Читать книгу According to the Pattern (Romance Classic) - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 4

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“It is just barely possible I may have to take a flying trip to Paris,” Claude Winthrop announced casually, looking up from the newspaper which had been engrossing his attention.

It was the next morning and his wife unrefreshed from her night’s vigil was sitting quietly in her place at the breakfast table. She looked now and then at the top of her husband’s head, thinking of his face as she had seen it in the park, and trying to realize that all around her was just the same outwardly as it had been yesterday and all the days that had gone before, only she knew that it was all so different.

She made some slight reply. He had said so many times that he hoped his business would take him abroad soon, that she ceased to reproach him for desiring to go without her and the children as she had done at first. She began to feel that he would not really go after all. It had been a source of uneasiness to her many times, for she had a morbid horror of having the wide ocean separate her from the one she loved better than all on earth besides. But this morning, in the light of recent discoveries, she realized that even this trouble of the past was as nothing beside what was laid upon her now to bear.

How often it is that when we mock at a trouble, or detract from its magnitude, it comes upon us suddenly as if to taunt us and reveal its true heaviness. Miriam Winthrop felt this with a sudden sharp pang a little later that day when she received and read a brief note from her husband brought by a messenger boy. For the moment all her more recent grief was forgotten and she was tormented by her former fears and dread.

“Dear Miriam,” he had scrawled on the back of a business envelope, “I’ve got to go at once. The firm thinks I’m the only one who can represent them in Paris just now, and if I don’t go there’ll be trouble. I’m sorry it comes with such a rush but it’s a fine thing for me. Pack my grip with what you think I need for a month. I don’t want to be bothered with much. I may not get home till late and fear I shall have to take the midnight train. Haste. Claude.”

She did not stop now to study the phraseology of the hastily worded note, nor let the coldness and baldness of the announcement enter her soul like a keen blade as it would be sure to do later when the trial began in dead earnest. She did not even give a thought to the difference between this note and those he used to write her when they were first married. It was enough to realize that he was going across that terrible ocean without her and talking about it as calmly as if he were but going downtown. Other people let their husbands go off without a murmur. There was Mrs. Forsythe, who smilingly said she intended to send her husband on a tour for six months so that she could be free from household cares and do as she pleased for a little while. But then she was Mr. Forsythe’s wife, and Claude was—and then there came that sudden sharp remembrance of yesterday and its revelation, and her sorrow entered full into her being with a realization of what it was going to mean. Yes, perhaps she ought to be glad he was going away. But she was not—oh, she was not! It was worse a hundred-fold than it would have been if it had come two days ago. Now she was plunged into the awfulness of the black abyss that had yawned before her feet, and Claude was going from her and would not be there to help her out by any possible explanation, nor even to know of the horror in her path, for she knew in her heart that she could not and would not tell him her discovery now before he went. There would not be time, even if it were wise. No, she must bear it alone until he returned, if he ever did. Oh, that deep awful sea that must roll over her troubled heart for weeks before she could hope to begin to change things. Could she stand it? Would she live to brave it through?

A ringing baby laugh from the nursery, where Celia was drawing a wooly lamb over the floor, recalled her courage. She closed her lips in their firm lines once more and knew she would, she must!

Just one more awful thought came to her and glared at her with green, deriding, menacing eyes of possibility. That woman, could she, was she going abroad? There had been such things! Her brain reeled at the thought and with fear and wrath she put it away from her. She would never think that of Claude. No, never! She must go about making preparations for him, for there was much to be done, some mending, and where had that package of laundry been put? and, oh, the horror of having to doubt one’s husband! Claude might have been injudicious, but never wicked! No! She was unworthy to be his wife when she could think such things with absolutely nothing to found them upon save a simple everyday ride in the park. She hurried upstairs to bureau drawers and sent the nurse and the maid-of-all-work flying about on various errands and herself worked with swift, skilled fingers. But all the time the ache grew in her heart till it seemed it must break.

