The Recompense

The Recompense BY ELSIE CHAMBERLAIN CARROLL "Jean ! Jean ! Where are you ? Kingsley's come*" Fifteen-year-old Bess came panting into the living room where Jean was arranging pink and white tulips in a tall vase. "They were just coming from the station when I passed Branford's," the younger sister chattered on breathlessly, depositing her school books on the table. "My, but he's stunning! You'd better hurry and primp up. He'll be right over as soon as he tells his own folks hello. He nearly squeezed my hands off and said he'd see me again soon." Bess started toward the pantry. Jean had felt herself grow dizzy at the expected news, and her fingers trembled as she went on with her task. Kingsley had come Kingsley had come The words rang sweetly through her ! ! brain and filled her with an exquisite ecstasy. And yet, how she dreaded to meet him ! They had been chums since childhood, Kingsley Branford and Jean Daniels. When he left five years before for a three years' foreign mission and two years at an eastern college, there had been no formal vows between them, and yet there was a tacit understanding that they were more than mere friends to each other. They had corresponded freely during his absence and Jean guessed well enough what the first meeting would be. She knew that Kingsley would want to claim her for his own. She had read it between the lines of recent letters he had written her. And how was she going to tell him that she had decided never to marry? How was she going to make him understand her point of view? That it was really the most reasonable thing to do for the ultimate happiness of them both ? The girl knew the task was not going to be an easy one. She did not try to hide from herself the fact that she loved Kingsley Branford, and usually when two healthy, normal young people such as they, love each other, marriage is the natural result. Jean placed the vase of flowers on the piano, straightened the books on the table, wiped an imaginary particle of dust from the back of a chair, then started up to her room. "Never mind about hurrying too fast, Jeanie," came Bess' dough-nut-muffled voice from the pantry. "I'll be glad to entertain him for you." "All right, Babe. Be sure to tell him that Aunt Mattie

THE RECOMPENSE 1079 don't 'prove 'o him, 'cause he hollers so loud and teases his sis* ters," she laughed, recalling a joke of past years. A half hour later, as Jean was tucking a white tulip into the pink girdle of her dress she heard the door bell ring. Her pulses quickened at the sound of the deep, familiar voice as Bess opened the door. "Hello. I told you I'd be over soon," was Kingsley's greeting. "Any of the other folks home?" "Father's at the office and the boys are all away, but I believe Jean is around somewhere. I don't suppose you'd care to see her, would you?" "Well, I might tell her hello if you can find her." Jean started down the hall. Bess met her on the upper landing. "My, you look sweet, Jean. I wish I were you. King's a regular prince.Go on and have a good time. I'll get supper and do everything." Romantic little Bess gave her sister an adoring squeeze as she pushed her toward the top of the stairs. A second later Jean caught her first glimpse of the broadshoulders, the dark, sleek head and strong, manly face of Kingsley waiting eagerly there in the hall below. She had not been able to realize before how much they both had changed in five years. They had seemed mere children when he had gone away. It was a mature man waiting for her now. For a moment her head swam. Could she do it? She must He turned and looked ! up at her and Jean knew she would remember to her dying day the look that leaped into the dark eyes. It was like a glow from paradise, and set her body quivering with mingled pain and rapture. He came to meet her with outstretched hands, and as she placed hers in his warm clasp he whispered, "Jean Jean !" His ! voice was vibrant with a subdued, reverent passion that made the girl thrill. Could she do it? She must! The words blurred through her consciousness. Then she felt him drawing her to him. She knew his first kiss was waiting to be pressed upon her lips, and how she longed to feel its rapturous warmth. But she must not !She had no right to taste that bliss with that other firm resolve gnawing in her breast. She drew herself away and tried to speak naturally, but her lips were dry and her voice shook with the inner struggle she was trying to conceal. "Forgive me, dear," Kingsley whispered, releasing her. "But I've waited so long for you! I'm like a famished man. I want the feast all at once. Get your hat and let us walk." Mechanically she obeyed. She had not fully realized how sure Kingsley had been of their relations. She had not dreamed how hard it was going to be to deny herself the love of this noble man. To steel her wavering resolution she repeated over again,

