THE DEEPEST SHADOW
As I entered the house, the sound of Aunt Euphronasia's crooning fell on
my ears, and going into the nursery, I found Sally sitting by the
window, with the child on her knees, while the old negress waved a
palm-leaf fan back and forth with a slow, rhythmic movement. A
night-lamp burned, with lowered wick, on the bureau, and as Sally looked
up at me, I saw that her face had grown wan and haggard since I had left
her.
"The baby was taken very ill just after you went," she said; "we feared
a convulsion, and I sent one of the neighbours' children for the doctor.
It may be only the heat, he says, but he is coming again at midnight."
"I had hoped you would be able to get off in the morning."
"No, not now. The baby is too ill. In a few days, perhaps, if he is
better."
Her voice broke, and kneeling beside her, I clasped them both in my
arms, while the anguish in my heart rose suddenly like a wild beast to
my throat.
"What can I do, Sally?" I asked passionately. "What can I do?"
"Nothing, dear, nothing. Only be quiet."
Only be quiet! Rising to my feet I walked softly to the end of the room,
and then turning came back again to the spot where I had knelt. At the
moment I longed to knock down something, to strangle something, to pull
to earth and destroy as a beast destroys in a rage. Through the open
window I could see a full moon shining over a magnolia, and the very
softness and quiet of the moonlight appeared, in some strange way, to
increase my suffering. A faint breeze, scented with jessamine, blew
every now and then from the garden, rising, dying away, and rising
again, until it waved the loosened tendrils of hair on Sally's neck. The
odour, also, like the moonlight, mingled, while I stood there, and was
made one with the anguish in my thoughts. Again I walked the length of
the room, and again I turned and came back to the window beside which
Sally sat. My foot as I moved stumbled upon something soft and round,
and stooping to pick it up, I saw that it was a rubber doll, dropped by
little Benjamin when he had grown too ill or too tired to play. I laid
it in Sally's work-basket on the table, and then throwing off my coat,
flung myself into a chair in one corner. A minute afterwards I rose, and
walking gently through the long window, looked on the garden, which lay
dim and fragrant under the moonlight. On the porch, twining in and out
of the columns, the star jessamine, riotous with its second blooming,
swayed back and forth like a curtain; and as I bent over, the small,
white, deadly sweet blossoms caressed my face. A white moth whirred by
me into the room, and when I entered again, I saw that it was flying
swiftly in circles, above the flame of the night-lamp on the bureau.
Sally was sitting just as I had left her, her arm under the child's
head, her face bent forward as if listening to a distant, almost
inaudible sound. She appeared so still, so patient, that I wondered in
amazement if she had sat there for hours, unchanged, unheeding,
unapproachable? There was in her attitude, in her pensive quiet,
something so detached and tragic, that I felt suddenly that I had never
really seen her until that minute; and instead of going to her as I had
intended, I drew away, and stood on the threshold watching her almost as
a stranger might have done. Once the child stirred and cried, lifting
his little hands and letting them fall again with the same short cry of
distress. The flesh of my heart seemed to tear suddenly asunder, and I
sprang forward. Sally looked up at me, shook her head with a slow, quiet
movement, and I stopped short as if rooted there by the single step I
had taken. After ten years I remember every detail, every glimmer of
light, every fitful rise and fall of the breeze, as if, not visual
objects only, but scents, sounds, and movements, were photographed
indelibly on my brain. I know that the white moth fluttered about my
head, and that raising my hand, I caught it in my palm, which closed
over it with violence. Then the cry from little Benjamin came again, and
opening my palm, I watched the white moth fall dead, with crushed wings,
to the floor. When I forget all else in my life, I shall still see Sally
sitting motionless, like a painted figure, in the faint, reddish glow of
the night-lamp, while above her, and above the little waxen face on her
knee, the shadow, of the palm-leaf fan, waved by Aunt Euphronasia,
flitted to and fro like the wing of a bat.
At midnight the doctor came, and when he left, I followed him to the
front steps.
"I'll come again at dawn," he said, "and in the meantime look out for
your wife. She's been strained to the point of breaking."
"You think, then, that the child is--is hopeless?"
"Not hopeless, but very serious. I'll be back in a few hours. If there's
a change, send for me, and remember, as I said, look out for your wife."
I went indoors, found some port wine left in Miss Mitty's bottles,
poured out a glass, and carried it to her.
"Drink this, darling," I said.
As I held it to her lips, she swallowed it obediently, and then, looking
up, she thanked me with her unfailing smile.
