"THE MILLS OF THE GODS GRIND SLOWLY, BUT THEY GRIND EXCEEDINGLY SMALL."
At the drawing-room window of the late Hugh Darcy's old-fashioned house,
Hugh Darcy's heiress sits. It is a dreary November day, a long,
lamentable blast soughs through the city streets--the two vestal poplars
toss their green arms wildly aloft in the gale, and the sleety rain goes
swirling before it. At all times a quiet street, it is entirely forsaken
to-day. Far off comes the clatter and jangle of passing street-cars, the
dull roar of the city's ceaseless life. In this by-street peace reigns.
Yet Norine sits by the window gazing steadfastly out at the wet, leaden,
melancholy afternoon. In her lap some piece of flimsy feminine
handicraft lies--on the table before her are strewn new books and uncut
magazines. But she neither embroiders nor reads--she lies back against
the crimson velvet of the old chair looking handsome and listless, her
dark, thoughtful eyes, gazing aimlessly at the lashing rain. Now and
then they turn from the picture without to the picture within, and she
sighs softly.
A bright fire burns in the steel grate and lights ruddily the
crimson-draped room. On a sofa drawn up before it, in a nest of pillows,
Helen Thorndyke lies so still, so white, you might think her dead. But
she is not even asleep, although she lies motionless with closed eyes.
Her life seems to have come to an end. Pride she has, and it has upheld
her, but love she has too, and pride cannot quite crush it out. Since
that fatal September night she has been here--since that night his name
has never passed her lips; these two women, whose lives Laurence
Thorndyke has marred, never talk of him. She lies here and broods,
broods, broods ever--of the days that are gone and can never come again.
On the floor near, little Laurie is building a house of blocks, and
squat in the centre of a wool rug baby Nellie crows delightedly and
watches the progress of the architect. So the minutes tick off, and it
is an hour since Norine has entered the room.
In the library, before her entrance here, she has had an interview with
Richard Gilbert--it is of that interview and of him she sits thinking
now. Some business connected with Mr. Darcy's estate has brought him,
and she has asked him, constrainedly enough, for news of Laurence
Thorndyke.
"I keep Liston on his track," she said, playing nervously with her watch
chain. "Helen says little, but she suffers always. And Liston's news is
of the dreariest."
The strong, gray eyes of the lawyer had lifted sternly to her face. No
word of censure had ever escaped his lips--what right had he? but Norine
felt the steady rebuke of that firm, cold glance. He knew all, and she
felt he must utterly despise her now.
"He has fallen very low," Mr. Gilbert answered, briefly, "so low that it
is hardly possible for him to fall much lower. In losing his wife and
children he lost his last hold on respectability, his one last hope on
earth."
"He deserved to lose them," Norine said, with a flash of her black
eyes.
"Perhaps so. From all I hear _you_ should know best. But if stern
justice is to be meted to us all, after your merciless fashion, then
Heaven help us! If vengeance can gratify you, Mrs. Darcy, you may rest
well content. He has sunk as low as his worst enemy could wish. But--you
might have spared Helen."
Cold, cutting, the words of rebuke fell. He arose, gathering up his
papers, his face set and stern. Her face drooped--she covered it with
her hand, and turned away.
"She at least had never wronged you," Richard Gilbert pitilessly went
on. "Have you made her any happier, Mrs. Darcy, by taking her husband
from her? In spite of his myriad faults she loved him--she trusted him,
and so, neither poverty, hard work, nor neglect could make her
altogether miserable. _You_ led him on--led him on from the first, in
cold blood, working for your revenge. And when you had crazed his brain
by your smiles and fair words, and allurements, you brought his wife
here to overhear the passion you had labored to inspire. You madden her
in turn, you take her from him, you order him from your presence like a
dog. You took from him the one good angel of his life--his wife--and
gave him up boldly to the devil. He has earned it all, you have your
revenge, but--as I stand and look at you here, I wonder--I wonder if
_you_ can be Norine Bourdon."
A dry sob was her answer. He had poured forth the words, passionate
reproach in his voice, passionate anger in his eyes. And she had shrank
away before his just wrath like a guilty thing.
"His home is a gambler's hell--his food and drink are the liquid fire
called whiskey; his associates are the scum and refuse of the city.
Mrs. Darcy, I wish you joy of your work!"
"Spare me," she faltered.
Mr. Gilbert looked silently for a moment at the bowed figure, then took
his hat and turned to go.
