"How will she appear?" said Mr. Moore. He sat in his arm-chair, his eyes
were following the pattern of the red and white matting on the floor.
"'How,' Middleton?" said Penelope, looking up from her knitting
reproachfully. "Why, broken-hearted, poor child!"
"Yes, broken-hearted, I fear; broken-hearted," answered Middleton.
Two years had passed since the burning of the house on the point. Mr.
Moore was now quite well again, save that he would always be obliged to
walk slowly and support himself with a cane. The rectory was more
comfortable than it had been in former years, the rector's clerical coat
was a better one; but the rector's wife, with that unconsciousness of
her own lacks, which, when it is founded (as in this case) upon a
husband's unswerving admiration, is not without its charm--the rector's
wife was contentedly attired in the green delaine. Penelope indeed had
many causes for contentment; it was so delightful to be able to give
five-sixths of one's income to the poor.
At the present moment the Moores were listening for the sound of
wheels; not the usual rattle, but the muffled grind through sand which
came from the roadways of Gracias.
"Hark!" said Penelope, lifting a forefinger. "Yes--there they are!"
Seizing a little head-covering of green wools, the product of her own
crochet-needle, she put it hastily on, and giving Middleton his hat and
stick, went with him down the path towards the gate. A carriage had
stopped, Dr. Kirby was helping some one to descend from the high,
old-fashioned vehicle; the young figure in black, the bright hair under
the veil, the overwhelming burst of sobs when she saw their familiar
faces--yes, this was Garda who had come back to them, come back home, as
they fondly called it; she had been widowed for more than a year, Lucian
had died in Venice nineteen months before.
They brought her in, tenderly Mrs. Moore took off the crape bonnet; the
girl cried bitterly, her head on Penelope's shoulder. There were tears
in the eyes of the two men also; it seemed so strange that this bowed
black figure should be their Garda, the beautiful, idle, young girl who
had had such a genius for happiness that she had been able to extract
full measure of it from even an old hammock and a crane.
Lucian had died suddenly of fever. Garda herself, prostrated by her
grief, for months afterwards had scarcely raised her head. Dr. Kirby had
started immediately, he had been with her through the worst of her
illness. But she had not been alone; her devoted friends in Venice were
two sisters and a brother, who, singularly enough, were cousins of
Rosalie, Lucian's first wife, and of the same name, Bogardus. These
staid, stout people had been fascinated with the Spensers from the
first.
And when came the overwhelming blow of Lucian's death, the two ladies,
Alicia and Gertrude, immediately took charge of the stricken young wife,
and did it with a tenderness which even Dr. Kirby pronounced touching,
when he himself arrived in Venice--as soon as was possible, but some
weeks later. When Garda at last began to improve a little, her lassitude
continued; it was evident that she would not be able to travel for some
time to come. Meanwhile the poor Doctor's money was running out. Garda
did not think of this; at present she thought only of her sorrow, and
then, as had always been said of Garda, she never remembered money at
all. Of course the Doctor would not confide to these strangers the
embarrassments of his position. And no Bogardus, left to himself, would
have been able to conceive the idea that a man, in his senses, could
have started to come to Venice from the United States with so small a
sum in his pocket as the Doctor had been able to provide. But the facts
remained the same; Garda could not travel, the Doctor was obliged to say
at last that he must go. In this emergency, Trude and Lish-er, as their
brother called them, offered to remain with Mrs. Spenser for the
present, to bring her by slow stages across Europe to England, and
thence to New York, when she should be able to travel; while Dick
Bogardus growled, "Much the best plan! much the best plan!" behind them.
The Doctor had never been able in the least to comprehend Dick, he
considered him an extraordinary person; Dick was sixty, short in
stature, gruff, and worth five millions. Dick, on his side, was sure
that the Doctor was a little out of his mind. But Lish-er and Trude
would be very kind to Garda, there could be no doubt of that; they
showed an almost tyrannical fondness for her even now--the "thwarted
maternal instinct" the Doctor in his own mind called it. And so at last
it was arranged, and the anxious guardian started on his long journey
homeward, with just enough money to carry him to Charleston (where he
could borrow of Sally), and barely a cent to spare.
Lish-er and Trude took their time, they had not been so much interested
in anything for years; they said to everybody that Garda was like their
"own child." This, of course, was a great novelty. But in reality she
was more like their doll--a very beautiful and precious one. Garda
herself remained listless and passive. But her mere presence was enough
for the two old maids; it was a sight to see them purchasing new
mourning attire for her in Paris; to such friends as they met they
announced that they were "so extremely occupied" that they hardly knew
how they should "get through." But it could not last forever, even the
buying of clothes in Paris, and at length they were forced to bring
their charge over the ocean to New York--where all the other Bogarduses
came to look at her, to see for themselves, if possible, what it could
be which had roused such abnormal enthusiasm in "Dick and the girls."
"It's amazing how that Garda Thorne always contrives to make everybody
serve her turn," was Aunt Katrina's comment, meanwhile, down in Gracias.
"Here's a whole New York family--of our best people, too--waiting upon
her slavishly, and bringing her across Europe like, like I don't know
what;--like Cleopatra down the Nile!"
