David stumbled blindly out the door and down the street. His one thought
was to get to his room at the tavern and shut the door. He had an
important appointment that morning, but it passed completely from his
mind. He met one or two men whom he knew, but he did not see them, and
passed them swiftly without a glance of recognition. They said one to
another, “How absorbed he is in the great themes of the world!” but David
passed on in his pain and misery and humiliation and never knew they were
near him.
He went to the room that had been his since he had reached New York, and
fastening the door against all intrusion fell upon his knees beside the
bed, and let the flood-tide of his sorrow roll over him. Not even when
Kate had played him false on his wedding morning had he felt the pain that
now cut into his very soul. For now there was mingled with it the agony of
consciousness of sin. He had sinned against heaven, against honor and
love, and all that was pure and good. He was just like any bad man. He had
yielded to sudden temptation and taken another man’s wife in his arms and
kissed her! That the woman had been his by first right, and that he loved
her: that she had invited the kiss, indeed pleaded for it, his sensitive
conscience told him in no wise lessened the offense. He had also caused
her whom he loved to sin. He was a man and knew the world. He should have
shielded her against herself. And yet as he went over and over the whole
painful scene through which he had just passed his soul cried out in agony
and he felt his weakness more and more. He had failed, failed most
miserably. Acted like any coward!
The humiliation of it was unspeakable. Could any sorrow be like unto his?
Like a knife flashing through the gloom of his own shame would come the
echo of her words as she pleaded with him to kiss her. It was a kiss of
forgiveness she had wanted, and she had put her heart into her eyes and
begged as for her very life. How could he have refused? Then he would
parley with himself for a long time trying to prove to himself that the
kiss and the embrace were justified, that he had done no wrong in God’s
sight. And ever after this round of confused arguing he would end with the
terrible conviction that he had sinned.
Sometimes Marcia’s sweet face and troubled eyes would appear to him as he
wrestled all alone, and seemed to be longing to help him, and again would
come the piercing thought that he had harmed this gentle girl also. He had
tangled her into his own spoiled web of life, and been disloyal to her.
She was pure and true and good. She had given up every thing to help him
and he had utterly forgotten her. He had promised to love, cherish, and
protect her! That was another sin. He could not love and cherish her when
his whole heart was another’s. Then he thought of Kate’s husband, that
treacherous man who had stolen his bride and now gone away and left her
sorrowing—left her without money, penniless in a strange city. Why had he
not been more calm and questioned her before he came away. Perhaps she was
in great need. It comforted him to think he had left her all the money he
had with him. There was enough to keep her from want for a while. And yet,
perhaps he had been wrong to give it to her. He had no right to give it!
He groaned aloud at the thought of his helplessness to help her
helplessness. Was there not some way he could find out and help her
without doing wrong?
Over and over he went through the whole dreadful day, until his brain was
weary and his heart failed him. The heavens seemed brass and no answer
came to his cry,—the appeal of a broken soul. It seemed that he could not
get up from his knees, could not go out into the world again and face
life. He had been tried and had failed, and yet though he knew his sin he
felt an intolerable longing to commit it over again. He was frightened at
his own weakness, and with renewed vigor he began to pray for help. It was
like the prayer of Jacob of old, the crying out of a soul that would not
be denied. All day long the struggle continued, and far into the night. At
last a great peace began to settle upon David’s soul. Things that had been
confused by his passionate longings grew clear as day. Self dropped away,
and sin, conquered, slunk out of sight. Right and Wrong were once more
clearly defined in his mind. However wrong it might or might not be he was
here in this situation. He had married Marcia and promised to be true to
her. He was doubly cut off from Kate by her own act and by his. That was
his punishment,—and hers. He must not seek to lessen it even for her, for
it was God-sent. Henceforth his path and hers must be apart. If she were
to be helped in any way from whatsoever trouble was hers, it was not
permitted him to be the instrument. He had shown his unfitness for it in
his interview that morning, even if in the eyes of the world it could have
been at all. It was his duty to cut himself off from her forever. He must
not even think of her any more. He must be as true and good to Marcia as
was possible. He must do no more wrong. He must grow strong and suffer.
The peace that came with conviction brought sleep to his weary mind and
body.
