Читать книгу A Modern Madonna - Caroline Abbot Stanley - Страница 13

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It was two weeks or more after the burial of Victor De Jarnette before his will was read. Mr. Jarvis, the attorney in whose charge it had been left, had been absent from the city at the time of the unfortunate affair, and the hearing of the will had of necessity been postponed until his return. This was a matter of very little concern to Margaret. It seemed to her rather a useless formality anyway, this coming together to hear the provisions of a legal instrument that could have but one outcome. The money would go to Philip, of course. Judge Kirtley had talked to her about her "dower rights," and a "child's part," and several other things that she did not in the least understand, but she only shook her head. She had a great abundance of money, she told him, for her own needs and Philip's, too, for that matter, and she had determined to turn over to her child at once whatever legally came to her. She had a shuddering feeling that she did not want to use Victor's money. Let it all go to Philip. In fact, Margaret had always been so far removed from any care in regard to money except the spending of it that her ideas on the subject were very vague and impractical. She had always had all the money she wanted or could possibly use, and what would anybody want with more than that? Avarice is the vice of age rather than of youth, and Margaret certainly was not avaricious.

She had spent this fortnight in adjusting herself to new conditions. When the first horror of it all passed she became aware that a great load was lifted from her heart. There was nothing to do; there was no choice pressing upon her; everything was settled, and that by no act of hers; there was no danger now of trouble about Philip, and the sharp relief she experienced at this thought made her aware of what a steadily-growing fear that had begun to be. No, that was over now, thank God! and she caught up the child in a passion of relief.

There was something infinitely touching about the girl in these days when she stood looking at the wreck of her life. It was so different from what she had thought it would be—so different! She wondered vaguely if other people—most people—saw their ships go down like this.

The sea around her was filled with wreckage. There was nothing now but to gather up the scattered bits and with such courage as she could summon, piece out another life. A very quiet subdued one this would be, with Philip as its center. It would be colorless perhaps—she shivered slightly—she was not quite twenty-one, and color had not lost its charm—but it would, at least, be peaceful.

Then, as thought projected itself into the future, and she saw this opening bud grow to the perfect flower, it seemed to her that it would not only be peaceful, but satisfying. Now he was a rolicking boy, and she would see to it that he missed none of life's pleasures that had not a sting;—now he was a lad at school, she standing by his side, thinking his thoughts and leading him on to think hers—she would keep very, very close to him! her little Philip!—then a youth at college—could she let him go away for that?—and now a man fitted for useful life, and with his strong arm shielding her, his mother, who had shielded him, smoothing the pathway for her feet as she went down life's hill. Ah! through it all how she would guard him, guide him, carry him by sheer force of mother-love across the slippery places that his feet would find. His father—and her thought of him, a motherless boy, grew tender—his father had missed this. Perhaps, if he had had it—well, she would make it up to Philip, his child, at any rate. She would try to keep him pure. This with a sudden sinking sense of her own helplessness. The first regret came to her that it was a son she had and not a daughter. A daughter she could keep with her while a son must of necessity go out into the world, and the world, she thought with a pang, was so full of peril, of temptation.

The more she pondered it the more her soul was girded for her work. To mould a life! This was what was left her. Well! was it not enough? To find her chief happiness not in living her own, but in fashioning another life. Then to something that spoke within her she made answer, "Yes, of course, it will be lonely, but—" A fragment of a fugitive poem she had once read came to her,

"Lonely? Well, and what of that?"

She could not recall the next two lines—such scraps are so elusive—but it did not matter. The trumpet call of the thing was in the last line:

"Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!"

She bowed her head over the crib on which lay her sleeping child. She took his soft dimpled hand between her palms.

"Yes, it is lonely, little Philip," she whispered brokenly—"it will always be lonely, but—

'Work may be done in loneliness.'"

"I'll begin again, dear, and map out another life and we will live it together, you and I. And we will make it just as sweet and full a life as we can—for 'I'll have you and you'll have me.' We won't be gloomy or sad—we will not let ourselves be—nothing shall cast a shadow over this little life we are going to live—nothing! It is ours! We will make it the brightest and the best thing we can. We have a right to be happy and we will be! Nobody shall keep us from it, little Philip!"

It was in this mood of quiet exaltation that she went down stairs to the reading of the will a little later when the lawyer came.

