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you the other day. See that arm, and the drapery there! Just a line-" The girl bent over the page, frowning at the details the quick finger pointed out. "Don't they catch you along with them?" She She held the book out at arm's-length, squinting at the figures. "Take it along. There are several more." She tucked the book
into the portfolio and rose. "Come on; we'll have our fire."
"But, Miss Egert,"-Cynthia's voice hardened as she was swept back into her own misery,-"I can't take it. I can't come any more."
"To return a book?" Miss Egert lowered her eyelids as if she were again sizing up a composition. "You need n't come just for lessons."
Cynthia shook her head.
"Mother thinks-" She fell into silence. She could n't say what her mother thought-dreadful things. If she could only swallow the hot pressure in her throat!
"Oh. I had n't understood." Miss Egert's fingers paused for a swift touch on Cynthia's arm, and then reached for the candle. "You can go on working by yourself."
"It is n't that-" Cynthia struggled an instant, and dropped into silence again. She could n't say out loud any of the things she was feeling. There were too many walls between feeling and speech: loyalty to her mother, embarrassment that feelings should come so near words, a fear of hurting Miss Egert.
"Don't mind so much, Cynthia." Miss Egert led the way back to the living-room. "You can stay for the bonfire? That will be better than sitting here. Run into the kitchen and bring the matches and marshmallows-in a dish in the cupboard."
Cynthia, in the doorway, stared at Miss Egert. Did n't she care at all! Then the dumb ache in her throat stopped throbbing as Miss Egert's gray eyes held her steadily a moment. She did care! She did care! She did! She was just helping her. Cynthia took the candle and went back through the passageway to the kitchen, down at the very end.
She made a place on the table in the litter of dishes and milk-bottles for the candle. The matches had been spilled on the shelf of the stove and into the sink. Cynthia gathered a handful of the driest. Shiftlessness was one of her mother's counts against Miss Egert. Cynthia flushed as she recalled her stumbling defense: Miss Egert had more important things to do; dishes were kept in their proper place; and her mother's: "Important! Mooning about!"
"Find them, Cynthia?" The clear, low voice came down the hall, and Cynthia hurried back.
Out in the garden it was quite black. As they came to the far end, the old stone wall made a dark bank against the sky, with a sharp star over its edge. Miss Egert knelt; almost with the scratch of the match the garden leaped into yellow, with fantastic moving shadows from the trees and in the corner of the wall. She raked leaves over the blaze, pulled the great mound into firmer shape, and then drew Cynthia back under the wall to watch. The light ran over her face; the delighted gestures of her hands were like quick shadows.
"See the old apple-tree dance! He's too old to move fast."
Cynthia crouched by the wall, brushing away from her face the scratchy leaves of the dead hollyhocks. Excitement tingled through her; she felt the red and yellow. flames seizing her, burning out the heavy rebellion, the choking weight. Miss Egert leaned back against the wall, her hands spread so that her thin fingers were fire-edged.
"See the smoke curl up through those branches! Isn't it lovely, Cynthia?" She darted around the pile to push more leaves into the flames.
Cynthia strained forward, hugging her arms to her body. Never had there been such a fire! It burned through her awkwardness, her self-consciousness. It ate into the thick, murky veils which hung always between her and the things she struggled to find out. She took a long breath, and the crisp scent of smoke from
the dead leaves tingled down through her you! Keep searching!" She drew back, body.
Miss Egert was at her side again. Cynthia looked up; the. slight, asymmetrical figure was like the apple-tree, still, yet dancing!
"Why don't you paint it?" demanded Cynthia, abruptly, and then was frightened as Miss Egert's body stiffened, lost its suggestion of motion.
"I can't." The woman dropped to the ground beside Cynthia, crumpling a handful of leaves. "It's too late." She looked straight at the fire. "I must be content to see it." She blew the pieces of leaves from the palm of her hand and smiled at Cynthia. "Perhaps some day you 'll paint it-or write it."