When he awoke it was almost noon. He remembered the missed appointment of
the day before, and the journey to Washington which he had planned for
that day. With a start of horror he looked at his watch and found he had
but a few hours in which to try to make up for the remissness of yesterday
before the evening coach left for Philadelphia. It was as if some guardian
angel had met his first waking thoughts with business that could not be
delayed and so kept him from going over the painful events of the day
before. He arose and hastened out into the world once more.
Late in the afternoon he found the man he was to have met the day before,
and succeeded in convincing him that he ought to help the new enterprise.
He was standing on the corner saying the last few words as the two
separated, when Kate drove by in a friend’s carriage, surrounded by
parcels. She had been on a shopping tour spending the money that David had
given her, for silks and laces and jewelry, and now she was returning in
high glee with her booty. The carriage passed quite near to David who
stood with his back to the street, and she could see his animated face as
he smiled at the other man, a fine looking man who looked as if he might
be some one of note. The momentary glance did not show the haggard look of
David’s face nor the lines that his vigil of the night before had traced
under his eyes, and Kate was angered to see him so unconcerned and
forgetful of his pain of yesterday. Her face darkened with spite, and she
resolved to make him suffer yet, and to the utmost, for the sin of
forgetting her.
But David was in the way of duty, and he did not see her, for his guardian
angel was hovering close at hand.
As the Fall wore on and the winter set in Harry’s letters became less
frequent and less intimate. Hannah was troubled, and after consultation
with her grandmother, to which Miranda listened at the latch hole, duly
reporting quotations to her adored Mrs. Spafford, Hannah decided upon an
immediate trip to the metropolis.
“Hannah’s gone to New York to find out what’s become of that nimshi Harry
Temple. She thought she had him fast, an’ she’s been holdin’ him over poor
Lemuel Skinner’s head like thet there sword hangin’ by a hair I heard the
minister tell about last Sunday, till Lemuel, he don’t know but every
minute’s gone’ll be his last. You mark my words, she’ll hev to take poor
Lem after all, an’ be glad she’s got him, too,—and she’s none too good for
him neither. He’s ben faithful to her ever since she wore pantalets, an’
she’s ben keepin’ him off’n on an’ hopin’ an’ tryin’ fer somebody bigger.
It would jes’ serve her right ef she’d get that fool of a Harry Temple,
but she won’t. He’s too sharp for that ef he _is_ a fool. He don’t want to
tie himself up to no woman’s aprun strings. He rather dandle about after
’em all an’ say pretty things, an’ keep his earnin’s fer himself.”
Hannah reached New York the week after David left for Washington. She
wrote beforehand to Harry to let him know she was coming, and made plain
that she expected his attentions exclusively while there, and he smiled
blandly as he read the letter and read her intentions between the lines.
He told Kate a good deal about her that evening when he went to call, told
her how he had heard she was an old flame of David’s, and Kate’s jealousy
was immediately aroused. She wished to meet Hannah Heath. There was a sort
of triumph in the thought that she had scorned and flung aside the man
whom this woman had “set her cap” for, even though another woman was now
in the place that neither had. Hannah went to visit a cousin in New York
who lived in a quiet part of the city and did not go out much, but for
reasons best known to themselves, both Kate Leavenworth and Harry Temple
elected to see a good deal of her while she was in the city. Harry was
pleasant and attentive, but not more to one woman than to the other.
Hannah, watching him jealously, decided that at least Kate was not her
rival in his affections, and so Hannah and Kate became quite friendly.
Kate had a way of making much of her women friends when she chose, and she
happened to choose in this case, for it occurred to her it would be well
to have a friend in the town where lived her sister and her former lover.
There might be reasons why, sometime. She opened her heart of hearts to
Hannah, and Hannah, quite discreetly, and without wasting much of her
scanty store of love, entered, and the friendship was sealed. They had not
known each other many days before Kate had confided to Hannah the story of
her own marriage and her sister’s, embellished of course as she chose.
Hannah, astonished, puzzled, wondering, curious, at the tragedy that had
been enacted at her very home door, became more friendly than ever and
hated more cordially than ever the young and innocent wife who had stepped
into the vacant place and so made her own hopes and ambitions impossible.
She felt that she would like to put down the pert young thing for daring
to be there, and to be pretty, and now she felt she had the secret which
would help her to do so.
