The Project Gutenberg eBook of The flaw
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The flaw
Author: Helen R. Hull
Illustrator: Walter Biggs
Release date: October 13, 2026 [eBook #79774]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers, 1919
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79774
Credits: Jens Sadowski. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLAW ***
The Flaw
Helen R. Hull
Illustration: Walter Biggs. Engraved by H. Leinroth.
Harper’s Magazine, vol. 139, Oct. 1919, pp. 747-756.
“You know, I never should have believed a game could be so exciting.”
Celia swung her racket above the dandelions that shone along the walk.
Her small, fine face and slender throat, unflushed, suggested an inner
glow, swift blood through transparent veins.
Her companion, striding beside her, looked down for a deliberate moment
before he answered, “Glad I bullied you into trying it, then?”
“If you think I can learn soon, soon to play well!”
“Of course you’ll learn. You’ve got speed—and you’re cool. But isn’t it
fun?”
“I dislike being an amateur. It’s so bungling. I like to do the things I
can do perfectly.” Her voice curved about the last word, and her gray
eyes, lifted an instant, had a defiant passion in their glance.
“I’m afraid perfectly would limit me to—nothing. I like trying things I
can’t do. Some bungling, I guess, but adventures, too.”
“Oh, but you do things well. Think of everything you’ve persuaded me to
try these last two weeks!”
“Just a happy amateur, Miss Duryea.”
“I am limited. I meant only that I don’t like to bungle. My father has
given me that ideal—” Her words might have sounded priggish, cold, but
in her tone, in her quick upward glance, lay entreaty.
They turned at the corner, Celia walking ahead over soft grass. Ralph
Monroe followed, his blue eyes and straight, firm lips settling into
gravity as he watched her, the swing of her pongee dress about slim
ankles, the coil of brown hair at the base of her neck.
“After all,” he said, “whatever you do becomes beautifully done—by your
doing it. I suppose I’m rushing into another thing I don’t know how to
do—” he went on earnestly. “But if I bungle this, I’m done for! I’ve
persuaded you to see me a little—to like me a little! Have I? You know
I’m on earth?”
Celia walked on, a hint of flight in her step.
“That night Mrs. Duryea brought me to dinner—why, I might have thought I
wasn’t there, from all the attention you gave me!”
“I didn’t know you—”
“Know me! You weren’t aware I existed! Drifting off after dinner—I knew
then I had to make you aware of me! You had to come out of that
beautiful indifferent shell before you could hear what I had to say to
you!”
There was color in Celia’s cheeks at last. And, turning toward the
house, the two walked through streaks of pale, late sunlight stretched
over the grass, and casting a tracery of the old elms across the face of
the square white house.
“I don’t want to startle you, Celia Duryea. Sometimes I’m afraid you may
vanish overnight. There’s some enchantment on you! But I can’t be
patient! I can’t wait! Celia!”
They reached the steps of the porch. Celia faced him, close enough to
know the fast rhythm of his breathing. She cowered under the intensity
of his bending over her. Within her something new and young pushed up
through darkness and cold, heavy soil, up to strange light.
“Tennis again? Well, well!” The voice behind them broke the moment.
“Good evening, Mr. Monroe.” Mrs. Duryea extended a brisk hand. “Well,
Celia? I’m glad I caught you. Stay to dinner. I need to be amused.” She
sent him a darting, humorous glance out of eyes gray like Celia’s, set
in a firm, sensible face. She moved up the steps with jerks of her
compact body, pulling the pins from her jaunty hat. At the door she
turned, her fingers brushing back wisps of brown hair.
“You are staying, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am, if I may.” Ralph was after her in time to hold the door
open. With a touch on his arm, Mrs. Duryea went into the dark hall.
“If you don’t mind?” he asked Celia, who came toward him.
“I’d like you to stay—” began Celia, her eyes meeting his. Her face had
a luminous expectancy. At the sound of her mother’s voice within, her
glance leaped past him:
“Oh, Philip! Back to-day! We didn’t expect you until to-morrow.”
A man’s voice, thin, answering, “I judged I was premature.”
Celia’s face quivered. She looked at Ralph, almost with horror. Then she
went swiftly into the hall, her low, “Father!” winging back to Ralph.