"Oh, we'll drink outer de healin' fountain, by en bye, lil'
chillun,"
crooned Aunt Euphronasia softly, and the tune has rung ever afterwards
somewhere in my brain. To escape from it at the time, I went out upon
the front steps, closed the door, and walked, restless as a caged tiger,
up and down the deserted pavement. A homeless dog or two, panting from
thirst, lay in the gutter; otherwise there was not a sound, not a living
thing, from end to end of the long dusty street.
For two hours I walked up and down there, entering the house from time
to time to see if Sally needed me, or if she had moved. Then, as the
light broke feebly, the doctor came, and we went in together. Sally was
still sitting there, as she had sat all night, rigid in the dim glow of
the lamp, and over her Aunt Euphronasia still waved the palm-leaf fan
with its black, flitting shadow. Then, as we crossed the threshold,
there was a sudden sharp cry, and when I sprang forward and caught them
both in my arms, I found that Sally had fainted and the child was dead
on her knees.
* * * * *
We buried the child in the old Bland section at Hollywood, where a
single twisted yew-tree grew between the graves, obliterated by ivy, of
Edmond Bland and his wife, Caroline Matilda, born Fairfax. On the way
home Sally sat rigid and tearless, with her hand in mine, and her eyes
fixed on the drawn blinds of the carriage, as though she were staring
intently through the closed window at something that fascinated and held
her gaze in the dusty street.
"Does your head ache, darling?" I asked once, and she made a quick,
half-impatient gesture of denial, with that strained, rapt look, as if
she were seeing a vision, still in her face. Only when we reached home,
and Aunt Euphronasia met her with outstretched arms on the threshold,
did this agonised composure break down in passionate weeping on the old
negress's shoulder.
The strength which had upheld her so long seemed suddenly to have
departed, and all night she wept on my breast, while I fanned her in the
hot air, which had grown humid and close. Not until the dawn had broken
did my arm drop powerless with sleep, and the fan fell on the pillow.
Then I slept for an hour, worn out with grief and exhaustion, and when
presently I awoke with a start, I saw that she had left my side, and
that her muslin dressing-gown was missing from the chintz-covered chair
where it had lain. When I called her in alarm, she came through the
doorway that led to the kitchen, freshly dressed, with a coffeepot in
her hand.
"For God's sake, Sally," I implored, "don't make coffee for me!"
"I've made it, dear," she answered. "I couldn't let you go out without a
mouthful to eat. You did not sleep a wink."
"And you?" I demanded.
"I didn't sleep either, but then I can rest all day." Her lip trembled
and she pressed her teeth into it. "By the time you are dressed, Ben,
breakfast will be ready."
Her eyes were red and swollen, her mouth pale and tremulous, all her
radiant energy seemed beaten out of her; yet she spoke almost
cheerfully, and there was none of the slovenliness of sorrow in her
fresh and charming appearance. I dressed quickly, and going into the
sitting-room, drank the coffee she had made because I knew it would
please her. When it was time for me to start, she went with me to the
door, and turning midway of the block, I saw her standing on the steps,
smiling after me, with the sun in her eyes, like the ghost of herself as
she had stood and smiled the morning after my failure. In the evening I
found her paler, thinner, more than ever like the wan shadow of herself,
yet meeting me with the same brave cheerfulness with which she had sent
me forth. Could I ever repay her? I asked myself passionately, could I
ever forget?
The dreary summer weeks dragged by like an eternity; the autumn came and
passed, and at the first of the year I was sent down, with a salary of
ten thousand dollars, to build up traffic on the Tennessee and Carolina
Railroad, which the Great South Midland and Atlantic had absorbed. Sally
went with me, but she was so languid and ill that the change, instead of
invigorating her, appeared to exhaust her remaining vitality. She lived
only when I was with her, and when I came in unexpectedly, as I did
sometimes, I would find her lying so still and cold on the couch that I
would gather her to me in a passion of fear lest she should elude the
lighter grasp with which I had held her. Never, not even in her
girlhood, had I loved her with the intensity, the violence, of those
months when I hardly dared clasp her to me in my terror that she might
dissolve and vanish from my embrace. Then, at last, when the spring
came, and the woods were filled with flowering dogwood and red-bud, she
seemed to revive a little, to bloom softly again, like a flower that
opens the sweeter and fresher after the storm.
"Is it the mild air, or the spring flowers?" I asked one afternoon, as
we drove through the Southern woods, along a narrow deserted road that
smelt of the budding pines.
"Neither, Ben, it is you," she replied. "I have had you all these
months. Without that I could not have lived."
"You have had me," I answered, "ever since the first minute I saw your
face. You have had me always."
"Not always. During those years of your great success I thought I had
lost you."
"How could you, Sally, when it was all for you, and you knew it?"
