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Portion of Labor

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<h3 align="center">Chapter XXIX</h3> Ellen rose without a word, and fled out of the room and out of the house. It seemed to her, after what had happened, after what her mother and grandmother had said and insinuated, after what she herself had thought and felt, that she must. She longed to see Robert Lloyd, to hear him speak, as she had never longed for anything in the world, and yet she ran away as if she were driven to obey some law which was coeval with the first woman and beyond all volition of her individual self. When she reached the head of the little cross street on which the Atkinses lived, she turned into it with relief. The Atkins house was a tiny cottage, with a little kitchen ell, and a sagging piazza across the front. On this piazza were shadowy figures, and the dull, red gleam of pipes, and one fiery tip of a cigar. Joe Atkins, and Sargent, and two other men were sitting out there in the cool of the evening. Ellen hurried around the curve of the foot-path to the kitchen door. Abby was in there, working with the swift precision of a machine. She washed and wiped dishes as if in a sort of fury, her thin elbows jerking, her mouth compressed. When Ellen entered, Abby stared, then her whole face lighted up, as if from some internal lamp. “Why, Ellen, is that you?” she said, in a surprisingly sweet voice. Sometimes Abby's sharp American voice rang with the sweetness of a soft bell. “I thought I'd run over a minute,” said Ellen. The other girl looked sharply at her. “Why, what's the matter?” she said. “Nothing is the matter. Why?” “Why, I thought you looked sort of queer. Maybe it's the light. Sit down; I'll have the dishes done in a minute, then we'll go into the sitting-room.” “I'd rather stay out here with you,” said Ellen. Abby looked at her again. “There is something the matter, Ellen Brewster,” said she; “you can't cheat me. You would never have run over here this way in the world. What has happened?” “Let's go up to your room after the dishes are done, and then I'll tell you,” whispered Ellen. The men's voices on the piazza could be heard quite distinctly, and it seemed possible that their own conversation might be overheard in return. “All right,” said Abby. “Of course I have heard about your aunt,” she added, in a low voice. “Yes,” said Ellen, and she felt shamed and remorseful that her own affairs had been uppermost in her mind, and that Abby had supposed that she might be disturbed over this great trouble of her poor aunt's. “I think it is dreadful,” said Abby. “I wish I could get hold of that woman.” By “that woman” she meant the woman with whom poor Jim Tenny had eloped. “I do,” said Ellen, bitterly. “But it's something besides that made you run over here,” said Abby. “I'll tell you when we go up to your room,” replied Ellen. When the dishes were finished, and the two girls in Abby's little chamber, seated side by side on the bed, Ellen still hesitated. “Now, Ellen Brewster, what is the matter? You said you would tell, and you've got to,” said Abby. Ellen looked away from her, blushing. The electric-light from the street shone full in the room, which was wavering with grotesque shadows. “Well,” said she, “I ran away.” “You ran away! What for?” “Oh, because.” “Because what?” “Because I saw somebody coming.” “Saw who coming?” Ellen was silent. “Not Granville Joy?” Ellen shook her head. “Not—?” Ellen looked straight ahead. “Not young Mr. Lloyd?” Ellen was silent with the silence of assent. “Did he go into your house?” Ellen nodded. “Where were you?” “In grandma's.” “And you ran away, over here?” Ellen nodded. “Why, Ellen Brewster, didn't you want to see him?” Ellen turned from Abby with an impatient gesture, buried her face in the bed, and began to weep. Abby leaned over her caressingly. “Ellen dear,” she whispered, “what is the matter; what are you crying for? What made you run away?” Ellen sobbed harder. Abby looked at Ellen's prostrate figure sadly. “Ellen,” she began; then she stopped, for her own voice quivered. Then she went on, quite steadily. “Ellen,” she said, “you like him.” “No, I don't,” declared Ellen. “I won't. I never will. Nothing shall make me.” But Abby continued to look at her sadly and jealously. “There's a power over us which is too strong for girls,” said she, “and you've come under it, Ellen, and you can't help it.” Then she added, with a great, noble burst of utter unselfishness: “And I'm glad, I'm glad, Ellen. That man can lift you out of the grind.” But Ellen sat up straight and faced her, with burning cheeks, and eyes shining through tears. “I will never be lifted out of the grind as long as those I love are in it,” said she. “Do you suppose it would make it any better for your folks to see you in it all your life along with them?” said Abby. “Suppose you married a fellow like Granville Joy?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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