Discovery
Date: 2026-07-28T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: Discovery

Author: Helen R. Hull

Release date: July 28, 2026 [eBook #79205]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Mary Fanton Roberts, Inc., 1918

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79205

Credits: Jens Sadowski. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.

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Discovery

A Story

Helen R. Hull

The Touchstone, vol. 3, Aug. 1918, pp. 401-411.

“Let’s sit here and talk awhile.” Richard stepped over the low hand rail of the bridge and sat down on the end of a plank, dangling long legs over the water, yellow with spring turmoil. Cynthia followed him, stopping to release her skirt as a nail caught it.

“Don’t you wish you wore trousers?” He threw back his head, glints of orange in his gray eyes.

“Skirts are always catching you.” Cynthia sat down gravely beside him. “But I don’t want to be a man, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, you do! Then you could do what you please. Now you have to fall in love with somebody and marry him.”

“I don’t have to.” Cynthia pulled at her glove, uneasy under Richard’s eyes. Perhaps tan gloves weren’t just the thing for Sunday, with a white waist and black skirt.

“That’s the fate society gives you,” he was saying lazily. She tucked the gloves under her, on the side away from Richard. “Now, I can do what I like, and then some day, when I decide it’s wise, I can marry one of you, waiting for her fate.”

“I might do what I like.”

“That’s what women like.”

“I hate you when you talk like that!” She flushed at his laugh.

“Don’t hate me.” He put his hand over hers, turning it, his fingers around her wrist. Cynthia tried to hush the stirring in her pulses before his fingers caught it. “Perhaps that isn’t your fate.” Her hand lay, palm up, in his. “You haven’t a lady’s hand, have you? You could really do things with those fingers.”

“It—it is ugly.” Cynthia scarcely knew what she said; the strange pain of Richard’s touch seeped through her.

“Not ugly. Useful. Strong.” He drew a finger tip across the palm. “And sensitive. Are you all those things?”

Cynthia drew her hands slowly away. As she closed her fingers softly in her lap, she shut in the warm magic of his touch. He flung his arms behind his head, on the railing; Cynthia followed his eyes down the little stream to its curve between yellowing willows. Peace, full of the sound of the quick muddy water beneath her, of the touch of his fingers, shut within his palm, of the nearness of his long, still body, closed around her, lifting her out of thoughts.

Richard stirred, turning his head.

“Cynthia, I’m sorry our walks are over.”

She stiffened her body against a sudden panic.

“I’ve got to go tomorrow. I didn’t expect to leave so soon, but this job’s done and the firm wants me on another.”

“You were going to stay the rest of the spring.” How the yellow branches of the willows swayed against their black trunks! Richard’s voice tore at her.

“I supposed I could. I’m sorry, too. I didn’t expect to like being here—or mind leaving.”

“It isn’t much of a place.”

“You’ve been the best sort of companion.”

The words dispelled the blur into which river and willows had misted. Cynthia held her eyes against his steady look. Was it pity under his gentle, probing glance? She said, quite loud, “We’ve had a lot of good times.”

“I haven’t been all bad for you, Cynthia?” He had her hand again.

This—his going—was the shadow that had lain at the rim of all the flashing days since he had come, late in the fall. She knew now that she had meant to face it before the spring ended. Here it was, thrown across her like a net. Her eyes struggled against his for a moment. Then she climbed to her feet, freeing her hand.

“How silly! What do you mean?”

Richard swung around, his eyes still searching.

“Interrupting the even tenor of your respectable ways——”

“Is that what you think you’ve done!” Cynthia stepped over the rail. She must escape before his eyes had probed through to her agony. “We’ll be late for dinner now,” she said, desperately, and started on a run up the muddy lane.

