never end? The sun was sinking in the west, it was not yet over, no, x far from that, it had hardly begun. How many more hours . . .

Only last night Dora had sat there at the piano while they laughed together and she had played over some of those simple, foolish old songs. How she had laughed. Rarely in these latter months had she been in such spirits: radiant, he had thought her. And then that waking in the middle of the night. “Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she had assured him, but something in the drawn look of her face had told him that it was the great event: and the next thing the nurse, the doctor, all the rest of it, and then the long, long day of waiting. What a helpless hunk of humanity he was! If there was only something that he could do. Mrs. Coddins, dear old soul, had told him that he had better not re¬ main in the sick room and so he had wandered about the house from room to room, like a wild animal con¬ fined in a cage. He had tried to concentrate, to read, but the words before him meant nothing and he gave up in disgust. He took a short walk, too, and sud¬ denly getting into a panic, hurried home, his mind filled with vague alarm.

Flopping down on the big couch before the fire, he lit a fresh cigar. How many he had smoked since daylight . . . Good little Dora, were all women as brave as she? Did they all go through this hell, bear¬ ing children? What if something should happen now, some unforeseen thing, like those fearsome hap¬ penings old women talk about in whispers. The sweat broke out upon his brow.

Five years since they had been married. Was it pos¬ sible that it had been as long a time as that. And now they were to have a child, longed for blessing: how they had hoped . . .

He remembered that wedding day in golden June. She had always chaffed him about: “And don’t you re¬ member Kate Dow and her husband?” He did not. “But they were there, Craig. I believe that you were only half alive that day, for you did look scared to death.” And then, “Why, oh, why, did you hang those daisies all around the door in one straight line? I think it was the funniest thing I have ever seen. You were fussed, now weren’t you?” And he always ad¬ mitted with perfect sincerity that he had been. She carried everything before her, did Dora, she had fairly swept him off his feet and willed him to propose, happy and desirable thing; she had known him better than he knew himself, her intuition had been true, a love match, yes, surely it was that.

And they had prospered in those early years of mar¬ ried life, young things embarked on a great journey. What wonderful years they had been, the happiest of his life. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” True to old tradition, she had worn them. An optimist was Dora, a gay world through rose-tinted glasses, that was hers, and when he was down-hearted, blue or discouraged, well, you couldn’t stay that way very long with her around. How she could straighten out little problems, throw¬ ing upon them the light of her clear and simple logic. Lacking her, what would life hold . . .

ii

Maysville, that little New England town where they first met, had for them a glamour all its own. Miss Meiggs Select Seminary for Young Ladies, where, after the death of her parents, Dora had been sent by an austere, old aunt, became the gateway of true ro¬ mance. Young Craig, holding down a place at a board¬ ing school not many miles distant, was the gay cavalier. A high stone wall surrounded the seminary grounds and he counted the scaling of it as one of the great feats of his life. While prim Miss Meiggs left her young charges in the supposed seclusion of the gar¬ den, eager youths daily climbed the barrier and sat be¬ hind the hawthorn hedges looking into laughing girl¬ ish eyes, until the look-out, drawn by lot and posted with care, gave the danger signal. Then back over the wall they would go, helped out by the over-hanging branches of a friendly cherry tree. Thus it had begun for them in the happy golden days of youth, love’s young dream had come to them, love’s young dream . . .

Through his college days Dora remained in the com¬ parative seclusion of Aunt Agatha’s home in Hart¬ ford, where the old lady, believing in nothing of a later date than the early General Grant epoch, lived a life of stern refinement and awful culture. The two young people kept up a lively correspondence, see¬ ing each other at intervals, when Craig ran up from New Haven at the end of the week, as he did when¬ ever such a thing were possible, these visits depend¬ ing largely upon the state of his finances and Agatha’s moods. Once, as a special treat, Dora was allowed to go to a college prom, and those two days of freedom lingered long in memory.

“Sometimes I get very tired of it all,” she wrote back; “black satin is so terribly refined, you know. I mean it sort of stifles, smothers, and Aunty never wears anything else but black satin. I hate the rustle of it, it reminds me of dead people, funerals, sad, sad things, like the death of little children. And yet she is a dear, and way down deep in that old heart of hers, there is a spark, only she won’t let it start a blaze. She keeps everything hidden away, afraid someone will see her true self. Old age is pitiful, isn’t it?” And again, “You can’t guess how much your last visit meant to me, Craig. It was terribly sweet of you to come, and Aunty brightened up a whole lot. It cheered her poor soul; she does take life so seriously.”

