THE ROAD 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIAS 
 
 AUTHOR OF " WITTE ARRIVES 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 RAHWAY. N J. 
 
TO PAUL 
 
 ON HIS EIGHTH BIRTHDAY 
 
 
 709968 
 
"Give me again, O Nature, your primal sanities !" WALT 
 WHITMAN. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I 
 Road s Beginning 
 
 HAPTER PAGE 
 
 I HILDA 3 
 
 II RAYMOND 20 
 
 III THE LONG AGO 29 
 
 IV QUESTIONS 43 
 
 V HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER .... 54 
 
 VI RAYMOND MAKES A PILGRIMAGE ... 69 
 
 BOOK II 
 Crossroads 
 
 VII THE DAILY BREAD 87 
 
 VIII SHADOWS 99 
 
 IX LITTLE RAYMOND S BIRTHDAY .... 109 
 
 X WORK 121 
 
 XI NEW PEOPLE 140 
 
 XII THE NEW FAITH 156 
 
 XIII FRANK HILLSTROM 171 
 
 XIV FIRE AND DEATH 184 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 XV 
 
 XVI 
 
 XVII 
 
 XVIII 
 
 XIX 
 
 XX 
 
 XXI 
 
 XXII 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Road s End 
 
 THE TURN 195 
 
 THE UNCHARTED ROAD . 209 
 
 FEARS AND HOPES . . 225 
 
 BEFORE THE STORM 235 
 
 RAYMOND EVERT COMES 246 
 
 GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 263 
 
 HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 277 
 
 DEATH 290 
 
 A TOAST TO THE FUTURE 297 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 Epilogue 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 XXIV IN RUSSIA S FIELDS 30? 
 
BOOK I 
 ROAD S BEGINNING 
 
CHAPTER I 
 HILDA 
 
 WHEN Hilda Thorsen opened her eyes she was still lying 
 on the operating table. The room seemed to be filled with 
 vapor and she could distinguish neither the doctor nor the 
 nurses. She heard them speak, but their voices had a far 
 away, muffled sound. The feeling of remoteness extended 
 also to her thoughts. They seemed to be floating about in 
 the atmosphere like so many red and blue balloons and she 
 was unable to get them back into her head where, she knew, 
 they belonged. She mastered them finally and crowded 
 them back into her brain. Now she could think. She had 
 been waiting for something wanting to know. What was 
 it? Oh, yes, she recalled. She was anxious to know 
 whether it was all over or whether the thing had not yet 
 begun. . . . She must raise herself and see. . . . 
 
 Raise herself she did not. In the next breath she joined 
 the red and blue balloons and was swinging through space 
 with them. . . . 
 
 When she opened her eyes for the second time she was 
 in bed in a ward with other patients. The light in the 
 room was dim, but her vision was clear, and from her limbs 
 all numbness was gone. Noiselessly an attendant was 
 wheeling out a stretcher upon which she was brought in. 
 
 It was all over. . . . She was aware of it almost before 
 
 3 
 
4 THE ROAD 
 
 opening her eyes. She felt that she was on the eve of a 
 great celebration. An air of festivity hung over everything. 
 She was tired, but the tiredness did not keep her from feel 
 ing the unwonted and mysterious thrill that was coursing 
 through her from head to foot. 
 
 The doctor was standing beside the bed, gazing at her, 
 and a feeling of shame seized her. She was abashed over 
 her condition the thing she had just come out of. . . . 
 She must apologize to him, thank him for what he had 
 done for her. She was extending her hand to him. . . . 
 
 Reason had broken through the last filmy wall of un 
 consciousness. She realized what she was about and shrank 
 back in panic. The thing she had dreaded before taking 
 the anesthetic, the irrepressible craving to talk, to confide, 
 to yield this thing was upon her. It was one of the in 
 evitable accompaniments of the drug. She wondered 
 whether she had not already said something out of the 
 way. She could not tell from the expression in the doc 
 tor s face. At any rate she would take herself in hand 
 immediately. Her future was in the balance. It could be 
 destroyed with a careless word. 
 
 She shook as if she had taken something bitter. Her 
 features became tense with determination. The physician 
 noted the excitement under which she labored. 
 
 "Feeling well?" he asked. 
 
 "Y-es," Hilda replied, turning her eyes away. 
 
 The doctor made a move as if to go, but changed his 
 mind and remained. 
 
 It was Sunday and it was nearly midnight. Dr. Gilbert 
 Norton, house physician at the Swann Maternity Hospital, 
 
HILDA 5 
 
 had just gone through one of the most thrilling experiences 
 of his still young practice. After a trying delivery he had 
 worked himself into a sweat before he finally found the 
 voice for the puny infant. Never had he seen a child so 
 obstinate in its refusal to come to life. . . . 
 
 He was still vibrating with excitement^ over his success 
 in saving the infant s life, and was not averse to sharing 
 the thrill of the achievement with the young mother. He 
 was waiting for her to speak, to ask about her child. 
 
 The child whether it was well, and what it was, a boy 
 or a girl these were the first questions mothers asked upon 
 coming to. It was time Hilda asked these questions. 
 She was completely out from under the influence of the 
 anesthetic and was in full possession of her senses. Dr. 
 Norton waited, but she was not asking. She was not speak 
 ing. Nor did he feel encouraged to start a conversation. 
 Hilda was not sleeping, but she had closed her eyes. She 
 apparently wished to be left alone. 
 
 They had not taken her story of widowhood seriously at 
 the hospital. But they were not making any distinctions 
 between married and unmarried "cases," and they were not 
 prying into any girl s past. Dr. Norton had from the first 
 taken Hilda to be unmarried and her child illegitimate. 
 The girl s conduct, her tensity and silence, at a time when 
 she should relax, should speak, not only tended to confirm 
 this view, but gave him occasion for further reflection. 
 
 The case plainly was one of more than ordinary tragedy. 
 The child was more than unwanted; that all illegitimate 
 children were. It was a dread and burden to its mother. 
 Nor could he condemn the girl for apparently feeling that 
 
6 THE ROAD 
 
 way toward the infant ; Hilda was so young. He had taken 
 her to be a country girl who had been betrayed, ruined. 
 Everything about her seemed to bear out this view. There 
 was nothing of the city s slums about her face or in her 
 speech; not a trace of wantonness, of coarseness. In spite 
 of her condition the girl retained about herself an air of 
 innocence. 
 
 As he meditated over these things Dr. Norton was won 
 dering whether his luck in saving the infant s life, upon 
 which he had been congratulating himself, was luck, or was 
 but the irony of fate. . . . His frantic efforts had appar 
 ently forced into life only that which might have been bet 
 ter dead. . . . 
 
 However, having almost miraculously saved the child s 
 life he was not going to take chances on having it snuffed 
 out by a crazed mother. He took one final look at Hilda 
 and left the room. 
 
 In the hall he gave the nurse strict orders. A careful 
 watch was to be kept over the girl, especially when the child 
 was with her. She was laboring under a great strain and 
 there was no telling when she might go into hysterics and 
 attempt to smother the infant. 
 
 While the physician was speaking to the nurse Hilda 
 was making the most of these few unguarded moments. 
 With a violent effort she raised her head and let her gaze 
 glide slowly, searchingly down the length of her even, 
 slender body. She had anticipated this moment for months 
 and would not deprive herself of the ecstasy which this 
 drinking in of the sight of her transformation gave her, even 
 
HILDA 7 
 
 if the strain of holding up her head was too much for her 
 exhausted frame. 
 
 Yes, it was all over. . . . The words had a joyous sound 
 in her ears. Whatever might come next, with this thing 
 she was through. . . . She was her former self again. 
 Moreover nothing really bad could happen to her now. 
 Giving birth was what she dreaded most and that was 
 over. She was actually herself, "just herself" again after 
 eight months. 
 
 Eight months! Were they only months? They had 
 seemed to her like years, ages. . . . But whatever they had 
 been, they were ended. She would blot them out. She 
 would banish them from her memory as one banishes a bad 
 dream. . . . The future Her brain was in a riot over 
 the future. . . . She was making plans, all sorts of plans. 
 . . . Everything would be well now must be well. . . . 
 And all her clothes would fit her again. . . . She was trans 
 ported with joy, with relief. 
 
 The nurse came. Was there anything she wished? Ice? 
 She could have ice. But Hilda wanted nothing. No, she 
 felt no nausea, no pain. She was just tired. She wanted 
 to sleep. . . . 
 
 She closed her eyes. She meant to keep them closed 
 until the nurse was out of the room. Then she would drop 
 this pose of being sleepy and would go on with her thoughts, 
 with her ecstasies. But she was more tired than she her 
 self was aware of. In a few moments she was sleeping. . . . 
 
 She woke as suddenly as she had gone to sleep. The 
 
8 THE ROAD 
 
 spring night was at an end, but the sun had not yet risen. 
 Gray dawn was breaking into the room and gave the frail 
 light on the nurse s table a timid aspect. The other patients 
 were sound asleep. 
 
 It was several moments before Hilda recalled where she 
 was and the occasion for her being there. The thought of 
 the child struck her like a hammer blow. 
 
 She had given birth to a child. That was the signifi 
 cance of her surroundings, of the strange night she had 
 passed. What for months, weary, interminable months, had 
 been but a nameless trouble to her, something to grit her 
 teeth at, to hate blindly, had come to an issue. It was a 
 human entity now a child. Detached from her own flesh 
 it was now lying some place near, perhaps in an adjoining 
 room, lying and waiting for her. . . . 
 
 It was with herself only Hilda had thus far been con 
 cerned. With regard to the child her mind was made up. 
 She would not have it, of course. It would go the way all 
 such children went. . . . There were institutions for them, 
 foundling homes in the big city. . . . That was why she 
 came to New York. . . . The process of actual transfer of 
 the child from herself to an institution she had never con 
 sidered. While the child was unborn there were always 
 more poignant things to think about. She left these details 
 for after. . . . 
 
 Now it was "after." ... She must have a definite plan. 
 . . . She must have the child taken from her before she 
 left the hospital. Yes, before. . . . She meant to go out 
 into the world again with her slate wiped clean of this 
 experience. . . . 
 
HILDA 9 
 
 Into the world. . . . Her heart began to beat faster at 
 the thought. . . . She saw a street, Broadway, she was 
 walking down Broadway in her summer dress for she 
 would never go to Chicago again, never go near home it 
 would be just the season to wear this dress by the time 
 everything was over. . . . 
 
 She gazed down the length of the bed, of her body, and 
 fell to listening to herself. . . . She was fascinated by the 
 ease which every part of her body radiated. ... It was 
 unbelievable, but the pain of yesterday, of those weeks and 
 months, was gone. It had utterly disappeared. . . . There 
 was none of that blind tugging at her vitals. . . . She was 
 light and free. ... It was an exquisite feeling. . . . She 
 was intensely happy. . . . 
 
 The cold morning air was taking the crispness out of this 
 ecstasy before she had more than quaffed it. The problem 
 of the child was at her throat again. . . . Now she could 
 no longer shrink from this thought. It had to be faced, 
 the child was there under the same roof with her. . . . 
 She would soon see it; they would bring it to her. . . . 
 What was she to do with it? How was she to dispose of 
 it? 
 
 She was limp with weakness and she suddenly made a 
 discovery. She had been hasty when she believed herself 
 entirely free from pain. . . . The strain and heaviness 
 had not altogether left her. They had merely shifted to 
 her head. . . . Her head felt aching, battered. . . . The 
 child. . . . 
 
 Through the slightly raised window gusts of pale morn 
 ing air were filtering into the room. She was cold and drew 
 
io THE ROAD 
 
 the blanket up to her chin. With the warmth came a feel 
 ing of rest, of tranquillity. . . . The problem of the child 
 was receding. ... It was disappearing altogether. . . . 
 There was no child. ... It was dead was born dead. 
 . . . She was afraid. . . . 
 
 She had always been afraid of people after they were 
 dead. It was a weakness of hers from childhood on. She 
 had been afraid even of her mother when she died, and the 
 night before the funeral they had to take her to a neighbor 
 to sleep. . . . Often in later years she had regretted that 
 she had not spent that last night under the same roof with 
 her mother. She had never quite forgiven herself for that 
 neglect. . . . 
 
 The blanket was stealthily pushing its way up. It now 
 covered her face and eyes and she had no more fears. . . . 
 Thoughts of the future came once more. But she waved 
 them aside. . . . That was no time to think about the fu 
 ture with the child lying in the next room dead. . . . She 
 was thinking about the funeral. . . . She must see to it 
 that the child was given a decent burial. She would insist 
 on it. ... 
 
 The funeral was over. . . . She was now alone in the 
 world, but she was unafraid. . . . Life had no terrors for 
 her now. . . . She knew how to meet it. ... 
 
 Yes, she would manage her life differently, better. . . . 
 The first thing she would do would be to look for a job 
 out of her line. . . . She was sick of the factory. She 
 would look for a job in a store or maybe in an office. Yes, 
 in an office. Why had she always been so afraid of office 
 work! Some office jobs paid as good as the factory, even 
 
HILDA ii 
 
 from the start. And her education was as good as that of 
 many a girl who had worked in an office. She always had 
 been good in spelling. In fact, she was very nearly at the 
 top of her class in almost everything. . . . 
 
 She might even manage to go to a business college nights. 
 Several girls she had known in Chicago were attending busi 
 ness college evenings. Of course those girls had homes and 
 parents. . . . She too would have gone to business college 
 if her mother had been alive. . . . 
 
 Her mother, she recalled faintly, often used to speak of 
 business college. She regretted that she had not gone to 
 one herself and she hoped that she, Hilda, would. But that 
 was long ago. ... It was when her mother was well yet. 
 . . . Strange, how pale and indistinct the memory of her 
 mother had become. And yet she was not so young when 
 her mother died. She was eight years. . . . 
 
 But what was this? Her mother was alive. She was 
 standing beside her bed, and her face was radiant. In her 
 arms she held a baby. It was her baby, and her mother 
 ^was cooing to it delightedly . . . . 
 
 "He is so sweet," her mother was saying of the infant, 
 "and I am so lonely. I shall take him with me to 
 heaven." . . 
 
 Hilda opened her eyes. The nurse was laying a quilted 
 bundle close to her side. 
 
 The sun was out and the early morning mist had disap 
 peared. Several women were sitting up in their beds cran 
 ing their necks, in the direction of Hilda and the nurse. 
 
 "Your son," the nurse chatted cheerfully, "has been call 
 ing for his breakfast." 
 
12 THE ROAD 
 
 She examined Hilda s breast and next began maneuvering 
 her left arm about the quilted bundle. The infant was ap 
 parently asleep again; it was quiet. The face of the child 
 was covered and for this Hilda was thankful. She needed 
 a breathing space to prepare herself for the new role. 
 
 "There, we are ready now," the nurse finally announced, 
 and putting away the cotton and boric acid she drew aside 
 the cloth from the little face. . . . 
 
 Hilda s heart stood still. The nurse had manipulated 
 her hand and body so that she felt a velvety touch against 
 her breast. . . . And now the nurse was talking to her 
 softly. She was initiating her into the secret of a mother s 
 first feeding. But Hilda did not half hear her. Her mind 
 was far away and a mist rose before her eyes. . . . 
 
 It was in Chicago ten months earlier. Raymond Evert 
 had written her to meet him at eight o clock that evening. 
 She was at the appointed place, but he had not yet arrived. 
 Ten minutes passed, twenty, half an hour. Still he was not 
 there. She grew impatient, she was worried. The twilight 
 was deepening. Finally she spied a figure, a mere shadow, 
 far down the street, whose walk was suggestive of Ray 
 mond. She waited with beating heart. The figure was ap 
 proaching at a rapid pace. In a few seconds the outlines 
 of the body became pronounced more like Raymondo 
 Another instant and she recognized his features in the dusk, 
 recognized them before she was able clearly to discern 
 them. . . . 
 
 She was experiencing the same sensation now. Looking 
 at the tiny face of the infant was like seeing Raymond a 
 
HILDA 13 
 
 great way off. ... She had a feeling that she needed but 
 to wait and Raymond would come swinging himself nearer 
 and nearer as he did that July evening in Chicago. . . . 
 She became faint; her arm released the infant. . . . 
 
 The child dropped the breast and was crying. Hilda s 
 trance-like reveries were broken. 
 
 "You must not let yourself become so agitated," the nurse 
 said sternly. "It is not good for the baby." 
 
 When the infant was eating once more, and the folds 
 had straightened out on its tiny face, the nurse began speak 
 ing softly again. The child was greatly under weight 
 not quite five pounds and would require a great deal of 
 care and patience until it was brought around to a point 
 where it would be like the average in body and strength. 
 
 But the youngster was worth all the trouble she would 
 take with him, she cheered Hilda. She should have seen 
 it when it had its eyes open. They were big and blue, and 
 they shone like two stars. And what a will of his own the 
 little one had! She described the resistance the infant 
 had put up at birth, and she praised Dr. Norton. Any 
 other physician would have given the child up for dead. 
 
 Hilda, who had had a desire to clasp the little one and 
 bring it up close to her face, was sent off dreaming again 
 by the recital. When nurse and baby were gone she stared 
 at her empty arm. The sensation which the pressure of 
 the child against her flesh had left was evaporating like a 
 delicate perfume. If the child, too, could evaporate like 
 that, she thought. If her agitation, her grief, her all- 
 consuming fear could but transform themselves into a dream 
 from which there would be relief on waking. ; * 
 
14 THE ROAD 
 
 From her arm her gaze traveled to her breast. There 
 was a drop of milk on it. She wiped it. It felt strange 
 and tender. Pains were coming over her and she let her 
 head sink back on the pillow. She felt the tears running 
 down her cheeks, but she was powerless to stem them. She 
 was trembling from head to foot. It seemed to her that she 
 was falling, falling to a great depth. ... If some one would 
 only help her, if a friend would only give her a hand, 
 if if only Raymond were there. . . . 
 
 "Raymond, Raymond " she pressed the pillow to her 
 face and sobbed. . . . 
 
 It was nearly 10 o clock when the nurse brought the in 
 fant for the second feeding. Hilda had calmed down. She 
 strained her every muscle to make the child comfortable 
 in her arms and she succeeded. It was eating greedily. 
 The nurse praised her for her quick adaptability and hur 
 ried off to another bed to look at another babe. By the 
 time the feeding was over Hilda was bathed in perspiration. 
 The infant had fallen asleep at the breast and she was 
 afraid to stir lest she wake it and it begin to cry. . . . 
 She was glad when the child was taken from her and she 
 could close her eyes and rest. 
 
 They woke her out of a sound sleep for her dinner. Hilda 
 gazed at the room and the people as if she were seeing 
 them for the first time. They did not seem the same to 
 her: nothing was the same. She wished she had a mirror 
 and could look at herself. It seemed to her that she too 
 must look different now. She felt different. . . . 
 
 As she ate she remembered faintly that when the nurse 
 
HILDA 15 
 
 woke her she was in the midst of something momentous, 
 something that was shedding a great light, was lifting a 
 great load from her mind. It was a dream, of course, but 
 what was it? When she had finished her meal she closed 
 her eyes and summoned all her strength to recall what it 
 was she had been dreaming. And suddenly she found the 
 ends of the broken thread and tied them together. Her 
 thoughts flowed on once more. But they were not thoughts ; 
 they were pictures. 
 
 She was viewing a series of pictures. They were hazy 
 at first. But gradually the haze seemed to be rolling more 
 and more into the distance and the pictures stood out 
 clearly. 
 
 She descried a little boy on his way to school. His shoes 
 were old and much too big for his small feet. His clothes 
 fitted illy. His hair and ears were neglected and his face 
 had that seriousness which comes to children that have 
 never known their parents. . . . The little boy was bigger 
 now and was going to work. There were several buttons 
 missing in his coat, and he still had the timid look which 
 characterized him as a child. . . . He was older, a young 
 man. He was straight and tall, with a kind face and quiet 
 manners. ... He was married. ... He had children. . . . 
 It was her son. . . . They were her grand-children. . . . 
 They passed her on the street, but they did not know 
 her. . . . She ran after them. . . . She called, but her 
 voice was weak and they were lost in the crowd. . . . She 
 would never see them again. . . . And she was an old 
 woman. . . . 
 
 Hilda woke from her half slumber, clinging to her last 
 
16 THE ROAD 
 
 visionings, determined to drag them out from the realm of 
 dreams, and making sure that not a detail of the picture 
 she had been viewing escaped her. 
 
 The women patients now lay or sat up cheerfully and 
 contented. There was always peace and contentment in 
 the ward after the noon meal. Hilda, however, experienced 
 a sensation of packing and moving. . . . She had no idea 
 where she was going, but she was going. . . . She was mov 
 ing away from herself, from her old life. . . . This old life 
 of hers seemed like a dress that she had slipped off and 
 which would never fit her again. . . . The child would 
 never be altogether out of her life. ... It was not this 
 way she had imagined having a child. . . . The physical 
 barriers between herself and the infant would not extend 
 to her thoughts. ... In thought she would be with the 
 child through growth, sickness, trouble until death closed 
 her eyes. ... All her former plans were blurred. . . . 
 
 A breeze was sweeping into the room, a soft spring 
 breeze. It reminded her of the afternoon in September 
 when she sat by the lake in Chicago, looking down into its 
 blue waters, thinking of her misfortune and wondering 
 whether to choose the blue waters or to choose New York. 
 . . . Why did her courage fail her! Why did she not end 
 it all then. . . . Why was she not at the bottom of Lake 
 Michigan. . . . 
 
 The head nurse herself brought the child for the after 
 noon feeding. Miss Hulbert was close to forty. She was 
 
HILDA 17 
 
 slightly above middle height, and round of figure. Her 
 skin was of transparent whiteness. She had been earning 
 her livelihood in the hospitals of New York since her seven 
 teenth year and was thoroughly familiar with the shadowy 
 side of life in the great city. She was tactful and easily 
 won the confidence of her patients. 
 
 She had come to get acquainted with Hilda. Dr. Norton 
 had sent her to see if she could not be of service to the 
 girl. But Miss Hulbert was not intruding, neither with 
 words nor looks. 
 
 Hilda had learned to adjust herself better and found the 
 process of feeding less of a strain. She was not so tired 
 and observed the child as it nursed. 
 
 The resemblance between the infant and Raymond, on 
 close observation, was even greater than had appeared to 
 her at the first glance. For an instant she was tempted 
 to speak to the infant about Raymond. But she saw the 
 absurdity of it and a smile broke over her face. It was the 
 first time she had smiled in many months, and it was brief. 
 Hilda felt as if she had done something out of the way in 
 permitting herself to smile and proceeded with her examina 
 tion of the infant. 
 
 The child had fallen away from the breast and the tiny 
 lips still puckered from clinging to the nipple. Its eyes 
 were wide open and they were everything the nurse had 
 bespoken for them. They were big and blue, and to Hilda 
 they were even more. They were familiar, reminiscent. 
 The child was not the intruding hateful stranger she had 
 been expecting in those eight months. ... It belonged in 
 her life. It seemed a part of the wonderful Summer she 
 
i8 THE ROAD 
 
 and Raymond had spent together, of the Sundays on the 
 lake, in the parks, in the fields. . . . 
 
 Tenderly, so as not to expose it to the breeze, she undid 
 the child s blanket. The infant was wrapped in an ill- 
 fitting shirt that must have served scores of other children 
 before. She had not, of course, thought of preparing clothes 
 for it, and now a feeling of guilt came over her. She was 
 ashamed. She had treated the mite shabbily. The tiny 
 body of the infant was in view. The limbs were thin and 
 long skin and bones. She covered the little body quickly 
 and turned to the infant s face once more. 
 
 The nurse, in passing, told her that she was coming for 
 the child in a few minutes and a wave of excitement sud 
 denly came over Hilda. She experienced a sensation as if 
 the child was about to be taken from her forever, and there 
 was something to do at once, quick. . . . She was trying 
 to think what it was she must do. ... A memory came to 
 her, a recent memory. 
 
 It was just about a week before she went to the hospital. 
 She was sitting in her room alone she had already ceased 
 to go to work. . . . She had sat through the morning and 
 the greater part of the afternoon, brooding. ... It had 
 been raining steadily and she could stand it no longer. . . . 
 A sudden resolution came upon her. She turned on the 
 gas jet on the wall above her head and laid down to die. 
 . . . The gas odors were trickling down to her slowly. 
 . . . She felt a sweetness, a nausea. . . . Soon, soon it 
 would be over. . . . She would sleep, she would rest. . . . 
 She would forget all. . . . She was glad she had the courage 
 
HILDA 19 
 
 to do this thing at last. . . . And then a wild cry arose. 
 . . . Something was crying within her. ... A thousand 
 voices seemed raised in alarm. . . . She gathered all her 
 strength, rose and took a step to the window. ... It re 
 quired great effort to raise it ; but she succeeded. The air 
 revived her. . . . 
 
 Just such an alarm was rising within her now. . . . Con 
 fused voices were pleading, crying, protesting. . . . They 
 were weeping for the child. . . . 
 
 Her whole being wept and the tears were sweeping every 
 thing before them. . . . Her plans, her future, her own hap 
 piness they mattered not. . . . Nothing mattered, except 
 life the life of the child. . . . She would not dim this 
 life. . . . 
 
 "Poor babe," she attempted to speak, but the tears were 
 choking off her breath. . . . "No, no," the words stormed 
 in her brain. The hatred she had nurtured in those months 
 of doubt were intended for some one else, for some other 
 child a child she did not know, not for him. ... He 
 was her son . . . her son, come what will. . . . She would 
 live for him. . . . She would suffer for him. . . . 
 
 And happy to a point of hysteria she brought her face 
 down close to the bundled-up human parcel and cr 
 the child with tender, mumbling kisses. . . . 
 
CHAPTER II 
 RAYMOND 
 
 "APPLIED ALTRUISM" was the subject of the lecture that 
 afternoon, and the large auditorium at the Chicago Uni 
 versity was unusually well filled. Professor Mussey was 
 one of the newest acquisitions of the University. His repu 
 tation as a philosopher was national and it was unique. 
 He had struck out along new paths and was linking philos 
 ophy and life, ethics and business, in a manner no scholar 
 in America had hitherto attempted. 
 
 His "instance from life 7 with which to illustrate his 
 lecture that afternoon, Professor Mussey had found in a 
 well known Chicago business man whose death was of re 
 cent memory. He did not speak of the man by name, but 
 referred to him as the "merchant prince." 
 
 As the professor unraveled the career of this "merchant 
 prince" various phases of altruism seemed to find their 
 exemplification in life. Everything this man undertook and 
 did during his lifetime, in one way or another, benefited 
 his fellow citizens. As an employer he had benefited his 
 employees; he was a pioneer in the matter of establishing 
 welfare institutions. As a merchant he had benefited his 
 clients by his honorable business methods. As a citizen 
 he had benefited the community by his generous acts of 
 
 20 
 
RAYMOND 21 
 
 philanthropy; by the museums he built, the libraries he 
 founded. 
 
 Of course every one of the students knew the name of the 
 "merchant prince" the professor was speaking of. The 
 very description of the man as a merchant prince came from 
 the newspapers, whose editorial writers never wearied of 
 using it. The mothers and sisters of the students had fre 
 quently done their shopping at this man s store. 
 
 Keen, energetic, young fellows, sons of business men, for 
 the most part, who were themselves looking forward to a 
 business career at the completion of their college course, 
 Professor Mussey s students were greatly taken by this 
 presentation of business as a vehicle for the practice and 
 expression of man s highest ideals. . . . They listened 
 eagerly and pleasantly, and their opinion of the professor 
 rose by degrees. 
 
 Yes, Dr. Mussey was not one of the ordinary run of pro 
 fessors. He was not a mere bookworm, they mused; he 
 knew the world. Some of them speculated what might 
 have happened if Professor Mussey had himself gone into 
 business. With his ability and ideals might not he, 
 too, have become a merchant prince like the one he was 
 eulogizing. . . . But be that as it may, Professor Mus 
 sey was a great man and deserved the fame he was 
 getting. 
 
 Raymond Evert, a junior in the college of Liberal Arts, 
 was greatly preoccupied with the lecturer, but along dif 
 ferent lines. He was searching the professor with his looks 
 and thoughts. The questions of right and wrong, of moral, 
 or immoral, conduct, which the professor was raising, were 
 
22 THE ROAD 
 
 poignantly personal with young Evert that afternoon had 
 been so for months. 
 
 Professor Mussey, after having successfully shown "the 
 good and the beautiful" in the career of the "merchant 
 prince," proceeded with a general analysis of some of the 
 burdens and weaknesses of the human race. He unfolded 
 tangled human problems, dissected emotions, laid bare pas 
 sions. ... He did this with understanding, with sympathy 
 even, but with a complete personal detachment which to 
 young Evert, that afternoon, was tantalizing. 
 
 Was the professor immune to the infirmities of the soul he 
 was conjuring with? Raymond Evert was wondering. Was 
 any one immune? Had the professor in his own, personal 
 life never been troubled with any of the vital, tragic prob 
 lems and doubts he was raising? Had he never wronged 
 any one? Never done anything to ruffle his calmness? 
 Never been at odds with his conscience? In a word was 
 the professor s serenity native with him, or was it acquired? 
 Could any one acquire it? 
 
 William Howard Mussey was a man of forty-five. He was 
 tall and his closely cropped beard framed a face that showed 
 none too much of the pallor ascribed to scholars. He was 
 married. Raymond Evert had seen the professor and his 
 wife in a department store where they were sampling cheese 
 like ordinary folks. Professor Mussey apparently was no 
 despiser of life. He was a man like all men. He had been 
 a boy once ; he had been young. Had he never trifled with 
 girls? 
 
 Raymond had a sensation as if he were plunging a scalpel 
 deeper and deeper into the soul of the professor, but it was 
 
RAYMOND 23 
 
 his own thoughts and problems he was in reality laying 
 open. 
 
 Had the professor ever had relations with girls? Could 
 Professor Mussey possibly have had such relations with a 
 girl as he, Raymond, had had with Hilda? And if he had, 
 could the professor have forgotten it? Was it possible ever 
 to forget such a thing? Would he also forget? Would he, 
 too, be able to stand on a platform some day and speak as 
 Professor Mussey was speaking, of right and wrong, of jus 
 tice between man and man? Would he ever be able to get 
 Hilda out of his mind? . . . 
 
 The voice of the professor now carne to him as a faint 
 buzzing. The lecture room, the people seemed to have re 
 ceded a great distance. Everything had become a blurred 
 mass. Hilda s face alone stood out sharp and clear. ... He 
 was waiting for Hilda and was getting restless. . . . What 
 made her so late? The whistle had blown long ago. A stream 
 of girls had already left the factory. ... A smile spread 
 over his face. She always came out late when she knew he 
 was waiting for her. She was taking time to fix up. . . . 
 Yes, the next time he would come unexpected. He liked to 
 meet her unexpected. He liked to see her surprised and 
 pleased look. . . . 
 
 One of the stained windows in the hall was open. A gust 
 of wind swept through the room. His dream dissolved and 
 his thoughts were of reality once more. April was gone and 
 May was here. It was the first week in May. Where was 
 Hilda now? What was she doing? What had become of 
 her? 
 
 Since that day in September when the girl had come to 
 
24 THE ROAD 
 
 their home asking for him, and his father had driven her 
 from the house, there had been no trace of her. For weeks 
 after that visit he had lived in dread. They had all lived 
 in dread. He was expecting daily to hear from Hilda 
 through a lawyer, through the police. . . . She would sue, 
 she would expose him. . . . She would bring shame upon 
 his family. . . . His sleep was broken and fitful. He could 
 not concentrate upon his work. Instead he was constantly 
 rehearsing a defense, a denial of her charges, which he was 
 mentally delivering now in court, now before a coroner s 
 jury. . . . For she might have killed herself. 
 
 The threatened calamity did not come and after months 
 they began to breathe easier at his home, especially his 
 father. But to him the passing of time brought no ease, no 
 rest. ... On the contrary, he had often wished that the 
 thing which he had at first considered a calamity had come 
 to pass. He wished the girl had sued him. He would have 
 faced not one, but a battery of lawyers, only to have cer 
 tainty. . . . 
 
 For months he had been haunting the streets through 
 which Hilda formerly walked to and from work. At 6 
 o clock every evening he would take up a position a short 
 distance from the factory where she had worked and would 
 watch the crowds that were leaving it, scanning them for her 
 gait and figure. But Hilda was not among them. He had 
 tried the tenement where she lived. He stood vigil under its 
 windows for several nights in succession. But Hilda never 
 showed up. She had disappeared as if in water. . . . 
 
 Water. . . . Was that the answer? Had the girl drowned 
 herself? She might have. Her body might long ago have 
 
RAYMOND 25 
 
 been washed ashore by the waters of Lake Michigan. . . . 
 
 But if Hilda was alive then there might be a child. . . . 
 Yes, there might, by this time. ... It was May. ... A 
 child. ... He might be a father now. . . . 
 
 The blood rushed to Raymond s face and he looked about 
 furtively to see if any one of the students had been ob 
 serving him. . . . But no one was looking in his direction. 
 Professor Mussey was bringing the lecture to a close and the 
 students were busy scribbling down names of books for ref 
 erence reading. 
 
 The weather was superb. It was the first warm spring 
 day. As the students rambled out of the building many 
 of them separated into couples and started down the campus 
 in the direction of the lake. Others strolled down that way 
 singly. It was the last recitation with most of them, and 
 it was a delightful afternoon for a walk. 
 
 Raymond Evert was standing on the steps of Arts Hall 
 undecided. His parents lived at the other end of Chicago, 
 but he was in no hurry to get home. He was thinking 
 whether to go down to the Lake or start in the direction 
 of the city. 
 
 "Glorious weather, isn t it?" a girl s voice rang out be 
 side him. 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Straight," Raymond greeted her. 
 "Yes, a fine day." 
 
 Young Evert has been trying to lighten his work that 
 year and he had drifted into a course on "Labor Problems." 
 The course was taken mostly by seniors, graduate students, 
 and social settlement workers. There were no textbooks 
 and the lectures by the professor seemed like a running 
 
26 THEROAD 
 
 commentary on things one was reading in the newspapers. 
 In this class he and Miss Straight occupied adjoining chairs. 
 They also met in one or two other classes. 
 
 Maude Straight was a resident at one of the social settle 
 ments in Chicago and was taking special work at the uni 
 versity. She was not as tall as Evert with whom she would 
 often walk out of the lecture room, but she was stronger 
 built than he. She was very fair and inclined to plumpness. 
 Evert never could tell whether this detracted from her 
 looks or added charm to her soft, inviting features. 
 
 She was very friendly and had a more comprehensive 
 understanding of economic and labor questions than he. 
 At her invitation Evert had twice visited the social settle 
 ment in which she was a worker. The effect of these visits 
 was to enhance greatly the respect which he already felt for 
 her. They also served to intensify the discrepancy in their 
 ages. The young woman was going at the solution of 
 certain private and domestic problems among the people in 
 the "district" with the mind of a mature, business-like per 
 son. He judged her to be at least five years older than 
 himself. 
 
 In Miss Straight the nearer acquaintance with Evert 
 evoked different feelings. She was interested, in fact a bit 
 puzzled by his quiet, retiring disposition. ... He looked 
 and acted like a man who was laboring under a handicap. 
 . . . She was wondering what that handicap might be. . . . 
 It could not be a matter of health, for apparently he was 
 healthy. They were not yet sufficient friends to touch upon 
 intimate matters. . . . 
 
 They had walked down the steps. Miss Straight was 
 
RAYMOND 27 
 
 talking about Professor Mussey s lecture. She was appre 
 ciative and enthusiastic over it. All the time she spoke 
 Evert was conscious, however, that she was waiting for 
 him to ask her for a stroll to the lake; he had taken such 
 a stroll with her once before. He was on the point of doing 
 so, but the desire to be alone won out. 
 
 He said something about having to rush off home. Miss 
 Straight extended her hand to him. She did not believe 
 that he was busy, but she saw that his desire to be alone 
 was genuine. Something was pressing on his mind. She 
 shook his hand warmly. There was a fellow feeling and 
 sympathy in it. ... 
 
 Raymond plunged straightway into his thoughts about 
 Hilda. ... He was passing through one of the poorer sec 
 tions and it seemed to him as if he had come into the midst 
 of a holiday crowd. On the curbstones and in the gutter 
 children were playing. Windows were wide open and each 
 window framed the head of a mother. Girls of eight and 
 nine were dancing to the tune of a hurdy-gurdy. They re 
 minded him of himself and Hilda many years back at their 
 old home in Wisconsin. . . . 
 
 If he could only shake off his years, shake off college, 
 the city,, and get back to where they were then! Gad, 
 he vociferated inwardly, if only he had not left the old town, 
 if his father had not got the notion of Chicago. . . . Ex 
 cept for those months with Hilda Chicago had given him 
 no happiness. . . . 
 
 He was passing a cleaning and dyeing establishment lo 
 cated in an old frame building. The shop was on a level 
 with the sidewalk. Inside a young Jew was sitting astride 
 
28 THE ROAD 
 
 a table and was sewing in a sleeve. His girl v/ife was 
 sitting on a chair outside the door. She was holding on to 
 a baby carriage in which an infant was sleeping, her gaze 
 constantly darting to her husband. Every time their eyes 
 met they exchanged smiles. They were love-making with 
 out words. Raymond stopped in front of the shop window, 
 pretending to be interested in the cloth samples displayed 
 there. In reality he was gazing at the young tailor and his 
 wife and was thinking how little was necessary to make 
 people happy. . . . 
 
 An immense loneliness came over him. What would be 
 come of Hilda if she had a child. . . . What had he done 
 to her. . . . The park was visible a few blocks away. He 
 started toward it, turned in and walked along secluded lanes. 
 He wished to be alone, unseen. . . . 
 
CHAPTER III 
 THE LONG AGO 
 
 HILDA was meditating over the road she had chosea. . ; ; 
 The child lay near her asleep, its tiny chest heaving up 
 and down with rhythmic succession. Through the faded 
 pale-blue blanket, in which it was wrapped, life was beating. 
 The infant not yet two days old was carrying on a struggle 
 for existence. . . . She tried to visualize the road before 
 them but could not follow it. It seemed to be running on 
 endlessly. . . . 
 
 She bent over to the pink little face and felt the child s 
 breath on her lips. . . . 
 
 "Baby," she whispered, "sweetheart Raymond. . . ." 
 
 She stopped short, as if trying to arrest the word she 
 had spoken, to retract it. But in the next breath she 
 yielded. . . . Raymond, she had called him, and Raymond 
 let the child s name be. ... Yes, Raymond. . . . 
 
 She was staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes. . . . 
 She had always thought it distinguished for father and son 
 to have the same name and to be differentiated only by 
 the words "senior" and "junior" at the end. . . . "Ray 
 mond Evert, Jr.," she repeated faintly. . . . She had once 
 dreamed of it. . . . But she shook off the thought as one 
 shakes off a fly. No, that would not be the case with her 
 son. More than Raymond she would not take from his 
 
 29 
 
30 THE ROAD 
 
 father s name. The family name would be hers. It would 
 be Thorsen Raymond Thorsen. . . . 
 
 Her thoughts turned upon herself. She was wondering at 
 the calmness with which she was thinking these things. 
 She was acting as if this was the most natural thing in the 
 world, as if she were a "regular" mother, had a husband 
 waiting to welcome her, a home to come to, instead of going 
 out into a hostile world. . . . Did she realize what she was 
 doing what was ahead of her. . . . She was parting for 
 ever from her old life, from her old self. . . . She had as 
 sumed the role of a widow as an expedient, to escape the 
 shame and ostracism which her condition would otherwise 
 entail. . . . And now she would have to wear the mask 
 forever wear it and live up to it. ... 
 
 There was a pounding of horses hoofs on the pavement 
 in the street below, and this sharpened her hearing. Noises 
 which she had failed to take notice of for the past few days 
 now became distinguishable. . . . The rumbling of the ele 
 vated trains, the buzz-saw-like sound from a nearby factory, 
 the shrieking of the sirens from the boats in the East River 
 all came to her now with acute sharpness. . . . The city 
 of four millions was speaking and it was speaking depress- 
 ingly. . . . 
 
 She recalled how seven months earlier she had dragged 
 herself from factory to factory looking for work. The same 
 weary trudging awaited her now. ... It would be repeated 
 at regular intervals for years, all her life. . . . She would 
 be an old woman by the time her son was grown. . . . 
 
 Yes, yes. . . . She seemed to be rebuking -some one im- 
 
THE LONG AGO 31 
 
 patiently. . . . She was aware of these things. . . . She 
 knew what awaited her. . . . But she did not care to think 
 now. . . . She had been thinking too much already. . . . 
 She was tired, she wanted to rest to let her mind rest. 
 ... It was good to rest, especially with the child lying 
 near her, as it was now, the warmth from its little body 
 radiating toward her. . . . 
 
 One after another the factory whistles were shrieking the 
 announcement that the day s toil was over and the faces of 
 the women in the ward with Hilda became eager with ex 
 pectation. It was visitors night. 
 
 There was a hasty attention to appearance, a final pat 
 of the hair, a straightening out of kimonos, a tugging at 
 nightgowns. In the absence of mirrors, women were exam 
 ining their hands, and by the appearance of their hands 
 tried to judge what the color of their faces might be. Sup 
 per was eaten in haste, and then for about ten minutes there 
 was a silence in the room such as comes sometimes on the 
 eve of a solemn event. 
 
 Promptly at eleven o clock the visitors began to arrive. 
 The Swann Maternity was located on the upper east side 
 of New York, hard by the East River. It was a most cos 
 mopolitan district, the newcomers from all the countries of 
 Europe living there. The foreign aspect of her surround 
 ings impressed themselves upon Hilda with the entrance of 
 the first visitor. 
 
 He was a tall Hungarian laborer with a weather-beaten 
 face and black, bristling mustache. He walked on tiptoe 
 and this only heightened the impression of pent-up energy 
 in the man. The Hungarian apparently was having dim- 
 
32 THE ROAD 
 
 culty in recognizing his wife, the hospital beds making all 
 patients look alike from a distance. He stopped bewildered, 
 but finally caught sight of a hand beckoning to him from 
 the further end of the room. He recognized his wife, ut 
 tered a suppressed "Ah" and started toward her. 
 
 When he reached her side, however, the Hungarian was 
 visibly embarrassed. He was the only man in the ward 
 and he did not know how to act. All eyes were fixed upon 
 him and he swayed from foot to foot for some moments. 
 His wife finally came to his relief by motioning to him to 
 sit down beside her on the bed. 
 
 A huge Irishman in the forties, who had the appearance 
 of a doorman in an aristocratic club, came next. He was 
 pompous and stiff, and the glance and greeting he and his 
 wife exchanged were so strained and casual that, had he not 
 just entered, they might easily have given the appearance 
 that the two had been quarreling. 
 
 Two Italian women followed. A young Pole, smelling 
 strongly of cheap perfume, was next, and finally a young 
 man of distinguished appearance entered. The latter made 
 his way to the bed which stood next to Hilda s. Late that 
 afternoon Hilda had for the first time gathered sufficient 
 interest to look over to the young woman who lay in the 
 adjoining bed. From conversation which her neighbor had 
 had with the nurse, Hilda gathered that it was her second 
 baby. 
 
 The distinguished looking man was the only one to bring 
 flowers to his wife. The rest brought things to eat mostly 
 cake and fruit. The Pole, who was expecting his wife to go 
 home in a few days, in addition brought her a kimono. It 
 
THE LONG AGO 33 
 
 was a loud, dollar-and-a-quarter affair, but it seemed to give 
 his wife, who looked to be only eighteen or nineteen years 
 of age, no end of pleasure. She gazed at it with rapturous 
 eyes as if it were a fairy mantle. 
 
 The men were taken one by one into the nursery to see 
 the children. They came back with shining eyes, their stiff 
 ness and embarrassment gone. The room now resounded 
 with eagerly whispered conversation. As the visiting hour 
 drew to a close there was added to the whispered conver 
 sation a soft kissing. 
 
 The distinguished looking man at Hilda s right was talking 
 to his wife in a foreign language. She answered him in that 
 language, but just as often she would say something to him 
 in English. She spoke it as one born to it. Her husband on 
 the other hand spoke with an accent. Bui his accent 
 was not irritating. It was not the accent of the alien 
 laborer in the street. There was an air of refinement 
 about it. 
 
 "Lyd-i-a," the man called his wife, pronouncing every 
 syllable separately. She called him Ernest. He was kiss 
 ing her arm. His head was inclining more and more toward 
 his wife s face. Hilda pulled the blanket tighter about her 
 shoulder and turned her head away from them. 
 
 She was the only one in the room to have no visitors and 
 as the men were leaving she felt the eyes of the women 
 turning searchingly toward her. She was different; they 
 all felt that she was different. Yes, it would not be the 
 only time eyes would turn to her questioningly. And it 
 would not be alone the eyes of strangers. After some years, 
 when he was old enough to understand, to feel the absence, 
 
34 THE ROAD 
 
 of a father, her son too would question her. ... It was 
 easy to lie to the world, nor did it matter much whether 
 the world fully believed the lie or not so long as it left 
 her alone. But it would matter with the child. What 
 would she tell him? 
 
 The distinguished looking man was the last to go and 
 was taking leave of his wife. The sound of his voice stirred 
 within Hilda a faint memory. Her father, she recalled, 
 spoke at times with an accent not unlike that of the man. 
 Dim shadows of her childhood rose before her eyes ; shadows 
 of mother, father, of the house they lived in; and the house 
 across the road, where Raymond and his people, the Everts, 
 lived. ... At the thought of Raymond she instinctively 
 drew back. She did not want him linked with her memo 
 ries just then. . . . There would be time to think about 
 him later. Now she wanted to think of her home. . . . 
 Before she was aware of it, however, Raymond had be 
 come the pivot about which all her memories were turn 
 ing. . . . 
 
 Hilda s memory of Raymond Evert went back to the 
 days when they bo A Ji wore rompers and played in the sand. 
 She was somewhere between three and four years old; 
 Raymond was a year older. In the course of an afternoon 
 Hilda s mother would call the two into the kitchen and 
 give each a piece of bread and butter or syrup. Some 
 times Raymond s mother would do this. 
 
 The Evert and the Thorsen families lived across the road 
 from each other a short ways beyond the city limits of 
 Stillwell, Wisconsin. The heads of the families engaged in 
 
THE LONG AGO 35 
 
 the same business, which was that of supplying the city 
 of Stillwell with sand for its constantly rising buildings. 
 Henry Evert, Raymond s father, and Hilda s father, Carl 
 Thorsen, each owned a sandpit, from which he drew his 
 daily bread in the shape of so many wagon loads of sand. 
 There, however, the similarity between the two men and 
 their families ended. 
 
 Henry Evert was a tall, well-built man, full of vitality 
 and energy. He was a figure in local politics, received much 
 mail and paid frequent visits to the city hall and the 
 courthouse. He had six teams going, but it was only on 
 very rare occasions that he himself took a load of sand to 
 the city. His hired men did this. 
 
 Hilda s father was eight years younger than his neigh 
 bor, but he carried himself as a much older man would. 
 There was no sparkle in him. He was quiet at all times. 
 Carl Thorsen, too, was getting only the odds and ends of 
 the sand business in Stillwell. 
 
 Whenever Hilda recalled her father she ascribed the mute 
 sadness which seldom left him, to her mother s condition. 
 As far back as she could remember, her mother, Selma 
 Thorsen, had always been ailing. She always seemed as 
 if she were getting ready to take a long journey. . . . 
 
 Henry Evert was acting neither fair nor neighborly to 
 ward Carl Thorsen. He was frequently taking his hired 
 men away from the latter, and was overlapping on his busi 
 ness otherwise. Every time, however, that Carl Thorsen 
 was about to have it out with his neighbor, his wife would 
 dissuade him. Mrs. Thorsen fully understood the nature 
 of her sickness. She knew far earlier than her husband 
 
36 THE ROAD 
 
 what was in store for her and she wanted peace for 
 herself and playmates for little Hilda. 
 
 Hilda was an only child, while in the Evert family there 
 were five children. The Evert children, and more espe 
 cially Raymond, the youngest, was Hilda s playmate. 
 
 Until she was six years old her mother was on her feet. 
 But no sooner had she started school than Mrs. Thorsen 
 took to her room. Upon coming from school Hilda would 
 frequently find her mother lying on the bed. Mrs. Thor 
 sen was very tender with her now. But she would not 
 let little Hilda come too near her, and would send her 
 more and more frequently to the Everts to play with little 
 Raymond. 
 
 When Hilda was eight years old her mother died and 
 within a year her father had remarried. It was an indif 
 ferent marriage. The woman, a Mrs. Shannon, was a 
 widow in the neighborhood and had four children, all 
 boys, by her first marriage. The Thorsen home now 
 resounded with cries and fights from early morning until 
 night. Her father was more subdued than ever. Between 
 Hilda and her stepbrothers, and through them with her 
 stepmother, bad blood was arising. 
 
 While the clouds were thickening over the Thorsen 
 household, the sun was shining for the Evert family. Henry 
 Evert had gone into the cement business. Weekly and 
 sometimes twice a week he would now go to Chicago, 
 which was three hours run from Stillwell. Once Raymond 
 brought the news to Hilda that his people were planning 
 to move to Chicago. She was miserable for days after. 
 
 It was shortly after Raymond and Hilda had both gradu- 
 
THE LONG AGO 37 
 
 ated from the public school that the Evert house across 
 the road, to which Hilda had looked up all her life as 
 to a fountain of cheer, remained standing one afternoon 
 stripped and hollow. The Everts had gone to Chicago. 
 The house now reminded Hilda of a corpse from which 
 all life was gone, and for some time she avoided looking 
 at it. 
 
 It was about this time, too, that Hilda s father began 
 going to the doctor. Two years passed. Carl Thorsen 
 was going to the doctor with greater frequency. One day 
 he had a long consultation with his wife, the upshot of 
 which was that the following week a nephew of her s, George 
 Reynold, came to live with them and took much of the busi 
 ness off Carl Thorsen s hands. 
 
 When Hilda saw her father sitting in front of the house 
 one afternoon shortly after the new arrangement, she could 
 not speak from fright. He had a look not unlike that her 
 mother had had a year or two before her death. And he 
 spoke to her with the same caressing gentleness with which 
 her mother was wont to speak to her. . . . 
 
 Despite her sixteen years Hilda could not get up courage 
 to talk to her father about his condition. Her face would 
 start to burn with shame every time she wanted to ask 
 him how he was. Finally he broached the subject him 
 self. 
 
 His chest was troubling him, he told her, but a good rest 
 would set him right again. The doctor said so. 
 
 Carl Thorsen was smiling to his daughter as he spoke, 
 but^ Hilda turned and fled into the house. She ran upstairs 
 into her own room, where she lay upon the bed and wept 
 
38 THE ROAD 
 
 for a long time. It was the first great sorrow she had 
 known. . . . 
 
 She was in her seventeenth summer when her father late 
 one afternoon asked her to take a stroll with him. Slowly 
 he labored his way up the road almost a quarter of a 
 mile beyond the house. There they sat down under a 
 tree. He talked with her briefly about her mother and 
 himself. They had come from Denmark when both were 
 quite young. He had worked on a farm, and her mother^ 
 Selma Cavling, worked for the family adjoining this place. 
 Later he went to the city, and when he managed to estab 
 lish himself in the sand business he and Selma married. 
 
 Of her mother s family he knew little. She was early 
 left an orphan. She had older brothers in Denmark, but 
 they had never corresponded. As for himself, he had a 
 brother in Chicago, Martin Thorsen. He produced a piece 
 of paper upon which his brother s address was scribbled and 
 gave it to Hilda. His brother, he explained, had been a 
 porter in a hotel several years earlier. What he was doing 
 then Carl Thorsen did not know. But he advised Hilda 
 to keep the address. She might some day want to go to 
 her uncle. . . . Blood was thicker than water. 
 
 She helped him get home, biting her lips and speak 
 ing not at all till they reached the house. Her father 
 went to bed immediately; the walk had exhausted him. 
 Hilda, having cleared the table from the supper and 
 washed the dishes, went up to her room and opened an old 
 family trunk, which had once belonged to her mother, and 
 in which, upon her mother s death, Carl Thorsen had stuck 
 away the things his wife had worn, together with an old 
 
THE LONG AGO 39 
 
 album and some letters, his and his wife s. She now went 
 over these things one by one and they assumed a new sig 
 nificance for her. 
 
 He died in October. The day of the funeral it rained 
 miserably, and it was expedited with great haste. She 
 stayed through the winter at home. With the snow lying 
 upon the fields several feet thick, and blizzards rattling 
 against the windows she had not the courage to think of 
 Chicago. But when spring came, the snow melted, and the 
 elements lost their sinister and menacing aspect, thoughts 
 of Chicago began weaving themselves in her mind. 
 
 She had become completely estranged from her step 
 mother during the winter months. Mrs. Thorsen was quar 
 reling with Hilda less, but it was this that heightened the 
 feeling of estrangement between them. They were nothing 
 to each other now. Carl Thorsen, the father and hus 
 band, who was the link between them, was dead, and Hilda 
 felt that it was time for her to leave. 
 
