DARKNESS
And so, once more Elizabeth failed. This time the world did not
recognize the failure as such, and it was regarded by her family, and
especially by her aunt, as the highest success. But Elizabeth knew;
that wiser inner self, always sternly honest, called her action by its
right name. On the very evening she wrote Mrs. Jarvis, promising to
return, she felt the full bitterness of failure. For at family worship
her father read from the life of that One whom she had, for a brief
time, tried to follow. The Man of Nazareth had been showing His
disciples how His pathway must lead to the cross, and "from that time
many of His disciples went back and walked no more with Him." The
sorrowful words kept repeating themselves over and over to Elizabeth
after she had gone to bed--"went back and walked no more with Him"; and
though she had that day chosen wealth and worldly prosperity, in place
of hardship, poverty, and discomfort, she sobbed herself to sleep.
As the days passed and preparations for her departure went forward, she
struggled to regain her habitual cheerfulness. John had gone West,
full of joyful ambitions, her home and her father's peace were assured,
her aunt was once more kind and happy. But Elizabeth could not be
content. Too honest to compromise with her conscience, she allowed
herself no false hopes in regard to making her life with Mrs. Jarvis a
useful one. She could not bear to look into Mother MacAllister's eyes
the day she told her of her altered plans. For the joy over Charles
Stuart's new life had made those eyes shine with a beautiful new
radiance, and the girl was grieved to see it dim. And just what
Charles Stuart himself would say when he returned and found her gone,
was a speculation that could not but be disturbing.
By working hard, visiting here and there, writing letters, and spending
much time with Eppie, she managed to make the few remaining days pass.
When left alone she found her only refuge from pangs of regret was in
keeping herself extremely busy. For this reason, having the big stone
house to herself one morning, she set to work at the housecleaning.
Annie and the babies had been with them for a day, and had gone home,
taking Mary and Miss Gordon with them for a day's shopping. Elizabeth,
whose fickle allegiance was always given to the latest arrived Vision
in Annie's family, missed the soft cooing little voice and adorable
antics of Baby Betty, to the verge of heartache. She realized that on
this quiet day she must do something strenuous.
Her first task was to see her father happily at work in his garden, and
her next was to send her little maid to the Martin farm to help Auntie
Jinit with her late spring soap-making. Not that Auntie Jinit needed
help, but the Gordons strove in every way to show their friendliness
towards their kind neighbor. Thus safe from the shocked protestations
that were sure to follow upon her engaging in anything useful,
Elizabeth set feverishly to work.
She would thoroughly clean the room Eppie had occupied, she resolved.
Arraying herself in a dress of Mary's which was much too long, an apron
of the little maid's that was much too short, and a huge dust-cap of
her aunt's, she set vigorously to work, washing, scrubbing, and
cleaning windows. There was some grim satisfaction in the hard
physical labor, her last chance, she felt, to do something useful, some
satisfaction, too, in wondering what the fastidious Mr. Huntley would
say, could he see her.
She had finished the hardest part of her task and was just tacking up
with loving hands an old photograph of Annie's first Vision, in a long,
white robe, when she heard the front door open suddenly, and knew by
the bounding step that Sarah Emily had arrived. Ever since her
marriage Mrs. Peter Johnstone regularly visited The Dale, at short
intervals, and in spite of many broad hints from her former mistress,
she had never yet become sufficiently formal to knock at the door.
"Come right up, Sarah Emily," Elizabeth called over the balustrade.
"I knowed you'd be alone, Lizzie," said the visitor, mounting gayly.
"I seen the rest o' the folks goin' off in all directions, an' ses I,
'I'll scoot over an' slap up a batch o' biscuits or somethin',' for I
knowed you couldn't get any dinner. For the love o' the crows, you
ain't housecleanin'!"
"Doesn't this room look as if I were?"
Sarah Emily sniffed the damp clean odor. "Well, I never. If this
ain't a come-downer for a lady like you!" She turned and regarded the
girl with affectionate reproach. "What d'ye do it for?" she continued,
puzzled.
"Because I like it, Sarah Emily. I'd like to go on doing it all my
life."
Sarah Emily laughed. Of course this was only Lizzie's nonsense, and
she didn't mean a word of it.
"You're a pretty one," she declared, assuming her old air of authority,
which came to her easily in the presence of the Gordon children.
"Here, if you ain't gone and cleaned up the whole place an' that
stove-pipe not moved."
Elizabeth uttered an ejaculation of dismay. "Oh, I forgot. Can't we
do it yet?"
"Course we can!" said Sarah Emily cordially. "Come along, I'll show
you!"
She flung aside her shawl and soon Elizabeth was in her old subordinate
position. Sarah Emily took matters in her own hands. She proceeded to
remove the stove from the study below and the pipes from the room
above, flying upstairs and downstairs in her old authoritative way,
much to Elizabeth's amusement. At her peremptory summons Mr. Gordon
came in from his garden to lend a hand, evidently under the impression
that Sarah Emily had never left, and was merely attending to her
customary duties. There was much running to and fro, and banging of
stove-pipes, and a great deal of talk and laughter, for Sarah Emily was
always in the gayest spirits if she happened to be at The Dale during
the absence of its mistress. Besides, she was a born commander, and
shouted orders to her two subordinates with the greatest enjoyment.
