spared? He had a career before him; he would have been able to do
things--strong things, brave things, noble things, delicate things. And
he was gone before he had been able to do anything, with all his
possibilities of honor and fame, with all his high hope of honest, hard
work in the years of his manly youth, with everything cut short, just as
if a candle had been blown out by a chance wind.
She marveled how it was that she had been able to live through the long
days since she had read the brief announcement of his death. She did not
see how it was that she had not cried out, how it was that she had not
shouted aloud the news of her bereavement. She supposed it must be
because she had inherited self-control, because she had been trained to
keep her feelings to herself, and never to make a scene.
Fortunately she was alone when she learned that he was dead. She had
been up late at a ball the night before, and, as usual, Aunt Cordelia
had insisted on her staying in bed all the morning to rest. When she
had finished her chocolate, Aunt Cordelia had brought in the morning
paper, and had raised the window-shade for her to read, before going
down for a long talk with the lawyer who managed their affairs.
Elinor had glanced over the society reporter's account of the ball and
his description of her own gown; she had read the announcement of the
engagement of a girl she knew to a foreign count; and then she was
putting the paper down carelessly when her eye caught the word "Panama"
at the top of a paragraph. Then, at a flash, she had read the
inconspicuous paragraph which told how John Grant, a very promising
young engineer in charge of a section of the work on the canal, had died
suddenly of pneumonia, after only two days' illness, to the great grief
of all his associates, especially of the chief, who had thought very
highly of him.
The words danced before her eyes in letters of fire; and she felt as if
an icy hand had clutched her heart. She was as stunned as if the end of
the world had come; and it was the end of her world.
She did not recall how long she had held the paper clutched in her hand;
and she did not know why she had not wept. It seemed to her as if her
tears would be a profanation of her grief, too deep to be washed away by
weeping. She had not cried once. Perhaps it would have been a relief if
she could have had a good cry, petty and pitiful as it would be.
When Aunt Cordelia had called her, at last, to get ready for luncheon,
she had arisen as if she had been somebody else. She had dressed and
gone down-stairs and sat opposite her aunt and chatted about the ball.
She recalled that her aunt had said that there was nothing in the paper
that morning except the account of the ball. Nothing in the paper! She
had kept her peace, and made no confession. It seemed to her that it
could not have been herself who sat there calmly and listened and
responded. It seemed as if she was not herself, but another girl--a girl
she did not know before.
So the days had gone, one after another, and so they would continue to
go in the future. She was young, and she came of a sturdy stock; she
might live to be three-score and ten.
As she stood there at the window, staring straight before her, she saw
herself slowly changing into an old maid like Aunt Cordelia, well
meaning and a little fidgety, a little fussy, and quite useless. She
recoiled as she surveyed the long vista of time, with no husband to take
her into his arms, and with no children for her to hold up to him when
he came back from his work. And she knew that she was fit to be a wife
and a mother; and now she would never be either.
What was there left for her to do in life? She could not go into a
convent, and she could not study to be a trained nurse. There she was at
twenty-one, a broken piece of driftwood washed up on an unknown island.
She had no hope any more; the light of her life had gone out.
She asked herself whether she had any duty toward others--duty which
would make life worth living once more. She wished that there was
something for her to do; but she saw nothing. She set her teeth and
resolved that she would go through life, whatever it might bring, and
master it for his sake, as he would have expected her to do. He was
dead, and lying alone in that distant, lonely grave; and she would have
to live on and on--but at least she would live as he would approve.
But whatever her life might be, it would not be easy without him. She
had lived on his letters; and she had taken a new breath of life every
month when his violets came. And now nothing would come any more--no
message, no little words of love, nothing to cheer her and to sustain
her. Never before had she longed so much for a message from him--a line
only--a single word of farewell.
It was again the shortest day of the year, and it was to her the longest
of all her life. But all the days would be long hereafter, and the
nights would be long, and life would be long; and all would be empty,
since he would never again be able to communicate with her. If only she
believed in spiritualism, if only she could have even the dimmest hope
that some day, somehow, some sort of communication might come to her
from him, from the shadowy realm where he had gone, and where she could
not go until the summons came to join him!
So intent was she upon her own thoughts that she did not hear the ring
of the door-bell; and a minute later she started when the butler entered
the room with a small parcel in his hand.
"What is it, Dexter?" she asked, mechanically.
"This has just come for you, Miss," he answered, handing her the parcel.
She held it without looking at it until Dexter had left the room.
Probably it was a Christmas present from one of her friends; and she
loosened the strings listlessly.
It was a box from a florist; and she wondered who could have sent her
any flowers on the day sacred to him. It might be Reggie, of course; but
he had not done that for nearly a year now.
She opened the box carelessly, and found a bunch of violets. There was a
card with it.
She took it nearer to the window, to read it in the fading light. It
bore the single word, "Sweetheart."
She stood for a moment, silent and trembling.
"John!" she cried aloud. "From you!"
She sank into a chair, with the violets pressed against her heart,
sobbing; and the tears came at last, plentifully.
Then she heard footsteps on the stairs; and in a moment more her aunt
was standing at the door and calling:
"Elinor, are you ready? We are late."
(1910)
THE END