MAGGIE and Philip had returned from the sanitarium to New York, but
Philip undoubtedly was dying. Peter and Harry Portor were at his bedside
every day, but not because of their ability to help him. They were
simply three friends together. Philip never spoke to Peter of the
incident at Des Moines, though it is probable that he thought of it many
times, but the young doctor seemed so serenely unaware of any former
misunderstanding that Philip, with a deep sense of relief, let the whole
incident slide out of his mind.
Joanna, meanwhile, was experiencing a little private purgatory of
remorse and grief. As she saw Philip’s joy in Maggie, his complete and
unbounded satisfaction in her presence, she became more and more
overwhelmed with the awfulness of that old unconsidered act of hers, the
sending of the letter which had caused Maggie to marry Henderson Neal.
Maggie had never told her this, but she was pretty sure that such was
the case. The mere fact that Maggie had never spoken about it to Peter,
even in the days of their engagement, led her to suspect that her
sister-in-law had attached more significance to it than she had cared to
show. There was only one thing for her, if she was ever to know any
peace, and that was to confess to Philip.
She went to see him in the late October weather. On the way she had
passed Morningside Park and the gorgeous autumn sights and colors had
brought back to her in a sudden heady rush the memories of the old
days,—partings with Peter, concert tours and meetings with Philip,
talks, dreams, ambitions, all the activities of her assured, confident,
determined youth. If she might only relive a few brief scenes—the night
she had dismissed Peter, the time she had spent in writing that cruel
letter to Maggie—how different her memories would have been!
Philip was in excellent spirits. He seemed quite reconciled to dying and
even spoke of it with a cheerfulness and familiarity that never failed
to bring a rush of tears to Joanna’s eyes, though this she was careful
to conceal. “Just think of the luck I’m in,” Philip would say, “I never
expected to come home at all. If Maggie hadn’t found me there in
Chambéry and taken pity on my lonesomeness, I’d probably be lying in a
French cemetery this moment with one of those little white crosses
standing above me. As it is, I’m seeing you all again and I have Maggie.
She has promised to stay with me always. It’s all right, Joanna, old
girl, I’ve had a good run for my money and except for Maggie I’m not so
sorry to chuck it all. Just think, it might have been my luck never to
have found her again at all.”
He said something like that to Joanna on this afternoon. Sobbing she
fell on her knees beside the bed. “Oh Philip, if it hadn’t been for me,
you’d have found her long ago.”
He was suddenly attentive, his eyes bright and keen in his thin
sharpening face as she told him about the letter. With infinite
gentleness he let his hand rest on that proud dark head which life had
taught so hardly to bow.
“Dear Janna, dear little sister, don’t blame yourself one moment. It was
all my fault. If you’d left a hundred letters unwritten, I should hardly
have moved any more quickly. In those days I was so taken up with the
business of being colored! After I’d adjusted that I thought I’d arrange
my life. Ah, Joanna, that’s our great mistake. We must learn to look out
for life first, then color and limitations. My being colored didn’t make
me forget to provide myself with food and raiment. I shouldn’t have
allowed it to make me forget love.” His grasp on her hand tightened.
“Learn this, Joanna, and tell the rest of our folks. Our battle is a
hard one and for a long time it will seem to be a losing one, but it
will never really be that as long as we keep the power of being happy.
And happiness has to be deliberately sought for, gained; even that
doesn’t solve the problem, but it does make it easier for us to fight.
Happiness, love, contentment in our own midst, make it possible for us
to face those foes without. ‘Happy Warriors,’ that’s the ideal for us.
Only I realized it too late.”
That was his last long talk with Joanna. Usually he gave all his
attention to Maggie who was with him always, supplying and anticipating
his wants and radiating an ineffable peace. Her hand was in his when he
died.
His father, remembering his intense patriotism as a child, said with a
touch of bitter pride: “He died for his country.”
“It was what he always wanted to do,” Sylvia said gently. But Joanna
knew that Philip’s real desire envisaged _living_ for his country—to
save her from something worse than war.
His death diffused a gentle melancholy over the others. It was the first
serious rent in the fabric of the Marshall family. Old Joel took to
indulging in long, deep reveries. Mrs. Marshall, quite dry-eyed, took
out all of Philip’s baby things, wrapped them up to send away and quite
suddenly put them back in their places. Her interest in Sylvia’s
children took on an almost feverish intensity. Sylvia herself and Joanna
and sometimes Sandy had many talks, wistful with reminiscences.
Maggie alone remained calm and almost cheerful. “Not because she’s
unfeeling,” Joanna explained to Sylvia, “but because she is so
satisfied.”
Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “Satisfied and Philip dead?”
“Yes, because so easily he might have died without their ever having
come together. But they did. Oh, Sylvia, you and Brian have had such a
simple, easy, jog-trot time of it, you don’t know what it means to have
your life all broken up like Maggie’s and mine have been, and poor Vera
Manning’s.”
Whatever the cause, Maggie spent her days serenely. Secure not only in
the knowledge that she was bulwarked by the Marshall respectability, but
also by the resolve which she had made before she saw Philip in
Chambéry, she started on the project of her Beauty Parlors.
She said to Joel who, she knew, admired her ability: “See if you can’t
make me as great a success in business as you’ve been.” They spent many
pleasant hours in consultation.
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