"It may have been for me in the beginning, but success, when it came,
crowded me out. It left me no room. That's why I didn't really mind the
failure, dear, and the poverty--that's why I don't now really mind this
burden of debt. Success took you away from me, failure brings you the
closer. And when you go from me, Ben, there's something in me, I don't
know what--something, like Aunt Matoaca in my blood--that rises up and
rebels. If things had gone on like that, if you hadn't come back, I
should have grown hard and indifferent. I should have found some other
interest."
"Some other interest?" I repeated, while my heart throbbed as if a spasm
of memory contracted it.
"Oh, of course, I don't know now just what I mean--but when I look back,
I realise that I couldn't have stood many years like that with nothing
to fill them. I'd have done something desperate, if it was only going
over gates after Bonny. There's one thing they taught me, though, Ben,"
she added, "and that is that poor Aunt Matoaca was right."
"Right in what, Sally?"
"Right in believing that women must have larger lives--that they mustn't
be expected to feed always upon their hearts. You tell them to let love
fill their lives, and then when the lives are swept bare and clean of
everything else, in place of love you leave mere vacancy--just mere
vacancy and nothing but that. How can they fill their lives with love
when love isn't there--when it's off in the stock market or the
railroad, or wherever its practical affairs may be?"
"But it comes back in the evening."
"Yes, it comes back in the evening and falls asleep over its cigar."
"Well, you've got me now," I responded cheerfully, "there's no doubt of
that, you've got me now."
"That's why I'm getting well. How delicious the pines are! and look at
the red-bud flowering there over the fence! It may be wicked of me, but,
do you know--I've never been really able to regret that you lost your
money."
"It is rather wicked, dear, to rejoice in my misery."
"I didn't say I 'rejoiced'--only that I couldn't regret. How can I
regret it when the money came so between us?"
"But it didn't, Sally, if you could only understand! I loved you just as
much all that time as I do now."
"But how was I to be sure, when you didn't want to be with me?"
"I did want to be with you--only there was always something else that
had to be done."
"And the something else came always before me. But my life, you see, was
swept bare and clean of everything except you."
"I had to work, Sally, I had to follow my ambition."
"You work now, but it is different. I don't mind this because it isn't
working with madness. Just as you felt that you wanted your ambition,
Ben, I felt that I wanted love. I was made so, I can't help it. Like
Aunt Matoaca, my life has been swept and garnished for that one guest,
and if it were ever to fail me, I'd--I'd go wild like Aunt Matoaca, I
suppose."
A red bird flew out of the pines across the road, and lifting her eyes,
she followed its flight with a look in which there was a curious
blending of sadness with passion. The truth of her words came home to
me, with a quiver of apprehension, while I looked at her face, and by
some curious freak of memory there flashed before me the image of George
Bolingbroke as he had bent over to lay the blossom of sweet alyssum
beside her plate. In all those months George, not I, had been there, I
remembered, and some fierce resentment, which was half jealousy, half
remorse, made me answer her almost with violence as my arm went about
her.
"But you had the big things always, and it is the big things that count
in the end."
"Yes, the big things count in the end. I used to tell myself that when
you forgot all the anniversaries. You remember them now."
"I have time to think now, then I hadn't." As I uttered the words I was
conscious of a sudden depression, of a poignant realisation of what this
"time to think" signified in my life. The smart of my failure was still
there, and I had known hours of late when my balked ambition was like a
wild thing crying for freedom within me. The old lust of power, the
passion for supremacy, still haunted my dreams, or came back to me at
moments like this, when I drove with Sally through the restless pines,
and smelt those vague, sweet scents of the spring, which stirred
something primitive and male in my heart. The fighter and the dreamer,
having fought out their racial battle to a finish, were now merged into
one.
We drove home slowly, the lights of the little Southern village shining
brightly through a cloudless atmosphere ahead--and the lights, like the
spring scents and the restless soughing of the pines, deepened the sense
of failure, of incompleteness, from which I suffered. My career showed
to me as suddenly cut off and broken, like a road the making of which
has stopped short halfway up a hill. Did she discern this restlessness
in me, I wondered, this ceaseless ache which resembled the ache of
muscles that have been long unused?
After this the months slipped quietly by, one placid week succeeding
another in a serene and cloudless monotony. Sally had few friends, there
were no women of her own social position in the place; yet she was never
lonely, never bored, never in search of distraction.
"I love it here, Ben," she said once, "it is so peaceful, just you and
I."
"You'd tire of it before long, and you'll be glad enough to go back to
Richmond when next spring comes."
At the time she did not protest, but when the following spring began to
unfold, and we prepared to return to Virginia in May, there was
something pensive and wistful in her parting from the little village and
from the people who had been kind to her in the year she had spent
there. We had taken several rooms in the house of Dr. Theophilus, who
was supported in his prodigality in roses only by the strenuous pickling
and preserving of Mrs. Clay; and as we drove, on a warm May afternoon,
up the familiar street from the station, I tried in vain to arouse in
her some of the interest, the animation, that she had lost.