She had not seen her brother-in-law since the funeral. To Judge Kirtley's unspeakable indignation Mr. De Jarnette had not even returned to the house with her. At this lack of civility, to say nothing of brotherly kindness, she was surprised and hurt, but she clothed herself in her impenetrable garment of silence regarding it, and made no comment.

Judge Kirtley had not been so reticent. To his wife he had said with some heat,

"He is the most incomprehensible man I ever saw. I know he is undemonstrative by nature, but up to this time he really has not been lacking in substantial kindness to Margaret. I judge so from what she tells me—particularly when Victor first went away and she most needed help. But since his death, when one would have expected him to stand by her, he has stood aloof. I can't understand it. He certainly is not an emotional man, nor an impulsive one. There is something back of this."

"Can she have offended him by anything she has said? And still she has been so very reticent—"

"No," said the Judge, "it isn't that, I am sure. I have sometimes wondered if it could be—" he was patting his foot thoughtfully and talking more to himself than to her—"that he had some suspicion that Victor's death was by his own hand—intentionally, I mean—and held Margaret responsible for it—as the result of their interview."

"And what that was we will never know," said his wife, with the tone of one airing a grievance.

"No, and never should," her husband responded, quickly. "She shows her sense there. I have wondered, I say, if he can hold such a thought as that against her. It is the only thing I can think of that would at all excuse his conduct."

"Didn't Victor make a dying statement that it was accidental?"

"Yes."

"A sworn statement?"

"No. But a dying declaration has almost as much weight."

"Then, of course, it was the truth! Wouldn't that be perjury or something like that to make a false statement at such a time?"

"Well, you see," the Judge responded, dryly, "Victor De Jarnette was going where he would be in no danger of being tried for perjury—even admitting that it would have been that—which it wouldn't." Then, feeling that he had been a little indiscreet in thus thinking aloud before the wife of his bosom, who did not enjoy quite all his confidence, he added, "I think you are right, my dear. It was a foolish thought in me."

"It certainly was," answered Mrs. Kirtley, pursuing the advantage of this concession to her superior wisdom, "foolish and wild. Of course it was an accident! Why, wasn't the rag there that he had been cleaning the pistol with?"

"It was."

"Well!" triumphantly.

"You are right again. That settles it," said the Judge, chuckling to himself. "You ought to have been a lawyer, my dear, or a detective."

"Oh, I can see a thing when it is self-evident," his wife said, modestly.

The three gentlemen, Mr. De Jarnette, Judge Kirtley, and Mr. Jarvis were in the library when Margaret entered it. The latter, being nearest the door, rose and extended his hand in grave courteous greeting. Mr. De Jarnette—the table between them—bowed; while Judge Kirtley took her affectionately by the hand and drew her to a chair beside him. She was clothed in black relieved by white at neck and wrists. There was something about her slight girlish form and youthful face that made the attorney with the legal document in his hand draw a quick deep breath and give an unnoticed movement of the head as if in protest.

"And are you well?" asked the Judge, patting her hand and smiling re-assuringly into her eyes. There is something very awe-inspiring to a novice in a visit from a lawyer with a legal document in his hand.

"Oh, yes, quite well, thank you."

Her hands were cold. He said, to give her time to recover herself, "And how is the boy?"

Her face lighted up as from a burst of sunshine. "Doing nicely, thank you. Growing every day in strength and accomplishments. Why, he actually travels around chairs faster than we want to travel after him."

"That's right. He'll lead you a merry chase when he finds out his powers."

"Yes, and he is finding them out very rapidly. He is going to be a real boy—so strong and active."

"He is great company for you," Judge Kirtley said, "and will be more as time goes on. I know how these little things creep into one's heart. You know I lost my boy." It was forty years since then, but his eyes grew moist as he thought of the son who might have been his stay, and was but a tender memory.

Her hand closed over his. "It must be very hard to lose a child," she said, softly. "I—I think I could not bear that. They come so close!"

They were talking almost in an undertone. Richard De Jarnette had left the room to speak to his driver at the door. The lawyer, a kind-hearted man with children of his own, was fumbling over the papers in his bag, saying helplessly. "Oh, Lord! Lord!"

When Mr. De Jarnette returned, Margaret released her hand gently and sat upright. Then the reading began.

