THE WIND IN THE OAKS

Early Monday evening there came a note from Myra:

I wanted you to know that I am leaving for the
country to-morrow to get a rest.

MYRA.

Joe at once put on his hat and coat and went out. The last meeting with his men had given him a new strength, a heightened manhood. Like a man doomed to death, he felt beyond despair now. He only knew he must go to Myra and set straight their relationship as a final step before he plunged into the great battle. No more weakness! No more quarreling! But clear words and definite understanding!

He went up the stoop and rang the bell. A servant opened the door, showed him into the dimly lighted parlor, and went up the stairs with his name. He heard her footsteps, light, hesitant. She appeared before him, pale and sick and desperate.

“What do you want?” she asked in a tortured voice.

He arose and came close to her. He spoke authoritatively:

“Myra, get on your things. We must take a walk.”

Her shifting eyes glanced up, gave him their full luminous gray and all the trouble of her heart.

“Myra,” his voice deepened, and struck through her, “you must go with me to-night. It’s our last chance.”

She turned and was gone. He heard her light footsteps ascending; he waited, wondering, hoping; and then she came down again, showing her head at the door. She had on the little rounded felt hat, and she carried her muff.

They went out together, saying nothing, stepping near one another under the lamps and over the avenues, and into the Park. It was a strange, windy night, touched with the first bleakness of winter, tinged with the moaning melancholy of the tossing oak-trees, and with streaks of faint reflected city lights in the far heavens.

It was their last night together. Both knew it. There was no help for it. The great issues of life were sweeping them away into black gulfs of the future, where there might never be meeting again, never hand-touch nor sound of each other’s voice. And strangely life deepened in their hearts, and they were swept by the mystery of being alive ... alive in the star-streaked darkness of space, alive with so many other brief creatures that brightened for a moment in the gloom and then sank away into the stormy heart of nature. And Love contended with Death, and the little labors of man helped Death to crush Love; and so that moment of existence, that brief span, became a mere brute struggle, a clash, a fight, a thing sordid and worse than death.

Out of the mystery, each, from some unimaginable distance, had come forth and met here on the earth, met for a wild moment, a moment that gave them lightning-lit glimpses of that mystery, only to part from each other now, each to return into the darkness.

They felt in unison more than they could ever say. And it was the last night together.

They sat down on a bench, under those mournful boughs, under the lamentations of the oaks.

“Myra,” said Joe.

She murmured, “Yes.”

His voice was charged with some of the strangeness of the night, some significance of the mystery of life and death.

“You read my letter ...”

“Yes.”

“And you understand ... at last?”

“I don’t know ... I can’t tell.”

He paused; he leaned nearer.

“Why are you going away?”

“I’ve been sick,” she whispered. “The doctor told me to go.”

“For long?”

“For a rest.”

“And you go to-morrow?”

“I go to-morrow.”

“Without forgiving me?” He leaned very near.

There was a palpitating silence, a silence that searched their souls, and sharply then Myra cried out:

“Oh, Joe! Joe! This is killing me!”

“Myra!” he cried.

He drew her close, very close, stroking her cheek, and the tears ran over his fingers.

“Oh, don’t you see,” he went on, brokenly, “I can’t ask you to come with me? And yet I must go?”

“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I must go away and rest ... and think ... and try to understand....”

“And may I write to you?...”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“And I am forgiven?”

“Forgive me!” she sobbed.

They could say no more, but sat in the wild darkness, clasping each other as if they could not let one another go.... How could they send each other forth to go in loneliness and homelessness to the ends of the earth? The hours passed as they talked brokenly together, words of remorse, of love, of forgiveness.

And then finally they arose it was very late and Myra whispered, clinging to him:

“We must say good-by here!”

“Good-by!” he cried ... and they kissed.

“Joe,” she exclaimed, “take care of yourself! Do just that for me!”

“I will,” he said huskily, “but you must do the same for me. Promise.”

“I promise!”

“Oh, Joe!” she cried out, “what is life doing with us?”

And they went back, confused and strange, through the lighted streets.
They stood before her house.

“Till you come back!” he whispered.

She flashed about then, a look of a new wonder in her eyes.

“If only I thought you were right in your work!” she cried.

“You will! You will, Myra! And in that hope, we will go on!”

She was gone; the door shut him out of her life. And all alone, strong, bitter, staring ahead, Joe stepped off to begin the new life ... to plunge into the battle.