THE NIGHT
As the car passed through the deserted streets, Corinna placed her hand
on Patty's with a reassuring pressure. Without appearing to do so, she
was studying the girl's soft profile, now flashing out in a sudden sharp
light, now melting back again into the vagueness of the shadows. What
was there about this girl, Corinna asked herself, which appealed so
strongly to the protective impulse in her heart? Was it because this
undisciplined child, with that curious sporting instinct which supplied
the place of Victorian morality, represented for her, as well as for
Stephen, some inarticulate longing for the unknown, for the adventurous?
Did Patty's charm for them both lie in her unlikeness to everything they
had known in the past? In Corinna, as in Stephen, two opposing spirits
had battled unceasingly, the realistic spirit which accepted life as it
was, and the romantic spirit which struggled toward some unattainable
perfection, which endeavoured to change and decorate the actuality. More
than Stephen, perhaps, she had faced life; but she had not accepted it
without rebellion. She had learned from disappointment to see things as
they are; but deep in her heart some unspent fire of romance, some
imprisoned esthetic impulse, sought continually to gild and enrich the
experience of the moment. And this girl, so young, so ingenuous, so
gallant and so appealing, stood in Corinna's mind for the poetic
wildness of her spirit, for all that she had seen in a vision and had
missed in reality.
When the car reached the Square, it turned sharply north. Sometimes it
passed through lighted spaces and sometimes through pools of darkness;
and as it went on rapidly, it seemed to Corinna that it was the one
solid fact in a night that she imagined. Patty was very still; but
Corinna felt the warm clasp of her hand, and heard her soft breathing,
which became a part of the muffled undercurrent of the sleeping city. In
all those closely packed houses, where the obscurity was broken here and
there by a lighted window, other human beings were breathing, sleeping,
dreaming, like Patty and herself, of some impractical and visionary
to-morrow. Of something which had never been, but still might be! Of
something which they had just missed, but might find when the sun rose
again! Of a miracle that might occur at any moment and make everything
different! It was after midnight; and to Corinna it seemed that the
darkness had released the collective spirit of the city, which would
retreat again into itself with the breaking of dawn. Once a cry sounded
far off and was hushed almost immediately; once a light flashed and went
out in the window beneath a roof; but as the car sped on by rows of
darkened tenements, the mysterious penumbra of the night appeared to
draw closer and closer, as if that also were a phantom of the
encompassing obscurity.
"Is this the aunt you told me of, Patty?" asked Corinna abruptly.
"Yes, I went to see her once--not long ago. I promised her that I'd come
back when she sent for me. She wanted to tell me something, but she was
so ill that she couldn't remember what it was. It was about Father, she
said."
"Stephen will come for us after he has taken Margaret home. I gave him
the number."
Patty turned and gave her a long look. They were passing under an
electric light at the time, and Corinna thought, as she looked into the
girl's face, that all the wistful yearning of the night was reflected in
her eyes. What had happened, she wondered, to change their sparkling
brightness into this brooding expectancy.
The car stopped before the house to which Patty had come with Gershom;
and as they got out, they saw that it was entirely dark except for the
dim flicker of a jet of gas in the hall. By the pavement a car was
standing, and from somewhere at the back there came the sound of a baby
crying inconsolably in the darkness. While they entered the hall, and
went up the broad old-fashioned flight of stairs, that plaintive wail
followed them, growing gradually fainter as they ascended, but never
fading utterly into silence. When they reached the second storey, and
turned toward the back of the house, a door at the end of the passage
opened, and an old woman, with a hunch back, and a piece of knitting in
her gnarled hands, came slowly to meet them. Standing there under the
jet of gas, which flickered with a hissing noise, she looked at them
with glassy impersonal eyes and a face that was as austere as Destiny.
Afterward, when Corinna thought over the impressions of that tragic
night, she felt that they were condensed into the symbol of the old
woman with the crooked back, and the thin crying of the baby which
floated up from the darkness below.
"We came to see Mrs. Green," explained Corinna.
