was the use of his spending his money to come east for her, and pay
his expenses back? That seemed reasonable, and the day was fixed for
her departure.
Her trunks were packed.
She took a night train so that we could all go to the station to see
her off, and I am sure that the crowd who saw us kissing her good-bye
are not likely to forget the scene.
Then the girls went home chattering about "dear little Josephine."
In due time came a letter from a place near Utica, where she was, she
said, on her little "wedding trip," and "very happy," and "he" sent
his love, and it was signed with her new name, and she would send us
her address as soon as she was settled.
Time went by--some months. Then she did send an address, but she did
not write often, and when she did, she said little but that she was
happy.
As nearly as I can remember, it was a year and a half after she left
that news came that Josephine had a son. By that time a great many of
the girls she had known were gone. Changes come fast in such a place.
But there was great rejoicing, and those who had known her found time
to make something for dear little Josephine's baby, and the sending of
the things kept up the interest in her for some months.
Then the letters ceased again.
I can't be sure how long it was after that that I received a letter
from her. She told me that her husband was dead, that she never really
had taken root in Utica, and now that she was alone, with her baby to
support, she longed to come back to Boston, and asked my advice. Did I
think she could take up her old work?
I took the letter at once to the Matron of the Friendly Society--I
happened to be resting between two cases--and we decided that it was
safe. At least between us we could help her make the trial.
A few months later she came, and we went to the station to meet her. I
could not see that she had changed a bit. She did not look a day
older, and the bouncing baby she carried in her arms was a darling.
Of course she could not go back to the Association. That was not for
married women. But we found her a room just across the street, and in
no time, she dropped right back into the place she had left. Every
morning she took the baby boy to the _crêche_ and every night she took
him home, and a better cared-for, better loved, more wisely bred
youngster was never born, nor a happier one. Every one loved him just
as every one loved Josephine.
There I thought Josephine's story ended, and so far as she was
concerned, it did.
But when the baby was six years old, and forward for his age, the
Matron of the Friendly Society came into my room one day, when I was
there to take a longer rest than usual, after a very trying case, and
told me that she was in great distress. A friend of hers, who had been
her predecessor, and was now the Matron of an Orphan Asylum in New
York State, was going to the hospital to have a cataract removed from
her eye, and had written to ask her to come and take her place while
she was away. She begged me to replace her at the Friendly Society
while she was gone. As her assistant was a capable young woman, and my
relations with every one were pleasant I was only too glad to consent.
She had always been so good to me.
She was gone a month.
On her return I noticed that she was distressed about something. I
taxed her with it. She said it was nothing she felt like talking
about. But one evening when Josephine had been sewing for me, after
she was gone, the Matron, who had been in my room, got up, and closed
the door after her.
"I've really got to tell you what is on my mind," she said. "And I am
sure that you will look on it as a confidence. You know the asylum
where I have been is not far from Utica, where Josephine went when she
was married. Well, one day, about a fortnight after I got there, I had
occasion to look up the record of a child in the books, and my
attention was attracted by a name the same as Josephine's. The
coincidence struck me, and I read the record that on a certain day,
which as near as I could calculate, must have been a year after
Josephine left, a person of her name, written down as a widow, a
member of the Orthodox Church, had adopted a male child a few months
old. I was interested. I did not suspect anything, but I asked the
assistant matron if she remembered the case. She did, clearly. She
said the woman was a dear little thing, who had come there shortly
before, a young widow, a seamstress. She was a lonely little thing,
and some one connected with the asylum had given her work, which she
had done so well that she soon had all she needed. She had been
employed in the asylum, and loved children as they did her. The child
in question was the son of a woman who had died at its birth, from the
shock of an accident which had killed the father. It took a fancy to
Josephine, and she wanted to adopt it. The committee took the matter
up. The clergyman spoke well of her, as did every one, and they all
decided that she was perfectly able to care for it. So she took the
child. All of a sudden, one day, Josephine went, as she had come.
There was no mystery about it. She told the clergyman that she was
homesick for her old friends, and had gone east, and would write, and
she always has.
