her in Paris she was still young and handsome, with superb eyes and a
kind of eastern tread. You could imagine her, when she did not speak, as
Semiramis, Medea, Clytemnestra! Except that when you saw a little more
of her, you felt that she was only a heroine of a cheap theater. Wharton
could not have been fascinated by her, if, at that time of his life, he
had ever known a refined woman or mixed at all in the world; but she
certainly had a gypsy charm, and seemed to carry oceans of Sahara and
caravans of camels about with her. When she was in one of her furies, it
was an echo of the whole Greek drama. This, you must recollect, was ten
years ago, and even then she was spoiled by being coarse and
melodramatic, but now she is a horror. She suggests nothing but the
penitentiary. When she saw that there were three of us, she flew into a
whirlwind of passion, and screamed French that I was glad to find I
could not wholly understand. Her dialect must come from the worst class
of Parisian thieves. I should have been glad to understand less than I
did. Every now and then she interrupted this Billingsgate, and seemed to
think that her dignity required a loftier style, and she poured out on
us whole pages of cheap melodrama. She began by flinging her fur cap and
cloak on the floor and striking a stage attitude. She wanted to know
who we were; by what right did we mix ourselves in this affair and come
between a villain and his victim! Then she turned on Wharton and began
gesticulating and throwing herself into contortions like a Maenad,
repeating again and again that he was her husband, an 'infâme,' a
'lâche,' and that she would take his life if she were not given her
rights. She drew herself up in all her height, and growled in her
deepest voice: 'Je vais t'écr-r-r-raser!' Then she changed her tone and
sobbed violently that on second thoughts she preferred to kill herself,
and finally tore a small stage dagger from her breast and proposed to
kill us all and herself too."
"How many did she manage in the end?" asked Mr. Dudley.
"How did Mr. Wharton bear it?" asked Esther.
"Wharton stood it very well," replied Hazard. "He was sitting near her,
and now and then she made a rush at him as though she really meant to
strike him. He never moved, or spoke, or took his eyes away from her. I
think he was overcome by association; he thought himself back in Paris
ten years ago."
"Doubtless this excellent woman has faults, owing to a defective
education," said Mr. Dudley with his usual dry, half-smile. "We must
make allowances for them. I am more curious to know whether she got the
better of my astute brother-in-law."
"Mr. Murray took an unfair advantage over her," said Hazard. "He had
taken the precaution to post a police officer in the next room, and
after the woman had exhausted herself, and I think too had worn off the
effects of the brandy she reeked with, he told her that she would go
instantly to the police station if she did not behave herself. I think
her imagination must have taught her that an American police station
might be something very terrible, for in a few minutes she quieted down
and was only eager for money."
"I suppose Murray means to terrify this poor creature into a sacrifice
of her rights?" said Mr. Dudley.
"Wharton will have to settle an annuity on her, in order to get her back
to Europe and keep her there. In return, she has got to consent to a
divorce. Mr. Murray insists on this as his first condition. Wharton
began to say that she was his wife, and that he was bound to take care
of her, until at last Mr. Murray told him to take himself off or he
would have no more to do with the case. So the woman, on receiving some
money on the spot, consents to deal with Mr. Murray directly, on his
terms, and Wharton leaves town till the papers are drawn up and the
woman packed off. He has had a shock which will prevent his working for
some time."
"He may not feel like painting saints," said Mr. Dudley, "but I should
think he was in good form for painting sinners. Is there no room for a
Jezebel in your portrait gallery?"
Mr. Dudley was too weak for late hours and Hazard went away early. As he
went he said he would come again to tell them the next chapter, if there
was one.
"Be quick about it!" said Mr. Dudley. "I am like the Sultan who cut off
his wives' heads because they would not tell him stories fast enough. It
is not convenient for me to wait."
To Esther this evening was the last when the stars shone bright and
clear. The next morning her glimpse of blue sky had vanished and the
rigor of the storm began.
She was waked by the news that in the night her father had been seized
by another paroxysm, and that although better, he was excessively weak.
