His wonders to perform.'"
"I don't believe God had anything to do with it." I was bitter; for I
was still thinking of Wolffert and Pushkin and McSheen.
"The doctors tell me that a hundredth part of an inch more, and a friend
of mine would never have known anything again," said Marvel, gravely,
looking down at me with sorrowful, kind eyes.
Under this argument _ad hominem_ I was silent, if not convinced. We are
always ready to think Providence interferes in our especial behalf.
I started to ask after another who had been in the riot, but I could not
frame the question. I saw that Marvel knew what I wished. I learned
afterward that I had talked of her constantly during my delirium. She
was well, he told me. She had not been hurt, nor had the child or old
Loewen. She had left the city. Her father was involved now in a great
lawsuit, the object of which Marvel did not know, and she had gone
away.
"Where has she gone?"
He did not answer, and I took it for granted that he did not know.
"If I had been you, I would have found out where she went to," I said
peevishly.
He took no notice of this. He only smiled. He did not say so; but I
thought from his manner that she had gone abroad. He had had a note from
her saying that she would be away a long time, and inclosing him a
generous contribution for his poor.
"She is an angel," he said.
"Of course she is."
Though he spoke reverently, I was almost angry with him for thinking it
necessary to say it at all.
"Yes; but you do not know how good she is. None but God knows how good
some women are."
One or two other pieces of news he told me. The old Drummer and his wife
had gone off, too; but only on a visit to Elsa. Elsa and Otto had been
married, and were living in another State. I saw that he still had
something else to tell, and finally it came out. As soon as I was able,
I must go away for a while. I needed change and rest, and he knew the
very place for me, away off in the country.
"You appear to be anxious to depopulate the city," I said. He only
smiled contentedly.
"I am going to send you to the country," he said with calm decision.
"I have to work----"
"When you come back. I have made all the arrangements."
"I am going to find Eleanor Leigh. I will find her if the world holds
her."
"Yes, to be sure," he smiled indulgently. He was so strong that I
yielded.
I learned that a good offer was waiting for me to go into the law office
of one of the large firms when I should be well enough to work, in a
capacity which Jeams would have termed that of a "minor connectee"; but
it was coupled with the condition that I should get well first. My
speech at the meeting when I denounced Wringman, and my part in the
riots, had become known, and friends had interested themselves in my
behalf. So John Marvel reported; and as he appeared to be managing
things, I assumed that he had done this, too.
I never fully knew until after his death how truly Wolffert was one of
the Prophets. I often think of him with his high aim to better the whole
human race, inspired by a passion for his own people to extend his
ministration to all mankind, cast out by those he labored for; denying
that he was a Christian, and yet dying a Christian death in the act of
supplicating for those who slew him. I owe him a great debt for teaching
me many things, but chiefly for the knowledge that the future of the
race rests on the whole people and its process depends on each one,
however he may love his own, working to the death for all. He opened my
eyes to the fact that every man who contributes to the common good of
mankind is one of the chosen people and that the fundamental law is to
do good to mankind.
I discovered that John Marvel knew he was in love with Eleanor Leigh,
though how he knew it I never learned. "He never told her," he said,
"but died with it locked in his heart--as was best," he added after a
pause, and then he looked out of the window, and as he did not say
anything from which I could judge whether he knew why Wolffert never
told his love, I did not tell what I knew. It may have been the slowly
fading light which made his face so sad. I remember that a long silence
fell between us, and it came over me with a new force how much more
unselfishly both these men had loved than I and how much nobler both had
always been--the living and the dead. And I began battling with myself
to say something which I felt I ought to say, but had not courage
enough.
Presently, John said very slowly, almost as if he were speaking to
himself, "I believe if you keep on, she will marry you, and I believe
you will help each other--I know she will help you." His arm was resting
on the table.
I leant over and laid my hand on his arm.
"I once thought it certain I should win her. I am far from sure that I
shall now. I am not worthy of her--but I shall try to be. You alone,
John, of all the men I know, are. I cannot give her up--but it is only
honest to tell you that I have less hope than I had."
He turned to me with a sad little smile on his face and shook his head.
