Stephen Wheaton gasped. “But your wife, she will be alone, she will worry.”
“I want you to go and tell her,” said Christopher, “and I've got my bank-book here; I'm going to write some checks that she can get cashed when she needs money. I want you to tell her. Myrtle won't make a fuss. She ain't the kind. Maybe she will be a little lonely, but if she is, she can go and visit somewhere.” Christopher rose. “Can you let me have a pen and ink?” said he, “and I will write those checks. You can tell Myrtle how to use them. She won't know how.”
Stephen Wheaton, an hour later, sat in his study, the checks in his hand, striving to rally his courage. Christopher had gone; he had seen him from his window, laden with parcels, starting upon the ascent of Silver Mountain. Christopher had made out many checks for small amounts, and Stephen held the sheaf in his hand, and gradually his courage to arise and go and tell Christopher's wife gained strength. At last he went.
Myrtle was looking out of the window, and she came quickly to the door. She looked at him, her round, pretty face gone pale, her plump hands twitching at her apron.
“Nothing to be alarmed about,” replied Stephen.
Then the two entered the house. Stephen found his task unexpectedly easy. Myrtle Dodd was an unusual woman in a usual place.
“It is all right for my husband to do as he pleases,” she said with an odd dignity, as if she were defending him.
“Mr. Dodd is a strange man. He ought to have been educated and led a different life,” Stephen said, lamely, for he reflected that the words might be hard for the woman to hear, since she seemed obviously quite fitted to her life, and her life to her.
But Myrtle did not take it hardly, seemingly rather with pride. “Yes,” said she, “Christopher ought to have gone to college. He had the head for it. Instead of that he has just stayed round here and dogged round the farm, and everything has gone wrong lately. He hasn't had any luck even with that.” Then poor Myrtle Dodd said an unexpectedly wise thing. “But maybe,” said Myrtle, “his bad luck may turn out the best thing for him in the end.”
Stephen was silent. Then he began explaining about the checks.
“I sha'n't use any more of his savings than I can help,” said Myrtle, and for the first time her voice quavered. “He must have some clothes up there,” said she. “There ain't bed-coverings, and it is cold nights, late as it is in the spring. I wonder how I can get the bedclothes and other things to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire anybody; aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother Dodd and Abby won't make talk outside the family, but I suppose it will have to be known.”