The old woman nodded, and as she turned to limp down the passage, her
ball of gray yarn slipped from her grasp and rolled after her until
Corinna recovered it. In silence the cripple led the way, and in silence
they followed her, until she opened the closed door at the end of the
hall, and they entered the room, with the sickening sweetish smell and
the window which gave on the black hulk of the ailantus tree. From
behind a screen, which was covered with faded wall paper, the figure of
the doctor emerged while they waited, an ample middle-aged man, with the
air of having got into his clothes in a hurry and the face of a
pragmatic philosopher. He motioned commandingly for them to approach;
and going to the other side of the screen, they found the dying woman
gazing at them with eager eyes.
"She is doing nicely," remarked the doctor, with the cheerful alacrity
of one in whom familiarity has bred contempt of death. "Keep her quiet.
One can never tell about these cases."
He made an explanatory gesture in the direction of his pocket. "I'll go
down on the porch and smoke a cigar, and then if she hasn't had a
relapse, I think it will be safe for me to go home. You can telephone if
you need me. I am only a few blocks away." He went out with a brisk,
elastic step, while his hand began to feel for the end of the cigar in
his pocket.
"She's bad now," said the old woman. "It's the medicine, but she'll come
to in a minute." She brought two wooden chairs with broken legs to the
foot of the bed. "You'd better sit down. It may be a long waiting."
"I hope she'll know me," returned Patty. "She must have wanted to see
me, or she wouldn't have sent." Her eyes left the stricken face and
clung to the calla lily on the window-sill, as they had done that
afternoon when she came here with Gershom. The single blossom on the
lily had not faded; it was still as perfect as it had been then--only
two days ago!--and not one of the closed buds had begun to open beside
it.
"Oh, she wanted to see you," answered the old woman, in a croaking voice
which seemed to Corinna to contain a sinister note. "As long as she was
able to keep on her feet she used to go and sit in the Square just to
watch you come out--"
"Do you mean that she cared for me like that?" asked the girl, in a
hushed incredulous tone. "Was she really fond of me?"
The cripple turned her glassy eyes on the fresh young face. "Well, I
don't know that she was fond," she responded bleakly, "but when you're
as bad off as that, there ain't many things that you can think of."
A murmur fell from the lips of the dying woman, while she rolled her
head slowly from side to side, as if she were seeking ease less from
physical pain than from the thought in her mind. Her thick black hair,
matted and damp where it had been brushed back from her forehead, spread
like a veil over the pillow; and this sombre background lent a graven
majesty to her features. At the moment her head appeared as
expressionless as a mask; but in a few minutes, while they waited for
returning consciousness, a change passed slowly over the waxen face, and
the full colourless lips began to move rapidly and to form broken and
disconnected sentences. For a time they could not understand; then the
words came in a long sobbing breath. "It has been too long. It has been
too long."
"That goes on all the time," said the old woman. "I've been up with her
for three nights, and she rambles almost every minute. But sick folks
are like that," she concluded philosophically. She had not laid down her
knitting for an instant; and standing now beside the bed, she jerked the
gray yarn automatically through her twisted fingers. The clicking of the
long wooden needles formed an accompaniment to the dry, hard sound of
her words.
"Why doesn't some one hush that child?" asked Corinna impatiently.
Through the open window a breeze entered, bringing the thin restless
wail of the baby.
"The mother tries, but she can't do anything. She thinks the milk went
wrong and gave it colic."
The woman on the bed spoke suddenly in a clear voice. "Why doesn't he
come?" she demanded. Raising her heavy lids she looked straight into
Corinna's eyes, with a lucid and comprehending expression, as if she had
just awakened from sleep.
Holding her knitting away from the bed with one hand, and bending over,
until her deformed shape made a hill against the bedpost, the old woman
screamed into the ear on the pillow, as if the hearer were either deaf
or at a great distance. Though her manner was not heartless, it was as
impassive as philosophy.
"He is coming," she shrieked.
"Is he bringing the child?"
"She is already here. Can't you see her there at the foot of the bed?"
The large black eyes, drained of any human expression, turned slowly
toward the figure of Patty.
