XI
MRS. KRONBORG had said that Thea was not to be
disturbed on Sunday morning, and she slept until
noon. When she came downstairs the family were just
sitting down to dinner, Mr. Kronborg at one end of the
long table, Mrs. Kronborg at the other. Anna, stiff and
ceremonious, in her summer silk, sat at her father's right,
and the boys were strung along on either side of the table.
There was a place left for Thea between her mother and
Thor. During the silence which preceded the blessing,
Thea felt something uncomfortable in the air. Anna and
her older brothers had lowered their eyes when she came
in. Mrs. Kronborg nodded cheerfully, and after the bless-
ing, as she began to pour the coffee, turned to her.
"I expect you had a good time at that dance, Thea. I
hope you got your sleep out."
"High society, that," remarked Charley, giving the
mashed potatoes a vicious swat. Anna's mouth and eye-
brows became half-moons.
Thea looked across the table at the uncompromising
countenances of her older brothers. "Why, what's the
matter with the Mexicans?" she asked, flushing. "They
don't trouble anybody, and they are kind to their families
and have good manners."
"Nice clean people; got some style about them. Do
you really like that kind, Thea, or do you just pretend to?
That's what I'd like to know." Gus looked at her with
pained inquiry. But he at least looked at her.
"They're just as clean as white people, and they have
a perfect right to their own ways. Of course I like 'em.
I don't pretend things."
"Everybody according to their own taste," remarked
Charley bitterly. "Quit crumbing your bread up, Thor.
Ain't you learned how to eat yet?"
"Children, children!" said Mr. Kronborg nervously,
looking up from the chicken he was dismembering. He
glanced at his wife, whom he expected to maintain har-
mony in the family.
"That's all right, Charley. Drop it there," said Mrs.
Kronborg. "No use spoiling your Sunday dinner with
race prejudices. The Mexicans suit me and Thea very
well. They are a useful people. Now you can just talk
about something else."
Conversation, however, did not flourish at that dinner.
Everybody ate as fast as possible. Charley and Gus said
they had engagements and left the table as soon as they
finished their apple pie. Anna sat primly and ate with
great elegance. When she spoke at all she spoke to her
father, about church matters, and always in a commiserat-
ing tone, as if he had met with some misfortune. Mr.
Kronborg, quite innocent of her intentions, replied kindly
and absent-mindedly. After the dessert he went to take his
usual Sunday afternoon nap, and Mrs. Kronborg carried
some dinner to a sick neighbor. Thea and Anna began to
clear the table.
"I should think you would show more consideration for
father's position, Thea," Anna began as soon as she and her
sister were alone.
Thea gave her a sidelong glance. "Why, what have I
done to father?"
"Everybody at Sunday-School was talking about you
going over there and singing with the Mexicans all night,
when you won't sing for the church. Somebody heard you,
and told it all over town. Of course, we all get the blame
for it."
"Anything disgraceful about singing?" Thea asked with
a provoking yawn.
"I must say you choose your company! You always
had that streak in you, Thea. We all hoped that going
away would improve you. Of course, it reflects on father
when you are scarcely polite to the nice people here and
make up to the rowdies."
"Oh, it's my singing with the Mexicans you object to?"
Thea put down a tray full of dishes. "Well, I like to sing
over there, and I don't like to over here. I'll sing for them
any time they ask me to. They know something about
what I'm doing. They're a talented people."
"Talented!" Anna made the word sound like escaping
steam. "I suppose you think it's smart to come home and
throw that at your family!"
Thea picked up the tray. By this time she was as white
as the Sunday tablecloth. "Well," she replied in a cold,
even tone, "I'll have to throw it at them sooner or later.
It's just a question of when, and it might as well be now
as any time." She carried the tray blindly into the kitchen.
Tillie, who was always listening and looking out for her,
took the dishes from her with a furtive, frightened glance
at her stony face. Thea went slowly up the back stairs to
her loft. Her legs seemed as heavy as lead as she climbed
the stairs, and she felt as if everything inside her had solidi-
fied and grown hard.
After shutting her door and locking it, she sat down on
the edge of her bed. This place had always been her refuge,
but there was a hostility in the house now which this door
could not shut out. This would be her last summer in that
room. Its services were over; its time was done. She rose
and put her hand on the low ceiling. Two tears ran down
her cheeks, as if they came from ice that melted slowly.
