DARKEST BEFORE DAY
Stuart took his wife home from the wedding breakfast. It was four
o’clock, and the wintry sun was low on the western horizon.
Mrs. Pole had a good fire burning in the little grate when they entered
the parlor.
“See, Poley! I have brought you a piece of the wedding cake to dream on,
you know!” said Palma, offering a pretty little box done up in silver
paper.
“Ah, my dear! My dreaming days are long past! long past!” sighed the old
woman, as, nevertheless, she took the box.
“What a prosaic old fogy you are, Poley, to be sure. For that matter all
our dreaming days are over after we are married, I reckon.”
“Yes, honey, until we begin to dream for our children.”
Palma blushed and sank into sudden silence. She was beginning to dream
sweet dreams of motherhood, but that was her own precious secret, she
imagined, not suspecting that Mrs. Pole knew as much about it as she did
herself, and perhaps more. To cover her confusion she laughed and said:
“Well, Poley, if you do not care to dream on the cake yourself you can
give it to some young friends of yours, to one of your many cousins or
nieces; they will be glad to have it.”
Then she threw off her turban and her wraps, drew off her gloves and
sank into an easy-chair before the fire.
“After all, it is good to be quiet at home, is it not, Cleve? I love
this little snuggery of ours. We can live very happily here until next
May, and then flit to the woods and mountains again. I think I like our
simple way of life. Cleve, quite as well, if not better, than if you
spent all the revenues of your Mississippi plantation in living in the
grand style of some of our friends. What do you think, Cleve?” she
inquired, stretching out her pretty feet to the grateful warmth of the
fire.
He did not answer in words—he could not; he laid his hand tenderly on
her curly, black hair and turned slowly away and went out of the room.
Palma received the caress as a full assent to all that she had said, and
smiled to herself as she gazed into the fire.
Cleve Stuart went downstairs and out upon the sidewalk, and paced up and
down before the house. This was his nightly promenade ground, where he
came to smoke his cigar. But this evening he had no cigar, nor even the
wherewithal to get one.
Yes, it had come to this—Cleve Stuart was absolutely penniless. He had
paid out his last dime on the horse cars that brought himself and his
wife from the wedding breakfast. This was Saturday, the second of
December. On Monday, the fourth, their month’s rent would be due, and
there was not a penny to meet it.
What should he do?
If all his remaining earthly possessions were pawned they would not
bring money enough to meet the demand of their landlord.
Nor could he hope for any forbearance from that quarter. The terms of
the contract were strict, and amounted, in brief, to this: “Pay or go.”
Nor could he bring himself to the shame, not to say the dishonesty, of
trying to borrow money which he could foresee no way of paying.
This was the pass to which his marriage with Palma had brought him! Did
he regret his marriage?
“No,” he said to himself, “though I proposed to her, first of all, under
the diabolical influence of the beautiful fiend who had me in her power,
and for mercenary purposes that were to serve us, the two conspirators,
yet for one redeeming event I do thank Providence—and that is that I
discovered Palma to be penniless as well as invalided before I married
her. Then I kept faith with her; I married her; I saved her precious
life, and I have grown to know her and to love her above all things on
earth. And to whatever straits I may be reduced, and however much I may
suffer, I will, so far as possible, shield my beloved one from knowing
them or sharing them. But in the meantime what in the name of Heaven am
I to do? And what is to become of her? Men in such straits as mine have
been driven, are daily driven, to commit suicide. We read such cases in
almost every paper, and often with the concluding comment: ‘No motive
could be discovered for the desperate deed.’ I suppose, now, if I were
to be so lost to a sense of justice as to end my trouble with a shot
to-night, it would be said to-morrow: ‘He had just come from a wedding
breakfast, where he appeared among the happiest of the guests. No motive
can be surmised for his desperate deed.’ As if men paraded their
perplexities to all and sundry, in season and out of season, and wore
their motives and intentions pinned on their sleeves—especially such
motives and intentions. Pah! nothing could drive me to such a deed. I
must live and brave my fate, trusting in Heaven, doing my duty! But all
the same, sweet little Palma, if it were Heaven’s will, I think it would
be well if you and I should fall asleep to-night and never awake again
in this world!”
So deep, so painful, so absorbing was his reverie that he did not
perceive the approach of the postman, who ran against him in the dark,
begged his pardon and passed on until he reached the main entrance of
the apartment house, went in, came out, and hurried on again out of
sight up the street.
