THE FIRST NIGHT
When the last guest had gone, Caroline went upstairs to her room, and
sitting down before the little ivory and gold desk, began a letter to
her mother. For years, ever since her first night in the hospital, she
had poured out her heart after the day's work and the day's self-control
and restraint were over. It was a relief to be free sometimes, to break
through the discipline of her profession, to live and love for oneself,
not for others.
The house was very still--only from the darkness outside, where the wind
had risen, a few yellow leaves fluttered in through the window.
* * * * *
I am here, at last, dearest mother, and I have been longing to tell you
about it. First of all, I had a good trip, my train was exactly on time,
and Mrs. Colfax met me in the most beautiful car I ever saw, and brought
me out to Briarlay. She was very nice and kind, but she looks ever so
much older than you do, and I cannot help feeling that, in spite of the
loss of so many children and father's dreadful disappointments, your
life has been happier than hers. As I get older, and see more of the
world--and heaven knows I have seen anything but the best of it these
last seven or eight years--I understand better and better that happiness
is something you have to find deep down in yourself, not in other people
or outside things. It shines through sometimes just as yours does and
lights up the world around and the dark places, but it never, _never_
comes from them--of this I am very sure.
I wish I could describe this house to you, but I cannot--I simply
cannot, the words will not come to me. It is big and beautiful, but I
think it is too full of wonderful things--there are rooms that make me
feel as if I were in a museum because of the tapestries and crowded rugs
and French furniture. I like English mahogany so much better, but that
may be just because I am used to it. I suppose it is natural that Mrs.
Blackburn should prefer surroundings that are opulent and florid, since
they make her look like a lovely flower in a greenhouse. She is even
more beautiful than I thought she would be, and she does not seem the
least bit snobbish or spoiled or arrogant. I have always said, you
remember, that nursing has taught me not to rely on mere impressions
whether they are first or last ones--but I have never in my life met any
one who attracted me so strongly in the beginning. It is years since I
have felt my sympathy so completely drawn out by a stranger. I feel that
I would do anything in the world that I could for her; and though I
cannot write frankly about what I have observed here, I believe that she
needs help and understanding as much as any one I ever saw. The
situation seems worse even than we were led to expect. Of course I have
seen only the surface so far, but my heart has been wrung for her ever
since I have been in the house, and this evening there was a very
painful scene at the dinner table. I shall not write any more about it,
though I imagine it will be spread all over Richmond by young Mrs.
Colfax.
About Mr. Blackburn I have not quite made up my mind. I do not doubt
that everything Mrs. Colfax wrote us is true, and I know if I stay on
here that I shall make no attempt to conceal from him how much I dislike
him. That will be no secret. I simply could not pretend even to him that
I was not heart and soul on the side of his wife. It is so perfectly
dreadful when one has to take sides with a husband or wife, isn't it?
When I think how wonderful a marriage like yours and father's can be, it
makes me feel sorry and ashamed for human nature as I see it here. But
you cannot become a nurse and keep many illusions about love. The thing
that remains after years of such work is no illusion at all--but the
clear knowledge of the reality. A nurse sees the best and the worst of
humanity--and the very best of it is the love that some people keep to
the end.
As for this marriage, there is not a person in Richmond, nor a servant
in the house, who does not know that it is an unhappy one. Mrs.
Blackburn cannot be at fault--one has only to look at her to realize
that she is too gentle and sweet to hurt any one--and yet I discovered
to-night that she does not know how to treat him, that she says the
wrong thing so often without meaning to, and that unconsciously she
irritates him whenever she speaks. It is impossible to blame her, for
she must have suffered a great many things that no one knows of, and I
suppose her nerves are not always under control. But nothing could be
more unfortunate than her manner to him at times.
Strange to say (I do not understand why) some people appear to admire
him tremendously. I went down to dinner to-night because one of the
guests did not come, and Colonel Ashburton--he said he used to know
you--talked in the most extravagant fashion about Mr. Blackburn's
abilities. The air here is heavy with politics because of the elections,
and I tried to listen as closely as I could. I thought how intensely
interested father would have been in the discussion. As far as I can
understand Mr. Blackburn's way of thinking is not unlike father's, and
but for his behaviour to his wife, this would give me a sympathetic
feeling for him. I forgot to tell you that he looked very well
to-night--not in the least rough or common. His face is not ugly, only
he wears his hair brushed straight back, and this makes his features
look sterner than they really are. His eyes are the keenest I ever
saw--grey, I think, and yet, funny as it sounds, there are times when
they are almost pathetic--and his smile is very nice and reminds me in
a way of father's. This may have been why I thought of father all the
time I was at dinner--this and the political talk which went on as long
as we were at the table.
