all Ernestine’s determination to make her so successful and thereby
reflect some credit on her had she really succeeded in so doing? To be
sure, Ethelberta’s marriage was somewhat more successful financially
than Wesley’s had proved to be, but was she any better placed in other
ways? John Kelso--“Jack,” as she always called him--with his light ways
and lighter mind, was he really any one!--anything more than a waster?
His parents stood by him no doubt, but that was all; and so much the
worse for him. According to Mrs. Haymaker at the time, he, too, was an
ideal boy, admirable, just the man for Ethelberta, because the Kelsos,
_père_ and _mère_, had money. Horner Kelso had made a kind of fortune
in Chicago in the banknote business, and had settled in New York, about
the time that Ethelberta was fifteen, to spend it. Ethelberta had met
Grace Kelso at school.
And now see! She was not unattractive, and had some pleasant, albeit
highly affected, social ways; she had money, and a comfortable
apartment in Park Avenue; but what had it all come to? John Kelso had
never done anything really, nothing. His parents’ money and indulgence
and his early training for a better social state had ruined him
if he had ever had a mind that amounted to anything. He was idle,
pleasure-loving, mentally indolent, like Irma de Gaud. Those two should
have met and married, only they could never have endured each other.
But how Mrs. Haymaker had courted the Kelsos in her eager and yet
diplomatic way, giving teas and receptions and theater parties; and yet
he had never been able to exchange ten significant words with either of
them, or the younger Kelsos either. Think of it!
And somehow in the process Ethelberta, for all his early affection and
tenderness and his still kindly feeling for her, had been weaned away
from him and had proved a limited and conventional girl, somewhat like
her mother, and more inclined to listen to her than to him--though he
had not minded that really. It had been the same with Wesley before
her. Perhaps, however, a child was entitled to its likes and dislikes,
regardless.
But why had he stood for it all, he now kept asking himself. Why?
What grand results, if any, had been achieved? Were their children so
wonderful?--their lives? Would he not have been better off without
her--his children better, even, by a different woman?--hers by a
different man? Wouldn’t it have been better if he had destroyed it
all, broken away? There would have been pain, of course, terrible
consequences, but even so he would have been free to go, to do, to
reorganize his life on another basis. Zingara had avoided marriage
entirely--wise man. But no, no; always convention, that long list of
reasons and terrors he was always reciting to himself. He had allowed
himself to be pulled round by the nose, God only knows why, and that
was all there was to it. Weakness, if you will, perhaps; fear of
convention; fear of what people would think and say.
Always now he found himself brooding over the dire results to him of
all this respect on his part for convention, moral order, the duty
of keeping society on an even keel, of not bringing disgrace to his
children and himself and her, and yet ruining his own life emotionally
by so doing. To be respectable had been so important that it had
resulted in spiritual failure for him. But now all that was over with
him, and Mrs. Haymaker was ill, near to death, and he was expected to
wish her to get well, and be happy with her for a long time yet! Be
happy! In spite of anything he might wish or think he ought to do, he
couldn’t. He couldn’t even wish her to get well.
It was too much to ask. There was actually a haunting satisfaction in
the thought that she might die now. It wouldn’t be much, but it would
be something--a few years of freedom. That was something. He was not
utterly old yet, and he might have a few years of peace and comfort
to himself still--and--and---- That dream--that dream--though it might
never come true now--it couldn’t really--still--still---- He wanted to
be free to go his own way once more, to do as he pleased, to walk, to
think, to brood over what he had not had--to brood over what he had not
had! Only, only, whenever he looked into her pale sick face and felt
her damp limp hands he could not quite wish that, either; not quite,
not even now. It seemed too hard, too brutal--only--only---- So he
wavered.
No; in spite of her long-past struggle over foolish things and in
spite of himself and all he had endured or thought he had, he was
still willing that she should live; only he couldn’t wish it exactly.
Yes, let her live if she could. What matter to him now whether she
lived or died? Whenever he looked at her he could not help thinking
how helpless she would be without him, what a failure at her age, and
so on. And all along, as he wryly repeated to himself, she had been
thinking and feeling that she was doing the very best for him and her
and the children!--that she was really the ideal wife for him, making
every dollar go as far as it would, every enjoyment yield the last drop
for them all, every move seeming to have been made to their general
advantage! Yes, that was true. There was a pathos about it, wasn’t
there? But as for the actual results----!
