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Title: The Right Thing
Author: Ray Cummings
Release Date: January 31, 2022 [eBook #67288]
Language: English
Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT THING ***
The Right Thing
By Ray Cummings
[Illustration]
The girl stood quiet in the cabin doorway looking out at the
brilliant, frosty night. Over Sugar Loaf the cold, glittering moon
shone full; the big fir on its summit stood stark and black against
the vivid blue of the star-studded sky behind, like a giant sentinel
watching over the silent valley.
Below her, at the bottom of the little pass, the winding trail with
its single strand of telephone wire beside it, showed plainly in the
moonlight. Up the mountain a wolf began howling. The girl turned back
into the cabin abruptly and closed the door behind her.
The supper she had been preparing was almost ready. The little board
table near the fireplace was set for one; over in a corner from a
large, wood-burning stove came the odor of steaming coffee.
The girl put a lighted kerosene lamp upon the table and served herself
with a single plateful of food from the frying-pan. Once she stood
still, listening, but only the muffled noise of the brook and the lone
wolf baying broke the silence. For a brief instant her glance rested
on the telephone instrument fastened to the wall beside the fireplace;
then, as though reassured, she sat down and began her solitary meal.
A knock upon the door made her leap to her feet and stand for an
instant trembling. She put her hand into the pocket of her gingham
apron, her fingers gripping a little revolver that lay there. The
knock was repeated. The girl withdrew her hand—empty—and with a
trembling smile that seemed to belittle her fear, she crossed the room
swiftly and flung open the door.
A man stood on the threshold—a slim young man in a short heavy coat,
blue flannel shirt, corduroy trousers, and neat, incongruous leather
puttees. He was bareheaded. He stood wavering with a hand against the
doorway to steady himself, all his weight on one foot and the toe of
the other just touching the ground.
“You!” cried the girl. Her tone held amazement, but it was tender,
too, with love. Then as she saw the pallor of his face in the
lamplight, and his lips pressed together in a thin straight line of
pain, she cried again:
“Tom, you’re hurt!”
Her arms went around him, and leaning heavily on her, he hobbled
across the room. The pain made him moan, and he sank back in the chair
and closed his eyes. The girl knelt on the floor beside him, and began
gently to unstrap one of his puttees. After a moment he seemed to
recover a little. He sat up and wiped the sweat of weakness from his
forehead with his coat sleeve.
“I know I shouldn’t have stopped, Beth, but I—I knew you were alone
tonight.” For an instant the drawn lines of pain left his face; his
eyes looked into the girl’s tenderly.
Beth looked up into his face, brushing back a wisp of hair that had
fallen forward over her eyes. That he had come here frightened her.
But she was glad that he had come, and the sight of his pale face with
the look of pain on it made her eyes fill with tears of love and
sympathy.
“What happened, Tom?” she asked.
The boy shook himself together. “I wouldn’t have stopped, honest,
Beth—only my horse threw me—a mile back toward Rocky Gulch.” He winced
as the girl withdrew the puttee and began unlacing his shoe.
“Only sprained, I guess,” he added. “But it hurts like the devil—and
I’m bruised all over from the fall.” He laughed a little in boyish
apology for showing his pain to a girl.
“It was about an hour ago. I wasn’t going to stop—I wanted to get to
Vailstown tonight. The horse shied at something, and bolted, and left
me lying there. I don’t know—I guess I’m a rotten rider.” He grinned
sheepishly.
He had come to her! Of course, it was all he could do then, without a
horse and with a sprained ankle at night on the Vailstown road. At the
thought of having him here with her when he was hurt and needed her
help, the girl’s heart grew very loving and tender.
“I’ve been an hour coming,” he went on quietly—he brushed her hair
lightly with his fingers and smiled—“and now I’m here, Beth, I’m—I’m
sort of glad the accident happened.”
She made no answer, but went on taking off his shoe and the heavy
woolen sock; his ankle was red and swollen. She raised his foot to a
low wooden bench, and he watched her silently while she filled a pail
with hot water. Then he noticed the food on the table.
“Finish eating, Beth,” he said. “This can wait—it doesn’t hurt much
when I hold it still.”
Again she did not reply, but held his foot and ankle in the water a
moment, and then, wrapping it in an improvised bandage, replaced the
sock. She was very tender and gentle. Once the boy made as if to kiss
her, but she pulled away, effectually but without resentment.
