Читать книгу A Modern Madonna - Caroline Abbot Stanley - Страница 8

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When Margaret woke next morning it was with a bewildered sense of something wrong—the dull ache we have in the gray dawn before returning consciousness brings it all back to us, and makes it a sharp pain. Then, as the events of the night before came back, and the dread of to-day forced itself upon her, she closed her eyes in a sick longing to go to sleep and never wake.

This was the end! They had had words, bitter words, before—but never like this. How could she forget his cruel thrusts, his broken faith, which he had even flaunted in her face? How could the barrier between them which her passionate challenge had raised be broken down? "She must be all or nothing." Yes, and it was true! as true to-day as it was yesterday and would be for all time. Only his hand could break that barrier down. And suppose he would not. … Well! so be it. It seemed to her that her heart was numbed and could never be warmed into life again. There rose before her a picture she had seen one day—a man with wretched face, a woman who had cast herself on a couch in an attitude suggesting the abandon of despair, and between them on the table a still form that she thought at first glance was their dead baby, only that she saw the wings and knew that it was Love—dead Love.

It was very late when she had gone to bed the night before, and still Victor had not come. She had fallen immediately into the deep sleep of exhaustion which comes to us sometimes when a crisis is past, even though it has brought the worst. Women who hang sleepless and wide-eyed over a sick-bed have been known to fall into a sleep like that of death, when all is over, their wild grief swallowed up in nature's merciful oblivion. So it had been with Margaret.

Had he come in while she slept? She stepped to her husband's door and peeped cautiously in. The bed was undisturbed. She went back to her own room and stood there shaking as with an ague. What did it mean?

Then she sat down and thought—thought deeply—going over all the wretched quarrel—trying to judge between them, to see where—if anywhere—he was right and she was wrong. She had been passionate—yes, and had said bitter things. But they were true! And, she told herself despairingly, it was not the things they said! The trouble lay back of that. … If only it had been something else! But this! … oh, how could she compromise? The words of that odious Mrs. Bomprey came to her—"Men are naughty creatures, my dear. Wise women learn to shut their eyes!"

"Why must they shut their eyes?" she asked, fiercely. The very insinuation was dishonoring to both. But—was the woman right?

Were all men like this? … Her soul grew sick. Then—no! no! no! she told herself in passionate protest—it was not true! She would not believe this withering, blasting thing. There was her father! Though all the world should rise up and say there was no truth in men, she still would know—there was her father!

At breakfast she said, quietly, "Mr. De Jarnette is not at home this morning. We will not wait. He has been called away and may not be home for several days." All this with no surprise at her own power to lie without compunction.

When the meal was over she waited to give directions to the servants, as usual, speaking cheerfully to all. She could not bear the pity of her servants. Her maid, a faithful girl, came to her in her room. Could she let her go home for a while? Her mother was very ill and needed her—she hated to leave just now, and wouldn't, only—it was her mother. Yes, Margaret said hastily, feeling with a throb of loneliness that the ties of blood were to be nourished, not denied. Then when the girl was gone she felt bereft.

Through that long morning Margaret waited. The air she breathed was dead and deadening; she gasped sometimes for breath. It was the close, oppressive air that presages a storm. It seemed to press upon her so. She went once to the window, expecting, without knowing why, to see the lightning and to hear the thunder's roll, and felt vague surprise to see the leaves stirred by the breeze, and over all the sunlight. There was no storm.

She moved restlessly about her room, putting her drawers to rights with a strange feeling unformulated even to herself, but pressing hard, that she must put her house in order, for the end was near.

In the upper hall near her door was the telephone. She went once to it, took the receiver down, and then returned it to the hook, turning afterwards resolutely to it and telling herself, "He is my husband. It certainly is my right to know." Then to the one who answered, she said, brightly, "Will you please ask Mr. De Jarnette to come to the 'phone?"

She would not ask if he was there. To her excited imagination that would seem to imply that she did not know of his whereabouts.

The answer came.

"Is that you, Mrs. De Jarnette? Good morning, madam. … Why, … Mr. De Jarnette hasn't come in yet. Probably somebody stopped him on the way down. … Yes. … Well, I will tell him when he comes in. Good-by."

Margaret looked at the clock. It was after eleven. She sat down faint and trembling. He had not been to the office.

Soon after this Judge Kirtley called to see her on some matter of business. He asked her casually about Victor, and she answered with a smile and a steady voice, feeling all the time that if he said another word she must go to him and fall upon his breast and cry aloud. Then—was she pretty well? Ah, that was good. … No, Mrs. Kirtley was in bed with grippe. The doctor said he should keep her there a good while. … Well, she must take good care of herself—patting her cheek—and—good-by.

When he was gone, Margaret had an insane desire to scream. It seemed to her that everybody was leaving her. … Where was Victor?

At two o'clock Richard De Jarnette came. He found her in the library. With that strange restlessness and presentiment of coming ill which possessed her, she was looking over papers in her desk and putting things in place. A waste basket beside her was half filled with old letters. From the drawer just emptied she had taken a revolver of peculiar workmanship. It was one belonging to her husband, which he had left in the desk. She was taking it up with the intention of carrying it to his room, but when the servant announced Mr. De Jarnette, she laid it hastily on the top of the desk and put the drawer back. When she rose to meet her brother-in-law she took hold of the desk to steady herself, for she had a feeling that this visit was upon no trifling errand. As she did so her hand touched the revolver, and she drew back.

"It is Victor's," she said, "I was putting it away."

He looked at the revolver, taking in as people do sometimes in the crises of their lives the details of its curious workmanship.

He wasted no time in formalities. He had come to ask her about Victor. Did she know anything about him—where he was?