1080 IMPROVEMENT ERA "I must, must!" trying to recall the mental pictures which I had decided her. They walked down the path from the Daniels home and out toward the suburbs of the city. Then they turned in the direction of the foothills. Jean said little, hut Kingsley kept up a lively stream of comments on the numerous changes he was discovering in the familiar scenes of the old home place. All the time he was feasting- his eyes on the fresh, young beauty of the girl at his side. "Let's go out to the Bend," he suggested. The'Bend was a picturesque curve in the river which ran at the foot of the mountain a quarter of a mile away. It almost formed a tiny island, which, with its grass and rocks and trees had always been a favorite retreat in the history of the town. It was a calm, clear afternoon of early May. The air was filled with the sweet, subtle sounds and perfumes of spring. Kingsley, too, became silent as they entered the quiet woodland bordering the river. Wild sweet-peas and columbines and spring beauties made tiny patches of contrasting brightness here and there in the grass and among the rocks and brown masses of last year's autumn leaves. When they reached the Bend, Kingsley led the way to a fallen log beneath a cluster of maple trees. They had often been on the spot before. He drew Jean down on the seat beside him, but he no longer seemed at ease. For a time he sat picking up tiny, flat pebbles from the ground, sending them skimming across the water. The girl watched him. She noted with a dull remembering pain, the jagged scar still visible across his right hand. It told the story of a little boy's struggle with a vicious dog' one day back in the vanishing years. It was the story of a courageous little boy who had risked himself to save a little girl playmate. Jean had been that little girl. She felt a fierce longing to take that big strong hand and kiss the jagged scar. TIow could she, oh, how could she hurt this comrade and protector of all her childhood days as she knew she was going to hurt him soon And yet, she assured herself once more, she must ! ! She had thought it all out in long, dark, sleepless hours and it was the only way to avoid misery and disappointment for them both. A redheaded woodpecker was hammering industriously on a tree behind them and a pair of sparrows were chattering noisily above. But neither' Jean nor Kingsley heard them. At last he spoke. "Do you see the bank over there where we used to play house when mother brought us out here for picnics?" Jean nodded. "I believe I still see a remnant of the fire-place I built for you and your doll babies. I remember I undertook the task against my will, but you insisted that a fire-place was an absolute necessity to keep the baby's feet warm, so of course it was built. I can

THE RECOMPENSE 1081 almost see you now sitting on a little stump before that crude fireplace, with an improvised doll in your arms. Or I can shut my eyes and see you busily stirring up a mud pie for my supper, or industriously polishing your rock glass and china ware." Kingsley's eyes had become dreamy. He could not know how his words smote the girl. Jean sat with gripping hands, staring blankly into the stream gliding by with its soothing murmur of music which was lost on their ears. "What a wonderful little housekeeper and wife and mother you were even in those days," the man went on musingly. "I've always liked to think about those times and to dream about the days when it would no longer be play that I should see you, but in a real home with a real chimney that I had built for you. I've loved to picture you stirring up real pies for my supper polishing ; real glass and china and sitting before a real fire-place warming our baby's feet." "Don't!" Jean's face had gone white and she put out her hand in protest as if she would ward of another blow he might deal her. Kingsley regarded her in surprise. "Why, dearest, I've been waiting five long years to tell you this. When can it be, Jean? When can we start playing house in earnest ? Jean, my little Jean !" He reached for her hand and tried to draw her to him. "Kingsley," the girl's voice was broken, "I know you will not be able to understand, but but — —I have — decided never to marry." He sat staring at her for several seconds, unable to comprehend. "Jean," he cried at last, unable to see but one reason for her words, "Jean, then you do not love me? There is another?" The man's deep pain looked out from his dark eyes. "I have always been so wrapped up in my love for you that I never dreamed that there was a possibility of your not caring that there ; was a possibility of your caring for someone else." "But I do care. There never has been anyone else," she protested, choking back a sob. He looked at her wonderingly. "Then I don't understand. If you love me why can you not marry me? I don't say that I'm worthy of you. I don't believe any man is. But I've always been straight. You know that, Jean. I couldn't have been anything else, loving you as I have all these years. I'm not rich, of course, but I am young and strong and have the world before me. I'm sure I can take care of you, —— and Jean, I I love you and need you so, dear. Why is it you cannot marry me?" "O Kingsley, I know I cannot make you understand. I can —— hardly understand it myself sometimes, but I I don't want to

