Book: A Spinner in the Sun

M >> Myrtle Reed >> A Spinner in the Sun




"As I said, I don't think Mr. Thorpe 'll be with us long, for the
vestry and the congregation is getting dissatisfied. There ain't been
any open talk, except in the Ladies' Aid Society, but public opinion is
settin' pretty strongly in that direction." Miss Hitty dropped her
final g's when she got thoroughly interested in her subject and at
times became deeply involved in grammatical complications.

"Us older ones, that's strong in the faith, ain't likely to be injured
by it, I suppose, but there's always the young ones to be considered,
and it's highly important for Araminta to have the right kind of
influence. Of course Mr. Thorpe don't talk on religious subjects at
home, and I ain't let Araminta go to church the last two Sundays.
Meanwhile, I've talked hell to her stronger 'n common.

"But, upon my soul, I don't know what Rushton is comin' to. A month or
so ago, there was an outlandish, heathen character come here that beats
anything I've ever heard tell of. His name is Tom Barnaby and he's set
up a store on the edge of town, in the front parlour of Widow Simon's
house. She's went and rented it to him, and she says he pays his rent
regular.

"He wears leather leggings and a hat with a red feather stuck in it,
and he's gone into competition with Mrs. Allen, who's kept the
dry-goods here for the last twenty years.

"Of course," she went on, a little wistfully, "I've always patronised
Mrs. Allen, and I always shall. They do say Barnaby's goods is a great
deal cheaper, but I'd feel it my duty to buy of a woman, anyhow, even
though she has been married. She's been a widow for so long, it's most
the same as if she'd never been married at ail.

"Barnaby lives with a dog and does for himself, but he's hardly ever in
his store. People go there to buy things and find the door propped
open with a brick, and a sign says to come in and take what you want.
The price of everything is marked good and plain, and another sign says
to put the money in the drawer and make your own change. The
blacksmith was at him for doing business so shiftless, and Barnaby
laughed and said that if anybody wanted anything he had bad enough to
steal it, whoever it was, he was good and welcome to it. That just
shows how crazy he is. Most of the time he's roaming around the
country, with his yellow dog at his heels, making outlandish noises on
some kind of a flute. He can't play a tune, but he keeps trying.
Folks around here call him Piper Tom.

"Of course I wouldn't want Mrs. Allen to know, but I've thought that
sometime when he was away and there was nobody there to see, I'd just
step in for a few minutes and take a look at his goods. Elmiry Jones
says his calico is beautiful, and that for her part, she's going to
trade there instead of at Allen's. I suppose it is a temptation. I
might do it myself, if 't want for my principles."

The speaker paused for breath, but Miss Evelina still sat silently in
her chair. "What was it?" thought Miss Hitty. "I was here, and I knew
at the time, but what happened? How did I come to forget? I must be
getting old!"

She searched her memory without result. Her house was situated at the
crossroads, and, being on higher ground, commanded a good view of the
village below. Gradually, her dooryard had become a sort of clearing
house for neighbourhood gossip. Travellers going and coming stopped at
Miss Hitty's to drink from the moss-grown well, give their bit of news,
and receive, in return, the scandal of the countryside. Had it not
been for the faithful and industrious Miss Mehitable, the town might
have needed a daily paper.

"Strange I can't think," she said to herself. "I don't doubt it'll
come to me, though. Something happened to Evelina, and she went away,
and her mother went with her to take care of her, and then her mother
died, all at once, of heart failure. It happened the same week old
Mis' Hicks had a doctor from the city for an operation, and the
Millerses barn was struck by lightning and burnt up, and so I s'pose
it's no wonder I've sorter lost track of it."

Miss Evelina's veiled face was wholly averted now, and Miss Hitty
studied her shrewdly. She noted that the black gown was well-worn, and
had, indeed, been patched in several places. The shoes which tapped
impatiently on the floor were undeniably shabby, though they had been
carefully blacked. Against the unrelieved sombreness of her gown.
Miss Evelina's hands were singularly frail and transparent. Every line
of her body was eloquent of weakness and well-nigh insupportable grief.

"Well," said Miss Hitty, again, though she felt that the words were
flat; "I'm glad you've come back. It seems like old times for us to be
settin' here, talkin', and--" here she laughed shrilly--"we've both
been spared marriage."

A small, slender hand clutched convulsively at the arm of the haircloth
chair, but Miss Evelina did not speak.