Richard came up with her, easily, caught her hand, and drew her into a swifter run. The ground was soft beneath their feet; the wind which lifted Cynthia’s hair seemed like the green flash in the trees taken to flight. The chaos in the girl whirled up on the rhythm of their motion into a shining pæan of suffering. At the end of the lane Richard vaulted the bars; Cynthia stumbled, trembling. She was back in her clumsy, halting body again, struggling for breath. Drooping there, she saw her boots, mud spattered. She had felt beautiful as she ran! Richard waited, head back, the sun on his strong throat. He could love only someone full of grace and beauty——

As they picked their way across the road to the sidewalk, Cynthia hunted for words to throw across the silence.

“Where do you go from here?”

Richard looked down at her deliberatively before he answered.

“Funny, isn’t it, how little we really know about each other. What we mean to do, what we are like. If I say I’m going home for a few weeks, it doesn’t mean much to you, does it? And you never let me see far under your smile, do you?”

“We know some things—enough, I guess.” Cynthia quickened her steps down the village street. Would he pull down the self she had built so diligently for him? She had a glimpse of the pictures she had piled on the floor of her closet: the Madonna her mother had given her, the gilt-framed group of her society at school. She had thrust them there that first night he had come to see her, for fear they might amuse him. Did he know about those and all the other things she had concealed? He was smiling now.

“What is enough?”

She fought away her shame in a laugh.

“Well—I know what you like best for dinner.”

“True.” He paused, and Cynthia felt his grin release the trap that had threatened. He had taught her that trick—of escaping into trivialities. “That is important. I hope the Moores know, too. I’ve got to dine there today. Mutual friends, etcetera. I’m sorry—the last day.”

“They’ll give you a better dinner than Mrs. Claude.” Cynthia nodded, flushing, in return to the suspicious “How-de-do, Miss Bates,” from a woman puffing past them in tight-busted black silk.

“She’ll tell on you to your school board, going walking with me on Sunday morning. She is late!” Richard waved his hand toward the quiet houses. “Everyone is in the bosom of his family, engaged in the sacred rite of the Sabbath fowl.”

Cynthia smiled faintly. She had a fleeting, wistful impression of herself, coming back from church to a Sunday dinner, incredibly calm. Richard burst out in a clear whistle, something they had heard at a concert last week. She remembered it, the little theme which had come back again and again, twisted, altered. Richard had pointed it out. She hadn’t known music was made like that. Richard knew so many things—things she wanted. She glanced at him, striding along, breaking into his whistle with chanted words. He was going! Within her twisted a thin wire of resentment.

They came to the square white boarding house. Richard looked down at her.

“I’ll come around after supper—about seven, if I may. Got to take the midnight train.”

“Well—if you think you’ll have time.”

Then she escaped, up the steps, past the people talking in the parlor, to her own room. She pulled away the screen which stood in front of the dresser, and throwing aside her hat, brushed up her fair hair. On the dresser lay the letter from her mother—what was it there about Richard? She unfolded the sheet to find the sentences again.

“Mrs. C. writes me that you are running around with that Daggart man too much. I wish you would drop him. He will only make you dissatisfied with your own station in society, and he won’t ever have serious intentions. He struck me queer that time when I was visiting you and he came in. There are plenty of nice boys——”

Cynthia thrust the letter back into the envelope. She looked about the small room; her hands clenched. If she sat down there, with Richard’s books among the papers on the table, with the Japanese print he had brought her staring at her from the wall, with his tobacco pouch on the chair by her cot, where she had been mending it that morning——She ran out of the room.

Mrs. Claude had just come to the foot of the stairs to call her to dinner. She wore a bright blue waist; Cynthia had seen her, late the night before, hurrying to finish it. Its hard, shiny surface grayed her face. Cynthia descended slowly.

“Dinner’s just ready, Cynthia.” She slipped one hand into the girl’s arm. “Have a pleasant walk? You missed a fine sermon.” She led her across the hall into the parlor. “Now my family is all here.” With her free hand she included the waiting boarders in a gesture of expansive motherliness.

