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Three years glided by with Richard Shackford as swiftly as thoseperiods of time which are imagined to elapse between the acts of aplay. They were eventless, untroubled years, and have no history.Nevertheless, certain changes had taken place. Little by little Mr.Slocum had relinquished the supervision of the workshops to Richard,until now the affairs of the yard rested chiefly on his shoulders. Itwas like a dream to him when he looked directly back to his humblebeginning, though as he reflected upon it, and retraced his progressstep by step, he saw there was nothing illogical or astonishing inhis good fortune. He had won it by downright hard work and thefaithful exercise of a sufficing talent.
In his relations with Margaret, Richard's attitude had undergoneno appreciable change. Her chance visits to the studio through theweek and those pleasant, half-idle Saturday afternoons had become toboth Richard and Margaret a matter of course, like the sunlight, orthe air they breathed.
To Richard, Margaret Slocum at nineteen was simply a charming,frank girl,--a type of gracious young womanhood. He was conscious ofher influence; he was very fond of Margaret; but she had not yettaken on for him that magic individuality which makes a woman the onewoman in the world to her lover. Though Richard had scant experiencein such matters, he was not wrong in accepting Margaret as the typeof a class of New England girls, which, fortunately for New England,is not a small class. These young women for the most part lead quietand restricted lives so far as the actualities are concerned, butvery deep and full lives in the world of books and imagination, towhich they make early escapes. They have the high instincts that comeof good blood, the physique that naturally fits fine manners; andwhen chance takes one of these maidens from her island country homeor from some sleepy town on the sea-board, and sets her amid thecomplications of city existence, she is an unabashed and unassuminglady. If in Paris, she differs from the Parisiennes only in thegreater delicacy of her lithe beauty, her innocence which is notignorance, and her French pronunciation; if in London, she differsfrom English girls only in the matter of rosy cheeks and the risinginflection. Should none of these fortunate transplantings befall her,she always merits them by adorning with grace and industry andintelligence the narrower sphere to which destiny has assigned her.
Destiny had assigned Margaret Slocum to a very narrow sphere; ithad shut her up in an obscure New England manufacturing village, withno society, strictly speaking, and no outlets whatever to largeexperiences. To her father's affection, Richard's friendship, and herhousehold duties she was forced to look for her happiness. If lifeheld wider possibilities for her, she had not dreamed of them. Shelooked up to Richard with respect,--perhaps with a dash of sentimentin the respect; there was something at once gentle and virile in hischaracter which she admired and leaned upon; in his presence thesmall housekeeping troubles always slipped from her; but her heart,to use a pretty French phrase, had not consciously spoken,--possiblyit had murmured a little, incoherently, to itself, but it had notspoken out aloud, as perhaps it would have done long ago if animpediment had been placed in the way of their intimacy. With all hersubtler intuitions, Margaret was as far as Richard from suspectingthe strength and direction of the current with which they weredrifting. Freedom, habit, and the nature of their environmentconspired to prolong this mutual lack of perception. The hour hadsounded, however, when these two were to see each other in adifferent light.
One Monday morning in March, at the close of the three years inquestion, as Richard mounted the outside staircase leading to hisstudio in the extension, the servant-maid beckoned to him from thekitchen window.
Margaret had failed to come to the studio the previous Saturdayafternoon. Richard had worked at cross-purposes and returned to hisboarding-house vaguely dissatisfied, as always happened to him onthose rare occasions when she missed the appointment; but he hadthought little of the circumstance. Nor had he been disturbed onSunday at seeing the Slocum pew vacant during both services. Theheavy snow-storm which had begun the night before accounted for atleast Margaret's absence.
"Mr. Slocum told me to tell you that he shouldn't be in the yardto-day," said the girl. "Miss Margaret is very ill."
"Ill!" Richard repeated, and the smile with which he had leanedover the rail towards the window went out instantly on his lip.
"Dr. Weld was up with her until five o'clock this morning," saidthe girl, fingering the corner of her apron. "She's that low."
"What is the matter?"
