Читать книгу A Modern Madonna - Caroline Abbot Stanley - Страница 6

Table of Contents

Certainly there was nothing on Margaret De Jarnette's horizon at present that was a forecast of falling weather. The skies were blue, the air clear, and over all the life-giving sunshine of love and trust which was starting every plant in her home garden to budding. The program agreed upon in those ante-nuptial days was carried out, and while friends were wondering where the two had gone for their wedding journey, they were quietly settling themselves in their new home and into each other's lives.

To Margaret the place on Massachusetts Avenue was the House Beautiful. The home-building instinct was strong within her, and she took a bird's delight in fashioning her nest. If Victor's pleasure in it all did not seem so keen as hers, she did not perceive it. When he came at night she flitted from one room to another, convoying him along to show him how this straw had been changed and this wisp of hay added, and as he looked and listened she did not doubt that it was together they were building their nest.

The evenings of that matchless May and June were full of peaceful joy—long drives through Rock Creek Park or the beautiful winding ways of the Soldiers' Home, with now and then a row upon the river past old Georgetown, with its windows blinking at the setting sun, and back again when it lay steeped in moonlight, and they floated lazily down toward the Monument which dominated the landscape whichever way they turned—heeding not time nor aught else so that only they were together and away from all the world. Ah! it was idyllic while it lasted, but it palled at last, the least bit, upon Victor, and then they sought the seashore, Margaret saying to herself that it was her choice to go.

At the seashore, as it chanced, there was a gay crowd from Baltimore that Victor knew, and things gave promise of being very pleasant, but unfortunately Margaret was not well when they first reached the place, nor for some time afterwards—not ill enough to hinder Victor's going, as she insisted earnestly, but in a way that kept her quiet upon the hotel piazza. She was not strong enough to take the jaunts the others enjoyed. Victor demurred at first, saying he would not think of leaving her, but it was a very pleasant party, and men are always in demand at seaside resorts. So in the end he went.

The Baltimore party was not going to remain long and they made hay with a zest that was fatiguing to one not quite robust.

One morning, as Margaret sat on the piazza watching the waves roll in and back, in and back, with a ceaseless energy that somehow seemed so futile, always trying to do something, but never accomplishing it, Victor came out from the smoking-room and threw himself at her feet on the steps.

"How are you feeling by this time, sweetheart?" he asked, with a tenderness that somehow seemed to belong to Washington and the Maytime rather than this crowded summer hotel. It brought quick tears to her eyes. The girl was very weak.

"Rather better, thank you," she said, smiling down at him in a languid way that belied her words.

"It is deucedly unfortunate about your having this little attack just now," he said, fanning himself with his hat and frowning a little. He was very young. "You are losing so many good times."

"I am living on the memory of our good times in Washington," Margaret said. Which was truer than she knew.

"Oh! They were all right, weren't they? We did have a good time. It's a pity that kind of thing can't last. But you see if you felt equal to it you could have some good times now of a different sort. Dillingham wants us to go on a yachting trip."

"When?" Margaret asked it rather listlessly.

"To-morrow. It's going to be an awfully jolly party. They are going for an all-day's trip—luncheon on the yacht and all that. How do you feel about it?"

"Victor, I could not possibly go. I am not well enough."

He bit his lip and looked annoyed.

"But I should not want to interfere with your going," she said, quickly, noticing the look. "There is no reason why it should."

"Oh, no, I'll stay—of course," he replied. "I couldn't go off for a good time and leave you here sick. It wouldn't be right. But it is unfortunate, as I was saying. You know I am specially fond of yachting, and—"

"And I want you to go. I really would much rather you would."

He made some faint opposition, which only stimulated her determination that he should take the trip. At last he said, "Well—I don't know—perhaps I will after all, just to please Dillingham. He was anxious that I should go to even up the party." And Margaret thought quickly, "Then they did not even expect me to go."

"You are sure you won't be lonely without anybody to talk to?"

"I will let the sea talk to me," Margaret said.

The sea talked to her a good deal that summer. When the Baltimore party was gone and she was well enough to go about, Victor had formed the acquaintance of certain gentlemen who were fond of cards and pool, and she had many leisure hours for communion with it. What it told her she never repeated. If she said anything to it in reply, it was with silent speech, until one day as she stood looking out over its lonely wastes, she suddenly clasped her hands and pressed them to her breast, whispering brokenly, "He is—so different—from father!"

They went back in September—Margaret gladly. In their own home they would fall back into the blissful life that had been theirs at first. Somehow it seemed to be slipping away from them. A hotel was no place to live. When they were at home again she would try hard to get it back. Why should her husband be less thoughtful, less tender of her now than then—now when she needed it more? She had heard of married people growing apart—even when there seemed to be no special trouble between them. Oh, how wretched that would be! how intolerable! They must not do that! She would make his home bright and attractive. She had read that it was always a woman's fault if her husband's interest waned—it was because she did not meet him at the door with a smile, and have his slippers warming on the hearth, and wear a white dress with a red rose at the belt, and another in her hair. But then one could hardly remember all the things the books said women must do to hold the love their husbands had poured out upon them so unstintedly before marriage.

One cold, wet, disagreeable night in October Margaret had a fire lighted in the library grate. It was the first one on their own hearth, and she had not yet got over the charm of "first things." It seemed to her when they came into the room that she had never seen a sweeter, more attractive place.

"Do you remember what Holmes says his idea of comfort is?" she asked, turning to Victor brightly as they sat down before the glowing coals.

