FIVE YEARS LATER
Susan, taking up her vigil at Joe's bedside during the small hours of
the night, to relieve the trained nurse, was kept feverishly wide
awake not only by Joe's laboured, painful respiration, but by the
wearisome intensity of her brain's activity; the flood of speculation
which overwhelmed her at the possibility of Joe's death, the new life
which that possibility opened up to her, her own unprecedented
thoughts and desires in this sudden, unlooked-for crisis.
Joe was critically ill with pneumonia.
The doctor, however, gave them a good deal of hope.
Hope? Why did doctors and nurses and acquaintances always assume in
cases like this that your "hope" could lie in but one direction?
That word "critically"--it had been on the doctor's and nurse's lips
constantly for two days. It beat in Susan's brain unceasingly. Joe
was "critically ill." Just what shade of danger (to Joe) did that
signify? How much "hope" did it leave to his family? Did
"critically ill" mean more or less than "dangerously ill"? So
strenuously did she try, in her suspense, to wrest from the word its
inmost, finest shade of meaning, that after a while it ceased to mean
anything; it became a dead sound.
They had made her send for Josie to come home from his law school.
That looked serious (for Joe). The conventional phrases would
persist in her mind, though her deeply ingrained honesty forced her
to modify to herself their significance. She was conscious of a
mental effort to resist transposing them to mean what it shocked and
appalled her to have them mean; to think "hopeful" when she meant (or
ought to have meant) "serious", "promising" for "dangerous"!
For nearly seventeen years she had been Joe Houghton's wife; and now
perhaps he was dying. Here was she at his bedside, in a
chintz-covered armchair beside a great old, carved, mahogany
four-posted bed in a beautiful and luxurious chamber, watching by a
dim light her husband's distorted, unconscious face, her soul on fire
with hope (yes, _hope_!) as she had not believed it capable of
becoming ever again. If the doctor and nurse could see into her mind
and heart, surely they would think it unsafe to leave her alone with
their patient!
How her heart had sunk with bitter disappointment when, coming into
the sick room a few hours earlier to relieve the nurse and take her
place, she had been told, "Your husband is doing much better than I
had hoped, Mrs. Houghton; I think, now, that he may, perhaps, pull
through. But keep a very close watch, and at the least return of his
delirium, please call me at once."
"I will," Susan had promised, with an emphasis meant not so much to
reassure the nurse as to combat the secret blackness in her heart!
It would be only her body, not her soul, that would keep that promise!
"Oh, God, how I want to be _free_!"
The vista opened up before her by that word! She seemed only now to
realize what misery her life with Joe had been during all these
years! The prospect of release forever from the sound of his
complaining, carping voice, from the sight of his mean little face,
from his hated touch----
She would go mad if he got well!
She had not known until now what a living death had been hers--now
that escape from its nightmare seemed a possibility.
She was thirty-nine years old; but the bare thought of freedom made
her feel like a girl. She was afraid of herself. Afraid of being
left alone here in this room with the responsibility on her hands of
a life which she did not wish to be saved! Every drop of blood in
her body throbbed with longing that he should die! It would be too
cruel if, after bringing her to the very brink of freedom like this,
he should get well!
"I want him to die!"
The refrain beat in her brain like a hammer. "Oh, God, let him die!"
With utter wonder she contemplated this unsuspected self she was
discovering. Was she, perhaps, capable of helping him out? Oh, no,
no! Surely no! And yet, was this violent revulsion of feeling at
the thought of such a deed really a genuine horror of crime, or
merely cowardice?
"What is it that would hold me back when I so much want him to go?"
she wondered, feeling bewildered as she recognized what unsounded
depths there were in her. "We don't know ourselves! What does any
one really know of his own heart, the true motives under his life?
Perhaps it is only the inhibitions of my training that keep me from
being a murderer!"
She knew that the degradation of such a marriage as hers had worked
in her its insidious poison, in spite of her valiant efforts to hold
her soul high above and aloof from her hated relation to Joe.
