UNDER THE WISTARIA
It was three whole days before Margaret saw Richard De Jarnette again.
She was wounded and outraged beyond the power of words to express at his
apparent neglect. Under the circumstances it seemed almost brutal. She
did not even have Mrs. Pennybacker with her, for when the doctor went
for her he found her so unwell herself that he had not told her about
Philip, fearing that she would overtax her strength to go to them.
Margaret agreed with him that this was best, but her heart cried out for
somebody to lean upon.
As night came on she found herself listening for his step with an
eagerness that appalled her--appalled her and filled her with rage and
humiliation as well. But she did not hear it.
Even Philip felt the restlessness which comes from an expected presence
delayed--fretting, "I want Unker Wichard to hold me."
"Mama will hold you, darling. Uncle Richard is not here."
"But I want Unker Wichard."
It seemed to her that her heart would break. Not only had this man
blighted both their lives but he had stolen her place in the child's
heart, and then--left them. It was the way with men.
Philip was so insistent that Mammy Cely said at last, "Yo' Uncle Richard
ain't gwine come back to-night, honey. He done say so." Then to Mrs. De
Jarnette, "No'm, I don't know whar he went. But look lak he was powerful
anxious to git away, for some cause whatsomever. It did so." She had not
been told about the new danger.
The doctor came out early the next day and had a plain talk with her.
"He is threatened with choroiditis, an affection of the eyes that
sometimes follows febrile diseases. So long as the trouble is confined
to the outer regions of the choroid, it was not dangerous, but I feel it
my duty to say to you that if it should attack the central field of
vision it would be likely to result in gradual blindness. But he has
many things in his favor and we will hope for the best. In the meantime,
he should be under the care of a specialist. I do not feel competent to
treat him. It was this that I was intending to say to you yesterday when
the worst was forced upon you by your unfortunately overhearing the
words between Mr. De Jarnette and myself."
He went on to say that he had tried to get Dr. Helsor, a Washington
specialist, out to see him, but that he was ill and could not come. He
had wanted to get expert advice before saying anything to alarm her,
etc. Perhaps it might be a good plan to take him to Johns Hopkins to the
hospital or even to Philadelphia. If she desired he would go with her
and make arrangements for his admission. What did she think about it?
She felt that she could not give him an answer. Now that she was the
sole arbiter of Philip's fortunes she was strangely loth to take upon
herself the burden of decision. If she could only talk it over
with--with Mrs. Pennybacker, she told herself weakly. It was Mrs.
Pennybacker she wanted to take counsel with. In her inmost heart--the
one we cannot delude--she knew it was Richard. Richard De Jarnette! The
hot blood crimsoned her face at the shame of it.
In these weeks in the sick room she had fallen into the habit of leaning
upon his judgment which was always calm and dispassionate. When she had
tried to excuse this to the doctor he had replied in a matter-of-fact
way that it was not unnatural nor to be regretted. In a case of severe
illness the person closest to the patient was not usually the one that
had the best judgment. She reminded herself often afterwards of this,
saying that that was why she relied so on him. Now that he was gone she
felt strengthless.
Judge Kirtley came out on the first train and walked over from the
station to tell her the astounding news that Mr. De Jarnette had thrown
up the case. He had been to his (Judge Kirtley's) office late the
afternoon before to say that he desired to have the case settled out of
court and was prepared to relinquish all claims to the child under the
will now and hereafter.
"Did he tell you about Philip?"
"Philip? No. Nothing more than I have said. He seemed in great haste to
get away, for some reason, and not inclined to talk. What is it about
Philip? He's doing all right, isn't he?"
When he heard from her the story of the doctor's fears, and of Richard's
renunciation of the child, his scorn and wrath knew no bounds.
"The cur!" he cried. "The cowardly cur!"
Then to his amazement Margaret turned upon him.
"It is not that," she said firmly, with an intuitive conviction that
leaped past the very natural view the Judge had taken. "It was not the
fear of having a blind child to take care of that led him to this step.
It was something else."
"What?" demanded the Judge. "Will you tell me what?"
"No," she said, "I cannot tell you what. But this much I am sure of--it
was not that."
Judge Kirtley took off his glasses, polished them carefully, and put
them on again. Then he looked over them into the face of his client.
"Well, Margaret, the ways of a woman and the working of a woman's mind
are truly past finding out. You defend Richard De Jarnette!"
"I don't defend him," she cried hotly, "except against injustice.
Anybody is entitled to fair play,--especially the absent. You have
always urged me to look at both sides."
"Yes," he remarked dryly, "but heretofore you have never been able to do
it."
She could not have told why she did it now. She protested to herself
that it was only in common justice that she had spoken. But the truth is
that love is the great discerner. It had cleared her vision and
quickened her understanding. Unacknowledged, feared and fought against
as the feeling was in the desperate spirit which recognized this as a
death struggle, it was yet forcing her to see with its eyes. Henceforth,
her judgments of this man would be, whether she would or not, truer,
juster, more righteous judgments; her comprehension of motive where he
was concerned, more subtly discriminating. It is the _law_ of love.
