The Project Gutenberg eBook of The return This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The return Author: Helen R. Hull Release date: October 23, 2026 [eBook #79844] Language: English Original publication: New York: Mary Fanton Roberts, Inc., 1919 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79844 Credits: Jens Sadowski. This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library. *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN *** The Return Helen R. Hull The Touchstone, vol. 5, May 1919, pp. 125-133. “Well, I tell you it’s worth winning a war for, just to get Mary back again.” Will Rodman leaned back in his chair, his fingers reaching for an inner pocket. “Awful to think of the hand that can make a pie like that wasted on a gas mask, eh, father?” “I guess you’ve got as much right to feel glad as anybody.” He extricated his cigar, looking up suspiciously at his daughter. “The best part of it”—Mrs. Rodman folded her napkin with quick motions of her plump white hands—“is that she didn’t ask for a raise or anything. She was glad enough to have her old job back——” “Things are settling down fast. Won’t be long now”—Mr. Rodman paused while he slipped the gilt label from his cigar—“not long till everything’s running along same’s before the war.” “Stephen should be home soon.” “What’s that? Stevie coming home?” The old man across the table from Grace blinked at her out of wrinkled eyelids. “Pretty soon, Grandpa,” shouted Mr. Rodman, as he pushed back his chair and rose. “Here’s your cane.” He drew away the chair as the old man, his lips moving a little in his beard, pulled himself to his feet. “Now come in and see how you like the new rug.” Mrs. Rodman led the way into the sitting room, her blue silk rustling. In the doorway, Grace stopped, watching her grandfather as he clumped over to the window. “You’ll be cold there, Father.” Mrs. Rodman pattered after him, made to draw him back to his easy chair near the table. But he shook his head and sat down, his hands clasped on his cane. Mrs. Rodman reached past him to draw the shade. “Leave it up! Leave it up!” he cried. With a tolerant shrug of her round shoulders she left the shade half up and went back to stand by her husband, who was squinting between puffs of smoke at the great square of soft colors which lay beneath their feet. “Turn on more light, Gracie.” The girl snapped on the overhead lights. “It cost quite a sum, but we haven’t bought anything for the house for so long—” Her fair face was puckered in a kind of pleased anxiety. “Well—” Mr. Rodman rubbed his chin. “It’s stylish, ain’t it?” “Don’t you like it, Will?” “Oh, I’d like something bright—roses, don’t you know. But suit yourself. It’s comfortable to walk on.” “It’s a Persian rug, Father.” Grace chuckled, her fine, dark brows lifted. “Um. I suppose so. It’s all right if you like it.” Mr. Rodman sank into his morris chair and pulled his paper onto his knees. “Anyway it’s fine to be able to get what you want without feeling like a criminal.” Mrs. Rodman seated herself with little flirts of her skirt, and reached for her embroidery. “It certainly is.” She drew the thread through her needle, her chin vanishing in soft white folds of flesh. “I feel as if I’d been having a bad dream and just waked up.” Grace pushed the button again and the room went into dusk except for the nucleus of light about the polished reading table, holding in its circle the bald, good-natured forehead of her father, the neat, light hair of her mother. Her father looked at her suddenly over the sheet. “Did you say Brock was coming in?” “Later. He ’phoned he had a meeting at the factory.” “Um. I heard something about trouble there. Well, trust him to settle it. He’s got a great head. You didn’t make any mistake to choose him, if you were slow about it.” “Did you say Stevie was coming?” At the voice quavering from the window, Grace started, her fingers shutting into her palms. “Pretty soon!” her mother shrilled over her shoulder. “Brock said yesterday—” Grace spoke hastily—“that he could use Stephen at the factory——” “Well, when he comes back—” Her mother held the embroidery out at arm’s length, her forehead puckering—“he may be willing to settle down.” “I should think the war might of knocked the poetry bug out of him.” Mr. Rodman spoke through his paper. “After all,” said Grace; and her words slipped out as though strung on a smooth wire of bitterness, an unseemly bit of decoration in the quiet, comfortable room. “After all, he is the only one of us who gave up everything and went—to war. We might let him do what he wants to when he comes back.” “What did he give up?” cried her father. “I just said I hoped he’d come back a better man than he went. As for being the only one of us—” He peered past the circle of light toward the girl, irritatingly indistinct. “I was too old. If you mean Brock——” “No. Of course Brock had to manage his business—guns were necessary.” Grace hesitated. “His success certainly proves that.” Mrs. Rodman smiled up from her work. “How many thousands did he say——” “Many more than Stephen will bring back from war.” “Well!” Mrs. Rodman jerked her word out with her