"I see," went on Miss Hitty, not unkindly, "that you're still in
mourning for your mother. You mustn't take it so hard. Sometimes
folks get to feeling so sorry about something that they can't never get
over it, and they keep on going round and round all the time like a
squirrel in a wheel, and keep on getting weaker till it gets to be a
kind of disease there ain't no cure for. Leastwise, that's what Doctor
Dexter says."

"Doctor Dexter!" With a cry, Miss Evelina sprang to her feet, her
hands tightly pressed to her heart.

"The same," nodded Miss Hitty, overjoyed to discover that at last her
hostess was interested. "Doctor Anthony Dexter, our old schoolmate, as
had just graduated when you lived here before. He went away for a year
and then he came back, bringing a pretty young wife. She's dead, but
he has a son, Ralph, who's away studying to be a doctor. He'll
graduate this Spring and then he's coming here to help his father with
his practice. Doctor Dexter's getting old, like the rest of us, and he
don't like the night work. Some folks is inconsiderate enough to get
sick in the night. They orter have regular hours for it, same as a
doctor has hours for business. Things would fit better.

"Well, I must be going, for I left soup on the stove, and Araminta's
likely as not to let it burn. I'm going to send your supper over to
you, and next week, if the weather's favourable, we'll clean this
house. Goodness knows it needs it. I'd just as soon send over all
your meals till you get settled--'t wouldn't be any trouble. Or, you
can come over to my house if you wouldn't mind eating with the
minister. It seems queer to set down to the table with a man, and not
altogether natural, but I'm beginning to get used to it, and it gives
us the advantage of a blessing, and, anyway, ministers don't count.
Come over when you can. Goodbye!"

With a rustle of stiffly starched garments Miss Mehitable took her
departure, carefully closing the door and avoiding the appearance of
haste. This was an effort, for every fibre of her being ached to get
back to the clearing house, where she might speculate upon Evelina's
return. It was her desire, also, to hunt up the oldest inhabitant
before nightfall and correct her pitiful lapse of memory.

At the same time, she was planning to send Araminta over with a nice
hot supper, for Miss Evelina seemed to be far from strong, and, even to
one lacking in discernment, acutely unhappy.

Down the road she went, her head bowed in deep and fruitless thought.
Swiftly, as in a lightning flash, and without premonition, she
remembered.

"Evelina was burnt," she said to herself, triumphantly, "over to Doctor
Dexter's, and they took her on the train to the hospital. I guess she
wears that veil all the time."

Then Miss Hitty stopped at her own gate, catching her breath quickly.
"She must have been burnt awful," she thought. "Poor soul!" she
murmured, her sharp eyes softening with tears. "Poor soul!"




III

The Pearls

A rap at the door roused Miss Evelina from a deadly stupor which seemed
stabbed through with daggers of pain. She sat quite still, determined
not to open the door. Presently, she heard the sound of retreating
footsteps, and was reassured. Then she saw a bit of folded paper which
had been slipped under the door, and, mechanically, she picked it up.

"Here's your supper," the note read, briefly. "When you get done,
leave the tray outside. I'll come and get it. I would like to have
you come over if you want to.--Mehitable Smith."

Touched by the unexpected kindness, Miss Evelina took in the tray.
There was a bowl of soup, steaming hot, a baked potato, a bit of thin
steak, fried, in country fashion, two crisp, buttered rolls, and a pot
of tea. Faint and sick of heart, she pushed it aside, then in simple
justice to Miss Hitty, tasted of the soup. A little later, she put the
tray out on the doorstep again, having eaten as she had not eaten for
months.

She considered the chain of circumstances that had led her back to
Rushton. First, the knowledge that Doctor Dexter had left the place
for good. She had heard of that, long ago, but, until now, no one had
told her that he had returned. She had thought it impossible for him
ever to return--even to think of it again,

Otherwise--here the thread of her thought snapped, and she clutched at
the vial of laudanum which, as always, was in the bag at her belt. She
perceived that the way of escape was closed to her. Broken in spirit
though she was, she was yet too proud to die like a dog at Anthony
Dexter's door, even after five-and-twenty years.

Bitterest need alone had driven her to take the step which she so
keenly regretted now. The death of her mother, hastened by misfortune,
had left her with a small but certain income, paid regularly from two
separate sources. One source had failed without warning, and her
slender legacy was cut literally in two. Upon the remaining half she
must eke out the rest of her existence, if she continued to exist at
all. It was absolutely necessary for her to come back to the one
shelter which she could call her own.