As the visit went on and it became apparent to Hannah Heath that she was
not the one woman in all the world to Harry Temple, she hinted to Kate
that it was likely she would be married soon. She even went so far as to
say that she had come away from home to decide the matter, and that she
had but to say the word and the ceremony would come off. Kate questioned
eagerly, and seeing her opportunity asked if she might come to the
wedding. Hannah, flattered, and seeing a grand opportunity for a wholesale
triumph and revenge, assented with pleasure. Afterward as Hannah had hoped
and intended, Kate carried the news of the impending decision and probable
wedding to the ears of Harry Temple.
But Hannah’s hint had no further effect upon the redoubtable Harry. Two
days later he appeared, smiling, congratulatory, deploring the fact that
she would be lost in a certain sense to his friendship, although he hoped
always to be looked upon as a little more than a friend.
Hannah covered her mortification under a calm and condescending exterior.
She blushed appropriately, said some sentimental things about hoping their
friendship would not be affected by the change, told him how much she had
enjoyed their correspondence, but gave him to understand that it had been
mere friendship of course from her point of view, and Harry indulgently
allowed her to think that he had hoped for more and was grieved but
consolable over the outcome.
They waxed a trifle sentimental at the parting, but when Harry was gone,
Hannah wrote a most touching letter to Lemuel Skinner which raised him to
the seventh heaven of delight, causing him to feel that he was treading
upon air as he walked the prosaic streets of his native town where he had
been going about during Hannah’s absence like a lost spirit without a
guiding star.
“DEAR LEMUEL:” she wrote:—
“I am coming home. I wonder if you will be glad?
(Artful Hannah, as if she did not know!)
“It is very delightful in New York and I have been having a gay
time since I came, and everybody has been most pleasant, but—
“’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Still, be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there,
Which, go through the world, you’ll not meet with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet home!
There’s no place like home.
“That is a new song, Lemuel, that everybody here is singing. It is
written by a young American named John Howard Payne who is in
London now acting in a great playhouse. Everybody is wild over
this song. I’ll sing it for you when I come home.
“I shall be at home in time for singing school next week, Lemuel.
I wonder if you’ll come to see me at once and welcome me. You
cannot think how glad I shall be to get home again. It seems as
though I had been gone a year at least. Hoping to see you soon, I
remain
“Always your sincere friend,
“HANNAH HEATH.”
And thus did Hannah make smooth her path before her, and very soon after
inditing this epistle she bade good-bye to New York and took her way home
resolved to waste no further time in chasing will-o-the-wisps.
When Lemuel received that letter he took a good look at himself in the
glass. More than seven years had he served for Hannah, and little hope had
he had of a final reward. He was older by ten years than she, and already
his face began to show it. He examined himself critically, and was pleased
to find with that light of hope in his eyes he was not so bad looking as
he feared. He betook himself to the village tailor forthwith and ordered a
new suit of clothes, though his Sunday best was by no means shiny yet. He
realized that if he did not win now he never would, and he resolved to do
his best.
On the way home, during all the joltings of the coach over rough roads
Hannah Heath was planning two campaigns, one of love with Lemuel, and one
of hate with Marcia Spafford. She was possessed of knowledge which she
felt would help her in the latter, and often she smiled vindictively as
she laid her neat plans for the destruction of the bride’s complacency.
That night the fire in the Heath parlor burned high and glowed, and the
candles in their silver holders flickered across fair Hannah’s face as she
dimpled and smiled and coquetted with poor Lemuel. But Lemuel needed no
pity. He was not afraid of Hannah. Not for nothing had he served his seven
years, and he understood every fancy and foible of her shallow nature. He
knew his time had come at last, and he was getting what he had wanted
long, for Lemuel had admired and loved Hannah in spite of the dance she
had led him, and in spite of the other lovers she had allowed to come
between them.
Hannah had not been at home many days before she called upon Marcia.
Marcia had just seated herself at the piano when Hannah appeared to her
from the hall, coming in unannounced through the kitchen door according to
old neighborly fashion.
Marcia was vexed. She arose from the instrument and led the way to the
little morning room which was sunny and cosy, and bare of music or books.
She did not like to visit with Hannah in the parlor. Somehow her presence
reminded her of the evil face of Harry Temple as he had stooped to kiss
her.
“You know how to play, too, don’t you?” said Hannah as they sat down.
“Your sister plays beautifully. Do you know the new song, ‘Home, Sweet
Home?’ She plays it with so much feeling and sings it so that one would
think her heart was breaking for her home. You must have been a united
family.” Hannah said it with sharp scrutiny in voice and eyes.
