by Myrtle Reed
XX
Pardon
[Sidenote: The Burial Service]
Crushed and almost broken-hearted, Barbara sat in the dining-room. Theair was heavy with the overpowering scent of tuberoses. From the roombeyond came the solemn words of the burial service: "I am theresurrection and the life. He that believeth on me, though he were dead,yet shall he live."
The words beat unbearably upon her ears. The walls of the room moved asthough they were of fabric, stirred by winds of hell. The floorundulated beneath her feet and black mists blinded her. Her hands wereso cold that she scarcely felt the friendly, human touch on either sideof her chair.
Roger held one of her cold little hands in both his own, yearning toshare her grief, to divide it in some way; even to bear it for her. Onthe other side was Doctor Conrad, profoundly moved. His science had notyet obliterated his human instincts and he was neither ashamed of themist in his eyes nor of the painful throbbing of his heart. His fingerswere upon Barbara's pulse, where the lifetide moved so slowly that hecould barely feel it.
On the other side of the room, alien and apart, as always, sat Miriam.She wore her best black gown, but her face was inscrutable. Perhaps thelines were more sharply cut, perhaps the rough, red hands moved morenervously than usual, and perhaps the deep-set black eyes burned morefiercely, but no one noticed--or cared.
[Sidenote: The Minister]
The deep voice in the room beyond was vibrant with tenderness. The manwho stood near Ambrose North as he lay in his last sleep had beensummoned from town by Eloise. He did not make the occasion an excuse forpresenting his own particular doctrine, bolstered up by argument, nordid he bid his hearers rejoice and be glad. He admitted, at thebeginning, that sorrow lay heavily upon the hearts of those who lovedAmbrose North and did not say that God was chastening them for their owngood.
He spoke of Life as the rainbow that brilliantly spans two mysterioussilences, one of which is dawn and the other sunset. This flaming arcmust end, as it begins, in pain, but, past the silence, and, perhaps, ineven greater mystery, the circle must somewhere become complete andround back to a new birth.
Could not the God who ordained the beginning be safely trusted with theend? Forgetting the grey mists of dawn in which the rainbow began,should we deny the inevitable night when the arc bends down at the otherend of the world? Having seen so much of the perfect curve, could we notbelieve in the circle? And should we not remember that the rainbowitself was a signal and a promise that there should be no more sea? Evenso, was not this mortal life of ours, tempered as it is by sorrow andtears, a further promise that, when the circle was completed, thereshould be no more death?
[Sidenote: God's Love]
The deep voice went on, even more tenderly, to speak of God; not of Hispower, but of His purpose, not of His justice, but His forgiveness, notof His vengeance, but of His love. A love so vast and far-reaching thatthere is no place where it is not; it enfolds not only our little world,poised in infinite space like a mote in a sunbeam, but all the shining,rolling worlds beyond. Every star that rises within our sight and allthe million stars beyond, in misty distances so great as to beincomprehensible, are guided and surrounded by this same love. It isimpossible to conceive of a place where it is not--even in the midst ofpain, poverty, suffering, and death, God's love is there also. Theminister pleaded with those who listened to him to lean wholly upon thisall-sustaining, all-forgiving love; to believe that it sheltered boththe living and the dead, and to trust, simply, as a little child.
[Sidenote: At the Close of the Service]
In the stillness that followed, Eloise went to the piano. The wornstrings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys. In her full,low contralto she sang, to an exquisite melody:
"When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree; Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
"I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget."
The deep, manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little groupof neighbours and friends went out with hushed and reverent step, intothe golden Autumn afternoon. Miriam came in, to all outward appearancewholly unmoved. She stood by him for a moment, then turned away.
Eloise closed the door and Roger and Allan brought Barbara in. She bentdown to her father, who lay so quietly, with a smile of heavenly peaceupon his lips, and her tears rained upon his face. "Good-bye, dearDaddy," she sobbed. "It is Barbara who kisses you now."
* * * * *
When Ambrose North went out of his door for the last time, on his way torest beside his beloved Constance until God should summon them both,Roger stayed behind, with Barbara. Doctor Conrad had said, positively,that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed.