Stuart had scarcely noticed him, beyond muttering, “Not at all,” when
the other had said, “Beg pardon, sir.” And now he thought no more of the
incident, but continued his walk for an hour, as if by wearying his body
he might relieve his mind.
Presently, thinking that this was their dinner hour, though he had
little appetite for dinner just now, he turned and entered the hall. He
did not ring up the elevator, but he walked heavily up the five flights
of stairs. It was a mental relief to fatigue himself to faintness.
He entered the little parlor and found not dinner, but the tea table
spread.
Palma was sitting behind the urn and waiting for him. The fire was very
bright, the parlor very snug, and the little wife very happy. If this
could only continue!
“I thought, after a wedding feast at two o’clock, that tea would be
better than dinner at six. So I told Poley. Do you mind, Cleve?”
inquired Palma.
“No, dear; indeed, I prefer tea; it will be more refreshing,” he
replied, trying to overcome the heaviness of his soul so that it should
not appear in his look or tone.
“And Poley has made some of her delicious, light, puffy muffins. I never
saw any so nice anywhere as she can make. I tell you, Cleve, dear, if
our riches should suddenly ‘take unto themselves wings and fly away,’
Poley and I would open a bake shop with a specialty of these tea
muffins. Poley should make them. I would stand behind the counter and
sell them and you should keep the accounts, and we should all three make
our fortunes and divide the profits,” said Palma as she poured out the
delicate Japan tea.
Stuart smiled as he took a cup from her hand.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’s a letter for you! It came while you
were out. I put it on the corner of the mantelpiece. Will you look at it
now?”
“No, dear; I know what it is. It is only the bill for the month’s rent.
The landlord always sends it on the third of the month, and as the third
comes on Sunday this time, he has sent it on Saturday, a day earlier.”
“Try a muffin, Cleve. You don’t know how nice they are.”
He took one to please her.
Then she chatted on about the wedding they had just attended, and the
young pair who had just sailed for Europe.
“They are so anxious that we shall go and visit them at Haymore as soon
as they shall be settled there, Cleve. And, indeed, I did promise to use
all my influence with you to persuade you to take me over next summer.
Why, Cleve, it would be ever so much pleasanter than to go to Lull’s
again, even! And yet I used to think Lull’s was just Paradise! What do
you think, Cleve?”
“I think, my dear one, that it would be very delightful to spend the
summer with our friends at Haymore. As much as I have traveled, I have
never been in Yorkshire.”
“Then you think we may go?” eagerly demanded Palma.
“Providence permitting, yes, my dear,” he replied.
She perceived no evasion in this answer. Indeed, the phrase was her own
habitual formula whenever she fully intended to do any certain thing,
“Providence permitting.” She took his words for consent and answered
gleefully:
“That will be something to look forward to during the winter.”
Stuart smiled. Ah! how hard to keep up that cheerful countenance and
light tone when his heart was so heavy and his mind so dark.
They lingered long at the tea table, because Palma was full of life and
of the enjoyment of all life’s blessings, in possession and in
anticipation.
When they arose at last and the table was cleared of the tea service,
and the books and magazines replaced on it, Palma took her workbasket
and Cleve a book, and she sewed at mending gloves, he read aloud “The
Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood.”
The letter on the mantelpiece, confidently believed to be the rent bill,
was not looked at, or even thought of. There it lay, and was fated to
lay, until Monday morning.
The young pair retired at their usual hour; but only Palma slept. The
vulture of anxiety, gnawing at his heart, kept Stuart wide awake.
Sunday dawned clear, bright and beautiful.
The young couple arose and breakfasted and went to church.
They walked all the way, not because Cleve had not a dime to pay car
fare—though he had not—but because Palma never wished to tax the horses
on the Sabbath day except in cases of absolute necessity.
“Because,” she urged, “the merciful command of the Lord provides for the
rest of the beast as well as of the man, and these horses work hard
enough all the week to rest on Sunday.”
And Stuart had always yielded to her scruples in this respect.
The organ was pealing forth a fine voluntary when they entered the
church and took their seats. The music ceased and the service began.
Palma entered into it with all the loving devotion of her heart and
soul. Cleve could not concentrate his thoughts on worship, though he
tried to do so.
After a little while, in due course, the first hymn was given out, and
the first line fell like a trumpet blast, calling the Christian soul to
hope and courage:
“Give to the winds thy fears!
Hope and be undismayed!