He had forbidden his attendants to call her, on the cool calculation
that he should probably pull through this attack, and that she would
need all her strength for the next. When Esther came down to his room,
she found him in a state of complete prostration, so that his doctors
had forbidden him to speak or even to listen. They no longer talked with
him, but gave their orders to her, and she took charge of the sick-room
at once with all its responsibilities and fatigues. After a consultation
of very few moments, the physicians told her plainly that there was no
hope; her father might linger a short time, but any sudden emotion would
kill him on the spot.
During the day he rallied a little and in the evening was stronger.
Esther, who had been all day in his room, rested till midnight and then
took her regular watch by his side. She knew that there was no hope and
that her father himself was only anxious for the end, yet to see him
suffer and slowly fade out was terrible. At such moments, tears are
forbidden. Esther had been told that she must not give way to
agitation, under the risk of killing her father, who lay dozing,
half-conscious, with his face turned towards her. Whenever his eyes
opened they rested on hers. In the dim light she watched his motions,
and it seemed to her that he was also watching hers. She wondered
whether he could feel stronger because she was near him. Was he afraid?
He, who had never to her knowledge shrunk from any danger, and who in
the army had shown reckless indifference even when he supposed his
wounds to be mortal, was now watching her as though he feared to have
her leave his side. In his extreme weakness, unable to lift his head,
his mind evidently beginning to wander, perhaps he felt the need of her
companionship, and dreaded solitude and death as she did. For half the
night she pondered over this weakening of the will in the face of
omnipotence crushing out the last spark of life, and was doubly startled
when, the nurse coming to relieve her at six o'clock, she leaned over to
kiss her father's forehead and found him looking at her in his old
humorous way, while, in a low whisper, speaking slowly, as though he
would not yield to the enemy that clutched his heart, he said:
"It's not so bad, Esther, when you come to it."
The tears started into Esther's eyes. It was only with an effort more
violent than she had thought was in her power, that she forced herself
to smile. Now that she had come to it, she thought it was very bad;
worse than any thing she had ever imagined; she wanted to escape, to run
away, to get out of life itself, rather than suffer such pain, such
terror, such misery of helplessness; but after an instant's pause, her
father whispered again, though his voice died away in weakness:
"Laugh, Esther, when you're in trouble! Say something droll! then you're
safe. I saw the whole regiment laugh under fire at Gettysburg."
This was more than she could bear, and she had to hurry out of the room.
She had fancied him yielding to fear and finding courage in her
companionship. Suddenly she became aware that, with death's hand on his
throat and a brain reeling in exhaustion, he was trying to teach her how
to meet what life had to bring. The lesson was one she could not easily
forget.
So she went to her bed, in the cold, gray dawn of a winter's day, with
the tears still running down her face. When she woke again the day was
already waning, a dripping, wasting thaw, when smoking and soot-defiled
snow added sadness to the sad sky. Esther, on opening her eyes, saw
Catherine sitting quietly before the fire, reading, or pretending to
read. She was keeping guard lest Esther should be disturbed.
"He is no worse," she said, when Esther raised her head. "I was at his
door five minutes ago. Mrs. Murray is there and so is the doctor. You
are not wanted and they sent word that you were not to be disturbed."
Esther was glad to lie still a few minutes and collect her strength. It
was pleasant to look at Catherine, the healthiest and most cheery of
girls, after having under one's eyes a long night of terror.
"Professor Strong has been here this morning and I saw him," ran on
Catherine. "He sent for me because he would not have you disturbed. He
got back from St. Louis last night, and will come round here again this
afternoon. Mr. Hazard has been here, too, and says he shall stop again
in the evening."
This report required no answer. Esther felt the stronger for knowing
that her friends were at her side, and that she could count on their
help. Catherine ran on in the same vein.
"Mr. Hazard says that Mr. Wharton has left town and will not return
until Mr. Murray sends for him. I think he might have left some message
for me, to ask me to be true to him or something, but Mr. Hazard says he
just went off to Boston without a word to any body. I have more than
half a mind to desert him and go back to Colorado."
"If you leave me now, Catherine--"
"Oh! I don't mean to leave you, but I must earn my living. Let me take
my watch with your father to-night! You will think you have struck a
professional."
Esther refused, but Catherine did rather more than her share of work
notwithstanding, and more than once Mr. Dudley, opening his eyes, found
her at the head of his bed and greeted her with a faint smile.
