the children in the primary grades were sometimes required to make relief maps of moonstone in sand. had they used colored sands, as the navajo medicine men do in their sand mosaics, they could easily have indicated the social classifications of moonstone, since these conformed to certain topographical boundaries, and every child understood them perfectly.
the main business street ran, of course, through the center of the town. to the west of this street lived all the people who were, as tillie kronborg said, “in society.” sylvester street, the third parallel with main street on the west, was the longest in town, and the best dwellings were built along it. far out at the north end, nearly a mile from the court-house and its cottonwood grove, was dr. archie’s house, its big yard and garden surrounded by a white paling fence. the methodist church was in the center of the town, facing the court-house square. the kronborgs lived half a mile south of the church, on the long street that stretched out like an arm to the depot settlement. this was the first street west of main, and was built up only on one side. the preacher’s house faced the backs of the brick and frame store buildings and a draw full of sunflowers and scraps of old iron. the sidewalk which ran in front of the kronborgs’ house was the one continuous sidewalk to the depot, and all the train men and roundhouse employees passed the front gate every time they came uptown. thea and mrs. kronborg had many friends among the railroad men, who often paused to chat across the fence, and of one of these we shall have more to say.
in the part of moonstone that lay east of main street, toward the deep ravine which, farther south, wound by mexican town, lived all the humbler citizens, the people who voted but did not run for office. the houses were little story-and-a-half cottages, with none of the fussy architectural efforts that marked those on sylvester street. they nestled modestly behind their cottonwoods and virginia creeper; their occupants had no social pretensions to keep up. there were no half-glass front doors with doorbells, or formidable parlors behind closed shutters. here the old women washed in the back yard, and the men sat in the front doorway and smoked their pipes. the people on sylvester street scarcely knew that this part of the town existed. thea liked to take thor and her express wagon and explore these quiet, shady streets, where the people never tried to have lawns or to grow elms and pine trees, but let the native timber have its way and spread in luxuriance. she had many friends there, old women who gave her a yellow rose or a spray of trumpet vine and appeased thor with a cooky or a doughnut. they called thea “that preacher’s girl,” but the demonstrative was misplaced, for when they spoke of mr. kronborg they called him “the methodist preacher.”
dr. archie was very proud of his yard and garden, which he worked himself. he was the only man in moonstone who was successful at growing rambler roses, and his strawberries were famous. one morning when thea was downtown on an errand, the doctor stopped her, took her hand and went over her with a quizzical eye, as he nearly always did when they met.
“you haven’t been up to my place to get any strawberries yet, thea. they’re at their best just now. mrs. archie doesn’t know what to do with them all. come up this afternoon. just tell mrs. archie i sent you. bring a big basket and pick till you are tired.”
when she got home thea told her mother that she didn’t want to go, because she didn’t like mrs. archie.
“she is certainly one queer woman,” mrs. kronborg assented, “but he’s asked you so often, i guess you’ll have to go this time. she won’t bite you.”
after dinner thea took a basket, put thor in his baby buggy, and set out for dr. archie’s house at the other end of town. as soon as she came within sight of the house, she slackened her pace. she approached it very slowly, stopping often to pick dandelions and sand-peas for thor to crush up in his fist.
it was his wife’s custom, as soon as dr. archie left the house in the morning, to shut all the doors and windows to keep the dust out, and to pull down the shades to keep the sun from fading the carpets. she thought, too, that neighbors were less likely to drop in if the house was closed up. she was one of those people who are stingy without motive or reason, even when they can gain nothing by it. she must have known that skimping the doctor in heat and food made him more extravagant than he would have been had she made him comfortable. he never came home for lunch, because she gave him such miserable scraps and shreds of food. no matter how much milk he bought, he could never get thick cream for his strawberries. even when he watched his wife lift it from the milk in smooth, ivory-colored blankets, she managed, by some sleight-of-hand, to dilute it before it got to the breakfast table. the butcher’s favorite joke was about the kind of meat he sold mrs. archie. she felt no interest in food herself, and she hated to prepare it. she liked nothing better than to have dr. archie go to denver for a few days—he often went chiefly because he was hungry—and to be left alone to eat canned salmon and to keep the house shut up from morning until night.