“Sit down, Miss Heath,” said Marcia coolly, lowering the yellow shades
that her visitor’s eyes might not be troubled by a broad sunbeam. “Did you
have a pleasant time in New York?”
Hannah could not be sure whether or not the question was an evasion. The
utterly child-like manner of Marcia disarmed suspicion.
“Oh, delightful, of course. Could any one have anything else in New York?”
Hannah laughed disagreeably. She realized the limitations of life in a
town.
“I suppose,” said Marcia, her eyes shining with the thought, “that you saw
all the wonderful things of the city. I should enjoy being in New York a
little while. I have heard of so many new things. Were there any ships in
the harbor? I have always wanted to go over a great ship. Did you have
opportunity of seeing one?”
“Oh, dear me. No!” said Hannah. “I shouldn’t have cared in the least for
that. I’m sure I don’t know whether there were any ships in or not. I
suppose there were. I saw a lot of sails on the water, but I did not ask
about them. I’m not interested in dirty boats. I liked visiting the shops
best. Your sister took me about everywhere. She is a most charming
creature. You must miss her greatly. You were a sly little thing to cut
her out.”
Marcia’s face flamed crimson with anger and amazement. Hannah’s dart had
hit the mark, and she was watching keenly to see her victim quiver.
“I do not understand you,” said Marcia with girlish dignity.
“Oh, now don’t pretend to misunderstand. I’ve heard all about it from
headquarters,” she said it archly, laughing. “But then I don’t blame you.
David was worth it.” Hannah ended with a sigh. If she had ever cared for
any one besides herself that one was David Spafford.
“I do not understand you,” said Marcia again, drawing herself up with all
the Schuyler haughtiness she could master, till she quite resembled her
father.
“Now, Mrs. Spafford,” said the visitor, looking straight into her face and
watching every expression as a cat would watch a mouse, “you don’t mean to
tell me your sister was not at one time very intimate with your husband.”
“Mr. Spafford has been intimate in our family for a number of years,” said
Marcia proudly, her fighting fire up, “but as for my having ‘cut my sister
out’ as you call it, you have certainly been misinformed. Excuse me, I
think I will close the kitchen door. It seems to blow in here and make a
draft.”
Marcia left the room with her head up and her fine color well under
control, and when she came back her head was still up and a distant
expression was in her face. Somehow Hannah felt she had not gained much
after all. But Marcia, after Hannah’s departure, went up to her cold room
and wept bitter tears on her pillow alone.
[Illustration: Copyright by C. Klackner
MARCIA PASSED FROM THE OLD STONE CHURCH WITH THE TWO AUNTS.]
Copyright by C. Klackner
MARCIA PASSED FROM THE OLD STONE CHURCH WITH THE TWO AUNTS.
After that first visit Hannah never found the kitchen door unlocked when
she came to make a morning call, but she improved every little opportunity
to torment her gentle victim. She had had a letter from Kate and had
Marcia heard? How often did Kate write her? Did Marcia know how fond Harry
Temple was of Kate? And where was Kate’s husband? Would he likely be
ordered home soon? These little annoyances were almost unbearable
sometimes and Marcia had much ado to keep her sweetness of outward
demeanor.
People looked upon Lemuel with new respect. He had finally won where they
had considered him a fool for years for hanging on. The added respect
brought added self-respect. He took on new manliness. Grandmother Heath
felt that he really was not so bad after all, and perhaps Hannah might as
well have taken him at first. Altogether the Heath family were well
pleased, and preparations began at once for a wedding in the near future.
And still David lingered, held here and there by a call from first one man
and then another, and by important doings in Congress. He seemed to be
rarely fitted for the work.
Once he was called back to New York for a day or two, and Harry Temple
happened to see him as he arrived. That night he wrote to Hannah a
friendly letter—Harry was by no means through with Hannah yet—and casually
remarked that he saw David Spafford was in New York again. He supposed now
that Mrs. Leavenworth’s evenings would be fully occupied and society would
see little of her while he remained.
The day after Hannah received that letter was Sunday.
