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They were swooping down to pick up the life she was ready to drop, sweeping swiftly and beautifully down. That was what the song Walter had sung was about. Henry Wescott came home from his evening at Emanuel Wilson's store. He went heavily through the house to the back door and the pump.
He took his dinner and supper at the hotel, down town on the square, but he got his own breakfast, made his own bed and swept out his own house. Sometimes he walked slowly along the street past the Wescott house when Rosalind sat alone on the front porch. He raised his hat and spoke to her. Their eyes met. He had a long, hawk-like nose and his hair was long and uncombed.
The man laughed. "It'll get well. Better put on your shoes," he advised. The time of the marching trees and the dancing grasses was in Rosalind's childhood. Later when she had graduated from the Willow Springs High School and had the three years of waiting about the Wescott house before she went to the city she had other experiences in the orchard.
They are made that way. The thing they call love doesn't exist. It's a lie." "Life is dirty. Letting a man touch her dirties a woman." Ma Wescott fairly screamed forth the words. They seemed torn from her, from some deep inner part of her being. Having said them she moved off into the darkness and Rosalind heard her going slowly toward the stairway that led to the bedroom above.
No " Belle shook her head. "I'm not a good enough swimmer." Another short silence. "Belle, does this river rise every winter?" "Why, yes, I suppose it does. I know one year Emville was flooded and the shops moved upstairs. There was a family named Wescott living up near here then " Belle did not pursue the history of the Westcott family, and Miss Carter knew why.
The sun ran in behind one of the cloud masses and grey shadows slid silently over the face of distant fields. The world of her child life, the Wescott household, Melville Stoner sitting in his house, the cries of other children who lived in her street, all the life she knew went far away. To be there in that silent place was like lying awake in bed at night only in some way sweeter and better.
He knew all Ma Wescott had said, all she could say and all Rosalind could say or understand. The thought was infinitely sweet to Rosalind. It was Melville Stoner who lifted the town of Willow Springs up out of the shadow of death. Words were unnecessary. With him she had established the thing beyond words, beyond passion the fellowship in living, the fellowship in life.
She, Rosalind Wescott, stood on a bridge in the heart of the city and she had become entirely convinced of the filth and ugliness of life. She was about to throw herself into the river, to destroy herself in an effort to make herself clean. It did not matter. Strange sharp cries came from the birds. The cries of the birds were like the voice of Melville Stoner.
One hot morning in Chicago she had got out of bed and had suddenly begun packing her bag, and on that same evening there she was in Willow Springs, in the house where she had lived until her twenty-first year, among her own people. She had come up from the station in the hotel bus and had walked into the Wescott house unannounced.
Samuel Rea, Railroad Builder and Executive. Very alert, keen, practical, matter-of-fact, hard-headed; a good observer, a quick thinker. Very decisive, determined, and persistent. Understands construction, mechanics, and operation. Lon Wescott Beck, the Sign Poster of Death Valley. An out-of-doors man. Loves grandeur of scenery, wide spaces. Consider the record of the man of action.
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