"Of course I was puzzled. There was no doubt in my mind that it was
our little Josephine. Naturally I was discreet. Luckily. I spoke of
her to several people who remembered her, and they all called her
'dear little Josephine' just as we had. I talked of her with the
clergyman and his wife. I asked questions that were too natural to
rouse suspicions, when I told them that I knew her, that the baby was
the dearest and happiest child I knew, and what do you suppose I found
out, more by inference than facts?"
No need to ask me. Didn't I know?
Josephine had never been married. There had never been any "He." It
all seemed so natural. It did not shock me, as it had the Matron, and
I was glad she had told no one but me. Dear little Josephine! Sitting
there in the Association without family, with no friends but her
patrons, and those girls whose little romances went on about her! No
romances ever came her way. So she had made one all of her own. I
proved to the Matron easily that what she had discovered by accident
was not her affair, that to keep Josephine's secret was a virtue, and
not a sin. I was sure of that, for, as I watched her afterwards, I
knew that Josephine had played her part in her dream romance so well,
that she no longer remembered that it was not true. She had forgotten
she had not really borne the child she carried so lovingly in her
arms.
* * * * *
"Is that all?" asked the Journalist.
"That is all," replied the Trained Nurse.
"By Jove," said the Doctor, "that is a good story. I wish I had told
it."
"Thank you, Doctor," laughed the Trained Nurse. "I thought it was a
bit in your line."
"But fancy the cleverness of the little thing to do all the details up
so nicely," said the Lawyer. "She dovetailed everything so neatly.
But what I want to know is whether she planned the baby when she
planned the make-believe husband?"
"I fancy not," replied the Nurse. "One thing came along after another
in her imagination, quite naturally."
"Poor little Josephine--it seems to me hard luck to have had to
imagine such an every day fate," sighed the Divorcée.
"Don't pity her," snapped the Doctor. "Poor little Josephine, indeed!
Lucky little Josephine, who arranged her own romance, and risked no
disillusion. There have been cases where the joys of the imagination
have been more dangerous."
"You are sure she had no disillusion?" asked the Critic.
"I am," said the Nurse.
"And her name was Josephine?" asked the Divorcée.
"It was not, and Utica was not the town," replied the Nurse.
"Perhaps her disillusion is ahead of her," said the Journalist. "'Say
no man'--or woman either--'is happy until the day of his death.'"
"She _is_ dead," said the Nurse.
"I told you she was lucky little Josephine," ejaculated the Doctor.
"And she died without telling the boy the truth?" asked the
Journalist.
"The truth?" repeated the Nurse. "I've told you that she had forgotten
it. No woman was ever so loved by a son. No mother ever so grieved
for."
"Then the son lives?" asked the Doctor.
The Nurse smiled quietly.
"Good-night," said the Doctor. "I am going to bed to dream of that. It
is a pity some of the rest of us childless slackers had not done as
well as Josephine. She took her risk. She was lucky."
"She did," replied the Nurse, "but she did not realize anything of
that. She was too simple, too unanalytic."
"I wonder?" said the Critic.
"You need not, I know." Her eyes fell on the Lawyer, and she caught a
laugh in his eye. "What does that mean?" she asked.
"Well," said the Lawyer, "I was only thinking. She was religious, that
dear little Josephine?"
"At least she always went to church."
"I know the type," said the Violinist, gently. "Accepted what she was
taught, believed it."
"Exactly," said the Lawyer, "that is what I was getting at. Well then,
when her son meets her _au dela_--he will ask for his father--"
"Or," interrupted the Violinist, "his own mother will claim him."
"Don't worry," laughed the Critic. "It's dollars to doughnuts that she
was 'dear little Josephine' to all the Heavenly Host half an hour
after she entered the 'gates of pearl.' Don't look shocked. That is
not sacrilegious. It is intentions--motives, that are immortal, not
facts. Besides--"
"Don't push that idea too far," interrupted the Doctor from the door.
"Don't be alarmed. I was only going to say--there are Ik Marvels _au
dela_--"
"I knew that idea was in your head. Drop it!" laughed the Doctor.
"Anyway," said the Violinist, "if Life is but a dream, she had a
pretty one. Good night." And he went up to bed, and we all soon
followed him, and I imagine not one of us, as we looked out into the
moonlit air, thought that night of war.
