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Title: En route
Author: Helen R. Hull
Illustrator: Cornelius Hicks
Release date: November 6, 2026 [eBook #79928]
Language: English
Original publication: Springfield: P. F. Collier & Son Company, 1928
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79928
Credits: Jens Sadowski. This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EN ROUTE ***
[Illustration: Oh, that pleasant, friendly way of his!—Monica had always
loved it.]
En Route
Wisdom usually comes too late but to Monica it came in time to
save her love
Helen R. Hull
Illustrations: Cornelius Hicks
Collier’s, vol. 81, Feb. 18, 1928, pp. 15-16, 42.
Monica Hunt closed her eyelids to feel the wind against them, as the car
rushed with an occasional bump along the coast road. It had been a
mistake to drive up from Boston. She should have taken the train along
with the cook and the maid. But refusing her husband’s suggestion that
they motor up as usual—he could take a long week-end over Decoration
Day—had seemed to make too sharp an issue. If she could stand it a few
more hours—
“Looks as if that storm would hit before we reach any hotel.” Her
husband’s voice, loud with the deliberate cheeriness he maintained now,
startled her, and his swing of the wheel to avoid a jagged hole left by
frost in the macadam road lurched her against his shoulder. She withdrew
so hastily that he noticed; she saw his quick frown.
“It does look threatening.” Her own voice was toneless.
Behind the low, pine-fringed hills heavy clouds were rising, in swift
masses that boiled up from the horizon. The car rattled over a small
culvert, roared up a curving hill. Large drops splattered the
windshield, dotted the film of dust on the hood.
“I’m starved, too. Like to reach food before the lightning hits me. Hope
that hotel is open.”
Silence then for a time. A glimpse from the crest of a hill showed the
sea darkening under mounting clouds, although the eastern rim still kept
the brilliancy of the morning. Monica shivered.
“Cold?” Philip peered at her; he was driving too rapidly for more than a
quick glance. “Want the window up?” One hand left the wheel and started
to wind up the coupé window.
“No. Don’t close it.” Monica wanted the rush of air, with its damp
fragrance of salt and fir trees. If she were cold, no window could be
closed to warm her.
* * * * *
She was lonely. There, so close that she had to sit carefully not to
touch him, was his familiar shoulder in the rough brown suit he liked;
the firm chin, the long mouth with full lower lip, the gray eyes with
humorous crow’s-feet at the corners, intent now on the uncertain country
road. Looking at him cautiously lest he detect her, she could imagine
that this year was last year, the year before, any year but this one,
and together they were driving hilariously along the beloved road toward
the house they had built at the edge of the sea. Then the ground
crumbled under her feet, letting her down to welter in confusion and
pain and loneliness. This wasn’t her Philip. This was a stranger, a
doctor who succumbed to the flattering advances of his charming
patients—to one of them, at least. Perhaps—the mire was over her head as
she struggled to escape—perhaps all their years together he had done the
same thing and she didn’t know it. How many times had he said, “Thank
the Lord, Monica, you haven’t a jealous disposition! When I see what
some of the doctors I know go through with their wives!” Always she had
answered, “But I know you love me.” Until this spring. Echoes of their
amazing quarrels rolled under the thunder. “You never were jealous
before; why are you now!” Finally the night she had stopped at his
office and found the girl there, in his arms.
“We must be within two or three miles of the next town.” His voice
summoned her abruptly from her thought. She trembled slightly; tiny
knife-blades of ice were laid at each nerve center. “I don’t like that
wind. These pines uproot too easily.”
“We better go on. A few minutes won’t matter.” More rain now, in slaps
against the glass. She had consented to leave town, to open the house
for the children, chiefly because there seemed nothing else to do. What
she longed to do was, dog-like, to crawl into a corner where she could
lick her wounds and perhaps die. That was childish. She had to face this
situation, to gain enough tranquillity to think clearly, to reach some
definite conclusion which would allow her to act. Perhaps in Maine—where
she had spent so many summers, first as a child, and later as Philip’s
wife with her own children—some miracle would happen. Philip insisted
she was exaggerating everything, that when she came to her senses she
would see how foolishly she was behaving. The girl had been a patient of
his; like lots of his patients, she thought she was fond of him. She was
a nice little thing. That was all.
