Seldom did Blair Maynard ever trust himself any more in the presence
of his mother's guests. Since Mrs. Maynard had announced the
engagement of his sister Margaret to Richard Swann, she had changed
remarkably. Blair did not love her any the better for the change. All
his life, as long as he could remember, he and Margaret had hated
pretension, and the littleness of living beyond their means. But now,
with this one _coup d'etat,_ his mother had regained her position as
the leader of Middleville society. Haughty, proud, forever absorbed in
the material side of everything, she moved in a self-created
atmosphere Blair could not abide. He went hungry many a time rather
than sit at table with guests such as Mrs. Maynard delighted to honor.
Blair and Margaret had become estranged, and Blair spent most of his
time alone, reading or dreaming, but mostly sleeping. He knew he grew
weaker every day and his weakness appeared to induce slumber.
On New Year's day, after dinner, he fell asleep in a big chair, across
the hall from the drawing-room. And when he awoke the drawing-room was
full of people making New Year's calls. If there was anything Blair
hated it was to thump on his crutch past curious, cold-eyed persons.
So he remained where he was, hoping not to be seen. But unfortunately
for him, he had exceedingly keen ears and exceedingly sensitive
feelings.
Some of the guests he knew very well without having to see them. The
Swanns, and Fanchon Smith, with her brother and mother, Gerald Hartley
and his bride, Helen Wrapp, and a number of others prominent as
Middleville's elect were recognizable by their voices. While he was
sitting there, trying not to hear what he could not help hearing, a
number more arrived.
They talked. It gradually dawned on Blair that some gossip was rife
anent a midnight marriage between his friend Daren Lane and Mel Iden.
Blair was deeply shocked. Then his emotions, never calm, grew
poignant. He listened. What he heard spoken of Daren and Mel made his
blood boil. Sweet voices, low-pitched, well-modulated, with the
intonation of culture, made witty and scarcely veiled remarks of a
suggestiveness that gave rise to laughter. Voices of men, bland,
blase, deriding Daren Lane! Blair listened, and slowly his passion
mounted to a white heat. And then it seemed, fate fully, in a lull of
the conversation, some one remarked graciously to Mrs. Maynard that it
was a pity that Blair had lost a leg in the war.
Blair thumped up on his crutch, and thumped across the hall to
confront this assembly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, pray pardon me," he said, in his high-pitched
tenor, cold now, and under perfect control. "I could not help hearing
your conversation. And I cannot help illuminating your minds. It seems
exceedingly strange to me that people of intelligence should make the
blunders they do. So strange that in the future I intend to take such
as you have made as nothing but the plain cold fact of perversion of
human nature! Daren Lane is so far above your comprehension that it
seems useless to defend him. I have never done it before. He would not
thank me. But this once I will speak.... In our group of service
men--so few of whom came home--he was a hero. We all loved him. And
for soldiers at war that tribute is the greatest. If there was a dirty
job to be done, Daren Lane volunteered for it. If there was a comrade
to be helped, Daren Lane was the first to see it. He never thought of
himself. The dregs of war did not engulf him as they did so many of
us. He was true to his ideal. He would have been advanced for honors
many a time but for the enmity of our captain. He won the _Croix de
Guerre_ by as splendid a feat as I saw during the war.... Thank God,
we had some officers who treated us like men--who were men themselves.
But for the majority we common soldiers were merely beasts of burden,
dogs to drive. This captain of whom I speak was a padded
shape--shirker from the front line--a parader of his uniform before
women. And he is that to-day--a chaser of women--girls--_girls_ of
fifteen.... Yet he has the adulation of Middleville while Daren Lane
is an outcast.... My God, is there no justice? At home here Daren Lane
has not done one thing that was not right. Some of the gossip about
him is as false as hell. He has tried to do noble things. If he
married Mel Iden, as you say, it was in some exalted mood to help her,
or to give his name to her poor little nameless boy."
Blair paused a moment in a deliberate speech that toward the end had
grown breathless. The faces before him seemed swaying in a mist.
"As for myself," he continued in passionate hurry, "I did not _lose_
my leg!... I _sacrificed_ it. I _gave_ my career, my youth, my
health, my body--and I will soon have given my life--for my country
and my people. I was proud to do it. Never for a moment have I
regretted it.... What I lost--Ah! what I _lost_ was respect
for"--Blair choked--"for the institution that had deluded me. What I
_lost_ was not my leg but my faith in God, in my country, in the
gratitude of men left at home, in the honor of women."
