by Myrtle Reed
IV
The Seventh of June
Barbara sat by the old chest which held her completed work, frowningprettily over a note-book in her lap. She was very methodical, and, insome inscrutable way, things had become mixed. She kept track of everyyard of lace and linen and every spool of thread, for, it was evident,she must know the exact cost of the material and the amount of timespent on a garment before it could be accurately priced.
[Sidenote: Finishing Touches]
Aunt Miriam had carefully pressed the lingerie after it was made andlaid it away in the chest with lavender to keep it from turning yellow.There remained only the last finishing touches. Aunt Miriam could haveput in the ribbons as well as she could, but Barbara chose to do itherself.
[Sidenote: Ways and Means]
Three prices were put on each tag in Barbara's private cipher,understood only by Aunt Miriam. The highest was the one hoped for, thenext the probable one, and the lowest one was to be taken only at theend of the season.
Already four or five early arrivals were reported at the hotel. By theend of next week, it would be proper for Aunt Miriam to go down with afew of the garments packed in a box with tissue paper, and see what shecould do. Barbara had used nearly all of her material and had sent formore, but, in the meantime, she was using the scraps for handkerchiefs,pin-cushion covers, and heart-shaped corsage pads, delicately scentedand trimmed with lace and ribbon.
Once, Aunt Miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, andhad priced hand-made lingerie in the shops. When she came back with anitemised report, Barbara had clapped her hands in glee, for she saw thewealth of Croesus looming up ahead. She had soon learned, however,that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt thehorde of Summer visitors who came, yearly, to the hotel. At times, shethought that Aunt Miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken.
Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in thesmall, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write--for she hadnever been to school. If she should sell everything, why, there would bemore than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father,who was beginning to look shabby.
"But they won't," Barbara said to herself, sadly. "I can't expect themto buy it all when I'm asking so much."
Down in the living-room, Ambrose North was inquiring restlessly forBarbara. "Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "I know she's upstairs,for you've told me so twice. What I want to know is, why doesn't shecome down?"
"She's busy at something, probably," returned Miriam, with forcedcarelessness, "but I think she'll soon be through."
"Barbara is always busy," he answered, with a sigh. "I can't understandit. Anyone might think she had to work for a living. By the way, Miriam,do you need more money?"
"We still have some," she replied, in a low voice.
"How much?" he demanded.
"Less than a hundred dollars." She did not dare to say how much less.
"That is not enough. If you will get my check-book, I will write anothercheck."
[Sidenote: The Old Check-Book]
Miriam's face was grimly set and her eyes burned strangely beneath herdark brows. She went to the mahogany desk and took an old check-book outof the drawer.
"Now," he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, "please show me theline. 'Pay to the order of'----"
She guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers fromtrembling. "Miriam Leonard," he spelled out, in uneven characters,"Five--hundred--dollars. Signed--Ambrose--North. There. When you have nomoney, I wish you would speak of it. I am fully able to provide for myfamily, and I want to do it."
"Thank you." Miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check.
"The date," he said; "I forgot to date it. What day of the month is it?"
She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. This was what she hadbeen dreading.
"The date, Miriam," he called. "Will you please tell me what day of themonth it is?"
"The seventh," she answered, with difficulty.
"The seventh? The seventh of June?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause. "Twenty-one years," he said, in a shrillwhisper. "Twenty-one years ago to-day."
[Sidenote: A Dreadful Anniversary]
Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. Her eyes wereglittering and she was moving her hands nervously. This dreadfulanniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. Upstairs,Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while shepinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle. The songcame down lightly, yet discordantly. It was as though a waltz should beplayed at an open grave.
"Miriam," cried Ambrose North, passionately, "why did she kill herself?In God's name, tell me why!"
"I do not know," murmured Miriam. He had asked her more than fiftytimes, and she always gave the same answer.
"But you must know--someone must know! A woman does not die by her ownhand without having a reason! She was well and strong, loved, taken careof and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts offriends. I was blind and Barbara was lame, but she loved us none theless. If I only knew why!" he cried, miserably; "Oh, if I only knewwhy!"
Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. She pressed her coldhands to her throbbing temples. "I shall go mad," she muttered. "Howlong, O Lord, how long!"
[Sidenote: Constance North]
Twenty-one years ago to-day, Constance North had, intentionally, takenan overdose of laudanum. She had left a note to her husband begging himto forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during thethree years they had lived together. She had also written a note toMiriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother toBarbara. Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. One wasaddressed "To My Daughter, Barbara. To be opened on her twenty-secondbirthday." Miriam had both the letters safely put away. It was not timefor Barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to theperson to whom it was addressed--so often does the arrogant power of theliving deny the holiest wishes of the dead.
The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam--the late afternoon sunstreaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North's daintysitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendourof her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile ofheavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man's hands straying over her asshe lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyedBarbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room.
[Sidenote: Years of Torture]
Miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied. She hadsaid there were but two when, in reality, there were four. Two had beenread and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting tobe read. She was keeping the one for Barbara; the other had tortured herthrough all of the twenty years.
The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man towhom it was addressed was dead. But he had survived Constance by nearlyfive years, and, at any time during those five years, Miriam might havegiven it to him, unseen and safely. She justified herself by dwellingupon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she wouldgive Barbara her letter upon the appointed day. Sternly she said toherself: "I will fulfil one trust. I will keep faith with Constance inthis one way, bitterly though she has wronged me."
