Barbara. She had no curiosity as to its contents. If she had, it would
be an easy matter to open it, and put it into another envelope, without
the address, and explain that it had been merely enclosed with
instructions as to its delivery.
[Sidenote: Miriam Delivers the Letter]
Taking it, she went into the room where Barbara lay--the same room where
the dead Constance had lain so long before.
"Barbara," she said, without emotion, "when your mother died she left
this letter for you, in my care." She put it into the girl's eager,
outstretched hand and left the room, closing the door after her.
With trembling fingers, Barbara broke the seal, and took out the closely
written sheet. All four pages were covered. The ink had faded and the
paper was yellow, but the words were still warm with love and life.
[Sidenote: The Letter]
"Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," the
letter began. "If you live to receive this
letter, your mother will have been dead for many
years and, perhaps, forgotten. I have chosen your
twenty-second birthday for this because I am
twenty-two now, and, when you are the same age,
you will, perhaps, be better fitted to understand
than at any other time.
"I trust you have not married, because, if you
have, my warning may come too late. Never marry a
man whom you do not know, absolutely, that you
love, and when this knowledge comes to you, if
there are no barriers in the way, do not let
anything on God's earth keep you apart.
"I have made the mistake which many girls make.
I came from school, young, inexperienced, unbalanced,
and eager for admiration. Your father, a brilliant man
of more than twice my age, easily appealed to my fancy.
He was handsome, courteous, distinguished, wealthy, of
fine character and unassailable position. I did not
know, then, that a woman could love love, rather than
the man who gave it to her.
"There is not a word to be said of him that is not
wholly good. He has failed at no point, nor in the
smallest degree. On the contrary, it is I who have
disappointed him, even though I love him dearly
and always have. I have never loved him more than
to-day, when I leave you both forever.
"My feeling for him is unchanged. It is only that
at last I have come face to face with the one man
of all the world--the one God made for me, back in
the beginning. I have known it for a long, long
time, but I did not know that he also loved me
until a few days ago.
"Since then, my world has been chaos, illumined by
this unutterable light. I have been a true wife,
and when I can be true no longer, it is time to
take the one way out. I cannot live here and run
the risk of seeing him constantly, yet trust
myself not to speak; I cannot bear to know that
the little space lying between us is, in reality,
the whole world.
"He is bound, too. He has a wife and a son only a
little older than you are. If I stay, I shall be
false to your father, to you, to him, and even to
myself, because, in my relation to each of you,
I shall be living a lie.
[Sidenote: The Message]
"Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he
has been very good to me, that I appreciate all
his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the
beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am
sorry I have failed him, that I have not been a
better wife, but God knows I have done the best I
could. Tell him I have loved him, that I love him
still, and have never loved him more than I do
to-day. But oh, my baby, do not tell him that the
full-orbed sun has risen before one who knew only
twilight before.
"And, if you can, love your mother a little, as
she lies asleep in her far-away grave. Your
father, if he has not forgotten me, will have
dealt gently with my memory--of that I am sure.
But I do not quite trust Miriam, and I do not know
what she may have said. She loved your father and
I took him away from her. She has never forgiven
me for that and she never will.
[Sidenote: A Burden]
"If I have done wrong, it has been in thought only
and not in deed. I do not believe we can control
thought or feeling, though action and speech can
be kept within bounds. Forgive me, Barbara,
darling, and love me if you can.
"Your
"MOTHER."
The last words danced through the blurring mist and Barbara sobbed aloud
as she put the letter down. Blind though he was, her father had felt the
lack--the change. The pity of it all overwhelmed her.
Her thought flew swiftly to Roger, but--no, he must not know. This
letter was written to the living and not to the dead. Aunt Miriam would
ask no questions--she was sure of that--but the message to her father
lay heavily upon her soul. How could she make him believe in the love he
so hungered for even now?
As the hours passed, Barbara became calm. When Miriam came in to see if
she wanted anything, she asked for pencil and paper, and for a book to
be propped up on a pillow in front of her, so that she might write.
Miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look at
Barbara, but the calm, impassive face and the deep eyes were
inscrutable.