 So she wrote to her uncle in Chicago. The reply came 
 quickly. Hilda stayed about the house another week before 
 taking leave of it. She felt that once she left the place she 
 probably would never see it again. . . . 
 
 She left Stillwell early on a Friday morning and reached 
 Chicago at noon. The following Monday she had without 
 trouble found work in a factory. It was two years later 
 that she and her childhood playmate, Raymond Evert, acci 
 dentally met. . . . 
 
 Just before she fell asleep that night Hilda went back to 
 her memories, but it was not home and parents she was 
 
40 THE ROAD 
 
 thinking of, it was Pearl Whitney and her son Walter. 
 The memory of Pearl and of Walter had been haunting 
 Hilda since that morning in September when the first ter 
 rifying suspicion came to her that all was not well with 
 her. t . . 
 
 Pearl Whitney had occupied a forlorn looking cottage 
 on the outskirts of Stillwell. By straining her memory 
 Hilda could recall the funeral of Silas Whitney, Pearl s 
 father. In the years that followed his death Silas Whit- 
 , ney, who had been a modest carpenter all his life, had 
 become a legendary figure. People spoke of him as being 
 a very upright and very honorable man. The "upright" 
 and "honorable" were stressed every time his name was 
 mentioned. And mentioned his name was frequently, much 
 more frequently than that of any other departed member 
 of the immediate neighborhood. The reason for this fre 
 quent mention was his daughter Pearl and her boy Walter. 
 
 Walter was an illegitimate child and was the black sheep 
 of the community. Though Silas Whitney had lived to 
 a good old age, people swore that it was disgrace that 
 killed him, the disgrace his daughter brought upon him. 
 After their father s death his other children had moved 
 from Stillwell one by one, leaving Pearl and Walter to 
 shift as best they might by themselves. 
 
 And shifting had not been easy for Pearl, nor for her 
 son. Every morning when the men were going to the 
 city to work, the lanky figure of Pearl Whitney was seen 
 among them. She too was going to work. She was wash 
 ing and scrubbing for a living. And she would not come 
 home much ahead of the men either. 
 
THE LONG AGO 41 
 
 In the many years which Hilda had known her she had 
 never seen Pearl look any one straight in the face: her 
 eyes were always directed away from the person she was 
 speaking to. Pearl Whitney was still on this side of thirty 
 when Hilda was quite a girl, but never had Hilda seen a 
 smile on her face. Nor had she ever seen her speak to 
 a man. When not out working she was in the house. . i . 
 She was living like a hermit. 
 
 Pearl s son Walter, on the other hand, was seen every 
 where. He was bright in school, but was considered bad 
 and irregular. The teachers would let him alone. He 
 could do almost anything no other boy would be permit 
 ted to do and there would be no one to say a word to 
 him. 
 
 In school proper, all the boys would play with Walter. 
 They were afraid to turn him away, for he was a fighter 
 and could be mean. But no boy would invite him to his 
 house to play, and on Saturdays Walter would run about 
 the streets and pick up company among older boys. 
 
 On Sundays, however, when the neighborhood black 
 smith s shop, the feed store, and the meat market, which 
 were his principal hangouts on days when there was no 
 school, were closed, Walter was a forlorn creature. He 
 would run about the streets like an animal that had strayed 
 from its accustomed haunts. . . . 
 
 It was the memory of Walter and his mother that had 
 caused Hilda to flee to New York as soon as she realized 
 her condition. . . . All through the fevered, sleepless nights 
 of the long winter Hilda had been resolved not to let a 
 fate like that of Pearl Whitney overtake her. She had 
 
42 THE ROAD 
 
 determined to recover from her condition no matter at 
 what price, to reach the new horizons which Raymond 
 had disclosed before her, and which she had set her heart 
 upon. . . . But all these beautiful dreams were snuffed 
 out now. She had deliberately snuffed them out. Like 
 Pearl Whitney she was now a mother. Like Pearl she 
 would be up and on her way to work long before seven 
 every morning. Like Pearl she would age soon. Her face 
 would become drawn. She would become listless and in 
 different to life. . . . 
 
 When Hilda woke in the morning the sun was streaming 
 into the room and the thought of Pearl Whitney was 
 faint and watery. There was no comparison between them 
 could be no comparison. She was in New York. . . . 
 A city of four millions was not to be compared to Still- 
 well, with its eighteen thousand inhabitants. Work she 
 would and suffer she would, but the badge which Pearl 
 Whitney had worn she would not wear. . . . And her boy 
 would not be a Walter she would see to it. ... There 
 were thousands of orphans in New York, thousands of 
 widows. . . . No one should ask her to prove the death of 
 her husband. No one should ask her son to do so. ... 
 
 Her fear of New York was gone. The city now seemed 
 to her like a kindly, tolerant mother, who was spreading 
 a veil over her past a veil that each of the city s five mil 
 lion inhabitants had helped weave. . . . 
 
CHAPTER 
 QUESTIONS 
 
 THE child was ill; it had caught cold, cried and ate 
 poorly. The doctor came and examined Hilda. She was 
 well. The infant did not get the cold with the mother s 
 milk, and the physician now turned from one kind of an 
 examination to another. 
 
 It was most probable that the child s illness was acci 
 dental, Dr. Norton conceded. But there were instances 
 on record where mothers, in a position such as Hilda s, 
 had deliberately courted death for their infants. He was 
 therefore searching the girl s soul with his looks and 
 questions. 
 
 Hilda caught the drift of the examination by the doctor 
 and nurses and a wave of bitterness arose within her. Who 
 gave them the right to insult her, to look at her in that way? 
 Speech, short and vehement, was at the tip of her tongue, 
 but she mastered herself. Parallel with her anger went 
 the realization of her condition. . . . She was alone and 
 friendless. . . . They could do her immense harm, if she 
 offended them. ... It was not the only insult she and 
 her child would have to take from people. . . ^ She swal 
 lowed hard and held her peace. . . . 
 
 The child s illness had focused all eyes in the ward on 
 
 43 
 
44 THE ROAD 
 
 her. She became an object of sympathy and was talked 
 about in whispers. 
 
 In the late afternoon the infant was much better and 
 Hilda permitted herself to relax for the first time that day. 
 As she lay in the gathering dusk various thoughts came 
 to her. They were mostly of the child of the boy he would 
 be. ... Her musing took a different turn: supposing the 
 child were to die. She would be free again. . . . Free. . . . 
 
 She turned from these reveries as one turns from some 
 thing disagreeable. The infant had drunk enough of bit 
 terness before and at its birth. She should have only wel 
 come thoughts for it now. ... As if to punish herself for 
 her former conduct she rushed into plans for the future, 
 for her future, for the child s future, as a brave bather 
 plunges into icy water. . . . 
 
 She went over her life in New York. . . . She could not 
 possibly stay longer in the small bedroom she had been 
 living in before she went to the hospital. . . . She would 
 need a bigger room and she would need different surround 
 ings. . . . She would need to bathe the child. ... A room 
 ing house, the kind she had been living in, would hardly 
 be the place for her now. . . . 
 
 The next thing she would need would be a woman to 
 leave the baby with while she was away at work. . . . 
 
 She caught herself wondering at the readiness with which 
 these exact wants were coming to her. . . . She had per 
 sistently refused to entertain these things in her mind. And 
 yet here she was knowing all particulars as if she had 
 thought and planned them out long beforehand. . . . Was 
 it possible that the mother instinct had been at work within 
 
QUESTIONS 45 
 
 her stealthily, without her being aware of it, and in spite 
 of her seeming hardness and determination not to see her 
 self a mother? 
 
 She was deciding things swiftly and firmly. . . . She 
 would give the child away to board during the day for 
 three or four months. They were not taking children under 
 that age in nurseries. Twas lucky summer was ahead with 
 brief nights and long mornings. She would rise early and 
 spend much time with the infant before parting with him 
 for the day. . . . 
 
 With the setting of the sun Hilda s plans became vague 
 and uncertain once more. . . . She was weary and cheer 
 less. . . . Difficulties were looming up. ... It was hard 
 to be alone with one s thoughts and it would be years 
 before she would have some one to share them with, be 
 fore the child would understand her. What lonely years 
 they would be. What a hazy, uncertain road lay before 
 her. . . . 
 
 She heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 "I shouldn t worry so much about the child," her neigh 
 bor, Lydia, spoke up. "He s all right and will surely be 
 well in the morning." 
 
 "Will he?" Hilda queried. She was glad to get away 
 from herself. 
 
 "Of course he will," Lydia said heartily. "I was just 
 like you when I had my first baby; always worried stiff 
 about him. But he came out all right. You should see 
 him now. He is a picture of health." 
 
 Lydia had been wanting to talk to Hilda for some time. 
 
46 THE ROAD 
 
 The latter was so different from all the other patients 
 in the ward. But she had not failed to notice the excite 
 ment under which Hilda was always laboring, and she kept 
 back. 
 
 Lydia talked about her child and Hilda was an eager 
 listener. She was astonished at the experience the young 
 woman beside her had. Her neighbor could not have been 
 more than two or three years older than herself, but she 
 talked with assurance. Hilda was determined to learn all 
 she could from the young woman. 
 
 "You re American born, aren t you?" Lydia spoke up 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 Hilda said she had been born in America. 
 
 "You are lucky!" 
 
 "Why?" Hilda did not see where the luck came in. 
 
 "Oh, it s such a bother being born in Europe and then 
 having to change here." Lydia was showing two rows of 
 pretty, even teeth as she spoke. "The names are different 
 and the customs are different. There s much of the old 
 to throw away and so much new to acquire, while if one s 
 born here, like you, all this is unnecessary. One is an 
 American, and ended." 
 
 Hilda did not yet see where the bother came in. 
 
 "You have no idea," Lydia explained, "how much trou 
 ble there is in a name, for instance. My parents brought 
 me from Bohemia when I was four years old. My name 
 in the old world was Ludmila, Ludmila Oktavec. They 
 say Ludmila is a nice name in Bohemian. It means dear 
 to people. But in America the name implies nothing. It s 
 merely an uncomfortable mouthful. I rid myself early 
 
QUESTIONS 47 
 
 of Ludmila by changing it to Lydia. But it was not so 
 easy to change the last name, Oktavec. Twas the bane of 
 my life for many years. A name like that makes no end 
 of trouble with foremen they always mispronounce it. 
 
 "But I finally changed it," Lydia added with a squint, 
 "and I have a real American name now. White is my name 
 now." 
 
 "Is your husband an American?" Hilda asked, recalling 
 the accent of the distinguished looking man who had come 
 to visit her. 
 
 "No, he s Bohemian," Lydia replied. "His name in Bo 
 hemian is Bily, which means white. I saw no reason why 
 he should hang on to the Bohemian Bily and made him 
 change it to the American White." 
 
 "Mrs. White," she added, "is not a name to start half the 
 street staring at you when you are called." 
 
 Her neighbor s easy chatter, which at first distracted 
 Hilda, began to depress her. She was wondering whether 
 the young woman would talk so freely and so pleasantly 
 with her if she knew her true condition. Lydia noticed the 
 change in Hilda and also grew serious. 
 
 "I suppose you are far from your folks," she remarked 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "I have no folks." Hilda spoke barely above a whisper. 
 
 Both were silent for some time. Finally her curiosity 
 got the best of Lydia. 
 
 "Your husband must be away he hasn t been here to 
 see you yet." 
 
 Hilda did not answer at once. When she finally spoke 
 there was a tremor in her voice. 
 
48 THE ROAD 
 
 "I have no husband; I m a widow," she said. 
 Lydia shrank back. She regretted her question. 
 
 The aspect of the room was changed. Two of the pa 
 tients, the Irish woman and Lydia, were sitting up. The 
 Polish young woman was walking about the ward in her 
 flowered kimono. From time to time, when she thought 
 no one saw her, she would draw the kimono tightly about 
 her body and gaze at her shape, filled with wonder and en 
 joyment at her return to normal proportions. 
 
 It was a warm day. From the East River gusts of 
 wind came, leaving in their wake the breath of spring and 
 an unaccountable longing. . . . The head nurse was unusu 
 ally pleasant and announced to the patients that if this 
 weather kept up the roof of the hospital would be thrown 
 open to them in a day or two. From the hospital roof 
 one could see the East River and Long Island. 
 
 There were not many more days left at the institution 
 for Hilda. The next morning she would sit up and then 
 she would have two or, at most, three days more. At the 
 end of that period she would have to pick up her baby 
 and go. ... 
 
 The roar of the city outside, which now came to her 
 oftener and with ever greater distinctness, instead of bring 
 ing her closer in touch with reality took her away from 
 it more and more. She tried to think, to formulate defi 
 nite, practical plans, but instead she found herself visioning, 
 dreaming. . . * 
 
 The nurse came with the baby. The infant was hungry 
 and was pulling at the breast briskly. When it finished 
 
QUESTIONS 49 
 
 it lay with eyes wide open as if contemplating the world 
 and things about. Its cold was over and it was drinking 
 in life with every breath. 
 
 Hilda was lost in contemplation of the youngster for 
 some time. She was awakened out of her reveries by Lydia. 
 Her neighbor was telling her about her oldest boy, now 
 two years. She was drawing a comparison between her 
 first child and Hilda s. 
 
 "My boy too was born small," Lydia was saying. "It 
 was the shop, I guess, that made it. I had been working 
 after my marriage up to two months of my confinement. 
 My husband did not want me to work, but I insisted. I 
 was making good money in the shop. I would ve been made 
 forelady if I had stayed." 
 "You are not sorry, are you?" 
 
 It was the first facetious remark Hilda had made in 
 more than nine months, and she was reflecting over her 
 own lightmindedness. But the phrase had been uttered 
 and the atmosphere it created could not be changed. She 
 and Lydia were now on a less formal basis. The latter 
 was talking freely and was making a friend and intimate 
 of Hilda. 
 
 No, she was not sorry, Lydia was saying, and went on 
 telling Hilda about her husband. Hilda had seen him. 
 He was handsome, but that was not all. Ernest White 
 was a prince of a man. He was a violinist, an accomplished 
 musician. He had studied at Vienna, and came to America 
 to make his fortune. But there were no fortunes waiting 
 for artists who had no connections. He went to work 
 at anything at all. . . . In the meantime they met and 
 
50 THE ROAD 
 
 fell in love. After they married they had to have a steady 
 income and Ernest took a job as a waiter in a Broadway 
 restaurant. It was clean work, the income was good, and 
 it was not taxing him too much physically. It left him 
 time for his violin, for he hoped to get back to his music. 
 
 "You are not a waitress, are you?" Lydia turned on 
 Hilda abruptly. The latter was absorbed in thought. 
 
 "No," Hilda replied. "But what made you think I was 
 one?" 
 
 "Most girls from the country, American girls, I mean," 
 Lydia explained, "become waitresses in New York. They 
 like it better than working in a shop with foreign girls." 
 
 "No, I have never worked as a waitress," Hilda repeated. 
 "I worked in a factory." 
 
 "What trade?" 
 
 "Knit goods. I was knitting gloves." 
 
 "Did it pay well?" 
 
 "I was getting so that I made eight and sometimes even 
 ten dollars a week." 
 
 "That s not bad," her neighbor spoke with assurance. 
 "But I was making eighteen dollars a week when I quit. 
 Mine was the white goods trade. Shirtwaists and the like. 
 They pay girls in this trade something awful, but I was do 
 ing all the fine work, lace and embroidery, and I was good 
 at it. They kept me at making samples mostly, and that 
 was why I earned so well. Are you going back to the knit 
 goods factory?" 
 
 Hilda was silent. She was pained and puzzled by the 
 question. Before she had time to answer Lydia had volun 
 teered: 
 
QUESTIONS 51 
 
 "If I were you I shouldn t go back to a factory now. I 
 would go to work in a restaurant, at least for a time. You 
 can work half days, you know, in some of the places. 
 My husband could tell you where to find such a place. 
 Twould be good for the baby. You d not be away from 
 him so much, at least in the first few months. , . ." 
 
 Hilda was pondering over this when Lydia, who was now 
 walking about, came up to her bedside and began to examine 
 the baby at close range. 
 
 "He has a regular man s face on him and he does not 
 in the least look like you," she announced very positively. 
 
 Hilda felt the blood rush to her cheeks. 
 
 "Yes," she heaved a sigh, "he looks like his father." 
 
 A half-forgotten occurrence of her childhood suddenly 
 came back to her. It concerned a young man, a neighbor 
 of theirs who sometimes would come to their house in the 
 evening. The young man was but a few months married. 
 One morning he left his home to go to work and never 
 returned alive. He had been working in the railroad yards 
 as a switchman and his body was cut in two by a train. 
 
 Hilda resurrected the memory of this incident and clung 
 to it. This memory she determined must now come to 
 her rescue. . . . Time and place must be changed, details 
 blurred. . . . Raymond Evert must become the dead switch 
 man. . . . The story of her widowhood must be made 
 tangible, circumstantial. . . . She must reinforce her lie 
 in order to be allowed to live decently and truthfully. . . . 
 
 When in the course of the afternoon her neighbor, as 
 Hilda had anticipated, brought up the subject of the child s 
 
52 THE ROAD 
 
 father again, she briefly narrated to her the switchman s 
 death. Lydia did not press her for details, thinking that 
 she was too much moved by the memory of the tragedy, 
 and for this Hilda was thankful. ... It was hard for her 
 to lie in spite of all the justification she had set up for 
 the lie. . . . 
 
 Lydia was gazing at her with sorrowful eyes. Hilda s 
 plight was not unfamiliar to her. In the shop where she 
 worked there had been several married women who were 
 supporting themselves and their children. Some were even 
 supporting their sick husbands. She was about to tell this 
 to the girl, but checked herself. Why dwell on such things 
 longer? What Hilda needed was to forget things as quickly 
 as possible and spare her health. She would need all her 
 strength to face the future. 
 
 "You know," Lydia said after a prolonged silence, "the 
 house where you lived in East Fifty-third Street is hardly 
 a place for you to go back to with the baby. You must 
 find something with a family, with folks who d not merely 
 know of your existence from rent day to rent day, but 
 with people who d be friendly, who d take an interest in 
 you." 
 
 Hilda was staring in front of her vacantly. That was 
 what she had been thinking of. But where was she to get 
 such people. She knew no one, had no friends in the 
 city, not a soul. 
 
 "To-night," Lydia, who had noted Hilda s silence, con 
 tinued, "my older sister ll be here to see me. I ll ask her. 
 She may know of some folks who d be glad to take you in. 
 
QUESTIONS 53 
 
 She s much older than I and she s married fifteen years. 
 She knows many people." 
 
 A look of embarrassment and of gratitude came into 
 Hilda s face. 
 
 "You are good," she said in a hoarse whisper and smiled 
 at Lydia through shining eyes. . . . 
 
CHAPTER V 
 HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 
 
 HILDA was the last to fall asleep that night. . . . She 
 was thinking about the lie she had told her friend, Lydia. 
 . . . Ultimately this lie would be communicated to her 
 child and she had hoped that there would be no lies be 
 tween herself and her son. . . . Twas not this way she had 
 imagined telling her child about his father about Ray 
 mond. . . . 
 
 In spite of all her efforts not to think of the past, Ray 
 mond had wedged himself into her thoughts that evening 
 and would not be dislodged. Close to midnight she found 
 herself going over the memories of her friendship with 
 him, going over them carefully, minutely, as a good house 
 wife on a nice spring day goes over her house, putting things 
 in order. 
 
 Her life in Chicago had been hard from the first. Martin 
 Thorsen, her uncle, was not the kind ol a man she ex 
 pected to find him. He was not patternea after her father. 
 His wife was strongly reminiscent of the stepmother she 
 had left behind in Stillwell. Thorsen waf the janitor of an 
 apartment building in a none too savory neighborhood on 
 the South Side. His children, her cousins, were worlds apart 
 from Hilda in taste and bringing up. She lived with them 
 
 54 
 
HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 55 
 
 for the better part of a year, then she moved to another 
 section of the city. 
 
 But things were not better here either. She did not seem 
 to mix with the city girls. In the knitting factory where 
 she worked the girls were mostly foreign. The few Ameri 
 can girls that worked among them were even lower down 
 the scale than the foreigners upon whom they looked with 
 contempt. 
 
 Hilda had gone out one Saturday night with such an 
 American girl and found herself in a cheap dance hall. The 
 faces of the girls about her, no less than of the men, fright 
 ened her. She had never before been so near the creatures 
 and the life she vaguely heard and knew about. . . . There 
 after she kept much to herself. Then Raymond came into 
 her life. . . . 
 
 She was*" returning from work in the dusk of an October 
 evening when something distantly familiar flashed before 
 her eyes. Before she had time to realize who it was, 
 Raymond was barring the way for her and was holding out 
 both his hands. . . . He took her to the door of the rooming 
 house where she lived, but insisted on her going right back 
 with him to a restaurant for supper. They spent the evening 
 together talking over old times. 
 
 As in their childhood days, so now, too, Raymond was 
 the leader, he was her lord and master. She did as he 
 wished. She told him all about herself that evening, 
 about her father s death, her stepmother, her going to the 
 city, and her life up to the moment he met her. He told 
 his story. His father was rich and was getting richer 
 every day. Henry Evert was a successful contractor. His 
 
56 THE ROAD 
 
 brothers were in business with his father; they were mar 
 ried. Him, his father had singled out for a profession. 
 He was going to the University. He was to be a lawyer. 
 
 After she had seen Raymond three or four times and 
 every reminiscence of their childhood had been gone over, 
 Hilda expected him to drop her, to go his way. . . . She 
 thought it quite natural there was such a difference be 
 tween them. . . . But Raymond kept up his friendship. In 
 fact, he was devoting himself to her more and more. He 
 took her to the theater and went out walking with her 
 Sundays. . . . 
 
 There was a little money left her from her father. She 
 invested twenty-five dollars of it in clothes for the street, 
 for outings, and she was rewarded for it by Raymond s 
 enthusiastic admiration of her taste. She looked so won 
 derful in simple things, he had said. . . . 
 
 On several occasions he asked permission to call for her 
 at the boarding house, but she pleadingly kept him away 
 all through the winter months. Her room was tiny and 
 she did not wish Raymond to see it. Moreover, it was not 
 heated and she often spent the hours between supper and 
 bedtime in her street clothes, the heat from the gas jet 
 being insufficient for more than merely taking the edge off 
 the cold. The walls of the room were bare, the washstand 
 improvised. The only thing that looked decent was the 
 bed. Hilda had bought her own bedspread and a pillow 
 cover to make it look so. 
 
 One Sunday in March Raymond surprised her. He came 
 down to the boarding house at eleven o clock in the fore 
 noon instead of waiting till two-thirty and meeting her at 
 
HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 57 
 
 the place they had agreed on. The day was like summer 
 and he was restless. He did not wish to waste the warm 
 morning hours. He wanted Hilda to go with him at once 
 into the fields and beyond the city, far, far away. ... He 
 found her dressed and expectant. She was both confused 
 and pleased that he came. . . . She had been sitting by 
 the open window, gazing upon the children playing in the 
 street below and had been thinking of spring and the coun 
 try. . . . 
 
 She offered him the only chair she had in the room 
 and herself sat on the edge of the bed. Raymond found 
 the room reminiscent. In Stillwell he had slept in such a 
 room. But in Stillwell they had a large kitchen and the 
 stove was always going. There was another big stove in 
 the living room and that too was going. . . . He thought 
 Hilda must miss the stove, the kitchen, the living room. . . . 
 He fell to talking about Stillwell. ... He wondered how 
 things were looking there now. The snow must be melting. 
 They would begin to plow soon. . . . 
 
 A dreamy sadness came into Hilda s face as she listened 
 to him. She too seemed to be transported to Stillwell. . . . 
 She seemed to be seeing something. 
 
 "If some one could only paint you now," Raymond said 
 after a silence. 
 
 She smiled, but the smile was not taking the sadness out 
 of her eyes. Raymond was gazing at her. She averted 
 her face. 
 
 "What is it, Hilda?" he asked, leaning over slightly to 
 wards her and taking her hand in his. 
 
 The girl attempted to free her hand, but he had seen tears 
 
58 THE ROAD 
 
 in her eyes. ... In an instant his arms had wound them 
 selves about her waist, her shoulders. . . . 
 
 "You know," Raymond had said to her several months 
 later, "I m taking altogether too much of your time. It s 
 a shame to waste it. You ought to put in some of your 
 evenings in school. A little stenography and typewriting 
 would make a big difference in you. It would change your 
 whole life for you. T would take you out of the factory 
 and put you into an office." 
 
 It was a June evening and they were sitting in Jackson 
 Park. Raymond had his arm about Hilda s shoulders. He 
 had made this little speech between caresses. She had lis 
 tened to him with immense gratitude. ... It was good 
 to have some one talk to her like a relation about school, 
 stenography, office work. . . . She had been dreaming of 
 office work ever since she was a little girl. . . . 
 
 After Raymond had left her on the steps of the board 
 ing house Hilda had lain awake half the night. She was 
 recalling his words, his gaze, and her heart was beating 
 fast. . . . She seemed to be standing on the threshold of 
 a new life, the life she had vaguely been yearning for. . . . 
 She longed for the night to pass, for the following evening, 
 for Raymond. . . . She wanted to hear the words school 
 and office from his lips again. . . . She fell asleep in tears. 
 She woke smiling. . . . 
 
 In September, when he was to resume his work at the 
 University, Hilda was to enter a business college. Raymond 
 had planned it this way in order not to lose any of the 
 summer evenings. These they were to spend together. 
 
HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 59 
 
 Hilda had been worrying about money matters. She had 
 sixty dollars in the bank. She would need perhaps a hun 
 dred for tuition and books. She could manage things if 
 they did not require from her all of the money in ad 
 vance. . . . Several times she had meant to ask Raymond to 
 find out about this, but she hesitated. Raymond knew how 
 much she was earning, but his sense of values was vague 
 and he failed to realize fully the penny by penny existence 
 which she was leading. Hilda hated to initiate him into it. 
 
 They were in the country one Sunday afternoon in July. 
 The day was sultry. In the distance lay a wood and they 
 were heading for it. 
 
 They finally reached it, found a secluded spot and sat 
 down. Hilda was tired from the heat and the walk and 
 was reclining speechlessly. Raymond pulled out a small 
 volume of Keats from his pocket, but did not open it. He 
 was gazing at the girl with eager, longing eyes. 
 
 He wanted to say something tender to her and began 
 to speak of school. He had noted that Hilda s eyes ran 
 over with mute dreaminess every time the subject of study 
 ing, her studying, was brought up by him. 
 
 He was elaborating the plans for her education, going 
 into details, specifying. He had been to several business 
 colleges, had made inquiries. . . . 
 
 Hilda felt the last barrier disappearing between her and 
 Raymond. ... He was talking to her like a relation, like 
 a brother, a father. . . . She would not be ashamed before 
 him any longer. 
 
 She asked him about the tuition in these colleges. Had 
 he found out about that? She told him how much money 
 
6o THE ROAD 
 
 she had. Also there was a possibility of her getting a raise 
 at the factory. If 
 
 But Raymond did not let her finish. He locked her In 
 his arms and was crushing her with his embraces. . . . The 
 question of money was not to worry her: he would pay her 
 tuition. ... Of course he would. . . . Did she think oth 
 erwise? . . . No, she should not be ashamed to take money 
 from him. . . . They were not strangers. . . . They never 
 would be strangers. . . . She would be his, must be his, 
 always always. . . . 
 
 They were in each other s arms and he was sealing their 
 union with intense, passionate kisses. She was reciprocat 
 ing them feebly. . . . She had lost track of time. . . . She 
 felt that it must be late. . . . She was a little afraid. . . . 
 He was mumbling about her being his wife. . . . Was call 
 ing her his wife. . . . She was limp. ... He had not kissed 
 her that way before. . . . She finally aroused herself. . . . 
 She was speaking. . . . Her tongue was heavy, but she was 
 speaking. . . . There were things to be considered. ... He 
 must consider. ... It would be no easy matter. . . . His 
 father. . . . Her father. . . . They never got on. ... 
 Were never friends. . . . Her breath was giving way under 
 the tenderness of his caresses. . . . She was unnerved, 
 drooping. ... A helplessness was over her. . . . 
 
 She roused herself again. . . . She was frightened. . . . 
 She was warning Raymond. . . . He looked at her with 
 tousled hair and big, glassy eyes. ... He was making prom 
 ises. ... He would not forget himself. . . . 
 
 In the next breath his lips were searching her throat. 
 > . . His face was digging itself into her breasts her 
 
HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 61 
 
 body. . . . Everything about her had become nebulous . . . 
 dreamlike. . . . Through the tree tops bits of sky were visi 
 ble. . . . Was it reality or was she dreaming. ... All life 
 was a dream. . . . Raymond was a dream. . . . She was 
 dreaming a painful sweet dream. . . . 
 
 Hilda shook off her reveries and tried to go to sleep. 
 Every one in the ward was sleeping. Alongside of her she 
 could hear Lydia s measured breathing. She wrapped the 
 blanket about herself resolutely, shut her eyes and was 
 off again with her memories of Chicago. . . . 
 
 She recalled her last meeting with Raymond. He stag 
 gered when she told him she was in trouble. . . . His talk 
 was incoherent. . . . He left her early. . . . They were to 
 meet the following evening to devise ways, to plan. . . . 
 
 But she never saw him again. . . . 
 
 It was after some weeks that she plucked up courage and 
 sought out the Evert home. She came there after supper. 
 Darkness was falling. Not Raymond, but his father came 
 to meet her at the door. She had not seen Henry Evert 
 since the latter had ceased to be their neighbor at Still- 
 well. She was trying to force a smile on her face, a neigh 
 borly greeting. But Mr. Evert made short work of her 
 smile, of her greeting. ... He drove her from the 
 house. . . . 
 
 His words burned in her brain whenever she recalled them. 
 A loose, designing girl, he had called her, and warned her 
 to leave his son and them alone. He would not permit 
 his boy to be victimized by her. He was not surprised 
 
62 THE ROAD 
 
 at her conduct, though he had hoped for something bet 
 ter. . . Her father, too, was shiftless. He, Evert, already 
 had a lawyer on the job, and detectives. They knew all 
 about her life in Chicago. . . . They knew about her uncle 
 where he lived, and the character of his children, his 
 daughters. . . If she meant to blackmail his boy she would 
 find herself running into more trouble than she was looking 
 for. . . . However, she could do as she liked: All he 
 wanted was for her to leave his house and never to show 
 her face there again. . . . He would hear nothing. He 
 wanted nothing to do with her. . . . 
 
 Gulping down her tears, she was running from the Evert 
 residence when she heard hasty, nervous steps behind her, 
 as of some one following her. Could it possibly be Ray 
 mond coming after her? She turned about quickly and 
 was face to face with Mrs. Evert. 
 
 Raymond s mother had grown gray in the years Hilda 
 had not seen her. Mrs. Evert was weeping now. 
 
 "Don t stop/ she whispered to the girl through her sobs, 
 "let s walk right on." 
 
 "Here!" Mrs. Evert had put something in her hand 
 and was closing the girl s fingers about it. "Take this, and 
 when you need more come to me. Come in the forenoon 
 when he is not home. And now run and God bless you." 
 
 Mrs. Evert turned off at the corner and left Hilda stand 
 ing there perplexed. She had not spoken a word to Ray 
 mond s mother. She had had no chance; she was over 
 whelmed. 
 
 When she was in her room again Hilda unrolled the 
 little wad which Mrs. Evert had given her. There was a 
 
HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 63 
 
 hundred and forty-six dollars in it all apparently of Mrs. 
 E vert s savings from her household expenses. 
 
 It was this money that enabled her to go to New York. 
 New York. . . . She was coming back to realities. Her 
 thoughts became disjointed. She felt dead tired, closed her 
 eyes, and was asleep. . . . 
 
 It rained that afternoon. It had been raining since early 
 morning without a stop. The balmy spring weather of the 
 day before was gone and the patients in the ward were 
 restless. Some were thinking of their homes and children; 
 others worried about their infants, one or two of whom had 
 caught colds. 
 
 Several times that afternoon the head nurse had passed 
 Hilda. Miss Hulbert wished to speak to her, but was 
 held back by the girl s steadfast reserve. About four o clock 
 Hilda, after a short walk about the room, sat down on the 
 edge of her bed to rest and Miss Hulbert came over. 
 
 Was she quite well, the head nurse was asking. There 
 was something in her voice, in the way she had spoken, 
 that was inviting confidence. Hilda sensed something else, 
 too, in her question. Miss Hulbert seemed to be waiting 
 for a word of complaint from her. Such complaint would 
 most likely result in the nurse getting the hospital authori 
 ties to extend her, Hilda s, stay at the institution for an 
 other five days. . . . 
 
 It was the second day Hilda had been up and walking 
 about. Her feet felt as if they were borrowed. Her head 
 was weak and dizzy. . . . She and the child had much to 
 gain from another five days in the hospital. 
 
64 THE ROAD 
 
 But she decided to go on with her plans and to leave 
 the following afternoon. Her answers to Miss Hulbert s 
 questions were unequivocal, affirmative. They left no room 
 for doubt. Hilda would be out of the institution at the 
 end of the ten days for which she had paid not a minute 
 later. 
 
 Lydia had already gone home. She had gone the day 
 before, and her sister, Mrs. Novak, had sent up word 
 that she had found a suitable room for Hilda with a woman 
 living in the same block with her. Mrs. Novak, too, would 
 be at the hospital waiting for Hilda when she got out, to 
 take her and her baby to this new place. Lydia s sister 
 was indeed going out of her way for her and Hilda felt 
 that it was best not to postpone things, but to take advan 
 tage of the kindness of these friendly people. . . . Besides, 
 she was eager to get to her new surroundings, whatever they 
 might prove. The hospital was of the past, the past from 
 which she was now straining every nerve to escape, in body, 
 in mind. . . . 
 
 When the nurse had left Hilda strolled out of the ward 
 and into the hall. She passed other wards. Wherever she 
 turned there were women of foreign birth, speaking in for 
 eign languages which she did not understand. The Swann 
 Maternity was located in the heart of one of New York s 
 most cosmopolitan districts. 
 
 She looked into the faces of some of these women. Most 
 of them were at ease, cheerful. . . . Apparently every one 
 of them knew where she was going, had friends, family, a 
 nook which she could call her own. . . . They had come 
 across the ocean and were at home in America, in its great 
 
HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 65 
 
 metropolis; she was born here and was a stranger in it. ... 
 A sense of insecurity numbed her heart. She felt chilled 
 and went back to her room and into bed. She lay a long 
 time in a daze. They brought her her supper and she ate 
 it mechanically. About seven o clock the nurse handed her 
 a bundle. For an instant Hilda could not think what that 
 bundle might be. Then she recalled. She had given Lydia 
 money with which to buy clothes for her infant. The bundle 
 contained baby clothes. . -. 
 
 ** * 
 
 She was up early the following morning and dressed 
 in her street clothes. She walked about the room and in 
 the hall, hoping that the exercise would strengthen her and 
 make her head more steady. . . . After dinner she fed the 
 baby and then began dressing it. ... She was scarcely fin 
 ished when the nurse brought word that Mrs. Novak was 
 downstairs waiting for her. Hilda was glad of the rush. 
 She nodded a hasty good-by to the patients and hurriedly 
 followed the nurse, who was carrying her baby downstairs. 
 It was a short ride by street car to where Mrs. Novak was 
 taking her. They got out at East Seventy-fifth street, 
 walked down a block and a half towards the river and 
 finally Mrs. Novak entered the hallway of a large tene 
 ment. They climbed slowly up two flights of stairs. A door 
 stood wide open. They were awaited ; they were home. . . . 
 
 The landlady Mrs. Vasek was her name was a Bo 
 hemian woman of forty-six or seven, a mother of a half- 
 dozen children. She was of medium height, well built and 
 looked trim despite the fact that she wore no corset. Mrs. 
 Vasek understood many of the things said to her in Eng- 
 
66 THE ROAD 
 
 lish, but whether she understood them or not, she always 
 smiled when some one spoke to her in that language instead 
 of her native Bohemian. She smiled when Hilda greeted 
 her and gave a vigorous shake of the head in acknowledg 
 ment of the greeting. Directly Hilda was in the house Mrs. 
 Vasek began busying herself with the girl and her baby 
 as if the latter were a relation of her s who had come for 
 a visit. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Vasek had a five-room flat, the rooms running 
 "railroad" fashion, from the street to the yard. The very 
 last room was the kitchen and next to it was a bedroom. 
 It was considered the best bedroom in the house. A crib 
 had been put there for the child and Hilda was given this 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Novak excused herself. Her children would be back 
 from school any minute now. She had to run home, but 
 she would come in again after supper. Mrs. Vasek, too, 
 had to go down into the street for something. 
 
 Hilda undid the child and laid it down in the crib. The 
 ride in the car and the change in his surroundings had not 
 affected the infant. It was sleeping soundly. 
 
 She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand on 
 the crib, thinking, when Mrs. Vasek looked in again. In 
 a strange mixture of English and Bohemian, assisted by 
 kindly motions of her round, matronly arms, Mrs. Vasek 
 was explaining to Hilda that the bedroom was only to sleep 
 in, and that she was otherwise to make herself at home 
 in the kitchen, in the parlor, everywhere. She was show 
 ing her about the flat. In the parlor she stopped in front 
 .of an enlarged photograph of a boy in a sailor s uniform. 
 
HILDA BECOMES A STRANGER 67 
 
 It was her son. He was in the navy. All about this photo 
 graph the wall was studded with snapshots, postcards, pic 
 tures which the lad had sent his parents from every city 
 he had visited. Mrs. Vasek, in pointing out her son s pic 
 ture, felt as if the boy in American uniform was a link 
 between herself and her American roomer. Hilda experi 
 enced a similar feeling. 
 
 When she was alone Hilda stepped up to the window 
 and looked out upon the street below. It teemed with 
 children, with people all sorts of people Bohemians, Jews, 
 Italians. They were excited, shouting, gesticulating. Moth 
 ers were calling down to their children from the third 
 and fourth story. Children were looking up and shouting 
 indistinguishable answers. She was thinking. . . . Who 
 was she? What was she doing there among these people? 
 It seemed unbelievable that she was herself that she was 
 the Hilda she had once been; the Hilda of Stillwell, of 
 Chicago, the Hilda that had had other visions. . . . 
 
 She wondered how long she and her child would stay in 
 these surroundings and how it would all work out. . . . 
 How soon would she come back? Come back to what? 
 
 Above these thoughts rose a feeling of gratitude. She 
 was thankful to Lydia and to Mrs. Novak; thankful to 
 the woman in the house. They were good people. What 
 would she have done without them? Where would she 
 have gone to? At the memory of the rooming house from 
 which she had gone to the hospital a shudder ran through 
 her. 
 
 She slipped back into the bedroom and laid down to rest. 
 On another occasion, perhaps only a day or two earlier, 
 
68 J HE ROAD 
 
 she would have buried her face in the pillow and wept. 
 Now she was not so easily mastered by her tears. . . . She 
 was thinking about that. . . . Yes, she was no longer a 
 young girl she was a woman. . . . She had a stake in the 
 world a family. She was the mother of this family. . . , 
 Mother. . . . Father. . . . 
 
 She slept an hour, and when she woke there were light 
 and voices in the house. She distinguished something fa 
 miliar among the voices. It was her child. The infant was 
 crying and Mrs. Vasek was holding it against her breast. 
 It was time to feed the child. 
 
 Mrs. Vasek s two little girls, eight and ten years old, 
 entered the room. They were gazing at the little head that 
 clung to Hilda s breast, and went into gurgles of delight. 
 Hilda smiled at them and they were friends. 
 
 After some little time Mrs. Vasek, who had been busying 
 herself in the kitchen, came in with a large plate of soup. 
 It was still a good hour till supper, she explained in meager 
 English, but with abundant smiles. At the smell of food 
 Hilda realized how hungry she was. She was grateful and 
 she was ashamed. . . . She ate with averted face, swallow 
 ing tears with her soup. . . . 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 RAYMOND MAKES A PILGRIMAGE 
 
 CHICAGO was sitting up late that Saturday night. For 
 three days in succession the city had been in the grip of 
 a torrid wave, the first hot spell of the summer. 
 
 The weather man had not made any promises for a cool 
 Sunday, but around nine o clock that evening the huge wa 
 ters of Lake Michigan, which had lain inert and placid, 
 began to stir. A breeze arose and Chicago was sitting up 
 and drinking it in. It was sitting up on the roofs and 
 doorsteps of its tenements in the slums, and on the verandas 
 of its residences on the avenues and boulevards. 
 
 Henry Evert and his wife were sitting on the veranda of 
 their home on Independence Boulevard. They were all 
 alone that evening and Mr. Evert had slunk back to his 
 old ways and was sitting in an undershirt only. 
 
 He was twirling a cigar between his fingers. The doctor 
 had ordered him to smoke as little as possible, but it was 
 hard to break the habit of a lifetime. They were talking 
 of Raymond. 
 
 "Where did he go this evening?" Mr. Evert was asking, 
 
 "He was going to the settlement on the south side, he 
 said," Mrs. Evert answered her husband. 
 
 "I don t like the people he s getting in with." Mr. 
 
 69 
 
fjo THE ROAD 
 
 Evert spoke in a slightly raised voice. "What interest is 
 there for him to go to settlements; there are plenty of 
 women looking after the poor." 
 
 His wife was silent. She was hoping that her husband 
 would forget Raymond and go calmly to bed. Mr. Evert 
 had not been well that day. 
 
 The Everts were rounding out their tenth year in Chi 
 cago. They had come to the metropolis in the prime of life. 
 These ten years, in spite of their prosperity, had greatly 
 aged them. . . . Especially the last year. . . t 
 
 In the nine months which had elapsed since the day he 
 had driven Hilda Thorsen from his house a great change 
 had come over Henry Evert and his wife. Shortly before 
 Christmas their second daughter, Eleanor, had married and 
 had gone to Milwaukee to live. She was the fourth of 
 their children to marry and they were now left alone with 
 Raymond. But between the three, and especially between 
 father and son, there was no peace. . . . They had drifted 
 apart. Raymond was not living up to his father s expecta 
 tion. The boy s "fool escapade" with Hilda repelled Mr. 
 Evert in the first place. And he was becoming daily more 
 embittered by his son s subsequent conduct and attitude 
 toward things. He had planned for Raymond to become 
 a great lawyer, a congressman some day. ... He had ambi 
 tions for the boy and he had money to back these ambitions. 
 , . . But Raymond was beginning to look more and more 
 like a school teacher. ... He had not the matter-of-factness 
 of his brothers. He was not business-like. He seemed to be 
 walking in a dream. . . . 
 
 To the worries about his son there was added early in 
 
RAYMOND S PILGRIMAGE ;r 
 
 the spring another worry. It was about his, Mr. Evert s, 
 health. 
 
 In the latter part of March he was taken ill with a 
 cold. He was in bed ten days, which was longer than 
 usual. When he got out of bed he was not mending as 
 rapidly as he should. The family physician came daily and 
 prescribed tonics, but Henry Evert was not coming to. 
 
 One day the physician suggested a consultation. He 
 called up a specialist. 
 
 In the office of the specialist Mr. Evert felt as if he 
 had suddenly become a watch and the doctor was a watch 
 maker and was taking him apart. He made him undress 
 from head to foot, pounded his chest, listened in between 
 his ribs, looked into his eyes with an electric light. But 
 it was on the blood pressure the physician lingered 
 most. . . . 
 
 Henry Evert had never known that there was such a 
 thing as blood pressure, and while he was dressing the phy 
 sician explained it to him. He talked to him about the 
 heart and kidneys, their functions. His heart and kidneys 
 were not functioning well. . . . Not very badly, but not 
 well. . . . Too much strain, too much excitement. . . . He 
 had worked too hard. . . . There was nothing to be alarmed 
 about no immediate danger. But he would have to be 
 careful very careful in the future. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Evert got the rest of the instructions along with 
 her husband. There must be no more over exertion for 
 Mr. Evert. That meant not only in business, but at the 
 table as well. Mr. Evert must be put on a diet. He gave 
 her a list of things her husband had better not eat. . . 5. 
 
72 THE ROAD 
 
 Cigars were reduced to a minimum with a warning to stop 
 smoking altogether, and the sooner the better. 
 
 The warm spell had especially enervated him, and that 
 afternoon they had been to the doctor s. The physician 
 had again repeated his oft-time warning against worry and 
 excitement. This, he said, was to be observed doubly in the 
 hot weather. 
 
 Since his illness Mr. Evert had begun to talk more fre 
 quently about their home town. He seemed to be thinking 
 back. There was a kind of regret in his voice whenever 
 he spoke of Stillwell, their home there, the sand pit back 
 of it. ... 
 
 Now, too, the conversation drifted gradually to Still- 
 well, and Mrs. Evert joined in it heartily. She liked to 
 talk of Stillwell. . . . The more the years separated them 
 from the place, the more she longed for it. ... Deep in 
 her heart was the conviction that the city was responsible 
 for their troubles; for her son s, for her husband s trou 
 bles. . . . Had they never known Chicago that sickness 
 would never have come upon him. . . . One never did see 
 many old men in Chicago, while in Stillwell people did 
 grow old. . . . Her husband, it seemed to her, was thinking 
 about that too, though he was not speaking of it. ... In 
 Stillwell his heart would never have given way on him 
 like that. . . . 
 
 But even about Stillwell their conversation was not al 
 ways as free and easy now as it was before the incident 
 with Hilda. . . . Time and again in the course of a con 
 versation about their former home and surroundings the 
 name of their neighbor, Carl Thorsen, would come up. In 
 
RAYMOND S PILGRIMAGE 73 
 
 the past that name had had no significance to them. Now 
 it burned in their memory with scarlet letters. . . . In 
 stinctively each of them sensed when the other was think 
 ing of the Thorsens and both would feel awkward. . . . 
 
 It was close to eleven. The breeze had refreshed them 
 and Henry Evert made his way into the house, his wife 
 following. 
 
 "I am so glad you came," Miss Straight was saying to 
 Raymond at the stroke of eleven. They were waiting for 
 a car which was to take him to the west side. The car 
 stopped with a crash and Raymond swung on to it. When 
 he had gained a seat he turned and looked back. Miss 
 Straight was waving her hand to him. 
 
 The streets were empty and the car was going at high 
 speed. When he looked a second time only a few mo 
 ments later the settlement house had fused with the dark 
 ness and was indistinguishable. On the other hand, the 
 huge black smokestacks of the packing plants in the Stock 
 yards, past which the car was speeding, stood vaguely tow 
 ering against the lighter blackness of the night. 
 
 The streets were quiet except for the saloons. Here there 
 \vas life, song and music. Groups of people were standing 
 in front of the swinging doors. From the "Ladies En 
 trance" girls and women were coming out hot and flushed. 
 Some hung on the arms of men. Men s arms twined them 
 selves about the waists of others. 
 
 Raymond was thinking of Maude Straight, of the evening 
 he had just passed with her. . . . They had given a dance 
 ior the people of the neighborhood at the "Community 
 
74 THE ROAD 
 
 House," as the settlement was known, and Miss Straight 
 had invited him, had insisted on his coming. It was not 
 an ordinary event, this dance. The Community House was 
 trying an experiment. It was seeking to wean the boys 
 and girls of the district away from the neighborhood dance 
 halls with their evil influences. ... All of Chicago s news 
 papers carried stories about the dance. They wrote edito 
 rials about it. They praised the way in which the famous 
 "back of the yards" settlement was tackling one of the city s 
 grave problems. . . . Miss Straight was mentioned in all of 
 these stories and praised as the able and energetic spirit 
 behind this movement. . . . 
 
 All evening long Miss Straight had been greatly in de 
 mand. They had nearly forty couples on the floor and she 
 chaperoned them. . . . There were questions to answer, 
 orders to give, refreshments to serve. She was all smiles 
 and enthusiasm one moment, and alert and collected the 
 next. 
 
 Several times during the evening she was alone with Ray 
 mond, a few moments each time. . . . And in these mo 
 ments she was transformed. Her poise was like a mask 
 which she had put on for others. She was restless, seemed 
 uncertain, and was eager for approval, his approval. . . . 
 She was asking Raymond for his advice, his opinion, as if 
 his opinion was vital and counted above all. . . . Also, she 
 was trying to be a girl, merely a girl with him. . . . She 
 was drawing him into her friendship. . . . She was flut 
 tering on the fringe of intimacy. . . . 
 
 Just before they parted Miss Straight told him some 
 of the plans she had for the next winter. They were to 
 
RAYMOND S PILGRIMAGE 75 
 
 give special courses in history and civics at the settle 
 ment. It was important that the young immigrants of the 
 neighborhood know the history of the country and under 
 stand its constitution. It would be nice if Mr. Evert 
 could spare two evenings a week and teach one of the 
 classes. Raymond told her he would think about it. ... 
 
 He tried to think about it. ... But the car had come 
 down Halstead Street at a rapid clip and was humming 
 right into the ghetto. . . . Fourteenth Street. . . . Twelfth 
 Street. . . . Here there was life. Restaurants were open. 
 . . . Herring and delicatessen stores were still doing a brisk 
 business. People were preparing to go out picnicking in 
 the morning. . . . Harrison Street. . . . Saloons, music. 
 . . . Van Buren Street. . . . Painted girls. ... A police 
 man taking in three corners at a glance. . . . Jackson Bou 
 levard. . . . 
 
 It was on Jackson Boulevard he had met Hilda the first 
 time. . . . Hilda. . . . 
 
 He changed cars mechanically and was at home a little 
 before twelve. His mother was waiting for him. . . . There 
 were some things in the ice-box, if he wanted a bite. . . . 
 But Raymond was not hungry. ... He asked about his fa 
 ther. Did he stand the heat all right? His mother gave 
 him a reassuring answer. . . . He was undecided for some 
 moments, but finally spoke. . . . 
 
 He was going out of town in the morning. . . . With 
 friends. . . . Oh, just for an outing. ... He would prob 
 ably leave the house very early. . . . Before breakfast. . . . 
 
 His voice and manner did not invite questioning and Mrs. 
 Evert heaved a low sigh and went to her room. . . . 
 
76 THE ROAD 
 
 Raymond stepped out on the veranda. He was fatigued. 
 The smell of the stockyards was in his nostrils. ... He 
 dropped into a large wicker chair. There was a train 
 leaving for Stillwell at 5:45. He had had an eye on that 
 train for weeks and had made sure of the time. . . . He 
 was going with that train. . . . 
 
 He had not seen his home town in more than five years. 
 But it was not Stillwell he was thinking of. It was Hilda. 
 He must know what had become of the girl. ... In Still- 
 well he might learn something of her. . . . Perhaps. . . -. 
 
 Two weeks earlier he had met an old schoolmate of his 
 from Stillwell, Tom Andrews. . . . Tom ran right into him 
 on State Street. ... At first Raymond experienced a sick 
 feeling. . . . He was expecting Tom to grin at him, to speak 
 about Hilda. . . . But Hilda apparently was not in Tom s 
 thoughts. ... He was delighted at seeing Raymond, 
 dragged him into an ice-cream parlor and they talked for 
 an hour. 
 
 Raymond finally got up courage and began asking ques 
 tions about his old home, about the Thorsen home, the 
 Thorsen family. . . . But Tom vaguely recalled that Carl 
 Thorsen had died some years back. As for the widow Thor 
 sen, she did not seem to be on the map at all, at least, 
 not to Tom Andrews. . . . 
 
 Raymond s thoughts were rambling. There was a 
 swimmy feeling in the back of his head. He rose and 
 went into his room to snatch a few hours sleep. He 
 set the clock to ring at five. A half-hour would bring him 
 to the train. It would take him less than fifteen minutes 
 to be dressed and ready. . . . 
 
 The milkman s steps on the pavement woke him a quar- 
 
RAYMOND S PILGRIMAGE 77 
 
 ter to five. He got up and dressed quickly. At five sharp 
 he was out of the house. . . . Luck was with him; he ran 
 into a passing street car. He was twenty minutes ahead 
 of time and walked into the station lunch room for a cup 
 of coffee and a sandwich. . . 
 
 
 
 The home of his childhood lay nearly three miles from 
 the station and a street car brought him within two miles 
 of it. These two miles Raymond had to walk. For a 
 number of blocks there were still city houses. Then he 
 was in the country. Slender poplar trees lined the sides 
 of the road, and the grass was a foot high. His former 
 home lay beyond the hilly elevation and he did not see it. 
 
 He was in no hurry to get to it. It was early. He 
 stretched himself on the grass on one side of the road 
 and took out a paper, but he did not read. 
 
 It was a quarter after nine. In a few minutes the regular 
 Sunday morning procession of churchgoers should begin. 
 In his childhood, Raymond recalled, he used to be able to 
 tell who was coming a long way off. He had various ways 
 of identifying the neighboring farmers. Sometimes it was 
 the horses, sometimes the buggy he could distinguish. Some 
 times it was the manner of driving. Would he distin 
 guish his one-time neighbors as readily now? 
 
