Flower of the Dusk

by Myrtle Reed

  XIX

  The Dreams Come True

  [Sidenote: Gaining Strength]

  The hours Roger had taken from his work in the office had broughtnothing but good to Barbara. She gained strength rapidly after she beganto walk, and was soon able to dispense with the cane, though she couldnot walk easily, nor far. She tired quickly and was forced to restoften, but she went about the house slowly and even up and down thestairs.

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

  Spicy odours were wafted through the rooms, for Eloise had orderedenough jelly, sweet pickles, and preserves to supply a large family fortwo or three years. She had also bought quilts and rag rugs for all ofher old-lady friends and taken the entire stock of candied orange peelfor 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, shewas able to accomplish more. The needle flew more swiftly when herfingers did not ache and the stitches blur indistinguishably with thefibre of the fabric. When Roger was not there to help her, she dividedher day, by the clock, into hours of work and quarter-hours of exerciseand rest.

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

  [Sidenote: One Dark Cloud]

  Upon the fair horizon of the future was one dark cloud of dread whicheven Doctor Conrad's positive assurance had mitigated only for a littletime. Barbara knew her father and his stern, uncompromisingrighteousness. When the bandages were taken off and he saw the fadedwalls and dingy furniture, the worn rugs, and the pitiful remnant ofdamask at his place at the table; when he realised that his daughter haddeceived him ever since she could talk at all, he must inevitablydespise her, even though he tried to hide it.

  Dimly, Barbara began to perceive the intangible price that is attachedto the things of the spirit as well as to the material necessities ofdaily life. She was forced to surrender his love for her as thecompensation for his sight, yet she was firmly resolved to keep, forhim, the love that refused to reckon with the barrier of a grave, buttriumphantly 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 foundhis father's letter, and she had received her own, upon hertwenty-second birthday, she had felt no sense of loss. Constance hadbeen a vague dream to her and little more, in spite of her father'sgrieving and her instinctive sympathy.

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

  She finished the garment upon which she was working, threaded the narrowwhite ribbon into it, folded it in tissue paper and put it into thechest. 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 allalike."

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

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

  [Sidenote: In the Attic]

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

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

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

  [Sidenote: The Old Trunk]

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

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

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

  There was a petticoat of rustling silk, and a pair of dainty whiteslippers, yellowed, too, by the slow passage of the years. Their silverbuckles were tarnished, but their high heels were as coquettish asever.

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

  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 heelsfelt 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, butwithout satisfaction, as there was no mirror in the attic. This onetrunk evidently contained the finery for which Miriam had not been ableto find use.

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

  Down in the bottom of the trunk was an inlaid box that she did notremember having seen before. She slid back the cover and found a lacehandkerchief, a broken cuff-button, a gold locket enamelled with black,a long fan-chain of gold, set with amethysts, a small gold-framed mirrorevidently meant to be carried in a purse or hand-bag, a high shell combinlaid with gold and set with amethysts, and ten of the dozen large,heavy gold hairpins which Ambrose North, in an extravagant mood, hadordered 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 itout, wonderingly, and started in amazement as her own face looked backat 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 amonth before Barbara was born.

  The heavy hair, in the picture, was braided and wound around the shapelyhead. The high com
b, the same that Barbara had just taken out of thebox, added a finishing touch. Around the slender neck and fair, smoothshoulders fell the Duchess lace that trimmed the brocade gown. Theamethyst brooch, with two of the three tassels plainly showing, waspinned into the lace on the left side, half-way to the shoulder.

  But it was the face that interested Barbara most, as it was thecounterpart of her own. There was the same broad, low forehead, thelarge, deep eyes with long lashes, the straight little nose, and thetender, girlish mouth with its short upper lip, and the same firm,round, dimpled chin. Even the expression was almost the same, but inConstance's deep eyes was a certain wistfulness that the faint smile ofher 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 thechild, 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 Barbarastill studied the sweet face of the picture. Constance was made forlove, and love had come when it was too late. What tenderness she wascapable of; what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, ifher heart bade her go! And what courage must have nerved her dimpledhands when she opened the grey, mysterious door of the Unknown! Therewas no hint of weakness in the face, but Constance had died rather thanto take the chance of betraying the man who held her pledge. Barbara'syoung soul answered in passionate loyalty to the wistfulness, thehunger, and the unspoken appeal.