"But she is a little thing," said the woman doubtfully. "She is not
three years old yet. What has he done with her? He told me that he would
take care of her as if she belonged to him."
The old hunchback, bending her inscrutable face, screamed again into the
ear on the pillow.
"That was near sixteen years ago, Maggie," she said. "Have you
forgotten?"
The woman closed her eyes wearily. "Yes, I had forgotten," she answered.
"Time goes so."
But it appeared to Corinna, sitting there, with her eyes on the strip of
sky which was visible through the window, that time would never go on. A
pitiless fact was breaking into her understanding, shattering wall after
wall of incredulity, of conviction that such a thing was too terrible to
be true. She longed to get Patty away; but when she urged her in a
whisper to go downstairs, the girl only shook her head, without moving
her eyes from the haggard face on the pillow. The minutes dragged by
like hours while they waited there, in hushed suspense, for they
scarcely knew what. Outside in the backyard, the flowering ailantus tree
shed a disagreeable odour; downstairs the feeble crying, which had
stopped for a little while, was beginning again. While she remained
motionless at the foot of the bed, wild and rebellious thoughts flocked
through Corinna's mind. If she had only held back that message! If she
had only kept Patty away until it was too late! She thought of the girl
a few hours ago, flushed with happiness, dancing under the swinging
garlands of flowers, to the sound of that thunderous music. Dancing
there, with the restless pleasure of youth, while in another street, so
far away that it might have been in a distant city, in a different
world even, this woman, with the face of tragedy, lay dying with that
fretful wail in her ears. A different world it might have been, and yet
what divided her from this other woman except the blind decision of
chance, the difference between beauty and ugliness, nothing more. In
this dingy room, smelling of dust and drugs and the heavy odour of the
ailantus tree, she felt a presence more profoundly real, more poignantly
significant, than any material forms--the presence of those elemental
forces which connect time with eternity. This little room, within its
partial shadow, like the shadow of time itself, was touched with the
solemnity of a cathedral. It seemed to Corinna, with her imaginative
love of life, that a window into experience had opened sharply, a wall
had crumbled. For the first time she understood that the innumerable and
intricate divisions of human fate are woven into a single tremendous
design.
While they waited there in silence the hours dragged on like years. At
last the woman appeared to sleep, and when she opened her eyes again,
her gaze had become clear and lucid.
"Have you sent for them?" she asked.
"Yes, I sent for them," answered the old woman, lowering her voice to a
natural pitch. "The girl is here."
"Patty? Where is she?"
Drawing her hand from Corinna's clasp, Patty moved slowly to the head of
the bed, and standing there beside the deformed old woman, she looked
down on the upturned face.
"I came as I promised. Can I help you?" she asked; and her voice was so
quiet, so repressed, that Corinna looked at her anxiously. How much had
the girl understood? And, if she understood, what difference would it
make in her life--and in Stephen's life?
"I couldn't tell you the other day because of Julius," said the woman,
in a strangled tone. "I couldn't say things before Julius." Then,
glancing toward the door, she asked breathlessly, "Didn't Gideon Vetch
come with you?"
"Father?" responded Patty, wonderingly. "Do you want Father to come?"
A smile crossed the woman's face, and she made a movement as if she
wanted to raise her head. "Do you call him Father?" she returned in a
pleased voice.
At the question, Corinna sprang up and made an impulsive step forward.
"Oh, don't!" she cried out pleadingly. "Don't tell her!"
"But he is my father," Patty's tone was stern and accusing. "He is my
father."
The smile was still on the woman's face; but while Corinna watched it,
she realized that it was unlike any smile she had ever seen before in
her life--a smile of satisfaction that was at the same time one of
relinquishment.
"They thought I was married to him," she said slowly. "Julius thought,
or pretended to think, that he could harm him by making me swear that I
was married to him. They gave me drugs. I would have done anything for
drugs--and I did that! But the old woman there knows better. She's got a
paper. I made her keep it--about Patty--"
"Don't!" cried Corinna again in a sharper tone. "Oh, can't you see that
you must not tell her!"