Weary, despairing, and still in the merciless grip of her obsession,
she had come--only to find that Anthony Dexter had long since preceded
her. A year afterward, Miss Hitty said, he had come back, with a
pretty young wife. And he had a son.

The new knowledge hurt, and Evelina had fancied that she could be hurt
no more, that she had reached the uttermost limits of pain. By a
singular irony, the last refuge was denied her at the very moment of
her greatest temptation to avail herself of it. Long hours of thought
led her invariably to the one possible conclusion--to avoid every one,
keep wholly to herself, and, by starvation, if need be, save enough of
her insignificant pittance to take her far away. And after
that--freedom.

Since the night of full realisation which had turned her brown hair to
a dull white she had thought of death in but one way--escape. Set free
from the insufferable bondage of earthly existence. Miss Evelina
dreamed of peace as a prisoner in a dungeon may dream of green fields.
To sleep and wake no more, never to feel again the cold hand upon her
heart that tore persistently at the inmost fibres of it, to forget----

Miss Evelina took the vial from her bag and uncorked it. The incense
of the poppies crept subtly through the room, mingling inextricably
with the mustiness and the dust. The grey cobwebs swayed at the
windows, sunset touching them to iridescence. Conscious that she was
the most desolate and lonely thing in all the desolate house, Miss
Evelina buried her face in her hands.

The poppies breathed from the vial. In her distorted fancy, she saw
vast plains of them, shimmering in the sun--scarlet like the lips of a
girl, pink as the flush of dawn upon the eastern sky, blood-red as the
passionate heart that never dreamed of betrayal.

The sun was shining on the field of poppies and Miss Evelina walked
among them, her face unveiled. Golden masses of bloom were spread at
her feet, starred here and there by stately blossoms as white as the
blown snow. Her ragged garments touched the silken petals, her worn
shoes crushed them, bud and blossom alike. Always, the numbing, sleepy
odour came from the field. Dew was on the petals of the flowers; their
deep cups gathered it and held it, never to be surrendered, since the
dew of the poppies was tears.

Like some evil genius rising from the bottle, the Spirit of the Poppies
seemed to incarnate itself in the vapour. A woman with a face of
deadly white arose to meet Miss Evelina, with outspread arms. In her
eyes was Lethe, in her hands was the gift of forgetfulness. She
brought pardon for all that was past and to come, eternal healing,
unfathomable oblivion. "Come," the drowsy voice seemed to say. "I
have waited long and yet you do not come. The peace that passeth all
understanding is mine to give and yours to take. Come--only come!
Come! Come!"

Miss Evelina laughed bitterly. Never in all the years gone by had the
Spirit of the Poppies pleaded with her thus. Now, at the hour when
surrender meant the complete triumph of her enemy, the ghostly figure
came to offer her the last and supreme gift.

The afterglow yet lingered in the west. The grey of a March twilight
was in the valley, but it was still late afternoon on the summit of the
hill. Miss Evelina drew her veil about her and went out into the
garden, the vial in her hand.

Where was it that she had planted the poppies? Through the mass of
undergrowth and brambles, she made scant headway. Thorns pressed
forward rudely as if to stab the intruder. Vines, closely matted,
forbade her to pass, yet she kept on until she reached the western
slope of the garden.

Here, unshaded, and in the full blaze of the Summer sun, the poppies
had spread their brilliant pageantry. In all the village there had
been no such poppies as grew in Evelina's garden. Now they were dead
and only the overgrown stubble was left.

"Dust to dust, earth to earth, and ashes to ashes." The solemn words
of the burial service were chanted in her consciousness as she lifted
the vial high and emptied it. She held it steadily until the last drop
was drained from it. The poppies had given it and to the poppies she
had returned it. She put the cork into the empty vial and flung it far
away from her, then turned back to the house.

There was a sound of wheels upon the road. Miss Evelina hastened her
steps, but the dense undergrowth made walking difficult. Praying that
she might not be seen, she turned her head.

Anthony Dexter, in the doctor's carriage, was travelling at a leisurely
pace. As he passed the old house, he glanced at it mechanically, from
sheer force of habit. Long ago, it had ceased to have any definite
meaning for him. Once he had even stripped every white rose from the
neglected bush at the gate, to take to his wife, who, that day, for the
first time, had held their son in her arms.