"I suppose you mean, then, that Dick Bogardus is Antony?" said Lanse,
working away at his fish-net. He had learned to make his nets rapidly
now, and was extremely proud of his handiwork; he gave away the results
of his labors to "fishermen of good moral character;"--it was necessary
that they should be moral.
At the moment when Garda was entering the rectory, Margaret, at East
Angels, was coming down the stone stairway on her way to the lower door,
where the phaeton and Telano were waiting; she was about to drive to
Gracias. As she paused a moment on the bottom step to button her gloves,
a long shadow darkened the flags at her feet; she looked up; Adolfo
Torres was standing at the open portal. After making one of his formal
bows he came towards her; a motion of his hand begged her to remain
where she was. "I thought you would be going there," he said. "I have
therefore brought these--will you take them for me?" Flowers were
abundant in Gracias, but the roses he held towards her were
extraordinarily beautiful; all crimson or pink, they glowed with color,
and filled the hall with a rich cinnamon scent.
"I will take them if you wish, Adolfo," Margaret answered. "But they
are--they are very--"
The roses looked indeed as if intended for a joyous occasion; they were
sumptuous, superb.
"You mean that they are bright. I know it; I intended them to be so." He
still held them towards her.
"Wait a while," she said.
His face changed. "I know you are my friend," he murmured, as if he were
saying it to convince himself. His eyes had dropped to his rejected
blossoms.
She could see that he was passionately angry, and making one of his firm
efforts to hold himself in control. "I will take them if you wish it,"
she said, gently, and she extended her hand. "I leave it to you. They
are wonderfully beautiful, I see that."
"They came from Cuba; I have been watching them growing for nineteen
months--for this."
"It is a house of mourning, you know, that I am going to," she said. "It
was, as you say, nineteen months ago--a long time; but the remembrance
will be very fresh at the rectory this afternoon."
His anger suddenly left him, he raised his eyes from his roses to her
face, and smiled. "It's always fresh to me!" he answered. The glow in
his dark countenance, as he brought this out, appalled her, it was like
a triumph--triumph over death. He walked to the door and tossed the
roses into the sunshine outside. "You are right," he said. "I can afford
to wait--now!" And, with a quick salutation, he pulled his hat down over
his brows and walked away.
Telano drove Margaret up the water-road to Gracias. It was late in the
afternoon when she reached the rectory; Dr. Kirby was watching for her,
he came down to the gate to meet her.
"She has gone to her room," he said; "we have persuaded her to go and
lie down for a while, as she has done nothing but cry since first seeing
the Moores.--I am afraid it will be even worse when she sees you," he
added, as they went up the path.
Crossing the veranda, he stopped with his hand on the door, looking at
his companion for a moment before entering.
There was no one in the world whom the Doctor now admired so much as he
admired Margaret Harold; for the past two years he had secretly given
her his unswerving help and support. He thought hers, among women, the
most courageous and noble nature he had ever known. And the sweetest,
also--ah, yes, in its hidden depths, overwhelmingly, enchantingly sweet!
The delicacy of her physical constitution, too (and she did not grow
stronger), her nearness to breaking down at times--these things had
endeared her to the Doctor greatly; for it touched him to see, month
after month, her fair youthfulness growing a little less youthful, her
sweet face more faint in color, while at the same time, hour by hour, he
saw her perform her full task so completely, in all its details as well
as its broader outlines. He knew that she constantly suffered, and that
it must be so. With his own eyes he saw how she endured. As a physician,
if nothing else, he was aware how infrequent is quiet effort, maintained
evenly, day after day, in a sex which can upon occasion perform single
actions that rise to the height of the superhuman, and are far beyond
the endeavors of any man. But here was a woman capable of the steady
effort; it was not merely that she had remained with her husband, had
allowed him to take possession again of her life and her home; she had
made this home as pleasant to him and to Aunt Katrina as so quiet a
place could be made to two such persons. She never secluded herself, she
was always ready to talk, she brought others to amuse them; she read
aloud, she played backgammon and checkers, she tied the ends of the fish
nets and kept an account of them. She accepted and acted upon all
Lanse's suggestions regarding her dress; she smiled frankly over his
succinct stories, which, as has already been mentioned, were invariably
good--Aunt Katrina generally managing to comprehend them by about the
next day; in addition she directed the complicated household so that no
jars made themselves felt; and during all this time, these long two
years, no one had heard a syllable from her lips that was sharp in
sound; nay, more, that was not sweet.
There are women who are capable of sacrificing themselves, with the
noblest unselfishness in great causes, who yet, as regards the small
matters of every-day life, are rather uncomfortable to live with; so
much so, indeed, that those who are under the same roof with them are
driven to reflect now and then upon the merits of the ancient hermitages
and caves to which in former ages such characters were accustomed to
retire. These being out of fashion, however, the relatives can only wish
(with a certain desperation of fancy) that their dear self-sacrificing
companions might imbibe from somewhere, anywhere, such a dose of
selfishness as should render their own lives more comfortable; and, as
a sequence, that of the household, as well.