"I can't paint." Cynthia's voice quivered. "I want to do something. I can't even see things except what you point out. And now
poised for a moment in the shadow before she rose. Through Cynthia ran the swift feet of white ecstasy. She was pledging herself to some tremendous mystery, which trembled all about her. "Come, Cynthia, we 're wasting our coals."
Miss Egert held out her hands. Cynthia, laying hers in them, was drawn to her feet. As she stood there, inarticulate, full of a strange, excited, shouting hope, behind them the path crunched. Miss Egert turned, and Cynthia shrank back.
Her mother stood in the path, making no response to Miss Egert's "Good evening, Mrs. Bates."
The fire had burned too low to lift the shadow from the mother's face. Cynthia could see the hem of her skirt swaying where it dipped up in front. Above that two rigid hands in gray cotton gloves; above that the suggestion of a white, strained face.
Cynthia took a little step toward her. "I came to get my sketches," she implored her. Her throat was dry. What if her mother began to say cruel thingsthe things she had already said at home. "I hope I have n't kept Cynthia too late," Miss Egert said. "We were going
Won't you have
to toast marshmallows. one, Mrs. Bates?" She pushed the glowing leaf-ashes together. The little spurt. of flame showed Cynthia her mother's eyes, hard, angry, resting an instant on Miss Egert and then assailing her.
"Cynthia knows she should not be here. She is not permitted to run about the streets alone at night."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Miss Egert made a deprecating little gesture. "But no harm has come to her."
"She has disobeyed me."
At the tone of her mother's voice Cynthia felt something within her breast curl up like a leaf caught in flame.
"I'll get the things I came for." She started toward the house, running past her mother. She must hurry, before her mother said anything to hurt Miss Egert.
She stumbled on the door-step, and flung herself against the door. The portfolio was across the room, on the little, old piano. The candle beside it had guttered down over the cover. Cynthia pressed out the wobbly flame, and, hugging the portfolio, ran back across the room. On the threshold she turned for a last glimpse. The row of Botticelli details over the bookcases were blurred into gray in the light of the one remaining candle; the Indian rug had a wavering glow. Then she heard Miss Egert just outside.
"I'm sorry Cynthia is n't to come any more," she was saying.
"Cynthia has a good deal to do," her mother answered. "We can't afford to give her painting lessons, especially – Cynthia moved down between the women "especially," her mother continued, "as she does n't seem to get much of anywhere. You'd think she 'd have some pictures to show after so many lessons."
"Perhaps I 'm not a good teacher. Of course she's just beginning."
"She'd better put her time on her studies."
"I'll miss her. We 've had some pleasant times together."
Cynthia held out her hand toward Miss Egert, with a fearful little glance at her mother.
"Good-by, Miss Egert."
Miss Egert's cold fingers pressed it an instant.
"Good night, Cynthia," she said slowly. Then Cynthia followed her mother's silent figure along the path; she turned her head as they reached the sidewalk. Back in the garden winked the red eye of the fire.
They waited under the arc light for the car, Cynthia stealing fleeting glances at her mother's averted face. On the car she drooped against the window-edge, away from her mother's heavy silence. She was frightened now, a panicky child
caught in disobedience. Once, as the car turned at the corner below her father's office, she spoke:
"Father will expect me
"He knows I went after you," was her mother's grim answer.
Cynthia followed her mother into the house. Her small brother was in the sitting-room, reading. He looked up from his book with wide, knowing eyes. Rebellious humiliation washed over Cynthia; setting her lips against their quivering, she pulled off her sweater.
"Go on to bed, Robert," called her mother from the entry, where she was hanging her coat. "You 've sat up too late as it is."
He yawned, and dragged his feet with provoking slowness past Cynthia.
"Was she down there, Mama?" He stopped on the bottom step to grin at his
"Go on, Robert. Start your bath. Mother 'll be up in a minute." "Aw, it's too late for a bath." He leaned over the rail.