 The pounding of horses hoofs communicated itself to his 
 body even before it reached his ears. A single buggy was 
 coming. He could not identify it at a distance. Only when 
 the buggy was quite near did he recognize its occupants. 
 It was old man Sheridan with his daughter, Miss Sheri 
 dan, the school teacher. The old man had not aged much. 
 His bushy eyebrows and thick, untrimmed beard were per- 
 
78 THE ROAD 
 
 haps a shade grayer. But his daughter had changed. Miss 
 Sheridan s hair was snow white and her face was thin and 
 seamed. 
 
 Mr. Brann came next, double buggy, wife and one daugh 
 ter the youngest. He wondered what had become of Lena 
 Brann. Lena was his age, twenty-two. They had gone to 
 school together. Was she married? He was recalling their 
 common school friends and wondering which one of them 
 Lena might have married. Several more buggies passed, 
 but he was too absorbed in these speculations to notice who 
 their occupants were. 
 
 The day was going to be hot, but the morning was still 
 pleasant. The earth under him was oozing a raw, vapory 
 warmth. The grass was radiating a listless fragrance. The 
 lack of sleep the night before and the long ride on the train 
 in the early morning had tired him. He put a part of 
 the Sunday paper under his head, used another part to 
 shield himself from the sun, and was asleep. 
 
 He woke past noon. The buggies with churchgoers were 
 coming back from the city at a brisk clip. He was hungry 
 and turned back to the city in search of a restaurant. On 
 the Square he found a lunch room open and walked in. 
 There were only three persons in the place. He recognized 
 the proprietor. He had known him in years past. A for 
 midable individual this man had then been. Now he was 
 thin, and washed out. There were rings under his eyes 
 and from his head the hair had disappeared in strings, leav 
 ing whole spaces bare. 
 
 It was two o clock by the time he got back to the place 
 where he had slept in the forenoon. Buggies were again in 
 
RAYMOND S PILGRIMAGE 79 
 
 evidence. People were going visiting. He passed several 
 vehicles without recognizing their occupants. 
 
 A buggy passed him and stopped short. A young woman 
 was calling him by his first name. It was Lena Brann. Her 
 features were more elongated than they had been ten years 
 earlier. She had lost her plumpness, but he recognized her 
 none the less. He stepped up to her. They shook hands. 
 Lena introduced her husband, Jim Swayzey, and Raymond 
 recognized in him the son of a farmer in the vicinity, who 
 had been a big boy when he, Raymond, was starting school. 
 Lena did the talking, and he was grateful to her. For an 
 instant he was in a fever. But Lena s eyes were reassuring. 
 She seemed genuinely glad to see him. Her questions were 
 open and friendly. What was he doing in Stillwell? Come 
 to visit and was looking up old friends? That was nice. 
 He would find quite a few changes. . . . 
 
 By this time Raymond had himself in hand. He asked 
 about some of their common acquaintances, friends. Lena 
 rattled off the names, with a concise account in each case. 
 Ed. Larkin, one of their childhood playmates, was married 
 last spring, and had a good position with the railroad com 
 pany. Fred Warner, another of the boys in their immediate 
 vicinity, had married Dorothy Acker. He had a little dairy 
 farm up the road. Millie Grant had gone to Chicago last 
 year. She had a good position in the Farmers and Mer 
 chants Bank, but was offered a better job in Chicago and 
 left. 
 
 Raymond veered the conversation around to their House, 
 the people that lived in it ; and then, with casual voice, but 
 beating heart, inquired about the Thorsens, watching all the 
 
8o THE ROAD 
 
 time for a change in Lena s face or expression. But there 
 was none. 
 
 He knew, of course, she was saying, that old man Thor- 
 sen was dead these many years. Mrs. Thorsen that is, 
 the second Mrs. Thorsen tried for a time to keep the busi 
 ness going with hired help. But things did not prosper 
 and she sold the place to a Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane was 
 living there now. He was not in the sand business ; he was 
 a veterinary surgeon. 
 
 Lena had apparently forgotten Hilda, and Raymond, 
 again acting very casually, reminded her of the girl. Lena 
 then recalled that Hilda had left home shortly after her 
 father s death. She believed that the girl had gone to 
 Chicago to live with relatives there. She did not get along 
 with her stepmother. . . . That was the last seen or heard 
 of her. . . . 
 
 An impatient gesture came into Raymond s face. He had 
 heard enough. Lena now quickly explained to him that 
 they were on their way to visit her husband s sister, living 
 on the Willow Grove road. If he, Raymond, was going 
 to stay in town any length of time they would like to have 
 him come up to the farm and visit with them. They had 
 bought the old Lyman place, two and a half miles up the 
 road. Raymond was uncertain as to how long he was going 
 to stay in the city, but should he have the time, he said 
 he would look in on them. With this they shook hands, 
 Mr. Swayzey pulled the reins and they drove off. 
 
 He walked at a rapid pace and in a few minutes he stood 
 in front of his one-time home. Several youngsters were 
 playing in the yard and he lingered about, watching them. 
 
RAYMOND S PILGRIMAGE 81 
 
 A girl of eighteen came out and looked at him. He did 
 not know her and she did not know who he was. The 
 man who bought the place from his father had come from 
 another part of the state. He took a sweeping look at the 
 house, the grounds, the barn. The house had aged and 
 was in need of a coat of paint badly. The barn looked 
 shabby. 
 
 Raymond was about to enter the yard, introduce him 
 self, and ask for permission to go over the place, but 
 changed his mind. He walked down a hundred paces and 
 stood in front of what was once Hilda s home. A tall, thin 
 man, with a cement-colored face, was walking briskly across 
 the yard. He was wearing overalls over his Sunday trousers. 
 In his hand he carried a bottle, medicine, Raymond pre 
 sumed. The man gave him a passing glance and went into 
 the barn. A woman came out of the house, a stout woman 
 with a florid face. She was looking at Raymond searchingly, 
 and he walked into the yard and greeted her. 
 
 He inquired about Mrs. Thorsen, but the woman knew 
 nothing of her. They had bought the house, she said, 
 through the recommendation of a friend. Her husband had 
 seen Mrs. Thorsen only once for a few minutes. When 
 they came to take possession of the place the Thorsens had 
 already moved. 
 
 He bade her good-day and walked off. He went down 
 the road another mile and noted some of the changes that 
 had taken place. There were several new barns and the 
 names on the letter boxes in two instances were new and 
 unfamiliar. 
 
 There was a train going to Chicago at 5:30, and an- 
 
82 THE ROAD 
 
 other at 7:00. He could make the first train if he started 
 for the city at once. But he saw no reason for hurrying. . . . 
 He would not be coming to the place again so quickly. . . . 
 It was pleasant in the fields. . . . He turned into a 
 narrow lane which led on to another road a mile distant. 
 He cut himself a walking stick from a willow branch and 
 rambled along. At intervals of eight to ten minutes an 
 automobile would pass. But for that the country was as 
 calm and peaceful as it had been in his early childhood, 
 when he with his older brothers or with some playmates 
 would go down this road to the creek to bathe. 
 
 The creek was there and its waters were as clear as ever. 
 He stood for a long while on the bridge looking into the 
 water and listening to its murmur. It was familiar, and it 
 was new. 
 
 Loud, girlish laughter from a passing automobile brought 
 him back to reality. He would just about have time for 
 a bite of supper before the train left, if he hurried. He 
 started for the city. 
 
 The train was cutting its way through the twilight. It 
 was an express. The fields, forests, farmhouses looked like 
 large weird paintings. His eyes grew heavy and he closed 
 them. It seemed to him that he was not really himself, but 
 some one else, a stranger, an old man. He had lived long 
 and was weary. . . . They were going past villages without 
 stopping. . . . There were people in these villages. . . . 
 They were on earth, rooted in the earth. . . . He was soar 
 ing in space. . . . Would always soar. . . . Would never 
 have firm ground under his feet like other people. . . , 
 Never. . 
 
RAYMOND S PILGRIMAGE 83 
 
 It was after eleven when he came home. He was late 
 on purpose. He did not want to be seen by his father, his 
 mother. . . . He went straight to his room and began to 
 undress. 
 
 His mother entered. He stopped taking his clothes off 
 and remained seated on the bed. She was standing. For 
 some moments both were silent. Finally she asked: 
 
 "Were you in Stillwell?" 
 
 He looked up at her. Their eyes met. He lowered his. 
 
 "Yes," he said. His voice was hollow. 
 
 He was waiting for more questions. But she did not 
 ask. Mrs. Evert walked out as quietly as she had come 
 in. She closed the door behind her. It seemed to him she 
 was weeping. He sat for a long time staring into space. .... 
 
BOOK II 
 CROSSROADS 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 THE DAILY BREAD 
 
 THE ringing of an alarm clock in another part of the 
 flat woke Hilda out of her first night s sleep under the Vasek 
 roof. Through the open door a shaft of light was falling 
 into the room. It was five o clock. The child was sound 
 asleep in the crib beside her bed and Hilda would not wake 
 him. After the last nursing he could go without food until 
 six, she figured. 
 
 They had to pass through her room to get to the kitchen 
 there was no other way and Mrs. Vasek slid through it 
 noiselessly with her bare feet. Her husband followed soon 
 after in his stockings. He did not look in the direction of 
 Hilda s bed, but she saw that he was carrying his shoes 
 in his hands. . . . Mr. Vasek closed the door behind him 
 quietly. A noise of some one washing was heard. A little 
 later the smell of fried potatoes and sizzling bacon reached 
 her. Mrs. Vasek was making breakfast for her husband, 
 Hilda thought, and a feeling of melancholy took possession 
 of her. The unreality of her position was staring her in 
 the face. . . . 
 
 What was she doing in this house, among these people? 
 What had she done to deserve this attention and consid 
 eration from them? . . . The whole thing was but a pro 
 pitious accident which would end as suddenly as it came. 
 
 87 
 
88 JHE ROAD 
 
 There was no firm ground under her feet. . . . There was 
 no basis, neither in blood nor in money, for her status 
 in the Bohemian home. She had been received and was 
 treated as a guest, as a relation. She would have been 
 more at ease had she been treated as a roomer and a stranger, 
 which was the status she sought. . . . 
 
 An incident of her dim past rose to her mind. Hilda was 
 about five years old; her mother was alive yet. It was 
 Hallowe en and the neighbors children had dressed up in 
 fantastic garb; she followed suit. She put on an old dress 
 and jacket of her mother s; she found a discarded hat and 
 put that on too. Jhus attired she strutted up and down 
 all the afternoon, with mincing steps and grimaces, and 
 experienced a sensation of being a grown person, of being 
 a young lady. ; . . At nightfall the illusion snapped. She 
 was a child again and she was weary. Ashamed of her ac 
 tions and her pretenses she ran into the house and hid her 
 face in the folds of her mother s dress, s -. -. 
 
 She could not escape a feeling of participating in some 
 such pretense now. . . . She had no claim to this home 
 and the attentions that had suddenly come to her. . . . The 
 friendship of Lydia, of Mrs. Yasek, was like a spring day 
 in February a chance episode of an hour from which no 
 deductions were to be drawn. Spring was not coming in 
 February. . . : . Her reception into the Vasek home was not 
 solving her problems and difficulties. . . > It would be a 
 long time before she and her child would have a home, would 
 Jeel at home anywhere. . . . There was a long stretch of 
 winter ahead of them. . , . There must be no illusions. . . s 
 She was not a child now. , 
 
THE DAILY BREAD 89 
 
 Her fresh young body was asserting itself, however, and 
 when she was dressed and walking up and down the room, 
 she noticed with a feeling of satisfaction how much stronger 
 she had grown since the previous afternoon. With every 
 step she took her limbs were becoming firmer. Her break 
 fast, which Mrs. Vasek insisted on preparing and serving, 
 sent a flood of energy through her. Her brain gained in 
 clearness, her thoughts in definiteness. The melancholy 
 brooding had given way to concise, practical planning. 
 
 She was figuring that a week s rest would be about all 
 she would take, and then . . . Grimly she dismissed all 
 thoughts of office work and of other more desirable jobs, 
 about which she had been dreaming up to the very coming 
 of her child. . . . No, she must keep her feet firmly planted 
 on the ground. . . . She was thinking of factory work, 
 which was what she knew and had experience in. . . , Only 
 f she would make an effort to get to a place where the 
 work was steady and the pay better than it had been at 
 the knitting factory she worked at last. She needed more 
 money now. . . . 
 
 In the early afternoon Lydia, who had been out of the 
 hospital some days ahead of her and had rapidly recovered, 
 came to see her. 
 
 "You seem worried," her friend said after the first few 
 questions about herself and the child. 
 
 Hilda told her about the plans she was making for going 
 to work. She was worried about finding a woman to take 
 care of the infant during the day while she was at work. 
 
 "You intend to go back to the factory?" Lydia asked. 
 
 "What else can I do?" Hilda queried in return. 
 
90 THE ROAD 
 
 Her friend shook her head doubtfully. 
 
 "Have you thought of going to work in a restaurant as a 
 waitress? We talked of it once before in the hospital." 
 
 Hilda recalled the hospital conversation. 
 
 "But," she said, "there doesn t seem to be any future 
 in it." 
 
 "No, there isn t much of a future in it," Lydia agreed. 
 "But there ll be time to think about the future later. Right 
 now the problem is to pull your infant through the summer 
 months. . $ a ." 
 
 She was telling her what the summer months meant to 
 newborn babies in that part of the city. It was mother s 
 milk or death to many of them. The short day which 
 restaurant work permitted would be a great thing for her 
 child. 
 
 Hilda was silent; there was nothing she could say. The 
 child was pitifully small. There would be no one to give 
 him a square deal if she did not. . . . Her abhorrence for 
 the restaurant job was due largely to the fact that it in 
 volved the taking of tips. A sense of delicacy, however, pre 
 vented her from mentioning this. Lydia s husband, Ernest 
 White, though a musician by calling, as her friend had told 
 her, was a waiter by trade, a . . 
 
 She was pondering over her friend s words the rest of the 
 day. In the evening Ernest White came. 
 
 Lydia had introduced her husband to Hilda in the hos 
 pital and they had exchanged a few words there. But this 
 was the first time Mr. White saw Hilda dressed and on her 
 feet. She was a changed person; her looks and ways were 
 so different that he could not conceal his surprise. White 
 
THE DAILY BREAD 91 
 
 was a reader of books and as she stood before him, lithe 
 and graceful, she appeared to him like a character from one 
 of the American novels he had read. 
 
 Mrs. Vasek was fluttering about him. She led him into 
 the parlor and drew the best chair toward him. She was 
 beaming at Hilda, too. Apparently Mr. White was of some 
 consequence in Mrs. Vasek s circle and she was proud of 
 his visit. 
 
 After a momentary awkwardness, due possibly to the 
 fuss Mrs. Vasek was making over him, but more likely 
 to the fact that the young woman standing before him was 
 so different from what he had expected to find, he talked 
 more easily. He asked after Hilda s condition, after the 
 child. ... As Hilda answered him, as she was speaking, 
 White s gaze dwelt upon her lips. He seemed to be listen 
 ing to her not alone with his ears, but with his eyes. . . . 
 Her speech sounded new to him. It was Western. . . . 
 
 He was in agreement with his wife on the matter of Mrs. 
 Thorsen s occupation, he said. A job in a restaurant would 
 serve her and her baby best at this time. ... It was of 
 course immaterial to them it was only out of friendship 
 they were speaking. . . . 
 
 And then without the slightest suggestion or mention 
 from Hilda, Mr. White somehow seemed to divine the real 
 reason for Hilda s disinclination to go into restaurant work 
 the tip taking it involved. ... It was not without a strug 
 gle, he recalled, that he also accepted his first job as a 
 waiter. . . . With flushed face he began to explain and 
 modify his original statement. 
 
 He did not, of course, mean that Hilda should stay in 
 
92 THE ROAD 
 
 restaurant work permanently or even any length of time. 
 He looked upon such employment for her as a makeshift 
 only, until her child was older and she could go into some 
 thing else. With him, too, his restaurant job was only a 
 makeshift. . . . He was marking time. . . . Restaurant 
 work was better than any other work for him because it was 
 less tiring and gave him leisure to devote himself to his 
 violin. . . . His music called for leisure. . . . 
 
 White stayed for some time. He was asking her about 
 Chicago, the West, and was making comparisons with New 
 York. When Hilda first saw him in the hospital he ap 
 peared to her as distinguished looking. A certain softness 
 and simplicity which he possessed impressed her now. He 
 spoke sincerely and gently. She was ascribing White s 
 friendship, the kindness of his wife and of Mrs. Vasek to her, 
 as being due to the fact that they, too, were strangers in 
 New York. Apparently it was an immigrant trait. . . . 
 Both her father and her mother, she recalled, had always 
 been kind and hospitable. . . . There certainly could not be 
 anything but the most friendly intentions in their suggest 
 ing and even urging that she take up restaurant work. . . . 
 
 When White was gone his voice, with the quaint foreign 
 flavor in it, still seemed to be reverberating in the atmos 
 phere. Hilda was thinking of many things, recalling many 
 things. . . . The constraint and tension of the day were 
 gone. Her mood was mellowing. . , . 
 
 It was to be restaurant work, as her newly made friends 
 had urged upon her. And it was not until after she had 
 rested for fully two weeks in this too she yielded to her 
 
THE DAILY BREAD 93 
 
 friends that Hilda went out to look for employment. She 
 found a job in a bakery and lunch room on Third Avenue, 
 within eight or ten minutes walk from where she lived. It 
 was a cheap place, where expressmen, milkmen and the like 
 would stop in for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie around 
 noon. No experience was called for. The pay was two 
 and a half dollars a week, but with tips a girl averaged 
 six dollars. 
 
 After six weeks in this place, when she had become 
 accustomed to handling trays and taking orders, White 
 pointed out to her an advertisement of a downtown restau 
 rant calling for "experienced" waitresses. He suggested that 
 she answer it. There was more money in such a place, 
 he said, and she might as well make all the money she 
 could; she would need it. 
 
 "Tell them," he gave her a final bit of advice, "that you 
 have six months experience, instead of six weeks, and you 
 will probably get the job." 
 
 She got it, and at the end of the first week her wages 
 mounted up to nine dollars. That evening when the child 
 was asleep she ran over to Lydia s home to impart to her 
 and to her husband the good news. Here a surprise awaited 
 Hilda. The Whites had moved that very afternoon to a 
 model tenement building which had just been completed in 
 the neighborhood. Hilda went in search of them. 
 
 Lydia threw her arms about her the moment she entered. 
 
 "Look, look," she beamed as she led Hilda from room to 
 room. 
 
 The Whites had three rooms and a bath. The floors were 
 of cement; there was electricity in every room. But what 
 
94 THE ROAD 
 
 evoked Lydia s delight above all was the bath with the hot 
 and cold water, "hot water all the time," as she emphasized 
 it to Hilda. Only the best paid workers in the neigh 
 borhood could afford an apartment in the model tenement. 
 Among the tenants there were a number of social settle 
 ment workers, writers, and artists. Lydia was frankly de 
 lighted at the way she had come up in the world. . . . 
 
 Her husband was busy hanging pictures. A number of 
 prints, framed and unframed, lay on the table in the par 
 lor. Hilda stopped to examine them, while Lydia went 
 back to the kitchen. 
 
 "Here s one that ought to be familiar to you," White 
 said, handing Hilda a print by Remington which represented 
 a prairie scene in the Far West. 
 
 She explained that the location of this particular paint 
 ing was probably two or three days distance by train from 
 where she was born and lived prior to her coming to New 
 York. 
 
 There were several more prints and Hilda became ab 
 sorbed in them. White walked over and stood beside her 
 gazing at the picture she held. It represented a lone Indian 
 rider in the desert. In the distance was a chain of purple 
 mountains. . . . 
 
 "Fascinating!" White said softly. 
 
 Hilda agreed that it was beautiful. 
 
 "It must be wonderful out there, out West," he spoke 
 dreamily. "It seems to me one could do big things 
 there. . . ." 
 
 Hilda was silent. 
 
 "New York," he went on after a pause, "is an excellent 
 
THE DAILY BREAD 95 
 
 place for old men, for men who have achieved, who have 
 prospered and want to come here to get the glory for their 
 achievements, to enjoy their prosperity. But it is no place 
 for a young man, unless his ambitions run to banking or 
 commerce. . . ." 
 
 Lydia in the next room overheard her husband s voice. 
 She stepped up to the door of the parlor and remained 
 there as if riveted to the spot. Hilda was almost a head 
 taller than herself and standing beside her tall, slender 
 husband, the two made a striking pair. Neither White nor 
 Hilda noticed Lydia. 
 
 "I wonder," he continued, still gazing at the painting, 
 "if all this the prairies, the mountains, could not be re 
 duced to music as well as to painting? There is music in 
 them as well as color. ... A symphony of the desert. . . ." 
 
 He became silent and his gaze seemed transported. . . . 
 His wife stepped up to them. Hilda handed the print to 
 her for Lydia to admire, but the latter put it aside with 
 out looking at it. She was gazing at her husband with a 
 strange, unaccustomed look. ... A slight embarrassment 
 came over White. . 
 
 From a tiny room in the rear of the restaurant came the 
 clicking of a writing machine. The door stood open and 
 Hilda, who had begun to feel at home in the place, looked 
 in. The cashier, Miss Lynch, was pounding out the day s 
 bills of fare the business day had not yet begun. When 
 she saw Hilda in the doorway she nodded to her with a 
 smile. 
 
9"6 THE ROAD 
 
 "Do you type?" Miss Lynch asked, resting from her 
 work for a moment. 
 
 "No, but I wish I did." 
 
 "I never studied it systematically myself," Miss Lynch 
 confessed. "I just picked it up. I worked in a place 
 where there was a machine and I practised whenever I had 
 a chance." 
 
 Hilda was gazing at the machine wistfully. The cashier 
 observed her look. 
 
 "Would you like to try your hand at it?" she asked. 
 "I am finished." 
 
 She rose and surrendered her place to Hilda, who for 
 the space of ten minutes sat fishing about for letters on 
 the keyboard, while Miss Lynch looked on good-naturedly. 
 
 The feel of her fingers hitting the typewriter keys was 
 with Hilda all that day, and ambitions that had lain 
 dormant in her for many months began to stir. . . . She 
 was in the restaurant the next morning fifteen minutes 
 earlier. Miss Lynch, who in addition to being cashier, was 
 also taking charge of the place when the manager was not 
 in, guessed the reason for Hilda s early arrival. Without 
 a word, but with a knowing smile, she directed the waitress 
 to the office. Soon the sporadic beating of the keys be 
 came audible. 
 
 For several days in succession Hilda came to work a 
 quarter of an hour earlier, and, with Miss Lynch s tacit 
 understanding, would at once immerse herself in the in 
 tricacies of the writing machine. 
 
 "I guess you mean business," the cashier once said to 
 her when she observed a printed half-page sticking out of 
 
THE DAILY BREAD 97 
 
 the typewriter. "That s remarkably quick work, I must 
 say." 
 
 "Do you really think so?" Hilda asked, her heart leaping 
 within her. 
 
 "I most certainly do," Miss Lynch assured her, and by 
 way of proving her earnestness she made several valuable 
 suggestions about the machine and its operation. 
 
 The following day Hilda was fully half an hour ahead 
 at the restaurant. Miss Lynch did not notice the change 
 in her schedule. For weeks thereafter the half-hour at the 
 typewriter every morning had become an absorbing event 
 in Hilda s life. 
 
 September came. The summer was over and the time 
 Hilda had mentally set as the limit to her staying in the 
 occupation of waitress had arrived. But the thought of 
 quitting the restaurant for the factory had lost its ur 
 gency. . . . 
 
 One morning about the middle of the month she re 
 quested the cashier for the day s menu and made it her 
 practise lesson. When Miss Lynch looked over a few 
 of the bills Hilda had printed she decided to use them, 
 and she let the girl go on typing the remainder of the 
 cards. 
 
 "You can have the job in the future," she said half in 
 jest. But Hilda walked in the clouds the rest of that day. 
 Every time she saw a patron studying the bill of fare which 
 she had typed, her face would assume a mysterious air, 
 as if she and the printed slip had a great secret in com 
 mon. She threw caution to the wind and gave her imagi- 
 
98 THE ROAD 
 
 nation full sway. Plans and ambitions were surging through 
 her brain. The restaurant, her job, now appeared to her 
 as the cornerstone of all these dreams and ambitions. 
 
 She determined not to leave the restaurant work that 
 winter and possibly not till the following autumn. She 
 was earning well and she had time; that was the main 
 thing, time. By the spring the child and her finances would 
 both be in condition for her to consider going to a busi 
 ness college for a few months. And then then she would 
 bid the factory adieu forever. . . . New horizons were open 
 ing before her eyes. . . . 
 
 But in October the five-story structure which housed the 
 restaurant was sold. It was to be torn down and an up-to- 
 date skyscraper was to go up in its place. The owners of 
 the restaurant were given three months time to vacate 
 the premises. In the next few weeks the business wheels 
 in the place began to turn more slowly. Several of the help 
 left. 
 
 Hilda stayed on till the very end. Miss Lynch, occu 
 pied with other work, definitely turned over to her the job 
 of typing the bills of fare every morning. The typewriter 
 had become like a friend from whom it was not easy to 
 part. The first week in January, however, found Hilda 
 looking for work. She found a job in a restaurant near 
 Times Square, in the heart of New York. By coincidence 
 her new place of work was just around the corner from 
 the fashionable cafe where Ernest White was employed. 
 
 Her new job brought with it complications and disap 
 pointments, chief of which was her break with the Whites, 
 with Lydia and her husband, which followed within a month. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 SHADOWS 
 
 HILDA S break with her friends came about as follows: 
 Early in February she ran up to the White flat one 
 evening. Neither Lydia nor her husband had been around 
 to see her in more than a week, a thing which seldom before 
 happened, and she came to find out if anything was wrong. 
 Something was wrong. Lydia was distinctly unfriendly and 
 let Hilda see it the moment the latter entered. 
 
 She was dazed by her reception. It was entirely unex 
 pected. A suspicion flashed through her mind. Perhaps 
 her friends had in some manner learned of her, Hilda s, past, 
 and that accounted for the change in them, for their sudden 
 coldness. Directly this thought came to her mind corrobo 
 rative evidence seemed to follow it. Mrs. Vasek, too, had 
 not been as friendly with her of late as was her wont. 
 
 To break the awkward silence Hilda asked Lydia where 
 her husband was. 
 
 "Why, don t you see enough of him in the daytime?" 
 There was an angry, malevolent gaze in Lydia s eyes as 
 she spoke these words. Everything was over between them. 
 Hilda knew it instantly. She flushed and paled by turns. 
 She was frightened at the sudden crash of their friend 
 ship, but she was relieved that her past had remained undis 
 covered. 
 
 90 
 
ioo THE ROAD 
 
 White entered at that moment. He nodded to Hikia an 
 embarrassed greeting. His face was pale and agitated. 
 She noticed that Lydia, too, looked bad. They had been 
 quarreling, quarreling on her account. 
 
 White was speaking to his wife about household matters, 
 trifles, and Hilda realized that he was jabbering this non 
 sense merely to break the awkward silence. She was humili 
 ated and thought of asking for and giving explanations, but 
 a sense of futility came over her. Arguments would be use 
 less, she felt; it was no longer a matter for words. Her 
 friendship with the Bohemian girl and her husband had no 
 foundation. It was a whim and the whim had passed. 
 Lydia did not want any more of her; did not wish her 
 around. It was a chapter to be closed. She got up and 
 bade them good-night. 
 
 When she got to her room she lay awake and thinking 
 for a long time. There had been not the slightest reason 
 for Lydia to make the attack upon her which she had 
 made. Hilda s thoughts had been pure and her conduct 
 had been as pure as her thoughts. There had been noth 
 ing in her relations with Mr. White to justify his wife s 
 suspicion. The proximity of her place of work to the cafe 
 where White was employed was entirely accidental. She 
 was not aware until some days after she took the job that 
 they were located so near one another. Once about ten 
 days earlier she and White had met on the elevated plat 
 form and rode to work together. It was she herself who 
 told Lydia of this chance meeting. 
 
 The break in their friendship implied a complete change 
 
SHADOWS 101 
 
 in her mode of living. She would have to move from the 
 Vaseks . Mrs. Vasek was a friend of Lydia s older sister, 
 of her family. She had taken Hilda in at Lydia s request 
 and she would make her go at the latter s displeasure. Hilda 
 was unprepared for such a sudden change. Nevertheless, 
 she decided to act at once. 
 
 After breakfast the next morning she sounded her land 
 lady. Perhaps Mrs. Vasek needed the room? The land 
 lady was embarrassed. She did not need the room, and 
 after Hilda had moved she would rent it to some one 
 else. ... It was hard to tell her to go. Mrs. Vasek was 
 not at all convinced that Hilda was guilty of any indis 
 cretion, let alone a wrong toward Lydia. ... But it was 
 equally unpleasant to have her about, and she took refuge 
 in turning adviser. 
 
 What Hilda needed, she was saying, was a little flat 
 all to herself. It would not be more expense in the end, 
 and it would be ever so much better for her to be alone. 
 It was hard to find comfort with strangers. With a child 
 one needed a little home. . . . 
 
 "You are not staying in New York for a month or two," 
 the landlady expostulated in her mixture of English and 
 Bohemian, which Hilda had come to understand very well. 
 "You will most likely be living here for years to come, 
 so you might as well furnish a little home of your own." 
 
 Here she plunged into details of furniture buying and 
 the plan of paying for it by instalments. Hilda looked 
 crestfallen. 
 
 "But there is no hurry about moving." Mrs. Vasek at- 
 
102 THE ROAD 
 
 tempted to ease things for her. "Take your time. Spring 
 will soon be here. There will be all sorts of little flats 
 in the spring." 
 
 She was once more nice to her, but Hilda could no 
 more resume her wholehearted relations with the landlady. 
 She was determined to find new quarters as soon as pos 
 sible. 
 
 The thought of living alone frightened her. It opened 
 up such vistas of solitude and loneliness, and required a 
 mental attitude which Hilda still lacked. There were thou 
 sands of widows, of divorced women in New York, living 
 alone in such little apartments as Mrs. Vasek had described 
 to her, but she was keeping aloof from these women men 
 tally. In her thoughts, in her psychology, she was still 
 pretty much of a girl. In spite of her determination to be 
 hard and practical she was still dreaming her unfulfilled 
 dreams. . . . 
 
 For a week she put in every free moment looking for a 
 furnished room. But, after the friendly attention and 
 freedom she had had at the Vasek home, every one of the 
 furnished rooms she saw looked chill and dreary. At the 
 mention of the child several landladies cut all negotiations 
 short. They did not wish women with children. 
 
 She came back to the proposition of taking a little flat 
 and furnishing it herself. There seemed to be no other 
 outcome. She even began to look upon it as a test. . . . 
 She had been leaning on the Whites. She had been lean 
 ing on Mrs. Vasek. Had she the strength of character to 
 stand alone? Settling down in a little flat, like thousands 
 of other widows, real widows, living like them, raising her 
 
SHADOWS 103 
 
 child like them, would be the final break with the past. 
 . . . There would be no more escaping reality, no more pre 
 tending that things might still be otherwise. . . . 
 
 The first week in March found Hilda installed in a two- 
 room flat in the rear of a tenement on First Avenue. Her 
 new home was only three blocks from the Vaseks and 
 not more than six blocks from the model tenement in 
 which the Whites lived. She could not move out of the 
 neighborhood altogether without losing the services of the 
 day nursery to which she was taking her child regularly 
 and to which she was by now accustomed. 
 
 In spite of this proximity, however, Hilda and her for 
 mer friends did not see one another any more. Their paths 
 were destined never to cross again. . . . 
 
 For a week after Hilda moved into her rooms she walked 
 on tiptoe, as if afraid of being discovered there. ... It was 
 strange to live all alone, to be the mistress of a home in 
 which there was no master. ... At night, when the child 
 was asleep and her housework done, she would turn off the 
 gaslight and sit by the window. Seeing but unseen she 
 would gaze across the yard into the opposite tenement. 
 She was in the heart of an immigrant district and these 
 rear tenement homes mostly were curtainless. The people 
 in them, peasants from primitive, out of the way places in 
 Eastern Europe, were leading an elemental existence. The 
 old were beastly stolid, the young brutally sensuous, for 
 the most part. . . . There was little privacy and no deli 
 cacy. . . . Often she would turn away from the window 
 her face burning with shame. ... In her bed she would 
 
104 THE ROAD 
 
 toss and moan for a long time. . . . It was not thus she 
 had pictured her future. . . . 
 
 One day shortly thereafter Hilda made a discovery. She 
 was no longer alone. Her thoughts were working in con 
 junction with another mind, which had taken up its re 
 sidence in her brain. This invisible mind seemed older, 
 more experienced and was always coming to the aid of 
 her puzzled head. It explained things to her, commented 
 on things. ... It pointed out motives, objects, designs. 
 On second look things never appeared the same to her, 
 and Hilda now always took a second look. 
 
 The invisible mind seemed to know everything and to 
 penetrate everywhere. It knew the world, it knew New 
 York, it knew Broadway. It was interpreting people to her 
 in the street, on the train, in the restaurant. ... It was 
 giving her an inside view of every one and everything 
 about her. . . . And it was always warning her, urging 
 caution. 
 
 In her new place of work Hilda found that her ideas 
 of Broadway in the past had been one-sided. She had imag 
 ined the great street to be a place of perpetual light, gaiety, 
 and laughter. She was now daily seeing the other side of 
 the medallion. She was seeing Broadway s shadows. The 
 lights streamed at night, the shadows glimmered in the day 
 time. . . . 
 
 The Jarvis such was the name of the restaurant was 
 located in the heart of New York s theatrical district. It 
 was flanked by Broadway on one side and by Sixth Avenue 
 
SHADOWS 105 
 
 on the other. At night the street was a part of the great 
 White Way. In the daytime it was a sort of rialto for 
 chorus girls of a kind, vaudeville performers, gamblers, and 
 the riffraff of the half world. . . . There were half a dozen 
 table d hote places within the block and the street on either 
 side was lined with taxicabs at all hours. 
 
 In the course of the day the character of the Jarvis 
 patronage changed three times. When she came to work 
 at ten o clock in the morning Hilda found the restaurant 
 in the possession of the chauffeurs. The place hummed 
 with their conversation. They swapped the news of the 
 day, or rather of the night, joked with the waitresses, many 
 of whom they called by their first names, and now and then 
 called upon the manager, a suave Hungarian who posed as 
 a Frenchman, to settle disputes. 
 
 Shortly before eleven o clock the taxi crowd would "fade 
 away," as the expression among the waitresses ran. It was 
 the chauffeurs busy hour. It was also the busy hour 
 at the restaurant. From eleven-thirty to two several hun 
 dred clerks, stenographers, salesmen, as well as minor busi 
 ness men and manufacturers located in the neighborhood, 
 were served. A little after two o clock the nature of the 
 patronage again changed. Precisely as the chauffeurs took 
 possession of the restaurant in the forenoon, so the baked- 
 apple-and-grapefruit crowd would take possession of it in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 Hilda liked the noon crowd best. She was uneasy with 
 the chauffeurs. They frightened her with their glances and 
 jests. Several of the waitresses in the place were friendly 
 with them and went out with them evenings. Some of the 
 
io6 THE ROAD 
 
 chauffeurs were importuning her also to go out for rides. 
 One of them, Dick Malloy, was especially persistent and 
 whenever she had to wait on him she was nervous and ill 
 at ease. 
 
 "What d you say to a little drive this evening?" Malloy 
 would invariably begin. 
 
 Hilda would not answer. 
 
 "Come on, kid, have a heart." He would attempt to be 
 jocular, and his smile would send a chill down Hilda s 
 spine. 
 
 She could never tell whether the chauffeur was young 
 or old, a boy or a man. Varying with the occasion he 
 could pass for twenty-four or forty. His face was thin 
 and boyish, but his hair was beginning to gray at the tem 
 ples, and his eyes were old and cynical. 
 
 Among the noon crowd there were also plenty of men 
 who were inclined to season their lunch with flirtation. The 
 haste, however, with which the orders had to be filled 
 gave Hilda an opportunity to ignore many an ingratiating 
 smirk, yet without leaving the customer offended. It was 
 all charged up to the rush. 
 
 But even more than the chauffeurs, the late afternoon 
 crowd disturbed Hilda. While waiting upon the afternoon 
 customers she had the sensation of standing on a preci 
 pice, a mad whirlpool seething at her feet. . . . 
 
 The baked-apple-and-grapefruit crowd consisted of young 
 women, many of them mere girls, who wore their feathered 
 headwear and French heels with peculiar conspicuousness. 
 At the Jarvis every afternoon they met their friends, im 
 maculate young men of uncertain occupations. Respecta- 
 
SHADOWS 107 
 
 bility was the watchword of the Jarvis management, and 
 this afternoon patronage was referred to as the "theater 
 trade," the girls designated as "chorus girls." The wait 
 resses adhered rigidly to this legend, but the patrons them 
 selves were constantly exploding it. 
 
 The talk at the small marble tables sizzled with refer 
 ences to raids, bail, police. The girls, some of them patheti 
 cally young, were remarkably well instructed in the ways 
 and procedures of the courts of law and discussed intimately 
 jail sentences, parole, reformatories. ... At times a strange 
 secretiveness peered out of their childish eyes. . . . The 
 movements of their men companions were nervous and 
 jumpy for the most part. The dread of the law seemed to 
 hang over all. ... 
 
 Hilda was forgetting what little practice she had on the 
 writing machine. There was no typewriter and no bills of 
 fare for her to do at the Jarvis. The place was run on a 
 big scale and the menu cards were printed. Her dream of 
 making her restaurant job a stepping stone to office work, 
 which some months earlier had seemed so easy of achieve 
 ment, was receding into an inscrutable distance. . . . She 
 could no longer cast a glamor over her occupation. ... It 
 was becoming plain work and tips. . . . For a time she was 
 thinking whether she had not better stick to it at that. 
 . . . She was earning good wages and her hours were 
 short. . . . But she felt that she would never have ease of 
 mind in this job. . . . She had once heard that the atmos 
 phere in restaurants is not always of the best for a girl. . . . 
 
io8 THE ROAD 
 
 It certainly was not good at the Jarvis. . . , She had had 
 her fill of trouble; she wanted no more of it. . . . 
 
 The factory was looming before her eyes once more. . . . 
 Still she tried a department store. She applied for a place 
 as a saleslady. But there the manager asked her if she 
 was living with her family. When told she was self-support 
 ing and had a child, he looked sympathetic, but "could do 
 nothing for her." 
 
 Yes, the factory apparently was her only goal. . . , She 
 was resigning herself to her fate, at least until . . . Yes, 
 until . . . ? Her vision of what was to come after the 
 factory was too vague to be put into concrete thoughts. 
 . . . She was faintly dreaming. . . . 
 
 She was in no hurry to leave the restaurant. She would 
 wait until her child was at least one year old. . . . Little 
 Raymond s birthday was now a matter of weeks only. April 
 was under way. . . . The weather was superb. . . . 
 
 She was making the most of the spring weather and was 
 glad when four o clock came and she quit work. Some 
 times she would rush straight from work to the day nursery, 
 take her child and go to the park with him. Then again 
 there were moods when she wished to be alone. At such 
 times she would walk up Fifth Avenue and stroll through 
 Central Park. It was good to feel the green grass under 
 her feet. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 LITTLE RAYMOND S BIRTHDAY 
 
 THE night which preceded her child s birthday Hilda s 
 sleep was broken and fitful. Her mind was fleeting from 
 memory to memory, and she was hovering in a sea of 
 familiar childhood scenes. Father, mother, the Everts, the 
 old schoolhouse on the hill they were all there, in their 
 proper places. . . . 
 
 Toward morning the faces and scenes disappeared, all 
 except her father. His image she retained through her 
 dreams and waking. . . . Her father she recalled vividly; 
 Carl Thorsen had not been dead so very long. . . . 
 
 If her father had only lived, she was half thinking, half 
 dreaming. ? . . Her father, she was certain, would never 
 have given her up. . . . He would have been there beside 
 her, played with her baby. . . . He would have loved the 
 child and approved her course all she was doing for it. 
 . . . Her father had loved her so, was so kind. , . . 
 
 Just before waking she was dreaming of Raymond Evert. 
 . . . She and Raymond were standing on opposite sides 
 of a river. . . . From the river a vapory wall was rising. 
 ... Raymond did not know that she had a child, that 
 he was a father, and she was trying to convey the infor 
 mation to him. . . . She was shouting at the top of her 
 
 109 
 
no THE ROAD 
 
 voice. . . . But the vapory wall distended. She was now 
 seeing Raymond s face as if through a thick glass. After a 
 little his face seemed to dissolve itself and she could dis 
 cern only tiny specks of it floating about here and there in 
 the vapory clouds. . . . She ceased seeing him alto 
 gether. . . . 
 
 She woke early. The alarm clock had not rung yet. 
 The child was sleeping soundly. She lay in bed for some 
 time thinking about Raymond. Would he ever know of 
 the child? Would she tell him? Would they ever meet? 
 Would they . . . ? 
 
 She had much to do that day, much to think of, and she 
 rose and dressed. She did most of her household work while 
 the child was still sleeping. When he woke, his break 
 fast was ready and little Raymond ate with relish, emitting 
 a series of pleased childish sounds between spoonfuls. . . . 
 
 "Yes, yes," Hilda was saying in response to his babbling. 
 "I know all about it, sonny. Oh, yes, we re getting to be a 
 great big boy. We are one year old to-day, and we want 
 some presents. Yes, yes we shall get some nice birthday 
 presents to-day, so we shall!" 
 
 As she was dressing him for the day nursery, the child s 
 face became serious. It always did before parting. . . . 
 She tickled him under the chin and he laughed once more. 
 The smile which came into her own eyes was a fleeting 
 one; it died before it had fully broken. 
 
 When the child was ready Hilda stepped up to the mirror 
 to adjust her clothes and lingered before it longer than was 
 her wont, surveying herself dreamily. She had been a 
 mother for one whole year, and for nearly two months she 
 
RAYMOND S BIRTHDAY in 
 
 had been keeping house for herself and her baby; had she 
 changed much? 
 
 The year had changed Hilda even more than her scrutiny 
 of herself revealed. It had given her a certain firmness 
 physically, which she had before possessed merely in outline. 
 Her frame was wider. She had weaned the child three 
 months earlier, but her breasts had retained their fullness. 
 Her chest and neck were stronger. Into her face, too, a 
 change had come, especially around the eyes. She had not 
 exactly aged, but she had grown maturer. To the softness 
 of her features there was now added a tint of ripeness. Her 
 youth was not to be mistaken, but the fact that she was a 
 mother, and one who was self-supporting, impressed itself 
 just as strongly. Her gaze was deliberate, her movements 
 definite. There was a solidity about her person. 
 
 She was planning to make an occasion out of her son s 
 birthday. Immediately after work she would run up to a 
 department store there would still be time; she quit at 
 four and do her shopping. She would get the child some 
 toys and a pair of rompers. It would be his first pair of 
 rompers. ... He was a little too young for them yet, but 
 she would buy them anyway. . . . She would have to train 
 him to be a little man. . . . Soon she would leave him for 
 the whole day. . . . Soon. . . . 
 
 She was in the elevated on the way to work and her 
 thoughts were once more on the future. Her career as a 
 waitress was at an end. Her leaving the restaurant was 
 only a question of days now. The job which she had taken 
 as a makeshift had served its purpose. The child was one 
 
ii2 THE ROAD 
 
 year old and little Raymond had done in that year far 
 better than she had dared dream. He was not only a well, 
 normal child, but at the clinic he had been called a model 
 baby and the doctor had congratulated her. . . . 
 
 The thought of the factory, however, was casting a gloom 
 over her. Once she entered it, heaven only knew when she 
 might be in a position to leave it again. . . . Perhaps she 
 had after all better hang on a little longer to the restaurant 
 job and make another attempt to get into some occupation 
 other than factory work. . . . 
 
 But it was to be the factory after all. 3 . . 
 
 When she entered the restaurant that morning she found 
 the place deserted, except for two or three waitresses, a 
 policeman, and a man of unmistakable detective type. 
 There was not a chauffeur in the place. The police officer 
 and the detective eyed her carefully, but the manager came 
 up and spoke to them, shaking his head negatively, where 
 upon the two soon seemed to become oblivious of her pres 
 ence and kept on looking sharply at the door. . . . 
 
 "What s happened?" Hilda asked one of the waitresses, 
 when they were alone. 
 
 For an answer the latter pointed to a lurid headline in a 
 morning paper. In a few moments Hilda gleaned the de 
 tails of a murder which had taken place on the block the 
 night before. Several chauffeurs had been arrested as ac 
 complices. The names of the chauffeurs, their first names, 
 at any rate, were familiar to her. She had waited on them 
 many times. They were steady patrons of the Jarvis. Dick 
 Malloy was among those arrested. 
 
RAYMOND S BIRTHDAY 113 
 
 One of the waitresses in the place had also been taken 
 in custody. She was held as a material witness. 
 
 At noon the policeman went, but the detective remained, 
 and there was little business done in the place. It was 
 Friday, the day the help were being paid. Hilda had not 
 thought of leaving the restaurant at once, but when four 
 o clock came and she was out of the place and in the street 
 she realized that she would never go back to it; she would 
 not even go near the place for a long time to come. . . . 
 
 She went to the department store as she had planned, 
 and purchased the toys and rompers for her child, and in 
 the evening she made a pretense at celebrating her son s 
 birthday. When she grew tired of the pretense, she took 
 the child in her arms and held her first serious conversation 
 with her son, she of course doing all the talking. . . . 
 
 She was telling little Raymond the things that were 
 troubling her. . . . She was telling him about the city. . . 3 
 New York was like the ocean. There were all sorts of 
 fishes in it; all sorts of people. . . . There were bad people, 
 men who preyed upon the helpless and the innocent, who 
 sought to destroy them. . . . One had to be on guard 
 always against these men. . . . She was on guard and she 
 would shield him she would shield herself. She would not 
 be lured by ease. . . . She would sacrifice comfort. . . . 
 No work would be too heavy for her in the future. . . . 
 
 The child was accustomed to her baby talk with him and 
 knew how to respond to her smiles and caresses. This, 
 however, was something different, something his little brain 
 could not grasp. . . . He looked up to her a few times and 
 
ii4 THE ROAD 
 
 smiled. But there was no encouragement in her eyes. . . . 
 Her sadness finally communicated itself to the infant. His 
 little face began to quiver and he broke out in a loud cry. 
 Hilda shook off her mood, kissed away the child s tears 
 and soon crooned him into a peaceful slumber. It was well 
 toward midnight by the time she herself fell into an ex 
 hausted sleep. . . . 
 
 In Chicago at that hour Raymond Evert and his mother 
 were leaving the Community House in the Stockyard s 
 district. The settlement s educational activities among im 
 migrants had come to a close for the summer and the event 
 was celebrated with a reception to which a number of 
 people, men and women socially prominent had been in 
 vited. 
 
 Raymond had brought his mother to the reception at the 
 urgent solicitation of Maude Straight. From the moment 
 Mrs. Evert entered until she left she was made to feel as 
 if she were the guest of honor of the occasion. 
 
 Miss Straight never left her side for an instant. Not only 
 was she accorded a glowing reception, but her heart as a 
 mother was warmed by the praise which her son was given 
 both in a public speech and by a number of guests indi 
 vidually. They praised Raymond highly for his educa 
 tional efforts among the poor aliens. 
 
 Mrs. Evert had been initiated more or less into her son s 
 affairs for some time. Raymond had spoken to her of Miss 
 Straight. She surmised the relations between the settle 
 ment worker and her son. This was the first time she met 
 her. 
 
RAYMOND S BIRTHDAY 115 
 
 At a glance Mrs. Evert saw that Miss Straight was Ray 
 mond s senior by six or seven years and she was thinking 
 about this discrepancy in their ages all the way home. Ex 
 cept for that she was not unkindly disposed to Miss Straight. 
 
 Her husband, too, had been invited to the reception, but 
 his going was out of the question. Henry Evert s illness had 
 progressed rapidly during the year. There was a leak in 
 his heart and all strain had become increasingly difficult 
 for him. He was attending to business scarcely more than 
 an hour a day and some days not at all. 
 
 Mr. Evert was waiting for his wife somewhat impatiently. 
 She had shared with him her surmises about Raymond s 
 interest in Miss Straight and he now wished to hear more. 
 In spite of his approaches for peace, for an understanding 
 with his son, their relations were never quite what they 
 had been before the episode with Hilda. . . . Raymond 
 could not overcome a certain shyness for his father and Mr. 
 Evert had come to depend almost entirely upon his wife 
 for a knowledge of the things his son was thinking, doing. 
 
 This grieved him sorely. Raymond was his youngest 
 son, the only one whose career was still in the making, to 
 whom his wealth might still mean much in a social way 
 and he was outside the boy s confidence. . . . 
 
 When Mrs. Evert reached home and they were alone in 
 their room she described Miss Straight to him, appearance, 
 age and all. 
 
 "And do you think there is something between them?" 
 her husband asked. 
 
 "Why, they seem very friendly," she answered. 
 
 "They are friendly?" 
 
ii6 THE ROAD 
 
 "Yes, I think she likes Raymond." 
 
 "And he?" 
 
 Mrs. Evert hesitated for some moments. Finally she 
 spoke: 
 
 "You know how he s been in the past two years; he s 
 always backward." 
 
 A silence followed. 
 
 "Do you think she is the proper person for him to marry?" 
 Evert resumed. 
 
 His wife had anticipated the question. She had been 
 thinking a good deal about it. 
 
 "How shall I say?" she began. "Miss Straight is not 
 what you might call a slip of a girl. She s not a girl just 
 out of high school. She is a lady. They say her father is 
 a professor. Anyway she s dignified. She has the school 
 teacher look about her. You would take her to be a prin 
 cipal; she s that earnest at times. But she s pleasant to 
 talk to all the same and she likes Raymond. You can see 
 that. . , ." 
 
 "I suppose," Mrs. Evert continued after some reflection, 
 "if their ages were reversed, if she were say twenty-five and 
 Raymond were thirty or thirty-one, they might make an 
 ideal couple. ... But marriages sometimes come out well 
 in spite of such discrepancies in age." 
 
 "Yes" Evert mused. 
 
 "I can t say I relish the prospect of remaining all alone," 
 she began after a silence. "Nevertheless I would like to 
 see Raymond married. Maybe he would lose that distracted 
 look of his. Maybe she would change him." 
 
 "Why remain alone?" Evert asked. "Why could not they 
 
RAYMOND S BIRTHDAY] 117 
 
 live in this house after they are married. The house is 
 large enough " 
 
 A painful look came into Mrs. E vert s face. 
 
 "I m afraid," she said, "Miss Straight will never consent 
 to that. She ll never leave settlement work to become a 
 housewife. She s not that type. Raymond ll be following 
 her, not she him. After marriage, too, she will doubtlessly 
 keep up the work she is doing." 
 
 "You mean there will be no children they will have 
 no children?" Evert s voice had a hollow ring. 
 
 "Most likely not," his wife answered with a tremor. 
 
 "And you think we ought not to object to Raymond mar 
 rying her?" 
 
 "I think we better not," she counseled earnestly. "He 
 seems quite at home in the settlement. . . . The place is 
 always active. There are always people there and it seems 
 to distract him. He will probably be as happy with her as 
 he ever will be with anybody. , . : I think we had better 
 not meddle. . . ." 
 
 Henry Evert made no answer. 
 
 After a little he went up to the window, pulled down the 
 shade and then got into bed. 
 
 They lay awake for a long time, but neither of them spoke. 
 Each was wondering whether the other was sleeping. . . . 
 
 Maude Straight, after Raymond and his mother had left 
 the settlement that evening, felt the need of talking to 
 some one. Her first impulse was to go to her room and 
 write to an aunt in Detroit. Her girl friends, those with 
 
ii8 THE ROAD 
 
 whom she was wont to share her confidences, were either 
 married and occupied with family cares for years now, or 
 else had completely surrendered themselves to their careers 
 of teaching. . . . Her father, Charles Browne Straight, was 
 a professor emeritus at Ann Arbor and was nearly eighty 
 years old. She could not write to him the things she wished 
 to speak of. ... The impulse to write flickered out 
 quickly. 
 
 She decided on a walk, and was going to call one of the 
 other young women residents. But in this, too, she changed 
 her mind. Instead she called a Finnish girl, who was doing 
 the work of a maid, but who, in accordance with the demo 
 cratic rules of the settlement house, had the status of a 
 resident, to go with her. They strolled through the dark 
 streets of the neighborhood for some time. 
 
 Neither of them said much. Miss Straight would not 
 condescend to discuss intimate affairs with the immigrant 
 girl and the girl was too shy to start a conversation. 
 
 The streets were deserted. They were in the heart of a 
 workingmen s district and folks went to bed early. Here 
 and there, however, a pair of lovers could be seen standing, 
 clinging to each other in a parting embrace. The Finnish 
 girl began to hum something softly. 
 
 Miss Straight did not disturb her for some time. But 
 the monotone of the melody finally took hold of her. There 
 was a strange swaying quality in it, like the mourning for 
 something irretrievably lost lost youth, lost happiness, lost 
 love. . . . 
 