"I would not give her up if I were you. You are not good enough for her,
but no one is, and you will grow better."
For the first time, I almost thought him handsome.
"You are, old man."
"Me! Oh! no, I am not--I have my work to do--it is useless to talk to
me--you keep on."
He picked up a paper and began to read, and I observed for the first
time that he had taken off his glasses. I made some remark on it.
"Yes, my sight is getting better--I can see the stars now," he said
smiling.
"Ah! John, you have long seen the stars," I said.
So, as soon as I could travel, John Marvel sent me off--sent me to a
farmhouse where he had lived in his first parish--a place far from the
railroads; a country of woods and rolling fields and running streams;
the real country where blossoms whiten and birds sing and waters murmur.
"They are the best people in the world," he said; and they were. They
accepted me on his word. "Mr. Marvel had sent me, and that was enough."
His word was a talisman in all that region. They did not know who the
Queen of England was, and were scarcely sure as to the President of the
United States; but they knew John Marvel. And because I had come from
him they treated me like a prince. And this was the man I had had the
folly to look down on!
In that quiet place I seemed to have reached content. In that land of
peace the strife of the city, the noise and turmoil and horror of the
strike, seemed but as the rumble of waves breaking on some far-off
shore. I began to quaff new life with the first breath of the balmy air.
The day after I arrived I borrowed the skiff that belonged to my host
and paddled down the little river that skirted his place, with the idea
of fishing in a pool he had told me of.
The afternoon was so soft and balmy that I forgot my sport and simply
drifted with the current under the overhanging branches of willows and
sycamores, when, turning a bend in the stream, I came on a boat floating
in a placid pool. In it were a young lady and a little girl, and who but
Dix, his brindled head held high, his twisted ears pointed straight
up-stream, and his whole body writhing and quivering with excitement. It
was a moment before I could quite take it in, and I felt for a second as
if I were dreaming.
Yet there was Eleanor Leigh under the willows, her small white hand
resting on the side of the boat, her face lovelier than ever, and her
voice making music in my ears with those low, sincere tones that I had
never forgotten, and which made it the most beautiful in the world. I
must have carried my soul in my eyes that moment; for the color sprang
to her cheeks and I saw a look in hers I had never seen there before.
"Well, this is Fate," I said, as the current bore my boat against hers
and it lay locked against it in that limpid pool.
"Would Mr. Marvel have called it so?" she asked, her eyes resting upon
me with a softer look in them than they had ever given me.
"No, he would have said Providence."
I am sure it was on that stream that Halcyone found retreat. In that
sweet air, freed from any anxieties except to please her whose pleasure
had become the sun of my life, I drank in health day by day and hour by
hour. My farmhouse was only a half-mile or so across the fields to the
home of Eleanor Leigh's old cousins with whom she was staying, and only
the sidereal travellers followed that path so regularly as I. It was the
same place where she had first met John Marvel--and Wolffert. She was
even interested in my law, and actually listened with intelligence to
the succulent details of Livery of Seisin, and other ancient
conveyancing. Not that she yet consented to marry me. This was a theme
she had a genius for evading. However, I knew I should win her. Only one
thing troubled me. As often as I touched on my future plans and spoke of
the happiness I should have in relieving her of the drudgery of a
teacher's life, she used to smile and contest it. It was one of the
happinesses of her life, she said, to teach that school. But for it, I
would never have "put out her fire for her that morning." Was ever such
ingratitude! Of course, I would not admit this. "Fate--no, Providence
was on my side." And I took out my violets and showed them to her,
telling her their history. They still retained a faint fragrance. And
the smile she gave was enough to make them fresh again. But I, too,
was friendly to the school. How could I be otherwise? For she told me
one day that the first time she liked me was when I was sitting by the
cab-driver holding the little dirty child in my arms, with Dix between
my feet. And I had been ashamed to be seen by her! I only feared that
she might take it into her head still to keep the school. And I now knew
that what she took into her little head to be her duty she would
perform. "By the way, you might take lessons in making up the fire," she
suggested.