Wonderment was in his eyes as he followed her swift, deft movements.
“Why don’t you say something, Beth?” he asked after a moment. “What’s
the matter with you?”
“Now you can eat with me,” she said. She had made him as comfortable
as possible, and returned to the stove.
He took the plate of food she handed him. “I know I shouldn’t have
stopped, Beth—but I couldn’t do anything else, could I?”
“How did you know I was alone?” She knew what he was going to answer,
and it frightened her.
“I saw your stepfather in Rocky Gulch this afternoon—no, wait, listen
Beth—I’d tell you, wouldn’t I, if anything had happened?”
He went on impetuously, as though to dispel her rising fear.
“He was drunk, Beth, and he’s too old a man. Look at that”—he clenched
his fist, and the muscles of his bared forearm rose up in knots—“I
could have twisted his neck with that for what he said about me and
you. But I promised I wouldn’t lift a hand to him, and I didn’t, no
matter what he said. I didn’t mean to meet him—and then—when he said
what he did I—well, I just listened and beat it, that’s all.”
The boy shoved his food away from him untouched, and looked across the
table to meet Beth’s frightened eyes.
“Don’t you worry, kid,” he added reassuringly, “I won’t hurt him, and
he can’t hurt me—except with his gun.” The girl shuddered, and he
hastened to add:
“He wouldn’t do that, Beth. Don’t you think it for a minute! Even when
he’s drunk he wouldn’t do that—he’s too much of a coward—he knows he’d
swing for it.”
“He _said_ he would, Tom.”
“He said he would if I come up here again. I didn’t come, did I?”
It was a month now since her stepfather in drunken rage had ordered
Tom from the house and threatened to shoot him if he ever came there
again. But after all, he had to come tonight, as things happened. And
her stepfather was away—the first time he had been away in months—and
he need never know that Tom had been here.
“He won’t be back until tomorrow—you’ll be gone then,” said Beth,
voicing her thoughts.
Her words seemed to rouse the boy to sudden anger. “Why should he
forbid my seeing you, anyway?” he went on, resentfully. “I love you,
Beth, and you love me. And I want to marry you!” His tone changed
abruptly. “You _do_ love me, Beth?”
He held out his arms appealingly, and in answer the girl rose silently
and kissed him. “You know that, Tom,” she said simply.
“Then why do I have to sneak away like a thief? Just because we love
each other, what’s that he’s got against me?”
“You know why he said it was, Tom.” She crossed the room again to
attend to the stove.
“Because I haven’t got any money. I know—that’s what he said. But I’ve
got enough to keep you as well as he does—and better.” He glanced
around the cabin contemptuously. “You know that isn’t the reason. It’d
be the same, anyway—unless maybe I had a fortune and would give him
some of it.”
Beth winced. It hurt, somehow, to have him say things like that. But
she knew it was true. And she knew, too, just how he felt—how he
resented the way he had been treated.
“Besides, why shouldn’t I marry you?” the boy went on. “I’m from the
East, same as you. I’ve been to college—my family’s as good as
yours—for all his drunken talk—better than _his_, if you ask me. What
he wants is to get you a rich husband back East if he can’t stake a
big-paying claim out here. And I don’t fit into that scheme. That’s
what’s the matter, and you know it.”
Beth laid the coffee cups on the table and sat down again, facing him.
“You mustn’t talk that way, Tom,” she remonstrated. “You just mustn’t.
I won’t listen. I’ve told you that before. I can’t listen to such
things. Why were you going to Vailstown tonight?”
He ignored her question. “Well, I’m right, and you know it. I love
you, and I’d make you happy. He’s the only thing in the way. So far as
your happiness is concerned, he’d be better off dead, and I wish he
was. Oh, I know it’s a rotten thing to say, but I do. Look at that.”
He leaned forward suddenly, and gripped her by the shoulder, pulling
her toward him.
“Your neck’s bruised black and blue. You think I don’t notice things
like that, don’t you? I know how he treats you when he’s crazy
drunk—and I’m the only one who does. And I can’t do anything about it
because you won’t let me.”
“Tom—I—”
“And because he’s your stepfather, you won’t let anybody say a word
against him. But you know he’s no good to himself, or anybody else.