No. She did not know he had gone away. She was controlling herself by so strong an effect that her voice sounded hard. Where was he? Had any message come from him?

Richard De Jarnette had not had much experience in dealing with women. He took from his pocket a telegram and handed it to her. It was dated New York. She held it with unsteady hand and read:

"Wire me two thousand dollars—Paris—Credit Lyonnais. Sail to-night.

Victor De Jarnette."

She grew white as the dead.

"You knew nothing of this?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"And can you give me no idea of what it means?" His voice was tense, so much so that it had the unfortunate effect of making his words sound severe.

Margaret stared at the paper, feeling the earth sway beneath her feet.

"No—unless—perhaps I ought to tell you that—we quarreled last night—a bitter quarrel—"

"Quarreled? About what?" He spoke sharply.

She lifted her head at that and looked full at him.

"About something that concerns only ourselves, I think."

"I beg your pardon. You are quite right. I did not mean to intrude, but only to find out if I could the meaning of this incomprehensible thing. I beg you to believe that I would like to serve you."

"Of course this will be known," she said, hesitatingly. "If—if it could be kept out of the papers I should be glad. It would only avert publicity for a little while—but—I might be stronger then to bear it."

"I will see to it at once. The papers will say, if you desire, that he has been called away on urgent business."

"Oh, yes, if you will be so good. I think—I hope—and still I do not know that it can ever be arranged."

As he rose to go he said after an awkward silence, "I seem unfortunate in my questions, but I hope you will not misunderstand me. Has he left you money?"

"Oh, I have money, yes. All I need. I do not misunderstand. You—you are very kind."

He bowed gravely. Then, after another silence, "Of course you know that this will mean quite an absence from home, even if he should turn around and come back as soon as he reaches the other shore." He was adding savagely to himself, "As he will when he hears from me."

"Yes, I know," murmured Margaret, faintly.

"Have you not some elderly friend that you could have with you for a while? I am sure Victor has gone off only in a spirit of pique. He was always impulsive and headstrong. If you could ask some such person—"

She shook her head.

"I am very much alone," she said. Her childish helplessness would have touched a stone. "You see I have no relatives. And Mrs. Kirtley (I am sure she would have come) is ill." She was twisting the telegram with nervous fingers, feeling again that mad desire to scream. She felt sure she would do so if he spoke another sympathetic word.

He turned his eyes away. "I really think you should have some older woman with you, other than your maid—just now."

"My maid is gone," she said, a lump rising in her throat—repeating, "It—leaves me—very much alone."

"That settles it," he said. "I shall send my housekeeper to you from Elmhurst. She is reliable and kind. You can depend upon her fully. She has always lived with us, and there is nothing she likes so well as to mother people."

Her chin quivered like a child's. "I—I think I need mothering," she said.

He beat a hasty retreat. Her helplessness wrung his heart.

Two hours later Mammy Cely presented herself before Margaret—rotund of figure, dark and shining of face, thick-lipped and flat-nosed. But in her kind eyes was the brooding spirit of motherhood. Mammy Cely was of the old school. As she stood there in her clean dark gingham, white apron, white head handkerchief, and a three-cornered piece of like immaculateness crossing her breast, she was the embodiment of a past civilization, an archaic reminder of the old régime which everybody condemns, which nobody wants revived, but which has its sacred memories of friendships between high and low, that come, as all memories do, only to those who have experienced in the far past that for which the memory stands. To Margaret this humble friend was a gift from Heaven.

But all this time Mammy Cely was unobtrusively taking in the situation.

"That child's done stood all she ken now," she was saying to herself. "Pretty soon she gwineter break down—that she is!" Aloud she remarked, respectfully, "Yaas, 'm, 'tis mighty bad 'bout Mr. Victor bein' called away right now. Marse Richard was tellin' me about it. … But nemmine, honey, we gwineter s'prise him when he gits home, ain't we? We gwineter have the party all over and ever'body gone home but us and de li'l' gen'l'man." She was talking to her as one speaks to a frightened child. "There! … There! … Mammy Cely gwineter take keer of you, honey! Don't you be skeered. She done tuk keer of a heap er ladies in her day. She knows jes' what to do. You needn't to worry. She gwineter stay right here. … Yo' maid gone too? Well, I do say! These here triflin' Washington niggers ain't no 'count. No 'm, they ain't! Well, nemmine! I gwineter be yo' maid now—Marse Richard say so—and yo' mammy too. Then befo' I go away I'll git you somebody ef I has to peruse this town. Yaas, 'm, I will so! I wouldn't stand, honey. Set down now."

She asked the frightened girl a few questions, putting in a running commentary of soothing, confidence-inspiring remarks, and Margaret found herself settling down in profound relief upon the broad foundation of her practical knowledge.

"And you got all the little clo's ready? … Well, I do say! Ain't they scrumptious! Humph! Jes' look at the 'shorance of them little shearts! Honey, they look lak they was holdin' out they arms for a man! … But I declar this here highfalutin' lacy skeart do sho'ly belong to a little lady! Well, whichever it is, honey, it's gwineter be yourn, and when you feel that little chile on yo' breas' and hol' them little hands in yourn, you gwineter furgit all 'bout the pain and the sufferin'—and the loneliness—"

The rain clouds had been gathering all day. They could be held back no longer. Slowly, drops began to fall—the big portentous ones that come before the storm. If this new maid had come in cold and business-like she could have withstood it, but this was the mother-note she had always lacked in her life song. A convulsive sob broke from her overburdened heart, hearing which and recognizing the futility of further words, Mammy Cely opened her arms.

"Come here, lamb!"

And Margaret fell, weeping, into them.

That night she went down into the valley of the shadow of death, and the black woman was her rod and staff.