[Illustration: I am sure it was on that stream that Halcyone found
retreat.]
I received quite a shock a few days later when I found in my mail a
letter from the Miss Tippses, telling me of their delight on learning of
my recovery, and mentioning incidentally the fact, which they felt sure
I would be glad to know, that they had settled all of their affairs in a
manner entirely satisfactory to them, as Mr. McSheen had very generously
come forward at a time when it was supposed that I was fatally injured
and had offered to make reparation to them and pay out of his own
pocket, not only all of the expenses which they had incurred about the
matter, but had actually paid them three thousand dollars over and above
these expenses, a munificent sum which had enabled them to pay dear Mrs.
Kale all they owed her. They felt sure that I would approve of the
settlement, because Mr. McSheen's intermediary had been "a life-long
friend of mine and in some sort," he said, "my former law partner, as we
had lived for years in adjoining offices." They had signed all the
papers he had presented and were glad to know that he was entirely
satisfied, and now they hoped that I would let them know what they owed
me, in order that they might settle at least that part of their debt;
but for the rest, they would always owe me a debt of undying gratitude,
and they prayed God for my speedy recovery and unending happiness, and
they felt sure Mr. Peck would rejoice also to know that I was doing so
well.
Peck! And he had charged them a fee for his services!
It was now approaching the autumn and I was chafing to get back to work.
I knew now that success was before me. It might be a long road; but I
was on it.
John Marvel, in reply to an inquiry, wrote that the place was still
waiting for me in the office he had mentioned, though he did not state
what it was.
"How stupid he is!" I complained. Eleanor Leigh only laughed.
She "did not think him stupid at all, and certainly she did not think I
should do so. In fact, she considered him one of the most sensible men
she ever knew."
"Why, he could not have done more to keep me in ignorance, if he had
tried," I fumed. And she only laughed the more.
"I believe you are jealous of him." Her eyes were dancing in an
exasperating way they had. I was consumed with jealousy of everybody;
but I would never admit it.
"Jealous of John Marvel! Nonsense! But I believe you were in--you liked
him very much?"
"I did," she nodded cheerily. "I do--more than any one I ever
knew--almost." And she launched out in a eulogy of John which quite set
me on fire.
"Then why did you not marry him?" I was conscious that my head went up
and my wrath was rising.
"He never asked me." Her dancing eyes still playing hide and seek with
mine.
"I supposed there was some good reason," I said loftily. She vouchsafed
no answer--only went on making a chain of daisies, while her dimples
came and went, and I went on to make a further fool of myself. I was
soon haled up and found myself in that outer darkness, where the
cheerful occupation is gnashing of teeth. Like the foolish
glass-merchant, I had smashed all my hopes. I walked home through the
Vale of Bitterness.
That evening, after spending some hours in trying to devise a plan by
which I could evade the humiliation of an absolute surrender, and get
back without crawling too basely, I went over to say what I
called--good-by. I was alone; for Dix had abandoned me for her, and I
did not blame him even now. It was just dusk; but it seemed to me
midnight. I had never known the fields so dark. As I turned into a path
through the orchard where I had had so many happy hours, I discovered
her sitting on the ground beneath a tree with Dix beside her; but as I
approached she rose and leant against the tree, her dryad eyes resting
on me placidly. I walked up slowly.
"Good evening--" solemnly.
"Good evening--" seriously.
I was choosing amongst a half-dozen choice sentences I had framed as an
introduction to my parting speech, when she said quietly, looking up: "I
thought you might not come back this evening."
"I have come to say good-by."
"Are you going away?" Her voice expressed surprise--nothing more.
"Yes." Solemnly.
"For how long?"--without looking up.
"Perhaps, forever." Tragically.
"You are better at making a fire than I had supposed. Will you give me
Dix?" This with the flash of a dimple.
"I--I--yes--if you want him."
I glanced at her face just in time to see the dimples disappear. "I am
thinking of being married next week." My heart stopped beating.
"You were--what?"
"But of course, if you are going away I could not do it, could I?" Her
eyes sought mine, then fell.