Motionless in the wreck of the garden, a veiled figure stood with
averted face. Doctor Dexter looked keenly for an instant in the fast
gathering twilight, then whipped up his horse, and was swiftly out of
sight. Against his better judgment, he was shaken in mind and body.
Could he have seen a ghost? Nonsense! He was tired, he had
overworked, he had had an hallucination. His cool, calm, professional
sense fought with the insistent idea. It was well that Ralph was
coming to relieve his old father of a part of his burden.

Meanwhile, Miss Evelina, her frail body quivering as though under the
lash, crept back into the house. With the sure intuition of a woman,
she knew who had driven by in the first darkness. That he should dare!
That he should actually trespass upon her road; take the insolent
liberty of looking at her house!

"A pretty young wife," Miss Hitty had said. Yes, doubtless a pretty
one. Anthony Dexter delighted in the beauty of a woman in the same
impersonal way that another man would regard a picture. And a son. A
straight, tall young fellow, doubtless, with eyes like his
father's--eyes that a woman would trust, not dreaming of the false
heart and craven soul. Why had she been brought here to suffer this
last insult, this last humiliation? Weakly, as many a woman before
her, Miss Evelina groped in the maze of Life, searching for some clue
to its blind mystery.

Was it possible that she had not suffered enough? If five-and-twenty
years of sodden misery were not sufficient for one who had done no
wrong, what punishment would be meted out to a sinner by a God who was
always kind? Miss Evelina's lips curled scornfully. She had taken
what he should have borne--Anthony Dexter had gone scot free.

"The man sins and the woman pays." The cynical saying, which, after
all, is not wholly untrue, took shape in her thought and said
itself--aloud. Yet it was not altogether impossible that he might yet
be made to pay--could be--

Her cheeks burned and her hands closed tightly. What if she were the
chosen instrument? What if she had been sent here, after all the dead,
miserable years, for some purpose which hitherto she had not guessed?

What if she, herself, with her veiled face, were to be the tardy
avenger of her own wrong? Her soul stirred in its despair as the dead
might stir in the winding sheet. Out of her sodden grief, could she
ever emerge--alive?

"The fire was kind," said Miss Evelina, in a whisper. "It showed me
the truth. The fire was kind and God is kind. He has brought me here
to pay my debt--in full."

She began to consider what she might do that would hurt Anthony Dexter
and make him suffer as she had suffered for half a lifetime. If he had
forgotten, she would make him remember--ah, yes, he must remember
before he could be hurt. But what could she do? What had he given her
aside from the misery that she hungered to give back to him?

The pearls! Miss Evelina lighted her candle and hurried upstairs.

In her dower chest, beneath the piles of heavy, yellowed linen, was a
small jewel case. She knelt before the chest, gasping, and thrust her
questioning fingers down through the linen to the solid oak. With a
little cry, she rose to her feet, the jewel case in her hand.

The purple velvet was crushed, the satin was yellowed, but the string
of pearls was there--yellowed, too, by the slow passage of the years.
One or two of them were black. A slip of paper fluttered out as she
opened the case, and she caught it as it fell. The paper was yellow
and brittle and the ink had faded, but the words were still there,
written in Anthony Dexter's clear, bold hand; "First from the depths of
the sea, and then from the depths of my love."

"Depths!" muttered Miss Evelina, from between her clenched teeth.

Once the necklace had been beautiful--a single strand of large,
perfectly matched pearls. The gold of the clasp was dull, but the
diamond gleamed like the eye of some evil thing. She wound the
necklace twice about her wrist, then shuddered, for it was cold and
smooth and sinuous, like a snake.

She coiled the discoloured necklace carefully upon its yellowed satin
bed, laid the folded slip of paper over it, and closed it with a snap.
To-morrow--no, this very night, Anthony Dexter should have the pearls,
that had come first from the depths of the sea, and then from the
depths of his love.

No hand but hers should give them back, for she saw it written in the
scheme of vengeance that she herself should, mutely, make him pay. She
felt a new strength of body and a fresh clearness of mind as, with grim
patience, she set herself to wait.

The clocks in the house were all still. Miss Evelina's watch had long
ago been sold. There was no town clock in the village, but the train
upon which she had come was due shortly after midnight. She knew every
step of the way by dark as well as by daylight, but the night was clear
and there would be the light of the dying moon,

Her own clouded skies were clearing. Dimly she began to perceive
herself as a part of things, not set aside helplessly to suffer
eternally, but in some sort of relation to the rest of the world.

