There comes a time in human affairs, whether of nations or individuals,
when a dull exhausted calm appears to fall upon them--a period of
repose, a lull after the excitement of hurried events, a pause in which
to draw breath for the renewal of the story. Grateful are these
interludes, and necessary for the preservation of true equipoise, but
they are not interesting, and in novels all description of them is
carelessly skipped over. In stories we want events, not lingerings.
The summer passed quietly for the family at Lanarth, broken only by the
usual social happenings, visits from the "Byrd girls," as they were
still called, with their husbands and little ones; a marriage, a
christening, letters from Jim and Susie, and measles among the little
Garnetts. In August, Pocahontas and her mother went for a month to
Piedmont, Virginia, to try the medicinal waters for the latter's
rheumatism, and after their return home, Berkeley took a holiday and
ran up to the Adirondacks to see Blanche.
Poor Mrs. Smith did not rally as her family had hoped, and the
physicians--as is customary when a case baffles their skill--all
recommended further and more complete change. They must take her
abroad, and try what the excitement of foreign travel would do toward
preventing her from sinking into confirmed invalidism. General Smith,
who had abandoned every care and interest for the purpose of devoting
himself to his wife, embraced the proposal with eagerness, and insisted
on the experiment being tried as speedily as possible.
Blanche could not help some murmurs, both inwardly and to Berkeley, at
the long separation in store for them; and the lover, although himself
a little rueful, heartened her up with bright prophecies for their
future. An immediate marriage for them was out of the question, for
since Warner's death Mrs. Smith clung to her younger daughter with
absolute dependence. The last of September was decided on for sailing,
as that would allow General Smith time to enter Percival at school, and
to complete other necessary arrangements before the family departure.
The management of Shirley would remain in Berkeley's hands, and the
house would continue closed until the return of the travelers.
To Nesbit Thorne, the summer had appeared interminable, and every
golden hour had been shod with lead. He had passed the season partly
in the Adirondacks with his relatives and partly in New York; but he
was always oppressed with the same miserable unrest, the same weary
longing. It would appear, at times, impossible for him to hold to his
resolution of waiting until after the re-marriage of his _ci-devant_
wife, before again seeking Pocahontas. He yearned to be with her, to
hold her hands, and gaze into her eyes, so intensely at times, that it
required the utmost exertion of his will to prevent himself from
boarding the first southward-bound train. He was forced continually to
remind himself that if he should yield to the impulse, he would be
guilty of egregious folly--having waited so long, he could surely wait
a few weeks longer. Ethel's marriage would dissipate every shadow of a
tie between them, and with that fact fully established, Pocahontas
_must_ hear him.
In deference to Cumberland prejudice, Mrs. Thorne's marriage had been
deferred until September--to that lady's great annoyance. She saw no
reason for delay, nor any necessity for humoring the Cumberland
old-fogyism, and in delicate ambiguous terms she conveyed this opinion
to her lover, and discovered, to her surprise and indignation, that he
disagreed with her. Some concession was due to the feelings of his
family, and he did not wish to be hurried; on this ground, he
intrenched himself and defied the world to move him. When Cecil made a
point, he held to it with the obstinacy characteristic of mediocrity,
and Ethel, not being exactly in a position to dictate, and requiring
moreover some portion of the Cumberland countenance, was forced to
acquiesce.
Some weeks before the day appointed for her marriage, Ethel removed
herself and her belongings to the house of a poor and plastic aunt, who
was in the habit of allowing herself to be run into any mold her niece
should require. According to their agreement, Ethel gave her whilom
husband due notice of her plans, and Thorne at once removed the child
to Brooklyn, and placed him under the care of a sister of his father's,
a gentle elderly widow who had known sorrow. His house he put in the
hands of an agent to rent or sell, furnished, only removing such
articles as had belonged to his parents. The house was hateful to him,
and he felt that should the beautiful, new life of which he dreamed
ever dawn for him, it must be set amid different surroundings from
those which had framed his matrimonial failure.
Still in deference to the Cumberland prejudice, the re-marriage of
Ethel Thorne took place very quietly. It was a morning wedding, graced
only by the presence of a few indifferent relatives, and a small crowd
of curious friends. The two Misses Cumberland, handsome, heavy-browed
women, after much discussion in the family bosom, and some fraternal
persuasion, had allowed themselves to be seduced into attending the
obnoxious nuptials, and shedding the light of the family countenance
upon the ill-doing pair. Very austere and forbidding they looked as
they seated themselves, reprobatively, in a pew far removed from the
chancel, and their light was no better than the veriest darkness.
Twelve hours after the marriage had been published to the world,
another marked paper was speeding southward, addressed this time to
Pocahontas, and accompanied by a thick, closely written, letter.
Thorne had decided that it would be better to send a messenger before,
this time, to prepare the way for him. In his letter Thorne touched
but lightly on the point at issue between them, thinking it better to
take it for granted that her views had modified, if not changed. The
strength of his cause lay in his love, his loneliness, his yearning
need of her. On these themes he dwelt with all the eloquence of which
he was master, and the letter closed with a passionate appeal, in which
he poured out the long repressed fire of his love: "My darling, tell me
I may come to you--or rather tell me nothing; I will understand and
interpret your silence rightly. You are proud, my beautiful love, and
in all things I will spare you--in all things be gentle to you; in all
things, save this--I can not give you up--I _will_ not give you up. I
will wait here for another week, and if I do not hear from you, I will
start for Virginia at once--with joy and pride and enduring
thankfulness."