“But I saw you—”
“Oh, Monica, what if I did kiss her! A fatherly kiss.... It’s you I love
and you ought to know it.”
Oh, if she could stop words from beating in her brain! That he thought
it nothing showed how far apart they stood.... There lay the town ahead
of them, square white houses strung along the road, the huge old trees
in the yards turning up pale under surfaces of new leaves in the wind,
as if they showed their teeth.
* * * * *
“That hotel’s still boarded up!” The car skidded as Philip braked it in
front of the inhospitable building. “What now?” As he drove on slowly
there was an ominous hissing from the rear, another skid; a clap of
thunder rattled at the heavy windows. Philip stopped, and hung himself
half out the door into the downpour. He settled back heavily, running
the window up against the rain. “Well, it’s a flat.” He was enraged, so
like a small boy that Monica laughed. “Haven’t even got a raincoat. Of
all the fiendish luck!”
“There’s a sign, lunchroom.” Monica pointed down the street. “We could
get a sandwich or a pie, if you can drive that far. Then the rain may
let up.”
As he drove cautiously the few rods to the low building, Monica thought:
it’s like thin pasteboard under our feet, all the old habits ... the way
he gets disgusted, the way I console him; if we skate along on that
surface, nothing seems changed. Only my feet keep going through!
As he drew in at the curb, a sedan poked toward them until its nose
grazed their fender. Country ways, thought Monica; park as you like. She
let Philip lean across her to screw up the window, while she watched the
occupants of the sedan climb out. First a tall bent old man, with stiff
knees, got himself erect on the sidewalk, shouting loudly, “You wait
till I open this umbrella!” and then an elderly woman stepped out
gingerly, determined to keep her smart gray and white costume unspotted.
Monica pushed open the door to call to her: “Is this a proper place to
leave the car, and can we get luncheon here?”
“Certainly, certainly.” The old man, his blue eyes sunken under heavy
white eyebrows, his beak of a nose slightly pinker than the rest of his
face, answered for his wife. “You’re all right. Come right in.”
He maneuvered his umbrella with one hand, not quite over his wife’s hat,
his cane with the other, and marched with jerks of his knees into the
restaurant.
“We’ll run for it. You first.” Philip held the door ajar, and Monica
ran. The car door banged shut, and Philip bolted after her.
* * * * *
The room was small, with a counter across the rear, half a dozen painted
tables, a battered upright piano. At a corner table sat a plump,
discouraged man, a sample case propped against his chair, evidently a
drummer. The old man was hooking his umbrella on an arm of the hatrack,
hobbling back to draw out a chair for his wife. They were courteously
oblivious of Monica and Philip, as Philip chose a table opposite the
drummer, near a window. The storm seemed directly over the low roof;
rain washed down the windows in drenching silver, flashes of lightning
cut through the semi-darkness, and thunder pounded in long, retreating
rolls. Monica speculated vaguely about the old couple. They had a tinge
of familiarity; had she seen them as a child?
“We didn’t get in any too soon.” Philip studied the menu, a typed sheet
with handwritten insertions. “Guess you can have most anything you
like.” From the rear room came the waitress; she was small, with a
cretonne apron belted about slim hips, flying out from round knees; her
face looked small under the mass of dark hair that lay in curls over
ears and forehead, over the crown of her head, cropped in a V at the
nape of her white neck. Amazing hair, thought Monica. Does she do that
to it, or does it grow that way? The girl’s hand trembled, spilling
water as she placed glasses and silver on the table.
“Guess you don’t like thunder,” said Philip. Oh, that pleasant, friendly
way of his! I’ve always loved it, thought Monica, hopelessly; the way he
can make everybody like him!
“I’m not so crazy over it,” said the girl. Her eyes were blue, with
lashes long on the under lids, and her soft, reddened mouth bowed
downward, appealingly. She went back to the kitchen, pattering on her
foolish, high-heeled pumps.
“Pretty kid, isn’t she?” said Philip. “Looks anemic. Codfish diet. I’ll
bet the fellows don’t notice that.”