"It's a fever."
"What kind of fever?"
"I don't mind me what the doctor called it. He thinks it come fromsomething wrong with the drains."
"He didn't say typhoid?"
"Yes, that's the name of it."
Richard ascended the stairs with a slow step, and a momentafterwards stood stupidly in the middle of the workshop. "Margaret isgoing to die," he said to himself, giving voice to the darkforeboding that had instantly seized upon him, and in a swift visionhe saw the end of all that simple, fortunate existence which he hadlived without once reflecting it could ever end. He mechanicallypicked up a tool from the table, and laid it down again. Then heseated himself on the low bench between the windows. It wasMargaret's favorite place; it was not four days since she sat therereading to him. Already it appeared long ago,--years and years ago.He could hardly remember when he did not have this heavy weight onhis heart. His life of yesterday abruptly presented itself to him asa reminiscence; he saw now how happy that life had been, and howlightly he had accepted it. It took to itself all that preciousquality of things irrevocably lost.
The clamor of the bell in the South Church striking noon, and theshrilling of the steam-whistle softened by the thick-falling snow,roused Richard from his abstraction. He was surprised that it wasnoon. He rose from the bench and went home through the storm,scarcely heeding the sleet that snapped in his face like whip-lashes.Margaret was going to die!
For four or five weeks the world was nearly a blank to RichardShackford. The insidious fever that came and went, bringing alternatedespair and hope to the watchers in the hushed room, was in his veinsalso. He passed the days between his lonely lodgings in Lime Streetand the studio, doing nothing, restless and apathetic by turns, butwith always a poignant sense of anxiety. He ceased to take anydistinct measurement of time further than to note that an interval ofmonths seemed to separate Monday from Monday. Meanwhile, if newpatterns had been required by the men, the work in the carvingdepartments would have come to a dead lock.
At length the shadow lifted, and there fell a day of soft Mayweather when Margaret, muffled in shawls and as white as death, wasseated once more in her accustomed corner by the west window. She hadinsisted on being brought there the first practicable moment; nowhereelse in the house was such sunshine, and Mr. Slocum himself hadbrought her in his arms. She leaned back against the pillows, smilingfaintly. Her fingers lay locked on her lap, and the sunlight showedthrough the narrow transparent palace. It was as if her hands werefull of blush-roses.
Richard breathed again, but not with so free a heart as before.What if she had died? He felt an immense pity for himself when hethought of that, and he thought of it continually as the days woreon.
Either a great alteration had wrought itself in Margaret, orRichard beheld her through a clearer medium during the weeks ofconvalescence that followed. Was this the slight, sharp-faced girl heused to know? The eyes and the hair were the same; but the smile wasdeeper, and the pliant figure had lost its extreme slimness without asacrifice to its delicacy. The spring air was filling her veins withabundant health, and mantling her cheeks with a richer duskiness thanthey had ever worn. Margaret was positively handsome. Her beauty hadcome all in a single morning, like the crocuses. This beauty began toawe Richard; it had the effect of seeming to remove her further andfurther from him. He grew moody and restless when they were together,and was wretched alone. His constraint did not escape Margaret. Shewatched him, and wondered at his inexplicable depression when everyone in the household was rejoicing in her recovery
. By and by thisdepression wounded her, but she was too spirited to show the hurt.She always brought a book with her now, in her visits to the studio;it was less awkward to read than to sit silent and unspoken to over apiece of needle-work.
"How very odd you are!" said Margaret, one afternoon, closing thevolume which she had held mutely for several minutes, waiting forRichard to grasp the fact that she was reading aloud.
"I odd!" protested Richard, breaking with a jerk from one of hislong reveries. "In what way?"
"As if I could explain--when you put the quotation suddenly, likethat."
"I didn't intend to be abrupt. I was curious to know. And then thecharge itself was a trifle unexpected, if you will look at it. Butnever mind," he added with a smile; "think it over, and tell meto-morrow."
"No, I will tell you now, since you are willing to wait."