Friday, the tenth of January, dawned cold, dark, dreary, and all day a
dull clouded sky promised rain or snow. From a bride's point of view
it was not a propitious day for a wedding. A half hour before five
o'clock a stream of carriages began to flow toward St. Marks and
promptly at five the door of the church shut upon a large and
fashionable assembly.
The swelling music of the wedding march pealed out. The bridal party
filed into the church. The organ peals hushed. The resonant voice of a
minister, with sing-song solemnity, began the marriage service.
Margaret Maynard knew she stood there in the flesh, yet the shimmering
white satin, the flowing veil, covered some one who was a stranger to
her.
And this other, this strange being who dominated her movements, stood
passively and willingly by, while her despairing and truer self saw
the shame and truth. She was a lie. The guests, friends, attendants,
bridesmaids, the minister, the father, mother, groom--all were lies.
They expressed nothing of their true feelings.
The unwelcomed curious, who had crowded into the back of the church,
were the sincerest, for in their eyes, covetousness was openly
unveiled. The guests and friends wore the conventional shallow smiles
of guests and friends. They whispered to one another--a beautiful
wedding--a gorgeous gown--a perfect bride--a handsome groom; and
exclaimed in their hearts: How sad the father! How lofty, proud,
exultant the mother! How like her to move heaven and earth to make
this marriage! The attendants posed awkwardly, a personification of
the uselessness of their situation, and they pitied the bride while
they envied him for whose friendship they stood. The bridesmaids
graced their position and gloried in it, and serenely smiled, and
thought that to be launched in life in such dazzling manner might be
compensation for the loss of much. He of the flowing robe, of the
saintly expression, of the trained earnestness, the minister who had
power to unite these lives, saw nothing behind that white veil, saw
only his fashionable audience, while his resonant voice rolled down
the aisles of the church: "Who gives this woman to be wedded to this
man?" The father answered and straightway the years rolled back to his
youth, to hope, to himself as he stood at the altar with love and
trust, and then again to the present, to the failure of health and
love and life, to the unalterable destiny accorded him, to the one
shame of an honest if unsuccessful life--the countenancing of this
marriage. The worldly mother had, for once, a full and swelling
heart. For her this was the crowning moment. In one sense this
fashionable crowd had been pitted against her and she had won. What to
her had been the pleading of a daughter, the importunity of a father,
the reasoning of a few old-fashioned friends? The groom, who
represented so much and so little in this ceremony, had entered the
church with head held high, had faced his bride with gratified smile
and the altar with serene unconsciousness.
Margaret Maynard saw all this; saw even the bride, with her splendidly
regular loveliness; and then, out of heaven, it seemed there thundered
an awful command, rolling the dream away, striking terror to her
heart.
"If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined
together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his
peace!"
One long, silent, terrible moment! Would not an angel appear, with
flaming sword, to smite her dead? But the sing-song voice went on,
like flowing silk.
The last guest at Mrs. Maynard's reception had gone, reluctantly, out
into the snow, and the hostess sat in her drawing-room, amid the ruins
of flowers and palms. She was alone with her triumph. Mr. Maynard and
Mr. Swann were smoking in the library. Owing to the storm and delicate
health of the bride the wedding journey had been postponed.
Margaret was left alone, at length, in the little blue-and-white room
which had known her as a child and maiden, where she now sat as wife.
For weeks past she had been emotionless. To-night, with that
trenchant command, unanswered except in her heart, a spasm of pain had
broken the serenity of her calm, and had left her quivering.
"It is done," she whispered.
The endless stream of congratulations, meaningless and abhorrent to
her, the elaborate refreshments, the warm embraces of old friends had
greatly fatigued her. But she could not rest. She paced the little
room; she passed the beautiful white bridal finery, so neatly folded
by the bridesmaids, and she averted her eyes. She seemed not to hate
her mother, nor love her father; she had no interest in her husband.
She was slipping back again into that creature apart from her real
self.
The house became very quiet; the snow brushed softly against the
windows.
A step in the hall made Margaret pause like a listening deer; a tap
sounded lightly on her door; a voice awoke her at last to life and to
torture.
