_Wherein a Comely Young Woman waits at a Window all Night, watching
for Sir Tom Fool--listening for his Step_
The bleak night without was cold as God’s contempt. The March wind
shrieked shrilly about the court, swung up out of the resounding
blackness, tugged at the shutters of windows, rattled at all loose
things ill-naturedly, smote the walls in a huff, and tossed insolently
out of the court again, shrilly screaming--leaving a gloomy sullen
lull, full of dry-throated questionings.
A bride of a year--and anxious self-questionings!
Betty sat at the window, uneasy, watchful, ashamed. All evening had
she come and gone, pacing out disturbing thoughts. Many nights had she
thus watched, humiliated, alone--watching for Noll, listening for his
footfall. Once the city clocks had struck midnight, the passing of each
wheeled conveyance became a goad to her anxious hearing--a stab to
her anxiety--an added sneer at the loss of her hold upon her lover’s
affections--a muffled insult to her attractiveness.
A year ago had been a wedding-day--this morning the youth had whistled
out of the house wholly forgetful of it. A year ago this room had
been a garden of flowers scattered from a wedding-bouquet--this night
the room was wholly bare of flowers. A year ago had been wondrous
tendernesses, and watchful care over her that had been a very burden
of sweet attentions--eyes that hungered, ears that listened to her
every whisper, hands that burnt into her white flesh, caresses that
shamed her with delight--to-day was criticism, excusings of neglect,
carelessnesses.
To-morrow, perchance, Youth would cease even to excuse itself.
A year ago had seen youth and maid climb lightheartedly to the harsh
garret of the world’s toil, full of high hopes and noble purpose,
stepping it gleefully, clear-eyed, will and heart inflamed with the
Certainties. To-day the very Certainties of yesterday were crumbling
into ashen doubts.
She ate her heart out, silently, with womanhood’s uncomplaining
dignity; yet was her soul riven by this fool’s folly--his littlest
harshnesses turning to bitterness in these long night-watches. His
forgetfulnesses, his ignorings, his egotisms, his irresolutions--how
they all took shape and grew in bogey ugliness, indeed to something of
their true scarecrow ugliness, as she brooded upon them, raising the
nauseating dead out of the ashes of her experience!
Nay, so fatuous his conceit, he must needs even rob her of the dignity
of her work, sneer at the child of her imagination, leave her nothing.
But he had wasted bad manners. Genius is serene in the confidence of
its mighty Patiences. Time waits upon the great Wills.
Then she would make excuses for him. Of a truth, he had had a little
vogue--stood well with his fellows----
But he wrecked his own cause.
In a passing mood of conceit he had strutted it in the mock-modest
manner, tapping his own chest, half ashamed to drag in so modest
a fellow. But look at him--even him! and the like; and forthwith
averred that he “knocked off” more in an hour sometimes than she in a
month--the “knocking off” inferring fertility and facility of genius.
The which, whatever it lacked in the courtesies, held at least some
virtue of truth.
But Truth may walk abroad too naked.
Ah, Betty--and if thou, looking out of thy window, couldst but see with
thy clear eyes across the lamp-lit city this Noll of thine!