He passed the day without much sign of change. Esther was repeatedly
called from his side to see persons whom she could not send away. Her
aunt was with her till night. Strong came in and sat with her while she
tried to dine. So long as day-light lasted she felt no sense of
loneliness or desertion, and her courage remained fairly steady; but
when she had sent home her aunt and cousin in order to begin her watch
earlier than the previous night, her fears returned, her heart sank, and
she begged Catherine to stay with her. The two girls began their watch
together. Mr. Dudley seemed pleased to have them with him.
Presently a nurse came with a message that Mr. Hazard was below, and had
asked to see Esther for a moment. Mr. Dudley overheard the message, and
whispered to his daughter:
"Tell him I am sorry not to see him! Say I am just going out!"
He spoke dreamily, as though half asleep, and Esther, as she leaned over
him, trying to catch his words, doubted whether he was quite conscious.
He muttered a few more words: "I won't interfere, but the church--." She
caught no more, and he dozed off again into silence. After watching him
a few moments, Esther beckoned to Catherine to take her chair, and
slipped out of the room. She wanted to see Hazard, for, strange as it
seemed to her, he had become her most intimate friend, and she could not
send him away at such a moment.
She found him at the foot of the stairs, and there they remained
standing for a few moments, talking in low tones, by the light of a dim
gas-burner.
"I want to help you," he said. "I am used to such scenes and you are
not. You need help though you may not ask for it."
She shook her head: "I am a miserable coward," she said; "but we are
beyond help now, and I must learn endurance."
"You will over-tax your strength," he urged. "Remember, there is no
excitement so great as to stand for the first time in face of eternity,
as you are doing."
"I suppose it must be so," she answered. "Every thing seems unreal. I
can't even realize my father's illness. Your voice sounds far-off, as
though you were calling to me out of the distance and darkness. I hardly
know what we are saying, or why we are here. I never felt so before."
"It is over-excitement and fatigue," he replied soothingly. "Do you
feel afraid, too?"
"Terribly!" she answered; "I want to run away. But I think death excites
almost more than it frightens. My father laughs at it even now."
"I am more concerned about you," continued Hazard. "I can do nothing for
him, and you may feel sure that for him all the worst is over. Will you
let me stay here on the chance of your needing help?"
"I have already sent away my aunt and George Strong," she said. "Do not
feel alarmed about me. Women have more strength than men."
As he left the house, he thought to himself that this woman at least had
more strength than most men. He could not forget her pale face, or her
dreamy voice and far-off eyes as she had told him her feelings. Most
women would have asked him for religious help and consolation. She had
gently put his offers aside. She seemed to him like a wandering soul,
lost in infinite space, but still floating on, with her quiet air of
confidence as though she were a part of nature itself, and felt that all
nature moved with her.
"I almost think," said Hazard to himself, "that she could give a lesson
in strength to me. It seems rather unnecessary, my offering to give one
to her."
Yet Esther felt little like giving strength to any one. As she returned
to the sick-room and slipped back into the chair which Catherine
quitted, the image of Hazard faded from her mind, and the idea that he
could help her, except by his sympathy and friendship, never entered it.
After a time her father opened his eyes again and looked at her. She
bent over him, and he whispered: "Give me your hand!" She took his hand,
and for some time he lay with his eyes open, as though watching her. She
could only wonder what was in his mind; perhaps disconnected dreams with
intervals of partial consciousness, as now, followed by more vague
visions and hurrying phantasms; but she imagined that he had meant not
so much to ask for the strength of her hand as to give her die will and
courage of his own, and she felt only the wish that he might not doubt
her answer to the call. Although he soon dozed again, she did not alter
her position, but sat hour after hour, only making way for the nurse
who came to give him stimulants which had less and less effect. Her
watch ended at two o'clock, when she sent Catherine to bed, but remained
herself until the gray dawn had passed and the sun was high in the
heavens. She meant her father to know, as long as he knew any thing,
that her hand was in his. Not until the doctor assured her that he was
no longer conscious, did her long walk into the shadow of death at last
end. When Mrs. Murray came, she found Esther still there, her face paler
than ever, with dark rings round her eyes, and looking worn and old. As
she spoke, her eyes constantly filled with tears, and her nerves were
strung up to a tension which made her aunt promptly intervene and insist
on her taking rest. Esther obeyed like a worn-out child.