The Doctor had had these saints as his patients more than once, he knew
them perfectly. But here was a woman who had sacrificed her whole life
to duty, who felt constantly the dreary ache of deprivation; but who yet
did not think in the least, apparently, that these things freed her from
the kindly efforts, the patience, the small sweet friendly attempts
which made home comfortable.
The Doctor had been witness to all this, as he had been witness also
that day in the orange grove, when Evert Winthrop lifted this same woman
in his arms, where she lay speechless, tortured by the pain of parting
with him.
Her pain was the same now--he knew that; but she had learned to bear it.
Unspeakably he honored her.
And now this woman had come to see Garda in her trouble, Garda who was
so infinitely dear to him, though in another way. He felt, as he stood
there with his hand upon the door-knob, that he must for once--for
once--acknowledge the difference between these two natures; he could not
be content with himself without it. "I know you will be very good to
her," he said--"our poor Garda, our dear little girl; she is suffering
greatly, and we must tide her over it as well as we can. Yes, tide her
over it; for you and I know, Mrs. Harold, that deep as her sorrow
is--undoubtedly is, poor child!--it _will_ pass."
He opened the door, and Margaret entered. Then he closed it from the
outside, and made his escape. He felt like a traitor; yet he had had to
say it--he had had to say it!
But the next moment he was taking himself to task as he walked violently
homeward across the plaza. "Don't you want it to pass, you great idiot,
that sorrow of hers? How much good can a woman do sitting all her life
upon a tomb? she can't even be ornamental there, in my humble opinion.
No; it's a thorough waste, a thorough waste!" He entered his old house,
still revolving these reflections; he came bursting in upon Ma.
"Ma," he announced, as the little old lady in her neat widow's cap
looked up in surprise--he spoke with emphasis, as he was still
suffering sharply from having had, as it were, to denounce Garda--"I am
convinced, Ma, that it would have been infinitely better for you,
infinitely, if you had married again."
"Mercy on us, Reginald!" said astonished little Ma.
Margaret entered Garda's room with a noiseless step, the Moores had
thought it better that she should go alone. The blinds had been closed,
but a gleam of the sunset entered between the slats, and made a line of
gold across the floor; the motionless figure on the lounge had been
covered (by Penelope) with that most desolate of all draperies, a plain
black shawl. Though Margaret had entered so quietly, Garda seemed to
know who it was; she was lying with her face turned away, but she spoke
instantly--"Margaret?" And Margaret came and took her in her arms.
"Margaret, I cannot bear it," Garda said, calmly; "I have tried, but it
is impossible. And if _you_ cannot tell me how to--you the only one I
really believe, I shall not try any more. It is decided."
"Time will tell you how, Garda," Margaret answered, putting her hand
upon the girl's head as it lay against her breast. "Time, I think, is
the only thing that can help us--women, I mean--when we suffer so."
"But it's nineteen months already," Garda went on, in the same
desperately calm tone. "And to-day I've suffered just as much as I did
in the beginning--exactly as much."
"Yes--the coming home. It will be different now."
"But now's _now_," said Garda, sitting up, and looking at her friend,
her face hardened, her lovely lips set in her pain.
"I mean soon, dear."
"I won't believe it unless you swear it to me," Garda went on. She got
up and stood looking at Margaret. "If you will swear it to me I will try
to believe it, because _you_ know me, and _you_ speak the truth."
"Very well, then; listen: I am absolutely sure of it," Margaret
answered.
"Sure that I shall stop caring so much? stop feeling so dreadfully?"
"Yes, sure."
"But when will it begin?" the girl demanded, shaken with fresh sobs;
she leaned down as she spoke, pressing her hands on Margaret's shoulders
and looking at her insistently, as if she would draw from her by force a
comforting reply.
"To-morrow, perhaps," said Margaret, answering her almost as one answers
a suffering child.
"Well--you mustn't leave me."
"I won't leave you to-night at least."
This gave Garda some slight solace, she sat down and rested her head on
Margaret's shoulder. "He was buried in Venice--on that island, you know.
Margaret, I want to go down to East Angels to-morrow, mamma is there; do
you remember dear little mamma?"
But this quiet did not last long. Suddenly she sprang up again, and
began walking about the room, clinching her hands.
Margaret went to her.
"I told you I could not bear it," Garda cried, flinging her off. "You
said it would stop, and it hasn't stopped at all. It suffocates me, it's
a sort of dreadful agony in my throat that you don't know anything
about, you--_you_!" And she faced her friend like a creature at bay.
"When shall I begin to forget him?--tell me that. When?"
"But you do not wish to forget him, Garda."
"Yes, I do, I wish I might never think of him on earth again," said
Garda, fiercely, giving a stamp with her foot as one does in extremity
of physical pain. "Why should I suffer so? it's not right. If you don't
help me more than you've done (and I relied upon you so), I shall
certainly go to him--go to Lucian. _He'll_ be glad to see me, he thinks
more of me than you do--you who haven't helped me at all! But it will be
easy to end it, you will see; I've got something I shall take. I relied
upon you so--I relied upon you so!"
Margaret took her hands. "Give me another day, Garda," she said.
"Only one," answered Garda.