The weeks had gone by rapidly since David left his home, and now the
spring was coming on. The grass was already green as summer and the willow
tree by the graveyard gate was tender and green like a spring-plume. All
the foliage was out and fluttering its new leaves in the sunshine as
Marcia passed from the old stone church with the two aunts and opened her
little green sunshade. Her motion made David’s last letter rustle in her
bosom. It thrilled her with pleasure that not even the presence of Hannah
Heath behind her could cloud.
However prim and fault-finding the two aunts might be in the seclusion of
their own home, in public no two could have appeared more adoring than
Amelia and Hortense Spafford. They hovered near Marcia and delighted to
show how very close and intimate was the relationship between themselves
and their new and beautiful niece, of whom in their secret hearts they
were prouder than they would have cared to tell. In their best black silks
and their fine lace shawls they walked beside her and talked almost
eagerly, if those two stately beings could have anything to do with a
quality so frivolous as eagerness. They wished it understood that David’s
wife was worthy of appreciation and they were more conscious than she of
the many glances of admiration in her direction.
Hannah Heath encountered some of those admiring glances and saw jealously
for whom they were meant. She hastened to lean forward and greet Marcia,
her spiteful tongue all ready for a stab.
“Good morning, Mrs. Spafford. Is that husband of yours not home yet?
Really! Why, he’s quite deserted you. I call that hard for the first year,
and your honeymoon scarcely over yet.”
“He’s been called back to New York again,” said Marcia annoyed over the
spiteful little sentences. “He says he may be at home soon, but he cannot
be sure. His business is rather uncertain.”
“New York!” said Hannah, and her voice was annoyingly loud. “What! Not
again! There must be some great attraction there,” and then with a meaning
glance, “I suppose your sister is still there!”
Marcia felt her face crimsoning, and the tears starting from angry eyes.
She felt a sudden impulse to slap Hannah. What if she should! What would
the aunts say? The thought of the tumult she might make roused her sense
of humor and a laugh bubbled up instead of the tears, and Hannah,
watching, cat-like, could only see eyes dancing with fun though the cheeks
were charmingly red. By Hannah’s expression Marcia knew she was baffled,
but Marcia could not get away from the disagreeable suggestion that had
been made.
Yes, David was in New York, and Kate was there. Not for an instant did she
doubt her husband’s nobleness. She knew David would be good and true. She
knew little of the world’s wickedness, and never thought of any blame, as
other women might, in such a suggestion. But a great jealousy sprang into
being that she never dreamed existed. Kate was there, and he would perhaps
see her, and all his old love and disappointment would be brought to mind
again. Had she, Marcia, been hoping he would forget it? Had she been
claiming something of him in her heart for herself? She could not tell.
She did not know what all this tumult of feeling meant. She longed to get
away and think it over, but the solemn Sunday must be observed. She must
fold away her church things, put on another frock and come down to the
oppressive Sunday dinner, hear Deacon Brown’s rheumatism discussed, or
listen to a long comparison of the morning’s sermon with one preached
twenty years ago by the minister, now long dead upon the same text. It was
all very hard to keep her mind upon, with these other thoughts rushing
pell-mell through her brain; and when Aunt Amelia asked her to pass the
butter, she handed the sugar-bowl instead. Miss Amelia looked as shocked
as if she had broken the great-grandmother’s china teapot.
Aunt Clarinda claimed her after dinner and carried her off to her room to
talk about David, so that Marcia had no chance to think even then. Miss
Clarinda looked into the sweet shadowed eyes and wondered why the girl
looked so sad. She thought it was because David stayed away so long, and
so she kept her with her all the rest of the day.
When Marcia went to her room that night she threw herself on her knees
beside the bed and tried to pray. She felt more lonely and heartsick than
she ever felt before in her life. She did not know what the great hunger
in her heart meant. It was terrible to think David had loved Kate. Kate
never loved him in return in the right way. Marcia felt very sure of that.
She wished she might have had the chance in Kate’s place, and then all of
a sudden the revelation came to her. She loved David herself with a great
overwhelming love. Not just a love that could come and keep house for him
and save him from the criticisms and comments of others; but with a love
that demanded to be loved in return; a love that was mindful of every dear
lineament of his countenance. The knowledge thrilled through her with a
great sweetness. She did not seem to care for anything else just now, only
to know that she loved David. David could never love her of course, not in
that way, but she would love him. She would try to shut out the thought of
Kate from him forever.
And so, dreaming, hovering on the edge of all that was bitter and all that
was sweet, she fell asleep with David’s letter clasped close over her
heart.