She was not ready to leave her little shell. She was being
pulled out too soon. She would never be able to think
anywhere else as well as here. She would never sleep so
well or have such dreams in any other bed; even last night,
such sweet, breathless dreams-- Thea hid her face in the
pillow. Wherever she went she would like to take that little
bed with her. When she went away from it for good, she
would leave something that she could never recover; mem-
ories of pleasant excitement, of happy adventures in her
mind; of warm sleep on howling winter nights, and joyous
awakenings on summer mornings. There were certain
dreams that might refuse to come to her at all except in a
little morning cave, facing the sun--where they came to
her so powerfully, where they beat a triumph in her!
The room was hot as an oven. The sun was beating
fiercely on the shingles behind the board ceiling. She un-
dressed, and before she threw herself upon her bed in her
chemise, she frowned at herself for a long while in her look-
ing-glass. Yes, she and It must fight it out together. The
thing that looked at her out of her own eyes was the only
friend she could count on. Oh, she would make these
people sorry enough! There would come a time when they
would want to make it up with her. But, never again! She
had no little vanities, only one big one, and she would
never forgive.
Her mother was all right, but her mother was a part of
the family, and she was not. In the nature of things, her
mother had to be on both sides. Thea felt that she had
been betrayed. A truce had been broken behind her back.
She had never had much individual affection for any of her
brothers except Thor, but she had never been disloyal,
never felt scorn or held grudges. As a little girl she had
always been good friends with Gunner and Axel, whenever
she had time to play. Even before she got her own room,
when they were all sleeping and dressing together, like
little cubs, and breakfasting in the kitchen, she had led an
absorbing personal life of her own. But she had a cub
loyalty to the other cubs. She thought them nice boys and
tried to make them get their lessons. She once fought a
bully who "picked on" Axel at school. She never made
fun of Anna's crimpings and curlings and beauty-rites.
Thea had always taken it for granted that her sister and
brothers recognized that she had special abilities, and that
they were proud of it. She had done them the honor, she
told herself bitterly, to believe that though they had no
particular endowments, THEY WERE OF HER KIND, and not of
the Moonstone kind. Now they had all grown up and be-
come persons. They faced each other as individuals, and
she saw that Anna and Gus and Charley were among the
people whom she had always recognized as her natural
enemies. Their ambitions and sacred proprieties were
meaningless to her. She had neglected to congratulate
Charley upon having been promoted from the grocery de-
partment of Commings's store to the drygoods depart-
ment. Her mother had reproved her for this omission. And
how was she to know, Thea asked herself, that Anna ex-
pected to be teased because Bert Rice now came and sat in
the hammock with her every night? No, it was all clear
enough. Nothing that she would ever do in the world
would seem important to them, and nothing they would
ever do would seem important to her.
Thea lay thinking intently all through the stifling after-
noon. Tillie whispered something outside her door once,
but she did not answer. She lay on her bed until the second
church bell rang, and she saw the family go trooping up
the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, Anna
and her father in the lead. Anna seemed to have taken
on a very story-book attitude toward her father; pat-
ronizing and condescending, it seemed to Thea. The older
boys were not in the family band. They now took their
girls to church. Tillie had stayed at home to get supper.
Thea got up, washed her hot face and arms, and put on
the white organdie dress she had worn last night; it was
getting too small for her, and she might as well wear it out.
After she was dressed she unlocked her door and went cau-
tiously downstairs. She felt as if chilling hostilities might
be awaiting her in the trunk loft, on the stairway, almost
anywhere. In the dining-room she found Tillie, sitting by
the open window, reading the dramatic news in a Denver
Sunday paper. Tillie kept a scrapbook in which she pasted
clippings about actors and actresses.
"Come look at this picture of Pauline Hall in tights,
Thea," she called. "Ain't she cute? It's too bad you
didn't go to the theater more when you was in Chicago;
such a good chance! Didn't you even get to see Clara
Morris or Modjeska?"
"No; I didn't have time. Besides, it costs money,
Tillie," Thea replied wearily, glancing at the paper Tillie
held out to her.
Tillie looked up at her niece. "Don't you go and be
upset about any of Anna's notions. She's one of these
narrow kind. Your father and mother don't pay any atten-
tion to what she says. Anna's fussy; she is with me, but
I don't mind her."