Miss Murray, the music teacher, laid aside her paper with a crisp, “All but Mr. Daggart.”

“He’s dining with the Moores.” Mrs. Claude boasted gently; none of them were likely ever to be asked to dine at that house.

In the stuffy little dining room, Cynthia bent over her plate, conscious of heat and wretchedness deferred. She was flicked into spurts of animation by the fear that they would connect her silence with Richard’s absence, with his departure, when they learned of that. Between the draped lace curtains she could see the wind outside dallying in the branches of a little poplar; inside the warm odors of food weighted her eyelids.

* * *

Later, in her own room, she flung open the windows and sat down at her table. She had work to do, lots of it. These last weeks it had piled up there, neglected. She pulled a set of papers toward her, spread them open. The wind fluttered them beneath her fingers. Downstairs Miss Murray was playing. She crept to the door and opened it softly. What did she play? Something hard and flashing. Richard would be amused if he should catch her there, not knowing. She left the door ajar as she went back to her table. Perhaps—if she had known about music——After all, that was but one out of all the things. She sat, her hands folded on the papers, while the music assailed her.

At a sound she turned. Mrs. Claude stood in the doorway, her face deprecatory. She closed the door, and drawing a chair near Cynthia, settled herself.

“You aren’t too busy to talk, I hope?” She nodded at the papers.

Cynthia shook her head.

“I want you to think I’m speaking as if you were my own daughter. You won’t mind my speaking frankly.”

Cynthia, dry-throated, lied. “Why, no.”

“It’s just that we are interested in you, Cynthia. You don’t realize—you’re too young. But folks are talking.”

“About what?” Cynthia’s eyes travelled up over the slippery blue waist, past the tight high collar, to Mrs. Claude’s eyes, dark circled, above high cheek bones.

“About your Mr. Daggart. What good can come of your—well, if it was anyone else but you I’d say almost—throwing yourself at him?”

Cynthia’s heart gave a great leap, and hot blood rushed into her throat. She pressed herself rigidly against her chair.

“I thought it wasn’t my business until yesterday,” Mrs. Claude went on, slowly. “His landlady told me about the pictures of a girl he’s got his room full of. He’s engaged to her.”

“What difference does that make?” The hot flood receded, leaving Cynthia frozen under Mrs. Claude’s curious eyes.

The woman laid her hand, a large hand with brown spots between the veins, on the girl’s knee.

“I hope it don’t. But you don’t want to spend all your time with a man that’s going to marry someone else. Hours he’s here in your room”—she paused, the corners of her mouth puckering—“and the door shut!”

“We—we read together——” Cynthia’s body trembled under the woman’s hand.

“How many folks would believe that?”

Cynthia stared at the sallow face; in her breast a sickening whirl began.

“What harm is there in reading?” She hated herself for the faltering of her voice.

“You can’t neglect what things look like to folks. I know you mean all right. I blame him. He’s older, and just because you made him comfortable and he could play with you——”

“You needn’t blame anybody.” A sudden rage steadied the whirling. “I know what I’ve been doing. If Mr. Daggart is interesting, can’t I see him? There are other things besides—whatever you mean!”

“I spoke for your own good.” Mrs. Claude drew her hand away. “If you want to throw away your good name and your chances for marriage——”

“What I can lose as easily as that isn’t worth much!”

“Why, Cynthia!” Mrs. Claude shook her head. “He isn’t worth it. He’s selfish, or he wouldn’t have hung around you so, and him engaged. And he’s—well, I’ve looked into some of his books.” She pointed to those on the table. “I don’t think they’ll do you any good. A man who wants to bring a girl things like that!”

“There’s no use talking about it.” Cynthia rose and stood by the window, her arms stiff at her sides. A quivering weariness beset her; she was afraid she might cry. “It’s all over. Mr. Daggart is going away tonight. His work is done.”

Mrs. Claude got to her feet slowly.

“I hope you understand. I thought I ought to say something.”