So died William Dudley, and was buried under the ice and snow of winter,
while his daughter went on alone to meet the buffets of life. It was in
the first days of February that Esther looked about her and seemed to
feel that the world had changed. She said to herself that youth was
gone. What was she to do with middle-life? At twenty-six to be alone,
with no one to interpose as much as a shadow across her path, was a
strange sensation; it made her dizzy, as though she were a solitary bird
flying through mid-air, and as she looked ahead on her aërial path,
could see no tie more human than that which bound her to Andromeda and
Orion.
To this moral strain was added the reaction from physical fatigue. For a
week or two after her father's death, Esther felt languid, weary and
listless. She could not sleep. A voice, a bar of music, the sight of any
thing unusual, affected her deeply. She could not get back to her
regular interests. First came the funeral with its inevitable depression
and fatigue; then came days of vacancy, with no appetite for work and no
chance for amusement. She took refuge in trifles, but the needle and
scissors are terrible weapons for cutting out and trimming not so much
women's dresses as their thoughts. She had never been a reader, and
perhaps for that reason her mind had all the more run into regions of
fancy and imagination. She caught half an idea in the air, and tossed it
for amusement. In these days of unrest she tossed her ideas more rapidly
than ever. Most women are more or less mystical by nature, and Esther
had a vein of mysticism running through a practical mind.
The only person outside her family whom she saw was Hazard. He was
either at the house or in some way near her almost every day. He took
charge of the funeral services, and came to make inquiries, to bring
messages, or to suggest an occupation, until he was looked upon as one
of the household. Once or twice, the week after the funeral, he came in
the evening, and asked for a cup of tea. Then Catherine sat by and dozed
while Esther talked mysticism with Hazard, who was himself a mystic of
the purest water. By this time Esther had learned to look on the
physical life, the daily repetition of breakfast and dinner, as the
unreal part of existence, and apologized to herself for conceding so
much to habit, or put it down to Catherine's account. Her illusions were
not serious; perhaps she had for this short instant a flash of truth,
and by the light of her father's deathbed, saw life as it is; but, while
the mood lasted, nothing seemed real except the imagination, and nothing
true but the spiritual. In this atmosphere Hazard was always happy, for
he reveled in the voluptuousness of poetry, and found peace in the soul
of a dandelion; but to share his subtlest fancies with a woman who could
understand and feel them, was to reach a height of poetry that trembled
on the verge of realizing heaven. His great eyes shone with the radiance
of paradise, and his delicate thin features expressed beatitude, as he
discussed with Esther the purity of the soul, the victory of spirit over
matter, and the peace of infinite love.
Of her regular occupations Esther kept up only such as were duties, but
among them she was true to her little hospital, and went once or twice a
week to see the children who clamored for her visits. She went alone,
for she liked solitude, and was glad to give Catherine an excuse for
escaping to gayer houses and seeing brighter society. About a fortnight
after her father's death, one Saturday afternoon when she felt more
solitary than ever, and more restless because her long quiet had begun
to bring back her strength, she went to the hospital where the children
welcomed her with delight. She took her old seat and looked through the
yellow eyes of the fire-dogs for inspiration; opened a package and
distributed small presents, little Japanese umbrellas, fans, doll's
shoes and such small change of popularity; and, at last, obeying the
cries for more story, she went on with the history of Princess Lovely in
her Cocoanut Island, besieged by whales and defended by talking
elephants and monkeys. She had hardly begun when the door opened and
again Mr. Hazard entered. This time Esther blushed.
Hazard sat down, and finding that she soon tired of story-telling, he
took it up, and gave a chapter of his own which had wild success, so
that the children begged for more and more, until five o'clock was past
and twilight coming on. As Esther was on foot, Mr. Hazard said he would
see her to her door, and they walked away together.
"Do you know that Wharton has come back?" said he as they reached the
street. "His affair is settled; the woman sailed yesterday for Europe,
and he is to have a divorce. Your uncle has managed it very well."
"Will Mr. Wharton go to work again at the church?" asked Esther.
"He begins at once. He asked me to find out for him whether you would
begin with him."
"Did he say whether he wanted me or Catherine?" asked Esther with a
laugh.
