THE BLOW THAT CLEARS
Until dawn the doctor was with her, but in the afternoon, when I went
into her room, I found that she had got out of bed and was dressed for
motoring.
"Oh, I'm all right. There's nothing the matter with me except that I am
smothering for fresh air," she said almost irritably, in reply to my
remonstrances.
"But you are ill, Sally. You are as pale as a ghost."
She shook her head impatiently, and I noticed that the furs she wore
seemed to drag down her slender figure.
"The wind will bring back my colour. If I lie there and think all day, I
shall go out of my mind." Her lips trembled and a quiver passed through
her face, but when I made a step toward her, she repulsed me with a
gesture which, gentle as it was, appeared to place me at a measured
distance. "I wish--oh, I wish Aunt Euphronasia wasn't dead," she said in
a whisper.
"If you go, may I go with you?" I asked.
For a minute she hesitated, then meeting my eyes with a glance in which
I read for the first time since I had known her, a gentle aversion, a
faint hostility, she answered quietly:--
"I am sorry, but I've just telephoned Bonny that I'd call for her."
The old bruise in my heart throbbed while I turned away; but the pain
instead of melting my pride, only increased the terrible reticence which
I wore now as an armour. Her face, above the heavy furs that seemed
dragging her down, had in it something of the soft, uncompromising
obstinacy of Miss Matoaca. So delicate she appeared that I could almost
have broken her body in my grasp; yet I knew that she would not yield
though I brought the full strength of my will to bear in the struggle.
In the old days, doubtless, Matoaca Bland, then in her pride and beauty,
had faced the General with this same firmness which was as soft as
velvet yet as inflexible as steel.
A few days after this, the great man, who had grown at last too feeble
for an active part in "affairs," resigned the presidency of the South
Midland, and retired, as he said, "to enjoy his second childhood."
"It's about time for Theophilus to bring around his box of ants, I
reckon," he observed, and added seriously after a moment, "Yes, there's
no use trying to prop up a fallen tree, Ben. I've had a long life and a
good life, and I am willing to draw out. It's a losing game any way you
play it, when it comes to that. I've thought a lot about it, my boy,
these last weeks, and I tell you the only thing that sticks by you to
the last is the love of a woman. If you need a woman when you are young,
you need her ten thousand times more when you're old. If Miss Matoaca
had married me, we'd both of us have been a long ways better off."
That night I told Sally of the resignation, and repeated to her a part
of the conversation. The sentimental allusion to Miss Matoaca she
treated with scorn, but after a few thoughtful moments she said:--
"You've always wanted to be president of the South Midland more than
anything in the world?"
"More than anything in the world," I admitted absently.
"There's a chance now?"
"Yes, I suppose there's a chance now."
She said nothing more, but the next morning as I was getting into my
overcoat, she sent me word that she wished to speak to me again before I
went out.
"I'll be up in a minute," I answered, and I had turned to follow the
maid up the staircase, when a sharp ring at the telephone distracted my
attention.
"Come down in five minutes if you can," said a voice. "You're wanted
badly about the B. and R. deal."
"Is your mistress ill?" I enquired, turning from the telephone to take
up my overcoat.
"I think not, sir," replied the woman, "she is dressing."
"Then tell her I'm called away, but I will see her at luncheon," I
answered hurriedly, as I rushed out.
Upon reaching my office, I found that my presence was required in
Washington before two o'clock, and as I had not time to return home, I
telephoned Sally for my bag, which she sent down to the station by
Micah, the coachman.
"I hope to return early to-morrow," I said to the negro from the
platform, as the train pulled out.
In my anxiety over the possible collapse of the important B. and R.
deal, the message that Sally had sent me that morning was crowded for
several hours out of my thoughts. When I remembered it later in the
afternoon, I sent her a telegram explaining my absence; and my
conscience, which had troubled me for a moment, was appeased by this
attention that would prove to her that even in the midst of my business
worries I had not forgotten her. There was, indeed, I assured myself, no
cause for the sudden throb of anxiety, almost of apprehension, I had
felt at the recollection of the message that I had disregarded. She had
looked stronger yesterday; I had commented at dinner on the fine flush
in her cheeks; and the pain, which had caused me such sharp distress
while it lasted, had vanished entirely for the last thirty-six hours.
