by Myrtle Reed
XVI
Betrayal
The long weeks dragged by and, at last, the end of Barbara'simprisonment drew near. The red-haired young man who had previouslyassisted Doctor Conrad came down with one of the nurses and removed theheavy plaster cast. The nurse taught Miriam how to massage Barbara withoils and exercise the muscles that had never been used.
"Doctor Conrad told me," said the red-haired young man, "to take yourfather back with me to-morrow, if you were ready to have him go. Thesooner the better, he thought."
[Sidenote: Love and Terror]
Barbara turned away, with love and terror clutching coldly at her heart."Perhaps," she said, finally. "I'll talk with father to-night."
Her own forgotten agony surged back into her remembrance, magnified anhundred fold. Fear she had never had for herself strongly asserteditself now, for him. "If it should come out wrong," she thought, "Icould never forgive myself--never in the wide world."
When the doctor and nurse had gone to the hotel and Miriam was busygetting supper, Ambrose North came quietly into Barbara's room.
"How are you, dear?" he asked, anxiously.
"I'm all right, Daddy, except that I feel very queer. It's alldifferent, some way. Like the old woman in _Mother Goose_, I wonder ifthis can be I."
There was a long pause. "Are they going back to-morrow," he asked, "thedoctor and nurse who came down to-day?"
"Yes," answered Barbara, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
The old man took her hand in his and leaned over her. "Dear," hepleaded, "may I go, too?"
Barbara was startled. "Have they said anything to you?"
[Sidenote: Long Waiting]
"No, I was just thinking that I could go with them as well as withDoctor Conrad. It is so long to wait," he sighed.
"I cannot bear to have you hurt," answered Barbara, with a choking sob.
"I know," he said, "but I bore it for you. Have you forgotten?"
There was no response in words, but she breathed hard, every shrillrespiration fraught with dread.
"Flower of the Dusk," he pleaded, "may I go?"
"Yes," she sobbed. "I have no right to say no."
"Dear, don't cry." The old man's voice was as tender as though she hadbeen the merest child. "The dream is coming true at last--that you canwalk and I can see. Think what it will mean to us both. And oh, Barbara,think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote toyou--to know, from her own hand, that she died loving me."
[Sidenote: Systematic Lying]
Barbara suddenly turned cold. The hand that seemingly had clutched herheart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now. He would readher mother's letter and know that his beloved Constance was in love withanother; that she took her own life because she could bear it no more.He would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that thepearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold. He would know,inevitably, that Barbara's needle had earned their living for manyyears; he would see, in the dining-room, the pitiful subterfuge of thebit of damask, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate andcup. Above all, he would know that Barbara herself had systematicallylied to him ever since she could talk at all. And he had a horror of alie.
"Don't," she cried, weakly. "Don't go."
"You promised Barbara," he said, gently. Then he added, proudly: "TheNorths never go back on their spoken or written word. It is in the bloodto be true and you have promised. I shall go to-morrow."
Barbara cringed and shrank from him. "Don't, dear," he said. "Your handsare cold. Let me warm them in mine. I fear that to-day has been too muchfor you."
"I think it has," she answered. The words were almost a whisper.
[Sidenote: If the Dream Comes True]
"Then, don't try to talk, Barbara. I will talk to you. I know how youfeel about my going, but it is not necessary, for I do not fear in theleast for myself. I am sure that the dream is coming true, but, if itshould not--why, we can bear it together, dear, as we have borneeverything. The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways, but my faithis very strong.
[Sidenote: If the Dream Comes True]
"If the dream comes true, as I hope and believe it will, you and I willgo away, dear, and see the world. We shall go to Europe and Egypt andJapan and India, and to the Southern islands, to Greece andConstantinople--I have planned it all. Aunt Miriam can stay here, or wewill take her with us, just as you choose. When you can walk, Barbara,and I can see, I shall draw a large check, and we will start at thefirst possible moment. The greatest blessing of money, I think, is theopportunity it gives for travel. I have been glad, too, so many times,that we are able to afford all these doctors and nurses. Think of thepoor people who must suffer always because they cannot command serviceswhich are necessarily high-priced."
Barbara's senses reeled and the cold, steel fingers clutched moreclosely at the aching fibre of her heart. Until this moment, she had notthought of the financial aspects of her situation--it had not occurredto her that Doctor Conrad and the blue and white nurses and even thered-haired young man would expect to be paid. And when her father wentto the hospital--"I shall have to sew night and day all the rest of mylife," she thought, "and, even then, die in debt."
[Sidenote: The Lie]
But over and above and beyond it all stood the Lie, that had lived inher house for twenty years and more and was now to be cast out,if--Barbara's heart stood still in horror because, for the merestfraction of an instant, she had dared to hope that her father mightnever see again.
