by Myrtle Reed
X
In the Garden
[Sidenote: A Summer Evening]
The subtle, far-reaching fragrance of a Summer night came through theopen window. A cool wind from the hills had set the maple branches tomurmuring and hushed the incoming tide as it swept up to the waitingshore. Out in the illimitable darkness of the East, grey surges throbbedlike the beating of a troubled heart, but the shore knew only the drowsycroon of a sea that has gone to sleep.
Golden lilies swung their censers softly, and the exquisite incenseperfumed the dusk. Fairy lamp-bearers starred the night with glimmeringradiance, faintly seen afar. A cricket chirped just outside the windowand a ghostly white moth circled around the evening lamp.
Roger sat by the table, with Keats's letters to his beloved Fanny openbefore him. The letter to Constance, so strangely brought back after allthe intervening years, lay beside the book. The ink was faded and thepaper was yellow, but his father's love, for a woman not his mother,stared the son full in the face and was not to be denied.
Was this all, or--? His thought refused to go further. Constance Northhad died, by her own hand, four days after the letter was written. Whatmight not have happened in four days? In one day, Columbus found aworld. In another, electricity was discovered. In one day, one hour,even, some immeasurable force moving according to unseen law might swaythe sun and set all the stars to reeling madly through the unutterablemidnights of the universe. And in four days? Ah, what had happened inthose four days?
[Sidenote: A Recurring Question]
The question had haunted him since the night he read the letter, when hewas reading to Barbara and had unwittingly come upon it. Constance wasdead and Laurence Austin was dead, but their love lived on. The gravewas closed against it, and in neither heaven nor hell could it find anabiding-place. Ghostly and forbidding, it had sent Constance to hauntMiriam's troubled sleep, it had filled Ambrose North's soul with crueldoubt and foreboding, and had now come back to Roger and Barbara, to asketernal questions of the one, and stir the heart of the other to newdepths of pain.
He had not seen Barbara since that night and she had sent no message. Nobeacon light in the window across the way said "come." The sword thathad lain, keen-edged and cruel, between Constance and her lover, had, bya single swift stroke, changed everything between her daughter and hisson.
Not that Barbara herself was less beautiful or less dear. Roger hadmissed her more than he realised. When her lovely, changing face hadcome between his eyes and the musty pages of his law books, while thedisturbing Bascom pup cavorted merrily around the office, unheard andunheeded, Roger had ascribed it to the letter that had forced themapart.
* * * * *
The woollen slippers muffled Miss Mattie's step so that Roger did nothear her enter the room. Preoccupied and absorbed, he was staringvacantly out of the window, when a strong, capable hand swooped downbeside him, gathering up the book and the letter.
[Sidenote: Tremendous Power]
"I don't know what it is about your readin', Roger," complained hismother, "that makes you blind and deaf and dumb and practicallyparalysed. Your pa was the same way. Reckon I'll read a piece myself andsee what it is that's so affectin'. It ain't a very big book, but itseems to have tremendous power."
She sat down and began to read aloud, in a curiously unsympathetic voicewhich grated abominably upon her unwilling listener:
"'Ask yourself, my Love, whether you are not very cruel to have soentrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in theletter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me init--make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me--write thesoftest words and kiss them, that I may at least touch my lips whereyours have been. For myself, I know not how to express my devotion to sofair a form; I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word thanfair. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summerdays--three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fiftycommon years could ever contain.'
"Ain't that wonderful, Roger? Wants to get drunk on poppies and kiss thewritin' and thinks after that he'll be made into a butterfly. Your pacouldn't have been far from bein' a butterfly when he bought this book.There ain't no sense in it. And this--why, it's your pa's writin',Roger! I ain't seen it for years."
Miss Mattie leaned forward in her chair and brought the letter toConstance close to the light. She read it through, calmly, without hasteor excitement. Roger's hands gripped the arms of his chair and his faceturned ashen. His whole body was tense.
[Sidenote: A Moment's Pain]
Then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. Miss Mattie took offher spectacles and leaned back in her chair with great wearinessevident in every line of her figure.
[Sidenote: Crazy as a Loon]
"Roger," she said, sadly, "there's no use in tryin' to conceal it fromyou any longer. Your pa was crazy--as crazy as a loon. What with buyin'books so steady and readin' of 'em so continual, his mind got unhinged.I've always suspected it, and now I know.