"No. What is it?"

"'Four feet on a fender.' Isn't that epigrammatic and—and full of tenderness?"

"It is epigrammatic, all right. I can't quite see the tenderness. You will have to explain."

She shook her head, with the ghost of a smile.

"There are some things that can't be explained, Victor—the humor of a joke, for instance. If you don't see it, it isn't there—for you."

Somehow her reply embarrassed him. He felt that he had been weighed in the balance and found wanting, and he could not see why.

"You quote Holmes a good deal, don't you?"

"Yes. He says such bright things." And she added eagerly, "Victor, let us read some together this winter. Father and I used to have such good times reading together."

Victor put up his hand as if to ward off an attack.

"Really, Margaret, don't you think you are asking a little too much of me? to settle down to evenings of reading the Autocrat! If you would suggest having some people in to play cards now."

"Very well," she returned, quietly, "we will have some people in to play cards then."

"I am afraid I can't count upon all my evenings," he said, hastily. "I find that things have accumulated in my absence, and I will have to be at the office occasionally at night. Not often, but sometimes."

"I should not want to interfere with your business, Victor, but—"

"Well? What's the rest of it?"

"I was going to say that the men I have known best have been able to work enough in the day and give their evenings to their families."

She paused a moment during which she thought, "I certainly have a right to say this—and it ought to be said. I am not complaining. We ought to plan out our life together." Aloud she continued, "That has always seemed to me the right way. I think so much depends now upon our starting right."

He rose hastily. "We will talk that over some other time. I really have to go down to-night. I have promised to meet a man. You don't object? You will not be afraid?"

"I shall not be afraid," she said.

She went to the door with him and stood looking after him until he disappeared. When she came back she was shivering a little. She sat before the fire and looked into its depths. Then she raised the skirt of her dainty house-gown and rested her slippered feet on the brass that was burnished until it shone.

"Two feet on a fender," she said with a dreary little smile.

She reasoned with herself afterwards. "It may not be the best way to do—to live—" she told herself, "but I hope I am womanly enough not to be jealous of my husband's business."

Some months later Mrs. Kirtley remarked to her husband, "Victor De Jarnette must be doing very well in his business. Margaret tells me that he has to go to the office almost every night of late, there is such a rush of work. Poor child! She is not well, and is nervous at being alone, though she is very brave about it. I think he should be at home more just now—a man of his means—even if he has to sacrifice his business somewhat. I hope he will not become too mercenary."

"I hardly think he will," the Judge responded, dryly. But with the loyalty of one man for another, even when that other is unworthy, he said no more. Inwardly he was groaning, "Just as I feared. Too bad! That young man had a good case and he is letting it go by default. Margaret is not the woman to stand this when she finds out."

It is an evil hour for a man when a woman takes to her hungry heart a substitute for the affection he withholds, but when the thing substituted is an innocent thing it is a godsend to the woman. A plant if denied the light on one side will turn this way and that. When it cannot get it in any direction it dies.

As the months went by, Margaret passed through deep and changing experiences. First there was a period of bewilderment. What had she done that should make this difference in Victor? He had been her persistent wooer before marriage. Was the case now to be reversed? Her pride revolted, but her instinct told her that if the fire on their domestic altar was not to die out she would be the one to fan the flame. She deliberately and with purpose aforethought set herself to hold her husband's love. It seemed to her almost humiliating that she should have to fight this fight—but how could she bear a loveless home?

That she was only in part successful she could not fail to see, the plain truth being that Victor De Jarnette was restive under the bonds that bound him to one woman and a home, being of that masculine type which desires the pleasures of the married state and the liberty of bachelorhood. He did not intend to be unkind, but he intended to have his liberty. And the two involved a nice adjustment that, as yet, Margaret had not learned to comprehend.

To this period of bewilderment and baffled endeavor succeeded one of apathy. Her sensibilities seemed blunted. What was at first a sharp, intolerable pain became later a dull ache. Nothing seemed to matter much. Mrs. Kirtley was concerned, and told her she needed a tonic, but Margaret shook her head. It was a comfort, anyway, to find that she did not care as much as she did at first. That, she told herself, would have been unbearable—that would have been against nature. Perhaps she would get so after a while that she would not care at all. She had seen some married people who appeared entirely indifferent to each other—the woman led her life and the man his. And yet they got along at least respectably. … After all, she thought with a slight shiver, it must be a gray life—she had not thought that hers would be like that! Perhaps it was just her physical lassitude that made her feel so dead. She lay hours at a time on the couch when Victor was gone, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, hoping nothing.

Then one day a beautiful thing happened to Margaret; a soft wind rose that blew away the deadly miasma fastening upon her. It stirred within the closed chambers of her heart, making them sweet and pure again, and softly fanning open others that she had not known were there. And from these unsuspected chambers came soft voices whispering to her of hope that was not dead, they told her, it would spring again—and a sweet tale of joy that was to be—something so untried, so mysterious, that the very thought thrilled her as in all her life she had never been thrilled before. Then as she bent to listen, the soft whisperings swelled to sweetest music, and a heavenly chorus sang:

"Blessed—blessed—blessed art thou!"

And Margaret, listening with rapt ear, cried out in ecstasy from the great deeps of her lonely heart, "My own … my very own?" and then upon her knees took up the great antiphonal,

"My soul doth magnify the Lord."

Ah! the angel of the annunciation had spoken to Margaret and her heart was singing the Magnificat.