 "What is it you are singing?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, that," the girl said with slight embarrassment, that s 
 
RAYMOND S BIRTHDAY 119 
 
 a verse from an old song. My mother used to sing it when 
 I was a child. I know only that one verse." 
 
 Miss Straight asked her to translate it. The verse ran as 
 follows: 
 
 "0 you clime and city distant, 
 O you dear and native shore, 
 
 you maiden of my homeland, 
 
 1 cannot sleep for love of you." 
 
 They started for home. Miss Straight was thinking of 
 Raymond Evert. He would never pine for her like that. . . . 
 He had a tender heart, that she knew. He loved children, 
 babies. ... He could look at them for hours. . . . But he 
 was not a lover. ... He was not showing her any tender 
 ness. ... If she made no attempt to keep him he would 
 drift away. . . . Was it her fault? Was it . . . ? 
 
 It had been thus with her always, ever since she was in 
 high school, ever since she was a little girl. The boys always 
 said "hello" and passed her by. And yet she was good 
 looking, better looking than some of the other girls who were 
 sought after. And she was smarter than they. . . . Was it 
 her fault? Or was it maybe because her parents had married 
 so late in life? Her mother was forty, her father a few 
 years older when they married. . . . Was it that? 
 
 They had reached the house. 
 
 When she was in her room she slipped into a soft silk 
 kimono and stood a long time before the mirror. . . . With 
 out her corset and with her hair loose, without the artificial 
 vivacity and smile which she put on every morning as one 
 
120 THE ROAD 
 
 does a dress, and did not take off again until she was alone 
 in her room, she looked her age her full thirty- two years. 
 . . . She was wondering how she and Raymond would look 
 as husband and wife. 
 She sighed. . . i 
 
CHAPTER X 
 WORK 
 
 WHEN the following Monday, after a lapse of thirteen 
 months, Hilda Thorsen stood within half a block of the four 
 story structure occupied by the Alaska Knitting Works, her 
 heart sank within her. The sight of the familiar gray walls 
 and small paned windows startled her as if from a deep sleep. 
 Where was she going? What was she doing? 
 
 It had rained incessantly the Saturday and Sunday after 
 she had left the employ of the Jarvis restaurant, and, in the 
 two dreary days she had spent in the tenement alone with her 
 thoughts, she decided to go back to the knitting factory, the 
 only place she had known and worked in in New York. 
 It at least had the merit of being familiar. ... As she stood 
 within sight of it, however, the factory dropped the halo 
 which she had cast over it in those two lonely days, and 
 with vivid painfulness Hilda recalled the dungeon-like quali 
 ties of the establishment. 
 
 The Alaska Knitting Works was located on the edge of 
 the East River in a building that had been erected at the 
 time of the Civil War. While many similar structures in 
 its vicinity had long ago yielded up their ghost under the 
 hammers of the wrecking crew, making way for steamship 
 piers, huge warehouses and gigantic oil tanks, the Alaska 
 building maintained itself. With hardly any alterations 
 
 121 
 
122 THE ROAD 
 
 or changes it managed to adapt itself to the drive of present- 
 day machinery and thus continued to justify its existence. 
 
 The street in front of it bustled with life. Big automo 
 bile trucks hurried to and from the piers. Seamen, long 
 shoremen, day laborers of every description, were coming 
 and going in a steady stream. A number of men had 
 stopped to look at the young woman who was standing on 
 the sidewalk, staring intently ahead. But Hilda did not no 
 tice them. She was oblivious of every one and everything 
 about her. She was gazing at the factory and thinking of 
 the work, the hours in it. 
 
 They began the day at the Alaska Knitting Works at 
 seven in the morning. There was half an hour for lunch 
 and then it was work again until five-thirty in the evening, 
 when the ten-hour day was at an end. She recalled vividly 
 what a nightmare this having to be at the factory at seven 
 sharp was to her. If they had only made it seven-thirty, 
 she had often wished. What a difference that half hour 
 would have made. One could do up one s hair properly 
 and eat a half decent breakfast. The half hour would make 
 an even greater difference now that she had a child. 
 
 No, the knitting factory was out of the question for her 
 now; she could not possibly go back to it again. She 
 started away from it, but changed her mind. She was there 
 in front of the factory already. Hadn t she better go 
 through with her program and let there be no more illu 
 sions. . . . She would go in and see what work, what 
 wages they would offer her. 
 
 In front of the familiar side door she hesitated an in 
 stant, and then quickly walked up the flight of stairs to the 
 
WORK 123 
 
 office. The name of the foreman she had worked for 
 Scheibe came to her. She asked for Mr. Scheibe. 
 
 The foreman did not recognize her at once. When she 
 had exchanged a few words with him and refreshed his 
 memory he recalled her. He gazed at her with an expres 
 sion of surprise. 
 
 "You wish to come back to work here?" he repeated, 
 thinking that perhaps he had not caught the drift of Hilda s 
 talk. The usual course for a girl who once left the Alaska 
 Knitting Works was never to show her face again there. 
 
 Hilda nodded assent. 
 
 "And you have a baby now?" 
 
 That too she affirmed. She had a year old baby. 
 
 The foreman was a Swiss by birth. He was exacting 
 with his employees it was his business to be so but he 
 was also human. Hilda seemed troubled and bewildered. 
 The fact that she came to him when she was troubled and 
 that she remembered his name, both touched and flattered 
 him. 
 
 "What seems to be the matter with restaurant work?" 
 he asked, and there was a note of fellowship in his voice 
 which stirred Hilda deeply. Since her break with the Whites 
 and with Mrs. Vasek no one had talked to her that way. 
 She was about to tell him what her objections to the 
 waitress job were, but checked herself in time. After all 
 the foreman was a stranger to her. Besides, he was a busy 
 man. That was not the time for long conversations. She 
 sighed. 
 
 Mr. Scheibe knew something of life and of the city. He 
 gave more than one interpretation to her sigh. 
 
124 THE ROAD 
 
 "You are not broke?" he asked a bit anxiously. 
 
 She assured him she was not broke. 
 
 "Well," he said with an air of relief, "if you really want 
 to work here I ll give you a job. But frankly I don t 
 think this is the place for you now. You have a child and 
 you are likely to need work for some years to come; why 
 not get into an occupation that has a future. There s no 
 future in this " 
 
 The door leading into the factory opened and a face 
 peered in. The foreman was wanted inside. 
 
 "All right," Mr. Scheibe said over his shoulder. "I ll 
 be there directly." 
 
 Turning to Hilda he continued speaking rapidly. 
 
 "Why don t you try the clothing trades, waists, dresses? 
 Several girls have left here recently to go into the clothing 
 trades." 
 
 She said something about having to start as a beginner 
 there and not being paid while learning. 
 
 "That is only a matter of weeks," the foreman said depre- 
 catingly. "It isn t a loss, but an investment and you ll 
 get further in the end by making this investment." 
 
 There was another call from the factory. 
 
 "If you cannot get located," Mr. Scheibe spoke, holding 
 the door to the factory half open, so that Hilda got a glimpse 
 of the familiar workroom and heard the clank of the ma 
 chinery, "come back and I ll find something for you." 
 
 In the street again Hilda felt as if a great weight had 
 rolled off her shoulders. Her venture into the past was 
 ended happily ended. The conversation with the foreman 
 had sent a flood of courage coursing through her veins. Mr. 
 
WORK 125 
 
 Scheibe had talked to her as to an equal. He respected 
 her, had faith in her. . . . The world apparently was not 
 worrying about her past. ... If she, too, could only forget 
 it. ... 
 
 She recalled that she had not even thanked him for his 
 kind words and was sorry. 
 
 After she had gone some distance, she stopped and looked 
 back upon the gray structure. She felt that she was seeing 
 it for the last time. ... It was going out of her life, and 
 with it a large part of the past was swimming out of her 
 horizon. . . . She recalled the day in October shortly after 
 her arrival from Chicago when she first came to this build 
 ing. A cold drizzly rain was falling and her thoughts were 
 as cheerless as the weather. . . . 
 
 She had spent seven months at the factory. It seemed 
 almost incredible that she and the Hilda of those seven 
 months were one and the same. . . . She had been so afraid 
 then. . . . She wa not afraid now, not in the least afraid. 
 She had a child and she had not become an outcast. . . . 
 She had not become a Pearl Whitney, a pariah for every 
 one to trample under foot. . . . And she never would. 
 There was no reason for it. She was not in Stillwell. She 
 was in New York. . . . 
 
 An elevated train became visible in the distance and her 
 eye followed it gratefully until the string of cars was lost to 
 view. There was so much security in the vast distances the 
 train covered, in the millions of people it scattered in the 
 morning and gathered together in the evening. . . . Security 
 for herself, for her child. . . . 
 
126 THE ROAD 
 
 She had reached the elevated structure at Third Avenue 
 and Twenty-third Street and was thinking where to go next. 
 She had some addresses of factories which advertised for 
 help that morning, but there was no use going there at least 
 for an hour. It was dinner time. 
 
 After the rain of the preceding two days a warm sun 
 had come out and was imparting a cheerfulness to every 
 thing it touched. The tenements seemed to relax their stern, 
 gloomy aspect. Aged, gray men and women were coming 
 out of these tenements and strolling up and down the street, 
 warming their bent backs and rheumatic joints. From a 
 factory a swarm of girls were dropped to the sidewalk by 
 an elevator and they stood there, basking in the sun and 
 chatting gleefully. 
 
 Babies were toddling on the sidewalk while their mothers 
 kept a sharp lookout for them. . . . Hilda thought of her 
 child. . . . They were probably giving him his dinner at 
 the nursery now and then they would undress him and put 
 him in his bed for a nap. He would whimper a little. He 
 always did when they put him to sleep. ... 
 
 As she stood reflecting an Italian carrying a huge basket 
 of lilacs ran plumb into her. Before she recovered from 
 the impact the man had disappeared, but the fragrance of 
 the lilacs lingered. She became poignantly aware that it 
 was spring spring. . . . The lilac trees were blooming. 
 . . . The fields were green. . . . She was swayed by a 
 strange gentleness. . . . 
 
 With her new job, whatever that prove to be, there was 
 a long workday in store for herself, a long day for her 
 child. ... It would mean nine to ten hours for her in the 
 
WORK 127 
 
 factory, ten to eleven hours for the child in the nursery. 
 ... A sudden resolution flashed upon her. . . . 
 
 The afternoon would most likely be wasted anyway; the 
 morning was the only real time to look for work. Why not 
 devote the afternoon to the babe? She would take him to 
 Central Park. She would surprise him. ... If she hurried 
 she would still find him awake. . . . 
 
 She ran up the stairs to the elevated train with a zest 
 and exuberance which was a surprise even to herself. She 
 had not felt so lighthearted in nearly two years. . . . She 
 was wondering whether she ought not to reproach herself 
 for such levity, but the thought of reproach was short 
 lived. . . . 
 
 Her blood was hot and the wind from the East River and 
 beyond it was cool. It seemed to her there was a fragrance 
 of lilac in the breeze. She did not go into the car but re 
 mained standing on the platform. . . . 
 
 A tune she and Raymond were very fond of two summers 
 earlier and which they had often hummed together on their 
 walks was welling up in her throat. . . . Into her eyes a 
 wistful look came and a tender pain began to steal into 
 her heart. 
 
 "Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen " 
 
 There were several more stories to the building, but Hilda, 
 standing on the curb across the street from it, counted no 
 more. Neither in Chicago nor in New York had she ever 
 worked in a skyscraper before. She was quite awed and 
 was about to pass on and to look for the next place on the 
 
128 THE ROAD 
 
 list of advertisements she had marked that morning. But 
 she did not; she held council with herself. 
 
 A stream of people was coming in and out of the sky 
 scraper. The brass plates on either side of the entrance 
 announced the various shops and factories which had their 
 location in the building. The likelihood was, she reasoned 
 with herself, that the other factories on her list were located 
 in buildings that were just as tall. If she had meant to 
 find work in the clothing trades she had better make up her 
 mind to submit to the conditions in the trade. 
 
 She entered the building. 
 
 "On the eleventh floor, ma am," the negro elevator man 
 informed her when she enquired for the Princess Waist 
 and Dress Company. She did not resemble the girls 
 who came in search of jobs, and he was polite and atten 
 tive. 
 
 The elevator opened directly into an offce. There were 
 rugs on the floor green plush. In the center of the room 
 was a mahogany table with chairs to match. To one side, 
 behind a glass partition, a girl sat at a desk, typing. 
 Through a half-open door Hilda caught a glimpse of an 
 other room with glass showcases which displayed a variety 
 of waists and dresses. 
 
 There girls in clinging skirts, high-heeled shoes, and elab 
 orate coiffures idled about chairs and lounges. It was the 
 company s show room and buyers did not begin to come 
 until a little before eleven. 
 
 The girl who was sitting at the typewriter inside the glass 
 partition came out and smiling pleasantly asked what she 
 could do for her. 
 
WORK 129 
 
 Hilda held out the advertisement in the morning paper 
 calling for help. 
 
 The smile on the girl s face instantly changed to a grimace. 
 
 "The factory is on the floor below; this is the office," 
 she spoke with an injured air. "You should have told the 
 elevator man you were looking for work." 
 
 Hilda apologized for the mistake. 
 
 "No harm," the girl was now showing her magnanimity. 
 "Just walk down a flight of stairs, this way, yes, and enter 
 the door on your left." 
 
 Before the door on the left had had time to close behind 
 Hilda s back an office boy with curly black hair and quick 
 darting eyes was at her side. Would she sit down on one 
 of the benches; Mrs. Walsh would be out directly. He gave 
 her no chance to say anything about the advertisement, 
 about work. He knew that she wanted work. Only those 
 looking for work came through that door. 
 
 Mrs. Walsh was a woman of forty. She was not the 
 typical forelady. She was not round of figure; her com 
 plexion was not florid. On the contrary she was rather thin 
 and had soft and delicate features. She used no powder 
 and her gaze was like that of a man businesslike. 
 
 She surveyed Hilda with a feeling of surprise and curios 
 ity. 
 
 "How did you come here?" she snapped, and smiled at 
 her own impulsiveness. She had not intended to ask the 
 question, but it slipped her tongue. Hilda explained that 
 she had come in response to the advertisement in the morn 
 ing paper. The forelady s smile deepened; it was not this 
 she had meant with her question. 
 
uo THE ROAD 
 
 In the several years which she had been connected with 
 the Princess Waist Company Mrs. Walsh had been accus 
 tomed to deal with Jewish, Italian, Bohemian girls. Never 
 yet in all her experience had an American girl applied for 
 the work Hilda was applying for, not office work, not being 
 a model, but common work at the machine. And Hilda was 
 unmistakably American, an American of the middle west 
 country, which Mrs. Walsh had known in other days. 
 
 "You ve never worked in the clothing trades before?" 
 she was making sure of her diagnosis. 
 
 Hilda told her that her experience in factory work was 
 limited to the knitting trade. Looking frankly at Mrs. 
 Walsh she added: 
 
 "I m told that there s a future in the clothing trade and 
 I should like to get into it. I am self-supporting and have 
 a child to look after. I want to get into something that is 
 steady." 
 
 "Oh," was all the comment the forelady made. Her 
 face became serious. She had a consumptive husband whose 
 life she was trying to save by keeping him in a sanitarium. 
 Her two little girls were staying with her husband s parents 
 in Connecticut so that she could spend every cent she saved 
 on their father. She understood Hilda s desire for steady 
 work. 
 
 Mrs. Walsh was not in the habit of taking much time 
 -with the help she hired ; it was "yes" or "no" rather briefly. 
 But this was a different matter. Hilda was her kind, she was 
 of her class. She was an American and a Christian it made 
 a difference. She was thinking. 
 
WORK 131 
 
 Finally she outlined the nature of the work to her. 
 The clothing industry had an undoubted future. This, how 
 ever, was not saying that every worker in it had a future. 
 . . . Still it was not a bad trade. There were plenty of 
 shops and work was not hard to find. 
 
 After the rebuff by the office girl on the floor above, and 
 the uncanny and wordless reception by the curly-headed 
 office boy, Mrs. Walsh s words and presence felt like home to 
 Hilda. She decided to cast her lot with her, with the 
 Princess Waist Company. 
 
 The forelady showed Hilda where to hang her clothes. 
 As an afterthought she added: 
 
 "I ll do the best I can for you. We don t as a rule pay 
 learners, but I shall see if we can t pay you something from 
 the start." 
 
 From the dressing room the door led into the factory. 
 The impression which Hilda got of the place was that of a 
 huge cobweb. From wall to wall, from floor to ceiling the 
 loft seemed one tangle of lingerie, silk, voiles, paper pat 
 terns. There were long lines of machines, and bending over 
 these machines and manipulating them were heads, shoul 
 ders, arms. The faces of the workers were buried in the 
 cloth. . . . The odor of fresh materials mixed with the odor 
 of machine oil and human sweat. 
 
 Mrs. Walsh s eyes, which had been gliding over the lanes 
 of machines, finally lighted upon the subject sought, a 
 middle-aged Italian woman. Because of the noise from the 
 machines Hilda could not hear the conversation between the 
 forelady and the woman. In a few minutes everything was 
 
132 THE ROAD 
 
 settled between them. Hilda and the Italian woman were in 
 troduced to each other; the woman was to teach her the 
 trade. 
 
 Half an hour was gone before Hilda was able to thread 
 the machine herself. With that achieved she was shown 
 how to set it in operation by pressing her foot down on 
 the pedal and how to stop it by lifting her foot. Some 
 where between these two processes lay varying degrees of 
 speed whose regulation she would learn little by little. 
 
 In an hour she was sewing straight seams, which, how 
 ever, did not always come out very straight because her 
 brain seemed too much concerned with the manipulations of 
 her foot on the pedal. Finally she seemed to be taking 
 hold of things. But just as she was getting herself set and 
 ready for the making of straight seams the power was 
 turned off. It was noon; all work ceased. 
 
 The shop assumed a new aspect. The noise from the 
 machines stopped and in its place there arose a human 
 buzzing. The girls, and here and there a man, were losing 
 no time in getting to their lunch or in getting out of the 
 place. Hilda was caught in the stream. There was chatter 
 all about her in Yiddish, Italian, Bohemian. They had 
 forty-five minutes for lunch. Many of the girls went down 
 for their meals to restaurants and the elevator was jammed. 
 
 When she was in the street Hilda stood still for some 
 moments trying to puzzle out her own thoughts and sensa 
 tions. 
 
 "Aren t you acquainted hereabouts?" a young woman 
 smilingly asked her. "If you aren t, come with me. There s 
 a nice restaurant around the corner." 
 
WORK 133 
 
 Hilda had seen the young woman in the shop. They 
 were facing each other across two rows of machines and 
 the young woman had been gazing at her not unpleasantly 
 all morning. She went with her. 
 
 "This is your first day in the shop?" her new acquaintance 
 remarked. 
 
 "Yes, I m altogether new in the trade," Hilda answered. 
 
 "There s not much to learn. In three or four weeks you 
 will be doing as well as any of us; it s largely a matter of 
 speed," the former said cheerfully. 
 
 "I suppose," the young woman smiled at Hilda, "you 
 were wondering what I was staring at you for all morning. 
 I hope you ll forgive me, but it seemed to me you were 
 British and I was curious. I came from London myself." 
 
 Hilda said she was American. 
 
 When they were near the restaurant the other spoke up> 
 blinking with faint embarrassment: 
 
 "We re not yet introduced, are we? My name is Mrs, 
 Breen, Ada Breen." 
 
 "Mrs. Thorsen is my name." 
 
 They looked each other over again. Each was wondering 
 what brought the other to the factory, and each decided 
 that she would like the other. . . . 
 
 By three o clock Hilda had lost hope of ever getting used 
 to the machine, to the work. Her neck and shoulders ached 
 and she moved her arms with difficulty. Her right foot was 
 numbed by the vibrations of the electric motor. As the af 
 ternoon wore on the pain extended downwards from her 
 ishoulders to the small of her back. She began to think 
 
134 THE ROAD 
 
 that perhaps after all the clothing trade was an occupation 
 only foreigners could work in. ... Maybe their constitu 
 tions were different. . . . She was apparently only wasting 
 her time there. . . . Yes, she was wasting her time. . . . 
 
 Her brain was hazy and she was keeping at her work 
 mechanically. For some time she wondered whether she 
 had not better stop there and then, and explain the situa 
 tion to Mrs. Walsh, whom she had seen flitting about the 
 floor. . . . 
 
 Her thoughts went back to the restaurant, not the Jarvis 
 place, but to the other place on Fourth Avenue, the one 
 that had had the typewriter upon which she typed the bills 
 of fare. . . . She was thinking that she had not been just 
 to the restaurant business. . . . She had come into it with 
 an antipathy and was only looking at the dark side of 
 things. Of course the Jarvis was no place for her. . . . 
 But there must be family restaurants in New York where 
 things were different than at the Jarvis. . . . Yes, she 
 would have to look for such a family restaurant. . . . Her 
 experiment at the waist shop was a failure, an all around 
 failure. . . . 
 
 It was in the midst of such musings that Mrs. Walsh 
 found her just before closing time. The forelady picked 
 up the pieces of material Hilda had been sewing and exam 
 ined them critically. . . . 
 
 Hilda stood aside indifferently. It was all the same to 
 her now; her experiment in the shop was over. . . . 
 
 "You are doing pretty well," the forelady said with a gaze 
 of satisfaction. 
 
 Hilda heard her words only distantly. There was a fixed, 
 
WORK 135 
 
 faraway look in her eyes. . . . She was still thinking of the 
 restaurant. 
 
 Mrs. Walsh looked puzzled. A glint of suspicion came 
 into her eyes. Had she wasted her time on the girl for 
 nothing? 
 
 "Will you be coming back in the morning?" she asked. 
 
 Hilda took a sudden drop to reality. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said hastily, "yes." 
 
 The day at the machine had cast a perceptible paleness 
 over her features. Her face was decidedly thinner. 
 
 As soon as she stepped out of the loft building and was 
 in the street again she forgot her aches and pains and started 
 for the elevated at a rush. There was quite a walk to the 
 nearest station, and there was an even greater distance from 
 the end of her elevated journey to the day nursery where 
 the child was waiting for her. 
 
 The train, as was usual at that hour, was crowded to the 
 brim with tired, irritated men and women on their way 
 home from work. A mixed odor of garlic, sweat and powder 
 cut her breath short, but she kept on wedging and sidling 
 her way until she reached an open window. There she re 
 mained standing, determined not to be dislodged. From 
 the window she commanded a view of the endless string of 
 tenement houses, which were swiftly receding behind the 
 onrushing train. Her thoughts were fixed on the stations. 
 
 It was a quarter after six when, flushed from the rapid 
 walk, Hilda finally entered the nursery. The official day at 
 the nursery ended at five-thirty. Below in the hall, how 
 ever, there was a wide bench upon which the children whose 
 
136 THE ROAD 
 
 mothers could not call for them till six or a little later were 
 seated, dressed and ready to be taken away by the parent. 
 
 Hilda was the last to come and little Raymond was sit 
 ting on the bench alone. A rubber doll lay near him but he 
 paid no attention to it. He sat moping, his chin bowed to 
 his breast. Catching sight of his mother, his sullenness dis 
 appeared. He started to smile, but on the way the smile 
 metamorphosed itself into a twitching of the lips. He was 
 crying like one hurt, offended. . . . 
 
 She kissed his tears away, drove the frowns from the 
 little face, and started home at a run, as if the ground were 
 burning under her feet. . . . 
 
 She was wet with perspiration, her clothes were wilted, 
 and for the first time in the months she had been living 
 alone Hilda now appreciated the privacy of her little flat. 
 She drew the half curtain across the window, and standing 
 before the sink, naked from her waist up, she let the cold 
 water run over her arms, her neck. As she washed, she 
 was talking to the child, and little Raymond enjoyed hugely 
 the sight of his mother s face brimming at him through soap 
 suds. 
 
 In a few minutes she had her half pound of steak broil 
 ing on the fire and potatoes frying in the pan alongside of 
 it. She did not sit down to eat, however, until after the 
 child had been fed and was sitting in his high chair, smiling 
 contentedly. 
 
 After the day at the machine her body was crying out 
 for a walk. The child, too, had been kept in longer than 
 usual. She cleared the table quickly and they were soon 
 in the street and heading in the direction of the river. 
 
WORK 137 
 
 The East River was her favorite retreat. It was bound 
 up with her New York life and experiences. She had got 
 her first room within a few minutes walk from it. The 
 Alaska Knitting Works where she found her first job was on 
 the river s edge. The hospital where she had given birth 
 was near it. Her little home and the day nursery were each 
 within a block of it. 
 
 The long day had left her a short evening, and by the 
 time she got to it, the river was shrouded in darkness. The 
 child had fallen asleep in the carriage, and, undisturbed, 
 she stood there a long time, following the misty trail of 
 passing boats and barges. BlackwelPs Island lay before 
 her, its lights twinkling dimly in the foglike atmosphere. 
 Hilda was speculating about the people on the Island, the 
 sick in the hospitals, the aged in the homes, the criminal. 
 . . . Sad thoughts were stirring within her. . . . 
 
 When she was home again and was undressing the child 
 he opened his eyes and gazed at his mother with uneasi 
 ness. 
 
 "No, my sonny," Hilda interpreted his look and answered 
 it, "Mamma isn t going away; she is going to stay right 
 here with her baby." 
 
 The questioning gaze vanished, and smiling little Ray 
 mond fell asleep again. 
 
 She rounded out the hour until ten with housework. She 
 was tired, but not sleepy. The day s events and impres 
 sions were running through her thoughts. A sense of in 
 completeness came over her, a feeling of something missing, 
 i i . After a little she traced that feeling. She had not 
 seen enough of her baby that day; she had not had enough 
 
138 THE ROAD 
 
 time. The time for her child, for herself, had become so 
 limited. . . . 
 
 That cannot go on this way, she mused painfully. She 
 must have more time. Such an existence would soon deaden 
 her. She must not become a drudge. She would make every 
 effort not to become one. . . . 
 
 Her gaze fell upon the trunk in the corner of the room. 
 It was a new acquisition. She had bought it together with 
 the furniture on the instalment plan. There were several 
 books in the trunk, books Raymond had given her, bought 
 for her. . . . She had always meant to read those books. 
 She had often wanted to take them out and had even 
 bought a small willow bookcase, along with her furniture, 
 to keep the books in. But she had never been quite in the 
 mood to unpack the trunk. It was like reading old letters, 
 stirring up old memories. . . . 
 
 The mood was upon her now. . . . Her very tiredness 
 seemed to provoke it. ... 
 
 She unlocked the trunk and rummaged through it quickly. 
 There was a small, carefully wrapped-up package of fam 
 ily heirlooms: some of her mother s beads and a brooch; 
 her parents* wedding certificate, and her father s naturaliza 
 tion papers. There was also an iron ring her father had 
 worn all his life and which he had given her with feigned 
 playfulness shortly before he died. The ring he had said 
 was lucky. . . . 
 
 The books lay at the bottom of the trunk and she pro 
 duced them one by one: "The Light that Failed/ by Kip 
 ling, Jack London s "The Call of the Wild." She had read 
 them both. In both of them Raymond had his name. . . . 
 
WORK 139 
 
 Over the next book she meditated. It was Ely s "French 
 and German Socialism." Raymond had studied this book 
 in his class in economics at the University. He had meant 
 to read it to her the following winter. He wanted her to 
 know, he had said, some of the problems that were stirring 
 people the world over. . . . But he had never read it to her. 
 . . . There was no "following winter" in their relations. 
 . . . She had heard a good deal about socialism since, how 
 ever. The police were constantly breaking up meetings and 
 parades of socialists. There was so much in the newspapers 
 about it. 
 
 Last came a small booklet with yellow covers. It was 
 called "Golden Treasury" and was an anthology of Eng 
 lish poetry. Raymond had used the book in his class in 
 sophomore English and because of its handy pocket size it 
 was his companion on many of his excursions with Hilda 
 that summer. On the fly-leaf was the inscription, "To 
 Hilda from Raymond." . . . 
 
 It was the only tangible memory she had of him. . . . 
 
 She took the book of poems to bed with her and slowly 
 turned its pages. Many of them were marked. Here and 
 there lines were underscored. As she perused these lines by 
 the dim light of the gas jet she was recalling the places and 
 the occasions on which Raymond had read and declaimed 
 them to her. ... In spite of her weariness she did not fall 
 asleep until very late. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 NEW PEOPLE 
 
 HILDA had no recollection of her father going to church. 
 She recalled their neighbors doing so, but not her father. 
 Carl Thorsen would spend a good part of his Sunday morn 
 ing in the barn, mending the wagons, or else helping her 
 ailing mother with things about the house. . . . Then he 
 would sit down and read the paper. He often read the paper 
 aloud to her mother, but Hilda understood nothing of the 
 reading and very little of the subsequent conversation. For 
 the papers were in a foreign language and the things her 
 parents talked about were of the old world which she did 
 not know. 
 
 After her mother s death, when her father married again, 
 Hilda s stepmother and her children went to church regu 
 larly they were Catholic but her father continued to stay 
 at home. 
 
 Neither her father, nor her mother, while she was yet 
 alive, talked religion to her, but in the summer they would 
 send her to Sunday school with the Evert children. 
 
 Sunday school was held in a small wooden church on the 
 outskirts of Stillwell. Never within Hilda s memory was a 
 sermon preached in that church it did not seem to be 
 equipped much for preaching. But it was well equipped 
 for the giving of church socials. There was a basement 
 
 140 
 
NEW PEOPLE 141 
 
 with facilities for freezing ice cream, making lemonade, and 
 preparing sandwiches; and the church was used in that di 
 rection liberally. Every two weeks or so a "social" was 
 held in it. Sometimes these socials were accompanied by 
 a speech from a leading citizen, but speech or no speech 
 they always ended in a jolly time for all. 
 
 The religion which she had imbibed from her three sum 
 mers at the Sunday school in the winter it was too far for 
 her to go was a mixture of Biblical stories and parables 
 with wholesome exhortations about being honest and upright 
 and being kind to one s neighbors. . . . 
 
 Hilda liked the stories of the Old Testament about the 
 Egyptians, the Romans, the Jews, and would in her childish 
 way often reconstruct the lost worlds of which her Bible 
 lessons spoke. . . . Great was her surprise when one day 
 she learned that one of these Biblical peoples, the Jews, 
 had survived to the present day. . . . Yes, and there were 
 even some four or five Jewish families living in Stillwell. 
 She was curious, and often wished to see a Jew. 
 
 One day her curiosity was gratified. 
 
 There came to their yard a Jewish peddler. Her mother, 
 who avoided exertions and did not go to town very often, 
 made the Jew take down the pack from his shoulders, and 
 she chose a number of articles from it, elastic, lace, but 
 tons. . . . While her mother was testing the material Hilda 
 was examining the man. He was fairly tall and his face 
 was covered with a black, spade-like beard. The Jew caught 
 the strangely fixed gaze of the child upon him and smiled. 
 Hilda was astonished to see him smile. She somehow 
 thought that a man with a beard like that, and whose lineage 
 
H2 THE ROAD 
 
 descended from the days of the Old Testament could not 
 possibly be smiling. . . . 
 
 It was noon. Her father had just come into the yard. 
 Carl Thorsen exchanged a few words with the peddler and 
 asked him to dinner. ... At the table the man did not 
 eat their meat and her father, who seemed to know all about 
 the stranger s habits, suggested that eggs be boiled for him. 
 
 Throughout the meal her father spoke with the peddler 
 and her mother followed the conversation with interest It 
 was of the old world they talked, and it was partly because 
 of this and partly because of the peddler s manner of speak 
 ing the English language, that the conversation remained in 
 distinguishable to Hilda. ... To help him out in conver 
 sation the man would frequently resort to words which she 
 heard her father say were German, and which Carl Thorsen 
 understood. 
 
 Several times during the meal Hilda caught the peddler s 
 eyes resting on her, and then his fixed look would dissolve 
 itself into contemplation. As he was leaving the Jew gave 
 her a red and blue rubber ball. She gazed after him until 
 he disappeared behind the neighboring hill and then she 
 went into the house and began to ply her mother with 
 questions. 
 
 The man, her mother told her, was a stranger in the land. 
 He had come from a far away country, from across the sea, 
 and had left his wife and children there. Among his chil 
 dren was a girl of Hilda s own age and size, and when he 
 had earned sufficiently to pay for the passage of his wife 
 and children he would send for them to come to America. 
 . . . But that would not be soon. It would take at least 
 
NEW PEOPLE 143 
 
 three or four years until he would have earned sufficient 
 money to pay for their journey. 
 
 Hilda thought about the peddler for days after. She was 
 brooding about his family, especially about the girl who was 
 her own age. She hoped fervently that the man would have 
 luck and would earn quickly the necessary money to send 
 for his wife and children. . . . 
 
 This Jew of her childhood memories, the aged peddler 
 with his spade-like beard, who had once smiled so sadly on 
 her, rose before Hilda s eyes one afternoon when the day s 
 work at the machine was beginning to fall heavy on her, 
 and would not leave her for a long time. The image came 
 again the next day and the day after, and it always came 
 in the late afternoon when her limbs were weary from 
 struggling with the machine, the cloth, the cotton. . . . 
 
 At first she could not make out the significance of the 
 picture, of the image, that was constantly returning to her. 
 One afternoon, however, when her eyes were filmed with the 
 heat, dust, and perspiration, the significance of the recurring 
 picture dawned upon her. . . . She had undergone a trans 
 formation. ... It was she who was the Jew she had seen 
 as a child. . . . She was a stranger and alone. . . . She was 
 separated from her family. . . . She was carrying a pack on 
 her back, only her pack was a machine, and did not fit 
 smoothly. . . . She was trying to conquer this machine, to 
 squeeze a living out of it for herself, for her child, who was 
 far removed from her, who was in the day nursery from 
 seven in the morning until a quarter after six in the eve 
 ning. . . . 
 
144 THE ROAD 
 
 She was the Jew. . . . She was being pitied. . . . 
 
 She was being pitied that was no illusion. There was 
 no mistake about that. . . . Her presence in the factory had 
 become known to score upon score of girls and to the few 
 men that were working there, and every one pitied her. 
 Eyes were constantly turned toward her with sad, sympa 
 thetic questioning. . . . The sweatshop was a natural 
 enough place for a young Jewess who had escaped the Rus 
 sian pale and pogroms. It was-fit enough for the Italian, or 
 Bohemian young woman who had been but a short time in 
 this country. But for a "Yankee," for a girl born and bred 
 in America to come to a sweatshop that was unheard of. 
 . . . Only a great tragedy could have induced such an 
 American girl to come down to this work, and the girls and 
 men about her were searching for that tragedy in Hilda s 
 appearance, looks and actions. . . . 
 
 The only oasis in the desert of strange faces was Mrs. 
 Breen, the young woman with whom Hilda had become ac 
 quainted on her first day in the shop. They were going 
 out to lunch together regularly, and often during the after 
 noon, when Hilda s strength seemed to be ebbing and her 
 spirits drooped, a smile from her newly acquired friend 
 across the two rows of machines, would tear apart the cur 
 tain of gloom from in front of her eyes. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Breen was thirty-two years old, slightly below 
 medium height and plump. Her olive complexioned fea 
 tures were framed by a wealth of wavy black hair. Her 
 eyes were big, dark and strangely mobile, like prisoners 
 dreaming of freedom, but locked in a cell. . . . She had 
 been a widow two and a half years and was supporting a 
 
NEW PEOPLE 145 
 
 son of ten. Her speech was meticulous, and her British 
 enunciation of certain words especially caught Hilda s ear. 
 
 At the end of the third week Hilda found in her pay 
 envelope eight dollars the previous week she had had only 
 five. She imparted this to her friend. 
 
 "Not bad," Mrs. Breen commented. "I guess the fore- 
 lady is pretty decent with you. . . . She ought to be. . . ." 
 
 What Mrs. Breen implied was that Hilda being the only 
 Christian American girl in the shop, the forelady, who was 
 also a Christian American, ought to give her a chance. . . . 
 But Hilda, in whom questions of religion and race were not 
 as keenly developed as in the Jewess did not get the drift 
 of her friend s remark. She was absorbed in thoughts about 
 the factory, her work, her prospects. 
 
 "You ll soon be making ten, twelve and even fifteen dol 
 lars a week," Mrs. Breen was telling her, "and you had 
 better save as much as you can. In this trade you may 
 expect a strike almost any time." 
 
 At the mention of the word strike a cloud flitted over 
 Hilda s face. 
 
 A few days later they were again talking about strikes 
 and the possibility of being out of work. Mrs. Breen be 
 came confidential with Hilda. 
 
 "This isn t a union shop," she said, "and it s not advis 
 able to say much about the union around here. All the 
 same you ought to try and join it a little later. It s a help 
 and protection at times." 
 
 "Do you belong to the union?" Hilda asked. 
 
 "Yes," Mrs. Breen replied, "But don t tell any one 
 around here." 
 
146 THE ROAD 
 
 Several times that afternoon Hilda and Mrs. Breen ex 
 changed smiles and glances as if they had a great secret 
 between them. That evening they went home together. 
 
 The following day Hilda s machine in the shop stood 
 idle. She had not shown up for work. Nor did she come 
 the day after. In the evening some one rapped at her 
 door. It was Mrs. Breen. 
 
 "I guessed as much," her friend said when she looked 
 at the babe sitting in Hilda s lap listlessly. "He s been 
 ill?" She took little Raymond and he submitted to her 
 without a murmur. "He ll be all right again in the morn 
 ing," Mrs. Breen cheered both mother and child. 
 
 Hilda was delighted. She asked her friend to stay to 
 supper with her, but the latter declined. 
 
 "Some other time," she said. "I must rush home now. 
 This is the night when my boy takes his music lesson." 
 
 "Does your son take music lessons?" Hilda asked, a thrill 
 running through her. She was thinking of her own 
 boy. . . . 
 
 "Oh, yes," Mrs. Breen answered with a dash of pride in 
 her voice. "He plays the violin splendidly; the teachers 
 tell me that. I must get you over to my place one evening 
 soon and have him play for you." 
 
 Hilda came to work the next day. During the morning 
 Mrs. Breen several times signaled to her with her eyes in 
 timating that she had something to tell her. Judging by the 
 smile on her face it was something pleasant. As soon as 
 the machines stopped they met. 
 
 "My boy," Mrs. Breen said, "has hit up a grand idea. 
 Let s make a picnic next Sunday." 
 
NEW PEOPLE 147 
 
 Hilda concurred heartily. It was decided that Mrs. 
 Breen and her boy would come to Hilda s house in the 
 morning and from there they would go together to Pros 
 pect Park in Brooklyn. . . . 
 
 A hot July sun was beating down upon the city, and when 
 Mrs. Breen and Hilda had reached the park, a little before 
 noon that Sunday, all the choice picnic places were gone. 
 After a brief search, however, they found a shady spot not 
 far from the water and they took possession of it. 
 
 Mrs. Breen was managing the party. In the art of pic 
 nicking she was an expert. When her husband was alive, 
 she was telling Hilda, they seldom spent a summer Sunday 
 at home, going either to the seashore or into the country. 
 Her husband had loved the woods. . . . 
 
 Hilda had no more than let her child down on the grass, 
 when Willy, Mrs. Breen s ten year old son, took complete 
 charge of him. At first she was nervous, afraid lest the 
 older boy prove careless or boisterous and in some manner 
 injure her child. But she was soon reassured. With the 
 hunger for companionship common to an only child Willy 
 was at once absorbed in the little fellow. He was playing 
 with him and guiding him like an older brother. . . . 
 
 As she watched her child trying to respond to the older 
 boy s tricks and conversation it seemed to Hilda as if her 
 son had become bigger, older. . . . Little Raymond seemed 
 to be growing before her very eyes. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Breen was skimming through the Sunday newspaper, 
 and Hilda took a part of it and scanned it also. The paper 
 now seemed to her like an unthreaded machine which runs 
 
148 THE ROAD 
 
 through the cloth but leaves no seam. -. . . She was look 
 ing at the printed page but her mind refused to retain any 
 thing of what she saw. . . . 
 
 It seemed to her that never yet had she seen grass so 
 beautifully green. A mellow fragrance was stirring her 
 blood. It was as if the earth was bursting with tenderness 
 and emotion. . . . 
 
 She stretched herself upon the ground and lay silent for 
 some minutes, and in these minutes she compressed the 
 vital memories of her twenty-four years. She was oblivious 
 of Mrs. Breen, who reclining on one arm, was studying 
 the relaxed form of her friend. . . . 
 
 Hilda was thinking of Raymond Evert. ... He had 
 graduated from college by this time. ... No doubt he had 
 a girl. . . . Who was she? Was he happy with her? . . s 
 And had he put her, Hilda, completely out of his mind? 
 i . . Was it possible that he never felt that he was a father 
 that a child of his was growing up somewhere alone in 
 the world? . . . 
 
 She tried to analyze her feelings towards him. . . . There 
 had been times, before the child came, when she had hated 
 Raymond, when she could have torn him limb from limb for 
 the shame, the pain, the suffering he had caused her. . . * 
 But that time was past. . . . 
 
 She was blaming herself now. She should have known 
 better. ... In running away from her he had acted true 
 to form. ... He was always a nice, but weak boy. . . . 
 Even though he was a year older than herself she should 
 have been the stronger of the two. . . . She should have 
 known better. , 
 
NEW PEOPLE 149 
 
 Suppose he came? it suddenly occurred to her. . . . Sup 
 pose they met unexpectedly? What would she do? Could 
 she still love him, trust him, go with him? 
 
 Her face contracted in pain. 
 
 "A penny for your thoughts," Mrs. Breen broke into her 
 reveries. 
 
 "They aren t worth more," Hilda said, sitting up and 
 searching with her eyes for the child. 
 
 Nevertheless she went back to her thoughts, and Mrs. 
 Breen, in spite of her pretended lightness, was also in a 
 somber, reminiscent mood. When an hour later they had 
 finished their dinner and the children were playing by them 
 selves a little distance away, Mrs. Breen began telling Hilda 
 about her husband and how they had met twelve years 
 earlier in London. 
 
 She produced a small volume, a bound collection of 
 pamphlets on socialism. It opened with a brochure by 
 Prince Peter Kropotkin entitled "An Appeal to the Young." 
 The third or fourth pamphlet in the collection was headed 
 "Workers Arise!" and the author of it was given as Leon 
 Breen. 
 
 "That s my husband," Mrs. Breen said, pointing to the 
 name on the title page. 
 
 "Your husband was a writer?" Hilda gazed at her in sur 
 prise. 
 
 "My husband," Mrs. Breen corrected her, "was a So 
 cialist editor and speaker. This pamphlet here was a 
 speech of his. He delivered it on the first of May twelve 
 years ago in Hyde Park. I can see him still on the plat 
 form. . . ." 
 
i 5 o THE ROAD 
 
 She was describing to Hilda their life in London and she 
 talked of that life as one talks of a lost paradise. . . . She 
 named great Englishmen and more especially great Russians 
 her husband was a Russian with whom they had mingled 
 in the past in England. . . . Mr. Breen had been a disciple 
 of Kropotkin, and teacher and pupil had often spoken from 
 the same platiorm. . . . 
 
 An urgent call from a revolutionary labor group in Amer 
 ica brought her husband and herself to New York. To 
 begin with, life in the New World was interesting. It was 
 filled with so many small personal comforts they had not 
 had in England. Her husband s earnings were much larger. 
 They took a steam heated flat; they had electricity and 
 every convenience. . . . 
 
 But they did not have it for long. Death came. Mr. 
 Breen returned from a meeting one night drenched to the 
 bone. He was in bed several weeks. The doctor cautioned 
 them against pneumonia. But there was no pneumonia. 
 The cold had settled on the kidneys. The struggle with 
 disease lasted for six months. Then her husband died. . . . 
 
 The children, tired from play, had slipped up to them 
 for a rest. Hilda took little Raymond in her lap. Willy 
 sat beside his mother listening. Hilda was studying Willy s 
 head and face. He had fine, sensitive features. By look 
 ing at the son she was trying to construct a picture of the 
 father. . . . 
 
 When Mrs. Breen reached the part about her husband s 
 last illness and death, a sad brooding came into her son s 
 face. . , . She grew silent. They were all silent, and this 
 silence only emphasized the life and laughter about them. 
 
NEW PEOPLE 151 
 
 The park swarmed with people; girls in twos and threes, 
 boys in groups of six and eight; families, couples, children; 
 lonely young and old men. 
 
 "There s Mr. Raboff," Willy jumped up in a twinkling. 
 
 "Where?" his mother asked, and instinctively her hand 
 went up to her hair. 
 
 But Willy was off. 
 
 "Alex, Alex," he shouted, running up to a youngster his 
 own age and the two put their arms about each other like 
 old friends. 
 
 Mrs. Breen rose. 
 
 "London friends," she whispered to Hilda and went to 
 meet the approaching couple and their two children. 
 
 She shook hands with the man; with the woman she 
 kissed. 
 
 "Meet my friend, Mrs. Thorsen," she introduced Hilda. 
 "Mr. Raboff," this with feigned threat to Hilda, "is the 
 secretary-treasurer of the Waist Makers Union. If you 
 don t watch out he s going to rope you into his organiza 
 tion." 
 
 "That s right," the man smiled, "we are in the midst of 
 a soul-saving campaign just now. But," he took up Mrs. 
 Breen s mood, "how comes it that you haven t brought your 
 friend around to the union till now? Haven t you been de 
 linquent?" 
 
 "I have not," she said with mock protest. "I have already 
 spoken to Mrs. Thorsen about the union, haven t I, Hilda?" 
 
 It was the first time Mrs. Breen had called Hilda by her 
 first name. It seemed natural after the intimate conver 
 sation that passed between them. 
 
152 THE ROAD 
 
 "Go on, put Mrs. Thorsen through the third degree," 
 Mrs. Raboff now addressed her husband, "while Ada and I 
 run off and have a little talk by ourselves." 
 
 "You proud thing never showing yourself " was all 
 Hilda caught of the conversation between Ada Breen and her 
 friend. Willy had now run off to play with the Raboff 
 children and little Raymond stood beside her. She sat 
 down again and he put his little head in her lap. Raboff 
 Sat down on the grass near her. 
 
 "Mrs. Breen and my wife are old friends," he explained. 
 "They went to school together in England. We came to 
 America, too, about the same time. Did you know Mr. 
 Breen?" 
 
 Hilda stated that her acquaintance with Mrs. Breen began 
 only a short time back in the factory. 
 
 "Then you are not English?" he asked. 
 
 "No, I am American from the Middle West," Hilda 
 smiled. 
 
 She had become accustomed to being studied by for 
 eigners as if she were a stranger. . . . 
 
 "I thought that there was something about you that did 
 not belong here, that was not New Yorkish," Raboff con 
 tinued. 
 
 Then he asked her about the West. To Hilda his 
 questions were reminiscent. Ernest White had often talked 
 about the West in the same manner. Apparently it was an 
 immigrant trait to dream of the West while staying in the 
 crowded cities of the East. 
 
 Spurred on by Raboff s interest she described to him the 
 average home in the small town in Wisconsin as she had 
 
NEW PEOPLE 153 
 
 known it, the frame house, the yard, the barn. Her father 
 she said never locked the stable door; they never feared 
 thieves. 
 
 Raboff listened and seemed to be making comparisons. 
 
 "You would think," he said, "from the way people are 
 crowding in New York that space in America is at a pre 
 mium. And yet in reality there is so much land, so 
 much. . . ." 
 
 He was speaking about the working class in America and 
 came to the Waist Workers Union once more. His organi 
 zation, he was saying, was fighting for immediate improve 
 ment of conditions in the trade. But that was only a part 
 of its program. His union had other aims. All the other 
 leaders were like himself, socialists, and the chief principle 
 underlying their agitation was the education of the work 
 men in the union to the iniquity of the present system. 
 
 He stopped to dilate upon this iniquity. Industry was 
 at the present time owned by a handful of capitalists, it 
 should be owned by the people. 
 
 "Of course," he added, "our union is very much ahead 
 of the average labor organizations in America. It is com 
 posed mostly of foreign workers, and in this respect, I be 
 lieve, we are more advanced than the American workers; 
 we are more alive to big problems. . . ." 
 
 Hilda listened and was thinking how strange life was. 
 Here a man, an important man, was sitting, talking to her, 
 taking her in his confidence. . . . Mr. Raboff was evidently 
 considering her a nice person. Was she really a nice per 
 son? And that with Raymond the child? . . . Was it 
 nothing? * >, , Would she ever have the feeling, the convic- 
 
154 THE ROAD 
 
 tion that nothing, really nothing had ever been the matter 
 with her? .... 
 
 Raboff was talking about another phase of the union. It 
 was not only a wartime weapon, it was also a sort of family 
 institution. 
 
 "It inspires a feeling of solidarity among the workers," 
 he was saying. "You feel that you are not alone. In sick 
 ness your union brothers and sisters come to your aid. . . ." 
 
 The last words sank into Hilda s mind. Alone, she had 
 been so much alone all her life. . . . 
 
 She asked about the meetings. Were they held often? 
 Was attendance compulsory? If so, she could not join. She 
 could not come to meetings much. She was alone with the 
 child. . . . 
 
 "Alone with the child," the labor leader repeated and for 
 the moment seemed oblivious of Hilda. Thought and sor 
 row blended in his eyes. 
 
 As he sat thus subdued and with traces of suffering in 
 his face Hilda examined him. He appeared thirty-seven or 
 thirty-eight years old, of slender build, and wore his dark 
 hair rather long. He did not look like a laboring man; he 
 appeared more like a teacher. He might even pass for a 
 minister. They had such a minister once in Stillwell. 
 
 "You had better join our organization," he said after 
 some debate with himself. "I think you need an organ 
 ization. That about meetings and the baby will be all 
 right " 
 
 He took out a card and began writing down her address. 
 
 "What d I tell you," Mrs. Breen s voice rang out tri- 
 
NEW PEOPLE 155 
 
 umphantly, "Our missionary s been on the job and another 
 soul goes into the golden book." 
 
 Mrs. Raboff sat down on the grass beside Hilda. Her 
 husband was questioning Willy about his school and his 
 music. Mrs. Breen listened thoughtfully. 
 
 Finally Raboff rose. It was time for them to go. They 
 still had a visit to make that afternoon. He shook hands 
 warmly with Hilda. 
 
 "You will hear from me in a few days," he said in parting. 
 
 His wife was exacting a promise from Mrs. Breen that she 
 would be over to see them the following week. 
 
 When they were gone and Hilda and Mrs. Breen were 
 alone once more, a restlessness came over them. The spot 
 upon which they had been sitting seemed to have lost its 
 charm and repose. At Hilda s suggestion they started on a 
 stroll through the park. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 THE NEW FAITH 
 
 ". . . AND you, Woman of the people. . . . While ca 
 ressing the pretty head of the child who nestles close to 
 you, do you never think about the lot that awaits him, if 
 the present social conditions are not changed? . . . 
 
 "Count and see how many there are who suffer ... in 
 justice. . . . Aye, all of us together, we who suffer and are 
 insulted daily, we are a multitude whom no man can num 
 ber, we are the ocean that can embrace and swallow up all 
 else. . . . 
 
 "When we have but the will to do it, that very moment 
 will justice be done: that very instant the tyrants of the 
 earth shall bite the dust. . . ." 
 
 "Bite the dust! . . ." 
 
 Hilda laid aside the book of pamphlets which she had 
 borrowed from Ada Breen that afternoon and, rising from 
 her pillow, looked about the room. The clock on the man 
 telpiece showed a quarter past twelve. The child was sound 
 asleep. In the street below there was a noise, but she dis 
 tinguished it as a song which a couple of drunken men on 
 their way home were singing. . . . 
 
 Nothing was changed in the four hours since she went to 
 bed with the book, and yet nothing was the same again. . . . 
 
 She wanted to laugh, laugh loud and long at her former 
 
 156 
 
THE NEW FAITH 157 
 
 fears, beliefs, scruples. . . . No, she did not want to laugh 
 after all. . . . What she wanted was to proclaim the new 
 faith that she had found, to announce that she, Hilda 
 Thorsen, was no longer what she had been. . . . And she 
 was no longer alone, i . . She had joined the millions of 
 others who walk in darkness "walk in darkness," yes, that 
 was the phrase one of the writers had used. . . . She had 
 joined the great army of the proletariat. . . . 
 
 She jumped out of bed, wrapped herself in her kimono 
 and turning out the light, took up her favorite position near 
 the open window. There were a million stars in the sky 
 and against these stars the huge tenements about her, looked 
 like dismal, tragic carcasses awaiting the cart and the cart- 
 man. . . . They were doomed, these tenements. . . . 
 Strange that they did not know it. ... The new order had 
 doomed them. . . . The social revolution would sweep them 
 away. . . . 
 
 Suddenly she became aware of a commotion. . -. . The 
 tenements were stirring. . . . They were falling back, re 
 treating to the ends of the earth. ... In their place a gar 
 den had arisen .... Interspersed through the garden 
 were homes. They were the homes of the new social order. 
 . . . Healthy children, neatly dressed, with refined looks in 
 their faces, were playing all about. . . . They were the 
 children of the proletariat in the new age. . . . 
 