"It 's Saturday. I could n't get back. sooner."
Cynthia swung away from the round, grinning face. Her mother went past her into the dining-room. Robert shuffled upstairs; she heard the water splashing into the tub.
Her mother was very angry with her. Presently she would come back, would begin to speak. Cynthia shivered. The familiar room seemed full of hostile, accusing silence, like that of her mother. If only she had come straight home from the office, she would be sitting by the table in the old Morris chair, reading, with her mother across from her sewing, or glancing through the evening paper. She gazed about the room at the neat scrolls of the brown wall-paper, at a picture above the couch, cows by a stream. The dull, ordinary comfort of life there hung. about her, a reproaching shadow, within. which she felt the heavy, silent discomfort her transgression dragged after it. It would be much easier to go on just as she was expected to do. Easier. The
girl straightened her drooping body. That things were hard did n't matter. Miss Egert had insisted upon that. She was forgetting the pledge she had given. The humiliation slipped away, and a cold exaltation trembled through her, a remote echo of the hope that had shouted within her back there in the garden. Here it was difficult to know what she had promised, to what she had pledged herself-something that the familiar, comfortable room had no part in.
She glanced toward the dining-room, and her breath quickened. Between the faded green portières stood her mother, watching her with hard, bright eyes. Cynthia's glance faltered; she looked desperately about the room as if hurrying her thoughts to some shelter. Beside her on the couch lay the portfolio. She took a little step toward it, stopping at her mother's voice.
"Well, Cynthia, have you anything to say?"
Cynthia lifted her eyes.
"Don't you think I have trouble enough with your brothers? You, a grown girl, defying me! I can't understand it."
"I went down for this." Cynthia touched the black case.
"Put that down! I don't want to see it!" The mother's voice rose, breaking down the terrifying silences. "You disobeyed me. I told you you were n't to go there again. And then I telephoned your father to ask you to do an errand for me, and find you there-with that woman!"
"I'm not going again." Cynthia twisted her hands together. "I had to go a last time. She was a friend. I could not tell her I was n't coming-"
"A friend! A sentimental old maid, older than your mother! Is that a friend for a young girl? What were you doing when I found you? Holding hands! Is that the right thing for you? She's turned your head. You are n't the same Cynthia, running off to her, complaining of your mother."
"Oh, no!" Cynthia flung out her hand. "We were just talking." Her misery confused her.
"Talking? About what?"
"About" The recollection rushed through Cynthia-"about beauty." She winced, a flush sweeping up to the edge of her fair hair, at her mother's laugh.
"Beauty! You disobey your mother, hurt her, to talk about beauty at night with an old maid!"
There was a hot beating in Cynthia's throat; she drew back against the couch.
"Pretending to be an artist," her mother drove on, "to get young girls who are foolish enough to listen to her sentimentalizing."
"She was an artist," pleaded Cynthia. "She gave it up to take care of her father and mother. I told you all about that-" "Talking about beauty does n't make artists."
Cynthia stared at her mother. She had stepped near the table, and the light through the green shade of the readinglamp made queer pools of color about her eyes, in the waves of her dark hair. She did n't look real. Cynthia threw one hand up against her lips. She was sucked down and down in an eddy of despair. Her mother's voice dragged her again to the surface.
"We let you go there because you wanted to paint, and you maunder and say things you'd be ashamed to have your mother hear. I 've spent my life working for you, planning for you, and you go running off-" Her voice broke into a new note, a trembling, grieved tone. "I've always trusted you, depended on you; now I can't even trust you."
"I won't go there again. I had to explain."
"I can't believe you. You don't care how you make me feel."
Cynthia was whirled again down the sides of the eddy.
"I can't believe you care anything for me, your own mother."
Cynthia plucked at the braid on her cuff.
"I did n't do it to make you sorry," she whispered. "I-it was-" The eddy closed about her, and with a little gasp she dropped down on the couch, burying