He’d be better off dead, and you know it. Somebody’ll get him one of
these days, too—the way he acts down there at the Gulch when he’s
drunk—you wait and see. Some day they’ll find him lying in a gully or
something, where somebody’s pushed him. He hasn’t got a decent friend
in the world—only the bums are good enough for him. And that damn
One-Eyed Charlie he pals around with.”
Beth sighed hopelessly.
“Some day they’ll find him dead down there,” the boy went on.
“Charlie’ll do it, maybe—he’s a rattlesnake anyway. And when he talks
to me like he did today, and I see your neck horribly bruised the way
it is now, I feel as if I could do it myself, sometimes—if I had a
good chance.”
His words shocked her, perhaps even more because some little
whispering devil inside said it would be better that way—better for
all three of them. She rose abruptly, and bending down, put her hands
on the boy’s shoulders, looking him squarely in the face.
“Tom, you didn’t mean that,” she said evenly.
His eyes shifted and avoided her own, and she felt her heart leap with
sudden fear.
“Well, I feel as if I could, anyway,” he answered, sullenly. “And you
wouldn’t be sorry—deep down in your heart.”
“Tom, you can’t talk this way. I won’t listen. Don’t you understand—I
won’t listen.”
She pulled her chair close beside him. He put his arm about her
shoulders and drew her to him hungrily.
“Tom, why were you going to Vailstown tonight?” she asked again, when
he had released her.
“I—I—” He seemed to make a sudden decision. “I wasn’t going to tell
you, Beth, till I was sure.” He met her searching gaze squarely. “I
think I’ve struck it, Beth—over there on Cedar Creek. It looks
good—pans richer than anything around the Gulch. I wanted to get it
recorded in Vailstown tonight. Then, if everything was all right, I
was going to phone you.”
His face was flushed and eager now, and very boyish. She leaned
forward and kissed him.
“I’m so glad. Tom. At last—you deserve it. You’ve worked hard.”
“I think I’ve got it, Beth—got it for you, just like I said I would.”
Beth rose, and went to the window. “Its clouding over,” she said.
“We’ll have snow by morning.”
She came back to the fireside, and glancing at his bandaged ankle,
smiled. “You’ll have to stay here tonight. In the morning I’ll walk
over to Simpson’s—it’s only three miles back around Sugar Loaf—and get
you a horse. You can make it to Vailstown then.”
A faint, distant sound outside made them look at each other in sudden
alarm. They listened. It grew louder—a horse coming along the trail
from Rocky Gulch at a gallop. Beth thought of her stepfather, perhaps
returning unexpectedly—to find Tom here with her. In the silence she
could hear again the lonely howl of the wolf on Sugar Loaf—a sound
immeasurably mournful, very much like the desolate, silent mountains
themselves.
She rose to her feet, trembling. The sound of the horseman approaching
grew steadily louder. Then her glance fell upon the little tin clock
over the fireplace. She smiled with the relief of sudden
comprehension.
“Nine o’clock, Tom. I’d forgotten. It’s only the mail rider for
Vailstown.”
She went to the window. “It’s snowing, Tom,” she added.
Tom was sitting up in his chair, tense. She wondered vaguely why he
did not seem relieved at her words.
“It _is_ the mail,” she cried, after a moment. She opened the door a
little and stood looking out.
The boy started from his chair, standing upon his injured ankle
without thought of it. “He may stop, Beth. He mustn’t see me here. It
wouldn’t look right, don’t you see—it—”
She wheeled on him sharply. “He isn’t going to stop,” she said. Then
she flung the door wide open and stepping outside, waved her hand to
the passing rider on the trail below.
“Sit down, Tom.” She came back into the room and closed the door. “You
mustn’t stand on that ankle.”
He sank back into the chair, his face white. “God!” he exclaimed, “I
shouldn’t be up here with you alone tonight after—after what—”
Beth sat down again beside him. The thoughts that came to her mind
frightened her. She tried to dispel them, but couldn’t. She put her
hand upon his arm.
“I’m glad you’ve struck it, Tom,” she said. “I knew you would. And
some time—”
“I’m going to have you for my wife,” he finished. “And take you back
East, maybe, where you belong.”
Suddenly he flung his arms about her again and kissed her upon the
lips roughly. “It’s the right thing—the right thing, Beth.” He
repeated the words a little bitterly.
She disengaged herself gently.