"I could not have gone alone," the old man was saying, "and even ifI could, I should never have left you, but now, I think, the time iscoming. I have dreamed all my life of the strange countries beyond thesea, and longed to go. Your dear mother and I were going, in a littlewhile, but--" His lips quivered and he stopped abruptly.
[Sidenote: Three Things]
"What would you see, Daddy, if you had your choice? Tell me the threethings in the world that you most want to see." With supreme effort,Barbara put self aside and endeavoured to lead him back to happierthings.
"Three things?" he repeated. "Let me think. If God should give me backmy sight for the space of half an hour before I died, I should choose tosee, first, your dear mother's letter in which she says that she diedloving me; next, your mother herself as she was just before she died,and then, dear, my Flower of the Dusk--my baby whom I never have seen.Perhaps," he added, thoughtfully, "perhaps I should rather see you thanConstance, for, in a very little while, I should meet her past thesunset, where she has waited so long for me. But the letter would comefirst, Barbara--can you understand?"
"Yes," she breathed, "I understand."
The hope in her heart died. She could not ask for the letter. He took itfrom his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price. "Put my fingeron the words that say, 'I love him still.'"
Blinded with tears and choked by sobs, Barbara pointed out the line.That, at least, was true. The old man raised it to his lips as a monkmight raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer.
"I keep it always near me," he said, softly. "I shall keep it untilI can see."
* * * * *
Long after he had gone to bed, Barbara lay trembling. The problem thathad risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possiblesolution. If he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowingtheir poverty. One swift glance would show him all--and destroy hisfaith in her. That was unavoidable. But--need he know that the dead haddeceived him too?
The innate sex-loyalty, which is strong in all women who are reallyfine, asserted itself in full power now. It was not only the desire tosave her father pain that made Barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep thebetraying letter from him. It was also the secret loyalty, not of achild to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman--of sex to sex.
[Sidenote: To-Day and To-Morrow]
The house was very still. Outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheeryfiddling as
he fared to his hidden home. Sometimes a leaf fell andrustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. The clock tickedmonotonously. Second by second and minute by minute, To-Morrow advancedupon Barbara; that To-Morrow which must be made surely right by thedeeds of To-Day.
"If I could go," murmured Barbara. She was free of the plaster and shecould move about in bed easily. Ironically enough, her crutches leanedagainst the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach asthough they were in the next room.
Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet onthe floor. With great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundlesshope. She discovered that she could stand, even though she achedmiserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed.She could not walk a step.
[Sidenote: Vanishing Hopes]
Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. She knew, now, all thatthe red-haired young man had refused to tell her. He was too kind to saythat she was not to walk, after all. He was leaving it for DoctorConrad--or Eloise.
Objects in the room danced before her mockingly. Her crutches wereveiled by a mist--those friendly crutches which had served her so welland were now out of her reach. But Barbara had no time for self-pity.The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her.
With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell. Presently Miriam camein, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming.Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips.
"Aunt Miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has aletter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read againto-night. Will you bring me his coat, please?"
Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable.
"Don't wake him," called Barbara, in a shrill whisper. "If he is notasleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must havethe coat to-night."
From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriamturned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When hereyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. Ithad not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at herquickness.
Perhaps the letter was not in his coat--it might be somewhere else. Atany rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara.Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle.
[Sidenote: The Letter Recovered]
Yes, the letter was there--two sheets: one in ink, in Constance's hand,the other, in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write toone who was blind?
With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read bothletters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when shetook the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking.
The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost asob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it.
"Thank you, Aunty," breathed Barbara. "I am sorry--to--to--disturb you,but there was no--other way."
[Sidenote: The Letter Destroyed]
Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat andleaving Barbara's door ajar. When she was certain that she was alone,Barbara tore the letter into shreds. So much, at least, was sure. Herfather should never see them, whatever he might think of her.
Miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. She fancied she heardhim stir. It did not matter--there was plenty of time before morning toreturn the coat. She took it back into her own room and sat down tothink.
Her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown. Thecandlelight, however, was kind. It touched gently upon the grey in herhair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in herface. It lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervouslyin her lap.
After twenty-one years, this was what Constance had to say toBarbara--that she loved another man, that Ambrose North was not to knowit, and that she did not quite trust Miriam. Also that Miriam had lovedAmbrose North and had never quite forgiven Constance for taking himaway from her.
Out of the shadow of the grave, Miriam's secret stared her in the face.She had not dreamed, until she read the letter, that Constance knew.Barbara knew now, too. Miriam was glad that Barbara had the letter, forshe knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it.
