by Myrtle Reed
XII
Miriam
Miriam moved about the house, silently, as always. She had assumed theextra burden of Barbara's helplessness as she assumed everything--withoutcomment, and with outward calm.
[Sidenote: Joy and Duty]
Only her dark eyes, that burned and glittered so strangely, gave hint ofthe restlessness within. She served Ambrose North with steadfast andunfailing devotion; she waited upon Barbara mechanically, but readily.An observer could not have detected any real difference in her bearingtoward the two, yet the service of one was a joy, the other a duty.
After the first week the nurse who had remained with Barbara had goneback to the city. In this short time, Miriam had learned much from her.She knew how to change a sheet without disturbing the patient very much;she could give Barbara both food and drink as she lay flat upon herback, and ease her aching body a little in spite of the plaster cast.
Ambrose North restlessly haunted the house and refused to leaveBarbara's bedside unless she was asleep. Often she feigned slumber togive him opportunity to go outdoors for the exercise he was accustomedto taking. And so the life of the household moved along in its usualchannels.
[Sidenote: A Living Image]
As she lay helpless, with her pretty colour gone and the great braids ofgolden hair hanging down on either side, Barbara looked more like herdead mother than ever. Suffering had brought maturity to her face andsometimes even Miriam was startled by the resemblance. One day Barbarahad asked, thoughtfully, "Aunty, do I look like my mother?" And Miriamhad answered, harshly, "You're the living image of her, if you want toknow."
Miriam repeatedly told herself that Constance had wronged her--thatAmbrose North had belonged to her until the younger girl came fromschool with her pretty, laughing ways. He had never had eyes for Miriamafter he had once seen Constance, and, in an incredibly short time, theyhad been married.
Miriam had been forced to stand by and see it; she had made daintygarments for Constance's trousseau, and had even been obliged to serveas maid of honour at the wedding. She had seen, day by day, the man'slove increase and the girl's fancy wane, and, after his blindness cameupon him, Constance would often have been cruelly thoughtless had notMiriam sternly held her to her own ideal of wifely duty.
Now, when she had taken a mother's place to Barbara, and worked for theblind man as his wife would never have dreamed of doing, she saw thefaithless one worshipped almost as a household god. The power todisillusionise North lay in her hands--of that she was very sure. Whatif she should come to him some day with the letter Constance had leftfor another man and which she had never delivered? What if she shouldopen it, at his bidding, and read him the burning sentences Constancehad written to another during her last hour on earth? Knowing, beyonddoubt, that Constance was faithless, would he at last turn to the womanhe had deserted for the sake of a pretty face? The question rackedMiriam by night and by day.
[Sidenote: Miriam's Jealousy]
And, as always, the dead Constance, mute, accusing, bitterlyreproachful, haunted her dreams. Her fear of it became an obsession. AsBarbara grew daily more to resemble her mother, Miriam's position becameincreasingly difficult and complex.
Sometimes she waited outside the door until she could summon courage togo in to Barbara, who lay, helpless, in the very room where her motherhad died. Miriam never entered without seeing upon the dressing tablethose two envelopes, one addressed to Ambrose North and one to herself.Her own envelope was bulky, since it contained two letters beside theshort note which might have been read to anybody. These two, with sealsunbroken, were safely put away in Miriam's room.
One was addressed to Laurence Austin. Miriam continually told herselfthat it was impossible for her to deliver it--that the person to whom itwas addressed was dead. She tried persistently to forget the five yearsthat had intervened between Constance's death and his. For five years,he had lived almost directly across the street and Miriam saw him daily.Yet she had not given him the letter, though the vision of Constance,dumbly pleading for some boon, had distressed her almost every nightuntil Laurence Austin died.
After that, there had been peace--but only for a little while. Constancestill came, though intermittently, and reproached Miriam for betrayingher trust.
[Sidenote: The One Betrayal]
As Barbara's twenty-second birthday approached, Miriam sometimeswondered whether Constance would not cease to haunt her after the otherletter was delivered. She had been faithful in all things butone--surely she might be forgiven the one betrayal. The envelope wasaddressed, in a clear, unfaltering hand: "To My Daughter Barbara. To beopened upon her twenty-second birthday." In her brief note to Miriam,Constance had asked her to destroy it unopened if Barbara should notlive until the appointed day.
She had said nothing, however, about the other letter--had not evenalluded to its existence. Yet there it was, apparently written upon asingle sheet of paper and enclosed in an envelope firmly sealed withwax. The monogram, made of the interlaced initials "C.N.," stilllingered upon the seal. For twenty years and more the letter had waited,unread, and the hands that once would eagerly have torn it open werelong since made one with the all-hiding, all-absolving dust.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: At Supper]
At supper, Ambrose North still had his fine linen and his Satsuma cup.Miriam sat at the other end, where the coarse cloth and the heavy disheswere. She used the fine china for Barbara, also, washing it carefullysix times every day.