Her mother had started up the stairs; she stood, one hand tapping on the
polished rail, her mouth a little pursed. Between the heavy curtains of
the library door stood Mr. Duryea, slight, immaculate, his pointed gray
beard and black-ribboned eye-glasses concealing his expression. He
limped forward to meet Celia.
“When did you come?” She had his hand in both of hers, and bent for his
ritualistic kiss.
“This afternoon.” He held her off at arm’s-length. The light glanced
across his glasses and small blue eyes with a metallic luster. “I wished
you to go over some notes with me.”
“I’m sorry.” Celia released his hand. “You said to-morrow—”
“What have you been doing? I never saw you look so—blowsy!”
Celia moved away, her mouth and eyelids contracted.
“Nonsense, Philip.” Mrs. Duryea spoke in a brisk undertone. “You mean
you never saw her looking as though she had had so much fun! Mr.
Monroe!” She raised her voice. “Won’t you come in? This is my husband.
Philip, this is Ralph Monroe, who dropped into town just as you left.”
Celia held her breath for an instant as Ralph extended his hand with a
decided, “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Duryea.” But her father was prompt
with his hand.
“How do you do, Mr.—what was it? Monroe? A newcomer in our little town,
eh?” He seemed to shrink, to turn more gray, under the tanned bulk of
the young man.
“I’m only temporary.”
“Settling up the affairs of his uncle—Walter Monroe, you know. Will you
excuse us a few minutes?” Mrs. Duryea went on up the stairs.
“Tell father about some of your bridge-making—” Celia’s fleet glance at
Ralph was interrupted half-way by her consciousness of her father’s
stare. “I’m sure he’d be interested.” She followed her mother, her
nostrils dilating at her father’s formal, “Won’t you come into the
library?”
The door of her mother’s room was open. Celia, her eyes averted quickly
from the loud cheerfulness of cretonne and bright rugs, slipped past to
her own room. Closing herself within her familiar gray walls, she stared
across the room at her reflection in the long mirror between the
windows. “Blowsy!” she whispered, defiantly. Ralph had not thought that,
bending over her outside in the pale sunlight. She shivered. The subtle
colors and outlines of the room flowed about her, an accustomed flood
into which she let herself down, submerged. It was her father who had
said that! He had come home, to find her not there. And she—she saw
vividly how he had seen it—she had come in like any common thing, with
her young man, warm, blown—Hastily her fingers stripped off her dress,
pulled out hairpins. She would show him his Celia again!
A sharp rap at the door, her mother’s voice, “Celia!” She turned from
her dressing-table, her bare, slim arms up-arching to the coil of bright
hair she had just caught in place.
“Oh, changing your dress?” Her mother looked in, her face rosy above her
stiff collar. “Will you be down soon? I’ve got to go back to the
store—Saturday, you know.”
“Yes. At once.”
“Well.” She waited. “Celia—”
The girl’s arms dropped, stiffened. She moved to the closet, returned,
shaking out folds of dull-green silk, over which her eyes just touched
her mother’s for an instant of hostile rejection. Mrs. Duryea closed the
door. Celia heard her quick descent of the stairs.
Presently Celia went down, softly. From the rear of the house came her
mother’s voice in an undertone of domestic comment. Silence in the
library. Celia paused. Her mother appeared at the end of the hall.
“Supper’s ready,” she said. “Just tell them, will you?”
From the library her father’s voice, “You have only a few days more,
then, to suffer the dullness of our town?”
“Oh, I haven’t found it dull! On the contrary—thanks to Mrs. Duryea and
your daughter.”
“Ah yes. You met Mrs. Duryea in her—shop, I suppose?”
There was a pause after that. Had Ralph felt the sneer beneath the
query?
“My father had asked me to look her up. And I remembered her, too, from
the time when I visited my uncle, years ago.”
Celia pushed the curtains apart. Her father, sunk in his armchair, was
gazing under lowered lids at his hands, fingertips touching delicately.