* * * * *
It was the afternoon of the third day before he came. Three nights with
their deadening, suffocating pall of darkness had fallen upon
her,--darkness and the whip-poor-wills that drove her wild. She had made
up her mind that he was gone as Victor had. Then as suddenly as he had
departed he appeared before her one afternoon out in the grape arbor,
whither in her restlessness she had gone. She and Philip both loved the
place and often walked there when she came to see him, running races
sometimes up and down its dim aisles through which the sun flickered
intermittently now that the wistaria was out. Richard De Jarnette coming
home unexpectedly one day just before Philip was taken sick heard
shrieks of childish laughter there and forgetting that it was Margaret's
day at Elmhurst, went down to find out what made his nephew so
uproariously gay. What he saw was the woman who to him had always been
cold and stately chasing the child, shrieking with delight, up and down
and in and around the arbor, catching him at last and smothering him
with kisses--taking toll--while Philip releasing himself and poising in
ecstatic anticipation, cried coaxingly, "Do it again!"
They had not seen him and he slipped away, fairly shocked at what her
face could be. It was a revelation to him of one side of her that he had
never seen. Somehow it intoxicated him. But if he was intoxicated by a
look he was sobered by a thought. Of what other simple natural joys had
he deprived her and the child? Mammy Cely had told him once that the two
had little dinners in the arbor, with a cloth on the table and little
cakes and animal crackers that she had brought him. "Some days," she
said "looks lak she is a plumb child with him. She does it so he won't
furgit how to play."
He wondered uneasily afterwards if children really did forget how to
play.
As he came down the leafy arch to-day in search of her, the recollection
of that romp pierced him like a knife. A blind child would never play
like that!
So soft were his footfalls on the thick grass that he was nearly upon
her before she heard him. Then turning her head and seeing who it was,
she started to rise.
"Don't get up," he said, taking the seat beside her, "I want to talk
with you."
If the face that looked into his was unresponsive it was because she was
trying so hard to still the tumultuous beating of her heart. It was
shameful that it should throb so at sight of him! She would never let
him know that she had had a thought of him in all these interminable
days.
But when he spoke again, so gentle was his voice, so like her father's,
that she had hard work to keep back the tears.
"Margaret, my child, did you think I had gone away and left you to bear
it alone?"
The lump in her throat was like that she used to have in her youthful
days. _Why_ did he say "Margaret, my child," just as her father used to
say? He might know she couldn't keep from crying then.
"I have been to New York."
She made no pretense of answering him. It seemed inexpressibly cruel to
her that he should have taken this time to go to New York,--unfeeling
that he should tell her of it in palliation of his neglect.
"I went to consult an oculist."
At the word oculist all thought of herself of him, was gone.
"An oculist! Oh, what did he say?"
"Nothing definite, of course, until he has seen him. He will be down in
the morning."
"You had to go," she said, still unreconciled, "you could not send?"
"No. I went directly from here to Dr. Helsor, a fine oculist in
Washington. I thought that perhaps I could get him out here before
night. When I reached his office I found him quite sick and unable to
leave the house, though he saw me. He was not able to take any cases,
and he advised me to go personally to Dr. Abelthorpe of New York and if
possible to bring him down here to examine Philip."
"Did you see him?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes, at last. But I had to wait two days to do it. He had been called
out of the city and was not back until yesterday. I wrote you at once
from New York--but I have just found the letter on my table with some
other mail."
This was the explanation then. How simple it was. And his haste had been
for Philip's sake!
"I should not have gone if there had been any other way, but Dr. Helsor
thought that if I could see Dr. Abelthorpe personally, I would be more
apt to secure his services. It was a fortunate thing I did, for I think
no letter, however urgent, would have brought him. He is on the point of
going to Europe. When I explained the circumstances, however" (and named
the fee, he might have added), "he agreed to come. It was hard waiting,
Margaret, knowing that you were alone--" she looked away from him,
fearing that he might see the wretchedness of those days graven on her
face--"but I am glad I did." He went on to tell her what the doctor had
said. "He gave me great hope, though he says that such cases require
care and patience."
"Oh, I will give him that! I will give up my life to him willingly,
gladly, if only--Perhaps I would better go back with the doctor. Philip
will be able to travel."
"You forget that he is just starting abroad. He goes in a very few
days."
She looked up at him with a hopeless perplexity that wrung his heart.
"From what I have learned of Dr. Abelthorpe I am very anxious for him to
have the care of Philip's case. I am aware--" he was speaking guardedly
as one who does not feel sure of his ground--"that I have no right to
dictate your movements in the matter, Margaret, as I have formally
relinquished the control of Philip, but--I hope I have not overstepped
the bounds--I have arranged with Dr. Abelthorpe (conditionally, of
course), that if you are willing, and he still thinks it best after
seeing Philip, that you will go abroad with him so that he can take
charge of Philip at once as his attending physician."
"To go abroad?" she faltered.
"Yes. He thinks a sea voyage may do him good--says they rely a good deal
upon constitutional treatment and--"
"But--I could not go alone," Margaret said, looking up at him
hopelessly. Her heart was sinking unaccountably at the thought of
drifting out into the great world with a sick child.