The next morning, the second after his talk with Doctor Storm, found
him sitting once more beside his front window in the early dawn, and
so much of all this, and much more, was coming back to him, as before.
For the thousandth or the ten-thousandth time, as it seemed to him,
in all the years that had gone, he was concluding again that his life
was a failure. If only he were free for a little while just to be
alone and think, perhaps to discover what life might bring him yet;
only on this occasion his thoughts were colored by a new turn in the
situation. Yesterday afternoon, because Mrs. Haymaker’s condition had
grown worse, the consultation between Grainger and Storm was held,
and to-day sometime transfusion was to be tried, that last grim stand
taken by physicians in distress over a case; blood taken from a strong
ex-cavalryman out of a position, in this case, and the best to be hoped
for, but not assured. In this instance his thoughts were as before
wavering. Now supposing she really died, in spite of this? What would
he think of himself then? He went back after a time and looked in on
her where she was still sleeping. Now she was not so strong as before,
or so she seemed; her pulse was not so good, the nurse said. And now as
before his mood changed in her favor, but only for a little while. For
later, waking, she seemed to look and feel better.
Later he came up to the dining room, where the nurse was taking her
breakfast, and seating himself beside her, as was his custom these
days, asked: “How do you think she is to-day?”
He and the night nurse had thus had their breakfasts together for days.
This nurse, Miss Filson, was such a smooth, pink, graceful creature,
with light hair and blue eyes, the kind of eyes and color that of
late, and in earlier years, had suggested to him the love time or youth
that he had missed.
The latter looked grave, as though she really feared the worst but was
concealing it.
“No worse, I think, and possibly a little better,” she replied, eyeing
him sympathetically. He could see that she too felt that he was old and
in danger of being neglected. “Her pulse is a little stronger, nearly
normal now, and she is resting easily. Doctor Storm and Doctor Grainger
are coming, though, at ten. Then they’ll decide what’s to be done. I
think if she’s worse that they are going to try transfusion. The man
has been engaged. Doctor Storm said that when she woke to-day she was
to be given strong beef tea. Mrs. Elfridge is making it now. The fact
that she is not much worse, though, is a good sign in itself, I think.”
Haymaker merely stared at her from under his heavy gray eyebrows.
He was so tired and gloomy, not only because he had not slept much
of late himself but because of this sawing to and fro between his
varying moods. Was he never to be able to decide for himself what he
really wished? Was he never to be done with this interminable moral or
spiritual problem? Why could he not make up his mind on the side of
moral order, sympathy, and be at peace? Miss Filson pattered on about
other heart cases, how so many people lived years and years after
they were supposed to die of heart lesion; and he meditated as to
the grayness and strangeness of it all, the worthlessness of his own
life, the variability of his own moods. Why was he so? How queer--how
almost evil, sinister--he had become at times; how weak at others.
Last night as he had looked at Ernestine lying in bed, and this morning
before he had seen her, he had thought if she only would die--if he
were only really free once more, even at this late date. But then when
he had seen her again this morning and now when Miss Filson spoke
of transfusion, he felt sorry again. What good would it do him now?
Why should he want to kill her? Could such evil ideas go unpunished
either in this world or the next? Supposing his children could guess!
Supposing she did die now--and he wished it so fervently only this
morning--how would he feel? After all, Ernestine had not been so bad.
She had tried, hadn’t she?--only she had not been able to make a
success of things, as he saw it, and he had not been able to love her,
that was all. He reproached himself once more now with the hardness and
the cruelty of his thoughts.