Then the sound of her voice, with its note of appeal, of helplessness,
of terror, when she had called upon George at the reception, returned to
me as if it were spoken audibly somewhere in my brain. I saw her eyes,
wide and bright, as they had been when they looked straight beyond me in
search of help, and her slender, swaying figure in its gown of a pale
sea-foam shade that was stained from bosom to hem with the red streak of
the wine. "Yet there is nothing to worry about," I thought, annoyed
because I could not put this anxiety, this apprehension, out of my mind.
"She is not ill. She is better. Only last night I heard her laughing as
she has not done for weeks."
The afternoon was crowded with meetings, and it was three o'clock the
next day when I reached home and asked eagerly for Sally as I went up
the staircase. She had gone out, her maid informed me, but I would find
a note she had left on my desk in the library. Turning hastily back, I
took up the note from the silver blotter beneath which it was lying, and
as I opened it, I saw that the address looked tremulous and uncertain,
as if it had been written in haste or excitement.
"Dear Ben (it read), I have been in trouble, and as I do not wish
to disturb you at this time, I am going away for a few days to
think it over. I shall be at Riverview, the old place on James
River where mamma and I used to stay--but go ahead with the South
Midland, and don't worry about me, it is all right.
"SALLY."
"I have been in trouble," I repeated slowly. "What trouble, and why
should she keep it from me? Oh, because of the presidency of the South
Midland! Damn the South Midland!" I said suddenly aloud. A time-table
was on my desk, and looking into it, I found that a train left for
Riverview in half an hour. I rang the bell and old Esdras appeared to
announce luncheon.
"I want nothing to eat. Bring me a cup of coffee. I must catch a train
in a few minutes."
"Fur de Lawd's sake, Marse Ben," exclaimed the old negro, "you ain'
never gwineter res' at home agin."
Still grumbling he brought the coffee, and I was standing by the desk
with the cup raised to my lips, when the front door opened and shut
sharply, and the General came into the room, leaning upon two
gold-headed walking-sticks. He looked old and tired, and more than ever,
in his fur-lined overcoat, like a wounded eagle.
"Ben," he said, "what's this Hatty tells me about George taking Sally
out motoring with him yesterday, and not bringing her back? Has there
been an accident?"
My arteries drummed in my ears, and for a minute the noise shut out all
other sounds. Then I heard a carriage roll by in the street, and the
faint regular ticking of the small clock on the mantel.
"Sally is at Riverview," I answered, "I am going down to her on the next
train."
"Then where in the devil is George? He went off with her."
"George may be there, too. I hope he is. She needs somebody with her."
A purple flush rose to the General's face, and the expression in his
small, watery grey eyes held me speechless.
"Confound you, Ben!" he exclaimed, in a burst of temper, "do you mean to
tell me you don't know that George's blamed foolishness is the talk of
the town? Why, he hasn't let Sally out of his sight for the last two
years."
"No, I didn't know it," I replied.
"Great Scott! Where are your wits?"
"In the stock market," I answered bitterly. Then something in me, out of
the chaos and the darkness, rose suddenly, as if with wings, into the
light. "Of course Sally is an angel, General, we both know that--but how
she could have helped seeing that George is the better man of us, I
don't for a minute pretend to understand."
"Well, I never had much opinion of George," responded the General. "It
always seemed to me that he ought to have made a great deal more of
himself than he has done."
"What he has made of himself," I answered, and my voice sounded harsh in
my ears, "is the man that Sally ought to have married."
I went out hurriedly, forgetting to assist him, and limping painfully,
he followed me to the porch, and called after me as I ran down into the
street. Looking back, as I turned the corner, I saw him getting with
difficulty into his buggy, which waited beside the curbing, and it
seemed to me that his great bulky figure, in his fur-lined overcoat, was
unreal and intangible like the images that one sees in sleep.
The train was about to pull out as I entered the station, and swinging
on to the rear coach, I settled myself into the first chair I came to,
which happened to be directly behind the shining bald head and red neck
of a man I knew. As I shrank back, he turned, caught sight of me, and
held out his hand with an easy air of good-fellowship.