Ralph, sprawling in a chair beyond the table, looked up and sprang to
his feet with a sudden lifting of the perplexed frown with which he was
studying the father. Celia, eluding his glance, waited for her father to
see her. He rose slowly, appraising her. The soft green draperies
sheathed her slender body; her throat and face against the dark
curtains, above the dull green of her dress, had a tender, pale
fragility. But her father made her no sign of recognition. Celia felt
suddenly cold to her fingertips; his eyes held her accusingly, pouring
through her a bitter draught of guilt, of treachery. All that in a brief
moment. Then Ralph was speaking:
“Won’t you have this chair, Miss Duryea? I was just telling your father
that I had known Mrs. Duryea really for years!”
His warm, direct glance of admiration pulled her up.
“I’m to bring you out to dinner at once.” She smiled faintly.
“Take Mr. Monroe out. I’ll come.”
Ralph followed Celia down the hall. At the door he was at her shoulder
with a swift whisper, “You beautiful, lovely Celia!”
Then they were in the bright, square dining-room, with Mrs. Duryea
pointing to his place, and Mr. Duryea limping slowly toward the table.
When Celia thought of that dinner, later, it was in terms of a polished
dark surface, with wheels and wheels, doilies, plates, cups, revolving
slowly, and at the edges, hands. The long fingers of her father,
serving, with motions deliberate and delicate; the smooth, plump hands
of her mother, in quick gestures; the hands across the table, supple,
large, deft; the black, fat hands of Kate, breaking in at the edge of
the surface. Things were said, of course. Her mother chattered; Ralph
talked; her father spoke at times, his words like a needle.
The needle plunged at her in a silence toward the end of the
revolutions.
“You seem weary, Celia. What have you done with yourself while I’ve been
gone?”
“I hope tennis hasn’t tired you, Miss Duryea.”
“No, indeed. I’m not tired.” Celia drew back in her chair, meeting the
glance of the two men. She found herself suddenly rigid, the apex where
two forces clashed and hung, immobile, opposed, unyielding.
Her mother pushed back her chair. “I must get back to work. You lazy
people can sit on the veranda.”
“I’ll walk along with you if I may, Mrs. Duryea,” Ralph said.
Mrs. Duryea hung fire, looking at Celia. Then she said, calmly, “Must
you go so soon?”
“Baxter, my lawyer, wants me to see a man about the sale of that land.”
He waited at the door for Mrs. Duryea. Mr. Duryea, with a casual “Good
night,” had gone into the library. Celia, her hands interlaced, stood
just outside the curtains.
“I suppose we can’t play tennis on Sunday in this town?”
“No. Shocking!” Celia’s head was bent, as though she listened to the
slight shuffle of her father’s lame foot behind the curtains.
“How about a ride, then?” Ralph spoke eagerly. “I’ll come around with
that very shiny buggy—”
Celia shook her head. “Not to-morrow, I’m afraid. Father has brought
some work he wishes me to go over—and school opens Monday again.”
“But you won’t need all day—”
Mrs. Duryea came down the stairs.
“I don’t know—how much of it—” Celia held out her hand imploringly.
“Good night, Mr. Monroe.”
He touched her hand, his face twisted into the frown of perplexity she
had seen there earlier. Silently he pushed open the door for Mrs.
Duryea, and followed her down the steps. When his square shoulders had
disappeared, Celia, with a gesture of open, loose hands, went between
the curtains, into the study, into the steady inspection of her father.
He sat again in his low chair, his fingers playing against the arms.
“Don’t tell me I heard that—young man—offering you a buggy ride!”
“Yesterday,” said Celia, “we drove along the river road.”
“In a ‘buggy’?” His pointed beard, lifted eyebrows, and smiling mouth
were all satiric angles.
“The peach-trees are just showing pink.” She dropped into the chair
beside her. Her words acted as the note to set vibrating all that
afternoon—golden-brown river swift between green-gold willows, the
orchard pricking its faint glow against a spring sky, smooth breeze,
silence. Then her father’s words, another note, contending, so that
again she felt herself the rigid, immobile point of conflict.
“You have been generous of your days.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Celia dear! Am I supposed to take him on to that extent! I come home,
eager to see you. You aren’t here. After hours you come—and I look out
to see a stranger ogling you!”
Celia winced. He had seen that moment in front of the house.
“And then your mother rushes in, shovels this stranger into my
study”—those tapering fingers of his pushed through the dark soil of her
heart, in sure quest of that new quickening—“and leaves him here”—Mr.