 Hilda became aware that she was dreaming with her 
 eyes wide open, and she smiled at the flights of vision she 
 was yielding herself up to. ... But the vision brought her 
 a cheerfulness she had never before experienced. ... A 
 new dignity had come over her. . . . Her suffering, the 
 
158 THE ROAD 
 
 suffering of millions like herself, had not gone unnoticed. 
 . . . People knew of it, writers wrote about it. ... How 
 beautifully they wrote! . . . Want and suffering have be 
 come a badge of honor, one of the pamphlets had said. . . . 
 The future belonged to those who suffer. . . . 
 
 If she only had some one to talk to! ... Her mind was 
 full to bursting and her heart ached with feeling, with love 
 for the poor, for the weary and oppressed. . . . 
 
 But there was no one to talk to. The streets were sound 
 asleep. . . . Sorrow and tears, sin and suffering had found 
 rest in the bosom of the night. . . . She searched the face 
 of the clock. It was a quarter after one; time to go to 
 bed. She had to go to work in the morning. . . . 
 
 But she was not falling asleep and she began to count: 
 Thirty-five. . . . One-fifty. . . . Two-twenty-five. . . . 
 She would try keeping her eyes fixed upon a point on the 
 wall. ... It had worked once before. Yes. . . . But. . . 
 It could not be possible. . . . Well, it was so. . . . 
 
 She could hardly speak for emotion. . . . Yes, it was he. 
 . . . Kropotkin, himself. ... He stood before her and was 
 very glad to meet her, Hilda Thorsen. . . . He knew her 
 name. . . . Yes, he had meant every word he had said in 
 the pamphlet. . . . She was the equal of anybody. All 
 were equal. There were no high and no low. All were 
 needed for the coming revolution. . . . She was needed; 
 she could do much good. . . . 
 
 He was introducing her to a host of celebrated people: 
 Karl Marx, Bebel, Liebknecht. . . . They all looked quite 
 familiar. She remembered their names readily. . . . Why 
 shouldn t she? Hadn t she read at length about them in 
 
THE NEW FAITH 159 
 
 "French and German Socialism" . . . Raymond had given 
 
 her the book. . . . Raymond The memory of him 
 
 seemed trivial now. ... He was out of place in the midst 
 of this distinguished company. . . . 
 
 There was a commotion outside. . . . She ran out to see. 
 She was in Spain Madrid. ... In front of the royal 
 palace were masses of .workmen. They were displaying their 
 ragged clothes, showing their hollow faces and sunken chests. 
 . . . Crying for bread. . . . Freedom. . . . Soldiers were 
 coming. . . . Bayonets. . . . Terror in the eyes of the men. 
 . . . But wait. . . . Women. ... An army of women was 
 coming. . . . They were sweeping the men aside. They 
 rushed to the front, tearing their waists, shirts, exposing their 
 breasts to the bayonets. . . . The soldiers quailed. . . . 
 Brave women. . . . Hurrah. . . . Long live the revolution. 
 . . . Onward. . . . Onward-d-d-d. . . . 
 
 The clock was ringing. It was a quarter after five morn 
 ing. . . . Hilda was distantly conscious of a headache. She 
 had not had enough sleep. . . . But she jumped out of bed, 
 went up to the window and stuck her head out. The morn 
 ing dew was enveloping her body like a cold sheet. She 
 stood near the window the whole of five minutes. Then 
 she began to dress. She hummed softly as she washed. . . . 
 
 She was impatient to see Mrs. Breen. Would her friend 
 recognize the change which had come over her? There were 
 things about Ada which Hilda had never before fully under 
 stood, a certain poise, a certain serene way of looking at 
 people, of meeting life. . . . But now she understood her. 
 . . . Ada was a socialist; that explained everything. She 
 had a viewpoint; she had an ideal, she had a dream. . . . 
 
i6o THE ROAD 
 
 Hilda and Mrs. Breen were scarcely out of the elevator 
 at noon when she asked: 
 
 "Is that prince Kropotkin an old man?" 
 
 "About seventy, I should say. Why?" 
 
 "Nothing. I read his pamphlet last night. Has he writ 
 ten more books?" 
 
 Ada had several volumes of Kropotkin at home. She ha(J 
 other books, too, that Hilda might like to read. 
 
 "Come over to my flat some evening this week and look 
 at em," she said. 
 
 As they approached the loft building again on their way 
 from lunch Hilda asked: 
 
 "Are there any other socialists in the shop beside ow- 
 sehes?" 
 
 There was suppressed agitation in her voice, and Ada 
 looked at her friend closely. "The girl is changing," she 
 mused. "She has changed already." Aloud she answered: 
 "I believe there are quite a few. There are a number of 
 faces I recall having seen at socialist affairs." 
 
 Several times in the course of the afternoon Hilda swept 
 the shop with her gaze. She was searching among the hun 
 dreds of workers at the machines the few souls who shared 
 her faith, the faith of socialism. . . . She was greeting them 
 in her thoughts. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Breen s home was a nest of memories of her dead 
 husband. In three rooms she crammed most of the furniture 
 of a five room apartment. Her husband s books, several 
 hundred of them, stood neatly arranged in book cases about 
 the walls. His writing table, the inkwell filled, stood fresh 
 
THE NEW FAITH 161 
 
 and dustless, as if she were momentarily expecting him to 
 come in and sit down to write. . . . 
 
 On the walls were pictures: Karl Marx, Nietzsche, Kro- 
 potkin. Hilda liked the real likeness of Kropotkin even 
 better than the one she had conjured up in her dream. . . . 
 There was so much kindness in the man s bearded face 
 and eyes. 
 
 One small frame contained a sheet of paper written in a 
 broken, uneven scrawl. HiFa read its brief contents. It 
 said: 
 
 "DEAR ADA: 
 
 "Not very good to-day. My eyes are troubling me. 
 Cloudy. Come as soon as you can. Bring Willy along 
 without fail. 
 
 "LEON BREEN." 
 
 "It s my husband s last note from the hospital/ Ada 
 explained. "We came to see him that evening, Willy and 
 I, and at midnight he died. He complained of clouds 
 passing before his eyes all the time we were with him." 
 
 While her friend was busy in the kitchen Hilda was 
 turning over an album. She came across the photograph 
 of an old woman who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. 
 Breen. Hilda asked her about the picture. 
 
 "That," said Ada, "is my mother." 
 
 "Is she alive?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; she s right here in New York." 
 
 "You never speak of her." 
 
 Ada s face clouded. 
 
1 62 THE ROAD 
 
 "No," she said thoughtfully, "I never do. I ve grieved 
 my mother in the past, and she hurt me. We now see 
 each other very rarely." 
 
 "You see," she turned to Hilda after a silence, and 
 there was pain in her eyes, pain and a plea for under 
 standing, "you see, my husband and I never went through 
 the marriage ceremony. . . ." 
 
 Hilda looked puzzled. She did not get the significance 
 of her friend s words. Ada went on explaining to her, 
 telling her things from the beginning. 
 
 Her parents were Russian immigrants and they brought 
 her to London when she was eight. She was the youngest 
 in the family and went to school. Her other sisters went 
 to a factory. Her father was the only one w^io indulged 
 her. He was proud of her, but he died early. She man 
 aged to finish her primary education and then she went 
 to work. 
 
 When she was eighteen Leon Breen took a room with 
 an aunt of hers, and they met. He was a Russian revo 
 lutionist and he began taking her to Socialist meetings. 
 Her mother had no understanding for such things, but 
 she trusted Breen every one trusted him, and she, Ada, 
 came and went with him as she pleased. 
 
 One day Breen asked her to be his wife. She con 
 sented. Her mother and sisters too were pleased. Breen 
 went out to look for an apartment. He did not believe 
 in marriage ceremonies. She believed what he believed and 
 so they went to live together without the sanction and 
 approval of a clergyman, in this case a rabbi. 
 
 Her mother and sisters were scandalized. To them free 
 
THE NEW FAITH 163 
 
 love was a synonym for immorality and Ada in their eyes 
 was not a wife, but a paramour. Dire things would happen 
 to her, they predicted. When her son Willy came, they 
 looked upon him as an illegitimate child. . . . 
 
 "At first," Ada continued, "my husband tried to en 
 lighten them. But there are things you can t argue into 
 the old generation. My mother wouldn t listen to his 
 words. She felt keenly the disgrace of our unmarried 
 state, as she called it. She conceived the idea that she 
 bore the responsibility for my action; she had not brought 
 me up properly. I had lost my father too young and she 
 should have given me more attention. The feeling of guilt 
 and her inability to rectify things made her all the more 
 bitter toward me. Then my mother and sisters went 
 to America and we did not see them for a number of 
 years. 
 
 "When we came to New York my husband again made 
 an effort at reconciliation, but my mother remained obdu 
 rate. She was ashamed of me. She looked upon my child 
 as upon something unclean. . . . We saw one another sel 
 dom thereafter. . . . 
 
 "Imagine," Mrs. Breen s voice faltered, "two days bfr- 
 fore my husband died, mother sent an aged Jew, the sexton 
 of her synagogue, to the hospital to see my husband and 
 ask him if he would not go through the marriage ceremony 
 with me. My husband forced a smile to his dying lips and 
 said: If Ada wishes it! The man then came dashing up 
 to my flat and with elated voice told me that my husband 
 had consented to marry me. Wouldn t I hurry to the 
 hospital with him to have the ceremony performed? 
 
164 THE ROAD 
 
 "I ve never insulted any one in my life, but I lost my 
 temper that time and told him to go as fast as he could, 
 or I would shoot. ... He went, and you should ve heard 
 what he said about me later. According to the man s de 
 scription I was the queen of a band of desperadoes. The 
 walls of my apartment were covered with daggers and 
 revolvers. ... Of course I never held a gun in my 
 hand. . . ." 
 
 Willy had come up from the street. They all went into 
 the parlor and he took down his violin. 
 
 He played. 
 
 Ada Breen was explaining to her, in a low voice, the 
 nature of the pieces her son was playing, how advanced 
 they were. . . . But Hilda was only half listening and 
 scarcely understood her. . . . She was gazing at Willy. 
 . . . The boy s face, his head, his whole being, was in 
 strange communion with the violin. ... It seemed to her 
 that he was not playing at all, that he was grieving, 
 sorrowing, pouring out a sad tale. . . . And the violin 
 understood him, shared his grief and vibrated with a sub 
 dued sobbing. . . . 
 
 Was the boy thinking of his father? Hilda wondered. 
 Was he lamenting his parent s untimely death? Was it 
 the story of his own hard and lonely life he was breathing 
 into the instrument? . . . 
 
 Little Raymond was asleep in the next room and her 
 gaze wandered in that direction. Her son, too, would 
 have no father. . . . Had in fact known no father. . . . 
 Would he miss him? . . . Had he been missing him al 
 ready? . . . 
 
THE NEW FAITH 165 
 
 Mrs. Breen, though accustomed to her son s playing and 
 minor moods, also yielded to the spell. ... A wave of 
 melancholy swept over her. . . . She began enlarging to 
 Hilda on Willy s qualities. ... He was as good in school 
 as he was in his music. . . . His teachers could not praise 
 him too highly. . . . And at home he was a regular house 
 keeper. ... He was helping her with her work. . . . He 
 even cooked their meals. . . . 
 
 Willy had finished playing, came up to his mother and 
 put his arm about her shoulders. It was as if he feared 
 the music might have stirred too many sad thoughts in 
 her, and he came to console her. . . . 
 
 Hilda walked over to the bookcase and studied the titles 
 of some of the volumes. 
 
 "Do you read much?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes," Mrs. Breen replied, "it s the only thing that 
 keeps one from becoming despondent, that keeps one s hopes 
 green and one s thoughts beautiful. Isn t it, son?" 
 
 She raised her arm and took Willy s hand, which was rest 
 ing on her shoulder, in her own, caressing it softly. 
 
 Hilda looked at them. She never afterward forgot the 
 picture mother and son made at that moment. 
 
 At the end of ten days a letter came from Mr. Raboff 
 saying that Hilda had been admitted to the union. The 
 next meeting was to be held on a Thursday and he hoped 
 to see her there. She went to the meeting with Ada, while 
 Willy stayed at her home with little Raymond. 
 
 Mrs. Breen was acquainted with the leaders of the union 
 and Hilda was introduced to them. There were a number 
 
166 THE ROAD 
 
 of speeches made about the workers 7 mission, struggle. . . 
 People in the audience rose and approved or took issue with 
 the speakers. Hilda listened and experienced a sensation 
 akin to the one she felt on her first school day. All the 
 men and women in the audience seemed to know so much 
 more than she. . . . They hurled back and forth terms 
 which were strange to her. They cited names of men, labor 
 leaders, socialists, who figured much in the newspapers. 
 They quoted books, authorities in America, in England, in 
 Germany. . . . There was so much she must learn, so 
 much. . . . 
 
 It seemed to her as if a great procession was forming, 
 she was to be in it, but was not ready. . . . There were 
 certain things that had to be done, quickly, hurriedly. . . . 
 There were losses to cover, deficiencies to make up. . . . 
 Her education did not reach far enough. ... A feeling 
 of haste came over her. . . . She must hasten, hasten. . . . 
 In the next two months she ransacked Mrs. Breen s book 
 shelves for socialist tracts and appeals and spent half her 
 nights poring over them. . . . She read both quickly and 
 intensely. She was determined to retain as much as she 
 possibly could of the thoughts and ideas the booklets con 
 tained. 
 
 She was astonished how simple the ideas these pamphlets 
 put forward were, how just. . . . Socialism, the new so 
 cial order, these tracts were advocating, seemed to be a 
 proposition of arithmetic and common sense. . . . 
 
 One pamphlet in particular impressed her. It was an 
 exposition of the place woman would hold in the new 
 order of society. Love, this writer said, would be the only 
 basis for marriage. There would be no young girls marry- 
 
THE NEW FAITH 167 
 
 ing old men because they were rich. There would be no 
 classes, no castes, no privileged individuals; education 
 would be the heritage of all; the schools would be open to 
 all comers. 
 
 Had this order of society been here already, Hilda 
 mused, she and Raymond would not be apart. . . . They 
 loved each other. They had every right to each other, 
 naturally, normally. It was the Evert money that sepa 
 rated them, money, and false notions, false divisions in 
 society. Henry Evert had ambitions to be counted, to 
 have his son counted, among the privileged and the 
 mighty. . . . 
 
 Another pamphlet was eloquent on the subject of chil 
 dren. In the ideal society of the future ignorance would 
 not be the excuse nor gain the motive for children coming 
 into the world. Children would neither be a burden, nor 
 would they be looked upon as a sort of old-age pension. 
 Every one would be assured of a decent existence until his 
 or her dying day. Love, and love only, would be the high 
 priest at every birth. . . . 
 
 Nothing was said directly in such pamphlets about women 
 like herself, about unmarried mothers. Hilda found no 
 specific mention of illegitimacy except a general statement 
 that all of the present day injustices against women and 
 discriminations against children would have no place in 
 the new society, would be scrapped with the old order. . . . 
 
 Several times she was on the verge of asking Ada about 
 this perhaps she had a pamphlet on the subject but she 
 restrained herself on reflection. 
 
 She and Ada were very dear friends. But there were 
 things in one s personal life that even one s dearest friends 
 
1 68 THE ROAD 
 
 had better not know, she mused. They were too private, 
 too intimate. . . . The world seemed to be granting her un 
 grudgingly the status of a widow, of an honest-to-goodness 
 widow. Time and tide were rolling the episode with Ray 
 mond further and further away. Why bring it back? The 
 tragedy of her life was beginning to smolder. Why stir it 
 up again? . . . 
 
 Work in the factory had become mechanical by now and 
 the material under her fingers often seemed to transform 
 itself before her eyes into pages, pages, pages. ... As she 
 fed the cloth to the machine she was rereading in her mind 
 what she had read in the book the night before. . . . Ada 
 watched with amazed astonishment the rapidity with which 
 her young friend absorbed facts, ideas, theories. . . . 
 
 The intensity of these two months was having its effect 
 upon Hilda s health. A pallor had come into her face. She 
 was exhausting herself by her lack of sleep: Ada again and 
 again warned her to look after her health, but Hilda would 
 not listen. She could see nothing the matter with herself. 
 She was completely under the spell of the books and pam 
 phlets she was devouring. 
 
 The whole world was one family to her now. ... All 
 men were brothers. ... If they only knew it. ... Yes, if 
 they only knew it! ... How much pain they could spare 
 themselves, how much suffering. . . . How beautiful the 
 world could be made. ... If they only knew it. ... 
 
 Tke last Sunday in September they went to Bronx Park. 
 It had been raining for two weeks steadily and it looked as 
 though the rain would never end. But the weather had 
 
THE NEW FAITH 169 
 
 cleared, a warm sun had come out, and the slums and tene 
 ments of New York seemed to have poured themselves into 
 the park. Men of all races and nations trailed through the 
 grounds with their wives, their children, their baby car 
 riages. . . . The riffraff of the city was here, too. Young 
 hoodlums and pickpockets were circulating among the 
 crowds, making noise, annoying, provoking people. . . . 
 
 Hilda gazed at the crowds, and an immense love rose 
 in her heart. She loved them, the young and the old, the 
 fair and the ugly, the unoffending and the criminal. . . . 
 They were all brothers, her brothers. . . . Their sins and 
 burdens were not of their own making. . . . They were as 
 good as the best. . . . Socialism would make them so. ... 
 "Those who are last shall be first!" one Socialist writer had 
 put it. 
 
 She was filled with intense longing for the new social 
 order. But according even to the most optimistic writers, 
 socialism would come only slowly, gradually. . . . How soon 
 before it would come? . . . 
 
 She shared her thought with Mrs. Breen. 
 
 "In a hundred years, I should say," the latter said after 
 reflecting some moments. "It ought to take at least that 
 long to clear the earth of its disfigurements. It will be 
 not only capitalism and capitalist institutions socialism will 
 have to fight and destroy, it will have to overcome the 
 beast in man as well. And that will be no easy matter. 
 There is a good deal of beastliness in the world still." 
 
 "In a hundred years," Hilda repeated, her eyes shining. 
 "In a hundred years. . . ." 
 
 "That s not much in the progress of mankind, in the 
 
170 THE ROAD 
 
 history of civilization." Ada s tone was slightly argumen 
 tative. 
 
 Hilda did not answer her. She stretched herself upon 
 the grass, laid her face on her folded arms, and was 
 convulsed with sobs. ... In a hundred years. . . . She 
 would be dead her son would be dead. . . . They would 
 live and die in the filth and agony of a rotting civiliza 
 tion. . . . There would be nothing left of their dreams. . . . 
 No one to record their suffering. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Breen divined her friend s thoughts and waited. 
 When Hilda recovered her composure, Ada smiled to her. 
 
 "It s too bad," she said, "that you are such a poor Chris 
 tian, and that I m not even that. We are both of us ex 
 cellent subjects for some quiet, out of the way monastery 
 right now. . . . Vanity of Vanities. . . ." 
 
 Hilda too attempted to smile, but did not go far with it. 
 
 "No," Ada s aspect became serious, "we must have a 
 change of diet, little sister. No more pamphlets for a while. 
 I have a set of Turgenev at home; we must start you on 
 that to-night. 
 
 "But books are not all. How long is it since you went 
 to a dance? I shouldn t be surprised if you had not been 
 to a dance in two years. I haven t been to one longer than 
 that myself. . . . Hilda, you and I are going to dance this 
 winter. , . ." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 FRANK HILLSTROM 
 
 THEY started for home soon after. As they were walk 
 ing through the park Hilda observed a tall man in a black 
 sombrero strolling along aimlessly, looking at the crowds 
 and being looked at in turn. She was about to point out 
 the man to Ada as a specimen of the Far West, when the 
 stranger suddenly began heading straight towards them with 
 a broad smile. 
 
 In the next instant Ada stood still, clapped her hands 
 together, and cried out: 
 
 "Why, if it isn t Frank Hillstrom!" 
 
 "That s him all right," the stranger boomed in a bass 
 voice, and took both her hands in his. "And here s Willy. 
 Hello, Willy!" 
 
 The boy answered Hillstrom s greeting bashfully, but 
 the latter did not seem to notice this. He was looking at 
 the youngster with interest and surprise. Hillstrom had not 
 seen Willy in two years, and during that time the boy s 
 features had come to resemble closely those of his father. 
 It was this that struck him forcibly, but he mastered the 
 impulse to comment on it. 
 
 Hillstrom s gaze, the comparison he was drawing be 
 tween the boy and his dead parent, did not, however, 
 
 171 
 
172 THE ROAD 
 
 escape Ada. She suppressed a sigh, smiled, and hastened 
 to introduce Hilda: 
 
 "Meet my friend, Mrs. Thorsen, Hilda Thorsen. She 
 also conies from the West." 
 
 Hillstrom took Hilda s slender hand in his own broad 
 palm and fixed his gray smiling eyes on her. 
 
 Hilda judged him to be not much over thirty, but there 
 was a patriarchal sweep about him which made one think 
 that he had seen life. His eyes were tolerant, as if they 
 had known suffering. He inspired confidence. She had a 
 feeling as if she were a child, standing on a footing of 
 equality with a grown man. . . . 
 
 She hastened to explain that she was not from the Far 
 West, but from Chicago, from near Chicago. 
 
 They were standing in the middle of the walk and people 
 stopped to look at them. 
 
 "I guess we re obstructing traffic," Hillstrom said. "We d 
 better move on; which way were you going?" 
 
 "We were about to start for home," Ada explained. 
 "Where were you going? Have you anything on this 
 evening, anything of importance? Any meetings?" 
 
 He had no meetings, and Mrs. Breen claimed Hillstrom 
 as their own for the evening. 
 
 When they reached the elevated station, Hilda, who 
 had been leading little Raymond slowly by the hand, was 
 about to take him in her arms to go up the stairs with 
 him, when Hillstrom quickly swung around, picked up the 
 child, and brought his little face close to his own. Little 
 Raymond, surprised, hesitated for an instant between tears 
 and laughter. Finally he laughed and made a dash for Hill- 
 
FRANK HILLSTROM 173 
 
 Strom s nose. Hillstrom dodged, and the child got hold of 
 his ear and began pulling it. 
 
 They went up to the train amid a great deal of mer 
 riment. 
 
 Clouds were gathering and they wondered whether they 
 would be caught in the rain. But they were not. They had 
 reached home before the rain started. 
 
 Hilda excused herself and went into the kitchen to help 
 Mrs, Breen with the supper. Hillstrom in the meantime 
 was carrying on a dual conversation, with little Raymond 
 about a toy dog which the child had picked up, and with 
 Willy about his school work and his violin. 
 
 Frank Hillstrom was known in socialist circles from New 
 York to San Francisco. Wherever there was a strike of 
 any duration or consequence he was on the scene as a 
 speaker. There was nothing of the socialist dilettante about 
 him. His hair was cut short; the flowing necktie, whether 
 red or otherwise, was missing. He looked and talked like 
 a workingman, had a sense of humor, and was a convinc 
 ing speaker rather than a fiery orator. 
 
 He would not settle down anywhere. Several socialist 
 papers offered him jobs as editor, but he declined to 
 be tied to any one place. He lived on what the socialist 
 locals would pay him for his speeches, which was not 
 much, and spent most of his leisure time studying. Women 
 he treated as he would men, like comrades, and fought shy 
 of flirtations. On the other hand, he loved children. 
 
 Nothing definite was known about his past. Rumor had 
 it that he was born on a farm in Minnesota, of Swedish par 
 ents, that he had married when he was quite young, and that 
 
174 THE ROAD 
 
 his wife was a Catholic. Shortly after his marriage he 
 became a socialist. That started trouble in the family. His 
 wife refused to give him a divorce, and he left home. 
 
 He had met Leon Breen a year before the latter s death in 
 the course of a stubbornly conducted strike. They became 
 great friends and he had often been to Mrs. Breen s flat 
 when her husband lived. This was the first time he had 
 come to her home since she was a widow. . . . 
 
 "It s two years since you ve been away," Ada said as 
 they were finishing their coffee. "What ve you done with 
 yourself all this time? I heard you were on the Pacific 
 Coast and I saw your name in the papers in connection 
 with some builders strike there." 
 
 Hillstrom narrated briefly the events of those two years. 
 It was one continuous round of strikes and trouble with 
 the authorities everywhere. He had put in some time 
 hoboing in order to study the situation among the casual 
 workers and unemployed; had slept under the open skies 
 in California. On the way back East he had stopped off 
 in Arizona and Colorado to look over the situation among 
 the miners there. 
 
 "It s tough, tough everywhere," he said, the smile dis 
 appearing from his eyes. "Capital has a strangle hold upon 
 the workers, upon the community. There ve been strikes, 
 numerous strikes. But strikes no longer get the worker 
 much; they only exhaust him. The workers and their 
 families put up a brave fight, suffer and gain nothing. No 
 matter how long the mines are idle the capitalist doesn t 
 miss his breakfast; the worker misses his. And when the 
 strike is apparently won and the men return to their jobs 
 
FRANK HILLSTROM 175 
 
 victorious, their victory turns to ashes. After some weeks 
 the employers find ways and means of taking back that 
 which they ve given. The worker isn t getting ahead. . . ." 
 
 Hillstrom pulled at his pipe several times, blew a cloud 
 of smoke, and continued: 
 
 "The government forces everywhere are ranged on the 
 side of the employers. The workers go to the polls, vote, 
 elect officials, and immediately they are elected these offi 
 cials turn around and kick the workers in the shin. Homes 
 of workmen are invaded without any process of law. Meet 
 ings are broken up without regard to the constitution. You 
 have to pinch yourself at times to make sure that what 
 you see is not a nightmare, but reality, that it is actually 
 happening on American soil." 
 
 "Are we on the eve of revolution?" Hilda, her mind set 
 aflame by the injustices he had described, asked. "Are not 
 these workers going to rebel?" 
 
 Hillstrom pondered. It was a question he had been 
 asked often in his career as a socialist speaker and agi 
 tator. 
 
 "Revolutions," he spoke up finally, "do not go by rules 
 and it isn t wise to make prophecies in such matters. The 
 conditions I ve told about are bad, but they aren t universal 
 yet. Like the lynching of negroes, the terrorizing of 
 white workmen is still confined to certain parts of the coun 
 try only, and to small minorities. These minorities are like 
 a gangrened toe. Sometimes such a toe may kill a giant. 
 Such an inflamed and desperate minority may sometimes 
 sweep a whole country after it into civil war. In the main, 
 however, it does not seem as if we were ripe for revolution. 
 
 
176 THE ROAD 
 
 The gulf between classes is not yet universal. Our discon 
 tent has not reached the breaking point. The cup of bit 
 terness and oppression is not yet full. . . ." 
 
 "Not full?" Hilda was trembling as she spoke. "It is 
 full, more than full for those who fall victim to the present 
 system. The negro who is lynched, the striker who is shot 
 down by soldiers his cup is full." 
 
 "It is," Hillstrom agreed with her. 
 
 "And what is his reward, what promise does socialism 
 hold for this man?" Hilda pursued her questioning. 
 
 Hillstrom smiled. 
 
 "You talk," he said, "as if socialism were religion. It 
 isn t. It holds no promise for the dead. . . ." 
 
 "For that matter," he continued after a brief reflec 
 tion, "socialism holds no promise for those living to-day. 
 It holds no promise for us personally; for you, Mrs. Breen, 
 myself. . . . Our generation will not benefit by it. We 
 shall not even live to see it. Our reward lies in the knowl 
 edge that future generations will live in a better world than 
 we are living in, that they will suffer less than we are suffer 
 ing, and that we have helped bring this better world about. 
 ... As far as personal compensation we shall be counted 
 with the dead. . . ." 
 
 They became silent. It was as if his last words had 
 drawn aside a veil and they were all looking into the 
 future. 
 
 Willy in the next room had taken down his violin. In 
 one voice they asked him to play. 
 
 Hillstrom accompanied Hilda home and on the way over 
 they talked about the Middle West, the life in the small 
 
FRANK HILLSTROM 177 
 
 cities there and on the farms. She was circumspect about 
 mentioning her birthplace, and Hillstrom did not mention 
 his. But she had a feeling as if Hillstrom and herself had 
 always lived on adjoining farms and that they had now 
 met after only a brief separation. . . . 
 
 While she was putting the child to bed Hillstrom sur 
 veyed her two rooms. The place was tidy and orderly. 
 In spite of its poverty it was inviting and homelike. . . . 
 It was remarkable, he mused, what an instinct women had 
 for home. ... He was thinking how long it was since 
 he had had a home, since he had seen his children, the 
 children who were raised by their mother to despise him. 
 
 He shook off his reminiscences and began looking through 
 some of the pamphlets in the book case. They were familiar. 
 He rose to go. 
 
 "I m leaving for Boston to-morrow," he said, holding the 
 knob of the door. "There s a strike on there and they ve 
 asked me to help out. When I get back we shall all have 
 to spend an evening together again. Have you popped corn 
 lately? No? Neither have I. Well, we shall get together 
 and pop corn and have a regular party. . . ." 
 
 " 
 
 Hilda was looking forward to Hillstrom s coming. Of 
 the few people she had met since leaving Chicago he came 
 nearest to being her own kind. They had many memories 
 of life in the corn belt of the Mid- West in common. They 
 had the same background of a country schoolhouse. And 
 he was a personality in the socialist movement. There were 
 many things she meant to ask him when he came back. . . . 
 But he did not come back at the end of two weeks. From 
 
i;8 THE ROAD 
 
 the socialist paper she learned that a big textile strike had 
 broken out in several New England states and Hilistrom 
 was directing it. ... 
 
 Over Mrs. Breen a change had suddenly come; she lost 
 her cheerfulness. Her friendship toward Hilda was not 
 lessened, but she was depressed and silent. After a week 
 of this Hilda asked her what the trouble was. 
 
 They were in the restaurant eating their lunch and Ada 
 did not make a direct reply. On the way back to the fac 
 tory she said casually: 
 
 "My mother s been over to see me." 
 
 "Your mother?" Hilda exclaimed. "It must be very nice." 
 
 "No, it s not," Mrs. Breen countered. "I wish she 
 hadn t come." 
 
 And then she quickly plunged into something else. 
 
 "There s a socialist ball Saturday," she said, "and we want 
 to go. You bring the child over to my place and stay over 
 Sunday. That ll settle the question of taking care of him. 
 Willy can stay with him." 
 
 They went to the ball and Hilda was amazed at the 
 number of friends Ada had. They were not alone for a 
 moment all evening long, but when the time came for them 
 to go home Ada managed things so that she and Hilda left 
 the hall unescorted. 
 
 In the train Ada explained her conduct to Hilda. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, "you re wondering why with my 
 acquaintance and with the many friends I have, I am work 
 ing in a sweatshop. Many Ve been wondering. As a mat 
 ter of fact I ve been offered jobs by various unions, jobs 
 
FRANK HILLSTROM 179 
 
 that are much easier work and paying twice as much as I m 
 earning as a factory hand. But I declined these jobs and 
 prefer to stay where I am. . . ." 
 
 Ada was silent for some moments, looking for words, 
 looking for a way of making herself understood without 
 becoming indelicate. Finally she spoke, her voice lowered 
 a bit. 
 
 "You see," she began, "life is a puzzle and people are 
 a puzzle. They are good and they are bad. My husband 
 once read to me from Heine what the great German poet 
 said of himself: I am a tragedy, I am a comedy; I am a 
 beast, I am a devil, I am God/ Well, that s what all of 
 us are. The beast is traveling alongside of the God in most 
 of us. 
 
 "All of my socialist friends you ve met at the ball ro-night 
 are fine men, idealists. In theory they are advanced and 
 free people; in reality, however, they haven t traveled far 
 afield from their grandfathers. They are rooted to the 
 same prejudices. In theory all of them believe in free love 
 and consider the marriage ceremony nothing but a bar 
 baric custom. ... In practice. . . . Well, in practice most 
 of them like to see their daughters and sisters married prop 
 erly securely. ... In practice the woman who, like my 
 self, has followed her belief, lived up to it and dispensed 
 with the marriage ceremony, especially if she s a widow, is 
 regarded by most of them with a certain amount of suspi 
 cious irony. . . . Some of the very best among these idealists 
 do not hesitate to look upon a woman in my position as a 
 possible subject for a discreet adventure. . . . 
 
 "I have had this attitude taken toward me once or twice 
 
i8o THE ROAD 
 
 shortly after my husband s death, and I decided then and 
 there that I would rather sacrifice comfort than sacrifice 
 my dignity. Hence it is that I stay in the sweatshop where 
 I am sure not to meet my former acquaintances, and that I 
 go home unescorted whenever I come in contact with them 
 at an affair like that of to-night. 
 
 "I don t know," Ada added after some reflection, "that 
 the viewpoint I m taking is exactly right. But any other 
 viewpoint would be humiliating to me. To surrender isn t 
 in my blood. I ll step aside, but I ll not go back on a 
 principle." 
 
 Every three or four weeks thereafter they went to a 
 socialist affair, and every time they went Hilda and her 
 child stayed with Ada until Sunday night. The largest 
 socialist ball of the year was held in the last part of Janu 
 ary. It was an affair lasting until four in the morning. 
 Mrs. Breen and Hilda started for home a little after one. 
 It was a cold, frosty night, and when they got to the flat 
 Ada made coffee. They talked commonplaces as they drank, 
 and then Hilda went and sat down on the lounge on which 
 her bed was made. Ada came and sat beside her. 
 
 "My mother was here to see me last night." She imparted 
 this as one imparts news that is unpleasant. 
 
 "What does she want?" Hilda asked. It seemed the only 
 appropriate question. 
 
 "She wants me to get married," Ada said with a dull 
 laugh. 
 
 Hilda looked puzzled. 
 
 "Yes." Ada turned her eyes on Hilda, and they were 
 very sad and unhappy. "There s a friend of the family, a 
 
FRANK HILLSTROM 181 
 
 distant relative, in fact, who lost his wife about a year 
 ago, and he wants to marry me. My mother thinks I ought 
 to kiss his hand for wanting me. He s rich. However, I 
 think he s quite a decent man. He told my mother that 
 he didn t hold it in the least against me that I had lived 
 with my husband in a free love union, that he could un 
 derstand and respect my ideas and beliefs. He sent her 
 over to ask me whether I d see him." 
 
 "Will you see him?" The question slipped Hilda s 
 tongue. 
 
 "No," Mrs. Breen said quietly. "I still love my husband. 
 I love his memory." 
 
 They slept late the following morning and it was nearly 
 four o clock in the afternoon when they finished their din 
 ner. They had barely got up from the table when there 
 was a knock on the door and Ada s mother and sister 
 entered. Ada was visibly annoyed. However, she pro 
 ceeded to make the best of it and introduced Hilda. 
 
 Her mother started talking to Hilda in Yiddish, and Ada 
 had to tell her that her friend was not a Jewess. The old 
 woman immediately straightened up and drew back as if 
 she had suddenly become aware of an unexpected danger. 
 She looked from Hilda to her daughter and her look 
 seemed to be saying: "Yes, I see the company you are 
 in." 
 
 Hilda felt awkward and on the plea that it would soon 
 be dark started for home with the child. 
 
 For the next four weeks Ada never mentioned her mother 
 to Hilda. Willy once dropped a remark about his grand 
 mother s frequent calls, but Ada never spoke of them now. 
 
1 82 THE ROAD 
 
 She was preoccupied and seemed to be making up her mind 
 to something. . . . Hilda was wondering whether her 
 mother wasn t winning over Ada to marry the rich relative. 
 As they stepped out of the factory into the street one 
 evening Ada suddenly announced: 
 
 "I m going to Chicago. We re moving to Chicago." 
 
 Hilda was dazed. 
 
 "Why?" she gasped. 
 
 "To get away from New York," Ada answered. "I ve had 
 my fill of it. There are shops in Chicago. I can make my 
 living anywhere. 
 
 "Come, let s walk a ways." She dropped her formal 
 tone. "I m suffocating. 
 
 "Something s been weighing me down for months." Ada 
 was speaking feverishly now. "I didn t know what it was. 
 But it dawned upon me recently. It s New York. I m 
 sick of it, sick of the people in it; sick of my relatives. 
 I must either run from it or succumb to it. I shall run. 
 . . . You can t stay in New York and be just a human be 
 ing. Here you must be classified, labeled, tagged. You are 
 a banker, a cloakmaker, a Jew, an Italian, an Irishman, and 
 woe to you if you don t live up to the prejudices of your 
 class. You ll be scorned until the earth burns under 
 foot. . . ." 
 
 Hilda asked her whether she knew any one in Chicago. 
 Ada had friends there, London friends. They advised her 
 to come, asked her to come. 
 
 "I don t know how much different Chicago is from New 
 York," she continued in a more thoughtful strain, "but I 
 hope it is different. At any rate, it s nearer to the America 
 
FRANK HILLSTROM 183 
 
 I have been dreaming of in England, the America of great 
 distances, of vast stretches of land, of native sons and daugh 
 ters, not the America of five million foreigners from all the 
 ends of the earth, jostling each other, getting in each other s 
 way, and glaring and cursing at each other. I want to see 
 that other America. I want my boy to see it. 
 
 "You couldn t come along with us, Hilda, could you? * 
 Ada s eyes were full and her voice choked with tears as she 
 asked this. 
 
 Hilda did not answer at once. She was wondering 
 whether her friend suspected the reason why she had left 
 Chicago. She would not care if she did. . . . 
 
 "No," Hilda said, "I couldn t come with you, I couldn t." 
 Her eyes, too, were filling. 
 
 Ada decided to leave the first week in April. She needed 
 a month to dispose of her household effects. In the next 
 few weeks her house was daily growing more empty. She 
 was selling the furniture piece by piece. With the books 
 it was a harder matter. She and Willy spent evenings going 
 over them, selecting, deciding. . . . Every book was asso 
 ciated with memories of their husband and father. . . . 
 
 Hilda was coming to Mrs. Breen every evening now. It 
 was hard to part from her. 7 T would be long before she 
 would find another such friend. .\ . 
 
 On a Thursday night late in March Mrs. Breen set the 
 date for their departure. They were to leave exactly a 
 week hence and they would reach Chicago on a Saturday 
 morning. She would write her friends to meet them on 
 Saturday morning. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 FIRE AND DEATH 
 
 IT was Mrs. Breen s last day at the factory and from 
 early morning a quiet sadness had been hovering over Hilda. 
 She was thinking of Chicago, and more especially of Still- 
 well. Her friend would soon be so near her home. A 
 blind impulse to send greetings tugged at her heart. But 
 greetings to whom? Two graves in the cemetery rose be 
 fore her eyes. The one covered with green grass and with 
 a stone at its head that was her mother. The other grave, 
 still fresh with the imprint of feet about it that was her 
 father immediately after the funeral. 
 
 Stillwell, beautiful Stillwell! Would she never, never 
 see it again? Would she be stumbling her way up dingy 
 hallways to top floors of tenements all her life? Would she 
 always be going up ten stories high to her work? Would 
 she be cooped up in New York the rest of her days? Would 
 her feet never touch the soft earth again? 
 
 Or was it all a dream? She stopped her work and ran 
 her eyes over the entire length of the loft. Alas, twas 
 no dream! The shop was throbbing, bursting with energy. 
 It seemed to Hilda that she had never before seen the 
 machines racing at such speed. But she recalled that it 
 was Saturday. The hundreds of employees were winding 
 
FIRE AND DEATH 185 
 
 up the week s work and the wind-up was always fever 
 ish. . . . 
 
 She was waiting for the whistle in a neighboring factory 
 which was the signal for the stopping of the machines in 
 their own. She was impatient for the day to be over. Im 
 mediately after supper she would take the child and go 
 over to Ada. She meant to spend every moment she could 
 spare with her friend in those last few days. . . . 
 
 She was waiting for the whistle when a piercing cry sud 
 denly lifted Hilda out of her chair. It was as if the engine 
 of a train had dashed past her. But it was no engine; no 
 train. What it was. . . . What it was seemed impossible, 
 unbelievable, could not be. ... But it was. . . . The place 
 was on fire. . . . The shop was burning. . . . The paper 
 patterns, silks, voiles, lingerie were burning. . . . The wild 
 shriek was coming from the breasts of hundreds of work 
 ers. . . . 
 
 It was but an instant from the time Hilda heard the 
 shriek until she took in the situation, but the instant seemed 
 like an age. . . . The fire had in that instant grown twice, 
 three times. A third of the loft was on fire. The floor, the 
 ceiling, the walls were burning. The machines were burn 
 ing. The fire was eating up the materials in the bins. . . . 
 It was licking up the remnants under the machines, chairs. 
 ... It was crawling up to their feet; it was sweeping over 
 their heads. . . . 
 
 There was a stampede for doors, for elevators. -. -. . 
 Frantic leaping over machines ... a crashing. . . . Arms, 
 breasts, shoulders, were driving onward, forward, and meet 
 ing with resistance from other arms, breasts, shoulders. . . . 
 
i86 THE ROAD 
 
 Hilda was caught in the midst of this swaying, screaming, 
 agonized human mass. . . . 
 
 Suddenly through the sea of shrill, maddened voices she 
 heard her name. . . . Some one was calling her. . . . 
 "Hilda!!!" 
 
 She recognized Ada s voice. Her friend was calling her. 
 . . . She tried to turn around in the direction from which 
 she thought she heard the voice come, but her body was 
 wedged in. ... She was in a prison. . . . Only her head 
 she could still move. . . . 
 
 "Ada!" she called back. "Ada! Ada!" 
 
 And then she caught sight of her friend. They were 
 only three feet apart. Their eyes met, but only for an 
 instant. The next moment Ada had been pushed to one side. 
 A dozen bodies, heads had interposed between them. 
 
 But the instant sufficed. . . . She had never seen any 
 human being look the way Ada did. . . . She had never seen 
 such eyes. . . . Eyes that had known such terror, could 
 not live. . . . There was death in Ada s eyes. . . . She 
 would die. . . . She would die ... 
 
 Were her eyes like that too? . . . Would she, Hilda, 
 too die? Yes, she would die. . . . They would all die. 
 . . . She would die together with Ada. . . . She would . . . 
 
 The mass of people that held her as if in a vise suddenly 
 became as soft as butter, while her own elbows, head, shoul 
 ders felt like steel. . . . She was hewing her way. . . . She 
 had hewed her way through. . . . She was outside that mass. 
 . . . Where was Ada? 
 
 There was no Ada. . . . The crowd had carried her off 
 with it. ... The crowd was now like a brick wall. . 
 
FIRE AND DEATH 187 
 
 Hilda was outside that wall. . . . She would never become 
 mixed with it again. . . . 
 
 "Ada!!! Ada!!! Ada!!!" 
 
 She shrieked until she felt her eyes bulging. ... It was 
 useless. . . . Hundreds of voices were shrieking precisely 
 as her own. . . . They were calling names of children, par 
 ents, brothers. . . . She would not find Ada any more. . . . 
 She would die alone. . . . She would die. . . . 
 
 Raymond her child. . . . What would happen to Ray 
 mond? . . . What would become of him? . . . How he 
 would wait for her to-night. . . . What would his waiting 
 end in? ... She would never come. ... He would never 
 know. . . . Never remember her. . . . Nothing. ... It 
 would all end in nothing, as if she had never lived. . . . 
 Never lived. . . . 
 
 Some one was choking her. . . . Smoke, hot smoke. . . . 
 But her arm. . . . Who was gripping her arm? . . . Who? 
 . . . Mrs. Walsh. . . . Go? Of course she would go with 
 Mrs. Walsh. . . . Why was Mrs. Walsh dragging her so? 
 . . . Wasn t she coming? . . . She was coming. . . . 
 
 A door. . . . They were in front of a door. . . . They 
 were pounding . . . pounding . . . pounding. . . . Would 
 it open? . . . Would it ever open? ... It opened. . . . 
 The elevator had come. . . . Would they all get in? . . . 
 Would she be among those who got in? ... What if she 
 did not get in? . . . Her poor baby. . . . 
 
 They were moving. . . . The odor of smoke ceased. . . . 
 Cold air. . . . Light. . . . The street. . . . They were in 
 the street. ... A policeman guided them to the opposite 
 sidewalk. . . There Hilda stood still. . . She was wait- 
 
i88 THE ROAD 
 
 ing. . . . She wanted the officer to guide her further, more. 
 . . . But he had already dashed back into the burning 
 building. . . . 
 
 She had recovered her thoughts fully. . . . Yes, she knew 
 exactly what had happened. The factory was on fire, but 
 she had been saved. . . . Little Raymond wouldn t be sent 
 to a "home." . . . Yes, yes, saved. . . . But there was no 
 time to waste rejoicing. . . . She must find Ada. . . . 
 
 Fire engines were clanging, coming. . . . She had never 
 seen so many fire engines in her life. . . . They were roping 
 off the street about the building. . . . She was pushed back. 
 She must go over to the main entrance. . . . That was 
 where Ada and the crowd must be. ... They would come 
 out that way. . . . She made a rush for the main entrance. 
 
 The firemen wouldn t let her pass. Some one was advis 
 ing her to go around. It was the only way to reach the 
 main entrance now. . . . She ran around the block, two 
 blocks, four blocks. . . . Finally she saw the front of the 
 building. . . . Here there were again ropes. . . . She got 
 to the very edge of the rope. . . . The police were spread 
 ing a net. . . . Other men jumped in and volunteered to 
 hold it. ... The net was ready. ... It was for the girls, 
 the men who were on the ledges, clinging to window sills 
 ten stories above ground. The police were making signs 
 to them. . . . They were shouting to them to jump into the 
 net. . . . 
 
 A young girl gathered her skirt as if she were about to 
 cross a puddle of water and jumped. . . . Things became 
 dimmed before Hilda s eyes. Was she at a circus? . . . 
 Was all this mere play? ... A shout came ... a shout 
 
FIRE AND DEATH 189 
 
 of terror. . . . Horror in the eyes of the people about her. 
 . . . The body of the girl had broken through the net and 
 was lying on the curbstone, with head split in four 
 parts. . . . 
 
 Another body came hurtling through the air. . . . Voices 
 were shouting above not to jump ; it meant death. . . . But 
 the girls, the women, the men on the ledges did not hear, 
 did not wish to hear. . . . They were jumping, their bodies 
 striking the cold stone pavement with a loud cracking of 
 bones. . . . 
 
 Hilda ran. . . . 
 
 She was without hat or coat. . . . Evening was falling, 
 a raw March evening. . . . She did not feel the cold. . . . 
 In the elevated train all eyes were fixed on her. . . . But 
 it didn t matter any more. . . . The whole world didn t 
 matter. . . . She wept as if there were no people about 
 her 
 
 A neighbor volunteered to sit up with little Raymond 
 until she came back, and Hilda, after feeding the child and 
 putting him to bed, started for Ada s home. The place 
 was dark, but in the hall several women were standing. 
 
 Mrs. Breen "had not come home yet," the women in 
 formed her. She asked about Willy, and was told that a 
 sister of Mrs. Breen, and her husband, had been over a few 
 minutes earlier and had taken the boy with them. They 
 had left their address. Hilda took the address, but instead 
 of going to Ada s sister she went back to the factory. . : . . 
 
 It was ten o clock when she reached it. 
 
 All the side streets leading to the building were packed 
 
THE ROAD 
 
 with ambulances. The fire was in check and search was 
 now going on in the ruins for the dead. The bodies of 
 victims were being lowered from the tenth floor in rope nets. 
 
 "Were there many people burned?" a man standing 
 alongside of Hilda asked of another. 
 
 "About two hundred, they say." 
 
 Hilda felt that she was sinking, but quickly gathered her 
 strength. That was no time to lose one s self. She even 
 mustered up courage and inquired where the ambulances 
 with the dead were going. 
 
 "To the morgue," she was told, and was given instruc 
 tions how to get there. 
 
 In front of the morgue hundreds of parents, sisters, broth 
 ers, who had missed their relatives, were standing in line, 
 weeping, moaning. . . . 
 
 Hilda went up to a policeman, told him that she was 
 missing a friend, and wanted to know how soon she would 
 be permitted to search for her among the dead. 
 
 "Did you work in the factory, too?" the officer asked. 
 He was a man close to fifty, probably had daughters of 
 his own. 
 
 "Yes," Hilda said. Her mouth was twitching. 
 
 "Wait here a moment." The officer spoke softly. "The 
 sergeant is coming this way, I ll ask him. He ll probably 
 know something about it." 
 
 The sergeant knew. They had taken out of the building 
 one hundred and twenty-five bodies thus far. They expected 
 that there were another fifty there. Many of the victims 
 were in awful shape, and it would be four or five o clock 
 
FIRE AND DEATH 191 
 
 by the time the bodies would be in condition for identifi 
 cation. 
 
 Hilda thanked the officer and went home. 
 
 She went to bed without undressing. ... A dim light was 
 burning in the room. She was gazing at her child and 
 suddenly little Raymond s features began to grow, distend, 
 and the child was not little Raymond at all, but Willy, 
 Willy Breen. . . . Yes, little Raymond was Willy, and 
 she, Hilda, was not Hilda, but Ada Breen. ... It was 
 Ada who had saved herself, and she, Hilda, who was 
 dead. . . . Little Raymond was in the nursery, sleeping 
 restlessly, and would be taken to a "home" the next 
 day. . . . 
 
 Poor little Raymond. . . . Poor, dead Hilda. . . . 
 
 She jumped out of bed, turned the gas up, and then 
 went to the sink and washed her face with cold water. . . . 
 Had she been dreaming? Had her mind been wandering? 
 At any rate, she would not go to sleep any more that night. 
 ... It was two o clock. She would wait another hour 
 and then she would go to the morgue. . . . Her child al 
 ways slept through the night soundly. She would take a 
 chance on his not waking this time, too. . . . 
 
 She reached the morgue a little after four. The line of 
 relatives was passing through the gate into a big warehouse 
 which had been converted into a temporary morgue. . . . 
 The regular morgue could not hold all the victims. 
 
 Hilda was among the last to enter. People were walking 
 along the walls, searching the long lines of dead, examining 
 the bodies, holding consultations, hoping that the charred 
 
i 9 2 THE ROAD 
 
 and disfigured human beings before them might not be the 
 daughters, sons, mothers, they sought, slowly coming to the 
 realization that they were, and sinking down beside the 
 bodies in mute agony or raving despair. . . . 
 
 She recognized Mrs. Breen s mother and sister. They 
 were standing in front of something on the floor . . . some 
 thing. . . . Hilda put her hand to her eyes. . . . No, it 
 could not possibly be Ada Breen. . . . It could not. . . . 
 Ada 
 
 But it was. . . . 
 
BOOK III 
 ROAD S END 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 THE TURN 
 
 SHE was immersed in the newspapers the greater part 
 of the day Sunday. Four to five pages of each paper were 
 devoted to the fire. There were photographs of the build 
 ing with its charred and blackened windows ; of the throngs 
 of parents; relatives and friends of the victims, as they 
 stood huddled together before the morgue like frightened 
 children; of the grim lines of ambulances; and lastly, of 
 the long rows of the dead. . . . 
 
 The tone of the papers was shaky. ... It was as if 
 the newspapers, and whatever entered into their make-up, 
 the writers, the editors, had shared with the employees of 
 the Princess Waist Company the horrors of the fire, as 
 if they had faced death, had made up their minds to die, 
 and then lived to tell the tale. . . . The long, black 
 columns vibrated with fear and exhaled the breath of 
 death. . . . 
 
 Carried away by the immensity of the tragedy, some of 
 the writers were riding their pens with extreme boldness. 
 . . . They were speaking in harsh tones about neglect by 
 the city authorities, by the manufacturers. ... It was crim 
 inal to coop up human beings, women, girls, mere children, 
 ten stories above ground in the midst of inflammable mate- 
 
 195 
 
196 THE ROAD 
 
 rial. . . . Work should be brought down to earth. . . . The 
 arrangement of the factory was described: the rows upon 
 rows of machines with scant passageway between them. 
 The place had been a firetrap from the beginning. ... It 
 was a raw deal the workers were getting. . . . 
 
 Late in the afternoon Hilda went down with the child for 
 a walk. The street seemed to have become like one fam 
 ily, sharing in a common misfortune. . . . There were no 
 formalities, no introductions. People talked to one an 
 other about the fire, about the dead. . . . There was pain 
 in every face, and a smoldering resentment in every voice. 
 . . . Hardly a man in the district but had a daughter, a 
 sister, a sweetheart working in just such a factory as the 
 Princess had been, and there was no telling when their turn 
 would come. . . . 
 
 She walked from street to street. Here and there a 
 crowd was gathered before a tenement. A girl from that 
 tenement had been burned in the fire and her remains 
 had been brought home from the morgue. . . . Hilda 
 searched the faces of the men in these crowds, and it seemed 
 to her that a mighty word spoken to them and they would 
 rise. . . . They would rise in large numbers, rise by the 
 thousands in revolt against the social order. ... A mighty, 
 a powerful word. . . . But who would speak it? ... Who 
 could prove such a leader? Frank Hillstrom. . . . She was 
 thinking of Hillstrom. . . . Where was he? ... 
 
