At the end of the street stood the little white house which Jack Ward
was pleased to call his own. Five years he had lived there, he and
Dorothy. How happy they had been! But things seemed to have gone wrong
some way, since--since the baby died in the spring. A sob came into
Jack's throat, for the little face had haunted him all day.
Never a sound had the baby lips uttered, and the loudest noises had not
disturbed his rest. It had seemed almost too much to bear, but they
had loved him more, if that were possible, because he was not as other
children were. Jack had never been reconciled but Dorothy found a world
of consolation in the closing paragraph of a magazine article on the
subject:
"And yet we cannot believe these Children of Silence to be unhappy.
Mrs. Browning says that 'closed eyes see more truly than ever open
do,' and may there not be another world of music for those to whom our
own is soundless? In a certain sense they are utterly beyond the pain
that life always brings, for never can they hear the cruel words beside
which physical hurts sink into utter insignificance. So pity them not,
but believe that He knoweth best, and that what seems wrong and bitter
is often His truest kindness to His children."
Dorothy read it over and over until she knew it by heart. There was
a certain comfort in the thought that he need not suffer--that he
need never find what a world of bitterness lies in that one little
word--life. And when the hard day came she tried to be thankful, for
she knew that he was safer still--tried to see the kindness that had
taken him back into the Unknown Silence of which he was the Child.
Jack went up the steps this mild winter evening, whistling softly to
himself, and opened the door with his latch-key.
"Where are you, girlie?"
"Up stairs, dear. I'll be down in a minute," and even as she spoke
Dorothy came into the room.
In spite of her black gown and the hollows under her eyes, she was a
pretty woman. She knew it, and Jack did too. That is he had known, but
he had forgotten.
"Here's the evening paper." He tossed it into her lap as she sat down
by the window.
"Thank you." She wondered vaguely why Jack did not kiss her as he used
to, and then dismissed the thought. She was growing accustomed to that
sort of thing.
"How nice of you to come by the early train! I didn't expect you until
later."
"There wasn't much going on in town, so I left the office early. Any
mail? No? Guess I'll take Jip out for a stroll." The fox-terrier at his
feet wagged his tail approvingly. "Want to go, Jip?"
Jip answered decidedly in the affirmative.
"All right, come on," and Dorothy watched the two go down the street
with an undefined feeling of pain.
She lit the prettily shaded lamp and tried to read the paper, but the
political news, elopements, murders, and suicides lacked interest. She
wondered what had come between her and Jack. Something had, there was
no question about that; but--well, it would come straight sometime.
Perhaps she was morbid and unjust. She couldn't ask him what was the
matter without making him angry and she had tried so hard to make him
happy.
Jip announced his arrival at the front door with a series of sharp
barks and an unmistakable scratch. She opened it as Jack sauntered
slowly up the walk and passed her with the remark:
"Dinner ready? I'm as hungry as a bear."
Into the cozy dining-room they went, Jip first, then Jack, then
Dorothy. The daintily served meal satisfied the inner man, and he
did not notice that she ate but little. She honestly tried to be
entertaining, and thought she succeeded fairly well. After dinner he
retired into the depths of the evening paper, and Dorothy stitched away
at her embroidery.
Suddenly Jack looked at his watch. "Well, it's half past seven, and
I've got to go over to Mrs. Brown's and practise a duet with her for
to-morrow."
Dorothy trembled, but only said: "Oh, yes, the duet. What is it this
time?"
"'Calvary,' I guess, that seems to take the multitude better than
anything we sing. No, Jip, not this time. Good-bye, I won't be gone
long."
The door slammed, and Dorothy was alone. She put away her embroidery
and walked the floor restlessly. Mrs. Brown was a pretty widow, always
well dressed, and she sang divinely. Dorothy could not sing a note
though she played fairly well, and Jack got into a habit of taking
Mrs. Brown new music and going over to sing it with her. An obliging
neighbour had called that afternoon and remarked maliciously that Mr.
Ward and Mrs. Brown seemed to be very good friends. Dorothy smiled
with white lips, and tried to say pleasantly, "Yes, Mrs. Brown is very
charming, don't you think so? I am sure that if I were a man I should
fall in love with her."
The neighbour rose to go and by way of a parting shot replied: "That
seems to be Mr. Ward's idea. Lovely day, isn't it? Come over when you
can."
Dorothy was too stunned to reply. She thought seriously of telling
Jack, but wisely decided not to. These suburban towns were always
gossipy. Jack would think she did not trust him. And now he was at Mrs.
Brown's again!
The pain was almost blinding. She went to the window and looked out.
The rising moon shone fitfully upon the white signs of sorrow in the
little churchyard far to the left.
She threw a shawl over her head and went out. In feverish haste she
walked over to the little "God's Acre" where the Child of Silence was
buried.
She found the spot and sat down. A thought of Mrs. Browning's ran
through her mind:
"Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for----"
Then someway the tears came, a blessed rush of relief.
"Oh, baby dear," she sobbed, pressing her lips to the cold turf above
him, "I wish I were down there beside you, as still and as dreamless
as you. You don't know what it means--you never would have known. I'd
rather be a stone than a woman with a heart. Do you think that if I
could buy death I wouldn't take it and come down there beside you? It
hurt me to lose you, but it wasn't the worst. You would have loved me.
Oh, my Child of Silence! Come back, come back!"
How long she stayed there she never knew, but the heart pain grew
easier after a while. She pressed her lips to the turf again. "Good
night, baby dear, good night. I'll come again. You haven't lost your
mother even if she has lost you!"