Duryea stretched back in his chair, puffing his cheeks, pushing open his
coat, thrusting his thumbs into his belt—“boring me with tales of his
prowess”—he deepened his voice and roughed his intonations—“and his long
acquaintance with my family.”
Celia’s face grew warm—the burlesque had a cruel dexterity.
“He is a worthy young man, no doubt.” Her father shifted forward, his
hands about one knee. “Just the qualities that would attract your
mother.” For another moment his eyes held her with their hard luster, as
though he gave a final twist to whatever young live thing he had found.
“Discrimination, Celia!” Then, with a sigh, he rose.
“Now let me show you—” His voice softened. As he limped around the table
he laid his cold fingers for an instant on Celia’s hands. “Did I write
after I saw MacLaren? No. He wishes to use some of your sketches in the
second part of the manual. Several of the details of Greek ornament, one
or two of your little winter sketches.” He came back to the table with
his bag. “He thinks the book will be a success.”
Celia lay back in her chair, a long tremor running over her body under
the soft insistence of her father’s voice.
“This is for your share—” He held out a small white box. As Celia looked
up, mutely, he opened it and extended his hand. In the palm lay a small,
irregular bit of jade, a pendant on a thin gold chain. “Like the under
curve of a wave, frozen, isn’t it!” He fastened it around her throat.
Celia’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s beautiful—”
“It becomes you.” He came back to his chair. “I have some cuts for the
manual to show you, and all the proof to go over. We’ll do them
to-morrow.”
They sat in silence, Celia with a finger touching the bit of jade. She
stirred.
“I think I shall go up-stairs.” She stood in front of her father,
meeting his sudden sharp peering with a smile. “To be quite fresh
to-morrow. Good night.”
“It’s good to have you again,” he sent after her, with a friendly wave
of his hand. “Sleep well.”
After she had undressed she stood for a time in the dark window, her
kimono caught together in one hand doubled over her heart, the curtain
blowing rhythmically against her cheek. The soft, misty sky with its few
stars hung near the earth. Slowly past her swung the hours of the weeks
just over. Hours out of doors, in sunshine, with spring winds; once a
shower, through which they had run home, laughing. In them all, this
man, sunshine on his fair, heavy hair, his white teeth flashing at her,
his strong, sure hands—Her hand clutched at the folds. Hours making her
blowsy! Making her forget—ah, everything she had built toward, all her
life. Deliberately she rehearsed the mocking imitation her father had
given. Her mother would like such a man—robust, sturdy, commonplace. She
trampled down the soil her father had probed. Surely whatever had
stirred there was dead.
But hours later, when Mrs. Duryea came, Celia lay still awake, her eyes
held by the dark space of window with its shadow of motion. She did not
move as her mother came up the stairs, her tired step loud in the silent
house.
The next afternoon Celia straightened her shoulders from long bending
over the desk, and gently, so that the sound should not wake her father,
asleep on the couch, piled together the proof-sheets. She read again the
title-page, “Modern Methods of Instruction in Drawing: A Manual for
Teachers,” and slipped that into place on top of the pile. At a shifting
of the light across the papers she looked up. Her mother had parted the
curtains. Celia shook her head quickly, with a gesture toward the couch.
Mrs. Duryea held the curtain back, imperatively, and Celia followed her,
reluctantly, into the hall.
“What is it?” she asked, coolly. “Don’t wake him. He’s very tired.”
“Come out here, then.” Mrs. Duryea went out to the dining-room,
stripping off her huge white garden-gloves, dropping them with her
trowel on a chair before she spoke.
“Celia, Ralph wants to see you. He’s in the garden.”
“I told him I should be busy all day.” Celia wheeled, to escape to the
library, but Mrs. Duryea caught her arm.
“He asked me to tell you that he must leave town to-morrow. You can’t be
absurd and rude, after all—”
“Is it so rude, not to wish to see him?”
Mrs. Duryea withdrew her hand.
“It hasn’t taken your father long, has it!” Dull red mottled her cheeks.
Celia flung up her head, her mouth hard, but before she spoke her
mother, with a small laugh, had darted between her and the door.
“There, I didn’t mean to say a thing. But Ralph is waiting out there,
below the grape-arbor. It will do no harm for you to be civil. If you
don’t”—her breath was quick—“I’ll just walk him right into the library!”