"I beg your pardon," he said, very quietly. "I had no right to speak at
all. My only excuse is, that I will not so offend again. How is Helen?"
"As she always is. She says nothing; she lies and suffers in silence.
Will you not see her?"
"Not to-day; it is painful to me; I can see it is painful to her, poor
child. Good-afternoon, madam."
He bowed with formal coldness and was gone. So! she had had her revenge,
but was the "game worth the candle" after all? Is revenge ever worth its
cost, she began to wonder.
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay." Yes, yes, she was beginning to see it
all? And--Christianity apart--revenge, as we wreak it, after our poor
light, is so apt to recoil on ourselves.
So, Norine sits by the window now, thinking over this pleasant interview
and "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies." Much more bitter than
sweet. Until she had lost Richard Gilbert's good opinion utterly, she
had never known how she prized it.
Presently glancing back from the darkening day without, at some lustier
shout than usual of Master Laurie, she finds Helen's large, mournful
eyes fixed upon her. She rises, crosses over, kneels down by the sofa,
and kisses tenderly the wan cheek.
"My dear," she says, "what is it?"
"Is--," she falters, "is there any news of _him_?"
"No news--only the old story. Nellie! Nellie! I begin to think I have
done grievously wrong."
"How, Norine?"
"By bringing you here that night. I have been sinned against, but I have
also been sinning. I had taken the fortune he prized so highly; I should
have been content with that. But I was not. When I returned there was no
thought of him in my mind, except the hope that we might never meet. We
did meet, and when I saw his growing admiration for myself, I--Nellie,
forgive me if you can--I _did_ encourage it. I wonder at my own
wickedness now; I am sorry, sorry, sorry. I know I should never have
brought you here that night. Badly as he treated you, you were happier
with him than you are now. And I parted you. Nellie, forgive me!"
Something that was almost color flushed into the pale face--something
that was almost light into the blue eyes. The soft lips set themselves
firmly.
"There is nothing to forgive. I thank you for having brought me here
that night. Sooner or later I would have known all. And I was not his
wife he said--you were--not I. 'In any case, I will have a divorce.'
Have you forgotten those words? 'I never cared for her--I loathe her
now--I married her for her dower.' Have you forgotten _that_? He
deserved all. I don't blame you. We are only human, and I say again I am
glad I know. I suffer, but no blame attaches to you for that suffering.
He was treading the down-hill road before you came; he is only finishing
the journey as it would have been finished in any case. I hate myself
for my own misery. I hate myself that I cannot tear every thought of him
out of my heart. But I think of the past, and I cannot."
She broke down suddenly, violently, passionately almost, for the first
time, into wild, hysterical weeping. Norine took her in her arms, her
own tears falling, and let her sob her sorrow out. The paroxysm was
brief as it was stormy. She drew herself away suddenly, and buried her
face, among the pillows.
"Don't mind me, please," she said; "don't talk to me. I am ashamed of my
own weakness, but--"
Norine kissed her very tenderly.
"I am glad to see you cry, Nellie--anything is better than this dry,
stony grief. I will take the babies down to supper, and send you up
yours. And Nellie, dear, you must eat it; remember we start on a journey
to-morrow."
The journey was to Kent Hill, where they were to stay over Christmas and
New Year. Norine had made one flying visit already--had been clasped in
Aunt Hetty's arms, had kissed Uncle Reuben's sunburnt cheek, had heard
Uncle Joe's husky "Right glad to see you back, Norry," and--that was
all. She took the old place, and, after one twilight talk, the past was
never referred to. Truthfully and simply she told them all, not even
excepting the darkest part--her own revenge bitterly repented of when
too late. Now she and Helen and the children were going down for a long
visit. One other guest there was to be--one who had spent every
Christmas at Kent Hill during the past four years--Mr. Gilbert.
"Christmas wouldn't seem like Christmas now without him," Aunt Hetty
said. "I don't believe there's his equal in wide America. A gentleman
from top to toe, if there ever was one yet."
The children Aunt Hetty took to her motherly heart at once--Helen's pale
lips she kissed, and Helen was at home in five minutes, as though she
had known them for years. It was such a blessed, restful place--the
tired heart drew a great sigh of relief, and felt half its weary load
lifted off. For Norine--she was almost the Norine of old, flying up and
down breezy stairways, in and out breezy rooms, the old songs rippling
from her lips, until the thought of the pale, widowed wife down-stairs
made her check them. Then came winter--the first fall of snow--the first
gay sleighing. Little Laurie was wild with delight--even Helen's pale
lips learned to smile. Kent Hill was working a transformation.
