Читать книгу A Modern Madonna - Caroline Abbot Stanley - Страница 5

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Two or three weeks after the wedding Mrs. Pennybacker sat with her niece in the elegantly appointed library of the mansion that old Cornelius Van Dorn had left to his bereaved widow.

Mrs. Van Dorn had enjoyed her crape, and was now in the softly alleviated stage of violet and heliotrope, which looked so well on her that she was tempted to prolong indefinitely this twilight of her grief. Certainly nothing could be more bewitching than the lavender housegown which enveloped her to-day, with its falls and cascades of soft lace and its coquettish velvet bows.

She was smiling complacently just now at this blond-haired reflection in the mirror as she leaned on the mantel.

"No, I don't believe I shall take off my mourning for another year," she said, half aloud, turning her head a little to one side to adjust a bow in her hair, "at least, not quite. Then perhaps I shall have a season of grays—a velvet hat with long feathers and a cut steel ornament. Soft shades are certainly becoming to me—and I dislike to see people rush into colors immediately, as if they had no feeling at all." The widowed lady sighed softly, as was her wont when referring to her bereavement. It seemed to go well with lavender.

"Your love for purple, Maria," observed Mrs. Pennybacker, ignoring the sentiment of these remarks and grasping promptly their salient point, as was her wont, "is an inherited one. Your mother used to feel when she had on a new purple calico or lawn that she was about as fine as they made them. And if she could get hold of a purple ribbon—"

"Aunt Mary," said Mrs. Van Dorn, in polite exasperation, "if you have to refer to those old days and what you wore, why don't you speak of muslins and organdies instead of calicoes and such things?"

"Because they were not muslins and organdies. They were calicoes and lawns—ten-cent lawns at that, and mighty glad we were to get them."

"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Van Dorn, in marked disgust, "I can't see any good in constantly advertising the fact, any more than I can see why you should say, as you did to Congressman Andrews last night, that you were from 'Possum Kingdom.'"

Mrs. Pennybacker's lips twitched in a reminiscent smile. "I did that to be explicit. He wanted to know what part of Callaway I was from and I had to tell him. I couldn't dodge. I was born in 'Possum Kingdom.' I thought he seemed to enjoy hearing about it."

"Enjoy it? Yes—at your expense."

"I didn't mind, Maria. It started us on a very mirthful talk. You ought to be thankful that I didn't tell him you were born there too."

"I don't want you ever to tell that to anybody. I am not a Missourian. I am a Washingtonian."

"Maria," said Mrs. Pennybacker, firmly, "you are a Missourian. It is too late now for you to select a birthplace. If you ever get into Statuary Hall (which I somewhat doubt) you will have to be written down from 'Possum Kingdom,' for there you were born."

Mrs. Van Dorn contented herself with a sniff.

"Anyway," continued Mrs. Pennybacker, argumentatively, "I don't see why one wouldn't rather have been born in a great sovereign state like Missouri—an empire in itself—than in a little two by four asparagus bed set like a patch on top of two other states, and not set straight at that. I never had any opinion of people who are ashamed of their native state, even if that was a state of poverty, and yours was a State of affluence."

"If you call calico and ten-cent lawn affluence—" began Mrs. Van Dorn.

"I was speaking of the commonwealth, Maria," Mrs. Pennybacker explained, with suspicious mildness, "a State of affluence written with a capital."

"I never even let Richard De Jarnette know I was from Missouri all the time he was coming to see me. I told him my mother was a Virginian, which was the truth. And that I was a Washingtonian."

"Which was—?"

"Oh, I suppose so. … And I have never let one soul know, Aunt Mary, where you are from."

Mrs. Pennybacker faced her. "You haven't! Well, if I were not going home to-morrow I should make a point of telling every acquaintance you have. Do you think I am ashamed of Missouri? I should as soon think of disowning the mother that bore me. Why should you hesitate to tell Mr. De Jarnette where you were from?"

"I thought a good deal about his opinion in those days, and—"

"Is he as provincial as all that?"