“Oh, I understand!” Cynthia checked herself. Mrs. Claude’s lips were twitching. Cynthia stared at her, at her heavy, graceless body, flat-chested, wide-hipped; at her gray-toned face. A woman like that could tell you what to do, just how to live—to make a good marriage, to grow like her! Cynthia pressed her lips against a laugh. It was funny! Richard would think it amusing, not insulting. She relaxed.

“Yes.” She began again, the sound of her own voice steadying her. “I see how you meant it. But it isn’t necessary to bother any more.” The color flared into her face.

Mrs. Claude ran her fingers along the seam of her sleeve.

“If you do understand——”

“Oh, I understand. It isn’t what you do, is it? It’s how it looks. But Mr. Daggart’s going away. So there’s nothing else to say.”

She waited, motionless. When, a moment later, Mrs. Claude had withdrawn, incoherently, she slipped into her chair. Her finger tips prickled with a curious sense of power. What had she done? She had been frightened, terrified, when Mrs. Claude came in. Then she had climbed for an instant above herself, to a tiny peak of strength, and Mrs. Claude had crept away, silenced. Why, it had been easy, downing her.

But folks were talking, pitying her! Her body contracted with the nausea of humiliation. Richard was going—back to that other girl. He had referred to her once, casually; and Cynthia had beaten off the buzzing thought of her with blind hands, as though by forgetting she could drive the girl out of existence. Someone rich—beautiful.

She bent over the pile of school exercises. The childish writing sprawled under her eyes. Resolutely she held the sheet closer, until unwillingly her mind responded. She picked up a pencil and went methodically to work.

* * *

Hours later she leaned back in her chair, rubbing her strained eyes. Dusk had floated into the corners of the room and blurred the writing. She sorted out the sheets, laid them in a drawer, and pushed her chair away from the table. Her body ached from the rigid hours. At any moment now Richard might come in. Suppose she were to go away, not be there when he came. She vibrated under the fear that a whim of her own could banish her from that last encounter. Slipping to the floor by her cot she laid her cheek on the leather pouch. The smooth odor of tobacco and old leather crept through her.

Someone called her; she stumbled to her feet and pulled open the door.

“Oh, she is in,” Mrs. Claude answered. “Just go right up.”

She retreated a step into the room, fumbling for the electric button. She must have been asleep; her blood rippled from the sudden awakening. The light flashed on.

“Is this the room?” It wasn’t Richard’s voice. Startled, she faced a tall, fair boy, thrusting a hand toward her self-consciously.

“Guess you didn’t expect me.” Their hands touched, and Cynthia’s confusion cleared. It was Clark Walton. She felt as though she had forgotten the lines of her part, and taken a fresh start at the beginning. Still, he was following her into the room as though he did belong to the present, explaining.

“My aunt told me you were here, teaching. I’m here just over night, on my way west. Thought I’d run in—if you aren’t busy.”

Cynthia pushed the cushions into a pile and sat down on her couch.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“A long time——” Her cheeks were warm. In Clark’s eyes she saw the counterpart of her thought. Not since that winter night when he had kissed her; she had a flicker of tolerance for that young self who had taken the kisses so seriously.

He leaned forward in his chair, rushing into a torrent of details. He was pretending not to remember. Cynthia, listening, peered at her clock. After eight! The present clutched her again. She had slept—Richard had come while she slept! What was Clark waiting for?

“Yes?” Her hand closed over the soft pouch. Richard had gone!

“So I’m going out there. Don’t you think it’s a good opening?”

He was taller than Richard, heavier. How sleek and plump his face looked!

“Now tell us about you. Like being the school ma’am?”

Cynthia heard his question remotely, and answered it:

“That’s too dull to talk about.”

“Going to stay on here?”

“Stay on?” The query became a strong magnet, pulling together the scattered bits of herself. “No——” she hesitated. “No! I’m going away.”

