Book: Flower of the Dusk

M >> Myrtle Reed >> Flower of the Dusk




"Where is Roger?"

"I left him down on the beach, with Miss Wynne. I suppose he is still
there."

"When you see him," commanded Miss Mattie, with some asperity, "will you
kindly send him home? It's no time for him to be gallivantin' around
with girls, when his mother's been so near death."

"I will," Allan assured her, reaching for his hat. "I hope you
appreciate what he has done for you."

[Sidenote: The Doctor Laughs]

When he went down the road, his shoulders were shaking suspiciously.
Miss Mattie was watching him through the lace curtains that glorified
the parlour windows. "Seems as if he had St. Vitus's dance," she mused.
"Wonder why he doesn't mix up some dog-pizen, and cure himself?"

When he was sure that he was out of sight, Allan sat down on a
convenient boulder at the side of the road, and gave himself up to
unrestrained mirth. The medicine which was about to prove fatal to Fido
would have caused only prolonged sleep if taken in small doses, at
proper intervals, by an adult. "It's a wonder she didn't take 'em all at
once," he thought. "And if she had--" He speculated, idly, upon the
probable effect.

His conscience pricked him slightly on account of the exaggeration in
which he had mischievously indulged, but he told himself that Roger
would be far better off in the city and his mother's consent would make
his going much less difficult. He also realised that if Roger were there
to amuse Barbara, Eloise might have more spare time than she would
otherwise.

He stopped long enough to give the druggist a bad quarter of an hour,
and then went back to the beach. Eloise and Roger were where he had left
them, and the boy's gloom was entirely gone.

"Your mother wants you," he said, as he sat down on the other side of
Eloise.

"All right--I'll go right up. How did she take it?"

"Very well. Just remember that you've saved her life, and you'll have no
trouble."

[Sidenote: Light-Hearted]

When Roger went up the street, he was whistling, from sheer
light-heartedness. Eloise had made so many plans for his future that he
saw fame and fortune already within his reach.

When he knocked, never having been allowed the freedom of a latch key,
he noted that all the blinds in the house were closed and wondered
whether his mother had gone to sleep again. After a suitable interval,
she opened the door, clad in her best black silk, and portentously
solemn.

"Why, Mother, what's the matter?"

"Come in," she whispered. "Doctor Conrad has just been tellin' me how
near I come to death. Oh, my son," she cried, throwing her arms around
his neck, "you have saved my life."

[Sidenote: Two Greetings]

It seemed to Roger like a paragraph torn from _The Metropolitan Weekly_,
but he patted her back soothingly as she clung to him. Maternal
outbursts of this sort were extremely rare. He remembered only one other
greeting like this--the day he had been swimming in the river with three
other small boys and had been brought home in a blanket, half drowned.

"I suppose I shouldn't regret takin' dog-pizen, if it cured my back and
give me the sleep I needed, but it was a dreadful narrow escape. And
your takin' the medicine away from me and feedin' it to Fido was
certainly clever, Roger. Every day you remind me more and more of your
pa."

"Thank you," answered Roger. He was struggling with various emotions and
found speech almost impossible.

"It's no more'n right," she resumed, "that, after having pizened Fido
and lost you your place, that Doctor Conrad should stir himself around
and get you a better place in the city, but I do hate to have you go,
Roger. It'll be dreadful lonesome for me."

"Cheer up, Mother; I haven't gone yet. The dog may get well."

Miss Mattie shook her head sadly. "No, he won't," she sighed. "I took
enough of that medicine to know how powerful it is, and Fido ain't got
no chance. To-morrow I'll look over your things."

An atmosphere of solemnity pervaded the house, and the evening was spent
very quietly. Miss Mattie read her Bible, as on Sunday evenings when she
did not go to church, and sternly refused to open _The Housewife's
Companion_, which lay temptingly near her.

[Sidenote: Nightmare]

She went to bed early, and Roger soon followed her, having strangely
lost his desire to read, and not daring to go to see Barbara more than
once a day. His night was made hideous by visions of himself drawing the
cart containing the slumbering Fido into the church where Eloise and
Doctor Conrad were being married, while Judge Bascom at the house, was
conducting Miss Mattie's funeral.

In the morning, after breakfast, Roger seriously debated whether or not
he should go down to the office. At last he tossed up a coin and
muttered a faint imprecation as he picked it up.