[Sidenote: The Meaning Changed]
As soon as she was alone again, she began to write, with difficulty,
from her mother's letter, altering it as little as possible, and yet
changing the meaning of it all. She could trust herself to read from her
own sheet, but not from the other. It took a long time, but at last she
was satisfied.
It was almost dusk when Ambrose North returned, and Barbara asked for a
candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. She also
sent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used. Miriam's
curiosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait.
She had already waited long.
"Daddy," said, Barbara, softly, when they were alone, "do you know what
day it is?"
"No," he answered; "why?"
"It's my birthday--I'm twenty-two to-day."
"Are you? Your dear mother was twenty-two when she--I wish you were like
your mother, Barbara."
"Mother left a letter with Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, gently. "She
gave it to me to-day."
The old man sprang to his feet. "A letter!" he cried, reaching out a
trembling hand. "For me?"
[Sidenote: Barbara Reads to her Father]
Barbara laughed--a little sadly. "No, Daddy--for me. But there is
something for you in it. Sit down, and I'll read it to you."
"Read it all," he cried. "Read every word."
"Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," read the girl, her voice
shaking, "if you live to read this letter, your mother will have been
dead for many years, and possibly forgotten."
"No," breathed Ambrose North--"never forgotten."
"I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this, because I am
twenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we were
sisters, rather than mother and daughter."
"Dear Constance," whispered the old man.
"When I came from school, I met your father. He was a brilliant man,
handsome, courteous, distinguished, of fine character and unassailable
position."
Barbara glanced up quickly. The dull red had crept into his wrinkled
cheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile.
"There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has
failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. I have disappointed
him, I fear, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never
loved him more than I do to-day, when I leave you both forever.
"Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to
me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the
beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failed
him----"
"Oh, dear God!" he cried. "_She_ fail?"
"That I have not been a better wife," Barbara went on, brokenly. "Tell
him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him
more than I do to-day.
"Forgive me, both of you, and love me if you can. Your Mother."
In the tense silence, Barbara folded up both sheets and put them back
into the envelope. Still, she did not dare to look at her father. When,
at last, she turned to him, sorely perplexed and afraid, he was still
sitting at her bedside. He had not moved a muscle, but he had changed.
If molten light had suddenly been poured over him from above, while the
rest of the room lay in shadow, he could not have changed more.
[Sidenote: As by Magic]
The sorrowful years had slipped from him, and, as though by magic, Youth
had come back. His shoulders were still stooped, his face and hands
wrinkled, and his hair was still as white as the blown snow, but his
soul was young, as never before.
"Barbara," he breathed, in ecstasy. "She died loving me."
The slender white hand stole out to his, half fearfully. "Yes, Daddy,
I've always told you so, don't you know?" Her senses whirled, but she
kept her voice even.
"She died loving me," he whispered.
The clock ticked steadily, a door closed below, and a little bird
outside chirped softly. There was no other sound save the wild beating
of Barbara's heart, which she alone heard. Still transfigured, he sat
beside the bed, holding her hand in his.
[Sidenote: Far-Away Voices]
Far-away voices sounded faintly in his ears, for, like a garment, the
years had fallen from him and taken with them the questioning and the
fear. Into his doubting heart Constance had come once more, radiant with
new beauty, thrilling his soul to new worship and new belief.
"She died loving me," he said, as though he could scarcely believe his
own words. "Barbara, I know it is much to ask, for it must be very
precious to you, but--would you let me hold the letter? Would you let me
feel the words I cannot see?"
Choking back a sob, Barbara took both sheets out of the envelope and
gave them to him. "Show me," he whispered, "show me the line where she
wrote, 'Tell him I love him still, and have never loved him more than
I do to-day.'"
When Barbara put his finger upon the words, he bent and kissed them.
"What does it say here?"
He pointed to the paragraph beginning, "I have made the mistake which
many girls make."
"It says," answered Barbara, "'There is not a word to be said of him
that is not wholly good.'" He bent and kissed that, too. "And here?" His
finger pointed to the line, "I did not know that a woman could love
love, rather than the man who gave it to her."
"That is where it says again, 'Tell him I have loved him, that I love
him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.'"
"Dear, blessed Constance," he said, crushing the lie to his lips. "Dear
wife, true wife; truest of all the world."