All went smoothly and swiftly until the work was almost accomplished,
when a delay occurred. Mr. Gordon was downstairs removing the
stove-pipes from the study. Above, Sarah Emily, mounted upon a chair,
was supporting the long black column that ran into the chimney, while
Elizabeth, down on her knees, was preventing another column from
descending into the room below.
"Now, you down there!" shouted Sarah Emily, "you carry out them pipes
to the barnyard, so's the sut won't fly onto them clothes on the line,
an' me an' Lizzie 'll hold these till you get back."
Mr. Gordon, obedient to the voice from above, took the pipes, and his
retreating footsteps could be heard along the passage leading to the
kitchen. While they waited his return Sarah Emily beguiled the time
with a story of how she circumvented that there Pete, who had
determined to sell the brindled cow to a butcher in Cheemaun. But she
showed him who was boss, so she did. Though married Sarah Emily still
kept up her show of cruel indifference, and never lost an opportunity
of telling how she trampled upon her husband. The neighbors, however,
knew that she waited upon Peter hand and foot, and that he was growing
fat and arrogant. So Elizabeth did not know just how much the
brindled-cow story was colored by the story-teller's imagination. She
responded with a tale of the city, such as Sarah Emily liked, full of
finely dressed ladies, and flower-bedecked drawing-rooms. Then Sarah
Emily recounted once again her experiences when she worked as maid for
Mrs. Oliver and first became acquainted with high life and Mrs. Jarvis.
This last circumstance she thankfully declared to be the beginning of
Lizzie's good luck.
But in spite of much entertaining talk, it soon began to be borne in
upon the minds of the two that both time and the stove-pipes were
hanging rather heavily on their hands. Elizabeth shifted her cramped
position and wondered what could be keeping father; and Sarah Emily
braced herself against the wall and declared some folks were slower
than a seven years' famine. It was impossible to leave their places,
for the pipes would collapse into the study below, so that there was
nothing to do but wait, Casabianca-like. Elizabeth misquoted something
about the noble two who held the pipes in the brave days of old. But
Sarah Emily did not understand the allusion, and the joke fell very
flat. Her arms were cramped too, and her sense of humor was becoming
dulled.
They waited and called and waited, until at last Elizabeth became
alarmed, fearing something had happened to her father. Still holding
her uncomfortable burden, she rose to her feet, whence she could
command a view from the windows overlooking the kitchen-garden. One
glimpse she caught and uttered a shriek of laughter, which threatened
dislodgment of the stove-pipes. For there, far down the garden, near
to Tom Teeter's fence, peacefully hoeing in his potato-patch, stood her
absent-minded father!
But Sarah Emily did not laugh. Declaring that Lizzie's pa was the most
forgettable man that ever pestered the soul out of a body, she managed
to place herself so that her strong arms supported both sections of the
pipe and dispatched Elizabeth after the truant.
Mr. Gordon flung up his hands in dismay at his daughter's appearance,
and fled back to the house full of apologies enough to appease even
Sarah Emily, who was by this time both cramped and cross. Elizabeth
followed more slowly, filled with laughter. It was impossible to hurry
indoors on such a morning. The orchard path was bordered with soft
grass, vividly green. The bluebirds hopped and twittered in the
branches above, and on every side the undulating fields stretched away,
shimmering in the warm sunshine. When Elizabeth looked back in later
years at the picture of herself walking gayly down the orchard path on
that radiant morning, she wondered how she could have laughed, and how
it was possible that not the smallest premonition was given her of the
storm of anguish so rapidly approaching.
As she reached the end of the orchard path the rattle of wheels
attracted her. She looked up to see John Coulson driving slowly down
the lane. She ran through the house and out to the garden gate in glad
surprise, full of questions. What had brought him out here at this
hour? And why did he come alone? And what did he mean by leaving Baby
Bet at home? And what did he do with Mary and Aunt Margaret? And
didn't he think she looked fetching in this cap and apron?
And then some subtle change in John Coulson's kindly manner made itself
felt. She slipped her hand into his arm as they went up the garden
path.
"Is anybody sick, John Coulson? How is baby?"
"She's all right, dear. No, Annie isn't ill, nor anyone--only--I--have
something to tell you, Lizzie. Come in, I want to see you alone."
The study stove-pipes were still being removed, and Elizabeth led her
brother-in-law into the parlor. Her heart seemed clutched by a cold
hand. Something was the matter, or why should John Coulson call her
Lizzie, and look at her with such sorrowful eyes.
"John Coulson!" she cried, clutching his arm, "I know something's
happened. Oh, is it baby?"