God hears thy sighs and sees thy tears,
God shall lift up thy head.”
The words thrilled him, aroused him; all the black shadows of grief,
shame, despair and desperation, which had bowed and cowed his spirit
with the sense of helplessness and humiliation, rolled away as before a
rising sun. It seemed wonderful, miraculous, a memory of divine
intervention that never left him in all his after life. He had always
worshiped God as the supreme ruler of the universe; but never had known
Him as the Heavenly Father. But from this hour he knew, or rather he
felt, that “the God of the universe, the God of the race, was the God of
the individual man,” the giver of life, the giver of heaven, the giver
of the daily bread as well.
The sermon which followed was from the text: “Are not two sparrows sold
for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without
your Father.... Fear not, therefore, ye are of more value than many
sparrows.”
The sermon that followed was almost worthy of the text, not quite, for
no man’s nor angel’s words can add to the Word of the Lord; but it was
faithfully, lovingly and practically applied, and it did good service.
At the end of the worship Stuart, as well as Palma, came out into the
sunlight refreshed and comforted.
That morning Stuart, in his dark mood, had shrunk from the exertion of
going to church. What would be the use? he had thought in his secret
heart; and he had tried to excuse himself to Palma, but she, from a
feeling of duty, had persuaded him to go.
Now as they walked uptown through the sunny air he said:
“I am very glad we went to church to-day, dear.”
“So am I. We got our daily bread, our heavenly manna there, did we not?”
“Yes.”
They reached home and found their pleasant little parlor aglow with the
bright fire in the grate, and inviting with the neatly spread table and
the simple midday meal of the Sabbath.
Mrs. Pole had also been to church at a much nearer point, and had got
home before them in good time to lay the cloth.
Dinner over, they spent the afternoon in reading.
They had an early tea, and then went out to church for the evening
service, walking there and back again. They reached home after ten
o’clock, for the way was long. They were revived in spirit and
wholesomely fatigued in body, so that they soon retired to rest and
slept well. Even Stuart slept, though he believed that this night ended
their last day in their pretty home, and that the next morning would
send them adrift, bereft of all their effects, except the clothes they
wore, and Heaven only knew whither! But—they would be in their Father’s
world! No one could turn them out of that. So they slept in peace.
I have been particular in describing these last two days of Stuart’s and
Palma’s experience, for they were ever after memorable in their lives.
On Monday morning they arose early, as usual. It had been Stuart’s daily
custom to go out after breakfast in search of employment. He had
continued this under all discouragements.
Yet this morning he stayed at home to see the landlord’s collector, who
always arrived the day after the bill had come by mail. As the bill had
arrived on Saturday, and the collector could not come on Sunday, he
would certainly put in an appearance on Monday, and Palma must not be
left alone to receive him—under the circumstances.
Palma took her knitting—a pair of mittens for Mrs. Pole—and sat down to
work near the window, from which she could look below upon the housetops
and above to the glorious December sky.
Stuart took a book and threw himself into a rocking-chair by the table,
but he did not read. He was waiting—for what? He did not know.
The door opened and “the boy” came in, silently laid a letter on the
table, and went out again.
Stuart took it up and opened it. Palma looked up from her work.
“Why—this is the rent bill. I thought it came Saturday. Where is that
letter that came?” Stuart inquired.
“On the corner of the mantelpiece. I’ll get it for you,” said Palma; and
she arose and handed him the letter.
He took it and gazed at it.
“I don’t know the handwriting at all,” he said meditatively, “and it is
postmarked ‘Wolfswalk, West Virginia.’ I should think it was intended
for some one else, if my name was not such an uncommon one, and
certainly there is no one else in this house that bears it.” And he
turned it over and over and scrutinized it after the strange manner of
people who receive a mysterious letter and play with their own curiosity
by delaying to open it. At length he broke the envelope and unfolded the
letter.
First of all he turned to the signature, which was at the bottom of the
fourth page, so that he did not happen to open the sheet and find what
lay between the leaves.
“‘John Cleve!’” he exclaimed. “Why, dear Palma, this is from my old
bachelor great-uncle, who, I thought, had been gathered to his fathers
ages ago. He must be at least eighty years old.”
“Oh, Cleve, read it to me! I never knew you had an uncle,” said Palma,
dropping her work and coming and leaning over the back of his chair so
that she could look at the open letter.
Cleve read as follows:
“WOLFSWALK, WEST VIRGINIA,
“November 25, 186—.