"He has always lived in the East and you know how Eastern people feel about the West."

"I don't know how they feel. But I know how they might feel if they knew anything about it. If the World's Fair is held in Chicago, I suspect it will open their eyes to a few things. Where are these De Jarnettes from?"

"It is an old Maryland family. There are just two of them left now, Richard and Victor. The father died years ago, leaving a large estate to his sons. Then Richard is wealthy in his own right. His property comes mainly from an aunt who did not like Victor's mother. … No, they are only half-brothers. Victor hasn't nearly so much money as Richard. It turns out that Richard has so much more than anybody ever supposed he had years ago." Mrs. Van Dorn's mouth sank into a slightly regretful droop, as if the subject had its stings.

"Maria, you remind me of a woman I used to know in Missouri. Whenever a girl was married and anybody asked this old lady how she had done, she always said, in her slow drawl, 'Well, I really don't know how much the man is worth.' What is there to these De Jarnettes besides money? I want to know something about Margaret's chances for happiness."

"Oh, it is a fine family. She has done well. I really think that Richard has shown himself sometimes quite hard, but the two are not at all alike. Victor's mother was a French woman, or of French descent. That is where he gets his complexion, I suppose—and perhaps his morals, for I guess he has been pretty fast. There was an awful scandal about his mother years ago, I've heard. Of course Richard never mentioned it to me, but I know he hates her like poison. I think she went off with another man or something like that—some dreadful thing that couldn't be talked about above your breath. Anyway, she disappeared and never came back—left her child—and all that. The story goes that she wanted to come back after a while, but old Mr. De Jarnette never forgave her. I think they really are very unforgiving—Richard has proved himself so. Yes, the boys were raised by the father and a negro nurse. They have a beautiful estate out here in Maryland—Elmhurst. Richard keeps it up and stays out there in the summer, or at least he did when I had an interest in him, which was ages ago."

"How old is Victor De Jarnette?"

"Twenty-one. He just came into his money last winter. He is two years older than Margaret."

Mrs. Pennybacker shook her head. "Too young entirely."

"Richard is ten years older than Victor. If she could have got him now—but—" Mrs. Van Dorn tossed her pretty head—"I don't believe anybody will ever capture Richard De Jarnette, unless—"

The sentence was unfinished, but she looked demurely at the lavender reflection in the mirror opposite. It is hard for a woman to forget a man who has once been at her feet.

After a long silence Mrs. Pennybacker, who had evidently been pondering something, said abruptly, "Maria, where did you say Margaret's new home was? I think I shall go to see her this afternoon."

"Why, Aunt Mary, you can't. She isn't at home until September."

"But I am going away tomorrow. I can't hang around here till September. And I am an old, old friend of her mother's. Don't you think she would excuse the informality under the circumstances?"

"Certainly not. You oughtn't to think of going."

"Very well," said Mrs. Pennybacker, "perhaps you are right. What did you say was her number? I may want to write to her some time."

She acquiesced in the proposed restriction of her movements without further remonstrance and an hour later sallied forth, address in hand, to find Margaret De Jarnette.

"That's always the best way to conduct a discussion with Maria," she said to herself. "It saves time and temper."

A fairer sight than Washington in May it would be hard to find. Too many of our great cities are but stupendous aggregations of brick and mortar, of flagstones and concrete, of elevators that climb to dizzy heights, and dark stairways which lead to a teeming under-world. Most of them, if called upon to give their own biographies, could do it as tersely and as truthfully as did Topsy, and in her immortal words—"I jes growed."

But fortunately the nation's capital was planned, and wisely planned, by a far-seeing brain, which beheld with the eye of faith while yet they were not, broad-shaded avenues flung out across the checkerboard of streets like green-bordered ribbons radiating in all directions from that massive pile which is to all good Americans (in spite of Dr. Holmes and Boston's claims) the true hub of our special universe. It is these transverse avenues which make the special beauty and distinction of the capital city—not in themselves alone, but in the miniature parks and triangular bits of greenery that they leave in their wake.