"Oh, I don't mind her. That's all right, Tillie. I guess
I'll take a walk."
Thea knew that Tillie hoped she would stay and talk to
her for a while, and she would have liked to please her.
But in a house as small as that one, everything was too
intimate and mixed up together. The family was the
family, an integral thing. One couldn't discuss Anna there.
She felt differently toward the house and everything in it,
as if the battered old furniture that seemed so kindly, and
the old carpets on which she had played, had been nour-
ishing a secret grudge against her and were not to be
trusted any more.
She went aimlessly out of the front gate, not know-
ing what to do with herself. Mexican Town, somehow, was
spoiled for her just then, and she felt that she would hide
if she saw Silvo or Felipe coming toward her. She walked
down through the empty main street. All the stores were
closed, their blinds down. On the steps of the bank some
idle boys were sitting, telling disgusting stories because
there was nothing else to do. Several of them had gone
to school with Thea, but when she nodded to them they
hung their heads and did not speak. Thea's body was
often curiously expressive of what was going on in her
mind, and to-night there was something in her walk and
carriage that made these boys feel that she was "stuck
up." If she had stopped and talked to them, they would
have thawed out on the instant and would have been
friendly and grateful. But Thea was hurt afresh, and
walked on, holding her chin higher than ever. As she
passed the Duke Block, she saw a light in Dr. Archie's
office, and she went up the stairs and opened the door into
his study. She found him with a pile of papers and account-
books before him. He pointed her to her old chair at the
end of his desk and leaned back in his own, looking at
her with satisfaction. How handsome she was growing!
"I'm still chasing the elusive metal, Thea,"--he pointed
to the papers before him,--"I'm up to my neck in mines,
and I'm going to be a rich man some day."
"I hope you will; awfully rich. That's the only thing
that counts." She looked restlessly about the consulting-
room. "To do any of the things one wants to do, one has
to have lots and lots of money."
Dr. Archie was direct. "What's the matter? Do you
need some?"
Thea shrugged. "Oh, I can get along, in a little way."
She looked intently out of the window at the arc street-
lamp that was just beginning to sputter. "But it's silly to
live at all for little things," she added quietly. "Living's
too much trouble unless one can get something big out of
it."
Dr. Archie rested his elbows on the arms of his chair,
dropped his chin on his clasped hands and looked at her.
"Living is no trouble for little people, believe me!" he
exclaimed. "What do you want to get out of it?"
"Oh--so many things!" Thea shivered.
"But what? Money? You mentioned that. Well, you
can make money, if you care about that more than any-
thing else." He nodded prophetically above his interlacing
fingers.
"But I don't. That's only one thing. Anyhow, I
couldn't if I did." She pulled her dress lower at the neck as
if she were suffocating. "I only want impossible things,"
she said roughly. "The others don't interest me."
Dr. Archie watched her contemplatively, as if she were
a beaker full of chemicals working. A few years ago, when
she used to sit there, the light from under his green lamp-
shade used to fall full upon her broad face and yellow pig-
tails. Now her face was in the shadow and the line of light
fell below her bare throat, directly across her bosom. The
shrunken white organdie rose and fell as if she were strug-
gling to be free and to break out of it altogether. He felt
that her heart must be laboring heavily in there, but he was
afraid to touch her; he was, indeed. He had never seen her
like this before. Her hair, piled high on her head, gave her
a commanding look, and her eyes, that used to be so in-
quisitive, were stormy.
"Thea," he said slowly, "I won't say that you can have
everything you want--that means having nothing, in
reality. But if you decide what it is you want most, YOU
CAN GET IT." His eye caught hers for a moment. "Not every-
body can, but you can. Only, if you want a big thing,
you've got to have nerve enough to cut out all that's easy,
everything that's to be had cheap." Dr. Archie paused.
He picked up a paper-cutter and, feeling the edge of it
softly with his fingers, he added slowly, as if to himself:--
"He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win . . . or lose it all."
Thea's lips parted; she looked at him from under a frown,
searching his face. "Do you mean to break loose, too, and
--do something?" she asked in a low voice.
"I mean to get rich, if you call that doing anything.
I've found what I can do without. You make such bar-
gains in your mind, first."