Monica watched her return, this time to the other table; saw the
provoking lift of full eyelids as she placed silver and tumbler for the
old man. She saw, too, that after one long glance, the woman did not
look at the girl, that she kept her face turned toward the street,
looking at the rain. It was a dignified, old face, with arched lids over
bright dark eyes, and firm mouth, with a proper wave in the white hair
under the small brim of the gray hat. She hasn’t been downed by life,
thought Monica, and that old man hasn’t been easy to live with. The girl
stood beside Philip, waiting for the order, stubby fingers hooked over a
pad and pencil. A greedy predatory hand, thought Monica. “Please order
for me. I don’t care—” The drummer stared at Philip, with sour envy in
his protruding eyes.
It’s queer, thought Monica, how everything in the world seems to make me
feel like crying. That drummer, piteous, unsuccessful creature; I’m
sorry for him. That old woman, so proud and unconquered; tears there, if
I don’t watch out. The old man, wanting the girl to flirt with him. Even
the girl is piteous, poor little coquette, conscious of nothing but the
lures she spreads. This is what Philip calls my nerves ... as if pain
stripped off all protective layers, leaving me too exposed. Pure
sentimentality. But I can’t bear it.
The proprietress of the lunchroom appeared behind the counter, her
florid, wrinkled face heat-flushed. “Well, if it ain’t Cap’n and Missis
Hartwell!” She puffed delightedly toward the old couple, wiping her hand
on her apron. “We heard you was coming to open your place this summer.
Don’t you look real good, both of you!”
“It’s Mattie Burns! Why, Mattie!” The old lady leaned toward her
husband. “You remember Mattie Burns, Father?” She spoke with slow
distinctness. “Her father kept the blacksmith shop.”
“I guess he did lots of work for you, Cap’n, in his day.” The woman
shouted at him. “It’s like old times to see you back. We was saying we
guessed you got tired of the West. Anybody’s been raised here on this
coast has to come back.”
“That so.” The Captain agreed testily. “What makes you think I wouldn’t
remember her father? My mind ain’t failed me yet.”
Mattie Burns laughed. “Just the same ole Cap’n, ain’t you?” She
exchanged with Mrs. Hartwell a friendly, comprehending woman-glance.
“I don’t remember that girl you got. What’s her name? She puts me in
mind of somebody.”
“She’s younger than our day here.” Mrs. Hartwell spoke sharply, and
Monica thought the flush on Mattie Burns’ round face deepened.
“What’s her name? Who’s her folks?”
“She hasn’t got any folks. Her name’s Lucy.” Miss Burns craned her short
neck warily toward the kitchen. “She’s just learning to wait. She’s
willing but flighty.” Lucy appeared, her small-boned arms strained to
hold the tray on which plates of boiled fish and potatoes were ranged.
“Hope you’ll drop in real often. This is a bad shower, ain’t it?” Mattie
pursed her mouth and retired to the kitchen.
Hartwell. Monica remembered the old Hartwell place in the next village.
A sea captain’s house, with a square lookout on the roof. She had gone
there with her mother, when she was a little girl. Conch shells and
delicate fans of dried seaweed and coral; the cabinet in the parlor, of
teakwood, with odor of sandalwood when someone would open the doors to
show the treasures to a child. Stories about the Hartwells, a long line
of adventurous seafaring men. This Mrs. Hartwell must have known her
mother. Monica remembered the cemetery, with old white stones that
marked no graves for any Hartwell men: Lost at sea rounding the Horn,
lost at sea.... Why, even the last son had been drowned, just after he
took out his master’s papers. Queer how bits of recollection floated up.
She would have to tell Philip later. (Later? Oh, what would she tell
Philip? She thrust away the mad jump of her mind to the present, hunting
for more of the past.) It must have been after the death of the son that
the Hartwells had left Maine. Other stories, fragments of talk not meant
for child’s ears, about the wildness of the Hartwell men! What was that
sentence that had puzzled her so long? “Poor Mrs. Hartwell had but one
son to lose, after her other baby died. I guess the Cap’n don’t know how
many he’s got scattered over the globe.”
The thunder had lessened, as if the storm had ridden out to sea, but
rain still fell. A small truck splashed to a standstill across the
street, and the driver, a tall, bare-headed young fellow, dashed into
the room.