"Your pa gets this book, and reads all this stuff that's been writtenabout 'Fanny,' and he don't see no reason why he shouldn't duplicate itand maybe get it printed. I knew he set great store by books, but itcomes to me as a shock that he was allowin' to write 'em. Some of thetime he sees he's crazy himself. Didn't you see, there where he says, 'Ihope you do not blame me because I went mad'? 'Mad' is the refined wordfor crazy.
"Then he goes on about eatin' husks and bein' starved. That's what Itold him when he insisted on havin' oatmeal cooked for his breakfastevery mornin'. I told him humans couldn't expect to live on horse-feed,but, la sakes! He never paid no attention to me. I could set and talk bythe hour just as I'm talkin' to you and he wasn't listenin' any more'nyou be."
"I am listening, Mother," he assured her, in a forced voice. He couldnot say with what joyful relief.
"Maybe," she went on, "I'd 'a' been more gentle with your pa if I'drealised just what condition his mind was in. There's a book in theattic full of just such writin' as this. I found it once when I wascleaning, but I never paid no more attention to it. I surmised it wassomethin' he was copyin' out of another book that he'd borrowed from theminister, but I see now. The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. IfI'd 'a' knowed what it was then, maybe I couldn't have bore it as I cannow."
Seizing his opportunity, Roger put the book and the letter aside. MissMattie slipped out of its wrapper the paper which Roger had brought toher from the post-office that same night, and began to read. Roger satback in his chair with his eyes closed, meditating upon the theory ofChance, and wondering if, after all, there was a single controllingpurpose behind the extraordinary things that happened.
[Sidenote: Inner Turmoil]
Miss Mattie wiped her spectacles twice and changed her position threetimes. Then she got another chair and moved the lamp closer. At last sheclucked sharply with her false teeth--always the outward evidence ofinner turmoil or displeasure.
"What's the matter, Mother?"
"I can't see with these glasses," she said, fretfully. "I can see a lotbetter without 'em than I can with 'em."
"Have you wiped them?"
"Yes, I've wiped 'em till it's a wonder the polish ain't all wore offthe glass."
"Put them up close to your eyes instead of wearing them so far down onyour nose."
"I've tried that, but the closer they get to my eyes, the more I can'tsee. The further away they are, the better 't is. When I have 'em off,I can see pretty good."
"Then why don't you take them off?"
"That sounds just like your pa. Do you suppose, after payin' sevendollars and ninety cents for these glasses, and more'n twice as much formy gold-bowed ones, that I ain't goin' to use 'em and get the benefit of'em? Your pa never had no notion of economy. They're just as good asthey ever was, and I reckon I'll wear 'em out, if I live."
"But, Mother, your eyes may have changed. They probably have."
[Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Eyes]
Miss Mattie went to the kitchen and brought back a small, crackedmirror. She studied the offending orbs by the light, very carefully,both with and without her spectacles.
"No, they ain't," she announced, finally. "They're the same size andshape and colour that they've always been, and the specs are the same.Your pa bought 'em for me soon after you commenced readin' out of areader, and they're just as good as they ever was. It must be the oil.I've noticed that it gets poorer every time the price goes up." Shepushed the paper aside with a sigh. "I was readin' such a nice story,too."
"Shan't I read it to you, Mother?"
"Why, I don't know. Do you want to?"
"Surely, if you want me to."
"Then you'd better begin a new story, because I'm more'n half-waythrough this one."
"I'll begin right where you left off, Mother. It doesn't make a particleof difference to me."
"But you won't get the sense of it. I'd like for you to enjoy it whileyou're readin'."
"Don't worry about my enjoying it--you know I've always been fond ofbooks. If there's anything I don't understand, I can ask you."
"All right. Begin right here in _True Gold, or Pretty Crystal's Love_.This is the place: 'With a terrible scream, Crystal sprang toward thefire escape, carrying her mother and her little sister in her arms.'"
[Sidenote: Two Sighs]
For nearly two hours, Roger read, in a deep, mellow voice, of theadventures of poor, persecuted Crystal, who was only sixteen, andengaged to a floor-walker in 'one of the great city's finest emporiumsof trade.' He and his mother both sighed when he came to the end of theinstallment, but for vastly different reasons.
"Ain't it lovely, Roger?"
"It's what you might call 'different,'" he temporised, with a smile.
"Just think of that poor little thing havin' her house set afire by arival suitor just after she had paid off the mortgage by savin' out ofher week's wages! Do you suppose he will ever win her?"