The will was dated May 3, 1889, two days after their marriage. Margaret remembered Victor's coming home that day and telling her that he had made it and had left everything to her—remembered too how she had clung passionately to him in the superstitious fear of what a will might bring, and said that she did not want his money, she wanted him. Yes, the date was the same, and as the reading proceeded she saw, through all the tiresome verbiage, that it was just as he had said—all was left to his "beloved wife, Margaret." Richard De Jarnette was named as executor.

The lawyer paused as if this were the end, though he still held the paper—a little unsteadily—before him. It seemed to Judge Kirtley, watching from the depths of his leather-covered chair, that the paper shook.

Margaret's voice broke the stillness that followed the reading of the will.

"I do not know that this is the time or place to do this," she began with hesitation, "but—when this will was written there was no child. Now that there is, I wish to transfer this property to him. I have enough—"

"Margaret," the Judge interrupted, "the law takes care of that. Though there is no mention of a child, he would share with you."

"I want him to have it all," she said. "I—I could not keep this money for myself. I would not wish to use it."

She turned to look at Judge Kirtley, who was at her right, and as she did so met Richard De Jarnette's steady gaze. There was something so intent, so inexplicable in his eyes—a look so like hate or scorn or distrust—something at least that she had never seen there before—that involuntarily she dropped her eyes. What had she said? What made him look like that? There was something in that look that froze her blood.

Judge Kirtley as her lawyer spoke authoritatively. "There is time enough to attend to all that later. These things should never be done with precipitation."

And Margaret, who had not yet recovered from that startling look into Richard De Jarnette's heart, and was moreover oppressed with the fear that she had done a thing Judge Kirtley disapproved, subsided into silence.

The voice of Mr. Jarvis was heard.

"I regret to say," he remarked slowly and with his eyes bent religiously on the paper, "that there is a codicil to this will, bearing date of April 30th of the following year. No one can deprecate more than I the painful duty that devolves upon me of reading it in this presence."

Judge Kirtley sat up in his easy chair, scenting danger. It was unusual for an attorney to apologize for a will. But Margaret was motionless. She was thinking of the date. It was the day Victor left her—two days before Philip was born.

Then the attorney read:

"To my beloved brother, Richard De Jarnette, who has been to me a father, I give and bequeath the custody and tuition of my child until it shall be of full age, and I direct that such disposition shall be good and effectual against all and every person or persons claiming the custody and tuition of said child."

For a moment there was not a sound. It was Margaret, again, who broke the silence. She turned to Judge Kirtley, a look of bewilderment on her face, but no alarm.

"'Custody,'" she repeated, simply. "What does it mean by 'custody'? Is it the care of the property?"

The Judge's face looked gray in its rigidity. He shook his head slightly and then motioned toward Mr. Jarvis.

"Mr. De Jarnette's attorney will explain," he said, briefly.

Margaret turned to the lawyer who still held the paper in his hand. "You see I am very ignorant of legal terms," she said, with a pitiful little attempt at apology—"I have never had anything to do with the law—and I do not quite understand what 'custody' means here. Is it that Mr. De Jarnette is by this codicil appointed Philip's guardian—to take care of his property?"

The attorney did not look up from the papers he was fingering. Indeed, as she looked from one to another in her perplexity Margaret saw only averted faces. There was not one that was ready to look into her anxious, pleading eyes.

"Mrs. De Jarnette," said the attorney, moistening his dry lips, "this means something more serious than that, or rather it would if Mr. De Jarnette were inclined to insist upon the letter of the law—which, of course, he will not do—" with a rather imploring glance in the direction of the gentleman referred to. Mr. De Jarnette sat unmoved and immovable, not showing by the change of a muscle that he heard the appeal, and the lawyer went on. "Custody in this sense does not mean the guardianship of property, but of the person."

There was another silence. Then Margaret—eyes staring, breath coming hard, hands clenched, and face white as death, spoke.

"Do you mean," she said slowly and in a voice that trembled with suppressed passion, "that my child has been willed away from me?—from me—his mother? That this man—or any man—can have the right by law to take him from me? … My baby? … Oh, no! you don't mean this! … I was mad to think of it. But you see—I am so inexperienced."

"But, Mrs. De Jarnette," returned the lawyer, feeling his task harder even than he had feared, "I am obliged to tell you—much as I regret to do so—that it is true. There is a most unfortunate law in this District—not to call it by a harsher name—which gives a father the right to will away his child even from its mother. That law your late husband unfortunately knew about, and in a moment of great anger, and, as he claimed, of great provocation, he used that knowledge as we have seen."