“Getting married, eh?”

“Is that all there is to do?”

“For girls, isn’t it?” Clark’s smile chaffed at her.

“You seem to think so.” Cynthia jumped to her feet. “You wait and see.” She moved to the window. “It’s warm here, don’t you think?” She was dizzied by the monotonous clamor within her: Richard is gone, is gone—shot through by this new, unsummoned challenge. She would go away! She could do—something! She pushed the window high and brushed aside the muslin curtain. In came the night wind, a faint smell of winter in its warmth. As she turned she found Clark staring at her, his lips parted, his eyes warm.

“You’re a lot prettier than you used to be.”

“Am I?” She leaned against the casement, her eyes clinging to him. Through her, a new note in the clamor, sounded a faint alarm; it grew into a steady purple chanting. Clark wanted to kiss her! She had only to smile. She let her eyelids fall. Her body tingled under sudden desire—desire for lips on hers, for arms about her; it would be better than the lonely ache. Slowly she lifted her eyes. Clark had leaned forward into the strong glow from the lamp, his full lips parted; into his begging sprang a hint of certainty, of assurance. He looked silly hanging there—like a fish! Calmly she passed him to her seat on the couch, an ironic self contempt freezing the erotic tingle in her pulses. She watched him settle back, hunting for something to cover his disappointment.

“Where was it you said you were going?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He fumbled with the books at the edge of the table.

“Do you read all these? I was reading a good story the other day——” He trailed off into silence.

He had come in to see if he could kiss her again. That was all he wanted, all he thought she was for. And she had almost——

“Don’t have much time for such stuff as books, now I’m working.” He rose abruptly. “Have to be running on. Just stopped in for old times, you know.”

Cynthia stood facing him, her eyes amused. He knew she was laughing at him! He was uncomfortable. Again the thrill of power touched her. He had no part in things that mattered. He was only a boy who had thought girls were to be kissed. She had almost slipped back into his world. Now he knew she stood outside it. What was he saying?

“Well, good night, Cynthia. Good luck to you. Glad I saw you.”

“Good luck to you, too, Clark.” She smiled at him, almost flauntingly. “Goodbye.”

He left the door open. She heard him in the hall below, as she stood, her hands clasped, her cheeks burning. He had been a whimsical gesture to show her—but Richard had gone! She would go, too. Somewhere away from the Clarks and Mrs. Claudes; there was a world of things to discover. She had lived, all her life, within provincial walls, meekly enough. Outside lay the world, a place of formidable beauty, not open to her. At Richard’s touch the walls had crumbled. She hadn’t seen that they were down, until this moment. Now she stared out across great stretches of space. What had Richard said? “Why don’t you go off and see things?” And when she answered that she had no money, he had laughed. “No money? That’s nothing but an excuse.”

In the hall below, the door opened again; quick feet on the stairs. Before she quite understood what her heart caught in a mad leap, Richard was in the room.

“I couldn’t escape earlier.” He flung himself on her couch. “Behold me, a lamb rescued from the altar of convention. I’m sick of sitting up straight.”

Cynthia crumpled into a chair.

“You haven’t gone,” she said softly. This Richard in careful dress was more terrifying than the Richard of old clothes and orange tie.

“My trunk is packed. I’m about to go. I know it’s late—I won’t stay. Mrs. Claude has her basilisk eye upon me from below.” Back of his nonsense his eyes held her searchingly.

“Why bother to come?”

“Cynthia! I wanted to see you. Not to commit the absurdity of saying goodbye——”

“Why then?” She hugged her arms to her body. His eyes were curious. He wanted to see how she took his going!

“Cynthia——” He leaned toward her, his hand touching her knee. “You aren’t going to be unhappy?”

She lifted her eyes from his strong, thin fingers to his face; under the slight pressure of his hand her body relaxed. For a poignant moment she offered him her eyes, and his, dark, narrowed, sought and demanded; a pallor of submission glistened on her forehead. Then, smiling gently, he spoke again.