The opinion of the two physicians was that Mrs. Haymaker was not much
better and that this first form of blood transfusion must be resorted
to--injected straight via a pump--which should restore her greatly
provided her heart did not bleed it out too freely. Before doing so,
however, both men once more spoke to Haymaker, who in an excess of
self-condemnation insisted that no expense must be spared. If her life
was in danger, save it by any means--all. It was precious to her, to
him and to her children. So he spoke. Thus he felt that he was lending
every force which could be expected of him, aside from fervently
wishing for her recovery, which even now, in spite of himself, he could
not do. He was too weary of it all, the conventional round of duties
and obligations. But if she recovered, as her physicians seemed to
think she might if transfusion were tried, if she gained even, it would
mean that he would have to take her away for the summer to some quiet
mountain resort--to be with her hourly during the long period in which
she would be recovering. Well, he would not complain now. That was all
right. He would do it. He would be bored of course, as usual, but it
would be too bad to have her die when she could be saved. Yes, that was
true. And yet----
He went down to his office again and in the meantime this first form
of transfusion was tried, and proved a great success, apparently. She
was much better, so the day nurse phoned at three; very much better. At
five-thirty Mr. Haymaker returned, no unsatisfactory word having come
in the interim, and there she was, resting on a raised pillow, if you
please, and looking so cheerful, more like her old self than he had
seen her in some time.
At once then his mood changed again. They were amazing, these
variations in his own thoughts, almost chemic, not volitional,
decidedly peculiar for a man who was supposed to know his own
mind--only did one, ever? Now she would not die. Now the whole thing
would go on as before. He was sure of it. Well, he might as well resign
himself to the old sense of failure. He would never be free now.
Everything would go on as before, the next and the next day the same.
Terrible! Though he seemed glad--really grateful, in a way, seeing her
cheerful and hopeful once more--still the obsession of failure and
being once more bound forever returned now. In his own bed at midnight
he said to himself: “Now she will really get well. All will be as
before. I will never be free. I will never have a day--a day! Never!”
But the next morning, to his surprise and fear or comfort, as his
moods varied, she was worse again; and then once more he reproached
himself for his black thoughts. Was he not really killing her by what
he thought? he asked himself--these constant changes in his mood? Did
not his dark wishes have power? Was he not as good as a murderer in his
way? Think, if he had always to feel from now on that he had killed her
by wishing so! Would not that be dreadful--an awful thing really? Why
was he this way? Could he not be human, kind?
When Doctor Storm came at nine-thirty, after a telephone call from the
nurse, and looked grave and spoke of horses’ blood as being better,
thicker than human blood--not so easily bled out of the heart when
injected as a serum--Haymaker was beside himself with self-reproaches
and sad, disturbing fear. His dark, evil thoughts of last night and
all these days had done this, he was sure. Was he really a murderer at
heart, a dark criminal, plotting her death?--and for what? Why had he
wished last night that she would die? Her case must be very desperate.
“You must do your best,” he now said to Doctor Storm. “Whatever is
needful--she must not die if you can help it.”
“No, Mr. Haymaker,” returned the latter sympathetically. “All that can
be done will be done. You need not fear. I have an idea that we didn’t
inject enough yesterday, and anyhow human blood is not thick enough in
this case. She responded, but not enough. We will see what we can do
to-day.”
Haymaker, pressed with duties, went away, subdued and sad. Now once
more he decided that he must not tolerate these dark ideas any more,
must rid himself of these black wishes, whatever he might feel. It
was evil. They would eventually come back to him in some dark way, he
might be sure. They might be influencing her. She must be allowed to
recover if she could without any opposition on his part. He must now
make a further sacrifice of his own life, whatever it cost. It was
only decent, only human. Why should he complain now, anyhow, after
all these years! What difference would a few more years make? He
returned at evening, consoled by his own good thoughts and a telephone
message at three to the effect that his wife was much better. This
second injection had proved much more effective. Horses’ blood was
plainly better for her. She was stronger, and sitting up again. He
entered at five, and found her lying there pale and weak, but still
with a better light in her eye, a touch of color in her cheeks--or
so he thought--more force, and a very faint smile for him, so marked
had been the change. How great and kind Doctor Storm really was! How
resourceful! If she would only get well now! If this dread siege would
only abate! Doctor Storm was coming again at eight.
“Well, how are you, dear?” she asked, looking at him sweetly and
lovingly, and taking his hand in hers.
He bent and kissed her forehead--a Judas kiss, he had thought up to
now, but not so to-night. To-night he was kind, generous--anxious,
even, for her to live.