1082 IMPROVEMENT ERA — marry." He sat waiting for her to go on, but she was silent so long that at last he spoke. "Is it a career, Jean?" "No, no, it isn't that. I don't know how to tell you." "I always thought you were exactly the kind of girl who would want to marry. You seemed to have all the natural instincts of the ideal home-maker and wife and mother." She winced at the last word. "I have the instincts all right. It isn't that. I'd love it all, but I'm —I'm afraid." He looked at her searchingly for a moment. "Of motherhood?" he asked at last, in a low tone. "Yes." Her voice faltered and she did not look at him. "It is not of the physical pain. the continual sacrifice and burIt is den and responsibility. The load looks too heavy. The price seems too great. If I were perfectly strong it might be different, but I can see just how it would be. It would be mother's sad case over again. Thousands of other cases, of course, too, but mother's I can always see best." The girl's words seemed to revive her assurance that she was right. "Can't you see it, Kingsley? Mother was as strong as I am when she married, but the babies came so close together and they couldn't afford much help. I can remember how tired and worn out and nervous she always seemed. That is what I seem to remember most about her now. She didn't have time to play and sing with us children. We were a continual heavy burden, costing her all the pleasures of life and in the end life itself. She was bound to the rack of motherhod I dont' feel equal to it all. ! Those long, faded years of pain and sacrifice." She stopped speaking, but she did not look up. She sat toying with a blade of grass she had pulled from the moss at her feet. The man's face had grown grey with the disappointment her words had given him. When he spoke again his voice was dry and harsh. "Are you sure, Jean, that it is all 'pain and sacrifice'? Do you think your mother, if she were living, would advise you to shirk the responsibility?" "I'm sure she would not. That's it. When women marry, the burden of motherhood seems to make them blind. They no longer see life as they did before." "Are you sure," the man's words came slow and studied. "that they become blind? Isn't it just possible that motherhood opens their eyes to new values, new worths in life they were not able to see before? I can't think that you are right, dear. It isn't that I want to influence your mind against your will, much as your decision costs me but I have always thought, and I ; still think that motherhood, even with its tremendous burden, its pains and sacrifice, as you say, is the grandest thing in the world.