needle. “I must say!” “When will Stevie back?” The old man had half risen, supporting the arch of his body over his cane. Grace crossed to him, drew him down into the chair again. “We don’t know, Grandfather,” she said, close to his ear. “The war is just over.” “I know. I want to see him. Want to tell him about when I came home from the war.” He pulled at the girl’s arm. “That’s what gave me this—” he lifted his hand slowly to his eyes, “and the bad pain here—” it trembled down to his chest, clenched there for a second, and dropped. “You don’t know——” “He won’t come tonight, Grandfather. Don’t you want to go to your room?” “Eh?” “It’s bed time.” “No. No.” He settled down in his chair. “I’m going to wait a bit.” He turned his face again toward the window. “Leave him alone, Grace. He’s in one of his stubborn fits.” Mrs. Rodman hitched her chair around slightly, to look at her daughter. “I hope, Gracie, you don’t say things like that to Brock. He might think—well——” “Oh, he doesn’t care. Stephen’s just a poor cousin.” Grace stood by the window now, her cheek against the pane, her eyes on the white, cold street outside. Mrs. Rodman sighed. “He always was queerer than the law allowed. And you’ve always stood up for him, ever since we took him.” “What’s the use of so much talk?” Mr. Rodman rustled his paper. “No use.” Grace’s voice was low. “I only want him to have a chance when he does come back. A chance to do what he wants. After all—we made him go. We don’t know what he’s been through—or what he’ll want.” “Made him go? We saved him from being a coward.” “No. He went the minute he thought he ought to go.” “Yes, that’s the trouble with Stephen, always. He had to think before he could go. Perhaps he’s learned to do things instead of thinking.” Mr. Rodman pulled one leg over the other knee. “Here, why fuss? He’ll be glad of a chance to get into business.” “For my part—” Mrs. Rodman nodded vigorously—“I’m relieved you are getting married next week, before Stephen comes back. You always paid too much attention to his crazy ideas. Now Brock is sensible.” “You think he—will keep me sensible?” “Well, see how stirred up you get yourself, just talking!” “Oh, rot!” “Gracie!” “Yes?” The girl broke off, her slim body growing straight and taut at the sound of a step on the porch. The old man lifted his head. But his beard dropped back on his breast at the loud call from the hall of, “Hello, everyone!” Grace slipped away from the window on to the low seat in the corner. “Good evening, Brock!” Her mother reached out a hand fluttering in eagerness, as Brock strode into the room. Mr. Rodman looked up from his paper, his round face ruddy with good humor again. Brock stripped off his gauntlets, shook himself out of his great fur-lined coat. “Here, let me take your things—” Mrs. Rodman made a little flurry of movements over her sewing, glancing reproachfully at Grace. “Not a bit of it! Sit still, please.” He flung them over a chair. “What you doing in that corner, Grace? Been bad?” He crossed the room, to stand above her. The light picked out his full lips, the line of square jaw, the large, heavy-lidded eyes. “Sweets to the sweet.” He dropped a box with gaudy bow into her lap. “I wanted to get some flowers, but it was too late. Those fellows—” He threw back his shoulders, a quiet swagger in the angle of his head. “I fixed ’em. Tell you, it’s fine to get here—everything comfortable. It’s bitter outside.” He reached for Grace’s hand, and held it unresisting, to his cheek. “See how cold it is?” His eyes ran hungrily into the shadow, over the white throat, line of drooping shoulder, gray eyes vague in the half light. “Brr-r.” Grace drew her hand away. “Makes you feel fine, though. Wouldn’t like to come out for a walk—or a ride——” “No. Not tonight.” “Tired?” “A day with the dressmaker. You’ve no idea how many clothes it takes to marry you!” Grace drawled a little as she spoke, but she pulled herself erect in the corner, as though she picked up slack reins. “I suppose so.” His tone was amused. “Hello, here’s grandfather, asleep in his chair.” “Yes—” began Grace, when her mother interrupted. “He’s quite beside himself since peace was declared. Tonight he’s insisting on watching for Stephen.” “You haven’t heard he’s coming?” “Not a word.” “That’s what I thought.” Brock drew a chair near the table, seated himself with a lazy stretch; the strong light etched a rigidity of line at the corners of his eyes and nostrils. “I stopped at the house,” he said. “The men have finished doing over the floors. We are in luck to step into a place furnished like that——” “Dead men’s shoes——” “What?” Brock stared at the corner; the shadow hid the quality of Grace’s smile. “Stone’s not dead. He’s mighty glad to make a good cash deal.” “I know. But the war’s ruined him, and out he marches, out of his grand house. It’s made you, and so in you—we—march. Funny, isn’t it!” “Not so funny. He wasn’t clever enough, that’s all.” “Grace, you know you think it’s a wonderful house!” Mrs. Rodman’s cheeks had an agitated quiver. Brock leaned back, his square, white hands relaxed along the arms of the chair. “It will do for this winter,” he said quietly. “Then