“Coffee and sinkers for a drowning man, Lucy!” The boy had hunched
forward, elbows on the counter. Monica couldn’t see his face, but his
voice, his posture, caressed the girl.
The drummer was eying them, wearily manipulating a toothpick, as if he
reflected: just wait till you get kids to support, and maybe a sick
wife. Philip looked up from his pie, speculative amusement in his clear
eyes.
“Guess that’s her boy,” he said in an undertone.
The old Captain, too, stared over his coffee cup. Was he envious for his
lost youth? Almost Monica caught the higgledy-piggledy maze in his head,
a maze like this:
Durn it, she puts me in mind of somebody. That hair of hers. Can’t
remember ’em now, the girls I’ve had.
* * * * *
His cane clattered to the floor, and as his wife started for it, he
snapped at her: “I can get it! Sit still!”
“Hey!” He beckoned with his stick, and the girl came, demurely, as if
she hadn’t just been making love in sight of all of them. “Where’s the
reckoning? Oh....” She pointed to the slip beside his plate. As he drew
a wallet slowly from his pocket, he stared at her, his white brows
meeting. “What’s your name? You live round here?”
“Lucy Peters, sir.”
Monica saw the woman lift one hand to the table edge, where the old
white fingers beat a silent tattoo.
“Peters, eh. Who was your mother? I used to know all the folks here,
before we moved to California.”
“She was Lucy Peters, too.” The boy at the counter swung around on his
stool, his forehead wrinkling at the inquiry. “That was my grandma’s
name, too. Lucy Peters. Maybe—” Was there insolence in the girl’s
darting look at Mrs. Hartwell?—“Maybe you knew her. They say I’m the
spit ’n’ image of her.”
“Grandma!” The old man snorted. “Never knew anybody that name.” He flung
a bill on the table. Mrs. Hartwell let her hand fall to her lap. The
girl, retreating to the cash register at the end of the counter, brushed
the boy’s knees as she passed him.
“Well, the storm’s most over.” Philip stretched to his feet, reaching
for his hat. “Got to mend that tire.” At the door he turned to the old
man. “I beg your pardon, but I’m out of luck with a tire. Could you tell
me where there’s a garage?”
“Down the street. I’ll go along with you. I want a man to look at my
engine.”
“You wait here, Monica? It’s pretty damp still.”
The two went out through the drizzle in which the storm was tailing off.
The drummer moved morosely to an examination of papers from a billfold.
Mrs. Hartwell sat motionless, her eyelids lowered, her face a mask of
bleakness without the life of the dark eyes. The boy untwisted his long
legs from the counter stool and with a stride reached the seat at the
piano. Lucy, coming with a tray for the dishes, said softly, “Play that
piece you played yesterday, the new one. You know. ‘Kiss me, kiss me in
the morning! Kiss me, kiss me at noon.’”
[Illustration: He played music that was careless young love, sensuous,
wild.]
The boy shook his sleek head; his fingers tossed chords of the crazy
melody into the room. He could play. Kiss me, kiss me in the morning. It
was a kind of love-making, syncopated, harsh. Tears gathered under
Monica’s lids as the sounds twanged at her nerves. Even music on a
rickety piano was unendurable, music that was careless young love,
sensuous, wild. The proprietress stood at the kitchen door, her head
nodding to the rhythm. Lucy moved about the tables, her cretonne apron
rippling as if her muscles danced, a faint smile lifting the arc of her
crimson mouth. She carried her dishes out and then came back to listen
to the music, leaning over the counter. Mrs. Hartwell sat with face
averted, indifferent to music, to the girl collecting dishes from her
table. I might speak to her, thought Monica. Before she gathered
decision to cross to the older woman, the proprietress had moved bulkily
to the table. Monica felt the cautious glance to see if she listened,
and bent over her handbag, searching for a vanity case. The voice of
Mattie Burns lowered to a whisper:
“Mis’ Hartwell, I wanted to explain about that girl. I was that worried
when I saw you coming in. You know who she is—”
Monica could not hear the woman’s reply.
* * * * *
“Her mother came back here about ten years ago. They live in a shack
down back of me. It’s in the blood, I guess. Who _her_ father is nobody
knows. I was sorry for her, such a pretty little thing, and real smart,
too. I kind of felt I ought to help her.”
