A CRYING NEED
"Lovest thou me?" said the Fair Ladye;
And the Lover he said, "Yea!"
"Then climb this tree--for my sake," said she, "And climb it every day!"So from dawn till dark he abrazed the bark And wore his clothes away;Till, "What has this tree to do with thee?"The Lover at last did say.
It was a poor dinner.Cold in the first place, because Isabel would wait to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another dress.She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown, specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably.
Isabel was never a cook.In the many servantless gaps of domestic life in Orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the Porne household.
"Dear," said Mr.Porne, "might I petition to have the steak less cooked?
I know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?""I'm sorry," she answered, "I always forget about the steak from one time to the next.""Yet we've had it three times this week, my dear.""I thought you liked it better than anything," she with marked gentleness."I'll get you other things--oftener.""It's a shame you should have this to do, Isabel.I never meant you should cook for me.Indeed I didn't dream you cared so little about it.""And I never dreamed you cared so much about it," she replied, still with repression."I'm not complaining, am I? I'm only sorry you should be disappointed in me.""It's not _you,_ dear girl! You're all right! It's just this everlasting bother.Can't you get _anybody_ that will stay?"I can't seem to get anybody on any terms, so far.I'm going again, to-morrow.Cheer up, dear--the baby keeps well--that's the main thing."He sat on the rose-bowered porch and smoked while she cleared the table.
At first he had tried to help her on these occasions, but their methods were dissimilar and she frankly told him she preferred to do it alone.
So she slipped off the silk and put on the gingham again, washed the dishes with the labored accuracy of a trained mind doing unfamiliar work, made the bread, redressed at last, and joined him about nine o'clock.
"It's too late to go anywhere, I suppose?" he ventured.
"Yes--and I'm too tired.Besides--we can't leave Eddie alone.""O yes--I forget.Of course we can't."
His hand stole out to take hers."I _am_ sorry, dear.It's awfully rough on you women out here.How do they all stand it?""Most of them stand it much better than I do, Ned.You see they don't want to be doing anything else.""Yes.That's the mischief of it!" he agreed; and she looked at him in the clear moonlight, wondering exactly what he thought the mischief was.
"Shall we go in and read a bit?" he offered; but she thought not.
"I'm too tired, I'm afraid.And Eddie'll wake up as soon as we begin."So they sat awhile enjoying the soft silence, and the rich flower scents about them, till Eddie did wake presently, and Isabel went upstairs.
She slept little that night, lying quite still, listening to her husband's regular breathing so near her, and the lighter sound from the crib."I am a very happy woman," she told herself resolutely; but there was no outpouring sense of love and joy.She knew she was happy, but by no means felt it.So she stared at the moon shadows and thought it over.
She had planned the little house herself, with such love, such hope, such tender happy care! Not her first work, which won high praise in the school in Paris, not the prize-winning plan for the library, now gracing Orchardina's prettiest square, was as dear to her as this most womanly task--the making of a home.
It was the library success which brought her here, fresh from her foreign studies, and Orchardina accepted with western cordiality the youth and beauty of the young architect, though a bit surprised at first that "I.H.Wright" was an Isabel.In her further work of overseeing the construction of that library, she had met Edgar Porne, one of the numerous eager young real estate men of that region, who showed a liberal enthusiasm for the general capacity of women in the professions, and a much warmer feeling for the personal attractions of this one.
Together they chose the lot on pepper-shaded Inez Avenue; together they watched the rising of the concrete walls and planned the garden walks and seats, and the tiny precious pool in the far corner.He was so sympathetic! so admiring! He took as much pride in the big "drawing room" on the third floor as she did herself."Architecture is such fine work to do at home!" they had both agreed."Here you have your north light--your big table--plenty of room for work! You will grow famouser and famouser," he had lovingly insisted.And she had answered, "I fear I shall be too contented, dear, to want to be famous."That was only some year and a-half ago,--but Isabel, lying there by her sleeping husband and sleeping child, was stark awake and only by assertion happy.She was thinking, persistently, of dust.She loved a delicate cleanliness.Her art was a precise one, her studio a workshop of white paper and fine pointed hard pencils, her painting the mechanical perfection of an even wash of color.And she saw, through the floors and walls and the darkness, the dust in the little shaded parlor--two days' dust at least, and Orchardina is very dusty!--dust in the dining-room gathered since yesterday--the dust in the kitchen--she would not count time there, and the dust--here she counted it inexorably--the dust of eight days in her great, light workroom upstairs.Eight days since she had found time to go up there.