"I shouldn't think it likely."
"No, you wouldn't, but the endin' of those stories is always what youwouldn't expect. It's what makes 'em so interestin' and, as you say,'different.'"
Roger did not answer. He merely yawned and tapped impatiently on thetable with his fingers.
[Sidenote: Nine o'Clock]
"What time is it?" she asked, adjusting her spectacles carefully uponthe ever-useful and unfailing wart.
"A little after nine."
"Sakes alive! It's time I was abed. I've got to get up early in themornin' and set my bread. Good-night."
"Good-night, Mother."
"Don't set up long. Oil is terrible high."
"All right, Mother."
Miss Mattie went upstairs and closed her door with a resounding bang.Roger heard her strike a match on a bit of sandpaper tacked on the wallnear the match-safe, and close the green blinds that served the purposeof the more modern window-shades. Soon, a deep, regular sound suggestiveof comfortable slumber echoed and re-echoed overhead. Then, and thenonly, he dared to go out.
[Sidenote: A Light in the Window]
He sat on the narrow front porch for a few minutes, deeply breathing thecool air and enjoying the beauty of the night. Across the way, thelittle grey house seemed lonely and forlorn. The upper windows weredark, but downstairs Barbara's lamp still shone.
"Sewing, probably," mused Roger. "Poor little thing."
As he watched, the lamp was put out. Then a white shadow moved painfullytoward the window, bent, and struck a match. Star-like, Barbara'ssignal-light flamed out into the gloom, with its eager message.
"She wants me," he said to himself. The joy was inextricably mingledwith pain. "She wants me," he thought, "and I must not go."
"Why?" asked his heart, and his conscience replied, miserably,"Because."
For ten or fifteen minutes he argued with himself, vainly. Everyobjection that came forward was reasoned down by a trained mind, versedin the intricacies of the law. The deprivations of the fathers need notalways descend unto the children. At last he went over, wonderingwhether his father had not more than once, and at the same hour, takenthe same path.
[Sidenote: Two Hours of Life]
Barbara was out in the garden, dreaming. For the first time in years,when she had work to do, she had laid it aside before eleven o'clock.But, in two hours, she could have made little progress with herembroidery, and she chose to take for herself two hours of life, out ofwhat might prove to be the last night she had to live.
When Roger opened the gate, Barbara took her crutches and rose out ofher low chair.
"Don't," he said. "I'm coming to you."
She had brought out another chair, with great difficulty, inanticipation of his coming. Her own was near the moonflower that climbedover the tiny veranda and was now in full bloom. The white, half-opentrumpets, delicately fragrant, had more than once reminded him ofBarbara herself.
"What a brute I'd be," thought Roger, with a pang, "if I haddisappointed her."
"I'm so glad," said Barbara, giving him a cool, soft little hand. "Ibegan to be afraid you couldn't come."
"I couldn't, just at first, but afterward it was all right. How areyou?"
"I'm well, thank you, but I'm going to be made better to-morrow. That'swhy I wanted to see you to-night--it may be for the last time."
Her words struck him with chill foreboding. "What do you mean?"
"To-morrow, some doctors are coming down from the city, with two nursesand a few other things. They're going to see if I can't do withoutthese." She indicated the crutches with an inclination of her goldenhead.
"Barbara," he gasped. "You mustn't. It's impossible."
"Nothing is impossible any more," she returned, serenely.
"That isn't what I meant. You mustn't be hurt."
[Sidenote: A Wonderful World]
"I'm not going to be hurt--much. It's all to be done while I'm asleep.Miss Wynne, a lady from the hotel, brought Doctor Conrad to see me.Afterward, he came again by himself, and he says he is very sure that itwill come out all right. And when I'm straight and strong and can walk,he's going to try to have father made to see. A fairy godmother came inand waved her wand," went on Barbara, lightly, "and the poor became richat once. Now the lame are to walk and the blind to see. Is it not awonderful world?"
"Barbara!" cried Roger; "I can't bear it. I don't want you changed--Iwant you just as you are."
"Such impediments as are placed in the path of progress!" she returned.Her eyes were laughing, but her voice had in it a little note oftenderness. "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything--everything."
"It's only this," said Barbara, gently. "If it should turn out theother way, will you keep father from being lonely? Miss Wynne haspromised that he shall never want for anything, and, at the most, itcouldn't be long until he was with me again, but, in the meantime, wouldyou, Roger? Would you try to take my place?"