“I tried to help her mother, once.” Monica heard that dry sentence.
“This girl’s smarter than Big Lucy. That’s what they call her. This
one’s Little Lucy.”
Some question from Mrs. Hartwell. Monica sat with bent head, lest they
think her eavesdropping.
“No’m, the first Lucy never came back. She’s been dead a long time.”
“You don’t remember her, do you, Mattie?” Monica dared a swift glance,
to see what expression lay with that tone of crackling humor. Over her
compact she saw the old woman’s face grim, wise. “This girl looks so
like her I thought a ghost walked. And, Mattie ... Captain Hartwell has
forgotten her! He doesn’t remember so well, these days. He’s forgotten
her. Just think of that”—her laugh clicked—“when you get to feeling you
can’t bear something. Especially if it’s a man that does it.”
Tiny feelers of Monica’s mind went fumbling in a dark pool of the past,
trying to capture an elusive minnow of recollection. The Peters girl and
the Hartwells. A sensation of sun-warmed sand tickling her neck. Monica
was a little girl on the beach, and her brother was burying her in sand.
Behind them in camp chairs sat her mother and another woman, sewing,
talking. Sentences empty of meaning drifted to the children. Distinctly
the scene returned, with that warm tickle of sliding sand. “They say
Mrs. Hartwell has supported that Peters woman ever since. Wanted to
educate the child, but she’s so wild they can’t do anything with her.
No, he doesn’t know a thing about it. Imagine cultivating your husband’s
wild oats! With your own baby dead, too.”
The crashing end of the music destroyed the tenuous grip on the memory.
The boy stood up, stretching his arms. “See you later, Luce. Lunch
hour’s over. ’Bye, Mis’ Burns.” Lucy, with a final provocative smile at
the drummer, retreated to the kitchen, and Mattie Burns, with a sigh,
“Well, there’s plenty of work waiting for me,” followed her.
Monica snapped shut her handbag, slipped her arms into the sleeves of
her coat, folded the soft fur about her throat. This Lucy, then, was the
third. The first one—within her a shrill little voice babbled, “Ask her
how she bore, what she did! Lucy Peters wasn’t the only woman. Yet she
sits there, fine, serene, strong. Ask her what to do!”
The drummer lumbered across to his sample case, humming the
ta-de-ta-ta-ti of his favorite song, and hat on the back of his head,
disappeared through the door. Monica rose and crossed to the other
table.
“You couldn’t remember me,” she began. “You may recall my mother, Mrs.
Swift, Eliza Swift.” The dark eyes of the older woman, focusing slowly
on Monica, seemed to relinquish some distant time-horizon. “I used to
come to your house, Mrs. Hartwell. I’m Monica.”
“Why, of course!” Friendliness shone in the finely wrinkled old face.
“Sit down. How nice of you to speak to me. You can’t blame me for not
recognizing you, after all these years. I was just thinking about your
mother. I was very fond of her. And that was your husband?”
“Yes. Dr. Philip Hunt.” Monica added explanations: the children, a boy
and a girl, were still in school; she was to open their summer house.
She tried to silence the voice that went babbling on. How could she
affront this woman with questions that pried into her personal affairs?
Mrs. Hartwell explained, in turn: “Captain Hartwell retired some years
ago. We’ve lived in the West, but we thought a summer here, before—a
summer here might be pleasant. I remember now how you always liked to go
up to the lookout, when your mother brought you to the house.”
“When my little girl comes down this summer, perhaps you’ll let me bring
her. She would love it, too. Have you still the teakwood cabinet?”
“Yes. Everything is just as it was.” She was silent, looking at Monica.
The quiet depth of her eyes seemed cognizant of the pitiful tremor
within Monica. Ask her, babbled the voice. She might help you. She’s
your only chance to find any help. Monica propped an elbow on the table,
her knuckles pressed against her lips; she couldn’t blurt out her
foolish pain to a woman she had encountered in a lunchroom, after more
than twenty years. Teach me, begged her eyes, luminous from unshed
tears; where did you find your courage?
“It’s astonishing how little things change,” Mrs. Hartwell went on.
