To-morrow, Vera's to-morrow--dawns, rainy, chilly, cheerless, as only a
rainy autumn day can be. The wild winds sigh eerily around the house.
The autumn leaves are beaten from the trees and swirl through the air,
falling in dank, sodden masses on the soaked grass of the lawn. The sun
refuses to shine. No more dreary and desolate day could be imagined.
With the earliest peep of dawn Vera makes her way to her mother's room.
It is lonely and deserted save for the sheeted presence of the quiet
dead. The lamps burn dimly, and there is a silence in the room so deep
it may be felt.
With a trembling hand Vera turns down the cold linen cover for one
long, lingering look at the beloved face--the strangely-beautiful
marble-white face, on which the story of a life-long sorrow has carved
its mournful record in the subtle tracery of grief.
Mrs. Campbell has been that most sorrowful of all living creatures--a
deserted wife!
The beautiful, dark eyes of her daughter have never looked upon the
face of the father who should have loved and nurtured her tender life.
But it is all over now--the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness, the deep
humiliation. The small, toil-stained hands are folded gently together
over some odorous white tube-roses that Vera has placed within them!
The jetty fringe of the long, black lashes rests heavily against the
thin, white cheeks, the beautifully-curved lips are closed peacefully,
the golden brown hair, thickly-streaked with gray, is parted sweetly on
the peaceful brow.
As Vera gazes, the tears, which have remained sealed in their fountains
till now, burst forth in healing showers, breaking upon the terrible
calm that has been upon her.
Again and again she presses her hot, feverish lips to the cold, white
brow of the only friend her lonely life has ever known.
"Oh, mamma, mamma, if you might but have taken me with you," she sobs,
bitterly.
"The best thing that could have happened," says a curt, icy voice
behind her, and turning with a shiver of repulsion, Vera beholds
her aunt, Mrs. Cleveland, who has entered noiselessly in her furred
slippers and crimson dressing-gown.
She comes to the foot of the bed and stands silently a moment regarding
the cold, white features of her dead sister, then hastily turns her
head aside as if the still face held some unspoken reproach for her.
"Cover the face, Vera," she says, coldly. "It is not pleasant to look
at the dead."
"Not when we have wronged them," the girl murmurs, almost inaudibly,
and with deep bitterness.
"What is that you are saying?" demands Mrs. Cleveland, sharply. "'Not
when we have wronged them,' eh? Beware, girl, how you let that sharp
tongue of yours run on. You may chance to see the inside of the
alms-house!"
But Vera, biting her lips fiercely, in mute shame at that angry slip of
the tongue in presence of the dead, makes no answer. Dropping the white
sheet back over the sealed lips that cannot open to defend her child,
she buries her face in the pillow, trembling all over with indignation
and grief.
Mrs. Cleveland stands contemplating her a moment with a look of
contemptuous scorn on her high, Roman features, then, to Vera's
amazement, she exclaims:
"One of the servants told me that Leslie Noble brought a preacher in
here last night. Was it to administer the sacrament to the dying?"
No answer from Vera, whose face remains buried in the pillow.
"Speak!" Mrs. Cleveland commands, coming a step nearer, "did he come to
administer the consolations of religion to the dying?"
"No," Vera answers, lifting her white face a moment, and looking
steadily into her enemy's questioning eyes. "No."
"No," Mrs. Cleveland echoes, with a look of alarm. "What then, girl,
what then?"
But Vera, with the strange reply, "You must ask Mr. Noble--he will
inform you," drops her pallid face into her hands again.
Mrs. Cleveland makes a step forward, resolving in her own mind "to
shake the breath out of that stubborn girl," but even her wicked nature
is awed by the still presence of death in the room, and she desists
from her heartless purpose, and, retreating to the door, pauses with
her hand on the latch to say, icily:
"Your mother's funeral will take place from the Epiphany Church this
afternoon. Mourning garments will be sent to your room for you to wear."
Vera springs to her feet with a heart-wrung cry:
"So soon! Oh, my God, you will not bury her out of my sight to-day,
when she only died last night!"
Mrs. Cleveland's haughty features are convulsed with anger.
"Hush, you little fool!" she bursts out, angrily. "Do you think that
dead people are such enlivening company that one need keep them in the
house any longer than is necessary to provide a hearse and coffin? Only
died last night, forsooth! Well, she is as dead now as she will be a
hundred years hence, and the funeral will take place this afternoon.