"I wasn't really willing to wait, but I knew if I didn't pretendto be I should never get it out of you."
"Very well, then; your duplicity is successful. Richard, I waspuzzled where to begin with your oddities."
"Begin at the beginning."
"No, I will take the nearest. When a young lady is affable enoughto read aloud to you, the least you can do is to listen to her. Thatis a deference you owe to the author, when it happens to beHawthorne, to say nothing of the young lady."
"But I _have_ been listening, Margaret. Every word!"
"Where did I leave off?"
"It was where--where the"--and Richard knitted his brows in thevain effort to remember--"where the young daguerreotypist,what's-his-name, took up his residence in the House of the SevenGables."
"No, sir! You stand convicted. It was ten pages further on. Thelast words were,"--and Margaret read from the book,--
"'Good-night, cousin,' said Phoebe, strangely affected byHepsibah's manner. 'If you being to love me, I am glad.'"
"There, sir! what do you say to that?"
Richard did not say anything, but he gave a guilty start, and shota rapid glance at Margaret coolly enjoying her triumph.
"In the next place," she continued soberly, after a pause, "Ithink it very odd in you not to reply to me,--oh, not now, for ofcourse you are without a word of justification; but at other times.Frequently, when I speak to you, you look at me so," making a vacantlittle face, "and then suddenly disappear,--I don't mean bodily, butmentally."
"I am no great talker at best," said Richard with a helpless air."I seldom speak unless I have something to say."
"But other people do. I, for instance."
"Oh, you, Margaret; that is different. When you talk I don't muchmind what you are talking about."
"I like a neat, delicate compliment like that!"
"What a perverse girl you are to-day!" cried Richard. "You won'tunderstand me. I mean that your words and your voice are so pleasantthey make anything interesting, whether it's important or not."
"If no one were to speak until he had something important tocommunicate," observed Margaret, "conversation in this world wouldcome to a general stop." Then she added, with a little ironicalsmile, "Even you, Richard, wouldn't be talking all the time."
Formerly Margaret's light sarcasms, even when the struck himpoint-blank, used to amuse Richard, but now he winced at being merelygrazed.
Margaret went on: "But it's not a bit necessary to be circular orinstructive--with me. I am interested in trivial matters,--in theweather, in my spring hat, in what you are going to do next, and thelike. One must occupy one's self with something. But you, Richard,nowadays you seem interested in nothing, and have nothing whatever tosay."
Poor Richard! He had a great deal to say, but he did not know how,nor if it were wise to breathe it. Just three little words, murmuredor whispered, and the whole conditions would be changed. With thosefateful words uttered, what would be Margaret's probable attitude,and what Mr. Slocum's? Though the line which formerly drew itselfbetween employer and employee had grown faint with time, it stillexisted in Richard's mind, and now came to the surface with greatdistinctness, like a word written in sympathetic ink. If he spoke,and Margaret was startled or offended, then there was an end to theirfree, unembarrassed intercourse,--perhaps an end to all intercourse.By keeping his secret in his breast he at least secured the present.But that was to risk everything. Any day somebody might come andcarry Margaret off under his very eyes. As he reflected on this, theshadow of John Dana, the son of the rich iron-manufacturer, etcheditself sharply upon Richard's imagination. Within the week young Danahad declared in the presence of Richard that "Margaret Slocum was anawfully nice little thing," and the Othello in Richard's blood hadbeen set seething. Then his thought glanced from John Dana to Mr.Pinkham and the Rev. Arthur Langly, both of whom were assiduousvisitors at the house. The former had lately taken to accompanyingMargaret on the piano with his dismal little flute, and the latterwas perpetually making a moth of himself about her class atSunday-school.
Richard stood with the edge of his chisel resting idly upon theplaster mold in front of him, pondering these things. Presently heheard Margaret's voice, as if somewhere in the distance, saying,--
"I have not finished yet, Richard."
"Go on," said Richard, falling to work again with a kind ofgalvanic action. "Go on, please."