"Eleanor!" I tried to possess myself of her hand; but she put it behind
her. I tried to secure the other; but that also disappeared. Then I
took--herself. "Eleanor!" Her face next second had grown grave. She
looked up suddenly and looked me full in the eyes.
"You are a goose. What would you think if I were to say I would marry
you right away?" She looked down again quickly, and her face was sweet
with tenderness.
I was conscious of a sudden drawing in of my breath, and a feeling as if
I were rising into the sky, "rimmed by the azure world." Then my brain
began to act, and I seemed to have been lifted above the darkness. I was
up in the sunlight again.
"I should think I was in Heaven," I said quietly, almost reverently.
"But for God's sake, don't say that to me unless you mean it."
"Well, I will. I have written my father. Write to Mr. Marvel and ask him
to come here."
I have never known yet whether this last was a piece of humor. I only
know I telegraphed John Marvel, and though I rode all night to do so, I
thought it was broad daylight.
In the ripe autumn John Marvel, standing before us in his white surplice
in the little chapel among the oaks and elms which had been his first
church, performed the ceremony that gave me the first prize I had really
striven for--the greatest any man on earth could have won.
Still, as often as I spoke of my future plans, there was some secret
between them: a shadowy suggestion of some mystery in which they both
participated. And, but that I knew John Marvel too well, I might have
been impatient. But I knew him now for the first time as she had known
him long.
On our arrival in the city, after I had given the driver an order where
to go, she gave another, and when the carriage drew up, it was not at my
hotel, but at the door of the sunny house on the corner where I had
first seen Eleanor Leigh come tripping down the steps with her parcels
for the poor little crippled child and her violets for the Miss Tippses.
Springing out before me, with her face radiant with joy and mystery, she
tripped up the steps now just as the door was flung open by a butler who
wore a comical expression of mingled pleasure and solemnity, for the
butler was Jeams, and then having introduced him to me, she suddenly
took the key from the lock, and handing it to me with a bow and a low
laugh of delight:
"I make you, sir, livery of seisin."
This, then, was the mystery.
She still lived in the house on the corner--through the aid offered by
my namesake and kinsman her father had been enabled to retain it, and
had given it to her as a wedding present.
So after long striving by ways that I knew not, and by paths that I had
not tried, my fancy was realized.
I now dwell in the house on the corner that I picked so long ago for its
sunshine.
It is even sunnier than I thought it. For I have found that sunlight and
sweetness are not from without, but from within, and in that home is the
radiance I caught that happy morning when I first saw Eleanor Leigh come
tripping down the steps, like April, shedding sunshine and violets in
her path.
XL
THE CURTAIN
In closing a novel, the old novelists used to tell their readers, who
had followed them long enough to become their friends, what in the
sequel became of all the principal characters; and this custom I feel
inclined to follow, because it appears to me to show that the story is
in some sort the reflection of life as it is and not as novelist or
reader would make it. Fate may follow all men, but not in the form in
which every reader would have it fall.
It might have satisfied one's ideas of justice if I could have told how
Collis McSheen reaped in prison the reward of his long hidden crimes,
and the adventurer, Pushkin, unmasked and degraded, was driven out from
among the wealthy, whom he so sedulously cultivated; but this would not
have been true to the facts. Collis McSheen moved into the great house
which he had bought with his ill-gained wealth to gratify his daughter's
ambition, and lived for many years, to outward seeming, a more or less
respectable man; gave reasonably where he thought it would pay, from the
money of which he had robbed others, and doubtless endeavored to forget
his past, as he endeavored to make others forget it; but that past was
linked to him by bands which no effort could ever break. And though he
secured the adulation of those whom he could buy with his gaudy
entertainments, he could never secure the recognition of any worthy man.
In his desperate hope to become respectable he broke with many of his
old friends and with all whom he could escape from, but he could not
escape from one, however he strove to break with him: himself. Chained
to him by a bond he could not break was the putrescent body of his
reeking past. It is the curse of men like him that those he longs to
make his friends are the element who will have none of him. Thus, like
Sisyphus, he ever strives to roll the stone to the hill-top, and, like
Tantalus, he ever strives to reach the water flowing below his lips.