But the brightening up was not because of Craig’s visit alone, for the sunshine in her young niece’s heart was penetrating that old husk. Dora’s irresistible gaiety, put to the test, slowly but surely won its way and the young Yale student, on his next visit, was sur¬ prised at the change.

'‘Your aunt, how did it happen? I never saw any-jj thing like it. Why, she’s actually wearing white mous-% seline de soie” |

Dora laughed, “Silly boy, it’s not mousseline de soie! Wherever did you get that idea? It’s crepe de chine and very daring for her. Tell her how well she looks in it, we’ll have her riding a bicycle yet!”

“Irresistible Dora,” thought Craig, “what a won¬ derful person you are!” And the wonderful person became even more wonderful as the months went by; the only person of his thoughts, all his hopes, all his ambitions, revolving about her. Yet, how could he ask her to marry him, what had he to offer? Pros¬ pects, yes; fair, as good as any man just leaving his university; as good, but no better than the average.

But it happened all the same, because it had to happen. Embarked on an engineering career in the big city, his loneliness was acute. No more week-end trips to Hartford; grind, just grind all day and sometimes far into the night. Sunday, a day to lie in bed and rest and try to gather strength for the next week. It was not easy and it was not much fun either.

There came a day when a member of his firm oblig¬ ingly died, obligingly he was buried on a Friday and the office closed until Monday morning. Scandalous thing, he attended the funeral with a light heart, never had he felt so gay. He almost smiled while the minis¬ ter read the service. When the four o’clock train pulled out of the Grand Central Station that afternoon, it carried one passenger who grinned on very slight provocation, who read the signs along the side of the track while whistling a tune, who chafed at every delay. . . .

“So you are lonesome in New York, are you?” said Dora. “How sorry I am for you.”

“And are you lonely here, now that I come up so seldom; are you? I don’t see why . . But he did not finish the sentence.

“Why don’t you get married?” Dora asked him frankly.

His mind wobbled a bit, there was a mist before his eyes, he clutched at his collar a moment.

“Will you? Do? Oh, gosh hang it, how happy I

In good time came that June day when at Aunt Agatha’s they were married. And Aunty cried a little and asked Craig to be very kind to her small niece. Then the honeymoon, granted by Craig’s employer, who was beginning to realize the true worth of his young college assistant.

“Don’t let’s live right in the awful city,” Dora had said.

So he rented a snug apartment in one of the suburbs, a cosy place, just big enough for two: and there they , came and settled down. How happy were those years^ that followed. Aunt Agatha, good soul, helped them out, though Craig protested vehemently.

“But she wants to do it,” Dora told him, “it gives her lots of pleasure, she hasn’t a chick or a child in the world now.”

He gave in, “Well, let her then.”

Engineering proved profitable. The great city spreading out on every side, building going on at all points of the compass, the university man used his modern ideas and new methods, bringing in the spirit of youth and progress. He was taken into the firm, his career had begun.

The third year of married life saw them moving into a house of their own design: a small but substantial dwelling with room in it for expansion. Prosperity, happiness, no clouds to mar their horizon, each day bringing with it something new of hope and joy . . .

He gazed at the fire, remembering all those years, how bright life seemed.

hi

The sun set and in the west lingered a last faint glow. The room now shrouded in darkness, save for the feeble light coming from the fireplace, suddenly oppressed him with its gloom. He felt utterly tired out, yet all day long he had been doing nothing. Poor little Dora ... he wondered if it would be long now. The front doorbell rang suddenly and, bounding from his chair, he met the doctor in the hall.

“Hello, you look all upset. . . .”

Craig stopped him with a glance. “Upset! Well, why shouldn’t I.”

Dean threw back his head and laughed.

“The first child. Yes, I know what that means. I’ve just delivered a mother of her ninth baby; wait until Mrs. Hallowell has had a few more.”

“Nine children, my God, that’s vulgar!”

“It’s getting to be, but I was the seventh in my family. Women were different in those days though.”

Mrs. Coddins appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Doctor, better come up right away,” she called anxiously.

IO

Dean put on his professional manner, picked up his little black satchel and quickly disappeared around the second floor landing.

Left alone, Craig peered after the retreating form. Was there ever a more complacent human being? Damn it; how sure he was of himself; nine chil¬ dren . . . squalling, dribbling kids. For a moment he stood there, vacantly gazing up the stairs, his brain a tumult. How quiet the house was . . . the very air seemed weighted down with something.