“All right, dearest; very good indeed. And how are you? It’s such a
fine evening out. You ought to get well soon so as to enjoy these
spring days.”
“I’m going to,” she replied softly. “I feel so much better. And how
have you been? Has your work gone all right?”
He nodded and smiled and told her bits of news. Ethelberta had phoned
that she was coming, bringing violets. Wesley had said he would be here
at six, with Irma! Such-and-such people had asked after her. How could
he have been so evil, he now asked himself, as to wish her to die?
She was not so bad--really quite charming in her way, an ideal wife
for some one, if not him. She was as much entitled to live and enjoy
her life as he was to enjoy his; and after all she was the mother of
his children, had been with him all these years. Besides, the day had
been so fine--it was now--a wondrous May evening. The air and sky were
simply delicious. A lavender haze was in the air. The telephone bell
now ringing brought still another of a long series of inquiries as to
her condition. There had been so many of these during the last few
days, the maid said, and especially to-day--and she gave Mr. Haymaker
a list of names. See, he thought, she had even more friends than he,
being so good, faithful, worthy. Why should he wish her ill?
He sat down to dinner with Ethelberta and Wesley when they arrived,
and chatted quite gayly--more hopefully than he had in weeks. His own
varying thoughts no longer depressing him, for the moment he was happy.
How were they? What were the children all doing? At eight-thirty Doctor
Storm came again, and announced that he thought Mrs. Haymaker was
doing very well indeed, all things considered.
“Her condition is fairly promising, I must say,” he said. “If she gets
through another night or two comfortably without falling back I think
she’ll do very well from now on. Her strength seems to be increasing a
fraction. However, we must not be too optimistic. Cases of this kind
are very treacherous. To-morrow we’ll see how she feels, whether she
needs any more blood.”
He went away, and at ten Ethelberta and Wesley left for the night,
asking to be called if she grew worse, thus leaving him alone once
more. He sat and meditated. At eleven, after a few moments at his
wife’s bedside--absolute quiet had been the doctor’s instructions
these many days--he himself went to bed. He was very tired. His
varying thoughts had afflicted him so much that he was always tired,
it seemed--his evil conscience, he called it--but to-night he was sure
he would sleep. He felt better about himself, about life. He had done
better, to-day. He should never have tolerated such dark thoughts. And
yet--and yet--and yet----
He lay on his bed near a window which commanded a view of a small
angle of the park, and looked out. There were the spring trees, as
usual, silvered now by the light, a bit of lake showing at one end.
Here in the city a bit of sylvan scenery such as this was so rare and
so expensive. In his youth he had been so fond of water, any small
lake or stream or pond. In his youth, also, he had loved the moon, and
to walk in the dark. It had all, always, been so suggestive of love
and happiness, and he had so craved love and happiness and never had
it. Once he had designed a yacht club, the base of which suggested
waves. Once, years ago, he had thought of designing a lovely cottage
or country house for himself and some new love--that wonderful one--if
ever she came and he were free. How wonderful it would all have been.
Now--now--the thought at such an hour and especially when it was too
late, seemed sacrilegious, hard, cold, unmoral, evil. He turned his
face away from the moonlight and sighed, deciding to sleep and shut out
these older and darker and sweeter thoughts if he could, and did.
Presently he dreamed, and it was as if some lovely spirit of
beauty--that wondrous thing he had always been seeking--came and took
him by the hand and led him out, out by dimpling streams and clear
rippling lakes and a great, noble highway where were temples and towers
and figures in white marble. And it seemed as he walked as if something
had been, or were, promised him--a lovely fruition to something which
he craved--only the world toward which he walked was still dark or
shadowy, with something sad and repressing about it, a haunting sense
of a still darker distance. He was going toward beauty apparently, but
he was still seeking, seeking, and it was dark there when----
“Mr. Haymaker! Mr. Haymaker!” came a voice--soft, almost mystical at
first, and then clearer and more disturbing, as a hand was laid on him.
“Will you come at once? It’s Mrs. Haymaker!”
On the instant he was on his feet seizing the blue silk dressing
gown hanging at his bed’s head, and adjusting it as he hurried. Mrs.