 It had been a poor Sunday for little Raymond. . . . She 
 had scarcely given him any attention, had not played with 
 him all day, and as he lingered over his supper the child 
 gazed at her with large inquisitive eyes, but without com- 
 
THE TURN 197 
 
 plaint or whimper. ... It was as if the little one felt that 
 his mother was going through a great crisis, and he, too, 
 was subdued. . . . 
 
 Hilda caught his gaze and a wave of pity and reproach 
 came over her. The child might have been a helpless or 
 phan now, a waif, and there she was not even thinking of 
 him, neglecting him. . . . She took him in her arms and 
 they clung to one another for a long time like lovers who 
 had made up after a quarrel. . . . 
 
 She devoted herself to the child the rest of the evening 
 and as she caressed his head and the somber little face that 
 was searchingly peering into her own, she became aware of 
 a change in him. ... He was older. ... He was . . . 
 Nobody would dispute it with her make her believe other 
 wise. . . . The events of the past thirty hours had had 
 their effect upon little Raymond. . . . She and her son 
 were nearer to one another, more of an age with one an 
 other. . . . Soon, soon she would have some one, if not to 
 talk to her, at least to listen to her. . . . 
 
 Just before she fell asleep worry over the future, her 
 future, their future, crowded out all else from her thoughts. 
 The fire had thrown her existence out of gear. . . . She 
 would have to look for work, look for a job again. . . . 
 
 The melancholy, the faint dread, which she invariably 
 experienced just before going out to look for a job, seized 
 her. But she shook off this mood in the next breath. . . . 
 After what had happened the previous afternoon life held 
 no more terrors for her. . . . There was nothing she would 
 be afraid to face she and her child. . . . Nothing. . . . 
 Nothing. . . . Nothing. . . . 
 
198 THE ROAD 
 
 She and her child. . . . 
 
 From force of habit she wound the clock to ring at the 
 usual hour the next morning and, once awake, she went 
 through with the customary routine, and took the child to 
 the nursery. Then she started for the factory. She wanted 
 to have one more look at it. 
 
 The elevated train was packed the same as every other 
 day. Young girls, women, men were going to work. . . . 
 Almost every one was absorbed in his newspaper in the 
 story of the fire. . . . Some of the faces were stolid. In 
 others fear was lurking. . . . Hilda had once watched a 
 man administer a lashing to his dog. The animal fled, 
 but after a little returned and, with fear still lurking in 
 its eyes, was sniffing for its master s favor. . . . 
 
 She thought of that incident as she was gazing at the girls, 
 the women, the men, on their way to work. . . . 
 
 In front of the building were crowds of the curious. On 
 their way to work people stopped and gazed up to the tenth 
 story, where in place of windows one saw only deep, black 
 holes. The fire lines had been removed. The pavement had 
 been washed clean of blood. Before the door of the build 
 ing policemen were standing. Sometime during the morn 
 ing a coroner s jury would visit the scene of the fire. . . . 
 
 Hilda looked about for some one she knew. Perhaps 
 she would find some of the girls she worked with and who 
 had escaped. But they were not there not one. . . . 
 
 There was a week s wages due her. All the employees 
 had a week s wages coming to them. She wondered how 
 the girls would go about collecting it. ... She thought 
 
THE TURN 199 
 
 about the union, Mr. Raboff. She ought to go and see 
 Raboff. The few times she had seen him he had been very 
 friendly. 
 
 She started for the headquarters of the union, but she 
 was in no hurry, and she wandered slowly through the 
 streets. It was a warm spring day, the kind of a day to 
 forget one s troubles. But there was no forgetting for 
 her. . . . 
 
 The faces she had looked for in vain in front of the 
 factory, she found at the offices of the union. The large 
 waiting room was jammed with people. The girls who 
 had saved themselves from the fire were there telling of 
 their escape to eager listeners. The aged fathers and moth 
 ers, the relatives and friends of those killed, Jews, Italians, 
 Slavs, all seemed united in the fellowship of sorrow. Some 
 were weeping, others were calling for justice and retribu 
 tion. . . . They wanted revenge on the bosses. . . . 
 
 Several girls recognized Hilda and smiled a greeting to 
 her, glad to welcome her among the living. But she had 
 no friends among them, and after straying in the crowd 
 for some time she went up to the window leading into the 
 inner office and asked to see Mr. Raboff. She gave her 
 name to the girl attendant. 
 
 Before the girl brought back the answer hasty footsteps 
 were heard behind the partition, a door sharply opened 
 and Raboff, his thin, pallid face whiter than ever, his long 
 hair disheveled, stood before her. Without a word he took 
 hold of both her hands and literally pulled her into his 
 office. 
 
 When they were seated, he gazed at her silently as one 
 
200 THE ROAD 
 
 does at a child from whom one had been separated and 
 who had changed and grown in the meantime. . . . 
 
 "I m trying to make sure," Raboff s face twitched into a 
 strange smile as he spoke, "that it s you. You see, we 
 had given you up for dead, Mrs. Raboff and I." 
 
 He produced a card, the card she had signed that sum 
 mer Sunday in the park when he first met her. Her 
 address was on it. 
 
 "I was just going to send some one over to your place 
 to see what had become of your child," he continued. "I 
 believe you have no relatives in New York. . . ." 
 
 He was silent for some moments. His forahead wrinkled 
 and the dark circles about his eyes stood out with tragic 
 sharpness. Hilda suspected he was thinking of Mrs. Breen. 
 She was preparing to describe her last moments with Ada, 
 and awaited his question. But the question was not forth 
 coming. Raboff was plunged in thought. 
 
 The noise in the waiting room was gaining in volume. 
 A girl came in and informed him that the place could not 
 hold the crowds. He gave orders to divert them to another 
 hall in the same building. 
 
 "What do they want?" Raboff suddenly turned on Hilda. 
 There was agony in his eyes. She was puzzled ; she did not 
 understand him. He continued, speaking in a racked voice: 
 
 "You saw the crowd. Not more than a fifth of them 
 belong to our organization. But be that as it may. They 
 came to us because they have faith in us, because they 
 know that we are on their side, that we stand with the 
 workers. They want something. What is it that they want? 
 What do you think they want? You are one of the people 
 
THE TURN 201 
 
 standing in the hall. You went through the fire. They are 
 hysterical and cannot talk or think coherently. But you 
 are calm. You have different blood in your veins. You 
 have more self-assurance, maybe because you were born in 
 this country. ... I appoint you a committee of one to 
 speak for them. Tell me what they want the union to do 
 for them in this crisis. . . ." 
 
 A curious feeling came over Hilda. Raboff was in dead 
 earnest. She was to think, to speak for the girls in the 
 Princess Waist Factory, for their parents; for the girls in 
 other factories. . . . Raboff was speaking once more: 
 
 "You come to the union as the patient comes to the doc 
 tor. But the patient helps the doctor make his diagnosis. 
 He tells the physician what his troubles are, describes his 
 pains and aches. Now you do as much for us. Tell us 
 what ails you in the shops, what you want, what you must 
 have. Keep in mind that we cannot restore the dead, and 
 that in practice we can give only a minimum. . . ." 
 
 There were many things in Hilda s mind, many vehement 
 words at the tip of her tongue about the injustice of so 
 ciety, about the capitalist system. . . . But Raboff was a 
 socialist, he had told her so, and he was asking for the 
 minimum. . . . She recalled her trip that morning; the ele 
 vated train. It had been crowded as usual. People had 
 to eat, to live and they overcame their fear and went to 
 work. What was the first thing those people needed? What 
 would help them most? She overcame a dryness in her 
 throat and spoke: 
 
 "The first thing to do, I should say, is to make the shops 
 safe. , . ." 
 
202 THE ROAD 
 
 Raboff s face lighted up. 
 
 "Stop right there/ he cried, "say no more. You ve hit 
 the problem. Make the shops safe that is a practical 
 answer, an American answer, I might say, straight to the 
 point. That s what the union will attempt. That s prob 
 ably what it may be able to achieve. . . ." 
 
 He was reflecting for some moments and Hilda waited. 
 He again spoke up abruptly: 
 
 "I want you to work with us, here, in the office." 
 
 Her breath was short. She stammered something about 
 not being prepared for office work. Raboff picked up the 
 card upon which her name and address was written in a 
 very clear, legible hand. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you are prepared." He spoke with assurance. 
 "Don t worry about that. We need you, we have work for 
 you. Can you start right away? You haven t anything 
 you must do now, this morning?" 
 
 No, there was nothing she had to do that morning. Hilda 
 was in a daze. 
 
 "Send in Miss Wald," he spoke into the receiver. 
 
 Miss Wald entered a tall, dark Jewish girl and he told 
 her that Mrs. Thorsen was to work with them. Miss Wald 
 might start her with the usual office routine now, but later 
 Mrs. Thorsen would have most to do with the "Making the 
 Shops Safe" campaign which the union was inaugurating. 
 
 As Hilda rose to follow the office manager into the next 
 room, Raboff also rose, and shook hands with her. 
 
 "Good luck to us," he smiled. 
 
 Hilda was on the verge of tears. Deep in her heart 
 a feeling of shame was stirring. Did the union really need 
 
THE TURN 203 
 
 her, she was wondering, or was Mr. Raboff trying to atone 
 for some neglect? . . . Was it Mrs. Breen s death that was 
 on his conscience the fact that Ada could not, or would 
 not, take a position with the union; the fact that she had 
 avoided contact with her former friends? She felt that 
 Ada belonged in the place which she, Hilda, was getting. 
 She was profiting by her friend s death. . . . 
 
 The dead were buried. More than one hundred thousand 
 people participated in the demonstration which followed 
 the funeral. The newspapers treated the affair with the 
 utmost respect. ... In the evening a large mass meeting 
 was held in Carnegie Hall. It was not a labor gathering, 
 but a mass meeting of leading citizens. The city paying 
 its tribute to the dead so the newspapers announced. 
 
 The meeting was addressed by a bishop, a senator, a 
 banker. Much fine oratory flowed. The senator quoted 
 Abraham Lincoln on the dignity of Labor with strong 
 effect. The bishop dwelt on the life and precepts of the 
 Carpenter of Galilee and called upon the world to rededi- 
 cate itself to the task of brotherhood which He had preached 
 and for which He had died. . . . 
 
 The banker, who had come to America as an immigrant 
 and had himself once worked in a factory, addressed the 
 workers as "sisters and brothers" and praised their nobility 
 of heart. From praise of the workers he turned to praise 
 of the country. He began extolling America for the won 
 derful opportunities she offers to all, for making no distinc 
 tion between rich and poor and 
 
 The banker suddenly realized that he had been carried 
 
204 THE ROAD 
 
 away by his own voice, that it was not a Fourth of July 
 gathering, that his remarks were not appropriate to the 
 occasion. He stuttered a few unintelligible phrases and 
 burst into tears, drawing a great deal of applause 
 thereby. . . . 
 
 Hilda sat in a box with Mrs. Raboff and one or two 
 other labor leaders and their wives. She had paid a quar 
 ter of a dollar to her neighbor s girl to sit through that 
 evening with the child, so that she, Hilda, could go to 
 the meeting. Toward the close Hillstrom, who had come 
 to New York the same day that Hilda took up her work 
 with the union, but of whom she had had only a fleeting 
 glimpse thus far, came up and sat down beside her. When 
 the meeting was over he walked home with her. 
 
 She asked him whether he thought the meeting would 
 do any good. 
 
 "Words, words," Hillstrom said, with a deprecating wave 
 of his hands. "We are the greatest nation for words, for 
 making speeches, promises which we have no intention to 
 fulfil. If one- tenth of the beautiful sentiments the speakers 
 have uttered this evening were carried out, we could stop 
 agitating for socialism to-morrow. The world would be a 
 Garden of Eden without it. All differences and injustices 
 would be wiped out and the Golden Rule enthroned. 
 
 "But not a word of what has been said to-night will be 
 put into effect, will be carried out at least not by those 
 who said it. As speaker after speaker, well fed, well 
 groomed, and trained in the art of oratory, in the trick of 
 carrying away his audience, went on with his frenzied pero 
 ration to-night, I was looking upon the walls of Carnegie 
 
THE TURN 205 
 
 Hall. How cynical those walls must be of us people, both 
 of those who do the fooling, and of those who let them 
 selves be fooled." 
 
 They walked on silently for some time. 
 
 "But there is some good in these speeches, after all," 
 Hillstrom resumed. "Society is indicting itself, our civiliza 
 tion is indicting itself in those speeches. It is making damag 
 ing admissions about its injustices, about its incapacity to 
 divide the loaf of human happiness fairly among all. . . . 
 These admissions may be forgotten for the moment, but 
 they will not be lost. . . . They are like promissory notes. 
 They may be long term notes, but they will be paid. If 
 we do not collect them, the generation that follows us will. 
 And woe to the masters on that day of reckoning! . . ." 
 
 They had reached the tenement where Hilda lived. Hill- 
 Strom recalled it. 
 
 "You remember," he said, "we were going to have a pop 
 corn party some evening." 
 
 Hilda remembered. She had been waiting for him to 
 come, but the textile strike had come along just then. 
 
 "Yes," he reflected, "I really shouldn t make any appoint 
 ments or promises. I never can tell whether I ll be able to 
 keep em. I am like the weathervane, turning with the 
 winds, the social winds, strikes, trouble. . . ." 
 
 "It s an interesting life, anyway," Hilda said with a sigh. 
 
 Hillstrom sought to penetrate her with his gaze. It was 
 the first time she had dropped a hint about her personal 
 affairs. He had been wondering about her life. He judged 
 that her past, like his own, was a book sealed with seven 
 seals. 
 
206 THE ROAD 
 
 "Yes," he said, "it keeps you on the move, and that s good 
 for a character like myself. . . ." 
 
 "I suppose," he continued with a smile in which Hilda 
 read an immense lot of pathos, "I suppose I am a Mephis- 
 topheles of a kind. I have broken away from the bourgeois 
 heaven from which I sprung. I despise it. It s good for 
 me to keep busy, to keep roving from one end of the coun 
 try to the other. . . . 
 
 "But we shall have our popcorn party yet." He suddenly 
 brightened up. "We shall have it soon, as soon as the 
 union has reached some definite decision with regard to the 
 campaign for making the shops safe." 
 
 "Decision?" Hilda repeated. "I did not know that the 
 union had gone that far with any plan." 
 
 "I have talked to Raboff and to the other union leaders 
 to-day," Hillstrom affirmed, "and I laid some plans before 
 them. The safety of the workers, to my mind, is a mat 
 ter for the workers themselves to look after. Let every 
 worker report the conditions in his or her shop to the 
 union, and let the union report the unsafe shops to the 
 authorities and force them to action." 
 
 The call which the union issued to the workers in the 
 next few days embodied the ideas set forth by Frank 
 Hillstrom. By the end of the week hundreds of complaints 
 against unsafe shops had come in. Hilda was assigned to 
 keep track of these complaints. At the end of a month 
 she was working with two assistants. 
 
 During the summer the campaign had grown too big 
 for the union to handle. A Shop Safety Committee was 
 organized to take over this work. The committee was to 
 
THE TURN 207 
 
 have separate offices and was to employ ten factory in 
 spectors. Hilda, because of her affiliation with the cam 
 paign from the beginning, was among the first to be offered 
 a place with this committee. She accepted. 
 
 It was on a Saturday afternoon in September that Hilda 
 cleared her desk in the office of the Waist Workers Union 
 for the last time. Mr. Raboff and the other officials were 
 absent and the girls, including the office manager, Miss 
 Wald, gathered about her and talked with restrained ex 
 citement. 
 
 They looked upon Hilda with the same enigmatic ques 
 tioning with which they had met her five months earlier 
 when she first came to work among them. Then Hilda 
 had come out of the factory into a sixty dollar a month 
 office job. Now she was leaving this job for one that 
 would pay her one hundred dollars a month. With the 
 increased salary would come a corresponding prestige. She 
 was making a place for herself in the labor movement. 
 
 For a while Hilda shared their excitement. The feeling 
 of power was pleasant, and she had acquired power power 
 over herself. She had mastered the office routine to the 
 last detail in those five months. Though her work did not 
 call for it, she had cultivated the typewriter and in her 
 spare hours she was studying stenography, which had been 
 the goal of her girlhood dreams. . . . She could go out 
 and get an office job anywhere now. 
 
 But the feeling of excitement soon subsided and in its 
 place came a melancholy brooding over the turn her life 
 had taken. ... It was Raymond who had converted her 
 
208 THE ROAD 
 
 vague dreaming about office work into an ardent wish. 
 Work in an office instead of in a factory, he had once told 
 her, would make a great difference in her life, in her social 
 status. . . . She had then believed in social status had 
 looked up to wealth and to power. . . . Then the job which 
 was now hers, an office job, would have evoked dreams of 
 an ambitious marriage, of luxury, ease, of afternoon teas, 
 bazaars, philanthropic entertainments. . . . 
 
 All these things meant nothing to her now. She was in 
 fact the sworn enemy of these things, of the people who 
 indulged in them. . . . She was the enemy of the civilization 
 which fostered these social castes and parasites. She and 
 that civilization were definitely at war, were arrayed on 
 opposite sides of the barricades. . . . 
 
 Her new job, she felt, would rest heavy on her shoulders. 
 She would pay dearly for the extra comforts she would de 
 rive from it. She would never quite free herself from the 
 feeling of apology, of guilt to those whom she had left 
 below to the hundreds of girls who had died in the factory 
 fire, to the thousands upon thousands of others who were 
 exposing themselves daily to similar deaths and dangers. 
 . . . She was no better than they. She had no more rights 
 than they, was deserving of no greater privileges. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 THE UNCHARTED ROAD 
 
 LITTLE Raymond, dressed in a blue velvet suit, his face 
 washed and his hair combed, stepped into the dining room 
 and looked furtively about. The table, with the electric 
 chandelier hanging over it, the walls covered in part with 
 green cloth, in part hung with pictures, the steam radiators, 
 hissing and puffing, all interested and puzzled his childish 
 imagination. They were all so new. 
 
 The woman, who a short time earlier had washed and 
 dressed him, was flitting back and forth between the dining 
 room and the kitchen; she was setting the table. Every 
 time she passed she smiled at him or tapped him on the 
 head playfully. Little Raymond liked the woman, but 
 she was not his mother and he was wondering how soon 
 his mother would come. 
 
 Presently there was a ring and he ran into the hall. 
 Two women came in; his mother was not among them. 
 One of the women said "Hello" to him indifferently, as if 
 he were a grown person. The other lifted him up to her 
 face, gazed at him pleasantly and kissed his cheek. He 
 was looking at her heavy, black-rimmed spectacles. ... Be 
 hind the glasses the woman had eyes just like every one 
 else, and he was wondering why she covered them with 
 such strange things. . . . The woman was talking to him 
 
 209 
 
210 THE ROAD 
 
 in baby language which he had already outgrown and he 
 was not listening to her. 
 
 There was another ring. Little Raymond gave a leap, 
 and had not the woman tightened her arms about him, 
 he would have fallen to the floor. She went into the hall 
 with him. It was his mother. The young woman surren 
 dered him to Hilda and he clamped his arms about his 
 mother s neck, as if he had just saved himself from great 
 danger. 
 
 There were more rings at the door. More women came, 
 but Raymond paid no attention to them now. He had his 
 mother; that was all he needed. 
 
 The young women went each to her room and he and 
 his mother went into their room. His mother changed 
 her clothes and was fixing her hair before the mirror. He 
 wondered why she was doing this and who the woman 
 was who had dressed him and was now cooking their sup 
 per in the kitchen. . . . 
 
 He met the young women, including the one with the 
 spectacles, who had held him in her arms, at the table. 
 Between this young woman and his mother a place had 
 been made for him and he was sitting in a nice, new high 
 chair. The woman who had dressed and washed him and 
 who had been cooking their dinner, now served the meal. 
 He was served; his mother, too, was served. ... He meant 
 to ask her about this. ... But there were many things 
 to ask about and the questions were crowding on each 
 other. . . . Besides there were so many strange people at 
 the table, and he was shy. . . . 
 
 It was just as well little Raymond did not embarrass 
 
THE UNCHARTED ROAD 211 
 
 his mother with questions. Hilda was busy with her own 
 thoughts. The change in her surroundings was as strange 
 and puzzling to her as it was to the child, though from 
 a different angle. 
 
 Like everything else in her life, both good and bad, it 
 came with unlooked-for suddenness. She was asked one 
 day at the office for her telephone number. She had none 
 and was advised to change her residence. It was impor 
 tant that one should be able to reach her over the phone. 
 Several other young women, it turned out, had no tele 
 phones. One of these was Mollie Evans, a Denver girl, 
 who was always brimming over with exuberance and plans. 
 Miss Evans came out with an idea: a cooperative apart 
 ment. 
 
 A chum of Miss Evans, Norma Heath, although she was 
 not with the Shop Safety Committee, and had a telephone, 
 joined in the project. There were four of them. They 
 needed five, and Mollie Evans determined upon Hilda as 
 the fifth. 
 
 Hilda recoiled from the suggestion. She had become 
 accustomed to the privacy of her two rooms felt safe 
 in them. The prospect of being thrown together with other 
 people frightened her; especially such people as Mollie 
 Evans and her friends. They came from wealthy homes 
 and had all been to college. The places they lived in 
 on Washington Square they called studios. . . . They car 
 ried books with them most of the time, a volume of Shaw, 
 Dunsany, Galsworthy. None of them lived on their earn 
 ings; they were getting allowances from home. 
 
 She made excuses. She would probably not be a desir- 
 
212 THE ROAD 
 
 able tenant. She had a child, and a child gave a good deal 
 of trouble in a house. 
 
 Mollie Evans dismissed most of Hilda s objections as 
 irrelevant. As for the child, far from being a drawback, 
 he was an asset in Miss Evans eyes. She beamed with 
 enthusiasm at the thought of having a child in their midst. 
 It was just what they needed to make the place a real 
 home. . . . And they needed Mrs. Thorsen. . . . They 
 needed her practical knowledge of the working people. . . . 
 All they knew of the labor movement was what they had 
 got from books, what the professor had told them in col 
 lege. . . . Mrs. Thorsen, on the other hand, was directly 
 connected with the masses. ... It would be selfish of her 
 not to share her experience with them. . . . 
 
 There seemed to be no way out. Besides, finding a proper 
 place for herself and the child was no easy matter for Hilda. 
 And Miss Evans and the girls were really considerate. 
 There were several day nurseries for the children of "pro 
 fessional" working women in the Washington Square district. 
 They would look for a flat in the proximity of one of these 
 nurseries. Hilda agreed, and within a month the cooperative 
 home came into being. 
 
 It was a six-room flat just off Washington Square and was 
 but eight or ten minutes walk from their place of work. 
 Miss Evans sponsored the idea of taking in a woman to 
 keep house for them. Their lunches and dinners at home 
 would more than pay the cost of maintaining a house 
 keeper. Miss Heath was an enthusiastic second, and a 
 housekeeper was hired. 
 
 This was the first Saturday evening in the new menage, 
 
THE UNCHARTED ROAD 213 
 
 their first "state dinner/ as Miss Evans called it. It was 
 to be followed by a party later in the evening, to which 
 the girls had invited some of their friends. The girls 
 praised the cooking, and altogether they agreed that the 
 dinner made them feel very much like home. 
 
 To Hilda, however, the taste of the dinner was lost in 
 troubled reflections. It was hard for her to harmonize her 
 old self with her new surroundings, to reconcile her socialist 
 principles with the distinctly bourgeois flavor of the place. 
 She was being served, she who believed in no servants. . . . 
 Whither was it leading? Where would it end? 
 
 "You look tired, Mrs. Thorsen; you must ve had a hard 
 day," Miss Heath spoke up. 
 
 It was Miss Heath who wore the black-rimmed glasses 
 that had so greatly interested and perplexed little Ray 
 mond. 
 
 Hilda gave an affirmative nod. She was glad Miss Heath s 
 question carried its own answer. She wasn t in the mood 
 to talk just then. 
 
 But Martha Wagner, another of the girls who shared in 
 the cooperative experiment, was. Miss Wagner hailed from 
 Cincinnati. She boasted of revolutionary traditions, her 
 grandfather having participated in the German revolution 
 of 1848. 
 
 Miss Wagner plunged into a vivid description of her day s 
 experiences. She had visited sixteen factories in all. In 
 more than half of them the aisles to the fire escapes were 
 blocked. She had had a time of it with some of the manu 
 facturers before she convinced them that all exits must be 
 cleared and must stay clear and accessible at all times. 
 
214 THE ROAD 
 
 "I never knew I had feet until to-day," Miss Wagner 
 concluded. "To-day my feet seemed to be ninety-nine per 
 cent of me." 
 
 Harriet Adams, the last girl in the group, followed with 
 an account of her experiences. 
 
 Miss Adams was the daughter of a rich leather manu 
 facturer in St. Louis. Upon graduating from college three 
 years earlier she had come to New York with the intention 
 of embarking upon a literary and artistic career. She had 
 practised verse writing in college and knew something about 
 illustrating. Her illustrating she discarded early; she could 
 do nothing with it. To versification Miss Adams clung and 
 had some half dozen of her poems printed. In the mean 
 time she had become interested in socialism, the labor 
 movement, and woman suffrage. She took the job of fac 
 tory inspector for the experience that was in it, the things 
 it might lead up to, as she put it. 
 
 Her story was cut short by a ring at the door. A young 
 man in a sweater and without a hat entered. He was an 
 architect living on the floor below. Villard Spence was 
 his name. 
 
 Several other young men and one young woman came 
 within the next half hour. The woman was Florence Mead, 
 a California girl. She was short and stocky, with blue eyes 
 and large lashes that were always drooping, as if she were 
 forever listening to some one declaring himself in love 
 to her. 
 
 Of the men, Stephen Young was an artist. Cliff Gordon 
 was the editor of a labor news syndicate, and Herbert Kar- 
 sten, a man of thirty, with an intelligent but none too ener- 
 
THE UNCHARTED ROAD 215 
 
 getic face, was the secretary of an organization whose object 
 it was to promote manual training among colored children. 
 
 It was time for little Raymond to be sleeping and Hilda 
 excused herself and left the room. When she came back 
 the entire company was cozily ensconced in chairs, sofas, 
 settees. Miss Heath was serving Russian tea, in glasses, 
 and with lemon. Miss Adams and Mr. Karsten made room 
 for Hilda on a couch beside them. 
 
 The conversation was animated. They talked of Ber 
 nard Shaw, Sidney Webb, and Havelock Ellis; socialism, 
 individualism, free love; the right to one s convictions, to 
 do as one pleased, to live as one saw fit. 
 
 Miss Adams slipped her hand through Hilda s arm, leaned 
 against her shoulder, and sat listening. Hilda too listened. 
 . . . She was thinking of Hillstrom. What would he say 
 to her new associations? What would he have thought 
 about the conversation? He had visited her a number 
 of times that summer and never once had the question of 
 free love come up in their talks. . . . 
 
 She was drawing a comparison between Hillstrom and 
 these men. She had never seen Hillstrom striving for effect. 
 He did not talk to make an impression. There was a com 
 plete absence of pose in him. Ada, too, had been entirely 
 free from that trait. . . . 
 
 She became absorbed in memories and recollections of 
 her friends, the dead Ada, the restless, roaming Hillstrom. 
 She was wondering how soon he would show up in New 
 York again. She was craving for a talk with him. Such 
 a talk would clear things for her, would bring definiteness 
 into her thoughts. . . . 
 
216 THE ROAD 
 
 The conversation finally settled upon Russia, Russian 
 men, Russian women the frank, open way they had of 
 meeting, discussing questionings of love, of sex. It drifted 
 to Russian literature. 
 
 Villard Spence, the architect, was talking about Turgenev, 
 his heroes, his characters, and Hilda pricked up her ears. 
 She had read every one of the half-dozen volumes of 
 Turgenev which her friend, Ada Breen, had had. She had 
 read an essay on the writer, on Russian life in general, with 
 which one of the volumes was prefaced. 
 
 "What troubles me about Turgenev, about his charac 
 ters," Spence was saying, "is that they are not men of 
 action. They get nowhere. They are noble, they are fine, 
 when they dream, but they are helpless and miserable when 
 they attempt to convert their dreams into reality. They 
 plan to free their country from despotism and autocracy and 
 end by going to seed themselves, while the despotism goes 
 flourishing on. They plan revolution and end with suicide. 
 The best Rudin can do is to throw away his life aimlessly 
 on a barricade in Paris. The Nihilist, Bazarov, at the 
 threshold of what should have been a vigorous, active life 
 in behalf of the oppressed Russian people, indifferently, 
 almost willingly walks into death. . . ." 
 
 "And you hold it against them that they dream, but get 
 nowhere?" Hilda asked. 
 
 "Yes," the architect replied. 
 
 "What you demand then is that men live up to their 
 dreams, that they put their ideals into practice?" 
 
 "Why yes." Spence was gazing at Hilda uneasily as one 
 does upon an unknown adversary. Hilda persisted: 
 
THE UNCHARTED ROAD 217 
 
 "But suppose action is not possible? Suppose the time 
 is not propitious, not yet ripe for action?" 
 
 "I don t know as I follow you/ Spence said vaguely. 
 
 "Very well, let us take the two characters of Turgenev 
 you have mentioned, Rudin and Bazarov," Hilda continued. 
 "Who were they? They were two young idealists whose eyes 
 have been opened to certain wrongs and injustices in Rus 
 sia, in their country s life and institutions. They would 
 like to see things different, to change things. But there are 
 few of them. Russia is a country of one hundred and 
 sixty millions, and these millions are ignorant, inert, blind. 
 . . . What can these few idealists do except talk, agitate, 
 arouse an individual here and there to think as they 
 do? 
 
 "And why talk of Russia, why not talk about our own 
 country?" Hilda s voice rose. "We have in this country 
 a capitalist oligarchy that oppresses the American workman 
 the same as Russia s political autocracy oppresses the Rus 
 sian peasant. And we have men in America, idealists, who 
 see this industrial autocracy, who would like to overthrow 
 it. But these men are as few in America as the Rudins 
 and Bazarovs in their day were in Russia. The mass of 
 the workingmen in America are as blind to the cause of 
 their oppression as the mass of Russian peasantry was blind 
 to the cause of its oppression. About all our idealists can 
 do for the present is to talk and agitate. Should they be 
 condemned because they merely dream of a better day for 
 the working class of America without being able to usher 
 in that day? I don t think so. I respect any one who has 
 the courage to dream of a better world. The men of action 
 
2i8 THE ROAD 
 
 of to-morrow will derive their strength from the men of 
 dreams of to-day." 
 
 "You dear, you talk wonderfully." Miss Adams threw 
 her arms about Hilda when she had finished. All the girls 
 crowded about her. Miss Evans was "immensely proud" of 
 her. Miss Heath wanted to know if she knew personally 
 many such American idealists; it would be nice to invite 
 them to the house some time. Mr. Karsten, the man who 
 was interested in the spreading of manual training among 
 negroes, did not take his eyes off Hilda the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 When she was in her room alone Hilda thought of what 
 a queer turn her life had taken. What was she doing 
 among these young women, and what were they, these girls 
 from the colleges, doing in New York? What was it missing 
 in their lives that they were seeking to find in the labor 
 movement? What could the labor movement do for them? 
 What could they do for it? 
 
 In spite of their professions of seriousness, Hilda was 
 finding it impossible to take these girls seriously. There 
 was a lack of conviction in all they said. It was not 
 insincerity. The girls were quite sincere. It was the fact 
 that their grievances were not their own. They were decry 
 ing wrongs which they had not themselves suffered. They 
 were denouncing oppressions which they had not experienced. 
 They were not working women. Their revolt came from 
 the brain, not from the heart. . . . 
 
 Yes, what was she doing among them? 
 
 The more she viewed her life, the events of the past 
 
THE UNCHARTED ROAD 219 
 
 months, weeks, the more she felt that she was going along 
 an uncharted road. . . . 
 
 She was thinking over the incidents of the evening. Why 
 had she spoken as she did? Was it because Villard Spence 
 had reminded her so much of Raymond Evert? They did 
 not look alike, but they had so many things in common. 
 In the first place, the two were of the same age. Then 
 there was the same brilliance of expression and the evident 
 lack of strength behind it. That, too, they seemed to have 
 in common. 
 
 Was it with Raymond rather than with the architect 
 who she scarcely knew that she had semi-consciously taken 
 issue that evening? Was it to Raymond that she was 
 trying to show that she had read and understood; that 
 she could explain herself, could defend her views? . . . Was 
 it? ... 
 
 Raymond. . . . 
 
 The girls began taking their troubles to Hilda. At first 
 they came for advice. Though she was of an age with most 
 of them, they looked upon her as older. She was more 
 experienced. She had been married, had had a child. . . \ 
 Later they began coming to her for comfort. She had a 
 way of lightening one s burdens with a word, with a look, 
 they found. 
 
 They were telling her about their families, the beautiful 
 homes they had left to come to New York, the chances for 
 a life of comfort they were fleeing from in order to at 
 tain a vague and illusive something which they themselves 
 
220 THE ROAD 
 
 were unable to define clearly, to picture. . . . Sometimes 
 they called this vague something they were striving after in 
 dependence. Sometimes they called it feminism. Sometimes 
 they called it freedom, freedom from restraint, freedom 
 from conventions, freedom from the idleness and uselessness 
 to which women of their class were condemned. . . . 
 
 Hilda grew sympathetic toward them. . . . They too were 
 traveling along uncharted roads. . . . Only their goals were 
 different. ... It was freedom for herself, personal freedom 
 in some degree, in varying degrees, each of these young 
 women was seeking. It was freedom for all, a free world, 
 Hilda was dreaming of. ... 
 
 The girls spoke to Hilda of being hard and uncompromis 
 ing, of fighting to a finish. She listened to them as a mother 
 listens to a tired, sleepy child babbling things which he will 
 forget in the morning. . . . 
 
 The problems of some of the girls were real. Others were 
 magnifying into problems trifles such as she, Hilda, would 
 have settled with a thought. Mature women, worldly wise 
 in many ways, they were like children, helpless in some of 
 life s simplest situations. 
 
 As for the revolutionary propensities of these girls, Hilda 
 had learned to discount them completely. A cup of hot 
 chocolate when they were tired, she noticed, and their mood 
 of revolt, of abandon, would melt away. . . . 
 
 Miss Heath was voted by the girls as the cleverest and 
 most businesslike among them. Norma had been in New 
 York longer than any of them, nearly three years, and had 
 an insight into many of the city s and the country s prob 
 lems. Also she had decided opinions on things. She had 
 
THE UNCHARTED ROAD 221 
 
 the reputation of one not afraid to look facts in the face. 
 
 "I don t know where I m going, but I m on my way," she 
 once said to Hilda, with a nervous laugh. 
 
 It was late on a Sunday afternoon and the two were alone 
 in the house. A snowstorm was howling outside. Little 
 Raymond, after playing for a long time by himself, had 
 fallen asleep. Norma had just finished telling Hilda about 
 her home in Denver. She had shown her a letter from 
 a man there, a banker, who had been after her for three 
 years to marry him, but whom she had repeatedly turned 
 down. The world was so full of stirring ideas, of big, beau 
 tiful aims, that she could not make up her mind to surrender 
 herself to the sort of an existence which her position as the 
 wife of a banker in a priggish, self-satisfied social circle 
 would call for. 
 
 The man, she confided, was twelve years older than her 
 self. 
 
 "I don t know as any of us know exactly where we re 
 going," Hilda reflected. "It s the age we re living in, the 
 times that make us so." 
 
 "You are such a restful person," Norma said, rubbing 
 her cheek against Hilda s arm. "You re so composed and 
 self-reliant. And yet you don t mind my saying it you re 
 not materially as well off as any of us. You have no wealthy 
 parents, no family to fall back on. I wonder if it s the 
 baby that gives you so much poise, so much strength?" 
 
 "I m not as contented as I may appear." Hilda s voice 
 was melancholy. "But I am composed, I presume. I have 
 learned self-control. Life has knocked it into me. Life. . . . 
 It has been hard at times. , . 
 
222 THE ROAD 
 
 "Of course," she added, after a silence, "a child does make 
 a big change in one, a big change. . . ." 
 
 "It must be wonderful to have a child," Miss Heath re 
 flected dreamily. "If only the father, the husband, did not 
 go with it. ... 
 
 "I love children, but I hate the race of husbands," she 
 added bitterly. 
 
 Miss Heath had turned her eyes away and Hilda could 
 not see her gaze. But her face was twitching, and Hilda 
 wondered what tragedy in her own life Norma was think 
 ing of. 
 
 "I don t know how it all appears to you," Norma 
 resumed after a little, and her voice rang old and disillu 
 sioned, "but to me this life of ours, which most of us pre 
 tend is independence, emancipation I mean this cutting 
 one s hair, this smoking, wearing men s shoes, and here and 
 there even adopting men s standard of morality, or rather, 
 immorality to me all this is a pitiful illusion. It is not 
 freedom, it is not emancipation. It is not even an approach 
 to it. It is only the prisoner beating against his prison 
 door. 
 
 "It isn t defying prejudices and breaking conventions by 
 a hundred women, or a thousand, or ten thousand, that will 
 set woman free," she continued. "The independence of 
 woman will not be achieved short of revolution a revolu 
 tion in the relations between men and women. Woman will 
 not be free until she has achieved the right to motherhood, 
 until her right to have a child, whether conforming to con 
 vention or not, whether in wedlock or out of wedlock, is as 
 unquestioned as her right to live. If this should sound the 
 
THE UNCHARTED ROAD 223 
 
 death knell of the present marriage institution, let it. If 
 the institution of marriage is incompatible with the freedom 
 of woman, let it go down before it." 
 
 Hilda did not answer. The marriage institution was the 
 one thing she could never bring herself to speak about. 
 Whenever marriage, the family, came under discussion and 
 it came often she maintained a shy, depressive silence. 
 
 Miss Heath took her hand. It was trembling. Hilda 
 was wondering whether the young woman beside her might 
 guess the reason for her silence, for her trembling. . . . 
 
 Several months later on an evening in June, Norma came 
 home in the company of a correctly dressed, correct looking, 
 tall, thinnish man. He was forty years old. His nonde 
 script hair was thin on the top of his head and gray at the 
 temples. It was the banker from Denver. Norma intro 
 duced him as her fiance. 
 
 In the presence of this man the girls dropped their slouchy 
 and somewhat challenging conduct, like children in the 
 presence of their school principal, or the Sunday-school su 
 perintendent. They sat straight in their chairs, forgot their 
 cigarettes. Harriet Adams seemed conscious of her bobbed 
 hair, at which the man was gazing with an air that seemed 
 to say: "I reserve decision on this point; I have not had 
 time to make up my mind yet." 
 
 Miss Heath talked with assumed gaiety and the girls 
 readily and quite deftly fell into that mood. To Hilda 
 it seemed as if every one of them had suddenly put on 
 a mask. 
 
 Sharply at ten o clock the man took his leave to go to 
 
224 THE ROAD 
 
 the hotel. Nor ma went down the stairs with him to the 
 sidewalk. She came up again after a few minutes, went 
 into Hilda s room, and sat down beside her on the bed. 
 Both were silent for some minutes. 
 
 Suddenly Norma sought Hilda s hand, took it in her 
 own, patted it, and began speaking in detached, broken 
 phrases: 
 
 "You are not angry with me ... after what I ve said 
 about marriage . . . about freedom ... to be crawling 
 under the old family blanket of respectability. ... I have 
 not changed my views ... I still believe in those ideas. 
 ... I do. ... But I can t fight for them. ... I was 
 not brought up for sustained work. . . . For drudgery. . . . 
 I must have warmth. . . . Comfort. . . ." 
 
 Hilda sat unmoved. Her features were tense. Norma 
 threw her arms about her companion s neck. 
 
 "Why am I not as strong as you, Hilda?" she wept. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 FEARS AND HOPES 
 
 THE attendant at the desk, a nurse in the forties, ran 
 through a list of names. 
 
 "Raymond Thorsen?" she said. "Yes, you can see him 
 to-day. Will you wait, please?" 
 
 Hilda took a seat. It was easy to be patient now. The 
 child was able to leave his bed. He was out of danger. 
 She was speculating as to how he looked. The four and 
 a half weeks at the hospital must have thinned him con 
 siderably. Would the scarlet rashes still show? How near 
 would she be allowed to get to him? They were so strict 
 with the isolation cases. 
 
 A nurse took her around to the rear of the building. In 
 the windows on the first and second floor children were 
 standing. In the yard below their mothers were looking 
 up to them, motioning, talking. The nurse pointed to two 
 windows on the first floor. 
 
 In a few minutes little Raymond appeared in one of 
 them. The bathrobe and slippers he wore were too large 
 for him. He put his hands against the glass window, 
 as if to prop himself, and stood peering into the yard. He 
 apparently did not recognize his mother at once. 
 
 Hilda saw him as if through a mist. Raymond s light, 
 
 225 
 
226 THE ROAD 
 
 wavy hair had been cut off, and this, together with the 
 effects of his sickness, seemed to have reduced his face to 
 half its former proportions. His ears stood out sharp and 
 big; his neck had become thin and sallow. 
 
 She was talking to him, asking him how he felt, but 
 her voice did not carry. The child looked puzzled. He 
 began to mumble something, his face quivered, and he burst 
 into tears. 
 
 She had brought some toys with her, a rubber balloon 
 and other things, and she showed them to him, motioning 
 that she would have them brought to him soon. The child 
 brightened up and smiled. . . . 
 
 She had intended to stay at least half an hour in front 
 of the window and look at him look, look. . . . She was 
 seeing him for the first time since his illness. . . . But little 
 Raymond was holding himself on his thin, weak legs with 
 difficulty, and taking a last long look at her son, Hilda 
 threw a kiss at him and ran before the child fully realized 
 that she was going away. . . . 
 
 In the office she was told that her boy would not be 
 released for two and a half or three weeks yet. They took 
 no chances with scarlet fever cases. The nurse who took 
 the toys from her for the child advised her that she had 
 better calculate on three weeks. It would take fully that 
 long before he would be entirely well. 
 
 Even three weeks Hilda figured would bring the child 
 home almost a week before his birthday his fifth birth 
 day. . . . 
 
 All the way home she was planning little Raymond s 
 birthday party, the surprises she would make him. She 
 
FEARS AND HOPES 227 
 
 was glad summer was ahead. He would recuperate quickly. 
 She would see that he did. She would take him to the 
 park every evening, and along the Hudson. She would 
 take him on the bus; he liked bus rides. His hair would 
 grow out, and he would have the same beautiful head again. 
 Yes, he would. . . . Her child. . . . Her all. ... She 
 cried and laughed by turns. 
 
 Hilda was sharing a four-room apartment with a middle- 
 aged woman who worked as a proofreader, and the latter s 
 daughter, a schoolgirl of fifteen. The experiment of run 
 ning a cooperative apartment with Miss Evans and the other 
 girls had come to an end nearly two years earlier, and only 
 a short time after Miss Heath had left for Denver to be 
 married. 
 
 Many things had happened in those two years, much 
 had been changed. Hilda was still with the Shop Safety 
 Committee, but instead of climbing stairs and inspecting fac 
 tories she was working inside. She was in charge of the 
 office now. 
 
 Of the other young women with whom she had started 
 work, only one or two still clung to their jobs. The rest 
 had left the committee. Miss Evans had accepted a place 
 with the woman suffrage party. She was organizer at first 
 and now had become one of the big leaders of the move 
 ment. . . . She made speeches and figured in the news 
 papers frequently. 
 
 Harriet Adams was peeved that the job of organizer 
 had been offered to Miss Evans and not to herself they 
 were both equally active for suffrage and withdrew entirely 
 
228 THE ROAD 
 
 from politics, as she put it. She resigned her job with the 
 Safety Committee and turned her attention once more 
 to writing. After a brief trial in that direction, however, 
 she discovered that what she was really interested in was 
 psychoanalysis, and turned to that. Thereafter Hilda saw 
 her rarely. 
 
 Florence Mead, their California friend, had entered into 
 a free love union with an illustrator some three or four 
 years younger than herself. They told their friends that 
 they were very happy. A child came, but died three days 
 after it was born. Miss Mead did not cease talking about 
 the child. Her artist husband claimed he was heartbroken 
 over the death of the little one. . . . Nevertheless, at the 
 end of six weeks, when Florence was quite well again, she 
 took separate living quarters. Shortly after that she parted 
 from her artist husband entirely and went back to Cali 
 fornia. 
 
 Hilda had during that time been offered a number of 
 positions. Two overtures came from international unions, 
 big labor organizations, who wanted her to be organizer for 
 them. She turned these jobs down. They would take her 
 away from her child evenings. Also these jobs would 
 require her to make speeches, and she had a secret dread 
 of stepping upon a platform and standing up before a 
 crowd. . . . 
 
 With the breaking up of the cooperative apartment there 
 was an end to the talk-fests, as the frequent gatherings in 
 the house came to be known. But Hilda was not without 
 friends. Many of her woman acquaintances were in the 
 habit of looking in on her when they wanted a sensible 
 
FEARS AND HOPES 229 
 
 talk, as they put it. Several of the men, too, came up from 
 time to time. 
 
 Her new work required all the attention she could give 
 it. Between tending to her job and looking after the child, 
 Hilda s physical strength was taxed to the utmost. Never 
 theless, there were times when her whole being ached for 
 some one near. ... At such times the thought of going 
 on like this, of going through life alone, grieved her. . . . 
 Love, marriage, however, held so many possibilities for new 
 complications, for pain, that she shunned the thought of 
 them. . . . 
 
 Hilda felt as if she still had an open account with Ray 
 mond Evert. She would have to let the man who loved 
 her know about her past, about Raymond. Also she felt 
 that if she married, Raymond should know of it, should 
 know of their child. She would not want anything hidden 
 from the one, or from the other. 
 
 One offer of marriage she had during this time. It came 
 from Herbert Karsten, the secretary of the society for the 
 spreading of manual training among colored children. Al 
 though Karsten visited Hilda frequently and talked with 
 her on many subjects, he never talked of love, and his 
 offer of marriage was made in a letter. Hilda read the letter 
 and as soon as she got to the office she called Karsten on 
 the telephone. Could he come up to see her that evening? 
 She could hear his voice sink as she was speaking to him. 
 ... It was not thus a woman would speak to a man she 
 loved. 
 
 He came. She received him very cordially. They had 
 been friends for a long time, she said, and for that reason 
 
230 THE ROAD 
 
 she had asked him to come. She did not feel that she could 
 put in writing what she wished to say. . . . 
 
 She appreciated his letter, but there could be no talk 
 of marrying between them. ... It was not anything con 
 cerned with him that was responsible for this. ... It was 
 her own life. . . . Her own previous love, her suffering. . . . 
 She could not enter into details. But this love and suffer 
 ing of the past had not cleared away yet. ... It was still 
 on her horizon. . . . 
 
 Karsten remained a long time with her that evening. 
 He talked much about his work, the progress manual train 
 ing was making among the colored people, the ripening of 
 a new consciousness in the relations between the races. He 
 talked as if he were trying to forget something. Hilda was 
 sorry for him. 
 
 She had received several visits from Hillstrom during 
 the year following the breaking up of the cooperative apart 
 ment. . . . Even the old pop-corn party "which had been 
 postponed again and again had finally come off. For the 
 past year she and Hillstrom had been corresponding. She 
 wrote to him whenever she was in doubt and wanted to 
 consult with some one of like mind who would understand 
 her. Hillstrom always answered her letters promptly. He 
 wrote to her from whatever part of the country he hap 
 pened to be in, telling her about the labor movement there, 
 about the socialist situation. 
 
 He had been arrested a number of times in the course of 
 these two years in connection with strikes, and was under 
 indictment in several states. But he was not taking these 
 things seriously, Hillstrom wrote. Arrest and indictment of 
 
FEARS AND HOPES 231 
 
 leaders, he said, had come to be a regular feature of labor 
 warfare in America. After the strikes were settled these 
 indictments were usually quashed, as they had no ground 
 in law in the beginning. 
 
 A pleasant interest came suddenly into Hilda s life. 
 Willy Breen, her friend Ada s little Willy, began visiting 
 her frequently. He would come on a Saturday night and 
 would very often stay until the following evening. Some 
 times he brought his violin with him, sometimes his school 
 books. . . . 
 
 Willy was fourteen years old. His grandmother had died. 
 He was living with an aunt, a sister of his mother s, but 
 was earning his own living. He worked in an office during 
 the day. In the evening he went to night high school. He 
 confided to her some of his troubles. He had had to drop 
 his music after his mother s death. And now, though he 
 was working, he was still unable to resume it because the 
 lessons came high. The advanced teachers demanded such 
 high prices. However, he hoped to come back to his violin 
 as soon as he should earn a little more. 
 
 They would often sit up late and talk of old times. 
 There was much Hilda could tell Willy about his mother, 
 things his grandmother never knew, never understood. . . . 
 She described Ada Breen s fine traits, her courage, her 
 idealism, her devotion to the memory of her husband. The 
 boy never grew tired of listening to these stories of his 
 mother. He was filled with pride and regretted that Hilda 
 had not known his father as well. She would no doubt 
 have had many things to tell of him too. As it was, he 
 
232 THE ROAD 
 
 knew so little of his father. His mother s people even 
 answered his questions about Leon Breen grudgingly. 
 
 One day Willy brought a thick notebook with him. For 
 about a year, he confided to Hilda, he had been writing 
 verses. No one knew of it, not even his teachers. He was 
 ashamed to tell them. Hilda listened to him earnestly 
 and told him not to be ashamed and to go on writing his 
 poems. Many great poets had begun to write at just 
 such an age as his. With the parents he had had she would 
 not be at all surprised if he grew up to be a poet or a 
 writer. . . . 
 
 Thereafter the boy consulted with her about his work 
 and plans regularly. Her every word had become law to 
 him. He clung to her with tender devotion. He and little 
 Raymond had come to be as brothers to one another. . . . 
 
 She had met a number of Chicago people. The fame of 
 the Shop Safety Committee was spreading. Several articles 
 had appeared about it in the magazines, and labor and social 
 welfare organizations were sending representatives to New 
 York to study its workings. All such visitors were turned 
 over by the director of the committee, a Dr. Baum, to Hilda 
 for details with regard to the management of the work. 
 
 One of the Chicago visitors to the offices of the committee 
 was a lawyer. He was the attorney for a big union and 
 was of an age with Raymond Evert. What if Raymond 
 should one day walk into her office? 
 
 The thought came to her on her way to work one morn 
 ing and her heart began to beat faster. The more she 
 reflected on this possibility, the more plausible it seemed. 
 
FEARS AND HOPES 233 
 
 She conjured up Raymond s probable career. He had no 
 doubt carried out his father s wish and had become a law 
 yer. It was equally plausible that he should be interested 
 in the labor movement. He had given her the book on 
 "French and German Socialism"; he had evidently studied 
 the labor movement in college. So many of the men she 
 had been meeting, men who were figuring in the intel 
 lectual activities of the trade union movement, had begun 
 their interest in labor problems in just that way. . . . 
 
 The thought that Raymond would one day walk in on her 
 did not leave her for weeks. There were days when she 
 would give an involuntary start every time the door of her 
 office opened. 
 
 She was making up her mind as to how she would act 
 on meeting him. Would she tell him about the child? 
 Would he ask? Well, whether he would ask or not, she 
 would tell him. She would make it clear to him that the 
 boy was hers, hers only. . . . She was both mother and 
 father to him. . . . Raymond probably would not care. 
 He no doubt was married and had other children by this 
 time. She wondered whether his other children were nicer 
 than little Raymond. They no doubt had better advan 
 tages, had been made welcome, had not suffered so 
 much. . . . 
 
 After some weeks the feeling of dread at the thought 
 of meeting Raymond disappeared completely. In its place 
 came a desire to meet him. Instead of fearing that he might 
 come, she now began to hope that he would come. She 
 would like to see him, arrive at a definite understanding 
 with him, clear things once for all. . . . Chicago would 
 
234 [THE ROAD 
 
 then be accessible to her once more. She could go there 
 again. . . . 
 
 For some time now Hilda had had a craving to go back 
 to Chicago. She was weary of New York, as weary as her 
 friend Ada had once been. Everybody she was coming 
 in contact with appeared to be weary and wanting to escape 
 it. ... New York, it seemed to her, was like a stage. One 
 could stand the stage for so long, and then one needed a 
 change, one needed to get away from the spotlight. . . . 
 She had been on this stage so many years. . . . 
 
 Besides, Chicago was so near Stillwell. . . . She longed 
 to be in Stillwell once more. If she ever got back to Chi 
 cago she would go to Stillwell for a visit. . . . She would 
 go there in the summer, late, when the corn is turning 
 yellow. . . . 
 
 She was now praying for Raymond to come. . . . Such 
 a visit would set her free. . . . She could go, move wherever 
 she pleased. . . . But Evert stayed away. He was not 
 coming. . . . 
 
 In the meantime it was July. . . . The last days of July, 
 1914. . . . Rumblings of the great war came. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 BEFORE THE STORM 
 
 GEEMAN socialists call peace demonstration. . . . French 
 workmen plan general strike to prevent war. . . . Keir 
 Hardie protests against war in Britain. . . . The world is 
 waiting to hear from the socialists. . . . 
 