With his hat firmly on and his hands in his pockets, Roger fared forth,
whistling determinedly. He did not want to go to the office, and he
dreaded, exceedingly, his next meeting with the irascible Judge.

As it happened, it was not necessary for him to go, for, at the corner
of the street which led to the Judge's house, he met the postmaster's
small son, laboriously dragging the fateful cart of yesterday. In it
were all of Roger's books and other belongings, including an umbrella
which he had loaned to the Judge on a rainy night and expected never to
see again.

[Sidenote: A Brief Message]

The message was brief and very much to the point. Fido had died
painlessly at four o'clock that morning.




XIX

The Dreams Come True


[Sidenote: Gaining Strength]

The hours Roger had taken from his work in the office had brought
nothing but good to Barbara. She gained strength rapidly after she began
to walk, and was soon able to dispense with the cane, though she could
not walk easily, nor far. She tired quickly and was forced to rest
often, but she went about the house slowly and even up and down the
stairs.

Aunt Miriam made no comment of any sort. She did not say she was glad
Barbara was well after twenty-two years of helplessness, even though she
had taken entire care of her, and must have felt greatly relieved when
the burden was lifted. She went about her work as quietly as ever, and
fulfilled all her household duties with mechanical precision.

Spicy odours were wafted through the rooms, for Eloise had ordered
enough jelly, sweet pickles, and preserves to supply a large family for
two or three years. She had also bought quilts and rag rugs for all of
her old-lady friends and taken the entire stock of candied orange peel
for the afternoon teas which she expected to give during the Winter.

Barbara was hard at work upon the dainty lingerie Eloise had planned,
and found, by a curious anomaly, that when she did not work so hard, she
was able to accomplish more. The needle flew more swiftly when her
fingers did not ache and the stitches blur indistinguishably with the
fibre of the fabric. When Roger was not there to help her, she divided
her day, by the clock, into hours of work and quarter-hours of exercise
and rest.

She had been out of the gate twice, with Roger, and had walked up and
down the road in front of the house, but, as yet, she had not gone
beyond the little garden alone.

[Sidenote: One Dark Cloud]

Upon the fair horizon of the future was one dark cloud of dread which
even Doctor Conrad's positive assurance had mitigated only for a little
time. Barbara knew her father and his stern, uncompromising
righteousness. When the bandages were taken off and he saw the faded
walls and dingy furniture, the worn rugs, and the pitiful remnant of
damask at his place at the table; when he realised that his daughter had
deceived him ever since she could talk at all, he must inevitably
despise her, even though he tried to hide it.

Dimly, Barbara began to perceive the intangible price that is attached
to the things of the spirit as well as to the material necessities of
daily life. She was forced to surrender his love for her as the
compensation for his sight, yet she was firmly resolved to keep, for
him, the love that refused to reckon with the barrier of a grave, but
triumphantly went past it to clasp the dead Beloved closer still.

[Sidenote: A Vague Dream]

Of late, she had been thinking much of her mother. Until Roger had found
his father's letter, and she had received her own, upon her
twenty-second birthday, she had felt no sense of loss. Constance had
been a vague dream to her and little more, in spite of her father's
grieving and her instinctive sympathy.

With the letters, however, had come a change. Barbara felt a certain
shadowy relationship and an indefinite bereavement. She wondered how her
mother had looked, what she had worn, and even how she had dressed her
hair. Since her father had gone to the hospital, she had wondered more
than ever, but got no satisfaction when she had once asked Aunt Miriam.

She finished the garment upon which she was working, threaded the narrow
white ribbon into it, folded it in tissue paper and put it into the
chest. It was the last of the second set and Eloise had ordered six.
"Four more to do," thought Barbara. "I wonder whether she wants them all
alike."

The afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen, and it was Saturday. It was
hardly worth while to begin a new piece of work before Monday morning,
especially since she wanted to ask Eloise about a new pattern. Doctor
Conrad was coming down for the weekend, and probably both of them would
be there late in the afternoon, or on Sunday.

"How glad he'll be," said Barbara, to herself. "He'll be surprised when
he sees how well I can walk. And father--oh, if father could only come
too." She was eager, in spite of her dread.

[Sidenote: In the Attic]

Simply for the sake of exercise, Barbara climbed the attic stairs and
came down again. After she had rested, she tried it once more, but was
so faint when she reached the top that she went into the attic and sat
down in an old broken rocker. It was the only place in the house where
she had not been since she could walk, and she rather enjoyed the
novelty of it.