The blind man ate little, for he was lonely without the consciousnessthat Barbara sat, smiling, across the table from him.
"Is she asleep?" he asked, of Miriam.
"Yes."
"She hasn't had her supper yet, has she?"
"No."
"When she wakes, will you let me take it up to her?"
"Yes, if you want to."
"Miriam, tell me--does Barbara look like her mother?" His voice was fullof love and longing.
"There may be a slight resemblance," Miriam admitted.
"But how much?"
[Sidenote: The Same Old Question]
A curious, tigerish impulse possessed Miriam. He had asked her this samequestion many times and she had always eluded him with a vaguegeneralisation.
"How much does she resemble her mother?" he insisted. "You told me oncethat they were 'something alike.'"
"That was a long time ago," answered Miriam. She was breathing hard andher eyes glittered. "Barbara has changed lately."
"Don't hide the truth for fear of hurting me," he pleaded. "Once for allI ask you--does Barbara resemble her mother?"
For a moment Miriam paused, then all her hatred of the dead woman roseup within her. "No," she said, coldly. "Their hair and eyes are nearlythe same colour, but they are not in the least alike. Why? Whatdifference does it make?"
"None," sighed the blind man. "But I am glad to have the truth at last,and I thank you. Sometimes I have fancied, when Barbara spoke, that itwas Constance talking to me. It would have been a great satisfaction tome to have had my baby the living image of her mother, since I am to seeagain, but it is all right as it is."
Since he was to see! Miriam had not counted upon that possibility, andshe clenched her hands in swift remorse. If he should discover that shehad lied to him, he would never forgive her, and she would lose whatlittle regard he had for her. He had a Puritan insistence upon theliteral truth.
"How beautiful Constance was," he sighed. An inarticulate murmur escapedfrom Miriam, which he took for full assent.
"Did you ever see anyone half so beautiful, Miriam?"
Her throat was parched, but Miriam forced herself to whisper, "No." Thismuch was truth.
[Sidenote: A Beautiful Bride]
"How sweet she was and what pretty ways she had," he went on. "Do youremember how lovely she was in her wedding gown?"
Again Miriam forced herself to answer, "Yes."
"Do you remember how people said we were mismated--th
at a man of fiftycould never hope to keep the love of a girl of twenty, who knew nothingof the world?"
"I remember," muttered Miriam.
"And it was false, wasn't it?" he asked, hungering for assurance."Constance loved me--do you remember how dearly she loved me?"
[Sidenote: Beloved Constance]
A thousand words struggled for utterance, but Miriam could not speakjust then. She longed, as never before, to tear open the envelopeaddressed to Laurence Austin and read to North the words his belovedConstance had written to another man before she took her own life. Shelonged to tell him how, for months previous, she had followed Constancewhen she left the house, and discovered that she had a trysting-placedown on the shore. He wanted the truth, did he? Very well, he shouldhave it--the truth without mercy.
"Constance," she began, huskily, "Constance loved----"
"I know," interrupted Ambrose North. "I know how dearly she loved me upto the very last. Even Barbara, baby that she was, felt it. Sheremembers it still."
Barbara's bell tinkled upstairs while he said the last words. "She wantsus," he said, his face illumined with love. "If you will prepare hersupper, Miriam, I will take it up."
The room swayed before Miriam's eyes and her senses were confused. Shehad drawn her dagger to strike and it had been forced back into itssheath by some unseen hand. "But I will," she repeated to herself againand again as her trembling hands prepared Barbara's tray. "He shallknow the truth--and from me."
* * * * *
"Barbara," said the old man, as he entered the room, "your Daddy hasbrought up your supper."
"I'm glad," she responded, brightly. "I'm very hungry."
"We have been talking downstairs of your mother," he went on, as he setdown the tray. "Miriam has been telling me how beautiful she was, whatwinning ways she had, and how dearly she loved us. She says you do notlook at all like her, Barbara, and we both have been thinking that youdid."
[Sidenote: Disappointed]
Barbara was startled. Only a few days ago, Aunt Miriam had assured herthat she was the living image of her mother. She was perplexed anddisappointed. Then she reflected that when she had asked the questionshe had been very ill and Aunt Miriam was trying to answer in a way thatpleased her. She generously forgave the deceit for the sake of thekindly motive behind it.
"Dear Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, softly. "How good she has been to us,Daddy."