Pocahontas took the paper to her mother's room, the letter she put
quietly away. She would answer it, but not yet; at night--when the
house should be quiet she would answer it.
The lines containing the brief announcement were at the head of the
list:
MARRIED.
"CUMBERLAND-THORNE.--At the church of the Holy Trinity, September 21st,
18--, by the Rev. John Sylvestus, Cecil Cumberland to Ethel Ross
Thorne; both of this city."
Mrs. Mason laid the paper on the little stand beside her chair. "My
daughter," she said, looking up at the girl seriously, "this can make
no difference."
"No, mother," very quietly, "no difference; but I thought you ought to
know."
In her own room, at night, when the house was still, the girl sat with
the letter in her lap thinking. The moonlight poured in through the
open window and made a map on the floor, whereon slender shadows traced
rivers, mountains and boundaries. In the trees outside, the night
insects chirped, and bats darted and circled in the warm air.
If only she could think that this made a difference. She was so weary
of the struggle. The arguments which formerly sustained her had, with
ceaseless iteration, lost their force; her battle-worn mind longed to
throw down its arms in unconditional surrender. Her up-bringing had
been so different; this thing was not regarded by the world in the same
light as it appeared to her; was she over-strained, opinionated,
censorious? Nesbit had called her so--was he right? Who was _she_, to
set up her feeble judgment against the world's verdict--to condemn and
criticise society's decision? Divorce must be--even Scripture allowed
that; a limb must be sacrificed sometimes that a life might be saved.
True, the process had always appeared to her, in her ignorance, an
operation of cruel anguish, from which the patient came halt, or lame,
or blind for life; but what if she should be wrong? What if the
present crab-like propensity for the renewal of the missing part was
the natural and sensible condition. This wicked woman--this wife who
had recklessly thrown aside life's choicest gift--was happy; she had
replaced her lopped-off limb with a new one, and it was well with her.
Norma had said long ago that, "any woman who trifled with her happiness
because of a scruple was a fool." Was Norma right? Was her hesitation
senseless, doltish folly?
The boundaries of the moonlight shifted; a long irregular cape, like a
shining finger, stretched out across the floor and touched the hem of
her dress. From behind the screen in the fireplace came a little
sound, as though a mouse were rustling fragments of torn paper.
If she could only recognize that this marriage _had_ made a difference.
It was so wearisome, this strife with a heart that would not admit
defeat, a love that fought on and would not die. What was required of
her?--nothing; nothing save to sit with folded hands and let happiness
flood her life like sunshine--only to lay away the letter in her desk
and wait silently for her lover to come to her. Her lover--the man
whose influence had changed the monotonous calm of existence into the
pulsing passion of living--the man who loved her; whom she loved. No
words were needed--only silence; he was so thoughtful for her, so
anxious to spare her; only silence, and in a little while his arms
would infold her; his beautiful eyes, heavy with tenderness, gaze deep
into hers; his sweet, passionate kisses burn upon her lips.
The radiant finger stole softly up her dress, across her lap, and made
a little pool of brightness in the heart of which the letter lay;
outside in the dove-cote a pigeon cooed sleepily to his mate.
What was that tale of long ago that was coming strangely back to her?
A girl, one whom they all knew and loved, had been separated from her
husband after several years of misery, bravely borne. Her husband had
been a confirmed drunkard, and in his cups was as one possessed with
devils. They had grieved over Clare, and when her husband's brutality
grew such that her brother interfered and insisted on her procuring a
divorce for the protection of herself and her children, they had felt
that it was right; and while they deplored the necessity, they had
sided with Clare throughout. But when, two years later, wedding cards
had come from Clare, from some place in the West, whither she had moved
with her children; it had been a grievous shock, for the drunkard still
lived. It had seemed a strange and monstrous thing, and their judgment
had been severe--their censure scathing. Poor Clare! She understood
her temptation better now. Poor little Clare!
What was it Jim had said? The men had been guarded in the expression
of their opinion before her; they were fastidious in conversation
before women. This, he had said in an under-tone to Berkeley, but she
had caught it, and caught also the scorn of the hazel eye, and knew
that the lip curled under the brown mustache. He had said--"To a woman
of innate purity the thing would be impossible. There is a coarseness
in the situation which is revolting."
What would he think of her? She was weighing the matter--canvassing
its possibility. Was her nature deteriorating? Was she growing
coarser, less pure? Would her old friend, whose standard was so high,
despise her? Would she be lowered in the eyes of those whose influence
and opinions had, heretofore, molded her life? The associations of
years are not uprooted and cast aside in days or in months.
Responsibilities engendered by the past environed her, full-grown,
comprehensible, insistent; responsibilities which might be engendered
by the future, lay in her mind a tiny germ in which the embryo life had
scarcely begun to stir. The duty to the old life seemed to her plain
and clear; a beaten track along which she might safely travel. The
duty to another life which might, in time, be equally plain and clear,
was now a bewildering mist through which strange shapes passed, like
phantasmagoria. She could not think; her mind was benumbed; right and
wrong, apparently, had changed places and commingled so, that, for the
time, their identity was confused, indistinguishable: she could not
guide herself, as yet; she could only hold blindly to the old supports.
The silver finger had lifted itself from her lap and rested on her
breast, forming a shining pathway from her heart, through the open
window, out into the silence and beauty of the night.