No, it wasn't baby, he answered her again, but he led her to the sofa
and sat beside her, holding her hand. And then he told her--Elizabeth
never knew just how he broke the news, whether it had been gently or
suddenly. She only knew that he had come to tell her that John was
dead; that John had been killed by an explosion of dynamite, at the
blasting of a tunnel on the British North American Railroad.
She listened quietly to the faltering words, and when they were ended
she said nothing. She sat looking at her brother-in-law, her hands
hanging inertly, and thought how strange it seemed to see a big, strong
man like John Coulson with tears running down his face. It seemed
strange, too, that she was not sorry that John had been killed. Often
in earlier years she had tormented herself by imagining the death of
some member of the family, and her heart had scarcely been able to bear
the anguish of such a thought. And now John was dead, and she did not
mind. She felt sorry for John Coulson, of course, he seemed so very,
very sad. He was looking at her with such anguished eyes, that she
patted his arm comfortingly.
"Poor John Coulson," she said. "Why, we won't need to call you John
Coulson any more, will we?--only John." Then she arose and called her
father and Sarah Emily, so that they might be told, and went quietly
upstairs to finish the task she had left.
But she did not go to work. Instead she sat down in the chair upon
which Sarah Emily had stood, and tried to reason herself into some
feeling of grief. Why, she had not even felt like shedding a tear, and
Aunt Margaret would be home soon, and she would think her so cold and
cruel. She must really try to cry a little when Aunt Margaret came,
even though she didn't feel sorry that John was dead. The stove-pipes
had been removed, and she sat by the empty pipe-hole listening idly to
the sound from below. She could hear John Coulson's low, deep voice,
and Sarah Emily's loud lamentations. She wished she could act like
Sarah Emily, it seemed so much more sympathetic. Her mind seemed to
have become possessed of a keenness never felt before. She thought out
every detail of the changed circumstances John's death must bring,
forgetting nothing. It would mean that she could not leave home quite
so soon, she reflected, and even wondered how Mrs. Jarvis would feel
when she learned that Elizabeth must wear black.
And all the time she was feeling ashamed that she could sit so
callously making plans, while even now John's dead body must be on its
way home. But then she did not feel sorry. She wondered if there had
ever before been anyone bereaved who had been so heartless.
The sound of wheels reached her alert senses, and she arose and went to
the window overlooking the lane. She saw a carriage come down with her
aunt and Mary in it, and Charles Stuart driving. She did not think it
strange that he should be there, but only wondered if he felt sorry
about John. Evidently Mary did, for she was sobbing convulsively, and
Aunt Margaret walked so slowly that Charles Stuart gave her his arm up
the garden path. Elizabeth arose and softly closed the door, lest her
aunt come and find her. She was not sorry that John was killed.
She came back to her seat by the pipe-hole and again listened to the
sounds of lamentation from below. Then the study door closed and she
could hear only the voices of Charles Stuart and John Coulson. She
peeped down and saw Charles Stuart's face. He was sitting by her
father's desk, and he did not look sorry, only angry. His face was
ghastly pale and his eyes burned red as he stretched his clenched fist
along the top of the desk. Elizabeth leaned down and deliberately
listened in the hope that she might hear some details of the accident,
that would make her feel sorry.
"Oh, John Coulson," the low, anguished voice was saying, "it's devilish
work this money-making. It's blood money that man Huntley is getting,
and he declares he knew nothing about it--and I suppose he doesn't, but
he'll take the money, you'll see! And Mrs. Jarvis has shares in it.
And--and Lizzie----"
His voice broke. There was a deathly silence.
"This must never reach her ears, Stuart, nor any of them. It would
kill Aunt Margaret." That was John Coulson's voice, and Elizabeth held
her breath to catch what this was she must not hear. If it were so
terrible, surely it would make her feel just a little regretful
concerning John.
"No, no," Charles Stuart answered. "They'll never know, and the public
will never know. The man who did the dastardly thing will see to that.
And his company, headed by Huntley, will shield him."
"Can't they be exposed?" John Coulson's voice was a mere whisper.
"Exposed! Not they. The papers say it was merely an accident, with
only one white man killed. That is Huntley's story too, and who cares
that a hundred or so Chinamen were blown to pieces? Nobody is going to
be so crude as to announce that they were put out of the way when the
company was done with them, to save big arrears in wages. And nobody
can prove it. They'll make a fuss about John----" The voice broke
again. Elizabeth did not wait to hear more. She arose and went
quietly down to the study. She opened the door and stood facing the
two men. She did not feel one pang of grief as yet, but she wanted to
make things plain. She wanted to explain to John Coulson and Charles
Stuart that it was not the President of the British North American
Railroad that had killed John, but she, his favorite sister; because it
was she who in her stepping aside from the path of her plain duty had
sent him to his death. This she was determined to tell, but somehow
the words seemed so slow in coming. She stretched out her hands in an
attempt to explain herself. Then she saw Charles Stuart spring towards
her out of a mist, and there fell over her a great darkness.