Barbara could bear no more. "Let me have the letter again, Daddy."
[Sidenote: After Years of Waiting]
"No, dear, no. After all these years of waiting, let me keep it for a
little while. Just for a little while, Barbara. Please." His voice broke
at the end.
"For a little while, then, Daddy," she said, slowly; "only a little
while."
[Sidenote: His Illumined Face]
He went out, with the precious letter in his hand. Miriam was in the
hall, but he was unconscious of the fact. She shrank back against the
wall as he passed her, with his fine old face illumined as from some
light within.
In his own room, he sat down, after closing the door, and spread the two
sheets on the table before him. He moved his hands caressingly over the
lines Constance had written in ink and Barbara in pencil.
"She died loving me," he said to himself, "and I was wrong. She did not
change when I was blind and Barbara was lame. All these years I have
been doubting her while her own assurance was in the house.
"She thought she failed me--the dear saint thought she failed. It must
take me all eternity to atone to her for that. But she died loving me."
His thought lingered fondly upon the words, then the tears streamed
suddenly over his blind face.
"Oh, Constance, Constance," he cried aloud, forgetting that the dead
cannot hear. "You never failed me! Forgive me if you can."
XV
The Song of the Pines
Upon the couch in the sitting-room, though it was not yet noon, Miss
Mattie slept peacefully. She had the repose, not merely of one dead, but
of one who had been dead long and was very weary at the time of dying.
As Doctor Conrad had expected, her back was entirely well the morning
following his visit, and when she awoke, free from pain, she had dinned
his praises into Roger's ears until that long-suffering young man was
well-nigh fatigued. The subject was not exhausted, however, even though
Roger was.
[Sidenote: A Wonder-Worker]
"I'll tell you what it is, Roger," Miss Mattie had said, drawing a long
breath, and taking a fresh start; "a young man that can cure a pain like
mine, with pills that size, has got a great future ahead of him as well
as a brilliant past behind. He's a wonder-worker, that's what he is, not
to mention bein' a mind-reader as well."
She had taken but a half dozen of the capsules the first day, having
fallen asleep after taking the third dose. When Roger went to the
office, very weary of Doctor Conrad's amazing skill, Miss Mattie had
resumed her capsules and, shortly thereafter, fallen asleep.
She had slept for the better part of three days, caring little for food
and not in the least for domestic tasks. At the fourth day, Roger became
alarmed, but Doctor Conrad had gone back to the city, and there was no
one within his reach in whom he had confidence.
[Sidenote: The Sleeping Woman]
At last it seemed that it was time for him to act, and he shook the
sleeping woman vigorously. "What's the matter, Roger?" she asked,
drowsily; "is it time for my medicine?"
"No, it isn't time for medicine, but it's time to get up. Your back
doesn't hurt you, does it?"
"No," murmured Miss Mattie, "my back is as good as it ever was. What
time is it?"
"Almost four o'clock and you've been asleep ever since ten this morning.
Wake up."
"Eight--ten--twelve--two--four," breathed Miss Mattie, counting on her
fingers. Then, to his astonishment, she sat up straight and rubbed her
eyes. "If it's four, it's time for my medicine." She went over to the
cupboard in which the precious box of capsules was kept, took two more,
and returned to the couch. She still had the box in her hand.
"Mother," gasped Roger, horrified. "What are you taking that medicine
for?"
"For my back," she responded, sleepily.
"I thought your back was well."
"So 'tis."
"Then what in thunder do you keep on taking dope for?"
Miss Mattie sat up. She was very weary and greatly desired her sleep,
but it was evident that Roger must be soothed first.
[Sidenote: Getting her Money's Worth]
"You don't seem to understand me," she sighed, with a yawn. "After
payin' a dollar and twenty cents for that medicine, do you reckon I'm
goin' to let it go to waste? I'm goin' to keep right on takin' it, every
four hours, as he said, until it's used up."
"Mother!"
"Don't you worry none, Roger," said Miss Mattie, kindly, with a drowsy
smile. "Your mother is bein' took care of by a wonderful doctor. He
makes the lame walk and the blind see and cures large pains with small
pills. I am goin' to stick to my medicine. He didn't say to stop takin'
it."