“Your little girl will find the same shells you used to hold to your
ear. I felt almost a grievance”—she smiled—“to come back, an old lady,
and to find my furniture just as I left it. Not a change.” She laughed,
a pleasant, self-directed chuckle. “Although, to be sure, the roof
needed shingling.”
“Yes,” said Monica. “Only people change.”
“They grow up, as you have done. Then they grow old, like me. And just
as they’re getting wise enough to live, they grow childish again, and
die.”
Lucy had sauntered in with a handful of silver which she let clatter
down on the counter. Mrs. Hartwell looked at the girl, a sardonic
wrinkle at a corner of her mouth. As she disappeared again, the old
woman said, “There’s the first stage. Heady illusion. She thinks the
world is made just to keep her happy. The second stage—” She lifted her
quiet eyes to Monica. (She knows, shrilled that small voice; she’s seen
there’s something terribly wrong. It’s written all over you!) “The
second stage is bitter. You are frightened and lonely, while you shrink
into the pin-point the world makes out of you. Then you learn to walk
alone, just the way a baby has to learn. And finally you learn
endurance. In the long run—” She half lifted one hand, as if to touch
Monica’s. Then she straightened her shoulders, her fingers pulling down
the gray silk pleating at her wrists. “Will you come to see me, soon? I
won’t preach again. Only—I knew this woman, Mattie Burns, and it’s easy
for an old woman to turn her mind back and get to feeling solemn.”
She heard me crying out, thought Monica: I can’t say anything. It would
violate that pride of hers.
“Hi, Monica!” Philip’s summons was triumphant. “All set now, and the
storm’s over.”
“This is my husband, Mrs. Hartwell.” Monica watched the woman’s shrewd
appraisal of him, as she explained her childhood acquaintance. “I’ll
point out the house as we drive past. I’m to take Elizabeth there this
summer.”
“Harriet, aren’t you ready to come yet?” The shrill quaver of Captain
Hartwell announced his jerking entry. “That fellow says there isn’t a
thing the matter. Says I must of choked her too much. I don’t believe he
knows. You know I never choke her—” He stopped, staring a moment at
Lucy, who stood again at the rear door. Monica saw his slow, blinking
struggle for recollection, saw him dismiss it for a gallant flourish of
his umbrella toward his wife.
He’s forgotten them all, she thought: forgotten all the rest, and still
needs her. And she has learned to walk alone. Endurance.
She settled herself in the car, relaxing in complete fatigue. Philip
peered at her as he started, a tentative glance, like young Phil when he
was uncertain as to her reception of some bit of conduct.
“Nice, isn’t it?” He shifted into high, and the car ran swiftly past the
few houses up a hill where tiny leaves hung glistening in the sunlight.
“Nice to see two old birds so comfortable with each other. He was
telling me what a wonderful woman his wife was and how they go traveling
round, enjoying themselves.”
“Darby and Joan.” Monica felt a burst of flame in her head, drying up
the tears that had so tormented her these last days. She’s done it by
hanging on, no matter what he did. She knows how to be lonely. Philip’s
not so bad as that old wretch. It’s my loving him that counts.
* * * * *
Dear God, help me to love him enough! Help me to hang on! “When you’re
hobbling around with a stick, do you think you’ll still want me?” she
cried out. His face swung toward her a moment, relief so profound in
eyes and mouth that Monica knew, suddenly, he too had suffered.
“Now you’re talking sense,” he said. “You think you may hang around till
then?”
“I expect so.” Monica moved until her shoulder brushed his. This was
Philip, here beside her, alive, strong, skillful. And she loved him.
“Funny how you happened to know those two old people.” He ran on with
casual, friendly talk; Monica listened, and beneath the anodyne of his
words her thoughts made shadowy interruption. There were things in life
thought couldn’t touch; too deep for your mind to reach to. It had been
fear and injured pride from which she had suffered, not love. That old
woman, Mrs. Hartwell, was too proud to be afraid. Proud enough to dare
to be humble. What had she said?... “You learn to walk alone.”
“We’re almost home, Monica. Are you glad?”
“Yes, I’m going to be,” she said.
Transcriber’s Notes
Transcribed from Collier’s, vol. 81, Feb. 18, 1928, pp. 15-16, 42.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public
domain.
The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved.
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