Celia stared at her mother, curious amazement shooting through her
anger. She crossed the room slowly, to the outer door.
A graveled path led down a terrace to the garden behind the house,
fenced off by a long trellis hung with tangled grapevines, still bare.
Ralph rose from the bench under an old apple-tree in the corner, and
watched her slow coming.
“I saw your mother out here, planting seeds.” He was gravely apologetic.
“You had said you would be busy, but I ventured to run in. I had a
telegram—some difficulty about a contract. Won’t you sit down?”
Celia seated herself, erect and still.
“You see, I couldn’t go without seeing you—” He dropped beside her,
twirling his hat between his knees. “You know that, don’t you!”
“It wasn’t necessary.” Celia’s eyelids were heavy.
“Yes, it was!” He flung the hat aside. “But don’t look so far off. Has
some one put a spell on you overnight, to turn you back to stone?” He
swung around on the bench, bracing himself with one hand near her
shoulder. “You can’t scare me now! Not after yesterday—and the day
before—”
About them lay the faint odor of warmed earth. Celia felt the sun on her
hands, along her arms—or was it only the warm, bantering tone which hung
a little in the quiet garden? She lifted her eyes. Ralph’s face between
her and the clear sky, the line of lean cheek and chin tautly defined.
“Celia, Celia!” Was it her name, that tender, silver word? Celia
flinched away from the hand so near her shoulder. The steady, clear eyes
waited, while that silver “Celia” dropped, dropped, down to a hidden
door, behind which, cold, bound, she could not move. Yesterday, at the
sound, she had pushed open that door!
“Celia!” Ralph bent close to her. “You know what I want! You! I want you
to go with me when I go, to-morrow! Now I’ve found you, I can’t let you
go for a day! You might escape. Perhaps I’m too fast—but, Celia, I love
you. There isn’t time enough for half the things we can do together.
Dear—” His hand closed over hers. “You’ll come, Celia? That’s what you
meant, last night, there at the steps!”
Her hand, under his fingers, was a traitor to her! Her heart had slipped
into it, a mad, riotous thing. In her ears hummed a thin wire, her
father’s voice, “Ogling you!”
“It will take a lifetime to tell you how lovely you are, Celia—and, oh,
the fun we’ll have! I’ve told your mother, and she wished me luck!”
Celia’s hand tore away from his.
“You’ve discussed—this—with her!”
“Just now, when I had to see you.” His forehead wrinkled a little.
Pushing back his coat, he caught his thumb in his belt.
The bright clashing within Celia stopped, with an abrupt, terrible
silence. She saw her father, his pointed brows derisive. “Just the
qualities that would attract your mother—” What had so narrowly betrayed
her! She rose.
“I’m sorry you have misunderstood—my enjoyment of tennis—or driving.”
Her voice was brittle. “Perhaps your discussions with my mother misled
you.”
Ralph was on his feet. His clear, steady gaze had changed, like a mirror
splintered by a blow.
“Did I misunderstand you yesterday? What has happened to you since?”
“Nothing has happened, Mr. Monroe. But I must go in now—”
“I won’t let you go!” He confronted her squarely. “That would be crazy!
What has happened? Celia, you can’t go back. I love you! Is it”—he
hesitated—“something your father said? He didn’t take to me—”
“Did my mother tell you to say that?” No longer was Celia the rigidity
of two forces clashed and held by their violence. They had slipped from
that immobile grapple into tearing destruction, and out of the pain she
struck at him. “My father take to you! Oh, let me go!”
Ralph’s hands lifted to make a barrier.
“I don’t wonder at his hating any one who might want you,” he said,
slowly. “But that couldn’t make you hate me, could it?”
“I don’t hate you.” Celia’s face had a tense pallor. “It’s only—I lapse
so dreadfully—from what he thinks I am—all the fineness—he wants in me—”
She tried to push past Ralph.
But his arms went out, had her, held her. She shut her eyes against his
face, close, demanding.
“Celia, you’re all beauty—I love you. Do you hear? And you love me—”
Then his lips were on hers. Something rushed through her, a swift fire,
a strong, sweet shouting. But she struggled away and ran past him,
blindly, down the path to the house.
At the door of the dining-room she halted, her arms out to the door-jamb
to steady herself. Across the room, rounding the table with his swift,
syncopated walk, his face like a gargoyle’s in its sneer, came her
father.