"Margaret, may I come in?"
It was Swann's voice, a little softer than usual, with a subtle
eagerness.
"No" answered Margaret, involuntarily.
"I beg your pardon. I'll wait." Swann's footsteps died away in the
direction of the library.
The spring of a panther was in Margaret's action as she began to
repace the room. All her blood quickened to the thought suggested by
her husband's soft voice. In the mirror she saw a crimsoned face and
shamed eyes from which she turned away.
All the pain and repression, the fight and bitter resignation and
trained indifference of the past months were as if they had never
been. This was her hour of real agony; now was the time to pay the
price. Pride, honor, love never smothered, reserve rooted in the very
core of a sensitive woman's heart, availed nothing. Once again
catching sight of her reflection in the mirror she stopped before it,
and crossing her hands on her heaving breast, she regarded herself
with scorn. She was false to her love, she was false to herself, false
to the man to whom she had sold herself. "Oh! Why did I yield!" she
cried. She was a coward; she belonged to the luxurious class that
would suffer anything rather than lose position. Fallen had she as low
as any of them; gold had been the price of her soul. To keep her
position she must marry one man when she loved another. She cried out
in her wretchedness; she felt in her whole being a bitter humiliation;
she felt stir in her a terrible tumult.
Margaret wondered how many thousands of girls had been similarly
placed, and pitied them. She thought of the atmosphere in which she
lived, where it seemed to her every mother was possessed singularly
and entirely of one aim, to marry her daughter as soon as possible to
a man as rich as possible. Marrying well simply meant marrying money.
Only a few days before her mother had come to her and said: "Mrs.
Fisher called and she was telling me about her daughter Alice. It
seems Alice is growing very pretty and very popular. She said she was
afraid Alice had taken, a liking to that Brandeth fellow, who's only a
clerk. So Mrs. Fisher intends taking Alice to the seashore this
summer, to an exclusive resort, of course, but one where there will be
excitement and plenty of young gentlemen."
At the remembrance Margaret gave a little contemptuous laugh. A year
ago she would not have divined the real purport of her mother's words.
How easy that was now! Mrs. Fisher had decided that as Alice was
eighteen it was time a suitable husband was found for her. Poor Alice!
Balls, parties, receptions there would be, and trips to the seashore
and all the other society manoeuvers, made ostensibly to introduce
Alice to the world; but if the truth were told in cold blood all this
was simply a parading of the girl before a number of rich and
marriageable men. Poor Harry Brandeth!
She recalled many marriages of friends and acquaintances. With strange
intensity of purpose she brought each one to mind, and thought
separately and earnestly over her. What melancholy facts this exercise
revealed! She could not recall one girl who was happy, perfectly
happy, unless it was Jane Silvey who ran off with and married a
telegraph operator. Jane was still bright-eyed and fresh, happy no
doubt in her little house with her work and her baby, even though her
people passed her by as if she were a stranger. Then Margaret
remembered with a little shock there was another friend, a bride who
had been found on her wedding night wandering in the fields. There had
been some talk, quickly hushed, of a drunken husband, but it had never
definitely transpired what had made her run out into the dark night.
Margaret recollected the time she had seen this girl's husband, when
he was drunk, beat his dog brutally. Then Margaret reflected on the
gossip she never wanted to hear, yet could not avoid hearing, over her
mother's tea-table; on the intimations and implications. Many things
she would not otherwise have thought of again, but they now recurred
and added their significance to her awakening mind. She was not keen
nor analytical; she possessed only an ordinary intelligence; she could
not trace her way through a labyrinth of perplexing problems; still,
suffering had opened her eyes and she saw something terribly wrong in
her mother's world.
Once more she stopped pacing her room, for a step in the hall arrested
her, and made her stand quivering, as if under the lash.
"I won't!" she breathed intensely. Swiftly and lightly she sped across
her room, opened a door leading to the balcony and went out, closing
the door behind her softly.
Mr. Maynard sat before the library fire with a neglected cigar between
his fingers. The events of the day had stirred him deeply. The cold
shock he had felt when he touched his daughter's cheek in the
accustomed good-night kiss remained with him, still chilled his lips.
