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A Modern Madonna
A Modern Madonna
By
Caroline Abbot Stanley
Author Of "Order No. 11"
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
1906
TO THE FRAGRANT MEMORY
OF A SWEET YOUNG MOTHER WHO FACED DEATH
IN THE BATTLE OF MATERNITY--
AND LOST
Contents
I. The Woman 3
II. The Elder Brother 8
III. Mrs. Pennybacker of Missouri 15
IV. The Thorn Road 27
V. "A White Life for Two" 36
VI. A Friend in Need 42
VII. Tried as by Fire 51
VIII. A New Rôle for Richard 57
IX. The Reaping of the Crop 64
X. "Dust to Dust" 70
XI. The Will 75
XII. A Losing Fight 88
XIII. The Wolf Blood 95
XIV. Mammy Cely's Story 105
XV. Instinct Triumphs 114
XVI. In the "North Countree" 122
XVII. We-que-ton-sing 135
XVIII. The Trail of the Serpent 143
XIX. The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea 152
XX. Self-chaperoned 162
XXI. In the Toils 173
XXII. At Bay 187
XXIII. Mothers and Foster-mothers 195
XXIV. The Man Who Won 202
XXV. The Madonna Picture 212
XXVI. Face to Face 229
XXVII. At Elmhurst 237
XXVIII. Hearts and Skins 248
XXIX. "Inasmuch--" 259
XXX. "Not Wisely but Too Well" 267
XXXI. A Woman's Crusade 278
XXXII. Margaret Enlists 291
XXXIII. A Long Pull and a Strong Pull 300
XXXIV. Rescue Work 308
XXXV. Mrs. Pennybacker Talks 316
XXXVI. Margaret's Resolve 328
XXXVII. The Red Paper 335
XXXVIII. The Mother Comes to Her Own 342
XXXIX. Shoulder to Shoulder 351
XL. The Unexpected Happens 357
XLI. Under the Wistaria 369
XLII. The Confessional 381
XLIII. In the Library Once More 390
XLIV. As Aforetime 400
CHAPTER I
THE WOMAN
A hush fell on the waiting throng at old St. John's. The soft babble of
modulated voices died suddenly away as from the greenery and the daisies
of the chancel a singer's voice rose sweet and clear. The
white-ribboned, white-canvased aisles were ready for the coming of a
bride's feet, and the wedding guests imprisoned behind the silken bands
bent forward expectantly to hear her nuptial song.
That song, as was most meet, breathed love and perfect trust; when it
was finished there were tears in many eyes. Women's hearts are very
tender at weddings, and the song was in the universal key.
In the vestibule, other ears were bending to catch the strains. With the
first note Judge Kirtley raised his hand enjoining silence, and the
ushers and the maids fell back, leaving the old man and his companion
listening at the door. Upon his arm was Margaret, child of his love,
though not of his blood. She was the daughter of his old friend, who,
with his dying breath, had left her to his charge. He had been faithful
to his trust; he had been to her a father; and she, coming into his
childless home, had filled a daughter's place. It would be lonely enough
without her.
But it was not this that filled his mind as he listened to the song. He
was thinking with the sense of helplessness that comes to every father,
to every faithful guardian at a time like this, that he had done all he
could; his trust was over; a moment more and he would give her for all
time into the keeping of another. Would that other rise to meet the
trust? This was the question reiterating itself in his soul. Did Victor
De Jarnette know women's hearts--how strong they were to bear, how quick
to bleed? Was his a hand that could be both strong and gentle? None
other, he knew, could safely guide this girl of his. Margaret was
high-strung and impetuous; her capacity for sorrow and for joy had
sometimes made him stand aghast. Victor De Jarnette could make a heaven
on earth for her, or--
He did not finish, but involuntarily he pressed close to him the
white-gloved hand, and Margaret looked up wonderingly, marveling to see
his face so stern. There was no shadow on her sky to-day. Her soul was
in tune with the singer's rhapsody.
The song ended. There was a soft bustle in the vestibule; the majestic
measures of Lohengrin filled her ears; the bridesmaids shook out their
plumage and moved on; the flower girls were scattering roses for her
path; and with uplifted head and shining eyes Margaret Varnum went
forward to meet her lover.
In the chancel, proud, erect, and confident, stood Victor De Jarnette,
waiting for her coming. In his black eyes was the triumph of possession.