Returning to the library, he lit the lights, wondering why the maid hadn’t attended to that long ago. The house was awry, everything was upset with Dora laid low. He picked up a book and tried to concentrate, but the pages blurred and he flung it aside. From up¬ stairs came the muffled sound of voices, heavy foot¬ steps creaked across the floor. Someone was drawing water; you could hear it surge through the pipes; the pressure was much too strong, he must get the plumber to fix that; no sense in being wasteful, the bills were much too big. Only the other day Dora had spoken about it.

Sitting down at his desk he drew out a small pad and in a shaky hand wrote: “Have plumber fix water pressure.” Dora would not have written it that way, she would simply have said, “Water pressure,” writing in that firm thin hand of hers and if she had ii seen his memorandum, she would have chaffed about it: “Why add all the rest? You know what it means without it.” Her household lists were models of brev¬ ity. He drew a long curlique thingamajig on the bot¬ tom of the sheet, filling in the spaces with dead black and ending up with a grand flourish, then threw the whole thing in the waste paper basket.

Waiting, idling away time . . . everything possible had been done, the doctor was one of the best men in his profession, and Mrs Coddins was, well, just herself, admirable in every way. Dora had approached this thing with unusual calm. What courage these frail women had, inborn from the beginning of time. Dean had said to him once and the words came back to him now with stinging force: “If men bore our children, there would have been just one birth in the history of the world and the race would have stopped right there.” At the time he didn’t realize how true that was, but now after this long, long day, it was pregnant with meaning.

He felt wholly useless, beaten down, superfluous . . . And then from somewhere in the upper part of the house there came a strange, small cry, like a kitten it sounded, welling up it grew into a strong, plaintive wail.

IV

Standing in the door of the Holy of Holies, Craig blinked to accustom himself to the semi-darkness of the room. The air was full of the sickly fumes of chloroform.

"It’s a boy," beamed Mrs. Coddins. "Come in, come in and see your son."

Over the bed a bright light, shaded so as to reflect all the illumination downwards, was burning, and there the doctor crouched, in his hand a gleaming instrument.

"There, that’s all, Mrs. Hallowell,” he said, "and everything is as right as could be.”

From the pillow came a long drawn sigh, a white hand plucked at the comforter. Craig sank down be¬ side the bed.

"Dearest,” he whispered, "you are wonderful, it’s all over now, no more pain. . . .”

Dora choked a little. "Oh, I’m so happy! Did you hear it cry? Aren’t you glad you have a son? Oh, Craig!” he kissed her while feeble arms clung to him.

The nurse put her firm hand on his shoulder. "Bet¬ ter go now, she’s still a bit giddy from the chloroform. Doctor gave her just a whiff at the last. Come and see the baby.”

In a bassinet at the foot of the bed lay his young son and heir and as he gazed upon the specimen, very small, and very red, somehow his heart was filled with rebellion. So this was what had caused Dora all that anguish. On its back it kicked small feet straight up into the air, hands, no bigger than a penny, opened and shut. Then suddenly the grotesque face puckered up into a knot, and the wee mouth opened wide in a long drawn cry.

Craig’s eyes softened. “Homely little beggar,” he said half to himself.

“Homely, nonsense,” put in Mrs. Coddins, “he’s a beautiful baby, not very big, perhaps, but beautiful all the same.”

Craig said nothing. It was the first time that he had seen a newly born infant and it gave him a bit of a shock. He wondered at the old nurse’s idea of beauty: but, darn it all, the youngster was cute, no getting around that, and it seemed intelligent, too, wonderful instinct, probably it was crying because it was hungry. A bull in a china shop, he tip-toed past the bed, where his wife was sleeping, her light hair spread out over the pillow, a smile upon her lips.

“She will want to see you again in an hour or so,” Mrs. Coddins told him. “Poor dear!” And she pushed him out of the room, ambling back to croon over the baby.

Downstairs Dean met him, he extended his hand. “Hallowell, let me congratulate you.”

Craig, feeling very stiff and formal returned the handshake.

“Everything is absolutely normal,” said the doctor,

'‘no complications. She will be right as a trivet in no time. The child is a bit small and undernourished, but we can soon set that right You can get me if I’m needed at any time, but I’ll be in first thing in the morn¬ ing.” Picking up his hat and pulling on his coat: “Well, I’m off to attend another case. Good night!”

Craig opened the door for him and he passed out into the darkness. Was there ever a more business¬ like man. Another case . . . probably another baby. Nine children ... it was disgusting; nine, oh, the agony of it!