"But, Mother, you mustn't take it when there is no need for it. He never
meant for you to take it after you were cured. Besides, you might have
the same trouble again when we couldn't get hold of him."
"How'm I to have it again?" demanded Miss Mattie, pricking up her ears,
"when I'm cured? If I take all the medicine, I'll stay cured, won't I?
You ain't got no logic, Roger, no more'n your pa had."
"I wish you wouldn't, Mother," pleaded the boy, genuinely distressed.
"It's the medicine that makes you sleep so."
"I reckon," responded Miss Mattie, settling herself comfortably back
among the pillows, "that he wanted me to have some sleep. In all my life
I ain't never had such sleep as I'm havin' now. You go away, Roger, and
study law. You ain't cut out for medicine."
The last words died away in an incoherent whisper. Miss Mattie slept
again, with the box tightly clutched in her hand. As her fingers
gradually loosened their hold, Roger managed to gain possession of it
without waking her. He did not dare dispose of it, for he well knew that
the maternal resentment would make the remainder of his life a burden.
Besides, she might have another attack, when the ministering mind-reader
was not accessible. If it were possible to give her some harmless
substitute, and at the same time keep the "searching medicine" for a
time of need.
[Sidenote: A Bright Idea]
A bright idea came to Roger, which he hastened to put into execution. He
went to the druggist and secured a number of empty capsules of the same
size. At home, he laboriously filled them with flour and replaced those
in the box with an equal number of them. He put the "searching
medicine" safely away in his desk at the office, and went to work, his
heart warmed by the pleasant consciousness that he had done a good deed.
When he went home at night, Miss Mattie was partially awake and inclined
to be fretful. "The strength is gone out of my medicine," she grumbled,
"and it ain't time to take more. I've got to set here and be deprived of
my sleep until eight o'clock."
Roger prepared his own supper and induced his mother to eat a little.
When the clock began to strike eight, she took two of the flour-filled
capsules, confidently climbed upstairs, and--such is the power of
suggestion--was shortly asleep.
[Sidenote: Favourable Opportunity]
Having an unusually favourable opportunity, Roger went over to see
Barbara. He had not seen her since the night before the operation, but
Doctor Conrad had told him that in a few days he might be allowed to
talk to her or read to her for a little while at a time.
Miriam opened the door for him, and, he thought, looked at him with
unusual sharpness. "I guess you can see her," she said, shortly. "I'll
ask her."
In the pathetically dingy room, out of which Barbara had tried so hard
to make a home, he waited until Miriam returned. "They said to come up,"
she said, and disappeared.
Roger climbed the creaking stairs and made his way through the dark,
narrow hall to the open door from whence a faint light came. "Come in,"
called Barbara, as he paused.
Ambrose North sat by her bedside holding her hand, but she laughingly
offered the other to Roger. "Bad boy," she said; "why haven't you come
before? I've lain here in the window and watched you go back and forth
for days."
"I didn't dare," returned Roger. "I was afraid I might do you harm by
coming and so I stayed away."
"Everybody has been so kind," Barbara went on. "People I never saw nor
heard of have come to inquire and to give me things. You're absolutely
the last one to come."
[Sidenote: Last but Not Least]
"Last--and least?"
"Not quite," she said, with a smile. "But I haven't been lonely. Father
has been right beside me all the time except when I've been asleep,
haven't you, Daddy?"
"I've wanted to be," smiled the old man, "but sometimes they made me go
away."
"Tell me about the Judge's liver," suggested Barbara, "and Fido. I've
been thinking a good deal about Fido. Did his legal document hurt him?"
[Sidenote: Fido]
"Not in the least. On the contrary, he thrived on it. He liked it so
well that he's eaten others as opportunity offered. The Judge is used to
it now, and doesn't mind. I've been thinking that it might save time and
trouble if, when I copied papers, I took an extra carbon copy for Fido.
That pup literally eats everything. He's cut some of his teeth on a pair
of rubbers that a client left in the office, and this noon he ate nearly
half a box of matches."
"I suppose," remarked Barbara, "that he was hungry and wanted a light
lunch."
"That'll be about all from you just now," laughed Roger. "You're going
to get well all right--I can see that."