[Sidenote: A Crumbling Structure]
The elaborate structure of deceit which they had so carefully rearedaround the blind man was crumbling, even now. If he recovered his sight,it must inevitably fall. He would know, in an instant of revelation,that Miriam was old and ugly and not beautiful, as she had foolishly ledhim to believe, years ago, when he asked how much time had changed her.She looked pitifully at her hands, rough and knotted and red throughuntiring slavery for him and his.
She and Barbara would be sacrificed--no, for he would forgive Barbaraanything. She was the only one who would lose through his restoredvision, unless Constance might, in some way, be revealed to him as shewas.
_"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him awayfrom her."_ The cruel sentences moved crazily before her as in lettersof fire.
The letter was gone. Ambrose North would never see the evidence ofConstance's distrust of her, nor come, without warning, upon Miriam'spitiful secret which, with a woman's pride, she would hide from him atall costs. None the less, Constance had stabbed her again. A ghostlyhand clutching a dagger had suddenly come up from the grave, and thethrust of the cold, keen steel had been very sure.
[Sidenote: Scheming Miriam]
For twenty years and more, she had been tempted to read to the blind manthe letter Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before shedied. For that length of time, her desire to blacken Constance, in thehope that the grief-stricken heart might once more turn to her, hadwarred with her love and her woman's fear of hurting the one she loved.To-night, even in the face of the letter to Barbara, she knew that sheshould never have courage to read it to him, nor even to give it to himwith her own hands.
In case he recovered his sight, she might leave it where he would findit. She was glad, now, that the envelope was torn, for he would not beapt to open a letter addressed to another, even though Constance hadpenned the superscription and the man to whom it was addressed was dead.His fine sense of honour would, undoubtedly, lead him to burn it. But,if the letter were in a plain envelope, sealed, and she should leave iton his dresser, he would be very sure to open it, if he saw it lyingthere, and then----
Miriam smiled. Constance would be paid at last for her theft of anotherwoman's suitor, for her faithlessness and her cowardly desertion. Therewas a heavy score against Constance, who had so belied the meaning ofher name, and the twenty years had added compound interest. North mightnot--probably would not--turn again to Miriam after all these years; shesaw that plainly to-night for the first time, but he would, at any rate,see that he had given up the gold for the dross.
Miriam got her work-box and began to mend the coat lining. She had notknown that it was torn. She wondered how he would feel when hediscovered that the precious letter was lost. Would he blame Barbara--orher?
It would be too bad to have him lose the comfort those two sheets ofpaper had given him. Miriam had seen him as he sat alone for hours inhis own room, with the door ajar, caressing the written pages as thoughthey were alive and answered him with love for love. She knew it wasConstance's letter to Barbara, but she had lacked curiosity as to itscontents until to-night.
[Sidenote: The Plot]
The letter to Laurence Austin was written on paper of the same size.There was still some of it, in Constance's desk, in the living-roomdownstairs. Suppose she should replace one letter with the other, and,if he ever read it, let him have it all out with Barbara, who wastrying to save him from knowledge that he should have had long ago.
The coat slipped to the floor as Miriam considered the plan. Perhaps oneof them would ask her what it was. In that case she would say,carelessly: "Oh, a letter Constance left for Laurence A
ustin. I did notthink it best to deliver it, as it could do no good and might do a greatdeal of harm." She would have the courage for that, surely, but, if shefailed at the critical moment, she could say, simply: "I do not know."
She crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of Constance'snote-paper. Neither she nor Barbara had ever been obliged to use it, andit was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with North'scheck-book, which had been useless for so many years.
As she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. She folded thetwo together, with the letter to Laurence Austin inside. North would notbe disappointed, now, when he reached into his pocket and found no fondletter from his dead but still beloved Constance. Barbara could notchange this, by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love.
[Sidenote: Subtle Revenge]
Miriam's whole being glowed with satisfaction. She thrilled with thepleasure of this subtle revenge upon Constance, who was fully repaid,now, for writing as she had.
_"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him awayfrom her."_
She repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeplyloving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. Letthe Fates do their worst now, for when he should read it----
[Sidenote: The Irony of Fate]
Some way, Miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him.She perceived, now, the irony of his caressing the letter Constance hadwritten to Barbara. How much more ironical it would be to see him, withthat unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the pageConstance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. Miriamwell knew that the other letters had come first and that Constance'slast word had been to the man she loved.
The hours passed on, slowly. The mist that hung over the sea was faintlytouched with dawn before Miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went backto Ambrose North's room. She paused outside the door, but all was still.
She entered, quietly, and laid the coat on a chair. She started back tothe door, but, before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in hissleep.
"Constance," he said, drowsily, "is that you? Have you come back,Beloved? It has seemed so long."
[Sidenote: Surging Hatred]
Miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead thatwelled up within her. She went out hastily, and noiselessly closed thedoor.