A decrepit sofa, with the springs hanging from under it, was against the
wall at one side, far back under the eaves. It was of solid mahogany and
had not been bought by the searchers for antiques because its
rehabilitation would be so expensive. That and the rocker in which
Barbara sat were the only pieces of furniture remaining.

There were several trunks, old-fashioned but little worn. One was Aunt
Miriam's, one was her father's, and the others must have belonged to her
dead mother. For the first time in her life, Barbara was curious about
the trunks.

[Sidenote: The Old Trunk]

When she was quite rested, she went over to a small one which stood near
the window, and opened it. A faint, musty odour greeted her, but there
was no disconcerting flight of moths. Every woollen garment in the house
had long ago been used by Aunt Miriam for rugs and braided mats. She had
taken Constance's underwear for her own use when misfortune overtook
them, and there was little else left.

Barbara lifted from the trunk a gown of heavy white brocade, figured
with violets in lavender and palest green. It was yellow and faded and
the silver thread that ran through the pattern was tarnished so that it
was almost black. The skirt had a long train and around the low-cut
bodice was a deep fall of heavy Duchess lace, yellowed to the exquisite
tint of old ivory. The short sleeves were trimmed with lace of the same
pattern, but only half as wide.

"Oh," said Barbara, aloud, "how lovely!"

There was a petticoat of rustling silk, and a pair of dainty white
slippers, yellowed, too, by the slow passage of the years. Their silver
buckles were tarnished, but their high heels were as coquettish as
ever.

"What a little foot," thought Barbara. "I believe it was smaller than
mine."

She took off her low shoe, and, like Cinderella, tried on the slipper.
She was much surprised to find that it fitted, though the high heels
felt queer. Her own shoe was more comfortable, and so she changed again,
though she had quite made up her mind to wear the slippers sometime.

[Sidenote: Treasured Finery]

In the trunk, too, she found a white bonnet that she tried on, but
without satisfaction, as there was no mirror in the attic. This one
trunk evidently contained the finery for which Miriam had not been able
to find use.

One by one, Barbara took out the garments, which were all of silk or
linen--there was nothing there for the moths. The long bridal veil of
rose point, that Barbara had sternly refused to sell, was yellow, too,
but none the less lovely. There was a gold scent-bottle set with
discoloured pearls, an amethyst brooch which no one would buy because it
had three small gold tassels hanging from it, and a lace fan with
tortoise-shell sticks, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A thrifty woman at
the hotel had once offered two dollars for the fan, but Barbara had kept
it, as she was sure it was worth more.

Down in the bottom of the trunk was an inlaid box that she did not
remember having seen before. She slid back the cover and found a lace
handkerchief, a broken cuff-button, a gold locket enamelled with black,
a long fan-chain of gold, set with amethysts, a small gold-framed mirror
evidently meant to be carried in a purse or hand-bag, a high shell comb
inlaid with gold and set with amethysts, and ten of the dozen large,
heavy gold hairpins which Ambrose North, in an extravagant mood, had
ordered made for the shining golden braids of his girl-wife.

[Sidenote: A Photograph]

On the bottom of the box, face down, was a photograph. Barbara took it
out, wonderingly, and started in amazement as her own face looked back
at her. On the back was written, in the same clear hand as the letter:
"For my son, or daughter. Constance North." Below was the date--just a
month before Barbara was born.

The heavy hair, in the picture, was braided and wound around the shapely
head. The high comb, the same that Barbara had just taken out of the
box, added a finishing touch. Around the slender neck and fair, smooth
shoulders fell the Duchess lace that trimmed the brocade gown. The
amethyst brooch, with two of the three tassels plainly showing, was
pinned into the lace on the left side, half-way to the shoulder.

But it was the face that interested Barbara most, as it was the
counterpart of her own. There was the same broad, low forehead, the
large, deep eyes with long lashes, the straight little nose, and the
tender, girlish mouth with its short upper lip, and the same firm,
round, dimpled chin. Even the expression was almost the same, but in
Constance's deep eyes was a certain wistfulness that the faint smile of
her mouth could not wholly deny.

The woman who looked back at her daughter seemed strangely youthful.
Barbara felt, in a way, as though she were the mother and Constance the
child, for she was older, now, than her mother had been when she died.
The years of helplessness and struggle had aged Barbara, too.