On the Sunday before the catastrophe, Miss Evelina had been to church,
and even yet, she remembered fragments of the sermon. "God often uses
people to carry out His plans," the minister had said. At the time, it
had not particularly impressed her, and she had never gone to church
again. If she had listened further, she might have heard the minister
say that the devil was wont to do the same thing.

Minute by minute, the hours passed. Miss Evelina's heart was beating
painfully, but, all unknowingly, she had entered upon a new phase. She
had turned in the winding sheet of her own weaving, and her hands were
clutching at the binding fabric.

At last, the train came in. It did not stop, but thundered through the
sleeping village, shrieking as it went. The sound died into a distant
rumble, then merged into the stillness of the night. Miss Evelina rose
from her chair, put on her wraps, slipped the jewel case into her bag,
and went out, closely veiled.

The light of the waning moon was dim and, veiled as she was, she felt
rather than saw the way. Steadfastly, she went down the steep road,
avoiding the sidewalk, for she remembered that Miss Mehitable's ears
were keen. Past the crossroads, to the right, down into the village,
across the tracks, then sharply to the left--the way was the same, but
the wayfarer was sadly changed.

She went unemotionally, seeing herself a divinely appointed instrument
of vengeance. Something outside her obsession had its clutch upon her
also, but it was new, and she did not guess that it was fully as
hideous.

Doctor Dexter's house was near the corner on a shaded street. At the
gate. Miss Evelina paused and, with her veil lifted, carefully
scrutinised the house for a possible light. She feared that some one
might be stirring, late as it was, but the old housekeeper always went
to bed promptly at nine, and on this particular night, Anthony Dexter
had gone to his room at ten, making sleep sure by a drug.

With hushed steps, Miss Evelina went furtively up to the house on the
bare earth beside the brick pavement. She was in a panic of fear, but
something beyond her control urged her on. Reaching the steps, she
hesitated, baffled for the moment, then sank to her knees. Slowly she
crept to the threshold, placed the jewel case so that it would fall
inward when the door was opened, and started back. Instinct bade her
hurry, but reason made her cautious. She forced herself to walk slowly
and to muffle the latch of the gate with her skirts as she had done
when she came in.

It seemed an hour before she crossed the tracks again, at the deserted
point she had chosen, but, in reality, it was only a few minutes. At
last she reached home, utterly exhausted by the strain she had put upon
herself. She had seen no one, heard no footstep save her own; she had
gone and returned as mysteriously as the night itself.

When she slept, she dreamed of the poppy bed on the western slope of
the garden. It was twilight, and she stood there with a vial of
laudanum in one hand and a necklace of discoloured pearls in the other.
She poured the laudanum upon the earth and a great black poppy with a
deadly fragrance sprang up at her feet. Then Anthony Dexter drove up
in a carriage and took the pearls away from her. She could not see him
clearly, because his face was veiled, like her own.

The odour of the black poppy made her faint and she went into the house
to escape from it, but the scent of it clung to her garments and hands
and could not be washed away.




IV

"From the Depths of his Love"

At seven o'clock, precisely, Anthony Dexter's old housekeeper rang the
rising bell. Drowsy with the soporific he had taken, the doctor did
not at once respond to the summons. In fact, the breakfast bell had
rung before he was fully awake.

He dressed leisurely, and was haunted by a vague feeling that something
unpleasant had happened. At length he remembered that just before
dusk, in the garden of Evelina Grey's old house, he had seen a ghost--a
ghost who confronted him mutely with a thing he had long since
forgotten.

"It was subjective, purely," mused Anthony Dexter. "I have been
working too hard." His reason was fully satisfied with the plausible
explanation, but he was not a man who was likely to have an
hallucination of any sort.

He was strong and straight of body, finely muscular, and did not look
over forty, though it was more than eight years ago that he had reached
the fortieth milestone. His hair was thinning a little at the temples
and the rest of it was touched generously with grey. His features were
regular and his skin clear. A full beard, closely cropped, hid the
weakness of his chin, but did not entirely conceal those fine lines
about the mouth which mean cruelty.

Someway, in looking at him, one got the impression of a machine,
well-nigh perfect of its kind. His dark eyes were sharp and
penetrating. Once they had been sympathetic, but he had outgrown that.
His hands were large, white, and well-kept, his fingers knotted, and
blunt at the tips. He had, pre-eminently, the hand of the surgeon,
capable of swiftness and strength, and yet of delicacy. It was not a
hand that would tremble easily; it was powerful and, in a way, brutal.

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