“You say ‘the right thing,’ Tom,” she returned quietly, “and you mean
to be cynical. Because I’ve said that to you sometimes—and—you never
quite understood, did you?”
“But why shouldn’t you marry me if we love each other?” he protested
again.
He had never understood, of course. And hadn’t he the right to
understand?
“I’ll tell you what I meant, Tom—what you have never understood—never
realized.” Her face was very earnest, very serious. “You say my
stepfather is—is no good. Well, you’re right. He is no good as the
world judges those things—and maybe as God judges them, too. But he’s
the man my mother loved—there’s no getting away from that, Tom—she
loved him; and she died loving him, and with the whisper on her lips
telling me to help him and care for him as long as he lived.” She
laughed—a curious little laugh that seemed to catch in her throat.
“I never told you that, did I, Tom? I was only fourteen then—but that
day, talking there with mother, I thought out my creed—my religion. To
do the right thing always. Tom—that’s it—that’s all there is to it.
Not the thing that may look best for me at the time or even right for
me—but the just thing—the right thing in the eyes of God.”
Her delicate little face grew wistful with the memories the words
evoked. She had never spoken to Tom—or to any one—like this before.
She had hardly realized until now as she put it into words, how much
this simple creed of hers had come to mean to her—how unconsciously
she had used it as her guiding star, through all these dreary,
mournful years that followed her mother’s death.
She had been unhappy, she knew; and yet not unhappy, either, since
happiness came with the knowledge that she was doing the right thing.
And then Tom had come—Tom with his love that had awakened hers, with
the promised fulfilment of all her girlish dreams. It was hard for
Tom—hard for her, too, when now the right thing made them deny love.
But still, she had gone on trusting—hoping, blindly hoping—just
waiting for God to work it out in His own way—the way that would be
right for them all. And she was sorry now—and a little frightened—that
she had never let Tom understand.
Her eyes were dim and soft with tenderness as she leaned forward
toward him.
“_That_ you can understand, Tom. It’s very simple, isn’t it? And don’t
you see, that’s just what father never has done. It has always been
the right thing as he saw it, yes—but the right thing for
himself—always the right thing for himself.
“And somehow, Tom, it doesn’t seem to work out, when you only figure
the right thing for yourself. I don’t just mean that it hurts or
sacrifices others—but somehow, some way, it don’t work out for
you—yourself. It looks all right—you can’t see why it isn’t all right.
But there’s something working against it—some law of nature—or God
maybe—or something—and it just don’t work out. I believe that, Tom—I
believe it absolutely—and—and no matter how hard it is, I’m trying to
live up to it. I promised mother that.”
Tom moistened his dry lips. “Then so long as he lives you—you—”
She put her hand over his mouth.
“Don’t, Tom, don’t. It isn’t only that way—it’s in everything. The
right thing always—even if it looks wrong and bad for me. And I
believe in the end it will work out best—something we don’t understand
will make it work out.”
Suddenly she slipped from her chair onto his lap, with her arms about
him, her head on his shoulder.
“But I do love you, Tom, so very, very much.” All the yearning
tenderness of love was in her voice. “I do want to be your wife—some
day—when it’s the right thing to do.”
The telephone bell rang, startlingly loud in the silence of the little
cabin. Beth pulled away from the boy and rose to her feet. That
nameless apprehension—the vague presentiment she had felt before—came
back to her now as she stood looking at the instrument, hesitating.
The ring was repeated—a slightly different call this time, abruptly
stilled.
“What is it, Beth? Is it for us?” The telephone was silent now.
She lifted the receiver. A voice in conversation sounded in her ear;
instinctively she did not speak, but listened with an eager attention.
“Dead,” said the voice, “lying there dead, with marks on his
throat—murder, all right.”
The little cabin room went suddenly black for Beth. The noise of the
brook down by the trail seemed roaring in her ears; out beyond she
heard the wolf still howling. She knew she must not faint—whispered it
bravely, despairingly to herself.
“Beth! Beth, what is it?” The boy had started to his feet.
At the sound of his voice her head suddenly cleared. She let go of the
telephone box she had clutched for support, and raised her hand in
warning for silence. The voice in her ear was still sounding. She
recognized the voice now—the sheriff of Rocky Gulch.