  "He shall never know, Mother, dear," she said aloud. "I promise youthat 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, shewould look like her mother even more than now. She had a fancy to tryit--to go downstairs and see what Aunt Miriam would say when she camein. Her eyes sparkled with delight when she drew on the long whitestockings of finest silk and put on the white slippers with thetarnished silver buckles.

  The gown was too long and a little too loose, but Barbara rejoiced inthe faded brocade and in the rustle of the silk petticoat that crackedin several places when she put it on, the fabric was so frail. Theivory-tinted lace set off her shoulders beautifully, but she could onlyguess 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 itaround her neck. Then she wound her braids around her head and fastenedthem securely with the gold hairpins. With the aid of the small-goldmirror, she put the comb in place, and loosened the soft hair on eitherside, 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 uponthe decrepit sofa, trying to fancy herself a stately lady of long ago.The room was very still, and, without knowing it, Barbara had weariedherself with her unaccustomed exertion. Her white woollen gown and softlow shoes lay in a little heap on the floor near the window. She mustnot 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 splendidbrocade. She did not intend to sleep, but only to rest a little beforegoing downstairs to surprise Aunt Miriam. Nevertheless, in a few minutesshe was fast asleep and dreaming.

  * * * * *

  [Sidenote: The Home-Coming]

  Eloise went down to the three o'clock train to meet Allan, and was muchsurprised when Ambrose North came, too. His eyes were bandaged, butotherwise 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 turnedback.

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

  "I hope so--indeed, I'm very sure he is. The operation turned out to bean extremely simple one, though it wasn't even dreamed of twenty yearsago. Barbara's case was simple too,--it's all in the knowing how. Shehas made one of the quickest recoveries on record, owing to the factthat her body is almost that of a child. When you come down to the rootof 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, butBarbara insisted that she must see him first and ask him to forgive herfor deceiving him. She thinks she's a criminal."

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

  "So do I, but there is an active remnant of a New-England consciencesomewhere 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 ungratefulold neck. I hope she won't stir him up very much, though--he's got a badheart."

  [Sidenote: Miriam's Welcome]

  Still, the old man showed no sign of weakness as he went briskly up thewalk and knocked at his own door. When Miriam opened it, astonishmentmade her welcome almost inarticulate, for she had not expected him homeso soon. He gave her the small black satchel that he carried, his coatand 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!" Therewas 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, itwas not Miriam's affair. She bitterly resented the fact that he had noteven 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 satbrought him that peculiar peace of home which is one of the greatestgifts travel can bestow. Even the ticking of the clock came to hissenses gratefully. Home at last, after all the pain, the dreary nightsand 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, ifGod is good to me, I shall see my baby--and the letter. I have dreamedso often that she could walk and I could see!"

  He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out uponhis knee. He moved his hands lovingly across the pages--the one writtenupon, 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 faintthreads of gold and amethyst that wove a luminous tapestry with thedusk. The clock ticked steadily, and with every cheery tick broughtnearer that dear To-Morrow of which he had dreamed so long. Hespeculated 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 heldfirmly against his eyes all at once grew intolerable. It was the lastfew miles to the weary traveller, the last hour that lay between thelover and his beloved, the darkness before the dawn. He had been verypatient, 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 notopen my eyes--I could keep them closed until to-morrow." He raised hishands and worked carefully at the surgical knots until the outer stripwas loosened. He wound it slowly off, then cautiously removed the layersof cotton and gauze.

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

  The letter was in his hands--that dear letter which said, "I have lovedhim, 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 hisblood. Perhaps, after all, he could not see--the doctors had not givenhim a positive promise.

  The fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing mergedinto perfect belief--and trust. Unable to endure the strain of waitinglonger, 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 filledwith the soft, golden glow of sunset--a light that illumined and,strangely, brought no pain. Objects long unfamiliar save by touch loomedlarge and dark before him. Remembered colours came back, mellowed by thehalf-light. Distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared inthe 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. Thevelvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room. Whenhe tried to read the letter the words danced on the page. Trembling, herose and took it over to the window, where the light was stronger. As hestood there, with his back to the door, Miriam, unheard, came into theroom.