In front of her he stopped, his shoulders crooked, his face keeping its
sneer. Celia felt her whole being crawl, like a green and sluggish tide.
Finally he spoke.
“So. While I sleep you slink out to philander in the kitchen garden—like
a drab! May I ask you to choose some decent privacy if you must kiss
young men?” He thrust his face close to hers, the sneer twitching like a
mask of cambric. “Thought you could hoodwink me! What—what haven’t I
done for you? And you scramble into the first arms open to you—”
To Celia her blood seemed to clot in her ears, in her eyes, so that she
would not hear his words, could not see that cambric mask. Faintly she
heard another voice, her mother’s.
“Are my garden things here, my gloves?” She bustled in. “Oh yes. Here
they are.” She drew them on.
Mr. Duryea spun around, one hand, the fingers curled, flung toward her.
“You—you—This is your scheme!”
“Philip, you have already said more than enough to be sorry for.” She
walked toward him, swinging her trowel. “You’d better count ten—or,
better, about five hundred!”
Her father crouched a little. Before he spoke again Celia fled, through
the hall, up the stairs, his words snarling and yelping at her heels.
She pushed her door shut. From the room below, rising like a vapor, came
the ominous cadence of emotion, formless, wordless. Then silence. A
humming blackness floated toward her, out of the corners of the room.
Steadily fighting it off, she walked across to the couch. She sat down
and presently the humming darkness flowed back into the corners.
Something had crashed. She was too tired to stoop for the pieces, to see
what had gone. Queer she felt so numb. Cold, too.
Her father had said those things—ugly, unjust, horrible! Perhaps—her
face showed a brief flare of horror over its gray numbness—had she
deserved those things? But for once that wire failed to work. Something
had smashed through the delicate mechanism of self-reproach. With a
twist of her body she lay face downward on the couch, her hands pressed
over her ears as if to shut out the words she had heard.
Dusk filled the room.
A rap at the door shuddered through her body. She did not move when the
door opened, nor when her mother’s light step stopped beside the couch.
“I thought you might like some tea,” she said, casually. Celia did not
move. “Come, Celia.”
“Please go away.”
The cup clinked on the table. Mrs. Duryea put one arm under Celia’s body
and pulled her firmly up against her shoulder.
“Celia, I want to talk to you. Oh, I know you don’t want me to. And you
must drink this first. You’re frozen.”
The cup was at her lips. Easier to drink than to struggle—the liquid was
a hot auger boring into her frigidity.
“Now come into my room. I’ve made a fire there. I won’t make you stay—”
She pulled Celia to her feet. “You know I wouldn’t bother you unless I
had to—” Her voice trembled.
Celia allowed herself to be led to the door of her mother’s room. There
the light and gay color rose like a wall, and she turned in flight. But
her mother closed the door quickly and pushed a chair near the small
fireplace.
“You sit there.” She snapped off the lights except for the little
pink-shaded desk-lamp behind her, and dragged a wicker rocker to the
other side of the hearth. Before she sat down she poked a few sticks
under the blazing log.
Celia watched the fire. Complete emptiness possessed her.
“You see,” began her mother, abruptly, as though continuing a
conversation, “I have a sort of feeling that I ought to do
penance—though I know that’s nonsense. But it looks as if you had been
tied up as an offering in my stead. So now I’m willing, eager, to say
anything or do anything that will cut you loose. If he hasn’t done it
himself.”
Celia’s hands shut together in her lap.
“I have tried before, when I wanted to send you to college somewhere
away from here. That scared him. He saw you getting free. Well, you
didn’t go.”
Out of Celia’s lethargy rose a thin ghost, a phantom of her life-habit,
the justification of her father.
“He wasn’t well. He needed an assistant.”
“Yes. And that way he kept you from going off to college. And he kept
even your work for himself. I had hoped there at least you might get
away. The job of drawing-teacher in the schools isn’t, one would say,
heavy enough to take two person’s time.”
Her tone was so tranquil, so undisturbed, that Celia listened; the
things said became a piling up of tiny weights, scarcely felt at first.