if we want to build, we can sell it.” “You don’t think it’s unlucky, then, beginning in somebody’s wreck?” “Gracie!” shrilly from Mrs. Rodman. “Really, Grace, sometimes you—you are sentimental!” Mr. Rodman let his foot drop with a bang to the floor, as he shifted in his chair. “Don’t listen to her, Brock!” The grandfather stirred, cupping one hand about his ear. “Did Stevie come in? I thought——” Grace stretched out her hand to touch his arm. “No, Grandfather. Won’t you come upstairs now?” He shook his head, and, patting her hand with gentle old fingers, mumbled a little and was silent again. “Women need to be sentimental,” Brock was saying, with a smile. “But we can’t, we men. It wouldn’t have landed me where I am. Take just tonight, for instance, at the factory.” His hands shut slowly into fists with heavy knuckles. “I heard downtown—” Mr. Rodman dropped his voice—“that trouble was simmering.” “Was that all you heard?” “Um—no. They said you’d cut the wages, and the men weren’t going to stand for it.” Brock’s full lips parted in a grin; his hands relaxed again. “Yes, that’s what they said, the men, this afternoon. Some of them came in tonight. It wasn’t much of a cut, you know. A few cents an hour. It’s the principle of the thing I’m after. The war’s over. They needn’t think they can go on at war rates now. No business could live that way.” Brock balanced his fingers together over his chest, the lines about his nostrils deepening. “They threatened a strike.” “Well?” urged Mr. Rodman. Grace listened, her head bent, her fingers pressed against the arm of her grandfather. “Well, I just pointed out to them that their day of bullying me was over. Men are coming back, shiploads of them. They’ll need jobs. They won’t be in any position to force outrageous wages out of me. I told them they could all walk out. I’d shut the factory. Take a vacation. Then I’d open it two months from now, with a clean sweep, a new force.” “And they saw it, did they?” “Of course they saw it. They know the war’s over, don’t they? This was a last grab for something out of it.” The grandfather with a queer whistling of breath through his beard, was stumbling to his feet. Brock held the admiring eyes of the father and mother. Only Grace turned to see why the old man strained toward the doorway. As he came to trembling salute beside her, his cane clattering to the floor, she flung her hand against her lips. Was there some one standing there, listening, just outside the door? The old man lunged past her with a great cry of “Stevie!” The sound was a sudden wind over the surface of the group, blowing up waves of excited inquiry, which broke about the slight figure in uniform that stepped forward, arm over the old man’s shoulders. “No, don’t get up!” Stephen made a quick gesture with his free hand, the thin fingers quivering. “I’ve wanted to see you all just sitting around talking—” He led the grandfather back to his chair, and stood beside him. He pushed his nervous fingers across his prominent forehead, through the straggly sandy hair, while his eyes, strangely blue under their light lashes, went slowly about the room, coming at last to the wide gray eyes of the girl, stopping there with a smile which lightened the sombre face. “Stephen!” she exclaimed. “It’s really you! Back again!” “Well, well!” Mr. Rodman sank into his chair. “How’d you come? Why didn’t you let us meet you?” There was a film of uneasiness over them all, as though they felt they missed their proper cues. Here was a soldier, home from the war—and yet, he was still Stephen! “Don’t you want something to eat, Stephen?” asked Mrs. Rodman. “No, Auntie. I’m not hungry.” “I was afraid, Stevie—” The old man reached for the boy’s sleeve, ran his finger along the braided cuff—“afraid you wouldn’t get here. I wanted to tell you—when I came back from the war—” He peered up into Stephen’s face out of opaque old eyes. “Well, tell us how you like soldiering.” Brock had been watching Stephen with a tolerant smile, which disappeared under Stephen’s steady gaze. “I don’t want to talk about that—tonight—” He turned to Grace with another gesture of his restless fingers. “I’ve come a long way—I’m tired of all that—won’t you go on—as if I hadn’t come in? If you knew how I’ve wanted to get back—to drop into things—now!” “That was what I wanted, Stevie.” The grandfather nodded slowly. “It was something about that—something—I had to tell you——” “Don’t mind Grandpa.” Mrs. Rodman had picked up her embroidery again. “He’s been expecting you all day, and so he’s excited. Now we’ve just been talking about how things are settling down as comfortable as though there hadn’t been any war. Except that Brock is much richer. Much. And prices—” She looked up at Stephen and jerked uneasily under his intentness. “Why, our Mary came back today. At her old wages, too.” “The wages of sin is death!” The old man lifted one hand slowly. “The old wage. We’ve seen it—you and me, Stevie.” His hand dropped back to his knee. “He wanders more and more,” said Grace, softly. Then Mr. Rodman stepped briskly over the curious pause. “Yes, that’s just a sample, Mary’s return. You’ve put the old world back in