Well, I started to tell you about the elections, and I know you are
thinking I shall never go on. It seems that Mr. Blackburn intends to
vote for Hughes--though I heard him tell Mr. Chalmers that if he lived
in the North he should probably vote with the Democrats. Voting for a
man, he feels, is not nearly so important as voting against a
section--at least this is what I gathered. There was a great deal said
about the war, but nobody, except Mrs. Colfax's brother Charles, who
does not count, seemed to think there was the faintest chance of our
being in it. Mr. Chalmers told me afterwards that if Wilson should be
re-elected, it would be mainly because of the slogan "he kept us out of
war." As far as I could discover Mr. Chalmers stands firmly by the
President, but I heard Mr. Blackburn tell Colonel Ashburton that what he
hoped for now was conduct so flagrant, on Germany's part, that the
public conscience would demand a more vigorous policy. By the way, Mr.
Chalmers said that the feeling was so strong in New York that he
expected the State to go to the Republicans because there was a general
impression that to vote with them meant to vote for war. Of course, he
added, this was mere German propaganda--but that was only another way of
saying he did not agree with it. Opinions change every hour, and just as
soon as a new one begins to be popular, people forget all that they
believed just as ardently a few weeks before. Don't you remember how
complacent we were about our splendid isolation and our pluperfect
pacifism and our being "too proud to fight" such a very short while ago?
Well, nobody remembers now the way we crowed over Europe and patted one
another on the back, and congratulated ourselves because we could stand
aside and wait until history showed who was right. That is over and
gone now, and "I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier" has joined the
dust of all the other rag-time. If the slow coach of history ever does
come up with us, it may find us in the thick of the fight after all, and
not waiting by the roadside. Mr. Chalmers believes that if the President
is re-elected, and can get the country behind him, the Government will
declare that a state of war exists--but Mr. Blackburn, on the other
hand, is convinced that both Wilson and Hughes are pledged to fulfil
their promises of "peace and prosperity." He insists that there was more
war spirit over the whole country the week after the _Lusitania_ was
sunk, than there has ever been since, and that we were as ready to fight
then as we shall be after the elections. It is like being in the midst
of electric currents to sit still and listen to these men argue. Can you
imagine anything more unlike father's day when all Virginians, except
those whom nobody knew, thought exactly alike? Now, though the vote is
solid still, and the great majority accepts the policies of the
Democrats as uncritically as it accepts Scripture, opinions about
secondary issues vary as much as they do anywhere else. There are some
who regard the President as greater than George Washington--and others
who say that the moment is great, not the man. Mr. Colfax believes that
he is a generation ahead of his country, and Colonel Ashburton believes
just as strongly that he is a generation behind it--that it is a case
where a wave of destiny is sweeping a man on to greatness. I suppose
here again we shall have to wait until history shows who is right.
I have not seen the little girl yet--her name is Letty. They have to be
careful not to excite her in the evening, and the other nurse is still
with her.
Now I must go to bed.
Your devoted child,
CAROLINE.
* * * * *
She had finished her letter and glanced at her watch on the bureau--it
was one o'clock--when a cry or moan reached her from the darkness and
silence of the house, and a few minutes afterwards there came the sound
of running footsteps on the stairs, and a hasty knock fell on her door.
"Miss Meade, will you please come as quickly as you can?"
Opening the door, she met the frightened face of a maid.
"What has happened? Is Mrs. Blackburn ill?"
"I don't know. She hasn't undressed and she is too ill to speak. I left
her on the couch, and ran upstairs to call you."
They were already in the hall, and while they hurried to the staircase,
Caroline asked a few questions in a whisper.
"Is there any medicine that she is accustomed to take?"
"I give her ammonia sometimes, but to-night it didn't do any good."
"Does she faint often?"
"I'm not sure. She has these attacks, but only after--after----"
The woman paused in confusion, and before she could recover herself,
Caroline had opened the door and walked swiftly to the prostrate figure,
in white chiffon, on the couch in front of the fire. Bending over she
felt Angelica's pulse and lowered her head, with its loosened amber
hair, on the pillows.
"Your pulse is good. Do you feel better now?" she asked tenderly, for,
in spite of the quiet competence of her professional attitude, her heart
was aching with pity.
"I was sure I could count on your sympathy." As she answered, Mrs.
Blackburn stretched out her hands until they rested on Caroline's arm.
"Has Mary gone out of the room?"
"Your maid? Yes, she has just gone. What can I do for you?"
Even in the midst of the emotional crisis, Angelica's manner had not
lost a trace of its charming self-possession, its rather colourless
sweetness. Her grey eyes, drenched in tears which left no redness on the
firm white lids, were as devoid of passion as the eyes of a child.
"I cannot tell you--I cannot tell any one," she said after a moment, not
in answer to the other's question, but with a plaintive murmur. Then she
began to cry very gently, while she clung to Caroline with her lovely
hands which were as soft and fragrant as flowers.
"I think I know without your telling me," responded Caroline soothingly.