The boy's heart was too full for words. He still kept her cold littlehand in his. "There isn't anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara,dear?"
[Sidenote: The Pity of It]
"No," she sobbed. "That is the pity of it. There is never anything to besaid or done."
"I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you," he said, simply."Some way, we seem to belong together, you and I."
They sat in silence until the others came back. Eloise came straight toBarbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent littlefigure.
"Will you come with me, dear?" she asked. "We can get a carriage easilyand I'd love to have you with me. Will you come?"
For a moment, Barbara hesitated. "No," she said, "I must stay here. I'vegot to live right on here, and I might as well begin to-night."
Allan took from his pocket several small, round white tablets, and gavethem to Barbara. "Two just before going to bed," he said. "And if you'rethe same brave girl that you've been ever since I've known you, you'llhave your bearings again in a short time."
[Sidenote: By the Open Fire]
Roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretence ofeating. The odour of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought,inevitably, the thought of death. Afterward, Barbara sat by the openfire with one hand lying listlessly in Roger's warm, understandingclasp. In the kitchen, Miriam vigorously washed the few dishes. She hadput away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant oftable damask, and the Satsuma cup.
"Shall I read to you, Barbara?" asked Roger.
"No," she answered, wearily. "I couldn't listen to-night."
The hours dragged on. Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, by the lightof one candle, remorsefully, after many years, face to face withherself.
She wondered what Constance would do to her now, when she went to bedand fearfully closed her eyes. She determined to cheat Constance bysitting up all night, and then realised that by doing so she would onlypostpone the inevitable reckoning.
Miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere, on earth, or in heaven,or in hell. Mysterious balances must be made before things were right,and her endeavours to get what she had conceived to be her own just duehad all failed.
She wondered why. Constance had wronged her and she was entitled to payConstance back in her own coin. But the opportunity had been taken outof her hands, every time. Even at the last, her subtle revenge had beentransmuted into further glory for Constance. Why?
The answer flashed upon her like words of fire--"_Vengeance is mine;I will repay._"
Then, suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession camepitilessly upon her soul. Her lined face blanched in the candle-lightand her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair.
[Sidenote: The Still Small Voice]
"Confess,"
she repeated to herself scornfully as though in answer tosome imperative summons. "To whom?"
There was no answer, but, in her heart, Miriam knew. Only one of theblood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made. Andif anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it mustcome to her through Barbara.
Miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others mighthear. Roger heard--and wondered--but said nothing.
After he went home, Barbara still sat by the fire, in that surceasewhich comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it stepsaside, to wait a little, before taking a fresh hold. She could wondernow about the letter, in her mother's writing, that she had picked upfrom the floor, and which her father had found, and very possibly read.She hesitated to ask Miriam anything concerning either her father or hermother.
[Sidenote: Miriam's Confession]
But, while she sat there, Miriam came into the room, urged by goadingimpulses without number and one insupportable need. She stood nearBarbara for several minutes without speaking; then she began, huskily,"Barbara----"
The girl turned, wearily. "Yes?"
"I've got something to say and I don't know but what to-night is as gooda time as any. Neither of us are likely to sleep much."
Barbara did not answer.
"I hated your mother," said Miriam, passionately. "I always hated her."
"I guessed that," answered Barbara, with a sigh.
"Your father was in love with me when she came from school, with herdoll-face and pretty ways. She took him away from me. He never looked atme after he saw her. I had to stand by and see it, help her with herpretty clothes, and even be maid of honour at the wedding. It was hard,but I did it.
"She loved him, in a way, but it wasn't much of a way. She liked thefine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but, after he went blind, shecould hardly tolerate him. Lots of times, she would have been downrightcruel to him if I hadn't made her do differently.
"The first time they came here for the Summer, she met Laurence Austin,Roger's father, and it was love at first sight on both sides. They usedto see each other every day either here or out somewhere. After you wereborn, the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him. I know,for I followed.