Thea sprang up and took the paper-cutter he had put
down, twisting it in her hands. "A long while first, some-
times," she said with a short laugh. "But suppose one
can never get out what they've got in them? Suppose they
make a mess of it in the end; then what?" She threw the
paper-cutter on the desk and took a step toward the doctor,
until her dress touched him. She stood looking down at
him. "Oh, it's easy to fail!" She was breathing through
her mouth and her throat was throbbing with excitement.
As he looked up at her, Dr. Archie's hands tightened on
the arms of his chair. He had thought he knew Thea Kron-
borg pretty well, but he did not know the girl who was
standing there. She was beautiful, as his little Swede had
never been, but she frightened him. Her pale cheeks, her
parted lips, her flashing eyes, seemed suddenly to mean one
thing--he did not know what. A light seemed to break
upon her from far away--or perhaps from far within. She
seemed to grow taller, like a scarf drawn out long; looked
as if she were pursued and fleeing, and--yes, she looked
tormented. "It's easy to fail," he heard her say again, "and
if I fail, you'd better forget about me, for I'll be one of the
worst women that ever lived. I'll be an awful woman!"
In the shadowy light above the lampshade he caught her
glance again and held it for a moment. Wild as her eyes
were, that yellow gleam at the back of them was as hard
as a diamond drill-point. He rose with a nervous laugh
and dropped his hand lightly on her shoulder. "No, you
won't. You'll be a splendid one!"
She shook him off before he could say anything more,
and went out of his door with a kind of bound. She left so
quickly and so lightly that he could not even hear her foot-
step in the hallway outside. Archie dropped back into his
chair and sat motionless for a long while.
So it went; one loved a quaint little girl, cheerful, in-
dustrious, always on the run and hustling through her
tasks; and suddenly one lost her. He had thought he knew
that child like the glove on his hand. But about this tall
girl who threw up her head and glittered like that all over,
he knew nothing. She was goaded by desires, ambitions,
revulsions that were dark to him. One thing he knew: the
old highroad of life, worn safe and easy, hugging the sunny
slopes, would scarcely hold her again.
After that night Thea could have asked pretty much
anything of him. He could have refused her nothing.
Years ago a crafty little bunch of hair and smiles had shown
him what she wanted, and he had promptly married her.
To-night a very different sort of girl--driven wild by
doubts and youth, by poverty and riches--had let him
see the fierceness of her nature. She went out still dis-
traught, not knowing or caring what she had shown him.
But to Archie knowledge of that sort was obligation. Oh,
he was the same old Howard Archie!
That Sunday in July was the turning-point; Thea's peace
of mind did not come back. She found it hard even to
practice at home. There was something in the air there
that froze her throat. In the morning, she walked as far
as she could walk. In the hot afternoons she lay on her
bed in her nightgown, planning fiercely. She haunted the
post-office. She must have worn a path in the sidewalk
that led to the post-office, that summer. She was there
the moment the mail-sacks came up from the depot,
morning and evening, and while the letters were being
sorted and distributed she paced up and down outside,
under the cottonwood trees, listening to the thump,
thump, thump of Mr. Thompson's stamp. She hung upon
any sort of word from Chicago; a card from Bowers, a
letter from Mrs. Harsanyi, from Mr. Larsen, from her
landlady,--anything to reassure her that Chicago was
still there. She began to feel the same restlessness that
had tortured her the last spring when she was teaching in
Moonstone. Suppose she never got away again, after all?
Suppose one broke a leg and had to lie in bed at home for
weeks, or had pneumonia and died there. The desert was
so big and thirsty; if one's foot slipped, it could drink
one up like a drop of water.
This time, when Thea left Moonstone to go back to
Chicago, she went alone. As the train pulled out, she
looked back at her mother and father and Thor. They were
calm and cheerful; they did not know, they did not un-
derstand. Something pulled in her--and broke. She
cried all the way to Denver, and that night, in her berth,
she kept sobbing and waking herself. But when the sun
rose in the morning, she was far away. It was all behind
her, and she knew that she would never cry like that again.
People live through such pain only once; pain comes again,
but it finds a tougher surface. Thea remembered how she
had gone away the first time, with what confidence in
everything, and what pitiful ignorance. Such a silly! She
felt resentful toward that stupid, good-natured child. How
much older she was now, and how much harder! She
was going away to fight, and she was going away forever.