It was up Massachusetts Avenue, one of the most beautiful of them all, that Mrs. Pennybacker wended her way, consulting from time to time a card she held in her hand. She stopped at last at the door of a gray stone house, shaded by a row of elms. The "parking," as they call it, is rather wide on Massachusetts Avenue, and the lawn was green and well kept. There was an air of quiet elegance about the place that pleased Mrs. Pennybacker. "The exterior is all that can be desired, at any rate," she commented.

She sent up her card and waited in the parlor. The boy returned to say that Mrs. De Jarnette would be down immediately. When he was gone, Mrs. Pennybacker began a close perusal, so to speak, of her surroundings.

"A beautiful room," she announced to herself at length, "a beautiful room. For myself, I don't know that I like this Persian rug as well as I would a good body brussels that covered the whole floor, but that is only my taste. You have to get used to bare spots on a floor before you really appreciate them, I suppose. … Well, if happiness lies in things (and I am not surer of anything in this world than that it doesn't) Margaret will be very happy here. I wish I felt sure of—"

The sentence was unfinished. At this moment a slight lithe figure ran swiftly down the stairs and fell upon her in the most unceremonious manner.

"I am so glad to see you! You are the Mrs. Pennybacker from Missouri who was my mother's old friend, aren't you? I have heard my father speak of you so often."

"You take a different view of it from my niece, Mrs. Van Dorn," said Mrs. Pennybacker, after the greetings were over. "She said it wouldn't do at all for me to come. In fact, I ran off to do it."

"I am so glad you did," laughed Margaret. "I wouldn't have missed your visit for anything. I wish you could have been at my wedding."

"I was. I have made it a point in a long life never to miss anything that I can see legitimately and respectably. My niece secured an invitation for me. I supposed you knew."

"Was that for you? I remember Mrs. Van Dorn's asking permission to bring a friend, but I did not dream that it was anybody I ought to know."

"I live in an obscure place," Mrs. Pennybacker explained, "and Maria seems to associate obscurity with disreputableness. It is one of her little peculiarities not to wish it known that she has friends in Missouri. Oh, no, I don't mind." Then, dismissing Mrs. Van Dorn and her peculiarities, "You are very much like your mother, my dear."

"Oh, do you think so? I am always glad to be told that—although I know so little about her myself. Do you think I look like her or is it my manner?"

Mrs. Pennybacker scanned critically the bright face opposite.

"Both. You are taller, I think, but you have her supple grace—I noticed it as you ran down the stairs—and her animation. I am glad of that, for it was one of her greatest charms."

Margaret laughed. "I'm afraid I have too much animation—but I can't help it. You see I feel things rather intensely. My enjoyment is so real that I don't know how to keep from showing it."

"I hope you will never learn. A fresh enthusiasm about everything as it comes, and a capacity to enjoy, are among God's best gifts to us. They have but one drawback."

"And that is—?"

"A corresponding capacity for suffering," said Mrs. Pennybacker, with sudden gravity, as she looked into the young face. "Those two characteristics often go together. But don't be afraid to enjoy with intensity, my dear. It is about that as it is with brilliant color. You often hear girls bewail their pink cheeks, but time almost always tones it down, Margaret. I may call you that, may I not? It almost seems to me that the years have been obliterated and that your mother is beside me."

"Oh, I want you to call me that. It is so lovely to see somebody that knew my mother. You always continued friends, didn't you? Nothing ever came between you?"

"Nothing—not even death. She seems close to me now, as I sit looking at you."

Impulsively Margaret threw her arms around her mother's friend. "Oh, you bring her closer to me than she has ever been in all my life. Tell me about her."

They sat long together, the older woman living over for the girl the life of the mother she had never known—her girlhood, the marriage, the brief wedded life, and its untimely close.

"I love to hear you tell about it," Margaret said, a tender light in her eyes. "I have known so little of my mother. Somehow father never talked with me much about her. I think it hurt him to remember."