[Sidenote: A Sweet Face]

The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon came into the attic, but Barbara
still studied the sweet face of the picture. Constance was made for
love, and love had come when it was too late. What tenderness she was
capable of; what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, if
her heart bade her go! And what courage must have nerved her dimpled
hands when she opened the grey, mysterious door of the Unknown! There
was no hint of weakness in the face, but Constance had died rather than
to take the chance of betraying the man who held her pledge. Barbara's
young soul answered in passionate loyalty to the wistfulness, the
hunger, and the unspoken appeal.

"He shall never know, Mother, dear," she said aloud. "I promise you
that he shall never know."

[Sidenote: Like her Mother]

The shadows grew longer, and, at length, Barbara put the picture down.
If she had on the gown, and twisted her braids around her head, she
would look like her mother even more than now. She had a fancy to try
it--to go downstairs and see what Aunt Miriam would say when she came
in. Her eyes sparkled with delight when she drew on the long white
stockings of finest silk and put on the white slippers with the
tarnished silver buckles.

The gown was too long and a little too loose, but Barbara rejoiced in
the faded brocade and in the rustle of the silk petticoat that cracked
in several places when she put it on, the fabric was so frail. The
ivory-tinted lace set off her shoulders beautifully, but she could only
guess at the effect from the brief glimpses the tiny mirror gave her.
She put on the amethyst brooch, hung the fan upon its chain and put it
around her neck. Then she wound her braids around her head and fastened
them securely with the gold hairpins. With the aid of the small-gold
mirror, she put the comb in place, and loosened the soft hair on either
side, so that it covered the tops of her ears.

She walked back and forth a few times, the full length of the attic,
looking back to admire the sweep of her train. Then she sat down upon
the decrepit sofa, trying to fancy herself a stately lady of long ago.
The room was very still, and, without knowing it, Barbara had wearied
herself with her unaccustomed exertion. Her white woollen gown and soft
low shoes lay in a little heap on the floor near the window. She must
not forget to take them when she went down to look in the mirror.

Presently, she stretched herself out upon the sofa, wondering, drowsily,
whether her mother would have lain down to rest in that splendid
brocade. She did not intend to sleep, but only to rest a little before
going downstairs to surprise Aunt Miriam. Nevertheless, in a few minutes
she was fast asleep and dreaming.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Home-Coming]

Eloise went down to the three o'clock train to meet Allan, and was much
surprised when Ambrose North came, too. His eyes were bandaged, but
otherwise he seemed as well as ever. They offered to go home with him,
but he refused, saying that he could go alone as well as he ever had.

They strolled after him, however, keeping at a respectful distance,
until they saw him enter the grey, weather-worn gate; then they turned
back.

"Is he all right, Allan?" asked Eloise, anxiously.

"I hope so--indeed, I'm very sure he is. The operation turned out to be
an extremely simple one, though it wasn't even dreamed of twenty years
ago. Barbara's case was simple too,--it's all in the knowing how. She
has made one of the quickest recoveries on record, owing to the fact
that her body is almost that of a child. When you come down to the root
of the matter, surgery is merely the job of a skilled mechanic."

"But you'd be angry if anyone else said that."

"Of course."

"When do the bandages come off?"

[Sidenote: A Case of Conscience]

"I'm going up to-morrow. They'd have been off over a week ago, but
Barbara insisted that she must see him first and ask him to forgive her
for deceiving him. She thinks she's a criminal."

"Dear little saint," said Eloise, softly. "I wish none of us ever did
anything more wicked than that."

"So do I, but there is an active remnant of a New-England conscience
somewhere in Barbara. I'm not sure that the old man hasn't it, too."

"Do you suppose, for a moment, that he won't forgive her?"

"If he doesn't," returned Allan, concisely, "I'll break his ungrateful
old neck. I hope she won't stir him up very much, though--he's got a bad
heart."

[Sidenote: Miriam's Welcome]

Still, the old man showed no sign of weakness as he went briskly up the
walk and knocked at his own door. When Miriam opened it, astonishment
made her welcome almost inarticulate, for she had not expected him home
so soon. He gave her the small black satchel that he carried, his coat
and hat.

"How is Barbara?" he asked, eagerly. "How is my little girl?"

"Well enough," answered Miriam.