"I have a serious grievance. Frankly, I am hurt by yourpreoccupation and indifference, your want of openness orcordiality,--I don't know how to name it. You are the only person whoseems to be unaware that I escaped a great danger a month ago. I amobliged to remember all the agreeable hours I have spent in thestudio to keep off the impression that during my illness you got usedto not seeing me, and that now my presence somehow obstructs yourwork and annoys you."
Richard threw his chisel on the bench, and crossed over to thewindow where Margaret was.
"You are as wrong as you can be," he said, looking down on herhalf-lifted face, from which a quick wave of color was subsiding; forthe abruptness of Richard's movement had startled her.
"I am glad if I am wrong."
"It is nearly an unforgivable thing to be as wide of the mark asyou are. Oh, Margaret, if you had died that time!"
"You would have been very sorry?"
"Sorry? No. That doesn't express it; one outlives mere sorrow. Ifanything had happened to you, I should never have got over it. Youdon't know what those five weeks were to me. It was a kind of deathto come to this room day after day, and not find you."
Margaret rested her eyes thoughtfully on the space occupied byRichard rather than on Richard himself, seeming to look through andbeyond him, as if he were incorporeal.
"You missed me like that?" she said slowly.
"I missed you like that."
Margaret meditated a moment. "In the first days of my illness Iwondered if you didn't miss me a little; afterwards everything wasconfused in my mind. When I tried to think, I seemed to be somebodyelse,--I seemed to be _you_ waiting for me here in the studio.Wasn't that singular? But when I recovered, and returned to my oldplace, I began to suspect I had been bearing your anxiety,--that Ihad been distressed by the absence to which you had grownaccustomed."
"I never got used to it, Margaret. It became more and moreunendurable. This workshop was full of--of your absence. There wasn'ta sketch or a cast or an object in the room that didn't remind me ofyou, and seem to mock at me for having let the most precious momentsof my life slip away unheeded. That bit of geranium in the glassyonder seemed to say with its dying breath, 'You have cared forneither of us as you ought to have cared; my scent and her goodnesshave been all one to you,--things to take or to leave. It was for nomerit of yours that she was always planning something to make lifesmoother and brighter for you. What had you done to deserve it? Howunselfish and generous and good she has been to you for years andyears! What would have become of you without her? She left me here onpurpose'--it's the geranium leaf that is speaking all the while,Margaret--'to say this to you, and to tell you that she was not halfappreciated; but now you have lost her.'"
As she leaned f
orward listening, with her lips slightly parted,Margaret gave an unconscious little approbative nod of the head.Richard's fanciful accusation of himself caused her a singular thrillof pleasure. He had never before spoken to her in just this fashion;the subterfuge which his tenderness had employed, the little detourit had made in order to get at her, was a novel species of flattery.She recognized the ring of a distinctly new note in his voice; but,strangely enough, the note lost its unfamiliarity in an instant.Margaret recognized that fact also, and as she swiftly speculate onthe phenomenon her pulse went one or two strokes faster.
"Oh, you poor boy!" she said, looking up with a laugh, and a flushso interfused that they seemed one, "that geranium took a great dealupon itself. It went quite beyond its instructions, which were simplyto remind you of me now and then. One day, while you were out,--theday before I was taken ill,--I placed the flowers on the desk there,perhaps with a kind of premonition that I was going away from you fora time."
"What if you had never come back?"
"I wouldn't think of that if I were you," said Margaret softly.
"But it haunts me,--that thought. Sometimes of a morning, after Iunlock the workshop door, I stand hesitating, with my hand on thelatch, as one might hesitate a few seconds before stepping into atomb. There were days last month, Margaret, when this chamber didappear to me like a tomb. All that was happy in my past seemed to lieburied here; it was something visible and tangible; I used to stealin and look upon it."
"Oh, Richard!"
"If you only knew what a life I led as a boy in my cousin's house,and what a doleful existence for years afterwards, until I found you,perhaps you would understand my despair when I saw everythingsuddenly slipping away from me. Margaret! the day your father broughtyou in here, I had all I could do not to kneel down at yourfeet"--Richard stopped short. "I didn't mean to tell you that," headded, turning towards the work-table. Then he checked himself, andcame and stood in front of her again. He had gone too far not to gofurther. "While you were ill I made a great discovery."