For the first time the woman turned her eyes away from the girl. "It is
because of Gideon Vetch," she answered slowly. "I may get well again,
and then I'll be sorry."
"But he would rather you wouldn't." Corinna's voice was full of pain.
"You know--you must know, if you know him at all, that he would rather
you spared her--"
"Know him?" repeated the woman, and she laughed with a dry, rattling
sound. "I don't know him. I never saw him but once in my life."
"You never saw him but once." The words came so slowly from Patty's lips
that she seemed to choke over them. "But you said that you knew my
mother?"
Again the woman made that dry, rattling sound in her chest. "Your mother
never saw him but once," she answered grimly. "She never saw him but
once, and that was for a quarter of an hour on the night they were
taking her to prison. I would never have told but for Julius," she
added. "I would never have told if they hadn't tried to make out that I
knew him, and that he was really your father. It would ruin him, they
said, and that was what they wanted. But when they bring it out, with
the paper they got me to sign, I want you to know that it is a lie--that
I did it because I'd have died if I hadn't got hold of the drugs--"
"But he is my father," repeated Patty quite steadily--so steadily that
her voice was without colour or feeling.
The only reply that came was a gasping sound, which grew louder and
louder, with the woman's struggle for breath, until it seemed to fill
the room and the night outside and even the desolate sky. As she lay
back, with the arm of the old cripple under her head and her streaming
hair, the spasm passed like a stain over her face, changing its waxen
pallor to the colour of ashes, while a dull purplish shadow encircled
her mouth. For a few minutes, so violent was the struggle for air, it
appeared to Corinna that nothing except death could ever quiet that
agonized gasping; but while she waited for the end, the sound became
gradually fainter, and the woman spoke quite plainly, though with an
effort that racked not only her strangled chest, but her entire body.
Each syllable came so slowly, and now and then so faintly, that there
were moments when it seemed that the breath in that tormented body would
not last until the words had been spoken.
"You were going on three years old when he first saw you. They were
taking me away to prison--that's over now, and it don't matter--but I
hadn't any chance--" The panting began again; but by force of will, the
woman controlled it after a minute, and went on, as if she were
measuring her breath inch by inch, almost as if it were a material
substance which she was holding in reserve for the end. "Your father
died the first year I married him, and things went from bad to
worse--there's no use going over that, no use--They were taking me to
prison from the circus, and I had you in my arms, when Gideon Vetch came
by and saw me--" Again there was a pause and a desperate battle for air;
and again, after it was over, she went on in that strangled whisper,
while her eyes, like the eyes of a drowning animal, clung neither to
Patty nor Corinna, but to the austere face of the old hunchback. "'What
am I to do with the child?' I asked, and he stepped right out of the
circus crowd, and answered 'Give me the child. I like children'--" An
inarticulate moan followed, and then she repeated clearly and slowly.
"Just like that--nothing more--'Give me the child. I like children.'
That was the first time I ever saw him. He had come to see some of the
people in the circus, and I've never seen him since then except in the
Square. The trial went against me, but that's all over. Oh, I'm tired
now. It hurts me. I can't talk--"
She broke into terrible coughing; and the old woman, dropping her
knitting for the first time since they had entered the room, seized a
towel from a chair by the bed. "Talking was too much for her," she said.
"I thought she'd pull through. She was so much better--but talking was
too much."
"She is so ill that she doesn't know what she is saying," murmured
Corinna in the girl's ear. "She is out of her mind."
"No, she isn't out of her mind," replied Patty quietly. "She isn't out
of her mind." In her ball gown of green and silver, like the colours of
sunlit foam, with a wreath of artificial leaves in her hair, her
loveliness was unearthly. "It is every bit true. I know it," she
reiterated.
"She's bleeding again," muttered the old woman. "You'd better find the
doctor. I ain't used to stopping hemorrhages." Then, as Corinna went out
of the room, she added querulously to Patty: "She didn't have no
business trying to talk; but she would do it. She said she'd do it if it
killed her--and I reckon she don't mind much if it does--She'd have
killed herself sooner than this if I'd let her alone." From the street
below there came the sound of a motor horn; then the noise of a car
running against the curbstone; and then the opening and shutting of a
door, followed by rapid footsteps on the stairs.