“What I want to do, though, is to go back—much farther. You see, at the
beginning he had me, just as he has you now. I was teaching here, in a
primary room, when he came. I was quite young, inexperienced, and his
polish, his coldness, his whole way was fascinating. But he couldn’t let
me alone. He didn’t love me. I found that out soon enough after we were
married. He hasn’t ever loved anybody but himself. No, not even you,
Celia. He thinks he has made you, that’s all. That’s why he was so mad
this afternoon. He tried to make me over. I was—well, older than
you—when he started.” Mrs. Duryea smiled. “A good deal like one of these
rubber balls children have, soft, all right. But he’d think he’d made a
dent, and when he took his thumb away, out I’d bob. Then he was
irritated. Frightfully. He didn’t like my friends. Nor my way of doing
things. Finally I thought that one day he’d simply cut me into shreds,
boil me down, whatever you do to finish off a rubber ball! So I bounced
out of his hand. Nothing else to do. I couldn’t leave him—he had to have
some one looking out for him, and then there was you. The trouble was, I
was so busy bouncing back into work, away from him—that it was quite a
while before I saw he had his hands on you. And then—” Celia felt her
eyes touch her, wistfully, for an instant. “I didn’t know how he had
done it, but you didn’t like me. I wonder whether you remember when you
were quite a little girl, you decided—I suppose most children have such
ideas—that you had some mystery about your birth. A foundling, or noble
birth, or something. But you wanted to be his child. So you asked him—if
I could be your real mother. Do you remember?”
Celia did remember.
“He told you your real mother had died. You almost believe it to this
day!”
“But he wasn’t lying!” The ghost came again, driving her into words. “He
meant it figuratively. He thought I understood. He always treated me as
his equal. He meant you had changed.”
[Illustration: MR. DURYEA SPUN AROUND. “YOU—YOU—THIS IS YOUR SCHEME!”]
“He knew exactly how you took it. He told me of it, with triumph! Think
of it, Celia! And I—You wouldn’t listen to me. I was outside your
charmed circle. How old were you before you knew how he meant it? Old
enough to believe him figuratively. So nothing changed. And he made fun
of me because I kept a shop! What is there ridiculous about running a
book-store? A good one, too. It made me free of him and so he had to cry
it down. But Celia”—she gulped—“has he ever told you—how much money from
that shop he uses?”
Celia stared at her. The pressure of accumulating weights had pain for
her now.
“I shouldn’t tell you, perhaps—but it’s all the rest of your life I’m
trying to give you. I have thought what I could do—especially lately.
For a long time I was just hurt because you turned against me. I didn’t
see his scheme—I suppose I hadn’t patience enough. Not that he had a
scheme at first. But there you were, soft, pliable stuff. He could make
you what I wouldn’t be, slave, admirer, wonderer at him. Oh, he must
have seen it clearly to do it so well!”
“You have always been jealous of me!” Celia struck out in a gesture
prompted by that ghost of defense.
“Oh—jealous! He’s made you think that. If I could make you see—He wanted
to be a super-person. His lameness—his lack of success—he meant to
paint, you know—He had to have shelter, a place where he was that
super-person. He couldn’t have a shadow of a rival in it. What has he
done to all the friends you might have had?”
“They couldn’t stand comparison with him. He’s not touched them!”
“What happened to Laura Welles? Nice, jolly girl. You didn’t know I
heard your father, the night he met her here for the third time! A
little twist of a knife, straight into the friendship that had started!
And that boy, last winter! And now—Ralph!”
Mary Duryea sighed. Between her eyebrows a triangle of tiny drops of
moisture glistened. But her face, except for that triangle of suffering,
kept its whimsical tolerance of mouth and eyes.
“I told Ralph to hurry up,” she said, suddenly. “I hoped he’d sweep you
off before Philip came back. He did, too, almost! You were a different
person! What could your father say about him? He’s the finest, truest
boy I ever knew. And Philip knows it! That is exactly why he forgot
himself and raged at you. He was afraid. He hasn’t done that for a long
time—” She paused, reminiscently. “He used to talk to me that way
occasionally. He’s very sorry for it by now.”
“Oh, don’t! don’t!” Celia flung herself around in her chair, hiding her
face against her arm. The numbness, the lethargy, was stripped away; she
came back, as from an anesthetic, into a white glare of anguish. Through
her, tangled in the knot of devotion, had always run a thread of
justice, too firm to break now. These things were true. He, her father,
had himself attested to them.