"You'll be glad to see the doctor and Bonny and George," I said.
"Yes, I'll be glad to see the doctor and Bonny and George. There is the
house now, and look, the doctor is in his garden."
He had seen us before she spoke, for glancing up meditatively from
working a bed of bleeding hearts near the gate, his dim old eyes, over
their lowered spectacles, had been attracted to the approaching
carriage. Rising to his feet, he came rapidly to the pavement, his
trowel still in hand, his outstretched arms trembling with pleasure.
"Well, well, so here you are. It's good to see you. Tina, they have come
sooner than we expected them. Moses" (to a little negro, who appeared
from behind the currant bushes, where he had been digging), "take the
bags upstairs to the front rooms and tell your Miss Tina that they have
come sooner than we expected them."
As Moses darted off on his errand, in which he was assisted by the negro
coachman, Dr. Theophilus led us back into the garden, and placed Sally
in a low canvas chair, which he had brought from the porch to a shady
spot between a gorgeous giant of battle rose-bush and a bed of bleeding
hearts in full bloom.
"Come and sit down, my dear, come and sit down," he repeated, fussing
about her. "Tina will give you a cup of tea out here before you go to
your rooms, and Ben and I will take our juleps before supper. I've been
working in my garden, you see; there's nothing so satisfying in old age
as a taste for flowers. It's more absorbing than chess, as I tell
George--old George, I mean--and it's more soothing than children. Were
you far enough South, my dear, to see the yellow jessamine grow wild?
They tell me, too, that the Marshal Niel rose runs there up to the roofs
of the houses. With us it is a very delicate rose. I have never been
able to do anything with it,--but I have had a great success this year
with my bleeding hearts, you will notice. Ah, there's Tina! So you see,
Tina, here they are. They came sooner than we expected."
From the low white porch, under a bower of honeysuckle, Mrs. Clay
appeared, with a cup of tea and a silver basket of sponge snowballs
which she placed before Sally on a small green table; and immediately a
troop of slate-coloured pigeons fluttered from the mimosa tree and the
clipped yew at the end of the garden, and began pecking greedily in the
gravelled walk.
"I'm glad you've come, my dears," remarked the old lady in her brusque,
honest manner, "and I hope to heaven that you will be able to take
Theophilus's mind off his flowers. I declare he has grown so besotted
about them that I believe he'd sell the very clothes off his back to buy
a new variety of rose or lily. Only a week ago he took back a dozen
socks I had given him because he said he'd rather have the money to
spend in a strange kind of iris he'd just heard of."
"A most remarkable plant," observed the doctor, with enthusiasm, "the
peculiarity of which is that it is smaller and less attractive to the
vulgar eye than the common iris, of which I have a great number growing
at the end of the garden. Don't listen to Tina, my children, she's a
cynic, and no cynic can understand the philosophy of gardening. It was
one of the wisest of men, though a trifle unorthodox, I admit, who
advised us to cultivate our garden. A pessimist he may have been before
he took up the trowel, but a cynic--never."
"I am not complaining of the trowel, Theophilus," observed Mrs. Clay,
"though when it comes to that I don't see why a trowel and a bed of
roses is any more philosophic than a ladle and a kettle of pickles."
"Perhaps not, Tina, perhaps not," chuckled the doctor, "but yours is a
practical mind, and there's nothing, I've always said, like a practical
mind for seeing things crooked. It suits a crooked world, I suppose, and
that's why it usually manages to get on so well in it."
"And I'd like to know how you see things, Theophilus," sniffed Mrs.
Clay, whose temper was rising.
"I see them as they are, Tina, which isn't in the very least as they
appear," rejoined the good man, unruffled.
He bent forward, made a lunge with his trowel at a solitary blade of
grass growing in the bed of bleeding hearts, and after uprooting it,
returned with a tranquil face to his garden chair.
But Mrs. Clay, having, as he had said, a practical mind, merely sniffed
while she wiped off the small green table with a red-bordered napkin and
scattered the crumbs of sponge-cake to the greedy slate-coloured
pigeons.
"If I judged you by what you appear, Theophilus," she retorted,
crushingly, "I should have judged you for a fool on the day you were
born."
This sally, which was delivered with spirit, afforded the doctor an
evident relish.
"If you knew your Juvenal, my dear," he responded, with perfect good
humour, "you would remember: _Fronti nulla fides_."
Rising from his seat, he stooped fondly over the bed of bleeding hearts,
and gathering a few blossoms, presented them to Sally, with a courtly
bow.
"A favourite flower of mine. My poor mother was always very partial to
it," he remarked.