"That's the doctor now, I reckon," remarked the old woman; but the words
had scarcely left her lips when the door opened, and Corinna came back
into the room with Gideon Vetch.
"Where is Patty?" he asked anxiously. "She oughtn't to be here."
"Yes, I ought to be here," answered Patty. As she turned toward Gideon
Vetch, she swayed as if she were going to fall, and he caught her in his
arms. "Go home, daughter," he said almost sternly. "You oughtn't to be
here. Mrs. Page, can't you make her go home?"
"I have tried," responded Corinna; then a moan from the bed reached her,
and she turned toward the woman who lay there. To die like that with
nobody caring, with nobody even observing it! Exhausted by the loss of
blood, the woman had fallen back into unconsciousness, and the towel the
old cripple held to her lips was stained scarlet.
"The doctor had gone to bed. He will come as soon as he gets dressed,"
said Corinna. "He warned us to keep her quiet."
"If he don't hurry, she'll be gone before he gets here," replied the old
woman, looking round over her twisted shoulder.
"Oh, Father, Father!" cried Patty, flinging her arms about his neck; and
then over again like a frightened child, "Father, Father!"
He patted her head with a large consoling hand. "There, there,
daughter," he returned gently. "A little thing like that won't come
between you and me."
With his arm still about her, he drew her slowly to the bedside, and
stood looking down on the dying woman and the old cripple, who hovered
over her with the stained towel in her hand.
"I don't even know her name," he said, and immediately afterward, "She
must have had a hell of a life!" Though there was a wholesome pity in
his voice, it was without the weakness of sentimentality. He had done
what he could, and he was not the kind to worry over events which he
could not change. For a few minutes he stood there in silence; then,
because it was impossible for his energetic nature to remain inactive in
an emergency, he exclaimed suddenly, "The doctor ought to be here!" and
turning away from the bed, went rapidly across the room and through the
half open door into the hall.
Outside the darkness was dissolving in a drab light which crept slowly
up above the roofs of the houses; and while they waited this light
filled the yard and the room and the passage beyond the door which
Gideon Vetch had not closed. Far away, through the heavy boughs of the
ailantus tree, day was breaking in a glimmer of purple-few birds were
twittering among the leaves. Along the high brick wall a starved gray
cat was stealing like a shadow. Drawing her evening wrap closer about
her bare shoulders, Corinna realized that it was already day in the
street.
"She's gone," said the old hunchback, in a crooning whisper. Her twisted
hand was on the arm of the dead woman, which stretched as pallid and
motionless as an arm of wax over the figured quilt. "She's gone, and she
never knew that he had come." With a gesture that appeared as natural as
the dropping of a leaf, she pressed down the eyelids over the
expressionless eyes. "Well, that's the way life is, I reckon," she
remarked, as an epitaph over the obscure destiny of Mrs. Green.
"Yes, that's the way life is," repeated Corinna under her breath.
Already the old cripple had started about her inevitable ministrations:
but when Corinna tried to make Patty move away from the bedside, the
girl shook her head in a stubborn refusal.
"I am trying to believe it," she said. "I am trying to believe it, and I
can't." Then she looked at them calmly and steadily. "I want to think it
out by myself," she added. "Would you mind leaving me alone in here for
just a few minutes?"
Though there was no grief in her voice--how could there be any grief,
Corinna asked herself?--there was an accent of profound surprise and
incredulity, as of one who has looked for the first time on death.
Standing there in her spring-like dress beside the dead woman who had
been her mother, Corinna felt intuitively that Patty had left her
girlhood behind her. The child had lived in one night through an inner
crisis, through a period of spiritual growth, which could not be
measured by years. Whatever she became in the future, she would never be
again the Patty Vetch that Corinna and Stephen had known.
Yes, she had a right to be alone. Beckoning to the old woman to follow
her, Corinna went out softly, closing the door after her.