There were others in that church who had sought to win Margaret Varnum,
and he did not forget it.
"He's a devilish handsome fellow!" whispered a young officer in the
south transept to his companion.
"Yes," was the reply, "with the primary accent on the adverb, eh?"
"Why doesn't his brother take part in it?" asked Mrs. Pennybacker of her
niece, "as best man or usher or something?"
Mrs. Van Dorn shrugged her shapely shoulders.
"He is opposed to it, I believe. Not to Margaret especially, but to
marriage in general. I don't suppose you could persuade him to take part
in a wedding--now."
"What is the matter with the man?" demanded her aunt. "He doesn't look
like a crank. What can have given him such a bias as this?"
Her niece smiled enigmatically. "Modesty forbids that I should say much
on the subject, my dear aunt. But there are people who are unkind enough
to lay to your niece's charge Richard De Jarnette's change of heart. She
certainly remembers when he held altogether different views."
"Do you mean to say, Maria,--"
"Oh, no, certainly not, so don't look at me like that. I am only telling
you what people say. Ah! There come the bridesmaids. Isn't that pink
gown a dream?"
Mrs. Pennybacker was looking past the bridal party to the front pew,
where sat Victor De Jarnette's elder brother, stern and unbending. By
his side was a younger man, who spoke to him from time to time in a
light way as if to cheer him, but his pleasantries elicited scant
response. It was his friend, Dr. Semple. The two were the sole occupants
of the pew reserved for the family of the bridegroom. The De Jarnette
brothers were singularly alone.
"I don't believe it," thought Mrs. Pennybacker as she studied the man's
face. "He doesn't look to me like a man who would lose his head over
Maria, poor thing! as pretty as she is. Some women can make an offer of
marriage out of an invitation to a prayer-meeting, and see a love letter
in a note beginning, 'My dear madam.' Still, you can't tell. Maria _has_
a pretty face. And men are great fools."
There was not a flaw in the matchless ceremony which has come down to us
as a heritage from the ages; not a faltering note in either voice. "To
love and to cherish ... till death us do part." This was their plighted
troth.
The church's challenge rang out boldly.
"If any man can show just cause why these two persons may not lawfully
be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold
his peace."
A stillness fell upon the place. But no man spoke.
At that most searching admonition, "I require and charge you both, as ye
will answer in the dreadful day of judgment ... if either of you know
any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together ... ye do now
confess it," they searched their souls, but if they found impediment it
stood unconfessed.
Once, Margaret felt her lover's hand close suddenly on hers and then
relax. She loved him for his vehemence, and gave an answering clasp. At
that moment those near the door looked into each other's faces with
startled, questioning gaze and bent their heads to listen. No sound was
heard above the rector's solemn monotone and the response.
"Victor, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?" The straining
ears relaxed and gave heed to the bridegroom's vow. "Wilt thou love her,
comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and,
forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall
live?"
And Victor De Jarnette answered resonantly,
"I will."
Kneeling, they asked God's benediction on their wedded lives; then down
the aisle in radiant happiness they led the train,--one flesh, if there
be aught in vows--for evermore.
* * * * *
"Did you hear anything during that ceremony?" asked John Jarvis, the
lawyer, of his wife as they drove away.
She looked up eagerly. "Yes. Did you?"
"I thought I did. What was it, do you think?"
"It sounded to me like a knock--"
"Yes,--"
"--and then a cry, faint, but like a woman's voice."
They spoke in guarded tones, but the old carriage driver, who had been
in the family for twenty years and was a privileged character, heard and
touched his hat.
"Dat was a crazy woman, miss, de p'liceman say, tryin' to git in widout
no ticket. Dey run 'er in. Yaas, miss."
A knot of men who had likewise heard the knock discussed it as they
walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue.
"He's been wild," said one, raising his brow, and his companion answered
with easy tolerance,
"Oh, yes, of course. But he has sowed his wild oats, and now he is ready
to settle down."
A lady, passing, caught the words and their drift.
"Did you ever notice," she said thoughtfully to her husband, who walked
beside her, "that people always say, 'Oh well, he has sowed his wild
oats,' as if that finished it? But in the country, where I was born, we
sow our oats and know that we will reap. I imagine 'wild oats' are not
very different from other kinds."