For an hour he sat there motionless, with his eyes fixed on the dying
fire, and in his mind hope, doubt and remorse strangely mingled. Hope
persuaded him that Margaret was only a girl, still sentimental and
unpoised. Unquestionably she had made a good marriage. Her girlish
notions about romance and love must give way to sane acceptance of
real human life. After all money meant a great deal. She would come
around to a sensible view, and get that strange look out of her eyes,
that strained blighted look which hurt him. Then he writhed in his
self-contempt; doubt routed all his hope, and remorse made him
miserable.
A hurried step on the stairs aroused Mr. Maynard. Swann came running
into the library. He was white; his sharp featured face wore a
combination of expressions; alarm, incredulity, wonder were all
visible there, but the most striking was mortification.
"Mr. Maynard, Margaret has left her room. I can't find her anywhere."
The father stared blankly at his son-in-law.
Swann repeated his statement.
"What!" All at once Mr. Maynard sank helplessly into his chair. In
that moment certainty made him an old broken man.
"She's gone!" said Swann, in a shaken voice. "She has run off from me.
I knew she would; I knew she'd do something. I've never been able to
kiss her--only last night we quarreled about it. I tell you it's--"
"Pray do not get excited," interrupted Mr. Maynard, bracing up. "I'm
sure you exaggerate. Tell me what you know."
"I went to her room an hour, two hours ago, and knocked. She was there
but refused me admittance. She spoke sharply--as if--as if she was
afraid. I went and knocked again long after. She didn't answer. I
knocked again and again. Then I tried her door. It was not locked. I
opened it. She was not in the room. I waited, but she didn't come.
I--I am afraid something is--wrong."
"She might be with her mother," faltered Mr. Maynard.
"No, I'm sure not," asserted Swann. "Not to-night of all nights.
Margaret has grown--somewhat cold toward her mother. Besides Mrs.
Maynard retired hours ago."
The father and the husband stole noiselessly up the stairs and entered
Margaret's room. The light was turned on full. The room was somewhat
disordered; bridal finery lay littered about; a rug was crumpled; a
wicker basket overturned. The father's instinct was true. His first
move was to open the door leading out upon the balcony. In the thin
snow drifted upon this porch were the imprints of little feet.
Something gleamed pale blue in the light of the open door. Mr. Maynard
picked it up, and with a sigh that was a groan held it out to Swann.
It was a blue satin slipper.
"Heavens!" exclaimed Swann. "She's run out in the snow--she might as
well be barefooted."
"S-sh-h!" warned Mr. Maynard. Unhappy and excited as he was he did not
forget Mrs. Maynard. "Let us not alarm any one."
"There! See, her footsteps down the stairs," whispered Swann. "I can
see them clear to the ground."
"You stay here, Swann, so in case Mrs. Maynard or the servants awake
you can prevent alarm. We must think of that. I'll bring her back."
Mr. Maynard descended the narrow stairway to the lower porch and went
out into the yard. The storm had ceased. A few inches of snow had
fallen and in places was deeper in drifts. The moon was out and shone
down on a white world. It was cold and quiet. When Mr. Maynard had
trailed the footsteps across his wide lawn and saw them lead out into
the street toward the park, he fell against a tree, unable, for a
moment, to command himself. Hope he had none left, nor a doubt. On the
other side of the park, hardly a quarter of a mile away, was the
river. Margaret had gone straight toward it.
Outside in the middle of the street he found her other slipper. She
had not even stockings on now; he could tell by the impressions of her
feet in the snow. He remembered quite mournfully how small Margaret's
feet were, how perfectly shaped. He hurried into the park, but was
careful to obliterate every vestige of her trail by walking in the
soft snow directly over her footprints. A hope that she might have
fainted before she could carry out her determination arose in him and
gave him strength. He kept on. Her trail led straight across the park,
in the short cut she had learned and run over hundreds of times when a
little girl. It was hastening her now to her death.
At first her footsteps were clear-cut, distinct and wide apart. Soon
they began to show evidences of weariness; the stride shortened; the
imprints dragged. Here a great crushing in a snow drift showed where
she had fallen.
Mr. Maynard's hope revived; he redoubled his efforts. She could not be
far. How she dragged along! Then with a leap of his heart, and a sob
of thankfulness he found her, with disheveled hair, and face white as
the snow where it rested, sad and still in the moonlight.