“I was sure you understood the situation. I didn’t want to go off thinking I hadn’t played square with you.”

Played with her—that phrase, the assurance in his tone, his smile, wrenched Cynthia out of her lethargy.

“We’ve sort of drifted along, but we knew it was a charming interlude. This afternoon I heard something said about us—sort of a joke——”

“What did you hear?” Cynthia’s voice was clear and still. “What is it you want now?”

“Nothing.” He drew his hand away. “I haven’t made you——”

“No!” Cynthia pushed her chair away impatiently, and stood, her face in the shadow. “You aren’t leaving me broken hearted. You want me to tell you that you aren’t to blame—I shouldn’t have understood if you hadn’t come back tonight—condescending——”

“Cynthia! What are you saying?”

“Just that you needn’t worry about me!” How startled he looked, almost like Clark! Ah, the two were alike, except that Richard dealt in subtleties. He had come back, not to kiss her, but to see her loving him, to say he was sorry.

“What’s happened to you, Cynthia?” Richard plunged to his feet, followed her to the window.

“I don’t know just what.” She smiled and threw back her head, to meet his eyes fairly. What she saw, no longer pity nor amusement, was wind to the fires that cleansed her. “You’ve had a lot of fun, showing off, haven’t you!”

“Cynthia, on my word, I’ve liked you——”

“Yes? But I amused you. And you thought—‘Poor little thing, how she loves me!’ Only you didn’t see that it wasn’t just you. I found out this afternoon. It was all the things you had. The things you stood for. I wanted them and thought I couldn’t have them. And so I was—humble.”

She threw her shoulders back; the strong tide of her self surged up, drowning the old humilities and embarrassments.

“Cynthia, I haven’t been such a cad!” Richard’s voice had a raw edge.

“I didn’t care.” Cynthia’s intensity irradiated her. “Don’t you see, you had everything I wanted. So I hid away, and tried to be what I thought you’d like. It must have been—flattering.”

“It was—flattering.” Richard’s face whitened. “And I wasn’t big enough. I’m—sorry.”

“No.” She made a quick beseeching gesture. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter, now.” Now that she no longer feared that tolerance in his eyes, it was gone. In its place had come recognition. Again the thrill of power rushed through her. They were facing each other in reality for the first time, and it was he who was humble!

“Whatever I’ve done, you’re more than even, laying me out like this!” For Cynthia, the bitterness in his voice had a cool, sharp taste. “I thought you enjoyed the things we did—together.”

“Oh, Richard!” Cynthia laughed. In a flash of penetration she saw his glance toward her, uncertain, eager, as the symbol of all the days since he had come and she had given him that same homage. “After all, you’ve helped set me free.”

“I haven’t helped.” Richard’s hands closed over both of hers. “You’ve done it.”

“You know it’s true, then?”

Richard held her hands against his cheeks for a moment.

“True? You make me afraid of you.” He spoke abruptly. “What are you going to do?”

Cynthia looked about the little room. The confusion from Richard’s touch was gone, in a strong, passionless light.

“I will find out. I am going away. I am going ahead for what I want, as you do!”

“It’s been there, in you. That’s why——” He stood close to her. “And I must go off—to watch you from some corner?”

“Well, you were going!” Cynthia smiled.

“You don’t hate me?”

“I’m grateful to you.” Laying her hands on his shoulders, Cynthia drew herself up to his lips, and kissed him, gravely. “There. Now—Goodbye.”

He crossed the room, reluctantly. At the door he turned, with a slight gesture of farewell.

“I don’t want to go.”

Cynthia smiled again. The smile deepened when, still at her window, she heard his slow steps down the quiet night street.

Transcriber’s Notes

Transcribed from the first publication in: The Touchstone, vol. 3, Aug. 1918, pp. 401-411.

The original spelling and punctuation were preserved.

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