"Is she asleep?"

Miriam went to the stairs and called out: "Barbara! Oh, Barbara!" There
was no answer.

She started upstairs, but he called her back. "Don't wake her," he said.
"Perhaps I can take her supper up to her."

"Suit yourself," responded Miriam, shortly.

She did not see fit to tell him that Barbara was up and could walk.
Doctor Conrad could have told him, if he had wanted to--at any rate, it
was not Miriam's affair. She bitterly resented the fact that he had not
even shaken hands with her when he came home, after his long absence.
She hung up his coat and hat, lighted the fire, as the room was cool,
went out into the kitchen, and closed the door.

The familiar atmosphere and the comfortable chair in which he sat
brought him that peculiar peace of home which is one of the greatest
gifts travel can bestow. Even the ticking of the clock came to his
senses gratefully. Home at last, after all the pain, the dreary nights
and days of acute loneliness, and only one more day to wait--perhaps.

"To see again," he thought. "I am glad I came home first. To-morrow, if
God is good to me, I shall see my baby--and the letter. I have dreamed
so often that she could walk and I could see!"

He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out upon
his knee. He moved his hands lovingly across the pages--the one written
upon, the other blank. "She died loving me," he said to himself.
"To-morrow I shall see it, in her own hand."

[Sidenote: Why Not To-Day]

Sunset flamed behind the hills and brought into the little room faint
threads of gold and amethyst that wove a luminous tapestry with the
dusk. The clock ticked steadily, and with every cheery tick brought
nearer that dear To-Morrow of which he had dreamed so long. He
speculated upon the difference made by the slow passage of a few hours.
To-morrow, at this time, his bandages would be off--then why not to-day?

The letter fell to the floor and he picked it up, one sheet at a time,
fretfully. The bandage around his temples and the gauze and cotton held
firmly against his eyes all at once grew intolerable. It was the last
few miles to the weary traveller, the last hour that lay between the
lover and his beloved, the darkness before the dawn. He had been very
patient, but at last had come to the end.

[Sidenote: He Opens his Eyes]

If only the bandages were off! "If they were," he thought, "I need not
open my eyes--I could keep them closed until to-morrow." He raised his
hands and worked carefully at the surgical knots until the outer strip
was loosened. He wound it slowly off, then cautiously removed the layers
of cotton and gauze.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back in his chair, with his
eyes closed, determined to keep faith with the physicians, and, above
all, with Doctor Conrad, who had been so very kind. There was no pain at
all--only weakness. If the room were absolutely dark, perhaps he might
open his eyes for a moment or two. Why should to-morrow be so different
from to-day?

The letter was in his hands--that dear letter which said, "I have loved
him, I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day."
The temptation worked subtly in his mind as strong wine might in his
blood. Perhaps, after all, he could not see--the doctors had not given
him a positive promise.

The fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing merged
into perfect belief--and trust. Unable to endure the strain of waiting
longer, he opened his eyes, and as swiftly closed them again.

"I can see," he whispered, shrilly. "Oh, I can see!"

The blood beat hard in his pulses. He waited, wisely, until he was calm,
then opened his eyes once more. The room was not dark, but was filled
with the soft, golden glow of sunset--a light that illumined and,
strangely, brought no pain. Objects long unfamiliar save by touch loomed
large and dark before him. Remembered colours came back, mellowed by the
half-light. Distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared in
the transparent mist that seemed to veil everything. He closed his eyes,
and said, aloud: "I can see! Oh, I can see!"

[Sidenote: Reading the Letter]

Little by little the mist disappeared and objects became clear. The
velvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room. When
he tried to read the letter the words danced on the page. Trembling, he
rose and took it over to the window, where the light was stronger. As he
stood there, with his back to the door, Miriam, unheard, came into the
room.

The bandages on the floor, the eagerness in every line of his body as he
stood at the window, and the letter in his hand, gave her, in a single
instant, all the information she needed. Her heart beat high with wild
hope--the hour of her vengeance had come at last.

She feared he would not be able to read it. Then she remembered the
yellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it had
been large print. If he could see at all, he could see that.

Little by little, sustained and supported by his immeasurable longing,
the man at the window spelled out the words, in an eager whisper:

"You who have loved me since the beginning of time--will understand and
forgive me--for what I do to-day. I do it because I am not strong
enough--to go on--and do my duty--by those who need me."

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