Hazard laughed in reply. "I think myself he would be satisfied to get
Miss Brooke, but you must not underrate your own merits. He wants you
both."
"I am afraid he must give us up," said Esther, with a little sigh.
"Certainly I can't come, and if he wants Catherine, he will have to come
himself and get her; but he will find Catherine not easy to get."
They discussed Wharton and his affairs till they reached Esther's house,
and she said: "It is not yet six o'clock. I can give you a cup of tea if
you will come in?"
She could not do less than offer him this small hospitality, and
yet--Catherine was not at home. They went up to the library, and Esther
ordered tea to be brought. She took off her bonnet and cloak, and threw
them on a chair. She sat down before the fire, and he stood on the
hearth-rug looking at her while she made tea in the twilight. At this
moment he was more hopelessly in love than any other Church of England
clergyman within the diocese of New York.
"What are then your plans for the future?" he asked, after they had
chatted for some time on the subject of Esther's painting. "If you will
not return to help us, what do you look forward to doing?"
"I want to take Catherine and go abroad," answered Esther. "If I can get
my uncle and aunt to go, we shall start in the spring."
At this announcement Hazard seemed to receive a shock. He turned
suddenly to her, his eyes sparkling with passion: "Take me with you!
What shall I do without you!" He seized her hand and poured out a
torrent of broken protests: "I love you with all my heart and soul!
Don't leave me alone in this horrible city! I shall die of disgust if
you desert me! You are the only woman I ever loved! Ah! You must love
me!"
Esther, trembling, bewildered, carried away by this sudden and violent
attack, made at first a feeble effort to withdraw her hand and to gasp a
protest, but the traitor within her own breast was worse than the enemy
without. For the moment all her wise resolutions were swept away in a
wave of tenderness; she seemed to come suddenly on a summer sea,
sparkling with hope and sunshine, the dreary sand-banks of her old life
vanishing like a dream. She shut her eyes and found herself in his arms.
Then in terror at what she had done, she tried again to draw back.
"No, no!" she said rapidly, trying to free herself. "You must not love
me! You must let me go!"
"I love you! I adore you! I will never let you go!"
"You must! You do not know what you are doing! Ah! Let me go!"
"Tell me first that you love me!"
"No, no! I am not good enough for you. You must love some one who has
her heart in your work."
"Tell me that you love me!" repeated Hazard.
"You do not know me! You must not love me! I shall ruin your life! I
shall never satisfy you!"
Hazard caressed her only the more tenderly as he answered with the
self-confidence which he put into all he did: "If my calling is so poor
a thing that it cannot satisfy both our lives, I will have nothing more
to do with it. I have more faith in us both. Promise to love me and I
will take care of the rest."
"Ah!" gasped Esther, carried away by her own feelings and the vehemence
of his love: "I am getting in deeper and deeper! What shall I do? Do not
make me promise!"
"Then I will promise for both!" he said; and poor Esther ceased to
struggle.
The same evening at dinner, Mrs. Murray remarked to her husband that she
was becoming more and more uneasy about Esther's intimacy with Mr.
Hazard.
"People are talking about it," she said. "It is really becoming a matter
of public discussion."
"Do you suppose she would accept him?" asked Mr. Murray.
"How can I tell? She would say no, and then very likely do it. She is in
the worst sort of a state of mind for an offer of that kind."
"Poor Dudley will rise from his grave," said Mr. Murray.
"He warned me to prevent such a match if I saw it coming," said Mrs.
Murray; "but he did nothing to prevent it himself. He thought Esther was
going to be very unhappy, and would make some such mistake. I would
interfere, but it will only make matters worse. The thing has gone too
far now."
"Take her away," said Mr. Murray.
"Where to? If you will go to Europe in the spring, we will take her over
and leave her there with Catherine, but she may be married by that
time."
"Give her a lecture," said Mr. Murray. "Show her that she is making a
stupendous blunder!"
"Better show him!" said Mrs. Murray with a little resentment. "The
blunder will be worse for him than for her."
"Explain it to her!" said he. "She has sense. Esther is a good girl, and
I won't stand by and see her throw herself away on a church. I will
speak to her myself if you don't."
"A nice piece of work you would make of it!" rejoined his wife. "No! If
it is to be done, I suppose I must do it, but she will hate me all her
life."