"So General Bolingbroke has retired from the South Midland and Atlantic
Railroad, I hear," he remarked. "Well, there's a big job waiting for
somebody, but he'll have to be a big man to fit it."
A sudden ridiculous annoyance took possession of me; the General, the
South Midland Railroad, and the bald-headed man before me, all appeared
to enter my consciousness like small, stinging gnats that swarmed about
larger bodies. What was the railroad to me, if I had lost Sally? Had I
lost her? Was it possible to win her again? "I am in trouble," the words
whirled in my thoughts, "and as I do not wish to disturb you at this
time, I have gone off for a few days to think it over." Was the trouble
associated with George Bolingbroke? Did she mind the gossip? Did she
think I should mind it? Whatever it was, why didn't she come to me and
weep it out on my breast? "I didn't want to disturb you at this time."
At this time? That was because of the South Midland and Atlantic
Railroad. "Damn the South Midland and Atlantic Railroad!" I said again
under my breath.
The red neck of the bald-headed man in front of me suddenly turned.
"Going down for a little hunting?" he enquired genially, "there isn't
much else, I reckon, to take a man like you down into this half-baked
country. I hear the partridges are getting scarce, and they are going to
bring a bill into the Legislature forbidding the sending of them outside
of the state. Now, that's a direct slap, I say, at the small farmer. A
bird is a bird, ain't it, even if it's a Virginia partridge?"
I rose and took up my overcoat. "I'll go into the smoking-car. They keep
it too hot here."
He nodded cheerfully. "I was in there myself, but it's like an oven,
too, so I came out." Then he unfolded his newspaper, and I passed
hurriedly down the aisle of the coach.
In the smoking-car the air was like the fumes in the stemming room of a
tobacco factory, but lighting a cigar, I leaned back on one of the hard,
plush-covered seats, and stared out at the low, pale landscape beyond
the window. It was late November, and the sombre colours of the fields
and of the leafless trees showed through a fine autumnal mist, which
lent an atmosphere of melancholy to the stretches of fallow land, to the
harvested corn-fields, in which the stubble stood in rows, like a
headless army, and to the long red-clay road winding, deep in mud, to
the distant horizon.
"I am in trouble--I am in trouble," I heard always above the roar of the
train, above the shrill whistle of the engine, as it rounded a curve,
above the thin, drawling voices of my fellow-passengers, disputing a
question in politics. "I am in trouble," ran the words. "What trouble?
What trouble? What trouble?" I repeated passionately, while my teeth bit
into my cigar, and the flame went out. "So George hasn't let her out of
his sight for two years, and I did not know it. For two years! And in
these two years how much have I seen of her--of Sally, my wife? We have
been living separate lives under the same roof, and when she asked me
for bread, I have given her--pearls!" A passion of remorse gripped me at
the throat like the spring of a beast. Pearls for bread, and that to
Sally--to my wife, whom I loved! The melancholy landscape at which I
looked appeared to divide and dissolve, and she came back to me, not as
I had last seen her, weighed down by the furs which were too heavy, but
in her blue gingham apron with the jagged burn on her wrist, and the
patient, divine smile hovering about her lips. If she went from me now,
it would be always the Sally of that year of poverty, of suffering, that
I had lost. In the future she would haunt me, not in her sea-green gown,
with the jewels on her bosom, but in her gingham apron with the sleeves
rolled back from her reddened arms and the jagged scar from the burn
disfiguring her flesh.
"I'll see him in hell, before I'll vote for him!" called out a voice at
my back, in a rage.
The train pulled into the little wayside station of Riverview, and
getting out, I started on the walk of two miles through the flat, brown
fields to the house. The road was heavy with mud, and it was like
ploughing to keep straight on in the single red-clay furrow which the
wheels of passing wagons had left. All was desolate, all was deserted,
and the only living things I saw between the station and the house were
a few lonely sheep browsing beside a stream, and the brown-winged birds
that flew, with wet plumage, across the road.
When I reached the ruined gateway of Riverview, the old estate of the
Blands', I quickened my pace, and went rapidly up the long drive to the
front of the house, where I saw the glimmer of red firelight on the
ivied window-panes in the west wing. As I ascended the steps, there was
a sound on the gravel, and George Bolingbroke came around the corner of
the house, in hunting clothes, with a setter dog at his heels.