"Yes," he replied; "I do not know what we should have done without her.I want to do something for her, dear. Shall we buy her a diamond ring,or some pearls?"
"We'll see, Daddy. When I can walk, and you can see, we shall do manythings together that we cannot do now."
The old man bent down very near her. "Flower of the Dusk," he whispered,"when may I go?"
"Go where, Daddy?"
"To the city, you know, with Doctor Conrad. I want to begin to see."
Barbara patted his hand. "When I am strong enough to spare you," shesaid, "I will let you go. When you see me, I want to be well and able togo to meet you without crutches. Will you wait until then?"
"I want to see my baby. I do not care about the crutches, now that youare to get well. I want to see you, dear, so very, very much."
"Some day, Daddy," she promised him. "Wait until I'm almost well, won'tyou?"
"Just as you say, dear, but it seems so long."
"I couldn't spare you now, Daddy. I want you with me every day."
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Miriam's Prayer]
Though long unused to prayer, Miriam prayed that night, very earnestly,that Ambrose North might not recover his sight; that he might never seethe daughter who lived and spoke in the likeness of her dead mother. Itwas long past midnight when she fell asleep. The house had been quietfor several hours.
As she slept, she dreamed. The door opened quietly, yet with a certainauthority, and Constance, in her grave-clothes, came into her room. Thewhite gown trailed behind her as she walked, and the two golden braids,so like Barbara's, hung down over either shoulder and far below herwaist.
She fixed her deep, sad eyes upon Miriam, reproachfully, as always, buther red lips were curled in a mocking smile. "Do your worst," she seemedto say. "You cannot harm me now."
[Sidenote: The Vision]
The vision sat down in a low chair and rocked back and forth, slowly, asthough meditating. Occasionally, she looked at Miriam doubtfully, butthe mocking smile was still there. At last Constance rose, having come,apparently, to some definite plan. She went to the dresser, opened thelower drawer, and reached under the pile of neatly-folded clothing.
Cold as ice, Miriam sprang to her feet. She was wide awake now, but theroom was empty. The door was open, half-way, and she could not rememberwhether she had left it so when she went to bed. She had always kept herbedroom door closed and locked, but since Barbara's illness had left itat least ajar, that she might be able to hear a call in the night.
Shaken like an aspen in a storm, Miriam lighted her candle and staredinto the shadows. Nothing was there. The clock ticked steadily--almostmaddeningly. It was just four o'clock.
She, too, opened the lower drawer of the dresser and thrust her handunder the clothing. The letters were still there. She drew them out, herhands trembling, and read the superscriptions with difficulty, for thewords danced, and made themselves almost illegible.
Constance was coming back for the letters, then? That was out ofMiriam's power to prevent, but she would keep the knowledge of theircontents--at least of one. She thrust aside contemptuously the letter toBarbara--she cared nothing for that.
[Sidenote: The Seal Broken]
Taking the one addressed to "Mr. Laurence Austin; Kindness of MissLeonard," she went back to bed, taking her candle to the small tablethat stood at the head of the bed. With forced calmness, she broke theseal which the dead fingers had made so long ago, opened it shamelessly,and read it.
"You who have loved me since the beginning of time," the letter began, "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.
"If there should be meeting past the grave, some day you and I shall come together again with no barrier between us. I take with me the knowledge of your love, which has sheltered and strengthened and sustained me since the day we first met, and which must make even a grave warm and sweet.
"And, remember this--dead though I am, I love you still; you and my little lame baby who needs me so and whom I must leave because I am not strong enough to stay.
"Through life and in death and eternally,
"Yours,
"CONSTANCE."
In the letter was enclosed a long, silken tress of golden hair. Itcurled around Miriam's fingers as though it were alive, and she thrustit from her. It was cold and smooth and sinuous, like a snake. Shefolded up the letter, put it back in the envelope with the lock of hair,then returned it to its old hiding-place, with Barbara's.
"So, Constance," she said to herself, "you came for the letters? Comeand take them when you like--I do not fear you now."
[Sidenote: The Evidence]
All of her suspicions were crystallised into certainty by this one pageof proof. Constance might not have violated the letter of her marriagevow--very probably had not even dreamed of it--but in spirit, she hadbeen false.
"Come, Constance," said Miriam, aloud; "come and take your letters.When the hour comes, I shall tell him, and you cannot keep me from it."
[Sidenote: Triumph]
She was curiously at peace, now, and no longer afraid. Her dark eyesblazed with triumph as she lay there in the candle light. The tensionwithin her had snapped when suspicion gave way to absolute knowledge.Thwarted and denied and pushed aside all her life by Co
nstance and hermemory, at last she had come to her own.