His mouth contracted suddenly. He looked away from her and his right
hand out of sight gripped the bench on which they sat. He got up
abruptly and walked to the entrance of the arbor. She thought he was
listening to something. When he returned his features were as immobile
as usual.
"No, you could not go alone. But Mrs. Pennybacker I am sure would go
with you. And, of course, you would have Mammy Cely."
She found herself as wax in his hands. She could not plan for herself.
If only the ocean were not so broad!
"There is one thing more, Margaret--a simple matter of business." It may
have been a simple matter, but it seemed difficult for him to begin it.
"When Philip came to me last fall," he said, speaking gravely, but in a
business-like tone, "I made a will by which everything I had was to go
to him at my death. I have since taken steps to settle one half on him
now in such a way that while I shall still have the care of it, the
income will be immediately available for his use. No," answering the
flush that swept over her pale face, "I have not forgotten what you
said." She had told him once that she would rather Philip would starve
than be dependant on him. "But you can't keep a man from doing what he
wants to with his own. It is settled. Poor little chap. It is all the
reparation I can make.
"As for you, Margaret," he went on, "I do not ask you to forgive me. I
do not expect you to forgive. If there be an unpardonable sin I think I
have committed it, for I have sinned against you, against womanhood, and
against nature. When I think of you as I have seen you every minute of
these three days, with what may be a blind child in your arms, I feel
that the pitying mother of God could hardly forgive."
"You blame yourself unjustly for that," she said with quick generosity.
"It might have happened if he had been with me."
"It would not have happened if he had been with you. You would have
looked to his ways. You would not have been so immersed in business that
you would have neglected a signal that meant danger to your child. But
I--poor blind stubborn fool--"
"Let us not talk about it any more," she said gently. There was
something in his remorse that touched her deeply. "It is done and it
cannot be undone. I have never thought it was from any lack of love for
Philip. You simply violated a law of nature--and nature's laws are the
laws of God. He never intended men to have the care of little children."
She would have been more than human if she had not said that much.
Once more he got up abruptly, walking to the further end of the arbor
and back again. She thought she had angered him. When he spoke, it was
standing, the green pathway between them, instead of at her side.
"You've beaten me, Margaret," he said, with a shake of the head. He was
looking down at her with a half satirical smile on his lips. But it was
of the lips only. There was no lightening of the gloom in the eyes bent
upon her. "I wonder if you know how complete my rout has been."
She looked up quickly.
"You gave him to me voluntarily."
"Yes. I gave him to you voluntarily. And therein lies your victory. If
the case had been brought to issue and decided against me there would
have been excuse for my defeat. As it is, I have simply been beaten--by
a woman. And the Almighty."
"It is hard to fight against the Almighty."
"Yes. And as hard, I find, to fight against a woman in the right.
Perhaps the two mean the same thing. I rather think they do."
Then a tinge of bitterness came into his voice. "Of course the
world--your world and mine--will have pleasant things to say about this
latest chapter in the scandal of De Jarnette vs. De Jarnette. The
natural inference, brutally stated, will be that I gave him up when I
found that I might have a blind child on my hands. I couldn't expect
them to say otherwise. The world judges by appearances and appearances
are certainly against me. Well! I don't care much about what it thinks.
The world and I have never been on very good terms. I have hated it and
it has hated me ... I am more concerned about what--"
His eyes with their dumb pleading finished the sentence and she answered
them.
"You know I do not think it," she said. "I have thought hard and bitter
things about you--and with cause--but not that. I have never for one
moment thought that."
He took a step across the arbor with outstretched hand, grasping the one
she gave him as man grasps the hand of man. Then dropping it he went
back to his place opposite her.
"You have a right to think hard things about me," he said. "I have been
hard. I never intended to let my heart soften to you. I meant to hold
out to the last. But,--"
She broke the silence that fell upon them then by saying:
"There is one thing I want to ask you before I go away and this may be
our last talk together. Why--_why_ have you been so bitterly cruel to
me?"
He looked at her but did not answer.
"At first," she went on, "I thought it was from something hard in your
nature,--or because you hated me,--or bore something up against me, I
could not tell what. But since we have been together over Philip, and I
have seen how gentle you are with him, it does not seem that you could
ever have been wantonly cruel, nor that you--quite--hated me. What was
the reason?"
"Miss Margaret! _Oh_, Miss Margaret!"
It was Mammy Cely's voice, and at this moment her rotund form appeared
at the entrance to the arbor.
"Here's a letter fur you."
"Will you tell me some time?" she asked insistently as the woman came
nearer. She might never have so good an opportunity again.
"Mr. Harcourt's waitin' fur you, Miss Margaret."
Richard De Jarnette's face hardened.
"There is nothing to tell," he said.
* * * * *
She took the letter and read it hastily.
"It is from Mrs. Pennybacker," she said, reading aloud with an awed look
on her face,
"'Rosalie is worse. I think this is the end. She wants to see you and
Mr. De Jarnette together and will not be denied. Come at once.'"