"What was that, Richard?"
"I discovered that I had been blind for two or three years."
"Blind?" repeated Margaret.
"Stone-blind. I discovered it by suddenly seeing--by seeing that Ihad loved you all the while, Margaret! Are you offended?"
"No," said Margaret, slowly; she was a moment finding her voice tosay it. "I--ought I to be offended?"
"Not if you are not!" said Richard.
"Then I am not. I--I've made little discoveries myself," murmuredMargaret, going into full mourning with her eyelashes.
But it was only for an instant. She refused to take her happinessshyly or insincerely; it was something too sacred. She was a trifleappalled by it, if the truth must be told. If Richard had scatteredhis love-making through the month of her convalescence, or if he hadmade his avowal in a different mood, perhaps Margaret might have methim with some natural coquetry. But Richard's tone and manner hadbeen such as to suppress any instinct of the kind. His declaration,moreover, had amazed her. Margaret's own feelings had been more orless plain to her that past month, and she had diligently disciplinedherself to accept Richard's friendship, since it seemed all he had togive. Indeed, it had seemed at times as if he had not even that.
When Margaret lifted her eyes to him, a second after herconfession, they were full of a sweet seriousness, and she had nothought of withdrawing the hands which Richard had taken, and washolding lightly, that she might withdraw them if she willed. She feltno impulse to do so, though as Margaret looked up she saw her fatherstanding a few paces behind Richard.
With an occult sense of another presence in the room, Richard,turned at the same instant.
Mr. Slocum had advanced two steps into the apartment, and had beenbrought to a dead halt by the surprising tableau in the embrasure ofthe window. He stood motionless, with an account-book under his arm,while a dozen expressions chased each other over his countenance.
"Mr. Slocum," said Richard, who saw that only one course lay opento him, "I love Margaret, and I have been telling her."
At that the flitting shadows on Mr. Slocum's face settled into onegrave look. He did not reply immediately, but let his glance wanderfrom Margaret to Richard, and back again to Margaret, slowlydigesting the fact. It was evident he had not relished it. Meanwhilethe girl had risen from the chair and was moving towards her father.
"This strikes me as very extraordinary," he said at last. "Youhave never given any intimation that such a feeling existed. How longhas this been going on?"
"I have always been fond of Margaret, sir; but I was not aware ofthe strength of the attachment until the time of her illness, whenI--that is, we--came near to losing her."
"And you, Margaret?"
As Mr. Slocum spoke he instinctively put one arm around Margaret,who had crept closely to his side.
"I don't know when I began to love Richard," said Margaret simply.
"You don't know!"
"Perhaps it was while I was ill; perhaps it was long before that;may be my liking for him commenced as far back as the time he madethe cast of my hand. How can I tell, papa? I don't know."
"There appears to be an amazing diffusion of ignorance here!"
Margaret bit her lip, and kept still. Her father was taking it agreat deal more seriously than she had expected. A long, awkwardsilence ensued. Richard broke it at last by remarking uneasily,"Nothing has been or was to be concealed from you. Before going tosleep to-night, Margaret would have told you all I've said to her."
"You should have consulted with me before saying anything."
"I intended to do so, but my words got away from me. I hope youwill overlook it, sir, and not oppose my loving Margaret, though Isee as plainly as you do that I am not worthy of her."
"I have not said that. I base my disapproval on entirely differentground. Margaret is too young. A girl of seventeen or eighteen"--
"Nineteen," said Margaret, parenthetically.
"Of nineteen, then,--has no business to bother her head with suchmatters. Only yesterday she was a child!"
Richard glanced across at Margaret, and endeavored to recall heras she impressed him that first afternoon, when she knocked defiantlyat the workshop door to inquire if he wanted any pans and pails; buthe was totally unable to reconstruct that crude little figure withthe glossy black head, all eyes and beak, like a young hawk's.