He did not come home to lunch. She had not expected that. She scarcely stopped herself to make a pretence of eating. So eager was she to complete the little things she had thought of to do for his comfort during the voyage before he should return that she forgot herself entirely in her present duties. The stinging tears welled up to her eyes without falling as they had done the night before, and burned themselves dry, again and again, and still she worked on feverishly, adding other little touches to the preparations she had made. He should not have cause for impatience that she had forgotten anything in his thought of her during the trip. She even put in his old cap that he was fond of wearing in traveling and which heretofore she had always struggled to secrete safely before they set out for a journey. There was a fine disregard of self in all that she did about the suit-case and a close attention to details of his liking. If he had any thought left for her at all he could not fail to note it.

She carefully placed a leather photograph case, a present from the children on last Christmas, containing all their likenesses with hers, in an inner pocket with his handkerchief, and then on second thought took it out to remove her own face and put in its place a new pose of the baby. She would not seek to remind him thus of her. He should see that she no longer put in any claims for his affection. Just why she did this she could not explain to herself, but she felt a triumph over herself in having done it. Was it revenge or love or jealousy or all? She did not know. She sat down beside the completed work and let great drops fall on the heavy, unresponsive leather, and groaned aloud, and then got up hastily to wipe her eyes and flash them in defiance at herself in the mirror. She would not give way now. She must act her part till he was gone. Then she would weep until she could get relief enough to think and know what to do.

He came late to dinner and brought his secretary with him. During the meal they were going over certain business matters which were to be left in this young man’s charge. Miriam presided over her table and supplied their needs and held her tongue, feeling in this brief time of quietness and inaction how weary she was, how every nerve quivered with pain, how her eyeballs stung, and how the little veins in her temples throbbed.

They went to the library after dinner, where there was more business. The wife went up to her nursery and hovered over her daily cares, which suddenly seemed to have lost their necessity, so much greater was her need of some word with her husband.

It was not till ten o’clock that the front door closed upon the young man of business and she heard Claude coming upstairs. Her heart leaped then. Would he possibly say something comforting to her, some word of love for her, now that he was leaving, some little regret that she could not go too? Something, perhaps, that might explain that awful sight of yesterday, and wipe this day out of existence for her so far as its suffering had been concerned? Oh, if that might be she would never murmur again at sorrow or loneliness or anything that could come upon her, so long as she could have her husband her own.

But no, that could not be, she knew, for there was that look that she had seen her husband give to the strange woman, and even as she thought she heard him go into the bedroom.

“Miriam,” he called, without waiting for her to come to the door, “I’m going right to bed. I’m just about played out, and I’ll have to start early in the morning. Have you got everything all fixed up? All right, then I’ll turn in. Don’t let anyone disturb me. I’ve told Simmons about everything, and if any call comes from the office folks you can refer them to Simmons.”

Her low murmured “All right,” was followed by the quick closing door. She stood in the hall and heard him move about the room, and knew that she might go to him and tell him all, or get some word from him more than this before he slept to wake and rush away from her, but she would not. She heard the click of the light as he turned it out, and the silence that followed his lying down, and reflected that she might at least go and kiss him good-night, and yet she had not the power to move.

How long she stood there she did not know. It seemed to her that every action of her life since she had known her husband came and was enacted before her, that every word he had ever spoken or written to her was spoken distinctly in her ear. She felt again his power over her when he told her how he loved her, and the gladness that enwrapped her like a garment as she knew that she loved him. It turned to a pall now as the other thoughts of yesterday trooped up, death-faced and horrid, to mock at those happier times.

She roused herself by and by to see that the house was locked for the night and the children sleeping quietly as usual. Then she made a careful toilet for the morning. It would need to be freshened a little she knew, if she could manage it, but the main points must be looked after now when her mind was clear. She must leave upon her husband a fair memory, a pleasing vision, if indeed this poor heartsick body of hers could be made to look pleasant to anyone.