"Nobody in the world could ever take your place, but I'd try--God knowsI'd try. Barbara, I couldn't bear it, if----"
"Hush. There isn't any 'if.' It's all coming right to-morrow."
[Sidenote: Beauty of a Saint]
The full moon had swung slowly up out of the sea, and the misty, silverylight touched Barbara lovingly. Her slender hands, crossed in her lap,seemed like those of a little child. Her deep blue eyes were lovelierthan ever in the enchanted light--they had the calmness of deep watersat dawn, untroubled by wind or tide. Around her face her golden hairshimmered and shone like a halo. She had the unearthly beauty of asaint.
"Afterward?" he asked, with a little choke in his voice.
"I'll be in plaster for a long time, and, after that, I'll have to learnto walk."
"And then?"
"Work," she said, joyously. "Think of having all the rest of your lifeto work in, with no crutches! And if Daddy can see me--" she stopped,but he caught the wistfulness in her tone. "The first thing," shecontinued, "I'm going down to the sea. I have a fancy to go alone."
"Have y
ou never been?"
"I've never been outside this house and garden but once or twice. Haveyou forgotten?"
All the things he might have done came to Roger, remorsefully, and toolate. He might have taken Barbara out for a drive almost any time duringthe last eight years. She could have been lifted into a low carriageeasily enough and she had never even been to the sea. A swift, pityingtenderness made his heart ache.
"Nobody ever thought of it," said Barbara, soothingly, as though she hadread his thought, "and, besides, I've been too busy, except Sundays. Butsometimes, when I've heard the shore singing as the tide came in, andseen the gulls fly past my window, and smelled the salt mist--oh, I'vewanted it so."
"I'd have taken you, if I hadn't been such a brute as to forget."
[Sidenote: More than the Sea]
"You've brought me more than the sea, Roger. Think of all the booksyou've carried back and forth so patiently all these years. You've donemore for me than anybody in the world, in some ways. You've given me themagic carpet of the _Arabian Nights_, only it was a book, instead of arug. Through your kindness, I've travelled over most of the world, I'vemet many of the really great people face to face, I've lived in all agesand all countries, and I've learned to know the world as it is now. Whatmore could one person do for another than you have done for me?"
"Barbara?" It was Miriam's voice, calling softly from an upper window."You mustn't stay up late. Remember to-morrow."
"All right, Aunty." Her answer carried with it no hint of impatience. "Iforgot that we weren't in the house," she added, to Roger, in a lowtone.
"Must I go?" To-night, for some reason, he could not bear even thethought of leaving her.
"Not just yet. I've been thinking," she continued, in a swift whisper,"about my mother and--your father. Of course we can't understand--weonly know that they cared. And, in a way, it makes you and me somethinglike brother and sister, doesn't it?"
"Perhaps it does. I hadn't thought of that."
[Sidenote: The Barrier Broken]
All at once, the barrier that seemed to have been between them crasheddown and was forgotten. Mysteriously, Roger was very sure that thosefour days had held no wrong--no betrayal of another's trust. His fatherwould not have done anything which was not absolutely right. The thoughtmade him straighten himself proudly. And the mother of the girl wholeaned toward him, with her beautiful soul shining in her deep eyes,could have been nothing less than an angel.
"To-morrow"--began Roger.
[Sidenote: "To-morrow is Mine"]
"To-morrow was made for me. God is giving me a day to be made straightin. To-morrow is mine, but--will you come and stay with father? Keep himaway from the house and with you, until--afterward?"
"I will, gladly."
Barbara rose and Roger picked up her crutches. "You'll never have to dothat for me again," she said, as she took them, "but there'll be lots ofother things. Will you take in the chairs, please?"
A lump was in his throat and he could not speak. When he came out, afterhaving made a brief but valiant effort to recover his self-control,Barbara was standing at the foot of the steps, leaning on her crutches,with the moon shining full upon her face.
Roger went to her. "Barbara," he said, huskily, "my father loved yourmother. For the sake of that, and for to-morrow, will you kiss meto-night?"
Smiling, Barbara lifted her face and gave him her lips as simply andsweetly as a child. "Good-night," she said, softly, but he could notanswer, for, at the touch, the white fire burned in his blood and thewhite magic of life's Maytime went, singing, through his soul.