 Hilda went to bed with a copy of the Socialist Call. It 
 was hard to fall asleep at such decisive moments. . . . The 
 impending war in Europe was a personal matter with her. 
 . . . The strength, the honor of the proletariat, of the work 
 ing classes everywhere, was involved. . . . The world was 
 waiting to hear from the socialists. . . . 
 
 "It would hear!" the socialist paper thundered on its 
 editorial page. Capitalism has challenged the proletariat of 
 the world, and the proletariat of the world would answer the 
 challenge. . . . "The forces of labor will kill the god of 
 war forever. . . ." 
 
 "The forces of labor will kill the god of war forever. . . ." 
 Hilda was trembling with anticipation. She fell asleep with 
 a threat on her lips. 
 
 In the morning the Times had a different story to tell: 
 
 Germany declares martial law. Anti-war demonstrations 
 prohibited in Austria. Jean Jaures, France s leading social 
 ist, shot. . . . Russian armies on foot. . . . 
 
 235 
 
236 THE ROAD 
 
 As a willow before the storm, the proletariat of the world 
 was bending its head before the god of war. . . . The 
 socialist organs were apologetic; they were making explana 
 tions. . . . The militarist cliques everywhere were too well 
 organized for the coup. . . . They had forced the war upon 
 their peoples by a surprise action before the working masses 
 everywhere could countermand their sinister plans. . . . 
 
 The press opposed to the socialists, on the other hand, 
 was making spirited deductions. It spoke of the death of 
 the socialist movement everywhere. . . . The war had 
 killed international socialism. . . . The more virulent of the 
 anti-socialist papers were writing its obituary. . . . Inter 
 national socialism had never been more than a dream. . . . 
 The socialists and pacifists were visionaries. . . . They did 
 not know human nature. They were ignoring the slow 
 progress of the race. . . . The world was not yet ripe for 
 universal peace. 
 
 Hilda read these editorials in the "capitalist press" with 
 compressed lips. ... As the war had become a personal 
 grief to her, so this was a personal humiliation. ... It was 
 an insult hurled at herself. She was jeered at along with 
 the other socialists. 
 
 There were months of such invective in the newspapers. 
 Then came "good times." A tide of prosperity was rolling 
 over the country. 
 
 The cry of death in Europe was drowned by the voice 
 of affluence at home. . . . Factories were turning out mu 
 nitions day and night. . . . Austrian, German and Hun 
 garian workmen in America were fashioning war implements, 
 guns and bullets for the English and the French and the 
 
BEFORE THE STORM 237 
 
 Russians, deadly instruments which were to blow their broth 
 ers to pieces. . . . 
 
 The solidarity of labor was dead. Hilda now walked as 
 if the ground under her feet belonged to some one else. . . . 
 She had grown timid. . . . 
 
 Several more months passed. . . . 
 
 People were taking sides violently. . . . Her acquaint 
 ances took sides. . . . For the French. . . . For the Ger 
 mans. . . . Men denounced one another. . . . Friendships 
 were broken. . . . 
 
 Hilda kept aloof from this acrimonious partisanship. . . . 
 Both sides were trampling down her ideals. . . . Both were 
 doing the work of murder. . . . Both sides had gone 
 mad. . . . 
 
 She was alone a great deal now and she was lonely. . . . 
 She had grown weary of people. . . . They frightened her. 
 . . . Men, most of them, were sheep. . . . They were led. . . . 
 They craved to be led. . . . They could be stampeded 
 into anything. . . . And those that were not sheep were 
 pigs. . . . Pigs in varying degrees. . . . Some wallowed in 
 big wages in munition factories. . . . Others wallowed in big 
 dividends in Wall Street. . . . The one and the other were 
 selfish, greedy, beastly, caring not for the wants and suf 
 fering of others, thinking only of their own interests, pleas 
 ures, gratifications. . . . 
 
 New York, kindly human New York, which had taken 
 her under its protecting wing when she fled Chicago, fled 
 the people who knew her, who might know her, New York 
 which she once loved fondly, tenderly, this New York was 
 no longer the same. It had gorged itself to monstrous pro- 
 
238 THE ROAD 
 
 portions on war profits. ... It was reeling drunk on blood 
 money, and was clamoring for more. . . . More war. . . . 
 More ammunition. . . . More profits. . . . 
 
 This New York was becoming daily more insufferable. 
 It was weighing her mind down. ... If she could only 
 escape it, for a time at least. ... If there was only a way 
 out. . . . 
 
 "Mother!" Little Raymond had cried out in alarm one 
 evening when he saw Hilda holding a spoonful of soup in 
 her hand, staring at it with glassy eyes as if not knowing 
 what to begin. 
 
 Raymond was going to school now. He was big for his 
 age. . . . But Hilda picked him up in her arms and kissed 
 and cuddled him as if he were still a baby. 
 
 At ten o clock as she was undressing she was surprised 
 to see the boy sit up in his bed. Raymond was wide awake. 
 His eyes were shining. 
 
 "You haven t been sleeping?" she inquired. 
 
 "No, mama; I couldn t." 
 
 She bent down and felt his forehead. There was no fever. 
 Her hand glided down to his shoulders, his back. 
 
 "Go to sleep, child," she murmured, giving him a good 
 night kiss. 
 
 "Mama!" Raymond called softly. 
 
 She was gazing at him indulgently. 
 
 "Mama, can I sleep in your bed?" 
 
 "Why, child, you aren t afraid, are you?" 
 
 "No, but you are. . . ." 
 
 Hilda gazed at her son, started to say something, but 
 changed her mind. 
 
BEFORE THE STORM 239 
 
 She extended her arms. The child leaped up and into 
 them with a cry of delight. 
 
 ... 
 
 Hilda s correspondence with Hillstrom became more fre 
 quent. She wrote to him often and feverishly. Hillstrom s 
 answers were just as frequent, but calm. At times they 
 were sardonic. He was writing from the Far West. . . . 
 
 "Your great trouble in New York," he wrote, in response 
 to one of her letters, "is newspapers. You let them think 
 for you, decide for you. My advice to you is, if you can t 
 cease reading them, at any rate cease believing them. . . . 
 Throw off the spell the newspapers have cast upon you. . . . 
 There was a time when men believed in soothsayers. Be 
 fore that they believed in oracles. Then they learned more 
 and ceased to believe in the one or in the other. But the 
 world moved on just the same. ... The editorial writers 
 on most of your newspapers are no wiser and no truer 
 than the oracles of old. . . ." 
 
 "Don t worry about the fate of socialism," he wrote her 
 on another occasion. "The obituaries in the capitalist pa 
 pers won t even harm it, let alone kill it. Were the kaiser 
 to destroy every word Karl Marx ever wrote, were the 
 chauvinists of France to make a bonfire of every issue of 
 L Humanite, which Jaures inspired, it would avail them 
 nothing. Truth, once spoken, is never silenced. A great 
 idea never dies. And man, poor, loathsome creature that 
 he is at times, has, in the main, never gone back on a just 
 cause. . . ." 
 
 "Don t let despair master you," he ended another of his 
 missives. "The people are right even when their actions are 
 
240 THE ROAD 
 
 wrong. They are what the past has made them. They will 
 be what the future will make them. The masses are the in 
 heritors of the earth, and with unselfish and proper guidance 
 they will yet make the earth free and beautiful. Be pa 
 tient." 
 
 And again: 
 
 "The war also serves. It is building the new order by 
 destroying the old. ... It destroys institutions as ruthlessly 
 as it destroys lives. ... It is undermining the capitalistic 
 system most effectively, though the capitalists don t see it. 
 War is a great destroyer of superstitions. Before we have 
 done with it, the toilers of half the world will have shaken 
 off many illusions about the superiority of their masters. 
 . . . Many of the rights, privileges and traditions which our 
 capitalist state of society has set up will be groveling in the 
 dust. . . . Reaction has always been the great accelerator 
 of revolution." 
 
 "What you say is all true, too true," Hilda wrote back. 
 "But it isn t easy to maintain one s poise hereabouts. The 
 profiteers and money changers are circling in a mad dance, 
 . . . The atmosphere in New York is suffocating. . . ." 
 
 "Of course it is," Hillstrom replied, "but this is just as 
 it should be. We are on the eve of a storm. A world storm 
 is gathering, and the atmosphere always is heavy just before 
 a storm. . . ." 
 
 "I m taking to poetry," Hilda confided to him one Sun 
 day evening soon after. "I m reading Walt Whitman. 
 What a delight it is now that the herd instinct is lifting 
 its head everywhere, now that men fear to stand alone and 
 are seeking the company of like minds, or rather, of like 
 
BEFORE THE STORM 241 
 
 passions and prejudices what a relief it is to come to Walt 
 Whitman, to spend an hour with one who dared to stand 
 alone, who shows the way to stand alone. . . . 
 
 "I was reading this afternoon his Song of the Open 
 Road. How I wish that I too might be afoot and light- 
 hearted and that I too might take to the open road. 
 The open road s what I have been consciously and uncon 
 sciously dreaming of and pining for in recent months, the 
 mad recent months. . . ." 
 
 "If there s nothing in New York to hold you, what pre 
 vents you from leaving it?" Hillstrom s reply was brief. 
 "The open road is open to all. Why not take it? Why 
 not come West? You ll find bread here. And people, too. 
 ... I shall write about it shortly." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 A second letter came from Hillstrom three days later and 
 in the same mail came another communication. It was from 
 the secretary of the Miners Union in Arizona. Hillstrom 
 had spoken of her desire to come West, the letter said. He 
 had recommended her to the miners organization, and the 
 organization was offering her a post. . . . Hillstrom be 
 lieved, and they quite agreed with him, that she would be 
 very valuable to them. They knew of the work of the Shop 
 Safety Committee in New York, knew of her share in it. 
 They were soon to launch certain vital campaigns, and a 
 quick answer would be appreciated. The salary was stated. 
 It could be increased if she found it insufficient. W r ould 
 she reply by wire? 
 
 Hillstrom in his letter urged her to accept the offer of 
 the Miners Union at once. 
 
242 THE ROAD 
 
 "Thus far," he wrote, "you ve seen capitalism work with 
 gloves, sometimes even with silk gloves. In the cities of 
 the East there s a public opinion which often compels the 
 capitalist to keep within the limits of decency. There s no 
 public opinion here. There s no middle class here, only 
 miners and mine managers. The press, the pulpit, the few 
 professionals, are the retainers of the companies, of the big 
 interests. . . . Capitalism here rides rough shod. . . ." 
 * He described conditions to her. The miners were treated 
 like serfs ; the mine owners acted like feudal barons. Their 
 henchmen even took the life of individuals whom they con 
 sidered dangerous to their interests. Men were slain and 
 the murderers never apprehended, though half the town 
 knew who they were. 
 
 The union was now preparing to make a stand against 
 these conditions. It was preparing to call a strike, to call 
 more than one strike, if necessary. That was the "cam 
 paign" the secretary of the miners organization was writing 
 her about. He, Hillstrom, had not recommended her for 
 the job merely out of consideration for herself. He hon 
 estly believed she would be of great use to the miners in 
 this struggle. 
 
 Hilda read this letter twice. Then she turned to little 
 Raymond. It was before supper. 
 
 "Sonny," she said, "would you like to go away from here? 
 Far away; four or five days by train?" 
 
 "Would you, mother?" 
 
 "Why, I think twould be nice," she said. "It ought to 
 be nice out there, and twould be nice to travel. Be- 
 
BEFORE THE STORM 243 
 
 sides, if we didn t like it, we could always come back to 
 New York." 
 
 "Good." Little Raymond threw his arms about her neck. 
 "When do we start?" 
 
 "Very soon," she answered. 
 
 They ate their supper in silence. When the meal was 
 done Raymond asked, "Have we anybody there, mama? 
 Any relations?" 
 
 "No," Hilda said, "we have no relations there." 
 
 Beth were quiet. 
 
 On a sunny afternoon early in the spring Hilda left New 
 York. It was Monday, people were working, and there 
 was no one to accompany her and little Raymond to the 
 railway station. When the train emerged from the under 
 ground stretch of road into the open, the city, with its 
 skyscraper heart and tenement flanks, lay far to the rear. 
 They were on the outskirts. It was roomier. Tenements 
 were becoming scarcer and new, up-to-date apartment houses 
 more frequent. 
 
 The train was humming along. . . . The engine whistled 
 lustily like a young colt neighing in the pasture. The 
 country was all about them now. What beautiful coun 
 try. . . . The fields were leaping forward and rolling back 
 in green waves. The tree tops bowed as if in greeting. . . . 
 
 A mellowness came over Hilda. She felt as if the fields, 
 the brooks, the trees, all knew where she was going, and 
 were wishing her godspeed. With the breeze a soft whisper 
 
244 THE ROAD 
 
 seemed to be wafted to her. It was the fields; they were 
 speaking to her. . . . They were telling her not to think 
 of them unkindly in the new places she was going to, to 
 harbor no grudges. It was not their fault that they had 
 been so distant. . . . People had put so many obstacles in 
 their way. . . . They had built a whole city between them 
 selves and the meadows. . . . 
 
 But she must not harbor any ill feelings against the city 
 and people either, the voice was pleading further. . . . Peo 
 ple were after all only people. . . . Forgive them, for they 
 know not what they do. ... Where had she read it? Oh, 
 yes. ... It was Jesus. ... So far back, and still so mod 
 ern, still so true. . . . Yes, people were always people. . . . 
 Man was always making the earth a hell for his neighbor. 
 
 She was lost in reflections. . . . 
 
 They had an hour s wait between trains in Chicago. 
 Hilda located a telephone station and began looking through 
 the directory for the Everts. She found the "Evert Con 
 struction Company," the name of Henry Evert s concern. 
 There was an Evert, not Henry Evert, living on Independ 
 ence Boulevard. Must be a son, she thought. What had 
 become of the old man? . . . 
 
 There was no telephone in Raymond Evert s name. She 
 looked him up in the classified directory under lawyers. 
 There was no trace of him there either. It puzzled her. 
 She had a firm belief that Raymond was a lawyer. She 
 thought that he would be a figure in the community by this 
 time. She looked once more. . . . Twice. . . . There was 
 no trace of Raymond anywhere. 
 
 She went out into the street and took a stroll with the 
 
BEFORE THE STORM 245 
 
 child for a few blocks. . . . Her heart was beating fast. 
 . . . The city was so familiar. . . . 
 
 "Mother," little Raymond suddenly asked, "have I any 
 uncles here? Johnny Starke says he s got an uncle in 
 Chicago." 
 
 Hilda gazed at him without answering. Raymond s mind 
 was working very fast these days. The journey seemed to 
 be stimulating it. He was asking questions continually. 
 
 "No, you have no uncles here," she said finally. 
 
 She turned back to the station, and they went in search 
 of their train. 
 
 Toward evening, on the fourth day, the train dropped 
 down into a valley, and Hilda discerned in the distance 
 the outlines of a town at the foot of a mountain. It looked 
 vague and shadowy at first, like a city painted on canvas, 
 such as she had sometimes seen on the stage. Gradually 
 the place gained in clearness and stood out in definite out 
 line. There were streets, public buildings, mills. 
 
 Hillstrom was on the platform waiting for them. 
 
 The "campaign" of which the secretary of the miners 
 organization had written Hilda, had already begun, he in 
 formed her. The first of a series of strikes in the copper 
 mines had been called at noon that day. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 RAYMOND EVERT COMES 
 
 IT was the summer of 1917. Two years had elapsed since 
 Hilda Thorsen came to Vulcan City to take up her work 
 with tie Federation of Miners. Much had happened in 
 those two years. 
 
 When Hilda left New York, the existence of Vulcan City 
 was scarcely noted. It had since, however, been figuring 
 frequently on the first page of every newspaper in America. 
 The series of strikes in the copper mines, which began 
 shortly after she arrived and were going on intermittently, 
 had focused national attention on the Arizona mining city. 
 The strikes had become a national issue. 
 
 Copper was king at the time; the war had made it so. 
 It was the nerve running through every war industry. 
 Scores upon scores of munition factories were gasping for 
 copper as a drowning man gasps for air. These strikes 
 were interfering with copper production. 
 
 The struggle between the mine managers the owners of 
 the mines lived three thousand miles away in the East 
 and the miners descended to a level of bitterness Hilda 
 had never before witnessed. Law and restraint appeared 
 to have been thrown to the winds and strength alone seemed 
 to count. Strength was on the side of the mine managers 
 and was used to the utmost. Strikers were evicted from 
 
 246 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 247 
 
 their homes. Those having no homes were shipped out of 
 the state and told never to return. Men were imprisoned 
 on all sorts of possible and impossible charges. 
 
 Often during these struggles Hilda had occasion to re 
 call Hillstrom s words about capitalism riding "rough 
 shod" in the mines. "Rough shod" seemed to be the pre 
 cise manner in which the mine managers were working. 
 
 There was much misery, and to alleviate this misery had 
 become her task in the Miners Federation. Hilda was put 
 in charge of the "Strikers Relief." 
 
 This work carried with it more than one implication. 
 She was not merely to disburse union money to the fam 
 ilies of the strikers. She was to see to it also that the treas 
 ury of the union was kept rilled, or at least half filled. 
 The entire labor movement of America had to be enlisted on 
 the side of the strikers. Appeals were sent out to it for 
 help. With these appeals went reports of the situation, ac 
 counts of the money spent, pictures of the suffering this 
 money had alleviated. Hilda prepared these appeals, ac 
 counts, pictures. 
 
 Her existence had become merged with that of the people 
 about her. She lived in their hopes, sorrowed with their 
 griefs. Her own life, her personal problems, her dreams, 
 everything had become obliterated for the time being 
 everything, except her child. 
 
 Little Raymond was not out of her thoughts for an 
 instant. On the contrary, he was absorbing her attention 
 more and more. They were drawing nearer to one an 
 other. They were becoming companions. What Hilda had 
 been dreaming many years back was gradually coming true. 
 
248 THE ROAD 
 
 . . . The child could be talked to now. ... He was grow 
 ing up to her mentally at an unusual pace. . . . 
 
 Taking her cue from her dead friend Ada and the latter s 
 son Willy (with whom she was keeping up a correspond 
 ence), Hilda tried to interest her boy in music. She bought 
 him a violin and he was taking lessons. But little Ray 
 mond was more interested in books. 
 
 At the beginning of his ninth year he was already in the 
 fourth grade. His teachers had twice skipped him to a 
 higher class. He was a frequent visitor to the public li 
 brary. On his way back from the library on Saturday aft 
 ernoons, when Hilda was nearly always alone in the office, 
 Raymond would come up. He would slip into a corner of 
 the room, where he could scarcely be noticed, and would 
 sit and read or study the pictures in the book while his 
 mother worked. 
 
 From time to time Hilda s eyes would seek out those 
 of her son, and they would exchange smiles, but he would 
 not stir from his place until he saw her close her desk. 
 Then they would go home together, promenading slowly 
 through the city s main street. Hilda was looking forward 
 to these Saturday afternoon walks with her child as to 
 something very pleasurable. 
 
 They were living at the home of a miner, a Servian, whose 
 name after many transmutations had become reduced to 
 John Savitz. Savitz was a man in the early thirties, with 
 the figure of a giant and the face of a boy. He was a friend 
 of Hillstrom s. Pie and his wife were both socialists. They 
 bad three boys, the oldest of whom was in his fifth year. 
 
 Hilda s status in the Savitz home was not that of a 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 249 
 
 tenant, or roomer. It was more that of a comrade-in-arms, 
 of a fellow-conspirator in the cause of the overthrow of 
 capitalism. 
 
 Savitz lived on a quiet little street at the edge of the 
 town. He was naturally circumspect and careful, having 
 been a revolutionist in the old world. This, combined with 
 the isolated location of his home, and the fact that Hilda 
 lived in it, made his house a convenient place to meet for 
 discussion. Several times during the week Hilda s asso 
 ciates in the union would come up for informal conferences. 
 On such evenings the modest living room of the Savitz fam 
 ily vibrated with secrecy and excitement. 
 
 They were arresting strikers and their spokesmen daily, 
 and the leaders often discussed the possibility of their own 
 going to jail: what was to be done in case one or the other 
 of them was arrested; who was to step into his place; how 
 the organization was to be kept going. 
 
 For a long time these conversations meant nothing to 
 little Raymond. But one day he woke to their significance. 
 All at once the grim struggle in the mines assumed mean 
 ing in his little head. It dawned upon him that this strug 
 gle concerned his mother, himself; their well-being was in 
 the balance. . . . 
 
 On the nights when Hilda s union associates came to the 
 house little Raymond would now lie awake for hours, strain 
 ing his ear to catch every word the men in the living room 
 were saying. The conviction had settled upon him that he 
 would wake some morning, or perhaps in the middle of the 
 night, to find something terrible happening. . . . What if 
 his mother should be arrested, imprisoned! . . . Whom 
 
250 THE ROAD 
 
 could he remain with? ... On such nights his cries and 
 moans would often rouse Hilda from her sleep, and the next 
 morning Raymond would wonder how he happened to find 
 himself in his mother s bed, to be waking in her arms. . . . 
 He began watching over Hilda like a hawk. ... In the 
 evening, when it was time for her to come home, he would 
 run several blocks to meet her, wait for her. The child was 
 now constantly searching the expression on her face, in her 
 eyes. From her gaze, her smile, or the absence of a smile, 
 he could tell whether things were going well or ill, and he 
 would be cheerful or subdued accordingly. . . . 
 
 The struggle in the mines was approaching a climax. 
 America was in the war and the first contingent of Ameri 
 can troops was already in the trenches on the battlefields 
 of France. Hitherto the mine owners were interested in 
 copper solely for business. The guns and ammunition into 
 whose manufacture it went were exported to England, to 
 France, to Russia. It had been a question of profits and 
 dividends only. The situation was changed now. The pro 
 duction of copper had become a matter of national defense; 
 it concerned America directly. 
 
 The mine managers redoubled their invectives. The 
 strikers were called traitors. They were harassed, they were 
 threatened. The cloak of patriotism was often made to 
 shield personal vengeance, meanness and retaliation. 
 
 The miners replied by appealing to the government for 
 an investigation of their grievances. They asked for a gov 
 ernment commission. The Federation was straining every 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 251 
 
 effort to have the government appoint such a commission. 
 
 The entire summer passed in the framing of appeals by 
 the union, and in adducing evidence justifying these appeals, 
 for a government investigating body. Labor organizations 
 in the East joined with the strikers in the demand for such 
 a body. There were grounds to believe that the commis 
 sion asked for would ultimately be appointed. ... In the 
 meantime it was delayed. . . . The delay was horrible, 
 despairing. . . . But it came to an end. 
 
 One Saturday morning a brief telegram from the Federa 
 tion s counsel in Washington announced that an investigat 
 ing commission of five had just been appointed by the 
 president. 
 
 The next morning the Vulcan City Record announced the 
 personnel of the commission. Hilda glanced down the list 
 of names and the words began to dance before her eyes. 
 In another instant the entire page looked like a blur. She 
 saw nothing. Her head felt as if it had been struck a 
 deafening blow. . . . 
 
 When things cleared before her eyes she picked up the 
 paper which had fallen to the ground. Most likely, she 
 thought, it was her nerves that had given way on her. . . . 
 She had worked so hard in the last few weeks. ... It was 
 her overwrought imagination nothing more. 
 
 She scanned the list of names again. . . . This time she 
 could not doubt it. He was there, Raymond was there. . . . 
 He was one of the commission. . . . He was third on the 
 list. . . . "Raymond Evert, Chicago." That was the way 
 the third commissioner was designated. . . . Raymond was 
 coming to Vulcan City. 
 
252 THE ROAD 
 
 Raymond Evert. . . . 
 
 She collected herself and was thinking clearly once more. 
 She had not expected to meet him in just such a manner, 
 did not wish for him at this juncture. . . . With the strike 
 in its acutest stage this was no time for personal affairs, 
 personal heartaches. . . . 
 
 But he was here. Raymond was here. He would be 
 coming in ten days in two weeks. . . . She would see 
 him. She would have to see him. . . . She would probably 
 be one of the witnesses before him. . . . 
 
 She was searching the paper once more. . . . 
 
 There were brief biographies of each of the five com 
 missioners. There was one of Raymond. 
 
 "Mr. Evert," the paragraph said, "is a well-known social 
 reformer in Chicago. He is the founder of the Clean Poli 
 tics League in that city and for a number of years served 
 as the league s president. He is interested in child labor 
 problems, in mothers pensions, and in kindred social and 
 philanthropic movements. He is a graduate of the Chicago 
 University. His wife is the well-known settlement worker, 
 Mrs. Maude Straight-Evert, head of the famous Democracy 
 Home Settlement in the metropolis of the Middle West." 
 
 Her weakness and dizziness came back. She had been 
 standing, reading the paper, on the porch. She now walked 
 into the house again, and into her room. It was six o clock 
 in the morning. Every one was still asleep. It was Sun 
 day. Raymond would be sleeping another two hours yet. 
 Hilda dressed herself noiselessly and left the house. 
 
 She walked in the direction of the open country. After 
 fifteen or twenty minutes she came to a place where she 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 253 
 
 often sat alone, thinking. She dropped down upon the 
 grass. 
 
 "His wife is the well-known settlement worker, Mrs. 
 Maude Straight-Evert. . . ." 
 
 Hilda read these lines again and again. . . . Raymond 
 was married. ... Of course. Had she not expected it all 
 along. . . . There was nothing in the biographical item 
 about his being a lawyer. He might not have taken up law, 
 but old Henry Evert had gained his point all the same. 
 Raymond was a somebody. ... He was playing a part 
 in the community. Yes, his father always got what he went 
 after, whether it was business, money, fame. . . . 
 
 "Maude Straight-Evert. . . ." Hilda had known a num 
 ber of women settlement workers in New York. They 
 would often volunteer to serve as pickets during strikes, and 
 were always getting themselves written up in the news 
 papers. . . . 
 
 Her work had brought her directly in touch with the head 
 of a social settlement, a Mrs. Richardson- Grant. Mrs. 
 Richardson-Grant was a tall, portly woman who bore her 
 self impressively. She showed off wonderfully kind in pho 
 tographs in which she was surrounded by poor little children 
 or immigrant mothers. 
 
 Mrs. Richardson-Grant s husband, Dr. Archibald Ellery 
 Grant, was the antithesis of his distinguished helpmeet. He 
 was of nondescript stature and looks, was shy and retiring. 
 He had no decided opinions on anything and never contra 
 dicted his wife. Mrs. Richardson-Grant was always getting 
 her husband appointed to committees, councils, and hon 
 orary vice-presidencies. . . . 
 
254 THE ROAD 
 
 Was Mrs. Straight-Evert just such a woman, Hilda won 
 dered, and how had Raymond come to know her? How 
 did he come to be the husband of the head of a social 
 settlement? Had he fallen in love with her? Was he 
 happy? Did they have children? Such women usually 
 don t. Had he changed much? How did he look? It was 
 ten years since she saw him. . . . 
 
 She was alone in the afternoon and she was glad when 
 evening came. She went to bed early, but did not fall 
 asleep until late. . . . There was much work in the office 
 in the next few days. There were frequent conferences 
 with regard to the witnesses the union would put up, the 
 evidence it would submit. The days and evenings passed 
 quickly. The nights were long. . . . Hilda could not 
 sleep. . . . 
 
 On Saturday the Mail, Vulcan City s only evening pa 
 per, contained the photographs of the commission. Hilda 
 had been waiting for them. 
 
 The picture of Raymond was a surprise to her. . . . She 
 had expected him to look differently. . . . His features 
 were thin and sharp. His eyes were deep. There was 
 nothing worldly either about his face or his eyes. They 
 were rather ascetic. His thoughts seemed to be turned 
 inward. . . . Raymond was not happy. . . . 
 
 She kept the paper on her desk until it was time to go 
 home, and then she took it with her. While sitting on the 
 porch waiting for supper, she was again gazing at it. Little 
 Raymond came up, nestled close to her, and looked at the 
 paper. He had already heard that the men whose photo- 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 255 
 
 graphs were in the paper were the five commissioners the 
 government was sending down to study and adjust the 
 strike. He gazed at the pictures and read the inscriptions 
 under each photograph. 
 
 When he came to the word "Raymond" under the pic 
 ture of Evert he stopped and took another look at the pho 
 tograph. Hilda watched his face. 
 
 "Mama," the child looked up, "this man has the same 
 name as mine. His name is Raymond, too. Raymond 
 Evert." 
 
 Hilda nodded that she knew. Little Raymond was now 
 studying the picture with interest. 
 
 "Do you know him?" He looked up from the paper 
 abruptly. Hilda was not surprised by his question. Vaguely 
 she seemed to expect it. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 Raymond s eyes darted from the picture to his mother, 
 from his mother to the picture. 
 
 "Where d you meet him?" 
 
 "In Chicago." 
 
 "In Chicago? That must be long ago, before I was 
 born." 
 
 "Yes, a long time back." Hilda blinked her eyes as if 
 they had suddenly filled with sand. 
 
 "Is he our relation?" the child asked with a quaver of 
 excitement. 
 
 "No, he s not," she replied calmly. 
 
 Savitz, who had been busy in the rear of the house, 
 came up. 
 
256 THE ROAD 
 
 "Mama knows this man," little Raymond shouted, ex 
 citedly pointing to the picture of Evert in the paper. "He 
 has the same name as I." 
 
 "Do you know any one on the commission?" Savitz asked 
 interestedly. He was thinking that it would be a great 
 advantage to the miners if she knew some one personally 
 and could talk to him about the situation as to a friend 
 privately. 
 
 "Yes, I know one of the men on the commission, this one 
 here," Hilda confirmed her son s statement and also pointed 
 to the picture of Evert. 
 
 Savitz studied the photograph intently for some moments. 
 When he again looked at Hilda her face and neck were 
 crimson. Both were embarrassed, she because she blushed, 
 and he because he had seen her blush. 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Savitz called from inside the house 
 that supper was ready. Both were greatly relieved. 
 
 The union was counting on Hilda as one of its principal 
 witnesses. She was to sketch the life of the miners before 
 the commission, to tell of their families, their homes. Hav 
 ing lived in New York and been active in the labor move 
 ment there, she was to draw a parallel between the East and 
 the West, showing the semi-feudal conditions under which 
 the miners worked and lived. She was a woman and would 
 probably be allowed to speak where a man might be si 
 lenced. 
 
 They were busy day and night at the union office. Hilda 
 was absorbed and unusually quiet. Her associates thought 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 257 
 
 she was meditating on the testimony she was to give, and 
 they disturbed her as little as possible. 
 
 It was not, however, the testimony Hilda was thinking 
 about; it was her own affairs. The labor drama was 
 receding into the background; the drama of her own life 
 was coming to the front. ... To meet Raymond Evert, to 
 clear matters with him once for all she had wished again 
 and again, but not under such circumstances, not in such 
 a public way. . . . 
 
 However, she was making up her mind to things. She 
 would face the situation as she had faced every other situa 
 tion. , . . She would go on the witness stand before the 
 commission. She would meet him. . . . 
 
 One precaution she would take, though, for the sake 
 of the cause she was to plead, and also for her own sake, 
 She would not come before the commission, before Ray 
 mond abruptly. She would write him a note to let him know 
 of her connection with the union and that she was to be a 
 witness in behalf of the strikers. Yes, she would do that. 
 . . . They should not meet unexpectedly. 
 
 Several evenings in succession she composed letters to 
 him. In the morning she tore them up. Some of these let 
 ters were long and vehement and described in detail her 
 trials, her suffering, her humiliation, in the ten years that 
 passed. Others were caustic and full of vengeance. The 
 ones and the others appeared to her too personal, futile, 
 and beside the point. . . . She was not demanding any 
 thing of him. . . . She did not wish Raymond to atone for 
 anything. . . . She had long since risen above the thought 
 of personal gratification, satisfaction. . . . She wished 
 
258 THE ROAD 
 
 merely a final word with him, a final understanding, and 
 then their roads would part forever. . . . 
 
 The afternoon when the commission was to come arrived. 
 The entire population of Vulcan City, some twelve thou 
 sand souls in all, was tense with expectation. On her way 
 home Hilda passed the city s principal hotel. There were 
 crowds of people in front of it. The commission had come. 
 Her letter was not yet written. 
 
 When she got to her room she penned the following note: 
 
 "To MR. RAYMOND EVERT: 
 
 "I am living here with my son. As I am employed in the 
 office of the miners organization and shall probably be 
 called as one of the witnesses before your commission, I 
 thought I had better let you know. 
 
 "HILDA THORSEN." 
 
 Since John Savitz had seen Hilda blush several days 
 earlier when she confirmed her child s statement that she 
 knew one of the men on the commission, a feeling of shyness 
 had sprung up between them and also of intimacy. 
 
 In spite of the hardships the strike entailed, in spite of 
 the excitement and insecurity of her life, Hilda, who was 
 now entering her thirties, had gained both in strength and in 
 looks. Her figure had rounded. The added plumpness did 
 not in the least detract, however, from her dignified poise 
 and simple stateliness of carriage. Her stern, manless exist 
 ence, in view of her physical attractiveness and charm, had 
 occasionally puzzled Savitz. 
 
 In a vague way he became conscious that Evert, whose 
 picture he had since studied carefully in his own copy of 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 259 
 
 the paper, had something to do with Hilda Thorsen s mode 
 of living. He was not inquisitive, but he was waiting to be 
 told more about it, to be asked, to be confided in. He felt 
 that this would come. 
 
 When Hilda, after supper, with her eyes more than with 
 her voice, told him that she wanted to see him alone for a 
 few minutes, his reply was an eager nod which seemed to 
 indicate that he understood and was ready for any service 
 she might ask of him. 
 
 "There s a note," she said to him when they were alone r 
 "which I should like to convey to one of the commissioners,, 
 the one whose picture I pointed out to you, the one I know. 
 But he must get it personally; it must go through no other 
 hand." 
 
 "I ll get it to him," Savitz said. 
 
 She handed him a small envelope. He glimpsed the ad 
 dress and gave a barely perceptible nod. 
 
 "Do you want the newspaper?" she asked. "Perhaps the 
 picture will help you identify the man?" 
 
 Savitz shook his head negatively. 
 
 "No one will get the letter except Mr. Evert," he reas 
 sured her. 
 
 Hilda gave him a confused smile. They went apart 
 furtively, each aware that there was a great secret between 
 them. 
 
 Late that evening, after the last of Vulcan City s official 
 visitors to the government representatives had departed, and 
 each of the five commissioners had retired to his room, 
 there was a knock at Evert s door. 
 
26o THE ROAD 
 
 "A man s here with a letter," the hotel attendant an 
 nounced. "He says it s urgent." 
 
 "A letter to the commission?" Mr. Evert queried. 
 
 "No, to you personally." 
 
 He reflected an instant. It was possible that some one 
 on the strikers side had knowledge of him, Evert, of his 
 stand on labor matters, and was trying to get some infor 
 mation to him. 
 
 "Bring him up," he said. 
 
 A minute later John Savitz entered. Raymond Evert ad 
 vanced to meet him. They surveyed each other. Mr. 
 Evert was struck by the honest, boyish face of the man be 
 fore him. He was convinced that he had to do with a miner, 
 some one from the strikers with important information prob 
 ably. 
 
 "What can I do for you?" he asked extending his hand. 
 
 For answer Savitz handed him the note. 
 
 Evert took a glance at the plain envelope. The handwrit 
 ing seemed remotely familiar. It was not a business letter. 
 He glanced at Savitz quizzically. 
 
 "Won t you sit down?" he asked, as he moved nearer to 
 the light. Savitz remained standing. 
 
 Evert tore the envelope open slowly, but took in the brief 
 contents of the page at a glance. Every drop of blood left 
 his cheeks. 
 
 "Where does Hilda Mrs. Thorsen live?" he finally asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he caught himself, "the address is right here." 
 
 He perused it, repeated the number of the house and 
 street aloud to Savitz. The latter affirmed that the address 
 was correct. 
 
RAYMOND EVERT COMES 261 
 
 Evert inquired how one was to get to the place, on foot, 
 and Savitz gave him explicit instructions, going even so far 
 as to tell him what side of the street the house was on, and 
 how many houses it was from the corner. ... He was ap 
 parently making certain that if Evert did not call, it should 
 not be on account of a faulty address or inadequate direc 
 tions. 
 
 Evert noticed this. 
 
 He had unconsciously moved back and was supporting 
 himself with his hand on a chair. 
 
 "Won t you sit down a moment?" he asked again. Savitz 
 sat down. 
 
 "Are you related to Mrs. Thorsen?" Evert asked un 
 steadily as if feeling his way about in the dark. 
 
 Savitz said that they were not related, but were friends. 
 Mrs. Thorsen and her boy were living at his house, with 
 his family. They had been living with him ever since they 
 came from New York, more than two years back. 
 
 Evert asked what Hilda s work was with the union. 
 
 "She s pretty nearly everything," Savitz said, and for the 
 first time during the conversation a smile broke upon his 
 face. "She manages the office, but she s consulted with re 
 gard to everything." 
 
 Raymond Evert was finding breathing difficult. 
 
 "The boy ," he finally managed to speak again, "he he 
 must be quite big. . . ." 
 
 "Little Raymond, you mean?" Savitz queried, and 
 launched into a description of the child. Yes, Raymond 
 was big for his age; he was tall. And in school he was an 
 exception, a sort of prodigy. Only in his ninth year, he was 
 
262 THE ROAD 
 
 reading like a man. His conversation, too, was more like 
 that of a grown person than of a child. 
 
 At the mention of the child s name Evert s chin had 
 dropped and his mouth remained open during most of 
 Savitz s little speech, as if he were unable to close it. There 
 were more things he wished to ask, but he felt all self- 
 control slipping from him. 
 
 "I am very grateful to Mrs. Thorsen and to yourself," 
 he said, rising from his chair and taking a step forward. 
 
 Savitz also rose quickly. 
 
 "I have the address," he continued, pointing to the table, 
 where Hilda s letter lay. "I have the address. . . ." 
 
 At the door he shook hands with Savitz. Evert s hand 
 was cold and trembled slightly. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 
 
 WHEN Savitz was out of the room Evert went back to the 
 table and examined Hilda s note. A feeling of having 
 reached the end of a long journey came over him. . . . He 
 had for years given up the idea that Hilda was dead. The 
 dead are forgotten sooner or later, and he never forgot 
 her. . . . 
 
 What he had feared during these years was that time had 
 brought her low. Girls in her condition, the condition he 
 had left her in, invariably sank. His social work had im 
 pressed this upon him. There were streets in Chicago he 
 avoided passing in the late afternoon or at night for fear 
 that he might, on one of them, meet Hilda Hilda painted, 
 Hilda vulgar, Hilda in the gutter, soiled beyond recogni 
 tion, degraded beyond help. . . . 
 
 He studied her handwriting. It was no longer the girlish 
 hand he had once known. It was firm, businesslike. There 
 was precision in the writing, and character, the handwrit 
 ing of a person with responsibilities. A sudden pride welled 
 up within him, pride for Hilda, for the plucky fight she had 
 made against odds, such odds. . . . 
 
 The pride turned to pain; a pang ran through him. He 
 had been thinking of Hilda as if she had been his, or at any 
 
 263 
 
264 THE ROAD 
 
 rate one very near to him. ... He had been admiring her 
 pluck in having swerved from the road to the abyss. Had 
 he forgotten that it was he who had started her on that 
 road? . . . 
 
 He had not forgotten. ... He was not forgetting. . . . 
 He realized the full import of the situation. . . . The 
 finding of Hilda signified the closing of one chapter in his 
 life. It also meant the opening of another. . . . Yes. . . . 
 Now that he had found her, he meant ... he would. . . . 
 
 He was gasping for breath. The window was at the other 
 end of the room. He stepped up to it, raised it, pulled the 
 curtains wide apart, and a flood of moonlight poured in. 
 
 The night was perfectly still. ... It was a stillness Ray 
 mond Evert had not yet known, the stillness of night in the 
 Far West, the stillness of the desert. ... It was not of 
 death the quiet spoke, but of life, of living. . . . Nature 
 was going about its business, in her own serene, dignified 
 way. . . . 
 
 He was gazing at the mountains cloaked in gray mist and 
 the shadowy giants seemed to him engrossed in deep medi 
 tation, and a bit frowning. Was it the town which had 
 sprung up at their feet that annoyed them? Were they 
 frowning at the people intruding upon them, disturbing their 
 calm, the people who were digging into their vitals, ham 
 mering off metal crumbs and squabbling over them? . . . 
 
 He took in the city with his gaze, the larger buildings 
 in the center, the smaller houses rising out of the ground 
 like mushrooms, the mills further away. 
 
 A strange newness lay over it and was giving it a phan- 
 tastic, almost unreal appearance. It was as if the city was 
 
GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 265 
 
 but a toy set down among these mountains for giant chil 
 dren to play with. 
 
 A sense of smallness came over Evert, smallness and help 
 lessness. ... He was thinking of the trouble between the 
 miners and the mine owners, the strike, which he and the 
 other commissioners were to try and settle. . . . How ab 
 surdly pitiful these quarrels between man and man were. 
 . . . The strike. ... Hilda was concerned in it. . . . 
 Hilda. . . . 
 
 His thoughts reverted to himself, to the unexpected situa 
 tion. It was scarcely an hour since he had learned of Hilda 
 and the child, and already his past had released its grip over 
 him. He was free. . . . Since Hilda had disappeared from 
 his horizon he had not shown the world his true face. He 
 had not been himself. ... He had done what others wanted 
 him to do. At first it was his father, then his wife. . . . He 
 had worn a mask all these years. . . . The mask was off 
 now. . . . 
 
 He was wondering what the years had done to Hilda. 
 Had she aged much? She must have. And her mind, her 
 character no doubt they were as beautiful as ever. She 
 showed such restraint, such dignity in her note to him. , . . 
 "She is pretty nearly everything. . . . They are consulting 
 her about everything." With what admiration the miner, 
 Savitz, had spoken these words. . . . How much she must 
 have suffered in those ten years before she compelled people 
 to have such trust in her, to have such admiration for 
 her. . . . 
 
 The last lights had gone out. . . . Vulcan City was asleep. 
 Raymond was now gazing in the direction in which Savitz 
 
2 66 THE ROAD 
 
 had said his home lay, where Hilda was living. There was 
 but ten minutes walk between himself and Hilda and the 
 child. . . , Within ten minutes walk from his hotel his son 
 was asleep now, his son whom he had never seen. The child 
 probably never suspected that he had a father living, let 
 alone that his father was so near. 
 
 Questions began to flash through his brain. What if 
 Hilda should refuse to have anything to do with him? She 
 might. What if she should refuse to let him see the child? 
 She had every right to do so. ... It was she who had 
 been wronged. It was he who had wronged her. . . . Yes, 
 what then? 
 
 A sudden resolution came upon him. He would put an 
 end to that ten minutes distance between them. He would 
 go at once and find the place where she and the child were 
 living. He must see it even if only from a distance. . . . 
 He must have a look at the house where the child lived, 
 played, dreamed, at once. ... He got into his long black 
 raincoat and went down into the street. 
 
 The directions which John Savitz had given him were 
 explicit and he walked in accordance with them. He walked 
 along the main street almost to its very end. Houses were 
 fewer here. The newness of the city extended to the street 
 signs. They were clear and sharp. He read them easily. 
 At Needles Avenue he stopped. He was to go to the left. 
 The fifth house on the right hand side of the street was the 
 house Hilda lived in. ... 
 
 For a moment he stood still. Was it all a dream? Had 
 he been dreaming? He felt Hilda s letter in his pocket. It 
 
GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 267 
 
 was real. . . . The fifth house from the corner. He started 
 forward with beating heart. He was going on the left side 
 of the street. He could see better at a distance, from the 
 opposite side. 
 
 The house stood a little apart from the others. It was 
 bigger and in somewhat better style. ... It had apparently 
 been built as a home by some one and was now rented to the 
 miner, to Savitz. . . . There was a tree in front of it. It 
 was casting a shadow. . . . 
 
 He stopped and was looking straight at the simple frame 
 structure. On the porch some one was sitting. ... A 
 woman. ... A white dress and something dark over the 
 shoulders and chest. . . . The figure was peering at him, 
 too. Another instant and his blood stood still. ; . . It 
 was Hilda. . . . He had recognized her. . . . 
 
 The woman must have recognized him too, for she rose 
 as if lifted out of her chair, and stepped into the house. 
 The lock creaked loudly as she turned it in the door. Evert s 
 feet refused to carry him. . . . 
 
 A dog, evidently attracted by the creak of the lock, came 
 around from the rear of the house. On perceiving a man 
 standing across the street, it yelped two or three times. 
 Then apparently concluding that the stranger was not dan 
 gerous and was not worth wasting his energy on, the dog 
 laid down in the middle of the path leading to the house. . . . 
 
 He started back for the hotel. ... In his room Evert 
 paced the floor for some time. Suddenly things began to 
 swim before his eyes. His head was swimming. . . . The 
 ground seemed to be swimming out from under his feet. 
 
268 THE ROAD 
 
 He caught hold of the bed post, leaned against it, and wept 
 as he had not wept since he was a child. 
 
 Morning was breaking when Evert finally fell asleep. He 
 woke two hours later and sat up with a start. There was 
 something he was to do. ... Something vital, urgent that 
 would brook no delay. . . . Something. ... He was strain 
 ing his thoughts to recall what it was. ... It had been so 
 clear to him just before he opened his eyes, but was snuffed 
 out like a candle on waking. . . . 
 
 He could not recall and looked about in a daze. . . . Sud 
 denly his eyes fell upon his hand the wedding ring on it. 
 ... It had been there five years. ... He took it off. ... 
 
 At ten o clock the members of the commission went to 
 work arranging for the hearings. . . . People were already 
 waiting for them, from the mine managers, from the union. 
 . . . Raymond Evert studied the latter. He had a feel 
 ing of personal obligation to them. . . . They were Hilda s 
 friends. ... It was among them that she and the child had 
 found their livelihood. They had sheltered and protected 
 her. . . . Good people! . .. . 
 
 All through the forenoon it seemed to him that Hilda 
 must come in any minute. ... He was continually gazing 
 at the door and spots of red suffused themselves over his 
 face and neck every time it opened. 
 
 She did not come. 
 
 After lunch he took a stroll through Vulcan City s main 
 street. Perhaps he would meet her on the street. . . . Such 
 accidents happened in the biggest cities, why not here? . . . 
 
GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 269 
 
 But it did not happen. Hilda was nowhere to be seen. 
 She appeared nowhere the rest of the day. 
 
 At nightfall he slipped out of the hotel and started for 
 her house. 
 
 Savitz met him at the door and led him into the living 
 room. Neither Savitz nor Hilda had said anything about 
 the probability of Evert coming to the house, but both 
 expected him. Hilda was awaiting his coming in her room ; 
 Savitz at the window. 
 
 It was the miner s effusiveness as host an effusiveness 
 that was not without design that lightened Hilda s entry 
 into the living room, and made it easier for Evert to start 
 forward and extend his hand to her as to an old acquaint 
 ance. . . . Savitz, too, was taking the lead in the conversa 
 tion in these first few moments by speaking commonplaces 
 about the long journey from the East, about Vulcan City 
 hotels, as compared with those in Chicago he had been 
 to Chicago and about the coming investigation into the 
 miners troubles. 
 
 As soon as the first embarrassing moments were over 
 Savitz excused himself. He had to run downtown on an im 
 portant errand. He shook hands with Raymond Evert cor 
 dially and left the room. 
 
 Evert was wondering how much the miner might know 
 of his relations with Hilda. Hilda, on the other hand, felt 
 that Savitz knew all ; had guessed everything. . . . She was 
 grateful to him for the way he had managed things. . . . 
 A mother would not have done things more delicately for 
 her daughter. . . . 
 
270 THE ROAD 
 
 With the exit of the miner the thread of conversation was 
 broken between them. Neither of them knew how to begin 
 to talk the things they wished to say to one another. 
 
 Each had expected to find the other different. . . . Ray 
 mond s picture in the newspaper, in spite of the stern look 
 it had, gave no clear conception of his age. . . . Hilda had 
 expected to find him younger looking. . . . His hair was 
 nearly all gray. His face was lined as she had never seen 
 it lined in a man so young. . . . There was not a trace 
 of cheerfulness in his features. 
 
 It was Hilda s eyes that struck Evert above everything 
 else. He had found her looking much better than he had 
 dared dream. She showed not a gray hair and there were 
 no glaring wrinkles in her face. But her eyes, her eyes 
 told the story of the ten years they had been apart. All 
 the grayness, despair, and helplessness of those years were 
 settled in her eyes. 
 
 They were sitting across the table from each other. . . . 
 Both felt awkward over their silence. . . . But the silence 
 was sweet. ... It was rest the rest from the knife which 
 had just cut a wound open. . . . 
 
 "Mama," a child s voice rang out, the door flew open, 
 and little Raymond landed in the middle of the room. 
 
 He stood still where he was and gazed at the man who 
 was sitting across the table from his mother. He had recog 
 nized Evert from the picture he had seen in the paper. . . . 
 He was not surprised, as if he had been expecting to see the 
 man. . . . 
 
 Evert rose, took a step forward, cleared his throat as if to 
 speak, but could not, and extended his hand silently to the 
 
GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 271 
 
 boy. Little Raymond took it. Evert held his hand some 
 what longer than the child seemed to expect, and little Ray 
 mond fixed his eyes upon him shyly. As soon as his hand 
 was free he quickly sidled up to his mother. She put her 
 arm about him while he rested his head against her shoulder. 
 
 Hilda broke the silence. She felt that she had to speak 
 or she would cry out. She asked about Stillwell. Had Mr. 
 Evert been to Stilh^ll lately? 
 
 He had. Evert had been visiting the town quite fre 
 quently in the past eight or nine years. He was fond of 
 going over the old places. He was telling her about them. 
 
 Evert was speaking feverishly and was speaking with his 
 eyes as well as with his lips. He was trying to convey 
 things to Hilda, the things that were not easy to speak of. 
 ... He was trying to convey to her that he had been going 
 to Stillwell frequently, had been hunting out the old scenes 
 and places in the vain hope of finding a trace of her. . . . 
 His sentences were broken and incoherent. Little Raymond 
 listened and looked perplexed. 
 
 In recent years, Evert added, he had been going to Still- 
 well for another reason. His father was buried there. Be 
 fore his death Henry Evert had asked to be buried in Still- 
 well. 
 
 The mention of death gave Hilda an opportunity to heave 
 a sigh which had been choking her. 
 
 He went on talking about Stillwell. In his last years his 
 father had lost his fondness for Chicago his mother had 
 never liked it and looked back longingly upon the early, 
 happier period of his life in the Wisconsin town. . . . Alto 
 gether his father had changed before his death. One could 
 
272 THE ROAD 
 
 reason with him then as one could not when he was younger. 
 ... He had suffered much in his last years. ... He had 
 been sick nearly all the time, and died hard. . . . 
 
 The conversation turned about this family pivot longer 
 than either of them intended. As Hilda listened she was 
 thinking that Raymond s voice had not altered as much as 
 his appearance. It was the same voice*that she had known. 
 . . . Soft and honest. . . . Only deeper and more vibrant. 
 . . . The evidence of suffering stood out here, too. . . . 
 
 They were still talking of Stillwell and the past when 
 Savitz returned. Evert could not protract his visit any 
 longer and rose to go. With Savitz leading, Hilda and the 
 boy followed Evert into the yard and to the gate. It was 
 Savitz who asked him to call again, Hilda seconding his 
 invitation somewhat uncertainly. . . . Evert shook hands 
 with them. Little Raymond s hand he took last and again 
 held it long. . . . His voice seemed somewhat throttled as 
 he said good night to the boy. . . . 
 
 Hilda went into her room and was making the child s 
 bed. Little Raymond was plying her with questions. She 
 and Evert had talked about things which he had never 
 heard her speak of before. . . . He wanted to know about 
 these, and about Mr. Evert; who he was, how she came to 
 know him. . . . 
 
 Since little Raymond was an infant Hilda had been pre 
 paring for questions, these and many others. . . . And 
 she now answered them. She told the child of her early life, 
 
GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 273 
 
 her parents, her childhood in Stillwell, and how she and 
 Evert were playmates. . . . She told him as much as she 
 thought best for a child of his age to know. 
 
 "Is he coming again?" Raymond wanted to know, as he 
 was slipping into bed. 
 
 "Why?" Hilda questioned him in turn. 
 
 "Because I would like to see him again." 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 "Yes, wouldn t you?" he rejoined quickly. 
 
 Hilda walked off without answering him. She took a 
 book and pretended to be reading. In reality she was think 
 ing about the child, wondering whether the presence of 
 Evert, of his father, had in any way communicated itself 
 to him, whether he had sensed it. Little Raymond lay in 
 bed quiet, but she knew he was not sleeping. Suddenly 
 she caught his eyes. They had a nervous sparkle and were 
 fixed on her. 
 
 "Aren t you sleeping yet?" she asked. 
 
 "I m not sleepy," he answered. 
 
 To Hilda there suddenly seemed something grown up in 
 the tone of his voice. It sounded like that of a man. 
 