"Let me help you." All her years of nursing had not enabled her to watch
suffering, especially the suffering of helpless things, without a pang
of longing to comfort. She was on her knees now by the couch, her smooth
dark head bending over Angelica's disarranged fair one, her grave,
compassionate face gazing down on the other's delicate features, which
were softened, not disfigured, by tears.
"The worst is about Roane--my brother," began Angelica slowly. "He came
here to-night, but they--" she lingered over the word, "sent him away
before I could talk to him. He is downstairs now on the terrace because
he is not allowed to come into the house--my brother. I must get this
cheque to him, but I do not like to ask one of the servants----"
"You wish me to take it to him?" Caroline released herself from the
clinging hands, and rose quickly to her feet. Here at last was a
definite call to action.
"Oh, Miss Meade, if you would!" Already Angelica's eyes were dry.
"I will go at once. Is the cheque written?"
"I carried it down with me, but I could not get a chance to give it to
Roane. Poor boy," she added in a low rather than a soft tone, "Poor boy,
after all, he is more sinned against than sinning!"
Drawing the cheque from under the lace pillows, she gave it into
Caroline's hand with a gesture of relief. "Go through the dining-room to
the terrace, and you will find him outside by the windows. Tell him that
I will see him as soon as I can, and ask him please not to trouble me
again."
She had rung for her maid while she was speaking, and when the woman
appeared, she rose and waited, with a yawn, for her dress to be
unfastened. Then suddenly, as if she had forgotten something, she gave
Caroline a smile full of beauty and pathos. "Thank you a thousand tunes,
dear Miss Meade," she exclaimed gratefully.
It was dark downstairs, except for a nebulous glow from the hall above
and a thin reddish line that ran beneath the closed door of the library.
Not until she reached the dining-room did Caroline dare turn on the
electric light, and as soon as she did so, the terrace and the garden
appeared by contrast to be plunged in blackness. When she opened one of
the long French windows, and stepped out on the brick terrace, her eyes
became gradually accustomed to the starlight, and she discerned
presently the shrouded outlines of the juniper trees and a marble
fountain which emerged like a ghost from the quivering spray of water.
As she went quickly down the steps to the lower terrace, she felt as
much alone in her surroundings as if the house and Mrs. Blackburn had
receded into a dream. Overhead there was the silvery glitter of stars,
and before her she divined the simplicity and peace of an autumn garden,
where the wind scattered the faint scent of flowers that were already
beginning to drop and decay.
When she approached the fountain, the figure of a man detached itself
from the vague shape of an evergreen, and came toward her.
"Well, I've waited awhile, haven't I?" he began airily, and the next
instant exclaimed with scarcely a change of tone, "Who are you? Did Anna
Jeannette send you?"
"I am Letty's new nurse--Miss Meade."
"What! A spirit yet a woman too!" His voice was full of charm.
"Mrs. Blackburn sent me with this." As she held out the cheque, he took
it with a gesture that was almost hungry. "She asked me to say that she
would see you very soon, and to beg you not to trouble her again."
"Does she imagine that I do it for pleasure!" He placed the cheque in
his pocket book. "She cannot suppose that I came here to-night for the
sake of a row."
Though he was unusually tall, he carried his height with the ease of an
invincible dignity and self-possession; and she had already discerned
that his sister's pathos had no part in the tempestuous ardour and
gaiety of his nature.
"She didn't tell me," answered Caroline coldly. "There is nothing else,
is there?" Her features were like marble beneath the silken dusk of her
hair which was faintly outlined against the cloudier darkness.
"There is a great deal--since you ask me."
"Nothing, I mean, that I may say to your sister?"
"You may say to her that I thank her for her message--and her
messenger."
He was about to add something more, when Caroline turned away from him
and moved, without haste, as if she were unaware that he followed her,
up the shallow steps of the terrace. When she reached the window, she
passed swiftly, like a dissolving shadow, from the darkness into the
light of the room. Nothing had been said that she found herself able to
resent, and yet, in some indefinable way, Roane's manner had offended
her. "For a trained nurse you are entirely too particular," she said to
herself, smiling, as she put out the light and went through the wide
doorway into the hall. "You have still a good deal of haughtiness to
overcome, Miss Meade, if you expect every man to treat you as if you
wore side curls and a crinoline."
The hall, when she entered it, was very dim, but as she approached the
door of the library, it opened, and Blackburn stood waiting for her on
the threshold. Behind him the room was illuminated, and she saw the rich
sheen of leather bindings and the glow of firelight on the old Persian
rug by the hearth.
"You have been out, Miss Meade?"
"Yes, I have been out." As she threw back her head, the light was full
on her face while his was in shadow.
"Do you need anything?"
"Nothing, thank you."
For an instant their eyes met, and in that single glance, charged with
an implacable accusation, she made Angelica's cause her own. Grave,
remote, dispassionate, her condemnation was as impersonal as a judgment
of the invisible Powers.
"That is all, then, good-night," he said.
"Good-night."
While he watched her, she turned as disdainfully as she had turned from
Roane, and ascended the stairs.