"Of course I'm going to get well. Who dared to say I wasn't?"
"Nobody that I know of. Do you want me to bring Fido to see you?"
"Some day," said Barbara, thoughtfully, "I would like to have you lead
Fido up and down in front of the house, but I do not believe I would
care to have him come inside."
So they talked for half an hour or more. The blind man sat silently,
holding Barbara's hand, too happy to feel neglected or in any way
slighted. From time to time her fingers tightened upon his in a
reassuring clasp that took the place of words.
Acutely self-conscious, Roger's memory harked back continually to the
last evening he and Barbara had spent together. In a way, he was
grateful for North's presence. It measurably lessened his constraint,
and the subtle antagonism that he had hitherto felt in the house seemed
wholly to have vanished.
At last the blind man rose, still holding Barbara's hand. "It is late
for old folks to be sitting up," he said.
"Don't go, Daddy. Make a song first, won't you? A little song for Roger
and me?"
He sat down again, smiling. "What about?" he asked.
"About the pines," suggested Barbara--"the tallest pines on the hills."
There was a long pause, then, clearing his throat, the old man began.
[Sidenote: Small Beginnings]
"Even the tall and stately pines," he said, "were once the tiniest of
seeds like everything else, for everything in the world, either good or
evil, has a very small beginning.
"They grow slowly, and in Summer, when you look at the dark, bending
boughs, you can see the year's growth in paler green at the tips. No one
pays much attention to them, for they are very dark and quiet compared
with the other trees. But the air is balmy around them, they scatter a
thick, fragrant carpet underneath, and there is no music in the world,
I think, like a sea-wind blowing through the pines.
"When the brown cones fall, the seeds drop out from between the smooth,
satin-like scales, and so, in the years to come, a dreaming mother pine
broods over a whole forest of smaller trees. A pine is lonely and
desolate, if there are no smaller trees around it. A single one,
towering against the sky, always means loneliness, but where you see a
little clump of evergreens huddled together, braving the sleet and snow,
it warms your heart.
"In Summer they give fragrant shade, and in Winter a shelter from the
coldest blast. The birds sleep among the thick branches, finding seeds
for food in the cones, and, on some trees, blue, waxen berries.
[Sidenote: A Love Story]
"Before the darkness came to me, I saw a love story in a forest of
pines. One tree was very straight and tall, and close beside it was
another, not quite so high. The taller tree leaned protectingly over the
other, as if listening to the music the wind made on its way from the
hills to the sea. As time went on, their branches became so thickly
interlaced that you could scarcely tell one from the other.
"Around them sprang up half a dozen or more smaller trees, sheltered,
brooded over, and faithfully watched by these two with the interlaced
branches. The young trees grew straight and tall, but when they were not
quite half grown, a man came and cut them all down for Christmas trees.
"When he took them away, the forest was strangely desolate to these two,
who now stood alone. When the Daughters of Dawn opened wide the gates of
darkness, and the Lord of Light fared forth upon the sea, they saw it
not. When it was high noon, and there were no shadows, even upon the
hill, it seemed that they might lift up their heads, but they only
twined their branches more closely together. When all the flaming
tapestry of heaven was spread in the West, they leaned nearer to each
other, and sighed.
[Sidenote: Bereft]
"When the night wind stirred their boughs to faint music, it was like
the moan of a heart that refuses to be comforted. When Spring danced
through the forest, leaving flowers upon her way, while all the silences
were filled with life and joy, these two knew it not, for they were
bereft.
"Mating calls echoed through the woods, and silver sounds dripped like
rain from the maples, but there was no love-song in the boughs of the
pines. The birds went by, on hushed wings, and built their nests far
away.
"When the maples put on the splendid robes of Autumn, the pines, more
gaunt and desolate than ever, covered the ground with a dense fabric of
needles, lacking in fragrance. When the winds grew cool, and the Little
People of the Forest pattered swiftly through the dead and scurrying
leaves, there was no sound from the pines. They only waited for the end.
"When storm swept through the forest and the other trees bowed their
heads in fear, these two straightened themselves to meet it, for they
were not afraid. Frightened birds took refuge there, and the Little
People, with wild-beating hearts, crept under the spreading boughs to be
sheltered.