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

  She feared he would not be able to read it. Then she remembered theyellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it hadbeen 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 andforgive me--for what I do to-day. I do it because I am not strongenough--to go on--and do my duty--by those who need me."

  Miriam nodded with satisfaction. At last he knew why Constance had takenher own life.

  "If there should be--meeting--past the grave--some day you and I--shallcome together again--with no barrier between us." He put his hand to hisforehead as though he did not quite understand, but hurried on to thenext sentence, for his eyes were failing under the strain.

  "I take with me--the knowledge of your love--which has strengthened--andsustained me--since the day--we first met--and must make--even agrave--warm and sweet."

  [Sidenote: Radiance of Soul]

  The light in the room seemed to Miriam to be not wholly of the goldensunset. Some radiance of soul must have made that clear soft light whichveiled but did not hide. It was sunset, and yet the light was that of aSummer afternoon.

  "And remember this--dead though I am--I love you still--you--and mylittle lame baby--who needs me so--and whom--I must leave--because I amnot strong--enough to stay. Through life--and in death--and eternallyyours--Constance."

  There was a tense, unbearable silence. Miriam moistened her parched lipsand chafed her cold hands. "At last," she thought. "At last."

  [Sidenote: The Assurance]

  "She died loving me," said Ambrose North, in a shrill whisper. His eyeswere closed again, for the strain had hurt--terribly. Dimly, heremembered the other letter. This was not the same, but the other hadbeen to Barbara, and not to him. He did not stop to wonder how it cameto be in his pocket. It sufficed that some Angel of God, working throughdevious ways and long years, had given him at last, face to face, theassurance he had hungered for since the day Constance died.

  In a blinding instant, Miriam remembered that no names had beenmentioned in the letter. He had made a mistake--but she could set himright. Constance should not triumph again, even in an hour like this.

  Ambrose North turned back into the shadow, fearing to face the window.The woman cowering in the corner advanced steadily to meet him. He sawher, vaguely, when his eyes became accustomed to the change of lights.

  "Miriam!" he cried, transfigured by joy. "She died loving me! I have ithere. It was only because she was not strong--she was ill, and she neverlet us know." He held forth the letter with a shaking hand.

  "She--" began Miriam.

  "She died loving me!" he cried. "Oh, Miriam, can you not see? I have ithere." His voice rang through the house like some far silver buglechanting triumph over a field of the slain. "She died loving me!"

  * * * * *

  [Sidenote: Triumphant Cry]

  Barbara had already wakened and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. The atticwas almost dark. She went downstairs hurriedly, forgetting her borrowedfinery until her long train caught on a projecting splinter and had tobe loosened. When she reached her own door she started toward hermirror, anxious to see how she looked, but that triumphant cry from theroom below made her heart stand still.

  White as death and strangely fearful, she went down and into theliving-room, where the last light deepened the shadows and lay lovinglyupon her father's illumined face.

  Barbara smiled and went toward him, with her hands outstretched inwelcome. Miriam shrank back into the farthest shadows, shaking asthough she had seen a ghost.

  There was an instant's tense silence. All the forces of life and loveseemed suddenly to have concentrated into the space of a singleheart-beat. Then the old man spoke.

  "Constance," he said, unsteadily, "have you come back, Beloved? It hasbeen so long!"

  Radiant with beauty no woman had ever worn before, Barbara went to him,still smiling, and the old man's arms closed hungrily about her. "Idreamed you were dead," he sobbed, "but I knew you died loving me. Whereis our baby, Constance? Where is my Flower of the Dusk?"

  [Sidenote: Burden of Joy]

  Even as he spoke, the overburdened heart failed beneath its burden ofjoy. He staggered and would have fallen, had not Miriam caught him inher strong arms. Together, they helped him to the couch, where he laydown, breathing with great difficulty.

  "Constance, darling," he gasped, feebly, "where is our baby? I wantBarbara."

  For the sake of the dead and the living, Barbara supremely put selfaside. "I do not know," she whispered, "just where Barbara is. Am I notenough?"

  "Enough for earth," he breathed in answer, "and--for--heaven--too. Kissme--Constance--just once--dear--before----"

  [Sidenote: The Passing]

  Barbara bent down. He lifted his shaking hands caressingly to thesplendid crown of golden hair, the smooth, fair cheeks, the perfect neckand shoulders, and died, enraptured, with her kiss upon his lips.