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                               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. ...


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