III
THE CRITIC'S STORY
'TWAS IN THE INDIAN SUMMER
THE TALE OF AN ACTRESS
The next day, just as we were sitting down to dinner, the news came
that Namur had fallen. The German army had marched singing into the
burning town the afternoon before. The Youngster had his head over a
map almost all through dinner. The Belgians were practically pushed
out of all but Antwerp, and the Germans were rapidly approaching the
natural defences of France running from Lille to Verdun, through
Valenciennes, Mauberge, Hirson and Mezières.
Things were beginning to look serious, although we still insisted on
believing that the Germans could not break through. One result of the
march of events was that we none of us had any longer the smallest
desire to argue. Theories were giving way to the facts of every day,
but in our minds, I imagine, we were every one of us asking, "How
long CAN we stay here? How long will it be wise, even if we
are permitted?" But, as if by common consent, no one asked the
question, and we were only too glad to sit out in the garden we had
all learned to love, and to talk of anything which was not war, until
the Critic moved his chair into the middle of the circle, and began
his tale.
"Let me see," he remarked. "I need a property or two," and he pulled
an envelope out of his pocket and laid it on the table, and, leaning
his elbows on it, began:
* * * * *
It was in the Autumn of '81 that I last saw Dillon act.
She had made a great success that winter, yet, in the middle of the
season, she had suddenly disappeared.
There were all kinds of newspaper explanations.
Then she was forgotten by the public that had enthusiastically
applauded her, and which only sighed sadly, a year later, on hearing
of her death, in a far off Italian town,--sighed, talked a little, and
forgot again.
It chanced that a few years later I was in Italy, and being not many
miles from the town where I heard that she was buried, and a trifle
overstrung by a few months delicious, aimless life in that wonderful
country, I was taken with a sentimental fancy to visit her grave.
It was a sort of pilgrimage for me, for I had given to Dillon my first
boyish devotion.
I thought of her, and to remember her was to recall her rare charm,
her beauty, her success, after a long struggle, and the unexpected,
inexplicable manner in which she had abandoned it. It was to recall,
too, the delightful evenings I had spent under her influence, the
pleasure I had had in the passion of her "Juliet," the poetic charm of
her "Viola"; the graceful witchery of her "Rosalind"; how I had smiled
with her "Portia"; laughed with her "Beatrice"; wept with her
"Camille"; in fact how I had yielded myself up to her magnetism with
that ecstatic pleasure in which one gets the best joys of every
passion, because one does not drain the dregs of any.
I well remembered her last night, how she had disappeared, how she had
gone to Europe, how she had died abroad,--all mere facts known in
their bareness only to the public.
It was hard to find the place where she was buried. But at last I
succeeded.
It was in a humble churchyard. The grave was noticeable because it was
well kept, and utterly devoid of the tawdry ornamentation inseparable
from such places in Italy. It was marked by a monument distinctly
unique in a European country. It was a huge unpolished boulder, over
which creeping green vines were growing.
On its rough surface a cross was cut, and underneath were the words:
"Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare,
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph or Despair."
Below that I read with stupefaction,
"Margaret Dillon and child,"
and the dates
"January, 1843"
"July 25, 1882."
In spite of the doubts and fancies this put into my mind, I no sooner
stood beside the spot where the earth had claimed her, than all my old
interest in her returned. I lingered about the place, full of
romantic fancies, decorating her tomb with flowers, as I had once
decorated her triumphs, absorbed in a dreamy adoration of her memory,
and singing her praise in verse.
It was then that I learned the true story of her disappearance,
guessed at that of her death, as I did at the identity of the young
Dominican priest, who sometimes came to her grave, and who finally
told me such of the facts as I know. I can best tell the story by
picturing two nights in the life of Margaret Dillon, the two following
her last appearance on the stage.
The play had been "Much Ado."
Never had she acted with finer humor, or greater gaiety. Yet all the
evening she had felt a strange sadness.
When it was all over, and friends had trooped round to the stage to
praise her, and trooped away, laughing and happy, she felt a strange,
sad, unused reluctance to see them go.