mrs. archie would not have a servant because, she said, “they ate too much and broke too much”; she even said they knew too much. she used what mind she had in devising shifts to minimize her housework. she used to tell her neighbors that if there were no men, there would be no housework. when mrs. archie was first married, she had been always in a panic for fear she would have children. now that her apprehensions on that score had grown paler, she was almost as much afraid of having dust in the house as she had once been of having children in it. if dust did not get in, it did not have to be got out, she said. she would take any amount of trouble to avoid trouble. why, nobody knew. certainly her husband had never been able to make her out. such little, mean natures are among the darkest and most baffling of created things. there is no law by which they can be explained. the ordinary incentives of pain and pleasure do not account for their behavior. they live like insects, absorbed in petty activities that seem to have nothing to do with any genial aspect of human life.
mrs. archie, as mrs. kronborg said, “liked to gad.” she liked to have her house clean, empty, dark, locked, and to be out of it—anywhere. a church social, a prayer meeting, a ten-cent show; she seemed to have no preference. when there was nowhere else to go, she used to sit for hours in mrs. smiley’s millinery and notion store, listening to the talk of the women who came in, watching them while they tried on hats, blinking at them from her corner with her sharp, restless little eyes. she never talked much herself, but she knew all the gossip of the town and she had a sharp ear for racy anecdotes—“traveling men’s stories,” they used to be called in moonstone. her clicking laugh sounded like a typewriting machine in action, and, for very pointed stories, she had a little screech.
mrs. archie had been mrs. archie for only six years, and when she was belle white she was one of the “pretty” girls in lansing, michigan. she had then a train of suitors. she could truly remind archie that “the boys hung around her.” they did. they thought her very spirited and were always saying, “oh, that belle white, she’s a case!” she used to play heavy practical jokes which the young men thought very clever. archie was considered the most promising young man in “the young crowd,” so belle selected him. she let him see, made him fully aware, that she had selected him, and archie was the sort of boy who could not withstand such enlightenment. belle’s family were sorry for him. on his wedding day her sisters looked at the big, handsome boy—he was twenty-four—as he walked down the aisle with his bride, and then they looked at each other. his besotted confidence, his sober, radiant face, his gentle, protecting arm, made them uncomfortable. well, they were glad that he was going west at once, to fulfill his doom where they would not be onlookers. anyhow, they consoled themselves, they had got belle off their hands.
more than that, belle seemed to have got herself off her hands. her reputed prettiness must have been entirely the result of determination, of a fierce little ambition. once she had married, fastened herself on some one, come to port,—it vanished like the ornamental plumage which drops away from some birds after the mating season. the one aggressive action of her life was over. she began to shrink in face and stature. of her harum-scarum spirit there was nothing left but the little screech. within a few years she looked as small and mean as she was.
thor’s chariot crept along. thea approached the house unwillingly. she didn’t care about the strawberries, anyhow. she had come only because she did not want to hurt dr. archie’s feelings. she not only disliked mrs. archie, she was a little afraid of her. while thea was getting the heavy baby-buggy through the iron gate she heard some one call, “wait a minute!” and mrs. archie came running around the house from the back door, her apron over her head. she came to help with the buggy, because she was afraid the wheels might scratch the paint off the gateposts. she was a skinny little woman with a great pile of frizzy light hair on a small head.
“dr. archie told me to come up and pick some strawberries,” thea muttered, wishing she had stayed at home.
mrs. archie led the way to the back door, squinting and shading her eyes with her hand. “wait a minute,” she said again, when thea explained why she had come.
she went into her kitchen and thea sat down on the porch step. when mrs. archie reappeared she carried in her hand a little wooden butter-basket trimmed with fringed tissue paper, which she must have brought home from some church supper. “you’ll have to have something to put them in,” she said, ignoring the yawning willow basket which stood empty on thor’s feet. “you can have this, and you needn’t mind about returning it. you know about not trampling the vines, don’t you?”
mrs. archie went back into the house and thea leaned over in the sand and picked a few strawberries. as soon as she was sure that she was not going to cry, she tossed the little basket into the big one and ran thor’s buggy along the gravel walk and out of the gate as fast as she could push it. she was angry, and she was ashamed for dr. archie. she could not help thinking how uncomfortable he would be if he ever found out about it. little things like that were the ones that cut him most. she slunk home by the back way, and again almost cried when she told her mother about it.
mrs. kronborg was frying doughnuts for her husband’s supper. she laughed as she dropped a new lot into the hot grease. “it’s wonderful, the way some people are made,” she declared. “but i wouldn’t let that upset me if i was you. think what it would be to live with it all the time. you look in the black pocketbook inside my handbag and take a dime and go downtown and get an ice-cream soda. that’ll make you feel better. thor can have a little of the ice-cream if you feed it to him with a spoon. he likes it, don’t you, son?” she stooped to wipe his chin. thor was only six months old and inarticulate, but it was quite true that he liked ice-cream.