"He was very fond of her," Mrs. Pennybacker said, "and she of him. I never knew a purer love match, nor a happier married life."

"And yet she had to give it up so soon. Oh, Mrs. Pennybacker, it seems to me the saddest thing to want to live and have to die! I don't think anything could be harder than that."

"Yes. There is something harder than that, Margaret. It is to want to die and have to live."

Margaret's face expressed incredulity.

Her head was thrown back with a gesture that was habitual with her, and her eyes shining.

"You are very happy, Margaret?" said Mrs. Pennybacker, softly.

"I don't think anybody could be happier. It almost frightens me sometimes to think how happy. You see, my husband—" she said it in the pretty, hesitating way that young girls use who have not yet got accustomed to the word—"my husband is so good to me. It seems so blessed to have somebody's tender care around me all the time. I think that is what makes a woman love a man, don't you? … And then I am so glad to have a home. I have never had a home since father died. I don't mean to say that they were not everything to me at Judge Kirtley's that friends could be—you understand that—but they were not my very own, nor I theirs. And I had mourned for father so—had missed him so desperately. I thought of that time when you were speaking of a capacity for suffering. But after a while—well, you know how those things go. While I did not forget him, after a while the world did not seem quite so black, and gradually—"

"Yes, child, I know.

'Joy comes, grief goes—we know not how.'"

"That is just it exactly. That is Lowell, isn't it? Then when Victor came into my life—Mrs. Pennybacker, do you know I think Victor is going to be so much like father in his home."

"I hope so," returned Mrs. Pennybacker, but the face of the bridegroom at St. John's rose before her mental vision, and her hope was without the element of faith.

"Mrs. Pennybacker, do you suppose father knows? I hope he does. I am almost ashamed to tell you this for fear you will think me silly, but sometimes when Victor has just gone—has told me good-bye for the day, and that he will hurry back as soon as he can, and all that, you know—and it rushes over me so—the blessedness of having a love like his, and a dear home that is to be ours forever—I am—my heart is so overflowing with joy that I go to my room and drop down by the couch and whisper softly, 'Father! I am so happy! Can you hear me, dearest?'"

She dashed the tears from her eyes and smiled through wet lashes. "I know it is foolish, Mrs. Pennybacker, and I can't see how I came to be telling it all to you—but I feel as if I want father to know. Do you think he does?"

"I am not much of a Spiritualist, Margaret," returned Mrs. Pennybacker, guardedly. "The dye from which my religious faith took its color was very blue—but certainly if there is such a thing as communion between the living and the dead—or rather the living here and the living there—it would come in answer to a whisper like that."

There were tears in the eyes of both. The elder woman was thinking, "Oh, I hope it will last!"

But she only said, "You did not take a wedding journey?"

"No. Victor wanted me to go abroad, but I could not bear the thought of going anywhere just at first. I was so eager to get things arranged in our home. We had so many pretty bridal gifts that I was just crazy to see how they would look. I felt that I would rather fix up this home than do anything in the world. Then, too, I hated to go away at this time of the year. Of course we will go later, but May is so beautiful in Washington."

"Yes," Mrs. Pennybacker said, softly—with all her practicality and candid speech there was an unworked vein of sentiment about her, "yes, May is beautiful everywhere—even in Life's calendar."

It did seem that in that home there was not one thing lacking; everything was there that heart could desire, taste suggest, or money secure; and the mistress's pride and joy in it all were so spontaneous, so exuberant, her realization of the blessedness of her new life so vivid, that only a croaker or a keen student of human life would have had a thought of the transitory nature of all things.

And yet—

By an impulse for which she herself could not account, Mrs. Pennybacker turned again to the girl to whom she had said good-by and took both her hands.

"My dear," she said, "my home is in an obscure spot. One can hardly find it on the map. But for you its doors are always open. If you ever need a friend, come to me."

"How queer!" mused Margaret when she was gone. "I wonder how she came to say that. Well, with all her oddity, I like her."