“—hell of a scrap this afternoon,” the voice was saying. “It’s him all
right—only circumstantial evidence, but damn strong. And he’s gone—you
know him—Tom Hawley—that slim young feller from the East over at
Ransome’s.”
The man in Vailstown made some answer.
“You send some men down the trail,” the sheriff went on. “He might
come along any time. Probably won’t. And phone Centerville—or whatever
else you think best. You’ll hear from me later-morning probably. I
gotta ride way over now and tell his daughter—I dassent phone her,
with her all alone out there. Hell of a job, too. Then in the morning
we’ll get busy right.”
Again the man in Vailstown spoke—some question this time about
One-Eyed Charlie—and the conversation then continued.
But Beth heard no more. The shock of this abrupt news of her
stepfather’s death, and then the suggestion of murder—murder done by
Tom Hawley, the man she loved—the man whose wife some day she wanted
to be—all whirled through her confused brain.
Tom Hawley, standing there now by the fireplace watching her
wonderingly—Tom Hawley was a murderer?
The shock of it caused a sudden revulsion in the girl’s heart. Her
fingers gripped the little revolver that lay in her apron pocket. The
sheriff’s voice was still sounding in her ear; her lips were at the
mouthpiece—she had only to speak to give Tom up—a murderer whom the
law demanded.
And then something within her—some tiny voice of nature—whispered to
the girl that she loved Tom Hawley. And that he had thought it was the
right thing to do—only because he loved her—because he wanted her for
his wife—wanted to make her happy. If she gave him up he might be
sentenced and hung. The man she loved, to be killed by the law.
The right thing! The words of her creed came back to her. Which was
the right thing now? Her tired brain groped at the question wearily.
The right thing! The words she had said to Tom flashed through her
mind: “Not the thing that may look best for me, but the right thing in
the eyes of God. And something—some law we don’t understand—will make
it work out all right.”
Beth dropped the telephone receiver to the end of its dangling cord
and put her hand over the mouthpiece. Then she whirled to face the boy
who still stood watching her expectantly.
“They’ve found it out, Tom.” Her voice came low, but vibrant and
tense. In the hand she held outstretched a bit of polished steel
glistened in the lamplight. “They know it’s you.”
At sight of the revolver she pointed at him the boy started forward.
Amazement, incredulity were on his face.
“Beth! Why, Beth, what—”
“We’re going to do the right thing, Tom—the right thing in the eyes of
God.”
He was hobbling forward, and her voice rose suddenly:
“Tom—Tom Hawley. Don’t you hear me? Don’t you understand?” She waved
the revolver toward the wall nearer the telephone. “Stand over
there—over there against the wall. No, I mean it”—as he continued
coming forward. “Not a word now, Tom, or I’ll shoot. Don’t you
understand? Can’t you see I mean it?” she ended almost with a sob.
The boy hesitated; stared into her gleaming eyes an instant, and then
drew himself up against the wall, silent. Holding the revolver
leveled, Beth took her hand from the mouthpiece and lifted the
receiver again to her ear. The sheriff was still speaking in the
phone.
“This is Beth—Beth Rollins,” she interrupted. Her voice sounded almost
casual. She heard the sheriff’s gasp of astonishment, his profane
exclamation, and went on evenly:
“I’ve been listening, Sheriff Williams. I—you’re looking for Tom
Hawley—well, he’s here—here with me now. He’s—he’s going to stay here
until you come.” She waited through an instant of silence, and then
the sheriff’s voice said with seeming contrition:
“I’m mighty sorry, Miss Beth. I was coming over to see you tonight—I
clean forgot you were on this line in the excitement. Your
stepfather—he—”
She interrupted his awkward, embarrassed explanation. Her brain was
whirling; the room was dim to her sight, with only the boy’s white
face and his questioning eyes watching her, standing out clear and
sharp.
“Tom Hawley’s here with me,” she heard her own voice repeating.
“He—he’ll wait for you here.”
And then the sheriff’s voice said:
“Hell, ma’m, your stepfather—it didn’t happen only a few minutes ago.
If Tom Hawley’s there with you now that’s all the alibi I want—it’s a
cinch he wasn’t here. I’m mighty glad you happened to tell me tonight,
Miss Beth, or it would of gone hard for him. You let me speak with
him, ma’m, if he’s there—it must have been One-Eyed Charlie did it.”
(The End.)
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 27, 1920 issue
of The Argosy magazine]
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