Then she sat down to her dressing table, hurriedly removed her
make-up, and allowed herself to be stripped of her stage finery. Her
fine spirits seemed to strip off with her character. She shivered
occasionally with nervousness, or superstition, and she was strangely
silent.
All day she had, for some inexplicable reason, been thinking of her
girlhood, of what her life might have been if, at a critical moment,
she had chosen a woman's ordinary lot instead of work,--or if, at a
later day, she had yielded to, instead of resisted, a great
temptation. All day, as on many days lately, she had wondered if she
regretted it, or if, the days of her great triumph having passed,--as
pass they must,--she should regret it later if she did not yet.
It was probably because,--early in the season as it was--she was
tired, and the October night oppressed her with the heat of Indian
Summer.
Silently she had allowed herself to be undressed, and redressed in
great haste. But before she left the theatre she bade every one "good
night" with more than her usual kindliness, not because she did not
expect to see them all on Monday,--it was a Saturday night,--but
because, in her inexplicably sad humour, she felt an irresistible
desire to be at peace with the world, and a still deeper desire to
feel herself beloved by those about her.
Then she entered her carriage and drove hurriedly home to the tiny
apartment where she lived quite alone.
On the supper table lay a note.
She shivered as she took it up. It was a handwriting she had been
accustomed to see once a year only, in one simple word of greeting,
always the same word, which every year in eighteen had come to her on
New Year's wherever she was.
But this was October.
She sat perfectly still for some minutes, and then resolutely opened
the letter, and read:
"Madge:--I am so afraid that my voice coming to you, not
only across so many years, but from another world, may shock
you, that I am strongly tempted not to keep my word to you,
yet, judging you by myself, I feel that perhaps this will be
less painful than the thought that I had passed forgetful of
you, or changed toward you. You were a mere girl when we
mutually promised, that though it was Fate that our paths
should not be the same, and honorable that we should keep
apart, we would not pass out of life, whatever came, without
a farewell word,--a second saying 'good-bye.'"
"It is my fate to say it. It is now God's will. Before it
was yours. It is eighteen years since you chose my honor to
your happiness and mine. To-day you are a famous woman. That
is the consolation I have found in your decision. I
sometimes wonder if Fame will always make up to you for the
rest. A woman's way is peculiar--and right, I suppose. I
have never changed. My son has been a second consolation,
and that, too, in spite of the fact that, had he never been
born, your decision might have been so different. He is a
young man now, strangely like what I was, when as a child,
you first knew me, and he has always been my confidant. In
those first days of my banishment from you I kept from
crying my agony from the housetops by whispering it to him.
His uncomprehending ears were my sole confessional. His
mother cared little for his companionship, and her
invalidism threw him continually into my care. I do not know
when he began to understand, but from the hour he could
speak he whispered your name in his prayers. But it was only
lately that, of himself, he discovered your identity. The
love I felt for you in my early days has grown with me. It
has survived in my heart when all other passions, all
prides, all ambitions, long ago died. I leave you, I hope, a
good memory of me--a man who loved you more than he loved
himself, who for eighteen years has loved you silently, yet
never ceased to grieve for you. But I fear that I have
bequeathed to my son, with the name and estate of his
father, my hopeless love for you. If, by chance, what I fear
be true,--if, when bereft of me, he seeks you out, as be
sure he will,--deal gently with him for his father's sake.
"There was an old compact between us, dear. I mention it now
only in the hope that you may not have forgotten--indeed,
in the certainty that you have not. I know you so well.
Remember it, I beg of you, only to ignore it. It was made,
you know, when one of us expected to watch the passing of
the other. This is different. If this reminds you of it, it
reminds you only to warn you that Time cancels all such
compacts. It is my voice that assures you of it.
"FELIX R."
Underneath, written in letters, like, yet so unlike, were the words,
"My father died this morning. F. R." and an uncertain mark as though
he had begun to add "Jr." to the signature, and realized that there
was no need.
The letter fell from her hands.
For a long time she sat silent.
Dead! She had never felt that he could die while she lived. A
knowledge that he was living,--loving her, adoring her hopelessly--was
necessary to her life. She felt that she could not go on without it.