Christmas drew near, and among Norine's pleasant duties came that of
decorating Mr. Gilbert's room, the old guest chamber, where he had spent
so many happy, hopeful nights in the time when he had loved her. He
despised her now. Ah, what a wretch she had been! He would despise her
always. Well, she deserved it all; it didn't matter; but--and then a
heavy sigh finished the thought. She was learning the value of what she
had lost when too late.
Christmas arrived--Mr. Gilbert arrived. And Helen's wistful eyes looked
into his face, and asked the question her lips were too proud to shape.
"There is no news," he said softly, as he bent over her chair; "only the
old news. He is well--that is the best I can tell of him."
No more was said. Norine, proud and humble together, rather avoided him.
Still they were of necessity a great deal together, indoors and out,
and, in the genial glow and cheerfulness of the Christmas-time, the
reserve of both melted. It began to be like old times--the bright color,
the gay laugh, the light step, the sparkling eyes, the sweet singing,
made Norine the very Norine of four years ago. And Mr. Gilbert--but Mr.
Gilbert was ever quiet and undemonstrative; his calm, grave face told
little, except that he was quietly happy; that you could see.
Christmas passed, New Year passed, Mr. Gilbert went back to New York.
And suddenly a blank fell upon Kent Hill, sleighing and skating lost
their zest--the weather grew colder, the dull country duller, and Mrs.
Darcy, at the close of January, abruptly announced her intention of
returning to New York also.
"If you are willing to come, Nellie," she said; "of course if you would
rather remain--"
"I would rather go," Helen answered. "I have been happier here than I
ever thought to be again, but I would rather go."
That settled it. They went. And on the second of February Mrs. Darcy
donned velvet and sables, and set off for Mr. Gilbert's office. Was it
altogether for Helen's sake--altogether for news of Helen's husband?
Well, Mrs. Darcy did not ask herself the question, so no one else
perhaps has any right to do so.
Looking very fresh, very stately, very handsome, she came like a bright
vision into the lawyer's dingy office. A little desultory talk
then--playing with her muff tassels, she asked the old question:
"Was there any news of him?"
"Yes," Mr. Gilbert answered this time; "there is news. He has been very
ill; he has been in a hospital; some blow on the head received in a
drunken brawl. I hunted him up the day he was discharged. A most
pitiable object I found him--penniless, friendless, and still half dazed
from the effects of the blow. I took him to a respectable
boarding-house, paid a month's board in advance, and obtained the
landlady's promise to look after him a little more than usual. He is
there still, but gone back to the old life. I fear all hope for him is
at an end."
Norine's face had fallen in her hands.
"May Heaven forgive me my share in his ruin! Oh, Mr. Gilbert! it may not
be yet too late. Who knows? I will go to him--I will beg his
forgiveness--he shall return to his wife and children. Give me his
address"--she started impetuously to her feet, her face aglow--"I will
go at once."
He gave it to her without a word, written on a slip of paper. As she
took it, she paused and looked at him with clasped hands.
"Mr. Gilbert," she faltered, "if--if I do this will _you_ forgive me?"
He laid his hand on her shoulder, almost as a father might, more moved
than he cared to show.
"I forgive you now," he answered.
She left the house, entered her carriage, and bade the coachman drive to
the address. Then with a glow of new hope, new happiness at her heart,
she fell back. Yes, she would atone for her sin--she would labor with
all her strength to reform Laurence Thorndyke, to win forgiveness from
Heaven and her friends. Fifteen minutes brought her to the street.
Before one house a crowd had collected, a suppressed murmur of infinite
excitement running through the throng.
"It is the very house we are looking for, ma'am" said the coachman,
opening the door.
She could not tell why, but some swift feeling of evil made her get out
and join the crowd.
"What is it?" she breathlessly inquired.
"Man jumped from a three-story window and killed himself," was the
answer.
She pressed forward, her hand on her heart--very pale.
"Why did he do it?" she asked.
"Del. trem., ma'am."
"Jim jams, misses."
"Delirium tremens, madam," interposed a gentlemanly man, touching his
hat. "He jumped from that upper window, stark crazy, not five minutes
ago. Very sad case--very sad case, indeed. A gentleman once. I knew him
well. His name is Laurence Thorndyke."