place. Of course, there are things to be done. But it’s just a matter of time, now.” He stretched himself back in his chair. “Why, the sales at my store today were twice what they were three years ago. I tell you, it’s a wonderful thing, seeing the world settled down again. Here’s Brock too, telling us just before you came in, how he was putting his men back in their proper place.” “How?” The stark monosyllable drew Grace forward to the edge of her seat, her hands clenched in her lap. Brock’s answer was nonchalant. “Just a matter of wages. I pointed out to the men that they were no longer cocks of the walk. Two million men coming back and wanting jobs—they took what I offered ’em.” He pulled a cigar case from his pocket, extended it toward Stephen, who only stared, his thin mouth twitching slightly. Brock tossed it across the table to Mr. Rodman. The old man, with a pawing motion, found Stephen’s hand, and clutched it in his gnarled fingers. “And you—” Stephen looked over the bent shoulders at Grace. She thrust out her hand, palm up, imploringly, but her mother spoke. “Gracie’s wedding’s next week. She wouldn’t have it till the war was over. She and Brock are going to live in the Stone mansion,” she finished, proudly. Stephen stepped back, farther into the shadow. Only his eyes, haggard, blue, shone out of the dusk. “I suppose—” his low, vibrant voice ran about the room, into dark corners, like a questing thing. “I suppose I might have known—you could send me—out to hell—for this.” The others—all but the grandfather—moved, restlessly, as though the questing thing came too near them. Brock spoke out, loudly. “Of course you have all sorts of unpleasant things in your head. You must be practical, man. Not morbid. Now, I was telling Grace, I have a fine opening for you, just as soon as you feel like getting down to work——” “I went on a holy war—a war for freedom—with your words—” His eyes found Grace—“and your kiss in my heart.” “I thought you might never come back—” Grace’s fingers moved against her throat. “Now, see here, Stephen—” Mr. Rodman sat erect, blustering. “You’re upset. We’re proud of you, my boy. You’ve licked the Hun. What’s wrong?” Mrs. Rodman, her eyes round, her chin quivering, was murmuring to herself, “Shellshock!” “I had to come back. That was why I could fight—to come back. To see the new world—the world made beautiful. Were they lies, the words you used to send me out there——” “Stevie!” The grandfather pulled himself to his feet, his hands wavering about Stephen’s shoulders. “That’s it, what I wanted to tell you. I was afraid I might forget it. When I came back—from the war—the war for freedom—They were going on—” his old voice thickened with sobs—“They didn’t know. Making money—hating—being afraid—They didn’t know! It broke my heart.” He pounded his fist against his old breast. “I sat down to cry. Tears—here!” His hands quavered up to the boy’s face, dropped against his heart. “The dead men—it’s long ago—but the dead men—they were happy—they kept the faith. You’ll keep it. It lasts. It comes out—ahead—sometime. Not all at once.” He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Take me—up to bed, Stevie. I’m old—old.” He started, fumbling, toward the door, his arm clinging to Stephen’s, drawing him along. At the door Stephen turned for a moment, his eyes burning in his gaunt face. Then they were gone, the old man clumping heavily on the stairs. Into the silence Mrs. Rodman wailed, “Oh, he’s worse than ever, upsetting us so——” “He’ll—” Brock choked, and before he could speak again, the sharp note of the doorbell crackled through the room. Mr. Rodman rose heavily and walked into the hall. After a moment he was back, staring at a telegram. Grace moved to her feet, her face a white blur against the dark hangings. He tore it open, read it, his jaw pendulous. “What is it, Will?” Mrs. Rodman cried. “From the war office. Regret—” he mumbled a little—“‘Stephen Cox died on shipboard, on way to this country. Wounded at Sedan!’ Funny, now, the mistakes the old government makes.” He paused, breathing loudly. “Grace, run—run upstairs—and tell Stephen—the joke.” Grace swayed as she came around the table and passed out of the room. The three people left there stared after her, waiting. Presently, in the thick silence, they heard her feet descending the stairs, slowly, softly, as though they whispered. She came to the door, her face rigid. “Well?” Brock threw the word at her, hoarsely. “No one is there.” Her voice was monotonous, without intonations. “Grandfather is lying—on his bed. I—can not—wake him.” Transcriber’s Notes Transcribed from The Touchstone, vol. 5, May 1919, pp. 125-133. New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain. The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. Minor typesetting mistakes were silently corrected. All other changes (before/after) are listed here: [p. 130]: ... her, his can clattering to the floor, she flung her hand against her lips. ... ... her, his cane clattering to the floor, she flung her hand against her lips. ... *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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