"Hello, Ben!" he remarked, half angrily. "So you've turned up, have you?
Has there been another panic in the market?"
"Is Sally here?" I asked. "I'm anxious about her."
"Well, it's time you were," he answered. "Yes, she's inside."
He stopped in the centre of the walk, and turning from the door, I came
back and faced him in a silence that seemed alive with the beating of
innumerable wings in the air.
"Something's wrong, George," I said at last, breaking through my
restraint.
He looked at me with a calm, enquiring gaze while I was speaking, and by
that look I understood, in an inspiration, he had condemned me.
"Yes, something's wrong," he answered quietly, "but have you just found
it out?"
"I haven't found it out yet. What is it? What is the matter?"
At the question his calmness deserted him and the dark flush of anger
broke suddenly in his face.
"The matter is, Ben," he replied, holding himself in with an effort,
"that you've missed being a fool only by being a genius instead."
Then turning away, as if his temper had got the better of him, he strode
back through a clump of trees on the lawn, while I went up the steps
again, and crossing the cold hall, entered the dismantled drawing-room,
where a bright log fire was burning.
Sally was sitting on the hearth, half hidden by the high arms of the
chair, and as I closed the door behind me, she rose and stood looking at
me with an expression of surprise. So had Miss Mitty and Miss Matoaca
looked in the firelight on that November afternoon when Sally and I had
gone in together.
"Why, Ben!" she said quietly, "I thought you were in Washington!"
"I got home this morning and found your note. Sally, what is the
trouble?"
"You came after me?"
"I came after you. The General went wild and imagined that there had
been an accident, or George had run off with you."
"Then the General sent you?"
"Nobody sent me. I was leaving the house when he found me."
She had not moved toward me, and for some reason, I still stood where I
had stopped short in the centre of the room, kept back by the reserve,
the detachment in her expression.
"You came believing that George and I had gone off together?" she asked,
and there was a faint hostility in her voice.
"Of course I didn't believe it. I'm not a fool if I am an ass. But if I
had believed it," I added passionately, "it would have made no
difference. I'd have come after you if you'd gone off with twenty
Georges."
"Well, there's only one," she said, "and I did go off with him."
"It makes no difference."
"We left Richmond at ten o'clock yesterday, and we've been here ever
since."
"What does that matter?"
"You mean it doesn't matter that I came away with George and spent
twenty-four hours?"
"I mean that nothing matters--not if you'd spent twenty-four years."
"I suppose it doesn't," she responded quietly, and there was a curious
remoteness, a hollowness in the sound of the words. "When one comes to
see things as they are, nothing really matters. It is all just the
same."
Her face looked unsubstantial and wan in the firelight, and so ethereal,
so fleshless, appeared her figure, that it seemed to me I could see
through it to the shining of the flames before which she stood.
"I can't talk, Sally," I said, "I am not good at words, I believe I'm
more than half a fool as George has just told me--but--but--I want
you--I've always wanted you--I've never in my heart wanted anything in
the world but you--"
"I don't suppose even that matters much," she answered wearily, "but if
you care to know, Ben, George and Bonny found me when I was alone
and--and very unhappy, and they brought me with them when they came down
to hunt. They are hunting now."
"You were alone and unhappy?" I said, for George Bolingbroke and Bonny
Marshall had faded from me into the region of utterly indifferent
things.
"It was that I wanted to tell you the morning you couldn't wait," she
returned gently; "I had kept it from you the night before because I saw
that you were so tired and needed sleep. But--but I had seen two
doctors, both had told me that I was ill, that I had some trouble of the
spine, that I might be an invalid--a useless invalid, if I lived,
that--that there would never be another child--that--"
Her voice faltered and ceased, for crossing the room with a bound, I had
gathered her to my breast, and was bending over her in an intensity, a
violence of love, crushing back her hands on her bosom, while I kissed
her face, her throat, her hair, her dress even, as I had never kissed
her in the early days of our marriage. The passion of happiness in that
radiant prime was pale and bloodless beside the passion of sorrow which
shook me now.
"Stop, stop, Ben," she said, struggling to be free, "let me go. You are
hurting me."
"I shall never stop, I shall never let you go," I answered, "I shall
hold you forever, even if it hurts you."