For eighteen years she had compared all other men, all other emotions
to him and his love, to find them all wanting.
And he had died.
She looked at the date of the letter. He would be resting in that tomb
she remembered so well, before she could reach the place; that spot
before which they had often talked of Death, which had no terrors for
either of them.
She rose. She pushed away her untouched supper, hurriedly drank a
glass of wine, and, crossing the hall to her bedroom, opened a tiny
box that stood locked upon her dressing table. She took from it a
picture--a miniature. It was of a young man not over twenty-five. The
face was strong and full of virile suggestion, even in a picture. The
eyes were brown, the lips under the short mustache were firm, and the
thick, short, brown hair fell forward a bit over the left temple. It
was a handsome manly face.
The picture was dated eighteen years before. It hardly seemed possible
that eighteen years earlier this woman could have been old enough to
stir the passionate love of such a man. Her face was still young, her
form still slender; her abundant hair shaded deep gray eyes where the
spirit of youth still shone. But she belonged, by temperament and
profession, to that race of women who guard their youth marvellously.
There were no tears in her eyes as she sat long into the morning,
and, with his pictured face before her, reflected until she had
decided.
He had kept his word to her. His "good bye" had been loyally said. She
would keep hers in turn, and guard his first night's solitude in the
tomb with her watchful prayers. She calculated well the time. If she
travelled all day Sunday, she would be there sometime before midnight.
If she travelled back at once, she could be in town again in season to
play Monday; not in the best of conditions, to be sure, for so hard a
rôle as "Juliet," but she would have fulfilled a duty that would never
come to her again.
* * * * *
It was near midnight, on Sunday.
The light of the big round harvest moon fell through the warm air,
which scarcely moved above the graves of the almost forgotten dead in
the country churchyard. The low headstones cast long shadows over the
long grass that merely trembled as the noiseless wind moved over it.
A tall woman in a riding dress stood beside the rough sexton at the
door of the only large tomb in the enclosure.
He had grown into a bent old man since she last saw him, but he had
recognized her, and had not hesitated to obey her.
As he unlocked and pushed back the great door which moved easily and
noiselessly, he placed his lantern on the steps, and telling her that,
according to a family custom, there were lights inside, he turned
away, and left her, to keep his watch near by.
No need to tell her the family customs. She knew them but too well.
For a few moments she remained seated on the step where she had rested
to await the opening of the door, on the threshold of the tomb of the
one man among all the men she had met who had stirred in her heart a
great love. How she had loved him! How she had feared that her love
would wear his out! How she had suffered when she decided that love
was something more than self-gratification, that even though for her
he should put aside the woman he had heedlessly married years before,
there could never be any happiness in such a union for either of them.
How many times in her own heart she had owned that the woman would not
have had the courage shown by the girl, for the girl did not realize
all she was putting aside. Yet the consciousness of his love, in
which she never ceased to believe, had kept her brave and young.
She rose and slowly entered the vault.
The odor of flowers, the odor of death was about it.
She lifted the lantern from the ground, and, with it raised above her
head, approached the open coffin that rested on the catafalque in the
centre of the tomb and mounted the two steps. She was conscious of no
fear, of no dread at the idea of once more, after eighteen years,
looking into the face of the man she had loved, who had carried a
great love for her into another world. But as she looked, her eyes
widened with fright. She bent lower over him. No cry burst from her
lips, but the hand holding the lantern lowered slowly, and she tumbled
down the two steps, and staggered back against the wall, where, behind
lettered slides, the dead Richmonds for six generations slept their
long sleep together. Her breast heaved up and down, as if life, like a
caged thing, were striving to escape. Yet no sound came from her
colorless lips, no tears were in her widened eyes.
The realizing sense of departed years had reached her heart at last,
and the shock was terrible. With a violent effort she recovered
herself. But the firm step, the fearless, hopeful face with which she
had approached the coffin of her dead lover were very different from
the blind manner in which she stumbled back to his bier, and the hand
which a second time raised the lantern trembled so that its wavering
light shed an added weirdness on the still face, so strange to her
eyes, and stranger still to her heart.