She put on a more elaborate gown than she had been wont to consider proper for a morning dress, but it was her husband’s favorite .color. She disregarded all her former prejudices and scorned her economies. What were economies when life was at stake? She also arranged her hair in the new way, taking a long time at it and being very critical of herself. All the while this was going on she was conscious of trying to stop thinking and to absorb herself in her occupation. The color was high in her checks. Her night of vigil and her day of labor, followed by the disappointment that her husband had said no tender word to her, had brought a feverishness which heightened the brilliancy of her eyes. She could see that she looked young again, and drew a little hope from the fact.

But a toilet cannot last a night-time even with such precious ends at stake, and when it was finished she took a candle and stole silently into the bedroom.

She had known that this moment must come. Her heart would not let her let him go without it. She must look down upon him and remember all the past and know the present with his face in sight. She had been dreading it and putting it off ever since he had shut the door. Now she stood and looked at him as he lay sleeping.

He was handsome even in his sleep. His heavy dark hair was tossed back against the pillow and his broad forehead looked noble to her even now with all the tumult surging in her heart against him. She noted the long black lashes, the same his little children had. He looked so young as he lay asleep, and she could see their oldest child’s resemblance to him as she had never seen it before. She made herself take in every feature. The pleasant curves of the lips, those lips that had said kind words, tender words of love to her, and had kissed her—and alas, could frame themselves in impatience.

She could see them now as they looked during a recent disagreement. The remembrance struck like blow across her heart. His arms were thrown out over the bed in the abandonment of weariness, and his hands seemed to appeal to her for a kindly thought. Those white hands, so symmetrical, and yet so firm and strong, how she had admired them as a girl. How proud she had always been of them as his wife. How they had helped her own hands when they first began their life together. She fain would stoop and kiss just his hand. She could not let him go without. He was tired, so tired; and she was sorry, so sorry; and he was her husband! She set the candle down softly upon the floor at a little distance and stooped, but started up at a suggestion. Had that hand ever touched in gentle pressure the hands of other women? Did that other woman know those shapely hands, that were hers, and yet were not hers now? She bowed her head amid the draperies of the bed and almost groaned aloud. She would fain have prayed, as there was no other help at hand, but she was not a praying woman. True she had a habit of kneeling to repeat a form of words, but even that form failed her now, though she tried to find some words to voice a cry to the Unknown.

Was ever sorrow like unto hers? Were there in the world other women who suffered this sort of thing? Yes, of course there were, there must be, poor wretches; she had read of them and known of them always; poor creatures who could not keep, or never had, their husbands’ love; but not such as she, and such as Claude; no, no, that could not be! This never had happened before. It could not be true! She would not believe it. There must be some mistake.

The long night passed at last, and the toilet given its final touches, though the face it was meant to set off was wan with sorrow and exhaustion. Very quietly she served the breakfast, which was a hasty meal, as there was little time. She nerved herself to be bright and unconcerned, as if the proposed journey were but a brief one for a few hours. She had been wont to grieve so deeply at thought of separation, that her husband wondered a little that she should take it so quietly, and if he had had more time to note her and less upon his mind he would have seen the abnormal state of excitement that kept her calm and smiling when her heart was so fiercely torn.

Miriam saw to it that the children were at hand at the last moment to be kissed good-bye, and then with a hasty word of some handkerchiefs she had forgotten to put in his grip she flew up the stairs and locked her door. She could not bear the hasty farewell, the careless kiss she saw was coming. She preferred that he should leave her uncaressed.

“Come, Miriam, I must go. Don’t wait for handkerchiefs. There’s no time to look. The cab is at the door. Come.”

But she did not come, and he called good-bye and went.

She watched him slam the cab door after him and drive away in the early morning light, and then the great sobs that had been so carefully choked down for hours came and shook her frame, and she hid her face in the pillows where he had slept but a little while ago and let her sorrow wave upon wave roll over her head and bury her in the awful chasms between its breakers till kindly nature claimed the worn-out body and over-wrought nerves, and wrapped her in a deep and dreamless sleep of utter weariness.