"My objection is impersonal," continued Mr. Slocum. "I object tothe idea. I wish this had not happened. I might not have dislikedit--years hence; I don't say; but I dislike it now."
Richard's face brightened. "It will be years hence in a fewyears!"
Mr. Slocum replied with a slow, grave smile, "I am not going to beunreasonable in a matter where I find Margaret's happiness concerned;and yours, Richard, I care for that, too; but I'll have noentanglements. You and she are to be good friends, and nothingbeyond. I prefer that Margaret should not come to the studio sooften; you shall see her whenever you like at our fireside, of anevening. I don't think the conditions hard."
Mr. Slocum had dictated terms, but it was virtually a surrender.Margaret listened to him with her cheek resting against his arm, anda warm light nestled down deep under her eyelids.
Mr. Slocum drew a half-pathetic sigh. "I presume I have not donewisely. Every one bullies me. The Marble Workers' Association ruinsmy yard for me, and now my daughter is taken off my hands. By theway, Richard," he said, interrupting himself brusquely, and with anair of dismissing the subject, "I forgot what I came for. I've beenthinking over Torrini's case, and have concluded that you had bettermake up his account and discharge him."
"Certainly, sir," replied Richard, with a shadow of dissent in hismanner, "if you wish it."
"He causes a deal of trouble in the yard."
"I am afraid he does. Such a clean workman when he's sober!"
"But he is never sober."
"He has been in a bad way lately, I admit."
"His example demoralizes the men. I can see i
t day by day."
"I wish he were not so necessary at this moment," observedRichard. "I don't know who else could be trusted with the frieze forthe Soldiers' Monument. I'd like to keep him on a week or ten dayslonger. Suppose I have a plain talk with Torrini?"
"Surely we have enough good hands to stand the loss of one."
"For a special kind of work there is nobody in the yard likeTorrini. That is one reason why I want to hold on to him for a while,and there are other reasons."
"Such as what?"
"Well, I think it would not be wholly politic to break with himjust now."
"Why not now as well as any time?"
"He has lately been elected secretary of the Association."
"What of that?"
"He has a great deal of influence there."
"If we put him out of the works it seems to me he would lose hisimportance, if he really has any to speak of."
"You are mistaken if you doubt it. His position gives him a chanceto do much mischief, and he would avail himself of it very adroitly,if he had a personal grievance."
"I believe you are actually afraid of the fellow."
Richard smiled. "No, I am not afraid of him, but I don't underratehim. The men look up to Torrini as a sort of leader; he's aneffective speaker, and knows very well how to fan a dissatisfaction.Either he or some other disturbing element has recently been at workamong the men. There's considerable grumbling in the yard."
"They are always grumbling, aren't they?"
"Most always, but this is more serious than usual; there appearsto be a general stir among the trades in the village. I don'tunderstand it clearly. The marble workers have been holding secretmeetings."
"They mean business, you think?"
"They mean increased wages, perhaps."
"But we are now paying from five to ten per cent more than anytrade in the place. What are they after?"
"So far as I can gather, sir, the finishers and the slab-sawerswant an advance,--I don't know how much. Then there's some talk abouthaving the yard closed an hour earlier on Saturdays. All this ismerely rumor; but I am sure there is something in it."
"Confound the whole lot! If we can't discharge a drunken handwithout raising the pay of all the rest, we had better turn over theentire business to the Association. But do as you like, Richard. Yousee how I am bullied, Margaret. He runs everything! Come, dear."
And Mr. Slocum quitted the workshop, taking Margaret with him.Richard remained standing awhile by the table, in a deep study, withhis eyes fixed on the floor. He thought of his early days in thesepulchral house in Welch's Court, of his wanderings abroad, his longyears of toil since then, and this sudden blissful love that had cometo him, and Mr. Slocum's generosity. Then he thought of Torrini, andwent down into the yard gently to admonish the man, for Richard'sheart that hour was full of kindness for all the world.
The Stillwater Tragedy Page 10