She thought, "No one has ever cared for him except his son. If he
had been loved in his childhood and treated with some justice,
perhaps he would not have been the man he has been. And if he had
married a woman who could have loved him, it might have changed him a
little."
Yet so faithfully had she paid the price of her foolish marriage that
she doubted whether Joe had ever been aware that, far from caring for
him, she had loathed him. No, he had certainly never suspected it.
She had concealed her loathing. She had lived a lie.
During the long hours of her vigil at his bedside she thought back
over the past five years: of her own increasing isolation from the
sort of people she would have liked to make her friends, but from
whom her marriage cut her off absolutely; of her ever-growing
submission to the will of her husband and his son; of Josie's
surprisingly selfish dominance, as he grew older, over both his
father and her (the boy really dominated her more than his father had
ever done); of the peculiarly tender and confidential friendship
which had come to exist between her and Georgie; of Sidney's
widowerhood; of the sudden death, from appendicitis, of her only
intimate friend, Eleanor Arnold.
Her mind reverted to some incidents which were among the ineffaceable
records on her heart. There was one in particular--Sidney's having
one day watched for an opportunity when Joe had gone to Middleburg,
to come to her and beg her to secure some money from Joe for him.
"But why should I?" She had met his extraordinary request with an
astonishment that had deeply shamed and embarrassed him.
"I am so completely out of money," he had pleaded. "And Joe refuses
to lend me another dollar!"
"That's not surprising, seeing you are already in debt to him to the
sum of three more years' rent of this place."
"I know it. But he doesn't spend his money himself, nor let you
spend it, and what's the good of just hoarding it? He might as well
let me have a little. You can persuade him to, Susan, if you only
will."
"Why should I?"
"Susan! For the sake of what we once were to each other, can't you
have a little pity? I'm terribly in need!"
"Did you have pity on me in much greater need?"
"I did not! And haven't I been punished for it?" he had said with
such genuine bitterness that she had been startled.
"It's I, not you, that have borne all the penalty of our folly!" she
had answered. "It's unbelievable that you should appeal to _me_ for
help!"
"I've suffered in ways you don't know of!" he had exclaimed,
desperately. "Do not dream, Susan, that I have not had to pay for my
treatment of you--in ways you cannot imagine. If I had not, it
_would_ be unbelievable that I should come pleading to you to help
me. But I do ask you--I beg you--to get me some help from my
brother!"
"I could not even if I wished to."
"Joe worships you; he'd do anything for you. Any man would!"
"Except you! _You_ would not even keep your sacred promises to me;
you would not save me from disgrace and anguish; you would not make
my child legitimate; or be at my side when I was suffering and nearly
dying for love of you! _You_ to ask help from me!"
"You see me impoverished, stricken! Can't you forgive me, Susan?"
"I wouldn't dream of asking Joe to loan you any more money. Why
don't you get to work, Sidney, and earn your living?"
"If I had not inherited a fortune, I might now be a successful
lawyer," Sidney had answered, resentfully. "I had no incentive to
work after I was rich. And now it's too late. I'm too old."
"You could dig coal or clean streets. I should think it might be
easier for you than begging favours from me."
Then to her horror (horror before the moral deterioration of this man
she had once cared for) Sidney had threatened her; threatened to
expose all their past history to Joe if she refused to secure money
from her husband for her girlhood's lover! Evidently he thought he
had a weapon which he could flourish over her head to terrify her!
It seemed incredible.
"I've been many kinds of a coward in my time," she had answered him,
"but this kind I happen to be incapable of becoming. I'm not afraid
of anything that you (or Joe, either) can do to me more than what you
have already done. And I shall never ask your brother for a dollar
for you. Now do what you please."
Then he had produced his last and what he had considered his weakest
card, to force her hand.
"I'm not quite so base as you think me, Susan. It's not for myself
that I am humiliating myself like this; it's for my boy. You know
that, poor as I have been in the past five years, I have always
managed, whatever my own need for money, to save enough out of what
Joe has let me have in rent to keep Georgie at school and college.