"When your father asked where she was, I lied to him, not only then, butmany times. I wasn't screening her--I was shielding him. It went on forover a year, then she took the laudanum. She left four notes--one to me,one to your father, one to you, and one to Laurence Austin. I neverdelivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for fiveyears. After he died, she still haunted me, but it was less often, anddifferent.
"When you sent me into your father's room after that letter he had inhis pocket, I took time to read it. She said, there, that she didn'ttrust me, and that I had always loved your father. It was true enough,but I didn't know she knew it.
"After you took the letter out, I put in the one to Laurence Austin. I'dopened it and read it some little time back. I thought it was time heknew her as she was, and I never thought about no name being mentionedin it.
"When he tore off the bandages, he read that letter, and never knew thatit wasn't meant for him. Then, when you came in in that old dress ofyour mother's, he thought it was her come back to him, and never knewany different."
There was a long pause. "Well?" said Barbara, wearily. It did not seemas if anything mattered.
"I just want you to know that I've hated your mother all my life, eversince she came home from school. I've hated you because you look likeher. I've hated your father because he talked so of her all the time,and hated myself for loving him. I've hated everybody, but I've done myduty, as far as I know. I've scrubbed and slaved and taken care of youand your father, and done the best I could.
"When I put that letter into his pocket, I intended for him to know thatConstance was in love with another man. I'd have read it to him long agoif I'd had any idea he'd believe me. When he thought it was for him,I was just on the verge of telling him different when you came in andstopped me. You looked so much like your mother I thought Constance hadtaken to walking down here daytimes instead of back and forth in my roomat night.
"I suppose," Miriam went on, in a strange tone, "that I've killedhim--that there's murder on my hands as well as hate in my heart.I suppose you'll want to make some different arrangements now--youwon't want to go on living with me after I've killed your father."
[Sidenote: A Wonderful Joy]
"Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, calmly, "I've known for a long time almosteverything you've told me, but I didn't know how father got the letter.I thought he must have found it somewhere in the desk or in his ownroom, or even in the attic. You didn't kill him any more than I did, bycoming into the room in mother's gown. What he really died of was agreat, wonderful joy that suddenly broke a heart too weak to hold it.And, even though I've wanted my father to see me, all my life long, I'drather have had it as it was, and he would, too. I'm sure of that.
"He told me once the three things he most wanted to see in the worldwere mother's letter, saying that she loved him, then mother herself,and, last of all, me. And for a long time his dearest dream has beenthat I could walk and he could see. So when, in the space of five orten minutes, all the dreams came true, his heart failed."
"But," Miriam persisted, "I meant to do him harm." Her burning eyes werekeenly fixed upon Barbara's face.
"Sometimes," answered the girl, gently, "I think that right must comefrom trying to do wrong, to make up for the countless times wrong comesfrom trying to do right. Father could not have had greater joy, even inheaven, than you and I gave him at the last, neither of us meaning to doit."
[Sidenote: Human Sympathy and Love]
The stern barrier that had reared itself between Miriam and her kindsuddenly crumbled and fell. Warm tides of human sympathy and love cameinto her numb heart and ice-bound soul. The lines in her face relaxed,her hands ceased to tremble, and her burning eyes softened with the mistof tears. Her mouth quivered as she said words she had not even dreamedof saying for more than a quarter of a century:
"Will you--can you--forgive me?"
All that she needed from the dead and all they could have given her camegenerously from Barbara. She sprang to her feet and threw her armsaround Miriam's neck. "Oh, Aunty! Aunty!" she cried, "indeed I do, notonly for myself, but for father and mother, too. We don't forgiveenough, we don't love enough, we're not kind enough, and that's allthat's wrong with the world. There isn't time enough for bitterness--theend comes too soon."
[Sidenote: At Peace]
Miriam went upstairs, strangely uplifted, strangely at peace. She was nolonger alien and apart, but one with the world. She had a sense ofuniversal kinship--almost of brotherhood. That night she slept, for thefirst time in more than twenty years, without the fear of Constance.
And Constance, who was more sinned against than sinning, and whosefaithful old husband had that day lain down, in joy and triumph, to restbeside her in the churchyard, came no more.