“MY DEAR GRAND-NEPHEW: You will be surprised to get a letter from me,
of whom you can have but little memory, as you have not seen me since
you were a babe of three years old, when your dear mother—my dear and
only niece—brought you to my house.
“Since her lamented death, in Mississippi, I had completely lost sight
of you, thinking of you as in the hands of competent guardians during
your minority, and of leading a prosperous life as an active planter
on your estate since your majority. I thought of writing to you, but
neglected to do so. How families do get separated in this world, to be
sure, neglecting each other, forgetting each other, like aliens!
“Several circumstances have occurred to bring you forcibly to my mind
of late. First, the fact that my two grand-nephews, Frank and James,
sole descendants of my only nephew, Charles, fell on the field of Cold
Harbor, fighting for their native State. They died unmarried. This
leaves you my sole heir.
“As soon as I learned this fact I wrote to you in Mississippi, but
failed to get a letter from you. I wrote to the postmaster of your
post office there, and learned from him that you had been an absentee
from home for many years.
“Then I thought of advertising for you, but so hated the plan that I
delayed putting it in execution.
“At length chance favored me and gave the information I desired. A
neighbor of mine went off on a business trip and was in Washington
City last week, and met there a friend of yours—a Mr. Walling, of New
York. By the merest accident your name came up—neither of the
gentlemen knowing of how much importance it was to me—and Fairfax
heard that you were in New York City, and, in fact, much about you
which it is not necessary to repeat here, but all of which he told me.
Therefore, I write you this letter.
“And now, since you are not bound down to your Mississippi plantation,
and since you are my sole heir, and I am old and feeble, and cannot
last long, I ask you to be a good boy, and a dutiful nephew, and to
come and bring your wife and live with me on the farm.
“I have not suffered, as so many have, by the war. It did not sweep
over my land, but gave it a rather wide berth.
“My negroes have remained with me at fair wages, but whether they do
fair work is something else.
“I have an overseer to look after the negroes, but, my boy, I require
some one to look after the overseer. Will you come?
“As breaking up and traveling is always expensive, and as I do not
know your financial condition, I inclose a check for five hundred
dollars, merely as an advance to my heir. Give my love to your wife.
Let me hear from you as soon as possible, and believe me, my dear
Cleve, now and ever, your affectionate grand-uncle,
“JOHN CLEVE.”
“Thank God!” fervently ejaculated Stuart.
“But where is the check?” curiously inquired Palma.
Stuart opened the leaves of the letter again, then his face fell and he
murmured:
“My uncle must have forgotten to put it in!”
“No,” said Palma, “here it is!” And she picked it up from the carpet, to
which it had slipped.
“Thank God!” said Stuart again.
“Why, I am glad, very glad, that you have heard from your uncle. But
you, Cleve! I have never in all my life seen you so strongly moved. What
is it all about?” exclaimed Palma, amazed at his extreme agitation.
“My darling, when this providential letter came we were on the brink of
ruin!” he answered, telling her the truth at last.
“‘Ruin!’ You! Cleve Stuart!”
“Yes, my beloved.”
“But your vast wealth?”
“A fond imagination of yours.”
“And your rich Mississippi plantation?”
“A blasted wilderness.”
“Oh, Cleve! Cleve! How have we lived?”
“By the gradual disposal of all my useless effects.”
“Oh, Cleve! Cleve!”
“The last dime was spent on Saturday, dear, and this morning I looked
for nothing else but a distrain for rent and ejection from these
premises.”
“And you never told me! You never told me!”
“Why should I have distressed you, dear one?”
“Oh, I could have worked, Cleve. But I didn’t know! I didn’t know! I
thought you were rich. And I thought, sometimes, that you were too
prudent, too saving, especially when you did not get a dress coat to go
to Ran’s wedding. And all the time you were poor, and struggling on the
very brink of ruin! Oh, Cleve!”
“Never mind, dear heart, we are ready for the landlord, or for any other
demand. Tell me, darling, shall you like to go to this mountain
farmhouse in West Virginia, and keep house for the old man, and be
mistress, doctress, teacher and everything, to his horde of darkies?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes—a thousand times, yes! I shall be delighted,
Cleve!”
“Very well, then. As it all depended upon you, I will answer the old
man’s letter and accept his offer; then go out and change this check.”
“No, no; first of all, dear Cleve,” said Palma, gravely, “let us kneel
and return thanks to our Heavenly Father that we are saved.”