Though he had escaped the legal punishment of his crimes, his punishment
was that he lived in constant dread of the detection which appeared ever
to dog his footsteps. The last measure in the bitter cup which he had
filled with his own hand came from his daughter, who now called herself
Countess Pushkin. Finding that, notwithstanding her so-called title and
large establishment, she was excluded from that set to which she had
been tolerantly admitted while she had youth and gayety and the spirits
of a schoolgirl, not to mention the blindness of that age to things
which experience sees clearly enough, she conceived the idea that it was
her father's presence in her home which closed to her the doors of those
houses where she aspired to be intimate. The idea, though it had long
had a lodgment in her mind, had been fostered by Pushkin. Having to
make her choice between her father and her social aspirations, she
decided promptly. The scene which occurred was one which neither Collis
McSheen nor his daughter could ever forget. In the sequel McSheen moved
out and took quarters in a hotel, where he gradually sank into the
hopelessness of a lonely misanthrope, shorn of his power, feared only by
those he despised, detested by those he admired, and haunted by the fear
of those he hated.
Pushkin remained in some sort in possession of the field, but though
McSheen's daughter had been able to banish her father from his own home,
she could not escape from her husband, whose vices, if apparently less
criminal than McSheen's, were not less black. His capacity for spending
money was something she had never dreamed of, and, like the
horse-leech's daughter, he continually called for more, until after a
furious scene, his wife awoke to her power, and already half-beggared,
suddenly shut her purse as her heart had been long shut against him, and
bade him go. From this time her power over him was greater than it had
ever been before; but unless rumor belied them desperately, they lived a
life of cat and dog with all that it implied, until finally Pushkin was
driven out, and after hanging about for a few years, died, as I learned,
while his wife was off in Europe.
Peck continued, to outward appearance, a prosperous lawyer. His
inveterate economy enabled him to preserve the appearance of prosperity;
but no lawyer of standing ever spoke of him without a shrug of the
shoulder or a lift of the eyebrow. Rumor dealt somewhat freely with his
domestic affairs, but I never knew the facts, and rumor is often as
great a liar almost as--I had nearly said as Peck, but that would be
impossible. My last personal experience of him was in the case of Mr.
Leigh's suit to keep control of his railway. In the final suit involving
the straightening out of all matters connected with the attempt of the
Canters and their set to get control of this property, I was retained as
junior counsel along with my kinsman, Mr. Glave, and other counsel,
representing Mr. Leigh's and his associates' interest. Peck appeared in
the case as one of the representatives of a small alleged interest held
by his father-in-law, Mr. Poole, which, as turned out on the final
decision of the cause, had no value whatever. This having been decided,
Peck, who was not without energy, at least where money was concerned,
brought forward a claim for compensation to be allowed him out of the
fund, and when this also was decided against him, he sought and secured
a conference with our counsel, at which I was present. The contention
which he set forth was based upon an equitable claim, as he termed it,
to compensation for expenses and professional services expended under
color of title, and if the facts he stated had been so, he might have
been entitled equitably to some allowance. I had satisfied myself that
his claims were without a shadow of foundation, yet he had the nerve,
when he concluded his argument, or rather his personal appeal to our
counsel, to turn to me for corroboration of his statement.
"I admit, gentlemen," he said, "that these facts rest largely on my
personal assurances, and, unfortunately, I am not known personally to
most of you, though I trust that my professional standing where I am
known may be accepted as a guarantee of my statements; but happily,
there is one of you to whom I can refer with confidence, my old college
mate and valued friend, Henry Glave. I might almost term him my former
partner, so closely were we associated in the days when we were both
struggling young attorneys, living in adjoining offices--I might,
indeed, almost say the same office. He, I feel quite sure, will
corroborate every statement I have made, at least so far as he knows the
facts, and even where they rest wholly on my declaration, I feel sure of
his indorsement, for he knows that I would cut off my right hand and
have my tongue torn from its roots, before I would utter an untruth in
any matter whatsoever; and least of all, where so paltry a thing as
money is concerned. I appeal to Henry Glave."