Into his refuge, the library, he went once more, when the maid coming softly in from the hallway, announced that dinner was ready. Pulling himself out of the deep reverie into which he had fallen, he sat down at the table, and, for the first time in his married life, ate his dinner alone.

Chapter II

At the end of a month, old Mrs. Coddins left. She was superseded by a raw-boned Irish girl, just gradu¬ ated from training school. Craig had secured her af¬ ter many consultations with Dora, helped out by advice from some half dozen of her friends, for it seemed that everybody in the world held different ideas on the subject.

“We can’t be too careful, you know,” his wife had said. “Freddy is a delicate child and these first few months mean so much.” He wondered where she had learned all this baby lore. “You see, I can’t nurse him, worse luck, so we need a very reliable person, one who has had experience.”

It proved to be experience, too, in more ways than one, for Delia was one of those well-meaning humans who go blundering along through life, smiling a sweet smile, but leaving in their wake a trail of small calamities.

“I guess I’ll have to mix the food myself,” Dora confided. “Nurse can’t seem to get the hang of it and you know what nights we have put in lately. I have only just found out that she hasn’t been making the formula up correctly.”

i6

“Good Lord, then why not get another woman!”

“No, I wouldn’t do that for the world. She’s a dear in some ways and the baby is just getting used to her.”

“Are you going to mix this stuff yourself? If you are, what on earth is she going to do?”

“Silly boy, she has her hands full and never com¬ plains about anything. She’s the best natured human being I have ever seen and you must acknowledge she means well.”

He said nothing, remembering lots of other people who meant well: one of them had wrecked a rival con¬ cern in his own line of business. He kept his opinions to himself, however; it was useless to argue with Dora about anything which concerned her child. He found that out in the first week. She felt herself all sufficient in so far as Freddy was concerned, asking advice, some¬ times, listening to it . . . sometimes, and then doing just as she thought best, throwing counsel to the winds. That attitude was characteristic of her, and it often fooled those who did not know her well; for to all out¬ ward appearances, she was a trusting little soul, one of those persons who need and crave guidance. As a matter of fact, she was thoroughly self-reliant.

ii

The baby slept in the same room with them, an¬ other of Dora’s ideas, though he could not for the life of him see why it was necessary, with the fat nurse be¬ ing paid for taking care of the child.

“She needs her rest,” his wife assured him, “she’s on her feet all day long . .

Craig, heating prepared food at three o’clock in the morning, felt the need of a little rest himself; the baby was crying, the slippery nipple refused to go over the neck of the bottle: somehow it exasperated him, so darn unnecessary, and fat Delia sound asleep. In the morn¬ ing he awoke with a headache and was out of sorts all day.

He saw very little of his son except at those awful parties in the wee small hours. At other times the youngster was either asleep or out with the nursemaid. From his limited acquaintance with Freddy, he found him a trying child and the picture that he got during those first few months was of a howling, red-faced mite, who apparently wanted to do nothing but suck con¬ tinually on a sticky bottle.

On Sundays, though, he did get a better impression. Dora would prop the young man up in his basket, pil¬ lows behind his head, in a way approved by all the au¬ thorities, and the baby would look around the room, big blue eyes wide open, gazing at a world all new and strange.

“Isn’t he a dear? See how knowing he is getting,” Dora said. “Why, yesterday, he turned his head and i8 looked at me when I came into the room.” And, gaz ¬ ing at them, he thought it the loveliest sight he had ever seen, and his boy, the noblest child in Christendom. Sitting there in the snug library with his family; it was hard to remember those wild gray mornings.

hi

“We ought to go out more,” he told his wife one evening. “Delia can be trusted to look after Freddy, can’t she? You’re stuck in the house too much and you are beginning to show it.”

Dora laid down her embroidery, coming over and sitting on the arm of his chair. “You are not chid¬ ing me, are you?” she asked.

“Chiding? Good Lord, no, I’m not doing that, only I don’t want to see you break down; really you don’t get much diversion these days, do you ?”

“That’s just like a man. Can’t you realize that baby is all the diversion I want? When people have children they have to sacrifice something.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “it does mean some sacrifice, but it doesn’t mean that we are never going out anywhere again, does it?”

She ran her thin hands slowly through his hair, a trick she had when she wanted to gain her point.

“Now don’t be foolish, he will be old before we know it and then we can do anything we want. Oh, but I hate to think of his growing up, he’s so sweet just as he is.”