You will be ready to attend, if you understand what is good for
yourself."
So saying, she sweeps from the room, slamming the door heavily behind
her.
Alas, the bitterness of poverty and dependence. Vera throws herself
down by the side of the bed, and weeps long and bitterly, until
exhausted nature succumbs to the strain upon it, and she sleeps deeply,
heavily, dreamlessly, wrapped in a dumb, narcotic stupor rather than
healthful slumber. She is hustled out of the way at length that her
mother may be placed in the plain coffin that has been provided for
her, and a few hours later--oh, so piteously few--she is standing by
that open grave in Glenwood, hearing the dull thud of the earth, and
the patter of the rain upon the coffin, and the solemn voice of the
minister, repeating in tones that sound faint and far away to her dazed
senses, "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust."
From her carriage, where she sits impatiently waiting the conclusion
of the sacred service, Mrs. Cleveland watches the scene, frowning
impatiently at the sight of Leslie Noble supporting Vera on his arm,
and holding his umbrella carefully over her, reckless of the rain-drops
that patter down on his uncovered head and face. Mrs. Cleveland does
not like the look of it at all. She regards Leslie as Ivy's own
especial property. Leslie is too kind-hearted. Why should he trouble
himself over Vera Campbell, her despised niece, who is no better
than a servant to Ivy, her idolized daughter. She does not like the
look of it at all, and when Leslie hands the sobbing girl into the
carriage, and takes a seat by her side instead of Mrs. Cleveland's, the
matron's vexation rises into almost uncontrollable rage. Biting her
lips fiercely, she resolves that as soon as they reach home she will
give the young man a broad hint to cease his little kindnesses in that
quarter.
The occasion comes very soon. It is almost dark when they reach home.
The gas is lighted and a cheerful fire glows in the luxurious parlor.
Mr. Noble leads his passive companion deliberately in, and installs her
in a cushioned seat before the fire. With deft fingers he removes the
heavy veil and hat, the black shawl, and the wet gloves, and chafes in
his own warm clasp the half-frozen little fingers.
"Upon my word!" drawls a thin little voice, full of anger and surprise.
Mr. Leslie, glancing up, sees Ivy reclining on a couch, and regarding
the scene with supercilious surprise commingled with anger. Mrs.
Cleveland, who has followed them into the room, stands still, a mute
statue of rage and dismay.
"I--I should like to know the meaning of this, Mr. Noble," she gasps at
length, haughtily. "I do not allow that girl in my parlor! Let her go
to the servants' room. They are good enough for the likes of her."
Mr. Leslie turns his pale, handsome face round with an air of surprise.
"She is your sister's child," he says, with reproach in every tone of
his voice.
"Yes, to my sorrow," Mrs. Cleveland flashes out. "Add to that that she
is a pauper and an ingrate! Vera Campbell, get up and go to your own
room. _You_ ought to know your place if Mr. Noble does not!"
Vera rises silently, and standing still a moment, looks up into Leslie
Noble's face. The supreme moment of her triumph has arrived. With a
nervous tremor she looks up into his face for courage to sustain her in
the trying ordeal of the Clevelands' wrath before its vials are poured
out upon her shrinking head.
But the expression of the handsome, troubled face does not exactly
satisfy her. He is not looking at her. His eyes are fixed on Ivy
Cleveland's pretty face with its pink cheeks and turquoise-blue eyes.
There is tenderness, regret and trouble in the rather weak though
handsome face.
"Go, Vera," Mrs. Cleveland reiterates, sternly and impatiently.
Then Leslie's eyes fall on the slight, black-robed figure standing in
silent, proud humility by his side.
He stoops over her, not to caress her, as for a moment she vaguely
fancied, but to whisper in her ear:
"Do as she bids you this time, Vera. Go to your room and sleep soundly
to-night. I will have it out with her now, and in the morning I will
take you away."
She flashes one quick glance into his troubled eyes, bows her head, and
goes mutely from the room. But something in that look haunts Leslie
Noble ever after. It seemed to him as if those dark eyes said to him
plainer than words could speak: "You are a coward. Are you not afraid
to acknowledge your wife?" He is right. The look in her eyes has been
palpable contempt.
She goes from the room, but only to enter the room adjoining the
parlor, and conceal herself behind the heavy, dark-green hangings. So
this is the grand triumph her imagination has pictured for her. This is
the weak way in which her husband takes her part against the world.