He has not missed one year--you know he hasn't. I'm now for the
first time up against it, to pay for this second half year's board
and tuition for him. _That's_ why I'm asking for help. I tell you I
would not ask for myself. It's for my son, whose inheritance,"
Sidney miserably admitted, "I've squandered!"
To Sidney's surprise, this plea, which he had considered his weakest,
proved to be his only strong one. He had known, of course, that
Susan and Georgie were very great friends; but no one of the three,
not even Susan herself, had realized how vitally her soul was knit to
the soul of Sidney's boy.
"We can't let Georgie's education suffer," she had answered with an
anxious concern that had gripped Sidney's heart with mingled pain and
relief. "There's not the least use, you know, in my asking Joe to
help either you or Georgie. The truth is Joe is dreadfully
disappointed that in spite of all your misfortunes and extravagances,
you've succeeded in educating Georgie. He hoped you would be driven
to putting him to work as _he_ was put to work when he was a boy. He
wanted Georgie to suffer all the handicaps that he had suffered
because of his homelessness in his childhood. No, nothing I could
say would move Joe to help us here."
She had pondered the matter earnestly.
"There's one way I might raise some money for Georgie; there's the
silver you sent us for a wedding gift. I have never touched it. I
can sell it."
Sidney had regarded her doubtfully, a shade of fear in his tired
eyes. "Susan! Why are you willing to do for Georgie what you
wouldn't do for me?" he had asked in a low voice.
"I love Georgie--he is worth doing things for. You are nothing to
me."
The silver had been sold and Joe had never, as yet, missed it. For
the past three years she had been dreading, with a shrinking of her
very flesh, the violent anger he would vent upon her when the
inevitable discovery did take place.
And now perhaps it never would take place. Here lay Joe before her,
more helpless than an infant, and it was possible that never would he
rally to pour out upon her his hot rage at her having sold five
hundred dollars' worth of silver to help his hated nephew.
She drew a long, deep, almost gasping breath. Would Joe get well and
would she have to go on living under that eternal vigilance of her
every act, that petty nagging at her for "wasting" her husband's
precious substance; that sordid slavery to the material side of life
which made existence so hideous! At the thought of it the pent-up
misery of years seemed to break its bounds; she bowed her head upon
the arm of her chair and tearing sobs shook her. It would be too
unbearable--she saw now how unbearable it always had been! She would
_not_ bear it! If he got well, she would leave him. No matter how
he might plead with her! No matter what sort of work she might have
to do for a living, she would leave him!
"Susie!"
So faintly her name was spoken, she heard it like a far-away whisper.
Her heart stood still. What had the nurse instructed her?--"At the
least return of his delirium, call me at once." She must not fail to
obey implicitly. Her very soul's salvation hung upon her absolute
obedience.
She lifted her head and looked at Joe. His eyes, clear and natural,
met hers.
"Susie! Are you cryin' fur _me_?" he whispered; his voice, though
feeble, was steady and entirely free from the hoarse raving of the
past four days.
Then she need not summon the nurse--he was not "delirious".
He would get well!
"Susie!" came the faint, far-away call.
He was so ill and weak--she must be very kind to him until he was
stronger--as he had always been to her when she had been ill.
When he was quite well again she would go away and leave him forever!
She bent nearer to him and laid her hand softly on his.
"You was cryin' fur me, Susie?"
She nodded dumbly.
"You've made me a good wife, Susie--and you've been as good a mother
to Josie as you otherwise could be. I want you to pass me your
promise, Susie----"
He spoke with difficulty, in halting phrases, his breath rasping,
laboured.