“We hardly ever have a quiet moment together any more,” Craig persisted.

“Poor little man,” she teased, “and does he want some attention, does he think his wife is neglecting him? Well, he shan’t be lonesome any longer.” She threw her arms about his neck. He held her close. She trembled a little and her eyes grew moist.

“There, there,” he soothed, “now don’t be silly, I’m not complaining, only I think it’s for your own good.”

She was sobbing now, on his shoulder.

“I’m doing the best I know how. . . .”

“You’re all unstrung, I knew it. Can’t you see that this won’t do, you take it all so seriously. He’s go¬ ing to be a baby an awful while. Now if you had a really competent nurse . . .”

She sat up, drying her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

“Why do you always talk like that? You don’t realize what a treasure Delia is, I couldn’t get along with anyone else. You don’t understand, that’s all. . . ”

From upstairs came that thin cry.

“He’s awake, it’s his feeding time, I must go.”

He held her arm. “Let Delia do it,” he pleaded.

“Let me go, I’ll be back directly,” and she ran from the room, white skirts fluttering up the stairs.

Freddy cried for over an hour and when at last he slept, Dora was too worn out for anything but bed.

IV

Aunt Agatha came down from Hartford for a little visit and, with the old lady to take care of the baby, Dora consented to go out one evening. She left strict orders, however, that she wanted to be called instantly if needed. “We’re only going over to the Marchmands’, Aunty, it’s just a couple of blocks. This is the telephone number and here is the ice-box where we keep Freddy’s food and please be sure that Delia gives him his bottle at the proper time. Warm it to just the right temperature; you can test it by pouring a little on the back of your hand. It should be warm, not hot, and ...”

“Run along, child,” Agatha laughed. “Don’t you think I know how to take care of a baby? You go and forget all about him for a while. Have a good time, he’ll be all right.”

“But if you want me you will telephone, won’t you? I could be home in no time.”

Craig, waiting impatiently in the lower hall, won¬ dered what in the world was keeping his wife. She had been ready, he thought, hours ago.

“I say, Do,” he called, “aren’t you ever coming?”

“All right, dear, don’t be cross,” she said as she came downstairs, “Eve had an awful lot to do, going out like this and leaving Freddy all alone/’

She looked radiant, cheeks aglow, hair piled high on her pretty head, an evening wrap thrown over her slim shoulders. He kissed her.

“You look very sweet.”

“How do you like my dress?” she asked, throwing aside the cape, while he caught a glimpse of lace and silver.

“It’s beautiful,” and then in a lower voice, pinching her ear just a little, “and so are you.”

“I’m glad you approve. Somehow I feel all sort of frumpish, it’s so long since I have thought about myself.”

He laughed. “Why you look just as you always did. You haven’t changed any; having a baby doesn’t alter your whole life, does it? Why should you look any different ?”

“I don’t know, but I feel years older.”

“Nonsense, that’s just imagination!”

She drew on her long white gloves, surveying her reflection in the hall mirror.

“It’s raining,” Craig said, “so I got a cab; no use getting those little satin slippers all wet.”

“You extravagant boy, a cab to go that distance.”

“Well, we don’t go out very often these days, might as well do things up properly when we do.”

Inside the cab he drew her to him. “It’s nice to be alone, isn’t it?”

“Yes, dear, it is, but please don’t muss my hair; I was hours doing it and it doesn’t look a bit as it should, even now.”

v

Rain pouring down out of a leaden sky as the horse ambled along over slippery asphalt. They turned a corner and stopped in front of the Marchmand home. It was ablaze with light.

“Why, they have a canopy up and everything!” Dora said gaily as they alighted at the curb.

Jimmy Marchmand met them in the hall.

“Hello, I am glad you two were able to come. Rotten night, isn’t it? We have hardly seen you at all lately, you’re so occupied with that little son of yours.”

He whisked Dora off to the long drawing room, where they were swallowed up in a whirl of dancers.

Craig, standing in the doorway, watched them. He cared little for dancing and was not very clever at the new steps, then coming into vogue. March¬ mand and Dora swept by. How pretty she looked— he wondered if she was going to have a good time. She was talking to her partner at a great rate. Jimmy always had a way of bringing Dora out.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and turning, looked into the face of Don Walden, his old college chum.

“Craigie, old boy, aren’t you enjoying it?” said Don. “To tell the truth, I don’t take an awful lot of interest in this Turkey Trotting stuff myself; strikes me as a bit vulgar. What is it, but a chance for a man and woman to squeeze each other in public?”