"To stab the woman he had sworn to cherish," muttered Judge Kirtley, under his breath. Then, reaching for the will, he asked, sternly, "Were all the requirements of the law complied with in regard to witnesses?"

"Yes, sir. I am sorry to say that nothing has been omitted that would give validity to the will—or rather to this codicil."

"Then I am constrained to say," blurted the Judge, "that it was a dastardly thing!"

"I think I should say, in justice to myself," said Mr. Jarvis, a little stiffly, "that I made every effort to dissuade Mr. De Jarnette from doing this thing. I urged him to wait until the next day, knowing him to be an impulsive man, and feeling sure that he would wish afterwards to undo what he had done. But—he would not listen to me. I hoped that I could get him to change the will when he returned, and I can hardly doubt that he would have done so, had it not been for the unfortunate accident that ended his life."

Margaret had been listening breathlessly. As Mr. Jarvis stopped she turned to speak to Judge Kirtley and again encountered the steady gaze of Richard De Jarnette's black eyes. It seemed so strange, so unaccountable, for him to watch her so that before she could control it—if indeed control is ever possible—she felt a hot tide sweeping up from neck to brow. And the consciousness of this did not lessen the flow. Then it passed and left her paler than before. It was annoying but it did not stop her in what she had to say. A new thought had come to her while Mr. Jarvis was speaking.

"What is the date of that codicil?" she asked.

"April 30, 1890."

"I thought so," she said eagerly. "Well, don't you see how that date changes everything? Even if my—if Mr. De Jarnette had had the right by law to will away my child he could not have done it on April 30th, for Philip was not born till two days afterward! His birthday is May second!" She said it exultantly.

As by one impulse the two lawyers looked each into the face of the other and then away.

"Don't you see?" she cried desperately, not comprehending the look but knowing instinctively that something was wrong. "Don't you see the difference that makes? When that will was made this child was mine!—a part of my body!—my very breath giving him life! … Don't you see?—Oh, can't you see? … He wouldn't have the right to make this will then—not then!"

Her voice was becoming strained and high-pitched in her excitement.

"Mrs. De Jarnette," began Mr. Jarvis, "the law—I should say—yes, the law—Judge, you can explain this to her better than I can."

She turned to Judge Kirtley. She was in extremity now.

"My child," he said, "the law, as it distinctly states, recognizes in this thing no difference between the living child and the infant en ventre sa mere. Your husband, according to the laws of the District of Columbia, had a right to will away your unborn child."

She stared at him incredulously. Then, as the meaning of his words sank into her quivering soul, she bent toward him with a look that had a challenge in it.

"And have you known this before?"

"Always."

"And you?" she demanded, turning to Mr. Jarvis.

"Yes," he admitted. "It is a part of our imperfect laws. The whole thing should have been revised long ago. It is a disgrace to the District."

"Then why does it remain upon your statute books?" she cried, furiously. "Is law only for the strong? Do we—the weak—the ones who need it most—do we find in it only something to mock us when we cry to it?"

Her timidity was all gone. She flung her questions at them tumultuously, as children stand and beat impotently upon a door that will not open to them. "I tell you it is a wicked law! a wicked, wicked law! and they do wickedly who let it stand! … A mother have no right to her unborn child? Shame! shame! upon the men who frame such laws! They are not born of women but of beasts!"

"Margaret," Judge Kirtley said, sternly, "you must control yourself. This is no place for a discussion of our laws, however imperfect they are."

"I beg your pardon," she answered with a flush and a return to her usual manner. "In this insult to womanhood and motherhood I forgot myself. I shall not do so again. Only tell me that I need not fear—that my baby is safe with me!"

As she spoke she turned full upon Richard De Jarnette though she did not call his name.

He looked at her impassively.

"Mr. De Jarnette," said Mr. Jarvis, nervously, folding up his papers and placing them in his satchel, "I think you can do more to add to your sister-in-law's peace of mind than anybody else can. Will you not tell her plainly your intentions in the matter?"

"I will," said Richard De Jarnette, a sudden fire leaping to his eyes, which were upon Margaret. Then he turned to the attorney.

"I accept the trust my brother has bequeathed to me, and shall claim the child."

Saying which he rose, bowed slightly, and left the room.