THE RECOMPENSE 1083 To be the mother of a little child straight from the gates of heaven always seemed the divinest thing life had to offer. Are you sure, Jean, that you are not throwing away something very, very precious?" "Don't Kingsley, please don't make it harder for me." The girl's lips were quivering, and tears were gathering on her lashes. "I've thought it all out in long, sleepless hours, over and over again. I'm sure I must be right, though just now it looks cowardly, and nothing more. It would be so easy to yield to you — now only to be sorry later. I must not do it !" "No," he repeated slowly and with a deep sigh that told plainer than words how keen was his suffering and disappointment. "You must not do it if you feel like that. I only hope you may not be sorry for your decision when it is too late." The words smote Jean's heart. She felt a strange longing to put her head on Kingsley's shoulder and cry away the choking lump in her throat. She almost wished he would take her in his arms and convince her against her will that she was wrong. But instead he arose quietly with a deep sigh and assisted her to her feet. His attitude was still courteous and gentle, but the lover in him had vanished. Jean felt that he must scorn her. "He thinks I'm only a weak coward," she told herself, and the thought added to the misery she already was suffering. The man was too much the gentleman to let her see how much she had wounded him. With an effort he succeeded in keeping up a fragmentary conversation until they reached her home. At the Daniels gate he turned and studied her pale face for a moment in silence. "Jean, I'm going to ask you one favor for all these years I've — — been hoping and dreaming of our future together. It is that —if you should ever come to— — to look at things differently, you ******** if will let me know. Good-bve." The next moment Jean was standing in dumb misery looking at his retreating figure. "Come, daughter, get into the machine and go along with me. I have only a few calls this afternoon, then we'll take a little spin out into the countrv. The ride will do you good." Doctor Daniels was following Jean down the steps from his office. "But I really should go to the stores and see about Bess' dress," she protested as he took her arm and led her to the waiting car. She had dropped into her father's office on her way down town to look over materials for her sister's graduating dress. "Never mind the dress. Tomorrow will do for that. What I want is to see some roses in your cheeks again." He spoke lightly, but there was anxiety in his keen professional eye as he studied his daughter's face. The girl's suddenly developed apathetic condition baffled him. He guessed that Kingsley Bran-

1084 IMPROVEMENT ERA ford's return home and his almost immediate departure to a northern city had something to do with it, though he little surmised in just what manner this was true. Dr. Daniels had been kept too busy providing the bread for his brood of motherless children during their growing up years to devote much time to their confidences. He had left all that to his sister who had lived with the family after the mother's death until Jean was old enough to take the responsibility of the home. When at last the doctor had more time to spend with his children he found it hard to step into a place he had never filled. With the boys he had succeeded very well, and his impulsive, vivacious younger daughter soon learned to love to come to him with her girlhood trials and joys. But with Jean it was different. Somehow he had not yet been able to penetrate the wall of reserve she held about her when it came to revealing her inner self to him. The father knew that something was troubling her. He knew that she needed not so much his professional skill as his paternal sympathy and guidance, but so far he had been given no opportunity to help her. It had been nearly two months since that day Kingsley Branford had told Jean good-bye at her gate. The girl had suffered untold misery in that time. Her whole being seemed to cry out for the lover, the soul's mate, she had driven away, and yet her mind was still tortured by its old conviction that she had been right. She was torn between doubts and fears. The doctor soon completed his calls and turned into the smooth country road. For a time after they left the suburbs he let the car skim smoothly over the road, then he brought it down to a slow, even movement which would permit of conversation. Jean sat listlessly looking ahead, showing no animation in the scene about her. The father knew by the pensive droop to her mouth and the far-away look in her hazel eyes that she saw nothing save her own problem. At last he laid his hand gently over hers as it rested in her lap. "Can't my little girl tell father what is troubling her?" She looked up at him half startled by his question, and her eyes filled with tears. "Don't tell me just now if you would rather not," the father added hastily, seeing her emotion. "But I want so much to know and to help you." He put on more speed and for a moment there was no sound save the soft purring of the big car. They were out in the sparsely settled country. The tiny farm houses were several miles apart. Each one looked entirely friendless and alone, Jean thought, tucked awav in its cluster of shade trees and surrounded by patches of straggling fields. When the car slowed down next time it was Jean who broke the silence. "Father, do you think," she hesitated, as if searching for