Elfridge and the nurse were behind him, very pale and distrait,
wringing their hands. He could tell by that that the worst was at
hand. When he reached the bedroom--her bedroom--there she lay as in
life--still, peaceful, already limp, as though she were sleeping. Her
thin, and as he sometimes thought, cold, lips were now parted in a
faint, gracious smile, or trace of one. He had seen her look that way,
too, at times; a really gracious smile, and wise, wiser than she was.
The long, thin, graceful hands were open, the fingers spread slightly
apart as though she were tired, very tired. The eyelids, too, rested
wearily on tired eyes. Her form, spare as always, was outlined clearly
under the thin coverlets. Miss Filson, the night nurse, was saying
something about having fallen asleep for a moment, and waking only to
find her so. She was terribly depressed and disturbed, possibly because
of Doctor Storm.
Haymaker paused, greatly shocked and moved by the sight--more so than
by anything since the death of little Elwell. After all, she had
tried, according to her light. But now she was dead--and they had been
together so long! He came forward, tears of sympathy springing to his
eyes, then sank down beside the bed on his knees so as not to disturb
her right hand where it lay.
“Ernie, dear,” he said gently, “Ernie--are you really gone?” His voice
was full of sorrow; but to himself it sounded false, traitorous.
He lifted the hand and put it to his lips sadly, then leaned his head
against her, thinking of his long, mixed thoughts these many days,
while both Mrs. Elfridge and the nurse began wiping their eyes. They
were so sorry for him, he was so old now!
After a while he got up--they came forward to persuade him at
last--looking tremendously sad and distrait, and asked Mrs. Elfridge
and the nurse not to disturb his children. They could not aid her now.
Let them rest until morning. Then he went back to his own room and sat
down on the bed for a moment, gazing out on the same silvery scene that
had attracted him before. It was dreadful. So then his dark wishing had
come true at last? Possibly his black thoughts had killed her after
all. Was that possible? Had his voiceless prayers been answered in
this grim way? And did she know now what he had really thought? Dark
thought. Where was she now? What was she thinking now if she knew?
Would she hate him--haunt him? It was not dawn yet, only two or three
in the morning, and the moon was still bright. And in the next room she
was lying, pale and cool, gone forever now out of his life.
He got up after a time and went forward into that pleasant front room
where he had so often loved to sit, then back into her room to view
the body again. Now that she was gone, here more than elsewhere, in
her dead presence, he seemed better able to collect his scattered
thoughts. She might see or she might not--might know or not. It was
all over now. Only he could not help but feel a little evil. She had
been so faithful, if nothing more, so earnest in behalf of him and of
his children. He might have spared her these last dark thoughts of
these last few days. His feelings were so jumbled that he could not
place them half the time. But at the same time the ethics of the past,
of his own irritated feelings and moods in regard to her, had to be
adjusted somehow before he could have peace. They must be adjusted,
only how--how? He and Mrs. Elfridge had agreed not to disturb Doctor
Storm any more to-night. They were all agreed to get what rest they
could against the morning.
After a time he came forward once more to the front room to sit and
gaze at the park. Here, perhaps, he could solve these mysteries for
himself, think them out, find out what he did feel. He was evil for
having wished all he had, that he knew and felt. And yet there was
his own story, too--his life. The dawn was breaking by now; a faint
grayness shaded the east and dimly lightened this room. A tall pier
mirror between two windows now revealed him to himself--spare, angular,
disheveled, his beard and hair astray and his eyes weary. The figure he
made here as against his dreams of a happier life, once he were free,
now struck him forcibly. What a farce! What a failure! Why should he,
of all people, think of further happiness in love, even if he were
free? Look at his reflection here in this mirror. What a picture--old,
grizzled, done for! Had he not known that for so long? Was it not too
ridiculous? Why should he have tolerated such vain thoughts? What could
he of all people hope for now? No thing of beauty would have him now.
Of course not. That glorious dream of his youth was gone forever. It
was a mirage, an ignis fatuus. His wife might just as well have lived
as died, for all the difference it would or could make to him. Only,
he was really free just the same, almost as it were in spite of his
varying moods. But he was old, weary, done for, a recluse and ungainly.