 She walked over to his bed and tucked the quilt closer 
 about him. The youngster caught hold of her hand and 
 began caressing it. He pleaded with her to sit down on 
 the bed beside him, and she did. 
 
 "Mama," he asked with a quaver, "why did my father 
 have to die so young?" 
 
 "Come, child," she said, her own voice growing husky, 
 "you are asking silly questions. Why does anybody die? 
 Death comes and one dies." 
 
274 THE ROAD 
 
 "Then death may come and take me or you, too, any 
 time?" 
 
 "Go to sleep, child," Hilda rose, "you must not think 
 such things. It is late, go to sleep." 
 
 She moved away and began to undress. The boy was 
 still gazing at her with his flashing eyes. He was not sat 
 isfied with her answers. She quickly turned the light out 
 and went to bed. 
 
 More than an hour later, when Hilda thought him asleep 
 for a long time, he called again. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "Mother, what makes people s faces sad?" 
 
 "Go to sleep, child. You will never be in time for school 
 to-morrow." She tried to make her voice ring severe. 
 
 In her heart she was pleased with the child s questioning. 
 She noticed that their thoughts seemed to be running parallel 
 on all important matters. She ; too, had just been wondering 
 why E vert s face was so sad. ... It was not a passing 
 sadness. It was a sadness left there by years of lonely, 
 cheerless living. . . . 
 
 Yes, she mused, Raymond was unhappy. . . . How 
 strangely life worked. How different she had expected their 
 meeting to be. ... Their roles were changed. ... It was 
 not she, but Raymond that was drifting rudderless through 
 life. . . . 
 
 She lay awake for hours thinking of the past, the future. 
 
 . . . Raymond would come again. . . . There was no doubt 
 
 in her mind that he would. . . . He would not let her go 
 
 now that he knew where to find her. . . . He would come. 
 
 . He would want she knew what he would want. . . . 
 
GRAY HAIR GRAY EYES 275 
 
 She had seen him gaze at the child all evening, hold his 
 little hand. . . . 
 
 The child was sleeping. . . . She could hear his even 
 breathing. ... A warmth was surging through her, and a 
 happiness. . . . She rose, left her bed, and walked over to 
 the boy. She felt his head and face. His warm breath 
 touched her flesh. . . . She passed her hand gently over 
 the entire length of his tall, thin frame. The tears fell 
 from her eyes. . . . 
 
 At the hotel Raymond Evert was in the midst of a long 
 letter to Hilda. 
 
 What he could not speak he wrote. ... On paper he went 
 down on his knees to her. . . . He had been wrong, wrong, 
 wrong. ... He had had no character. He was not now 
 trying to mitigate this wrong. He was making no defense. 
 . . . But he had paid for his weakness. ... In all these 
 years she, Hilda, had not been out of his consciousness for 
 an instant. He could not forget her. ... He did not try 
 to forget her. . . . 
 
 And Hilda was not the only one he had sinned against. 
 ... He had sinned also against the other woman, the 
 one he called his wife. For though he lived with her in 
 wedlock, his soul had remained unwedded. . . . He had 
 sinned heinously by not marrying Hilda whom he loved 
 and by marrying this woman whom he did not love. . . . 
 
 The past was not to be revoked. . . . But the future was 
 here and to be molded. ... He would mold this future 
 on a foundation of truth and love. . . . Now that he had 
 found her, Hilda, and their child, he would institute pro- 
 
276 THE ROAD 
 
 ceedings for a separation from his wife. In the future he, 
 his life should belong to her and to their child, whether she 
 chose to accept it or not. . . . 
 
 When he finished his letter to Hilda, Raymond Evert 
 walked over to the window and gazed for some time in the 
 direction of the Savitz home. Then he undressed, went to 
 bed, and was asleep in a few moments. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 
 
 Ax first Evert was thinking if it would not be possible 
 to keep Hilda from coming before the commission. Upon 
 consideration, however, he changed his mind and decided 
 not to interfere, but to let the union go through with its 
 program, which had assigned to Hilda a leading part in 
 its testimony. 
 
 On the afternoon of the third day she entered the room 
 in which the hearings were held. Evert had not seen Hilda 
 since meeting her at the Savitz home. The letter he had 
 dispatched to her the following morning. She had had 
 twenty-four hours to think about it. 
 
 He had been waiting for her, and as soon as Hilda 
 entered he walked over and they shook hands. He had 
 hoped for a gaze, or a gesture which he could take as an 
 answer to his letter, but there was none. Her greeting 
 was formal; there was no warmth in it. She was polite 
 and restrained. 
 
 Hilda was pale and her eyes were tired as if from lack 
 of sleep. It may have been the testimony which she was 
 to give before the commission that had kept her awake, 
 Evert was musing, but it may also have been his letter. 
 He had hoped for a different effect. . . . 
 
 277 
 
278 THE ROAD 
 
 Two members of the commission approached and Evert 
 introduced Hilda to them as an acquaintance from the 
 East. One of the commissioners was from New York and 
 he inquired what organizations she had been associated 
 with there. Hilda named the Waist Workers* Union and 
 the Shop Safety Committee. The commissioner, it turned 
 out, knew Dr. Baum of the committee; of Mr. Raboff he 
 had heard. He at once put Hilda on a basis of equality 
 with himself and the commission. . . . 
 
 The taking of testimony began. 
 
 The lawyer for the union was insistent on bringing out 
 Hilda s previous experience and connection with the labor 
 movement in New York. It would add to her prestige 
 and strengthen her testimony. He drew from her the story 
 of the Princess Waist factory fire, the friend she had lost, 
 her own narrow escape, and her subsequent share in the 
 work of making the factories of New York safe. 
 
 Hilda gave her testimony quietly, adequately, but with 
 reserve, and not too eagerly. She was not striving for 
 effect. She spoke simply, used no invectives, showed no 
 bitterness. . . . 
 
 She seemed relieved when the personal angle of her testi 
 mony was over with, and she came to the part dealing 
 with the situation in Vulcan City, the lives of the miners, 
 the conditions in their homes. . . . She told of the relief 
 work she had been conducting for the miners organization. 
 She consulted her papers and recited facts and figures. 
 
 She was on the stand for three hours. From time to 
 time one or another of the commissioners would ask her 
 to repeat certain figures or to recapitulate certain state- 
 
HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 279 
 
 merits. There were no other interruptions. Her testi 
 mony was coming down steadily like a quiet rain and 
 every one was listening attentively. 
 
 Hilda made a conscious effort not to look at Evert. 
 Now and then, however, their eyes met, and each time 
 Hilda bent hers a little lower. She was conscious that 
 Raymond was not listening to her testimony, but to her 
 voice. . . . 
 
 He was. Hilda s testimony had become to Evert not 
 the story of the miners, of the injustices done to them > 
 but her own story, a recital of the wrongs and injustices 
 life no, not life, but he, Raymond Evert, had dealt 
 her. . . . The ten years in which Hilda had braved the 
 world not only alone and unaided, but with the crushing 
 handicap of unmarried motherhood weighing her down, 
 lay before him like an open book. 
 
 The deep, unfathomable grayness in her eyes, which 
 he had noticed the moment he saw her at the Savitz home, 
 and which haunted him since, was now clear to him. . . . 
 Death had put it there, the struggle against death in the 
 Princess fire, the daily struggle against death and disgrace 
 during those ten terrible years. . . . 
 
 He was planning to get to her, to speak to her, directly 
 the session was over, but could not disengage himself on 
 the instant. When finally he was free, he walked over to 
 the group of miners who had surrounded Hilda as soon as 
 she left the witness chair, but she was not among them. 
 He stepped out into the hall, but there, too, she was not 
 to be seen. While searching for her he came upon Savitz, 
 and the latter told him that Hilda had gone home. She 
 
280 THE ROAD 
 
 had barely closed her eyes the night before and she was 
 tired. 
 
 He made no attempt to see her that evening, but the 
 following morning, just before the session of the commis 
 sion opened, they met again. There was a strained, timid 
 expression in Hilda s face as she answered his greeting. He 
 inquired when he might see her. 
 
 "Can you come Sunday morning?" she asked. 
 
 She was facing him, but avoided his gaze. 
 
 Sunday was two days off. He had wished to see her 
 sooner. But he agreed to Sunday. 
 
 Hilda left him and a moment later Evert saw her in 
 thoughtful conversation with the union s lawyer, and with 
 the man who was to be the next witness for the miners. 
 
 He started for the commissioners table, dragging his 
 feet heavily. Things were growing misty before his eyes. 
 He had a feeling of having received bad news. . . . 
 
 He called a little before nine o clock, but Hilda was 
 already in the yard waiting for him. Little Raymond came 
 up, greeted Evert shyly, and walked off again. The child s 
 greeting and his hasty departure were prearranged by Hilda. 
 She had told the boy that she wished to spend the morn 
 ing with Mr. Evert undisturbed. 
 
 A short distance from the Savitz home was country, the 
 valley on one side, the mountains on the other. A few 
 scattered houses were stuck in the mountain side. Past 
 these a road was winding its way up. Hilda and Raymond 
 Evert were both looking at the road. 
 
HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 281 
 
 "Shall we go?" she suggested. 
 
 He assented hastily. 
 
 As they were leaving the yard of the Savitz home Evert 
 glanced about for little Raymond, but the child had dis 
 appeared. 
 
 They were walking in silence. The air was as mild and 
 sweet as the breath of a babe. Raymond Evert was on 
 the verge of tears. He was thinking of the past, the years 
 of suffering that lay between him and Hilda. ... If there 
 were only a way of obliterating these years! If he could 
 but walk with Hilda under the tender Arizona sky as they 
 were once wont to walk, with no clouds between them, 
 no problems to settle, with complete absorption in one 
 another. . . . 
 
 But that could not be. He and Hilda had been walk 
 ing side by side for ten minutes or so, and never once had 
 their shoulders touched. . . . He was gazing at her from 
 time to time. Her face was tense and from under her 
 tired lashes her eyes were looking straight ahead of her. 
 The walk distinctly was no pleasure to Hilda. . . It was 
 an ordeal to her. ... It was so to him also. If he could 
 but fall at her feet, embrace her knees and weep. But he 
 could not. . . . The past could not be conjured up. Her 
 look, her carriage were too forbidding. . . . She would make 
 him talk, say things. What had he to say? 
 
 She turned from the main road and in a short time the 
 town was lost to view. She was apparently familiar with 
 the spot, for she led him up to where there was a large 
 bench-like stone. She sat down and was waiting for him 
 to speak. He finally did. 
 
282 THE ROAD 
 
 He asked whether she had received his letter. 
 
 She had. 
 
 There was a pause and then he resumed, his voice gaining 
 in firmness as he spoke. He was repeating to her that 
 which he had said in his letter, and more. He was telling 
 her of his vain searchings for her, of the dark and lonely 
 years he had spent, how often he had wished himself dead 
 had been planning death. . . . But now that he found 
 her everything must change. It was changed as far as he 
 was concerned. He had already broken with the past. 
 He was taking steps with regard to a divorce. . . . His life 
 henceforward would be devoted to those he loved to her, to 
 "their" child. . . . 
 
 Hilda listened with averted face. What he was saying 
 was exactly what she had been expecting to hear from 
 him the moment she saw him, saw his face, his eyes, his 
 untimely gray hair. ... It was no surprise to her. . . . 
 His letter had been no surprise. But it was useless. . . . 
 His words, his sentiments, his offers were coming too late. 
 . . . Whatever it was that had separated them ten years 
 back, a real gulf was between them now. . . . 
 
 Raymond ceased speaking and was waiting for a word 
 from her. She turned her face upon him. The melancholy 
 grayness in her eyes was deeper than ever. His blood 
 stood still. He was reading his verdict in those eyes. . . . 
 She would never link her life with his. 
 
 "I know," he was mumbling, "it is hard for you to forget 
 all that you have suffered. It is hard for you to forgive 
 all that I have done to you " 
 
 "I have forgiven you." Hilda finally broke her silence. 
 
HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 283 
 
 "Since I saw you I have forgiven you. But what you say 
 cannot be. . . ." 
 
 "Why not?" He grasped at her words as a drowning 
 man grasps at a straw. "I don t ask you to unite your 
 life with mine at once. I ll give you time. ... I can wait 
 until your feelings towards me are once more what they 
 had been, until " 
 
 "That will never be," she interrupted him. But Evert 
 pleaded again: 
 
 "Time, give yourself time. . . ." 
 
 "No it can t be," Hilda repeated with a deep sigh, "be 
 cause I m not what I was ten years ago. ..." 
 
 "Yes, I know." Evert spoke enthusiastically. "You ve 
 grown wonderfully. . . . You ve made a place for yourself 
 in the world. You are now a " 
 
 "Is that the only change you see in me?" She fixed her 
 eyes upon him with an enigmatic look. 
 
 Into Evert s bloodless features came a puzzled expres 
 sion. He did not know how to take her gaze. He was 
 pained. Hilda looked up from his face to his gray head 
 and decided to make an end of things as quickly as pos 
 sible. She was sorry for him. 
 
 "Raymond," she said, using his Christian name for the 
 first time, "there are more changes in me than can be 
 seen on the surface. . . ." 
 
 She stopped. Now she was having difficulty in explain 
 ing herself. Finally she resumed: 
 
 "If you d come earlier, I don t know how many years 
 back, but earlier, everything might ve been different. Then 
 the life you speak of, love, marriage, a home, might still 
 
284 THE ROAD 
 
 have had charm for me. . . . Then I was not so much, 
 and so definitely at war with the world, with society, with 
 our civilization. . . . It s different now. Now I am lost 
 to that life. I know only two loves now: one is for my 
 child, the other for the rest of the world for those who 
 suffer in it. ... I am unfit for family life." 
 
 "You are not," Raymond cried ardently. "Time " 
 
 Hilda motioned to him not to interrupt her. Her speech 
 had come to her only after great effort and she wished 
 to be over with it. She continued: 
 
 "For years after you left me, after I left Chicago, I 
 thought of my misfortune only in terms of myself. Twas 
 my life that was ruined, my blood was crying for revenge, 
 for justice. . . . Twas a personal issue between me and 
 you. But the years have changed this. The wrong done 
 to me has fused itself with the wrongs done to others, 
 millions of others. Millions of working women are wronged 
 and exploited to-day. They are exploited in factories. 
 They are exploited in shops and offices. They are ex 
 ploited for their work and they are exploited for their 
 beauty. . . . There s no reason why I should be the only 
 one to receive compensation, as it were, for my suffering, 
 why my life alone should be sweetened by ease and com 
 fort. . . ." 
 
 "I understand," Raymond spoke up warmly, "you are 
 a socialist. I saw it from your testimony the other day, 
 the way you put things. . . . But I will not interfere with 
 your ideals, with your beliefs. I ll not be a hindrance in 
 your work. As a matter of fact," there was a faint ring 
 of magnanimity in his voice, "as a matter of fact, I m 
 
HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 285 
 
 myself sympathetic with the working people. Very sym 
 pathetic. . . . Indeed I have . , ." 
 
 Hilda had averted her face to hide the expression of 
 pain that had come into it. If Raymond had only not made 
 this last remark. . . . Every word of it widened the gulf 
 between them. . . . 
 
 His phrase "sympathetic with the working people" and 
 the manner in which it was spoken recalled to Hilda vividly 
 her year in the cooperative apartment with the rich college 
 girls and their dawdling friends. They too spoke with 
 the same benign condescension, used the same vapid jargon. 
 . . . Those men and women, too, were "sympathetic with 
 the working people." It was their stock in trade this sym 
 pathy with the people. It fed their vanity and gave them 
 a sense of being superior. . . . 
 
 "Poor, weak little aristocrats," she mused, as she recalled 
 these acquaintances, and mentally she classed Raymond 
 Evert with them. . . . 
 
 He was repeating to her about his having no desire to 
 interfere with her beliefs, but Hilda cut him short. 
 
 "It s not the things I believe in that matter," she said, 
 "it s the things I don t believe in. I don t believe in the 
 life that you propose to me. I am not telling others what 
 they should do or should not do, but I don t believe in it 
 for myself. What you propose is to take me into the class 
 of the privileged, and I am the sworn opponent of this 
 class. I am an enemy of all privileges. The struggle 
 against privileges and the privileged, the war on the pres 
 ent civilization and for a new order of things, fills out my 
 life to-day as marriage might have filled it out, had I 
 
286 THE ROAD 
 
 not known these ideas, had not injustice, suffering, despair 
 opened my eyes to them." 
 
 "You mean," Evert was groping for words, that your 
 ideas, your work in behalf of of the masses leaves you no 
 room for marriage, for a family life? . . . " 
 
 "Yes." Hilda smiled sadly. "That s how things worked 
 out in my case. I m a sort of a nun worshiping in the 
 invisible temple of a new faith. . . ." 
 
 "Hilda!" 
 
 He had risen from the stone upon which they had been 
 sitting and was standing straight in front of her. 
 
 "Hilda," he mumbled, "but the child? . . . Don t you 
 want to give him a name, his name standing?" 
 
 She jumped up as if a stab had been aimed at her and 
 she had averted it. 
 
 "He has a name!" Her words rang out shrilly and her 
 eyes were flashing. "He has a name my name. And he 
 has standing the standing of being my son. ... It may 
 not be the proper standing in the eyes of the law and of 
 society to-day. But I don t believe in that law and in 
 that society. . . . Neither the one nor the other is founded 
 on right and justice. ... I despise them both! 
 
 "Name, standing," she continued, "the words that you 
 have been using here, the conceptions you have been in 
 voking, belong to the past. ... By the time my little son 
 is a man these conceptions will be dead. Woman s right 
 to motherhood will be a question of love, a question to be 
 decided by herself and not by a priest s blessing or by a 
 husband s brute instinct. ... All life will be sacred." 
 
 Raymond stood aghast not at Hilda s words, but at his 
 
HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 287 
 
 own helplessness. He was involving himself deeper and 
 deeper, and getting more and more away from the point 
 to which he was trying to bring Hilda around. . . . 
 
 "Think of the advantages to the child." He floundered 
 about for something to say. 
 
 "Material advantages," he corrected himself, thinking 
 he was strengthening his plea. 
 
 "I don t want any advantages for him," Hilda spoke 
 stubbornly. "Advantages for one imply disadvantages for 
 another. Why should my child have advantages which 
 millions of children of the working class do not have? 
 Advantages for a few hundred thousand men, women and 
 children, privileges for a limited class, that is the curse 
 of our civilization. It is the rock against which capitalist 
 society will finally be dashed to pieces. ... It is in order 
 to give advantages to a score or two of sons and daughters 
 of our so-called best families in New York and Boston 
 that the miners in Vulcan City, their wives and children 
 are kept in a state of semi-servitude." 
 
 Hilda had completely lost all control over herself. . . . 
 
 "Advantages!" she snarled. "You have had advantages 
 and what did you do with them? ... If you had not had 
 advantages, and had not sought more advantages, an ad 
 vantageous marriage, an advantageous position in society, 
 you would not have left me when you did, and as you did. 
 . . . You loved me then and you would have married me, 
 and my child would not now be suffering from disadvantages. 
 . . . You would not be trying to atone now for wrongs 
 you should not have committed. . . . Advantages. . . . 
 Don t mention them to me, I don t want them. . . ." 
 
288 THE ROAD 
 
 The sound of her own voice sobered Hilda. . . . She was 
 sorry. . . . She could not understand how she had lost her 
 mastery over herself, her feelings. ... An outbreak such 
 as this was the one thing she had been guarding against, 
 the one thing she was determined not to let happen. . . . 
 
 She started back for the city. For some minutes she ran 
 ahead of Raymond. She was trying to compose herself. 
 When she had calmed down she waited for him to join 
 her and began speaking to him once more quietly, but 
 firmly. 
 
 "As Fve told you already," she was saying, "I m har 
 boring no ill-will against you. But marriage and family 
 life between you and me are out of the question. I can t 
 think of it now never. ... I must go on with my work. 
 It s best for me, for the child. . . . Don t worry about 
 him. ... I shall raise him to be a good man. . . . 
 
 "I m glad I saw you," she continued, after catching her 
 breath. "I ve been wanting to see you. I wanted to have 
 things clear between us. They are so now. I m not inter 
 fering with your life, and I want to ask the same of you. 
 . . . Leave us alone. . . . I ve told the child certain things 
 concerning his parentage and I don t want to deviate from 
 them now. I don t want to change them. There s no use 
 beclouding his little head. . . . I ve told him that his 
 father is dead. . . . Well, let the myth of death be a reality 
 to him. . . ." 
 
 They were going downhill and Hilda was walking fast 
 deliberately. She was all unstrung, and wanted to get home 
 and rest. Evert followed her, speechless, dazed. . . . 
 
 When they reached the corner where she was to turn 
 
HILDA CONTINUES ALONE 289 
 
 off to the house, Hilda extended her hand to him. . . . Her 
 eyes were pleading with him to spare her the ordeal of 
 another meeting with the child that day. . . . Raymond 
 cast a sad look at the Savitz home, which was less than a 
 hundred feet away. . . . His eyes filled. He shook her 
 hand and walked away rapidly. , . . 
 
 The newspapers the following morning announced that 
 the commission would finish its investigation on Tuesday 
 and would leave Vulcan City on Wednesday. Late that 
 afternoon, just as Evert stepped into the hotel, Savitz met 
 him and handed him a note from Hilda. 
 
 "I cannot stand the strain of another meeting," she wrote, 
 "and we are leaving town for a few days. Please do not 
 make any efforts to locate us. It is no use. I harbor no 
 ill-will against you. Good-by." 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 DEATH 
 
 HILDA returned with the child two days after the com 
 mission had left Vulcan City. A letter from Evert was 
 waiting for her: It was a reply to her farewell note, not 
 very long, and bore evidence of how completely crushed 
 he was by her, writing and actions. 
 
 He had hoped to see her and the child before leaving, 
 Evert wrote. He would not have intruded his presence too 
 long on them. . . . However, the thing was not to be and 
 he bowed to her dictates. . . . She was in the right, he in 
 the wrong. ... If all she wanted of him was the assur 
 ance of not being importuned, of being left alone and un 
 disturbed if that was all she would accept of him, he 
 wished her to have this assurance. ... He would not bur 
 den her with protestations of interest in herself and the 
 child though, of course, he would continue to have that 
 interest and love for them always. . . . 
 
 Hilda read and reread the letter many times that after 
 noon and evening. . . . She was glad Raymond had writ 
 ten. ... It would have grieved her if he had departed from 
 Vulcan City wfthout a farewell line to her, to them. . . . 
 
 At the same time the letter also gave her a feeling of 
 finality. ... It was like a certificate of death, of burial. 
 . . . The past was dead. . . . She was a new person. . . . 
 
 290 
 
DEATH 291 
 
 Her account with Evert was closed. . . . She was free. . . . 
 
 She went to bed thinking about the future, planning. 
 . . . There were new signs on the horizon. . . . When she 
 left New York, the roar of war had stifled the cry of revolt 
 everywhere. Now the rumblings of revolution were rising 
 above the din of cannons. ... In Russia the autocracy had 
 fallen, and "the first outposts of the social revolution" had 
 taken up their positions. . . . The socialistic elements were 
 everywhere raising their heads. . . . There was no time 
 to lose. . . . She must try to find a place among them. . . . 
 
 She fell asleep with visions of red flags and barricades 
 shifting before her eyes, but she was dreaming of Raymond 
 and Stillwell. . . . She dreamed that Raymond was dead 
 many, many years, that she was herself old and bent, and 
 that the letter was the only relic she had of him. . . . 
 
 When she woke in the morning Savitz had already left 
 the house. He had gone to work. The day after the com 
 mission left town, operations in the mines were resumed, 
 both sides agreeing to abide by the decision which the 
 commission, the government, would reach. . . . 
 
 From the morning paper which she was reading Hilda 
 had learned that the town had again resumed its normal 
 life and appearance. The workingmen had disappeared 
 from the streets and were once more busy drilling down 
 into the cavities of the earth. . . . The score of correspond 
 ents from the East had left on the same train with the 
 commission and Vulcan City would cease to furnish sensa 
 tional headlines for the newspapers of the country. . . . 
 
 Hilda was sipping her coffee and gazing thoughtfully at 
 
292 THE ROAD 
 
 little Raymond. The child s face, too, was sober. He was 
 meditating on something. 
 
 "Would you like to go back to New York?" she asked. 
 
 Raymond s eyes lit up with pleasure. 
 
 "Yes, mother," he said, "if you wish to go back." 
 
 "If you wish," "if you say so," little Raymond now 
 modified everything he asked with some such phrase. . . . 
 He was now always thinking of his mother first, worrying 
 about her, as if he were the grown-up, the parent, and she 
 the child. ... It was a habit he had acquired since he had 
 begun to be apprehensive for his mother s safety, and lay 
 awake half the nights fearing lest the authorities break 
 into their home and arrest her and take her from him. 
 
 Hilda was aware of her son s feelings, of his fears for 
 her, and it pained her. It was too soon for the child to 
 be steeped in such tragic thoughts. . . . 
 
 "Will you be happier in New York?" she asked. She 
 was conscious that she had put the question too maturely 
 for the child. Little Raymond, however, took the ques 
 tion quite naturally, as if happiness was a thing he was 
 accustomed to think about, to discuss. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I shall be happier there. We shall be 
 safer." 
 
 "It is my birthplace," he added after a little. There was 
 a dreamy look in his eyes. ... He was recalling a story 
 he had read in which men loved their birthplace and longed 
 to return to it. ... 
 
 The union heads at first attempted to persuade Hilda 
 to remain in the West, but when they found her insistent 
 
DEATH 293 
 
 on going they asked her to stay over until the middle of 
 December. There was some work they were anxious to 
 have her do for the organization. 
 
 There was no particular hurry about getting to New 
 York. Hilda was not going to anything definite and it 
 might as well be in December as in October, she figured, 
 and agreed to stay. 
 
 The approaching return to the East had brought little 
 Raymond, who always got on well with his teachers, in still 
 closer touch with them. Both teachers, the one in whose 
 class he was, and the one whose class he had just left, were 
 girls in the twenties. New York to them was a mystery 
 and a dream. Little Raymond had been to New York, 
 had seen it, and was now going back to it. ... After 
 school, or at recess, the one or the other of them would 
 stop to talk to him about his approaching journey. They 
 would ask him to tell all he remembered of New York. 
 
 "You must be sure and write to us," the teachers once 
 told him in one voice, "and some day we shall come to 
 New York and visit you." 
 
 Raymond was proud and happy over the attentions his 
 teachers were bestowing upon him. The two months pre 
 ceding his journey were the two happiest months in his 
 life. 
 
 Hilda had left the office and was in the midst of prepa 
 rations for the trip when a letter arrived from Raymond. 
 It was formal, brief and to the point. 
 
 He was leaving for France in a few days, he wrote, hav 
 ing volunteered for the war, and he wished to inform her 
 
294 THE ROAD 
 
 of certain provisions he had made, which concerned the 
 child and herself. He had settled an allowance upon the 
 boy which would see him through with his education, the 
 grades, high school, and college. He was very keen that 
 she accept the allowance. She incurred no obligations to 
 ward him, Evert, by accepting it. By the terms of another 
 provision she and the child became his legal heirs in case 
 of his death. She would in the next few days receive a 
 detailed letter with regard to this matter from his lawyer. 
 Here followed a few words of farewell and good wishes. 
 They were sincere, warm, but not intimate. . . . 
 
 Three days later, as they were starting for the train, 
 the mail man brought a registered letter. It was from Ray 
 mond s lawyer. She stuck the letter into her purse with 
 out opening it. ... 
 
 She had planned to stay over a day or two in Chicago. 
 She wanted to see the city once more and to show it to 
 the child. Little Raymond had also suggested their visiting 
 Stillwell. Since he had heard Mr. Evert speak of it, he 
 had wished to see the place. Hilda, however, told him that 
 the time to see Stillwell was in the summer and the child 
 acquiesced with her. 
 
 For two whole days the journey was very pleasant. On 
 the third they rode into a snowstorm. A terrific gale was 
 sweeping the prairie, howling and tearing at the sides of 
 the coach. The engine was groaning and the train was 
 proceeding at a snail-like crawl. 
 
 Gusts of wind swept through the car. It was cold and 
 
DEATH 295 
 
 people got into their furs and overcoats. Little Raymond 
 was chilly and nestled close to his mother. They reached 
 Chicago eight hours late, Raymond suffering with a cold. 
 
 Hilda dropped all plans for staying over in Chicago and 
 decided to go on to New York at once. She had a wait 
 of three hours before she finally got on an East-bound train. 
 It was noon. 
 
 Raymond had eaten little for breakfast, and less for 
 dinner. His cold was becoming worse. He was in pain. 
 Every time he coughed, Hilda was lifted out of her seat in 
 alarm. The child observed his mother s fear and braced 
 himself. He tried to sit up and hold his head erect. 
 When his pain eased up for some moments he would even 
 smile to her. 
 
 Both Hilda and the child were glad, however, when the 
 porter made the bed and little Raymond got into it. Hilda 
 did not close an eye all night. In the morning it was clear 
 and frosty. The sun was out. The child insisted on 
 dressing. Hilda, too, thought he might feel better sitting 
 in the sun and she helped him with his clothes. 
 
 For some hours he seemed better. Shortly after noon, 
 however, Raymond lost all grip of himself. He lay limp 
 and helpless in her arms, burning away in a high fever. 
 Hilda was counting the moments for the train to pull into 
 New York. They finally arrived. 
 
 She carried him to a taxi and told the chauffeur to drive 
 to a family hotel she had once known on the West Side, just 
 below Fourteenth Street. As soon as she got into her room 
 she called for a doctor. The physician came in a half hour. 
 He examined the child hastily. 
 
 
296 THE ROAD 
 
 "We shall have to take him to a hospital at once," he 
 announced. 
 
 "Is it serious, doctor?" Hilda asked, wild-eyed. She 
 was shaking from head to foot. 
 
 The physician gazed at her pensively, as if making up 
 his mind to something. He decided that she better know 
 the whole truth. 
 
 "It is pneumonia," he said, "and there is no time to 
 lose." 
 
 He turned from Hilda to the telephone, picked up the re 
 ceiver, and called a number. She heard him ask for an 
 ambulance immediately. 
 
 Hilda staggered over to where little Raymond lay in a 
 stupor, went down on her knees before him, and kissed his 
 face, his hands imploringly. . . . He must not go. ... He 
 must not leave her. . . . Life would be meaningless with 
 out him. . . . The light would go out of the world. . . . 
 No, he could not die. . . . Not her son. . . . Not he. ... 
 
 Three days later Raymond was dead. . ; -. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 A TOAST TO THE FUTURE 
 
 THREE weeks later Hilda received a letter from Frank 
 Hillstrom. He had just heard of the child s death. In the 
 face of such a calamity, he wrote, he would not attempt to 
 console her. ... He had been in Washington for some 
 time now and was expecting to be in New York in about 
 ten days, when he would come to see her. 
 
 He walked in on her late one Saturday afternoon. 
 
 Hillstrom was in the uniform of a Red Cross captain. 
 Hilda noticed this, but expressed no surprise. The war had 
 been productive of such unusual effects upon people that 
 nothing in connection with it surprised her any longer. 
 Several of her acquaintances she believed to be ardent 
 pacifists were in France, in the trenches, having volun 
 teered for the war. On the other hand, a number of men 
 she least expected to oppose the war were either in prison, 
 as objectors, or were in the shadow of such a sentence. 
 
 Since the child s death, she had herself been thinking 
 about the sick and dying on the battlefields of Europe. . . . 
 She would have been happy to go among them, to assuage 
 their suffering, to lighten the last moments of the dying. 
 ... In her state of mind the work of a nurse would have 
 been consoling, soothing. Her pacifist convictions were, 
 however, in the way of her applying for war service. 
 
 297 
 
298 THE ROAD 
 
 Hilda s appearance stunned Hillstrom. She had become 
 pale and haggard during the five weeks that had elapsed 
 since the child s illness and death. Her eyes looked as if 
 she were about to cry, or had just ceased crying. She had 
 been going from one paroxysm of tears to another. 
 
 They spoke in snatches. Both were struggling with their 
 emotions. . . . 
 
 Twilight had set in. He asked her to go to dinner with 
 him. She dressed and they went down together. 
 
 They were walking up Fifth Avenue. Hilda was seeing 
 the street again for the first time since America s entry 
 into the war and it astonished her not a little. The street 
 had completely lost its pre-war civilian character. It was 
 teeming with men and women in uniform, soldiers, officers, 
 nurses. . . . Hillstrom was constantly being saluted and he 
 saluted in turn. He was going through the motions quickly 
 and dexterously. 
 
 They turned into a side street and entered an Italian 
 restaurant. The place bore a martial aspect. It was 
 adorned with flags, American and those of the allies. Most 
 of the tables were occupied by officers and their wives, 
 or friends. 
 
 They found a place at the far end of the room and sat 
 down. When they had finished their soup Hillstrom asked: 
 
 "Well, what do you think of me as a soldier?" 
 
 "I hardly know what to think," Hilda replied simply. 
 "You are the last person on earth I d look for in uniform. 
 I had rather expected to hear of your going to prison as a 
 pacifist." 
 
A TOAST TO THE FUTURE 299 
 
 Hillstrom listened to her thoughtfully. A sad smile 
 played about his lips. 
 
 "And you believe in going to prison?" he asked. 
 
 She looked puzzled. She was not sure she got the sig 
 nificance of his question. She had become so slow mentally 
 at times, since little Raymond s death. . . . However, she 
 answered: 
 
 "Yes for a cause. I would go to prison for a cause." 
 
 "Well," he said, as his smile vanished, "I used to think 
 that way too, but I don t any longer. I am a firm believer 
 now in keeping out of prison, in keeping on the job. The 
 cause gains more that way. . . ." 
 
 He was silent, flicking the ashes from his cigar. When 
 he spoke again the expression on his face was one of deadly 
 earnest. 
 
 "There are too many socialists, too many radicals and 
 dissenters from the present order in our prisons already," 
 he resumed, "far too many. . . . We permit ourselves to 
 be decoyed behind prison doors too lightly. In ancient 
 Rome when a tyrannical Caesar disliked criticism, he gave 
 the hint to his critics that they had lived long enough and 
 the noble Roman gentlemen obliged him by opening their 
 veins and departing from this earth. . . . After a while 
 the Romans learned that it was much wiser and healthier 
 to open the veins of their tyrants instead of their own. . . . 
 
 "Prison is to-day the substitute for the old method of 
 opening the veins of critics. ... It is less pagan and more 
 Christian. ... I am for turning the tables. . . . The time 
 has come for the rebels of this country, instead of going to 
 prison, to send others there. . . ." 
 
300 THE ROAD 
 
 Hillstrom stopped, took a sip of water, and continued: 
 
 "The war, whichever way it ends, will bring freedom to 
 the peoples of Europe. It has already brought freedom 
 to the people of Russia. But to us in America it is bring 
 ing sinister reaction. Overnight we have installed a mili 
 tary despotism that has curtailed our liberties in a thousand 
 different ways. 
 
 "Of course our oligarchs, our public thieves and despoil- 
 ers, want to stifle criticism. They want no independent 
 mind on the inside of their activities. They want no honest 
 man to see the desperate game they are playing with the 
 fortunes of the people, with the lives of the proletariat. 
 They want to sidetrack, to devitalize the forces that oppose 
 them. They want a free hand. 
 
 "But it is the business of those who know and under 
 stand their game not to give them a free hand. It is our 
 business not to be sidetracked. It is the business of the 
 radical, of the socialist, of the friend of the masses to stay 
 on the inside, to know what is going on, to be witness 
 to every betrayal of public right and to live to tell the 
 tale. . . . 
 
 "If the uniform becomes the only vantage ground from 
 which to stand guard over the people s interest let him 
 put on a uniform. This is no time to quibble over tape and 
 buttons. . . ." 
 
 Hilda s eyes stood wide with admiration; also a certain 
 relief was in them. 
 
 "You mean," she asked, "that you ve not become con 
 verted to war, that your uniform is is " 
 
 The tenseness left Hillstrom s face. He smiled. 
 
A TOAST TO THE FUTURE 301 
 
 "I ll wear this uniform, any uniform," he said, "so long 
 as it helps me promote my cause, the cause of the work 
 ing people. The capitalists, the militarists have no scruples 
 about the uniforms they put on, so long as these uniforms 
 serve them, help them carry out their plans. . . . Right 
 now they are cloaking their militarist ambitions in the 
 trappings of democracy. They are masquerading in our 
 uniforms, painting our slogans of progress, humanity and 
 brotherhood over their bloody designs for commercial con 
 quest and capitalist exploitation. Why should we scruple? 
 Why not choose the safest cloak for our revolutionary 
 work?" 
 
 Hilda was thinking over his last words when Hillstrom 
 came back, speaking barely above a whisper: 
 
 "There s no other way. . . . Dark days have come upon 
 the country. . . . For the first time in our history open 
 discontent has been made dangerous. . . . We are driven 
 underground and we must resort to underground meth 
 ods. . . . 
 
 "Listen," he bent over close to her, "they are sending me 
 to France in two weeks. At the first opportunity I shall 
 have myself transferred for service in Russia. . . . Russia 
 is the country we shall have to watch, to learn from per 
 haps. . . . The social revolution has already begun there. 
 . . . Moscow will probably be to socialism what Rome has 
 been to Christianity. . . ." 
 
 Hilda was thrilled. It was the first time since Raymond s 
 death that she permitted herself a momentary enthusiasm 
 over anything. 
 
302 THE ROAD 
 
 "Russia," she said, "how I envy you. I should like to 
 go there myself." 
 
 "That," Hillstrom replied, "is precisely what I want to 
 talk to you about. I thought" he hesitated an instant 
 "I thought in your present misfortune Red Cross work, 
 helping the sick, caring for children, relieving pain and 
 suffering might hold forth a welcome change. ... If you 
 should decide at any time that you want to go into this 
 work, then see this man " 
 
 He wrote out the name and address of a colonel. Hilda 
 put the piece of paper away carefully. 
 
 "Ask to see him personally," he continued. "Tell him 
 I sent you and he will recall you at once. I talked about 
 you already and he promised to fix things up for you 
 without delay. . . ." 
 
 "If you go over to Europe," Hillstrom again leaned over 
 close to her, "try to get yourself assigned to Russia, the 
 nearest point to it. ... Perhaps we may meet there. . . ." 
 
 There was a faint dreaminess in his voice. . . . 
 
 The waiter had come with the bill. He had also brought 
 a bottle of fresh water. They were not serving wine to 
 men in uniform. . . . 
 
 "A good proletarian drink," Hillstrom laughed. 
 
 He filled the glasses. 
 
 Hilda bent her head in deep thought. 
 
 The restaurant hummed with conversation. In spite of 
 the fact that no wine was served, the officers were flushed 
 and hilarious. Their women companions were gazing upon 
 them with yearning, tender eyes, in which there lurked a 
 furtive sadness. . . . The band was playing patriotic airs. 
 
A TOAST TO THE FUTURE 303 
 
 . . . Two tables distant from Hillstrom and Hilda a com 
 pany of officers and civilians were making merry. One of 
 the men was telling of an encounter he had had with a 
 socialist, and what he had done to "that long-haired fel 
 low." The entire company roared with delight. 
 
 Hillstrom and Hilda looked at the merry company and 
 exchanged glances. 
 
 Hillstrom consulted his watch once more. It was time 
 for him to go. He lifted his glass and waited for Hilda 
 to lift hers. 
 
 "A toast to the future!" he called, gazing deeply into 
 her eyes. 
 
 They clinked glasses. He drank his to the last drop. 
 Hilda took a few sips and put her glass down. Her hand 
 was trembling. 
 
BOOK IV 
 EPILOGUE 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 IN RUSSIA S FIELDS 
 
 THREE years had passed and the fourth was under way, 
 Late on an afternoon in August, 1921, Hilda was coming 
 down one of the gray, dilapidated streets of the city of 
 Domsk on the Polish-Russian border. Two years earlier 
 an army fighting under allied command had taken the White 
 Russian city, and it was now the farthest outpost of non- 
 bolshevist Europe to the east. Beyond it lay the Soviet Em 
 pire. Hilda had come to Domsk with the first American 
 Relief Expedition that entered the stricken city. 
 
 She walked slowly, partly because the day was warm, 
 and partly in response to an inner mood. Her days in 
 Domsk were numbered. The American Relief Mission 
 was closing its activities. The acute suffering and hunger 
 which followed in the wake of the war had been stilled. 
 The chronic want of the desolate population, on the other 
 hand, was beyond the scope of any relief agency. The 
 twenty-odd relief workers, including Hilda, were hourly ex 
 pecting word from Washington ordering them back to the 
 United States. 
 
 Hilda was gazing at the mud-colored, one-story houses, 
 and at the people with their ashen faces and deep patient 
 eyes, as if trying to absorb and store away in her mind 
 a lasting memory of them. . . . 
 
 307 
 
3 o8 THE ROAD 
 
 She was known to most of the inhabitants of the city 
 some twenty-eight thousand souls in all. Nearly every one 
 of them had passed through one of her clinics or children s 
 kitchens in the year and a half the Relief Mission had been 
 among them. Wide-bearded peasants lifted their hats and 
 bowed to the waist as she passed their houses. Kerchiefed 
 women sang out their good day and blessing fervently. . . . 
 Hilda answered their greetings not without sadness. They 
 had grown so near to her, these simple primitive people. 
 She had witnessed so many of their sorrows. It was like 
 parting from old friends. . . . 
 
 From one peasant hut two little children came out and 
 ran up to her beaming. She stopped to talk to them in the 
 few words of Russian she had acquired. 
 
 "How are you, Zosia?" she asked the little girl whose 
 straight flaxen hair was falling loosely about her shoulders. 
 
 "I m well, barynia (lady), quite well now," the girl re 
 plied. 
 
 "And you, Vasilka?" she addressed a barefooted young 
 ster of six. 
 
 The child blushed and lowered his head without answer 
 ing. Hilda petted his cheek and smoothed the girl s hair, 
 and the two went away happy. 
 
 She turned into a side street. An old manor house sur 
 rounded by spacious grounds came into view. An American 
 flag was flying over it. It was the home of the Relief 
 Mission at Domsk. She entered. 
 
 The place was in commotion. People were running from 
 room to room excitedly. 
 
 "Are we going home?" she asked the first person she met. 
 
IN RUSSIA S FIELDS 309 
 
 "No to Russia," was the hurried answer. 
 
 On the bulletin board was part of the text of a telegram 
 just received from Washington amplifying this informa 
 tion. 
 
 America, the message said, was coming to the aid of the 
 famine stricken population of Russia. Negotiations were 
 under way for the feeding of one million starving children. 
 The personnel and equipment of the Relief Mission at 
 Domsk was to be held in readiness to proceed to Moscow. 
 
 Hilda read the message over again. Yes, they were going 
 into Russia. She was going. . . . Russia. . . . Hill- 
 strom. . . . 
 
 She went up to her room, but did not stay there long. 
 She went down into the garden. A short distance from the 
 house was an apple orchard, and under one of its trees, 
 well to the rear, was a secluded bench upon which she had 
 often sat alone musing. She sought that bench now. . . . 
 
 In the three and a half years which had elapsed since 
 Hilda had left America for the war zone in Europe as Red 
 Cross nurse she and Hillstrom had not seen one another. 
 They served in divergent parts of France until the armistice. 
 With the signing of the armistice she applied for relief serv 
 ice in Poland, was accepted and transferred to Warsaw. 
 Hillstrom had been ordered into Germany with the occupa 
 tion troops. 
 
 Six months later she heard from him from New York. 
 His unit had been demobilized and he was sent home. His 
 hope of getting into Russia was frustrated. 
 
 She had received half a dozen letters at intervals of two 
 
3io THE ROAD 
 
 or three months from him thereafter. His letters were not 
 cheerful. Things at home were in a chaos, he wrote, were 
 going from bad to worse. The ranks of the proletariat were 
 hopelessly divided the war had divided them. The so 
 cialist and radical elements were split a dozen different ways. 
 Hate and suspicion had taken the place of unity and con 
 fidence; comrades were leaping at each other s throats. 
 While the forces of progress were engaging in futile con 
 flicts among themselves, the tories and reactionaries were 
 boldly lifting their heads. 
 
 He was thinking of Russia more than ever now, Hill- 
 strom wrote. He would like to go there, even if it were 
 only to get away from the twilight period at home. . . . 
 
 He was writing guardedly for her sake, for his own. . . . 
 There was no telling when one of his letters might fall into 
 unfriendly hands. The war was over, but its base insti 
 tutions were still flourishing. . . . The whole world was still 
 enmeshed in a net of hostile prying into man s private opin 
 ions and affairs. There was still an almost world-wide cen 
 sorship in operation. . . . 
 
 Hilda pored over each of Hillstrom s letters for weeks, 
 searching every line, every word for possible meaning and 
 significance. Then his letters abruptly ceased coming. She 
 had not heard from him for more than a year. . . . 
 
 It had been in accord with Hillstrom s urging that she 
 head toward Russia, and that he too would be aiming in 
 the same direction, that Hilda had volunteered first as a 
 Red Cross nurse and later for relief work in Eastern Europe. 
 It was the work itself, however, that had kept her there 
 
IN RUSSIA S FIELDS 311 
 
 long after these plans were frustrated. The work, her daily 
 run of activities, from the first absorbed her. 
 
 After each of Hillstrom s letters in particular she would 
 turn to her work as to a balm. . . . Hillstrom was wasting 
 his energies at home and she could hope to do no better 
 there, while here here she was alleviating suffering day 
 by day, hour by hour. . . . There was so much suffering 
 about her and so much resignation. People faced the fact 
 of death simply and naturally. . . . Many even looked 
 forward to it as to a relief. Hilda felt as if the simple 
 peasants to whom she was bringing the first, rudimentary 
 knowledge about their bodies were in turn confiding to her 
 much greater secrets about her soul. They were teaching 
 her how to live. They filled her heart with a strange 
 peace. . . . 
 
 As once in the dim past she had come to look upon her 
 trials and suffering as part of the suffering of a class, her 
 class, and derived great strength from it, so she now came 
 to look upon her grief, her personal grief for her dead 
 son, as a part of the grief of the world and it consoled her. 
 There were thousands of mothers sorrowing for the untimely 
 death of their sons, of their children, all about her. 
 
 As the Relief Mission proceeded deeper and deeper into 
 the typhus belt the corps of workers was dwindling. There 
 were more hardships, greater insecurity, keener loneliness. 
 . . . None but volunteers were wanted, and one after an 
 other the men and women with whom she had worked side 
 by side for months, for years, took their leave and started 
 for America. Hilda stayed on. The wider the prairies 
 about her became, the denser the forests, the more primitive 
 
3i2 THE ROAD 
 
 the villages and towns, the more restful she became, the 
 greater the contentment that came over her. . . . She felt 
 like a hermit returning to the retreat from which he had 
 strayed. ... It was wonderful to be so far removed from 
 civilization. . . . 
 
 There were times, especially at night, as she gazed out 
 upon the unbroken darkness that hung over the city un 
 broken except for the stars that she felt as if she were 
 recovering from a long illness. Her past life, her suffering 
 in Chicago, New York, Vulcan City, the horrors of war in 
 France and of disease in Poland all appeared to her as 
 phantoms, as dreams of her delirium. . . . They could not 
 possibly have happened under these stars. There could not 
 possibly be so much cruelty, so much ugliness in the world. 
 . . . Life must be beautiful. Men must be brothers. . . . 
 They were brothers! . . . They were!! They were!!! 
 
 The atmosphere at the Mission suddenly changed. A 
 tense secretiveness descended upon the place, upon the peo 
 ple immediately in charge of the office. Telegrams were com 
 ing one after another from Washington, from Paris, but 
 their contents was not divulged. The major in charge, a 
 strict military man, passed people without seeing them 
 or looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. Every 
 one was in suspense. 
 
 After some days things cleared. Not all of the relief 
 workers were to enter Russia. Only a dozen were called 
 for; the rest were to return home. The major with two of 
 his closest associates were making the selection. . . . 
 
IN RUSSIA S FIELDS 313 
 
 Several men were quietly making preparations to go 
 back to America. They knew that they would not be 
 among those chosen. . . . Hilda, too, was preparing herself 
 in her mind at least for the journey home. There were two 
 other women workers besides herself. They were good mix 
 ers and had been on friendly terms with the heads, while 
 she had kept to herself always. They would no doubt 
 choose one of them and she would be sent home. . . Well, 
 no matter. . . . 
 
 Upon returning from her rounds one afternoon she found 
 a call from the major on her table. She went down im 
 mediately. There were several people with him. The major 
 nodded casually to her and handed her a slip to sign. All 
 those going into Russia had to sign that slip. Hilda signed 
 the paper and walked out. 
 
 She was going into Russia. 
 
 The rest of that afternoon and evening she was thinking 
 of Hillstrom, recalling their last meeting, the last time 
 they were together, wondering, dreaming. . . . 
 
 The American flag had been taken off the old manor 
 house and half a dozen trucks and automobiles stood in 
 front of it. They were being carefully loaded with trunks, 
 boxes, bundles. The sky overhead was leaden and the 
 leaves were falling from the trees, yellow autumn leaves. A 
 shrill wind was blowing. 
 
 Several hundred of the townspeople stood some distance 
 from the house. They had been waiting since early morn 
 ing to witness the departure of the relief workers and were 
 
3H THE ROAD 
 
 discussing things among themselves quietly. The Americans 
 were going. . . . Winter was coming. . . . Winter. . . . 
 
 A little before noon the loading of the trucks was fin 
 ished and the Americans emerged on the veranda dressed 
 and ready for the journey. They were flanked by the chief 
 officials of the city, who looked both stirred and solemn. 
 . . . The Americans took their places in the automobiles 
 and every hat in the crowd of spectators and well wishers 
 came off. The men were bowing low. The women crossed 
 themselves. A few wept. 
 
 There was a two hours run to the border. At two o clock 
 the Americans reached it. Several Soviet officials were 
 waiting for them. They looked young, seemed new to their 
 job and were not a little moved by the occasion. . . . Passes 
 were looked over politely; nods and smiles were exchanged. 
 A soldier pushed back a wooden gate. The automobiles 
 passed and the gate closed once more. 
 
 Hilda was in Soviet Russia. 
 
 For nearly a year one of the largest locomotive repair 
 plants, located some two hundred miles south of Moscow, 
 has had an American superintendent. During that period 
 the output of the factory has successively doubled and 
 trebled. 
 
 Recently the Soviet government appointed a committee 
 of technical experts to visit this plant and to make a study 
 of the means and methods whereby the American superin 
 tendent achieves such singular success, with a view of apply 
 ing these methods elsewhere. 
 
 The committee of experts spent ten days in the study 
 
IN RUSSIA S FIELDS 315 
 
 and investigation of the plant and its manager. Its report 
 to the Soviet government is one of the briefest official docu 
 ments on record in Russia. 
 
 "The phenomenal situation at the X plant," the report 
 
 says, "is a purely individual matter. It is due entirely to 
 the personality, character and idealism of the man .at the 
 head of the works. 
 
 "The American superintendent is not an engineer. He 
 is not even a mechanic. He has introduced no new ma 
 chinery and no labor-saving devices: He merely works. He 
 works ten hours, twelve hours, fifteen hours a day when 
 necessary; and his example has an inspiring effect upon the 
 people about him. Others want to work "with him. 
 
 "He is devoted to the revolution and has but one slogan: 
 Work will save Russia. With that slogan every laborer in 
 the plant is familiar. He makes no other speeches. 
 
 "He shaves every morning. The heads of departments 
 working immediately under him, too, have begun to shave." 
 
 This American superintendent is Frank Hillstrom. 
 
 "Any news from America?" Hillstrom asked his inter 
 preter, who was glancing through a copy of the latest Rus 
 sian newspaper to arrive from Moscow. 
 
 They were sitting in the peasant hut which had been 
 assigned to Hillstrom as his living quarters. It was ten 
 o clock in the evening and they had just finished their sup 
 per. In the small iron stove a fire was going. It was the 
 first week in October, but winter had already set in and 
 the first snow was upon the ground. 
 
 "Here s an item," the interpreter called out after a dili- 
 
3 i6 THE ROAD 
 
 gent search and began to read slowly, giving the English 
 version of the Russian text before him. 
 
 "The personnel of the American Relief Mission at 
 Domsk," he read, "which had been ordered by the Ameri 
 can Government to proceed to Russia, reached Moscow 
 yesterday. There s one woman in the party, Mrs. Hilda 
 Thorsen." 
 
 "Read the last sentence again," Hillstrom said, quickly 
 removing the pipe from between his teeth. 
 
 The interpreter repeated the sentence. 
 
 "Anything else there?" Hillstrom asked. His voice was 
 casual once more. 
 
 There was nothing else there. 
 
 He sat silent for some minutes, then asked for the date. 
 What date of the month was it? 
 
 He was told and began figuring. It would be three weeks 
 before he would be able to take time off his work to go 
 to Moscow. If they only did not send Hilda off into the 
 provinces before then. ... He would see about it. ... He 
 must write. ... He must get word to her. . . . 
 
 An expression of joy slowly lit up his face joy and 
 wistfulness. 
 
 END 
 


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