THE RECOMPENSE 1085 — — — words, "do you think mother had a happy perhaps I should — say a a satisfying life?" The father regarded her puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," he told her. "She always seemed so busy and tired. There were so many of us, you know, and she was not strong. Do you think the rec- — — ompense she received for motherhood was worth all the pain and sacrifice— she suffered for it?" Dr. Daniels regarded his daughter for some time in silence. A look of reverie crept into his face. At last he spoke. "If you could have seen the look of heaven in your mother's eyes when her first-born baby girl was placed into her arms, you would not need to ask that question. If you could have seen that same holy look on six other occasions when your brothers and sisters were given to her — even her last babe for whom she gave her life if you could have seen the glimpses of paradise in her ; face I have seen when she has been ministering to her children, or looking into their faces when they were asleep, you would know she thought the recompense was greater than all the pain and sacrifice in the world. It is true she was not strong and her lot — was hard, but as for the recompense you must glimpse motherhood when it is first born, or when it is brooding over its Godsent gifts to understand its recompense, my dear. Sometime— The doctor's sentence was cut short by the shout of a man who was coming frantically toward them from one of the little, lonesome farm houses beyond a shaded lane. "Aren't you Dr. Daniels ?" the man asked, breathlessly, coming up beside them. "I am. What can I do for you?" — "My wife it isn't her time for confinement for a week but — she is sick now very sick, and our doctor, Dr. Bryant, is away over to Mapleton. We can't even get the nurse we had engaged. She is off with a sick niece or something. You must help us, doctor, quick." The young husband's face was tense with anxiety and alarm. "Of course I will help you," Dr. Daniels assured him. "You come too, Jean. Perhaps we will need you." It was almost midnight. Dr. Daniels' car still stood beside the road leading up to the farm house. Inside Jean, white-faced and wondering, moved about the silent cottage, carefully following her father's directions. It had proved a serious case. The brave little woman was almost spent with pain and exhaustion. Jean's eyes were wide with pity and terror when they rested on the white, patient face. She had not dreamed it had to be like this. No wonder she had been afraid. And yet fear seemed far from the little woman. Somehow, when the girl's eyes turned to the agonized young husband, she thought of Kingsley Branford,

108b IMPR( >VEMENT ERA and realized in a vague, sweet way that any suffering would be joy to have him hovering near as this man did over his sweetheart, his great, strong soul shining in his eyes. There was a gray pallor on the doctor's face which told the girl how grave the situation was. At last he turned to her. "Jean, do you think you can drive the car back to the city in the dark. I think we had better have Dr. Cary come out. Tell him to bring his instruments. The husband groaned aloud and the wife opened her eyes comprehendingly. She whispered a broken question that made the girl wonder all the more "The— baby. Will it— live?" To think that at a time like that in all her pain she should think not of her pain-racked self, but of her unborn child. Jean's eyes filled with blinding tears as she went into the next room for her wraps. She had never dreamed there could be a courage like that. As she turned back for her father's final instructions she heard a new stir in the sick-room. Her father's relieved voice reached her. "We won't need Cary after all. Bring me some hot water, Jean and some towels." She hurried back to her post. A moment more of agony, and then there was a shrill, lusty cry. Jean thought she had never heard so sweet a sound in her life before. She felt as if she were standing in the holy of holies where a divine miracle was being wrought. How could she ever have thought any price too great to pay for the privilege of bringing a little child into the world. She saw the woman's pain-drawn face suddenly become transfigured with a beautiful joy. She saw the look of reverent love and awe shining in the young husband's tear-filled eyes. Somehow she felt as if she wanted to pray. The wonder and miracle of it all grew upon her as at her father's directions she took the little scrap of soft, warm babyhood and dressed it in the dainty clothes the mother's fingers had so lovingly prepared. A vision of the wonderful possibilities of that tiny being flashed before her and she trembled with the wonder of it all. And this was motherhood ! How paltry and foolish all else had suddenly grown Her eyes were opened to its blessed, grand ! sublimity and she knew how blind she had been before. It was she who carried the little one to his mother's bed. It was then she glimpsed what her father had called a reflection from paradise. She turned away. Her heart was running over. And her mother had looked at her like that. It was the coming of that greater vision Kingsley had mentioned. — Kingsley her soul cried out for him in tender yearning. She wanted him. She wanted to tell him that she was not afraid, — now that she could see the glorious recompense of motherhood