Her mother’s hand touched her shoulder, a friendly, human pat.
“There, Celia. That’s all. I just wanted to say those things before you
sent Ralph away.”
Celia lifted her face; color and life drained out of it, leaving it
piteous, blank.
“There’s nothing left of me,” she said, slowly. “I’ve tried just to
be—what I thought he would like—because I thought it was beautiful and
fine and perfect—and it’s gone.” Her hands dropped into her lap, palms
upward.
Mary Duryea picked up the cold hands and held them, warmly.
“Nonsense, Celia!” Her eyes had a flare of loveliness. “You see, you’ve
taken what was good in him—and there’s much of it. He’s given you his
best.” She flushed. “I guess—I have been jealous of that. It’s only that
I won’t have him giving you more of his worst.”
She bent to stir the fire; the sudden leap of flame sprayed her hair
into soft light, touched with gold whimsical planes on forehead, cheek,
and outstretched, steady hand.
Celia saw the lights shivered into prismatic edges through her own
incredulous tears.
“And now”—Mrs. Duryea pushed back her rocker—“now I’m going to draw a
warm bath for you—and you’re going straight to sleep. To-morrow’s time
enough. I don’t know whether you care enough for Ralph to take him or
not. Marrying lasts quite a while.” She smiled. “But you will know.”
Celia lay back in her chair, a curious listlessness on body and mind.
Her mother had drawn the knife out of her wound and showed it to her,
clean, no slightest rust of bitterness, strange warrant of healing. She
gave herself up to warmth and light and the little bustle of her
mother’s coming and going.
“Here are your things.” Her mother spread them on the chair beside her.
“Everything’s ready.” She closed the door softly behind her.
Celia undressed slowly. The warmth of the fire flowed about her.
Presently, in her own room, unstartled, she saw her mother move out of
the shadows near the window.
“Jump into bed and I’ll open your windows.”
She stood beside the bed, indistinct, just the lines of her bent head
and shoulder showing, ineffably tender, valiant.
“Good night, Celia.” Her hand reached out, touched Celia’s arm. “Go
right to sleep.”
After a moment she had gone. Through the window came the spring wind,
earthy, sweet.
All night Celia moved through tranquil pools of sleep, coming sometimes
almost into troubled consciousness, and then dropping again into
tranquillity.
When she woke the room was full of sunshine. Then, as though her waking
let down the bars behind which the night had herded them, they rushed
upon her fanged and clawed, cruel thoughts, images. She cowered. But
under her eyelids flashed a quick picture of her mother, undaunted,
standing in the shadow by her bed. She pushed herself erect. Whatever
happened, she could at least face things. If she pretended not to be
afraid—they might slink off.
She dressed, lingering a little with each motion. The ordinary demands
of a day had lost their important meanings. The house was still. They
had gone, her father and her mother. The day was strange, secret. At its
core, hidden, something which was hers, if she could work through to it,
without fear.
She stopped at the door of her mother’s room. The sunlight, in plashes
on its chintzes and white woodwork, quivered over her like a poignant,
ironic tune, not to be endured. Then something—a small bedroom slipper
with its pink bow, perhaps—loosened the ache in her throat. She had been
scornful! She had thought she wanted her life to be beautiful, fine; and
all the time that clear, bright, simple room, and the woman living in
it, had stirred derision in her, or pity!
Through warm, humble tears she looked down the stairs, toward the drawn
curtains of the study. Behind them she almost heard her father drag his
twisted foot, in shadows—
If she had come to hate him, she would still be bound to him! That
thought came drifting up from the dark curtains and passed. She was
sorry for him! Tears were on her cheeks now. “He’s given you his best,
always!” Her mother had said that!
Through her tears she saw the front door pushed open and warm light rush
into the house. Ralph stood below her, peering about the hall.
“Celia!” he called, softly. Then he saw her.
For a moment she hung there above him.
“Shall I come after you?” he cried.
“No,” she said, and her voice dropped clear, wondering. “No. I’m
coming—Ralph.”
Transcriber’s Notes
Transcribed from Harper’s Magazine, vol. 139, Oct. 1919, pp. 747-756.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public
domain.
The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLAW ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