Fred Bennett passed by the unfrequented spot, returning from an errand
to that part of town, and he heard the last words. He drew back into
the shadow. The slight black figure appeared on the sidewalk a few feet
ahead of him and puzzled him not a little. He followed cautiously and
finally decided to overtake her. As she heard his step behind her she
looked around timidly.
"Mrs. Ward!"
His tone betrayed surprise, and he saw that her eyes were wet and her
white, drawn face was tear-stained. She shuddered. A new trouble faced
her. How long had he been following her?
He saw her distress and told his lie bravely. "I just came around the
corner here."
Her relieved look was worth the sacrifice of his conscientious
scruples, he said to himself afterward.
"I may walk home with you, may I not?"
"Certainly."
She took his offered arm and tried to chat pleasantly with her old
friend. Soon they reached the gate. She dropped his arm and said good
night unsteadily. Bennett could bear it no longer and he took both of
her hands in his own.
"Mrs. Ward, you are in trouble. Tell me, perhaps I can help you." She
was silent. "Dorothy, you will let me call you so, will you not? You
know how much I cared for you in a boy's impulsive fashion, in the old
days when we were at school; you know that I am your friend now--as
true a friend as a man can be to a woman. Tell me, Dorothy, and let me
help you."
There was a rustle of silk on the pavement and her caller of the
afternoon swept by without speaking. Already Dorothy knew the story
which would be put in circulation on the morrow. Bennett's clasp
tightened on her cold fingers. "Tell me, Dorothy, and let me help you!"
he said again.
The impulse to tell him grew stronger, and she controlled it with
difficulty. "It is nothing, Mr. Bennett, I--I have a headache."
"I see, and you came out for a breath of fresh air. Pardon me. I am
sure you will be better in the morning. These cool nights are so
bracing. Good night, and God bless you--Dorothy."
Meanwhile Bennett was on his way to Mrs. Brown's cottage. His mind
was made up, and he would speak to Jack. He had heard a great deal of
idle gossip, and it would probably cost him Jack's friendship, but he
would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he had tried to do
something for Dorothy. He rang the bell and Mrs. Brown herself answered
it.
"Good evening, Mrs. Brown. No, thank you, I won't come in. Just ask
Jack if I may see him a minute on a matter of business."
Ward, hearing his friend's voice, was already at the door.
"I'll be with you in a minute, Fred," he said. "Good night, Mrs. Brown;
I am sure we shall get on famously with the duet." And the two men went
slowly down the street.
They walked on in silence until Jack said: "Well, Bennett, what is it?
You don't call a fellow out like this unless it is something serious."
"It is serious, Jack; it's Dor--it's Mrs. Ward."
"Dorothy? I confess I am as much in the dark as ever."
"It's this way, Jack, she is in trouble."
Ward was silent.
"Jack, you know I'm a friend of yours; I have been ever since I've
known you. If you don't take what I am going to say as I mean, you are
not the man I think you are."
"Go on, Fred, I understand you. I was only thinking."
"Perhaps you don't know it, but the town is agog with what it is
pleased to term your infatuation for Mrs. Brown." Jack smothered a
profane exclamation, and Bennett continued. "Dorothy is eating her
heart out over the baby. She was in the cemetery to-night sobbing over
his grave and talking to him like a mad woman. I came up the back
street, and after a little I overtook her and walked home with her.
That's how I happen to know. And don't think for a moment that she
hasn't heard the gossip. She has, only she is too proud to speak of it.
And Jack, old man, I don't believe you've neglected her intentionally,
but begin again and show her how much you care for her. Good night."
Bennett left him abruptly, for the old love for Dorothy was strong
to-night; not the fitful flaming passion of boyhood, but the deeper,
tenderer love of his whole life.
Jack was strangely affected. Dear little Dorothy! He had neglected her.
"I don't deserve her," he said to himself, "but I will."
He passed a florist's shop, and a tender thought struck him. He would
buy Dorothy some roses. He went in and ordered a box of American
Beauties. A stiff silk rustled beside him and he lifted his hat
courteously.
"Going home, Mr. Ward? It's early, isn't it?" "But," with scarcely
perceptible emphasis, "it's--none--too soon!" Then as her eager eye
caught a glimpse of the roses, "Ah, but you men are sly! For Mrs.
Brown?"
Jack took his package and responded icily, "No, for Mrs. Ward!" "Cat!"
he muttered under his breath as he went out. And that little word in
the mouth of a man means a great deal.
He entered the house, and was not surprised to find that Dorothy had
retired. She never waited for him now. He took the roses from the box
and went up-stairs.
"Hello, Dorothy," as the pale face rose from the pillow in surprise.
"I've brought you some roses!" Dorothy actually blushed. Jack hadn't
brought her a rose for three years; not since the day the baby was
born. He put them in water and came and sat down beside her.
"Dear little girl, your head aches, doesn't it?" He drew her up beside
him and put his cool fingers on the throbbing temples. Her heart beat
wildly and happy tears filled her eyes as Jack bent down and kissed her
tenderly. "My sweetheart! I'm so sorry for the pain."
It was the old lover-like tone and Dorothy looked up.
"Jack," she said, "you do love me, don't you?"
His arms tightened about her. "My darling, I love you better than
anything in the world. You are the dearest little woman I ever saw. It
isn't much of a heart, dear, but you've got it all. Crying? Why, what
is it, sweetheart?"
"The baby," she answered brokenly, and his eyes overflowed too.
"Dorothy, dearest, you know that was best. He wasn't like--" Jack
couldn't say the hard words, but Dorothy understood and drew his face
down to hers again.
Then she closed her eyes, and Jack held her until she slept. The dawn
found his arms around her again, and when the early church bells awoke
her from a happy dream she found the reality sweet and beautiful, and
the heartache a thing of the past.