"I didn't expec' to die as young as what I am--only a little over
fifty. What's fifty? Why, it's the prime of life yet!--I worked
hard and saved and now I got to go and _let_ it all! I done it fur
Josie. But I never made no will, fur I didn't think I'd be dyin'
till this good while a'ready!--and it's too late now fur me to make
my will--I ain't got the strength to fix things like I was a-goin'
to. I'll have to trust to your promise, Susie, fur to do like what I
want you to with my money--fur you'll get your widow's third now,
_whether_ or no. The law'll give it to you. Now, Susie, I want fur
you to promise me you won't squander it, but save it careful fur
Josie and his childern. You won't need to spend near all the
int'rust you'll draw from your capital; you kin turn back a good bit
of your int'rust to be added on to your principal, so's Josie'll have
more when you die oncet. I want fur Josie to be rich and powerful
and grand like what Uncle George was. Pass--me--your promise,
Susan," he spoke with a great effort, "that you won't spend any of my
money on them sisters of yourn. It wouldn't be right--your
squanderin' _my_ money on _your_ folks--you kin see fur yourself it
wouldn't. What's mine had ought all to go to Josie. Ain't so? I
earnt and saved a lot of it--all but what Uncle George inherited to
me and I near doubled _that_. And Josie's to have all. You kin live
on a wery little of your int'rust, Susan," he insisted, struggling
desperately with his weakness. "Promise you will!"
"Trust me, Joe, to do what is right for Josie."
"I know you will--you was always a good mother to him. But I have so
afraid you'll want to spend on them sisters! _Don't forget!_ What
you don't have to use _is for Josie_!" he reiterated with all the
force his failing strength could gather.
"What I don't have to use--yes, I understand," she reassured him.
"And you ain't to will it to any one but Josie! Promise!"
"I am not to will it to any one but Josie."
"I couldn't rest in my grave if you did! If I'd foreseen I was
a-goin' to die, I'd of _fixed_ things! And now I can't no more!"
"Josie shall have everything that by rights is his, Joe," Susan
comforted him.
"Call Josie! I'm a-goin' fast!"
She rose quickly to summon both the nurse and her step-son.
Joe waved away the nurse. "Don't _you_ come takin' up my time--it's
too short! I want my son and my wife! Josie!"
His son, sincerely grieved, bent over him, pale and tearful.
"Your mother's gave me her promise, Josie, that she'll will you her
widow's third of my estate and that she'll save back fur you all she
kin of her int'rust. She's passed me her promise--you hold her to
it!"
"If she has promised, Father," said Josie, soothingly, "you don't
need to worry. I won't have to hold her to it. Mother'll keep her
promise."
Susan vaguely reflected how subtle Josie always was when it was a
question of protecting his own interests; his challenging her honour,
just now, to keep that questionable promise she had equivocally
made!--a promise capable of such varied interpretation!
"You'll know how to take care of your rights, ain't, Josie?" his
father breathed, his ruling passion strong in death. "Don't leave
Susan give away nothing to her sisters that's by rights _yourn_!
Ain't, you won't?"
"She wouldn't want to, Father. There, there, don't worry about it;
everything will be as you wish it to be; I promise you!"
"Susan would be a spendthrift if you left her be!" his father warned
him.
"She has promised you, Father--that's enough."
Joe breathed a long sigh of utter exhaustion. "Leave me rest now,"
he murmured.
His eyes closed, his head sank deeper into the pillow.
It seemed but a few moments later, as they stood grouped about him,
the nurse a little apart, when his wheezy breathing stopped suddenly.
His jaw fell open.
The nurse came forward. "It's all over!" she whispered with
conventional solemnity.
It was not until the nurse had, with professional mournfulness, drawn
the sheet over Joe's stiffened face, and Susan felt Josie, at her
side, shudder and tremble, that she could believe it.
Joe was dead!
She couldn't grasp it. A cold terror gripped her lest it was only a
dream; lest she presently awake to find him still nagging, spying,
carping, sulking, holding tight his purse strings.
Joe was dead!
Yet as she went forth from the presence of the dead she was conscious
of a great pity for the man she was forever leaving, pity because
she, his wife, should be feeling just now not grief, but only a
boundless peace and contentment; like one who, having for seventeen
years been bound and gagged, had now suddenly struck off her bonds.
But Josie, walking after her, felt a new responsibility upon his
shoulders--the responsibility of seeing to it that his father's dying
wish be fulfilled. He had been constituted his mother's keeper. He
would faithfully execute his trust.
Josie had never been told that Susan was not his own mother.