[Sidenote: Haunting Dreams]
Yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleepwas haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for someboon. Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her handsoutstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much. Afterhis death, Constance still continued to come, but less often andreproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now.
Miriam had grown old, but Constance, though sad, was always young. Oneof Death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims toosoon. In her old husband's grieving heart, Constance had assumedimmortal beauty as we
ll as immortal youth. She was now no older thanBarbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs.
Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes indread. When she dreamed it was always of Constance--Constance laughingor singing, Constance bringing "the light that never was on sea or land"to the fine, grave face of Ambrose North; Constance hugging little lameBarbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. And,above all, Constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sadeyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer.
"Miriam! Oh, Miriam!" The blind man in the next room was calling her.Fearfully, she went back.
"Sit down," said Ambrose North. "Sit down near me, where I can touchyour hand. How cold your fingers are! I want to thank you for all youhave done for us--for my little girl and for me. You have been sofaithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish."
Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on fleshalready quivering.
[Sidenote: Miriam and Ambrose]
"We have always been such good friends," he said, reminiscently. "Do youremember how much we were together all that year, until Constance camehome from school?"
"I have not forgotten," said Miriam, in a choking whisper. A surge ofpassionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whosepretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance.
"And I shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "I am on the westwardslope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time. But a few more years--ormonths--or days--as God wills, and I shall join her again, past thesunset, where she waits for me.
"I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has mywill, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your shareto go to Barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it."
"Don't!" cried Miriam, sharply. The strain was insupportable.
"I do not wish to pain you, Sister," answered the old man, with gentledignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. Ishall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please,and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow--I cannot bearto write down this day."
* * * * *
When Barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano,quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. Heseldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the streetpaused to listen.
"Are you making a song, Father?" she asked, softly, when the last deepchord died away.
[Sidenote: Too Sad for Songs]
"No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day."
"There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me soyourself."
"Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?"
"The seventh--the seventh of June."
"Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dearmother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible.
Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" shewhispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!"
He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but thevoice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone andflesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilledunspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him.
"Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I wantto talk to you--of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?"
"Yes, just a few minutes ago."
"You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Then you are a woman grown. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when--" Hechoked on the words.
"When she died," whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears.
[Sidenote: A Torturing Doubt]
[Sidenote: A Change]
"Yes, when she--died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it wasbecause I was blind and you were lame. But all these years there hasbeen a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after myblindness, I fancied that a change came over her. She was still tenderand loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt thatshe had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could--?"
"Never, Father, never." Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "Thatwould only have made her love you more."
"Thank you, my dear. Someway it comforts me to have you say it. But,after you came, I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in thebooks, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring itinto the world, but I have seen, quite as often, that it divides them bya gulf that is never bridged again."
"Daddy!" cried Barbara, in pain. "Didn't you want me?"
"Want you?" he repeated, in a tone that made the words a caress. "Iwanted you always, and every day I want you more. I am only trying tosay that her love seemed to lessen, instead of growing, as time went on.If I could know that she died loving me, I would not ask why. If I couldknow that she died loving me--if I were sure she loved me still--"
"She did, Daddy--I know she did."
"If I might only be so sure! But the ways of the Everlasting are not ourways, and life is made up of waiting."
Insensibly relieved by speech, his pain gradually merged into quietacceptance, if not resignation. "Shall you marry some day, Barbara?" heasked, at last.
"If the right man comes--otherwise not."
"Much is written of it in the books, and I know you read a great deal,but some things in the books are not true, and many things that are trueare not written. They say that a man of fifty should not marry a girl oftwenty and expect to be happy. Miriam was fifteen years older thanConstance and at first I thought of her, but when your mother came fromschool, with her blue eyes and golden hair and her pretty, laughingways, there was but one face in all the world for me.
"We were so happy, Barbara! The first year seemed less than a month, itpassed so quickly. The books will tell you that the first joy dies.Perhaps it does, but I do not know, because our marriage lasted onlythree years. It may be that, after many years, the heart does not beatfaster at the sound of the beloved's step; that the touch of the lovinghand brings no answering clasp.
[Sidenote: Gift of Marriage]
"But the divinest gift of marriage is this--the daily, unconsciousgrowing of two souls into one. Aspirations and ambitions merge, eachwith the other, and love grows fast to love. Unselfishness answers tounselfishness, tenderness responds to tenderness, and the highest joy ofeach is the well-being of the other. The words of Church and State areonly the seal of a predestined compact. Day by day and year by year thebond becomes closer and dearer, until at last the two are one, and evendeath is no division.
[Sidenote: If----]
"A grave has lain between us for more than twenty years, but I am stillher husband--there has been no change. And, if she died loving me, sheis still mine. If she died loving me--if--she--died--loving me----"
His voice broke at the end, and he went out, murmuring the words tohimself. Barbara watched him from the window as he opened the gate. Herface was wet with tears.
Flaming banners of sunset streamed from the hills beyond him, but hissoul could see no Golden City to-night. He went up the road that led toanother hillside, where, in the long, dreamy shadows, the dwellers inGod's acre lay at peace. Barbara guessed where he was going and herheart ached for him--kneeling in prayer and vigil beside a sunken grave,to ask of earth a question to which the answer was lost, in heaven--orin hell.
