Flower of the Dusk

by Myrtle Reed

  XIV

  Barbara's Birthday

  "Fairy Godmother," said Barbara, "I should like a drink."

  [Sidenote: Fairy Godchild]

  "Fairy Godchild," answered Eloise, "you shall have one. What do youwant--rose-dew, lilac-honey, or a golden lily full of clear, coolwater?"

  "I'll take the water, please," laughed Barbara, "but I want more than alily full."

  Eloise brought a glass of water and managed to give it to Barbarawithout spilling more than a third of it upon her. "What a pretty neckand what glorious shoulders you have," she commented, as she wiped upthe water with her handkerchief. "How lovely you'd look in an eveninggown."

  "Don't try to divert me," said Barbara, with affected sternness. "I'mwet, and I'm likely to take cold and die."

  "I'm not afraid of your dying after you've lived through what you have.Allan says you're the bravest little thing he has ever seen."

  The deep colour dyed Barbara's pale face. "I'm not brave," shewhispered; "I was horribly afraid, but I thought that, even if I were,I could keep people from knowing it."

  "If that isn't real courage," Eloise assured her, "it's so good animitation that it would take an expert to tell the difference."

  "I'm afraid now," continued Barbara. Her colour was almost gone and shedid not look at Eloise. "I'm afraid that, after all, I can never walk."She indicated the crutches at the foot of her bed by a barelyperceptible nod. "I have Aunt Miriam keep them there so that I won'tforget."

  "Nonsense," cried Eloise. "Allan says that you have every possiblechance, so don't be foolish. You're going to walk--you must walk. Why,you mustn't even think of anything else."

  "It would seem strange," sighed Barbara, "after almost twenty-two years,why--what day of the month is to-day?"

  "The sixteenth."

  [Sidenote: Twenty-two]

  "Then it is twenty-two. This is my birthday--I'm twenty-two years oldto-day."

  "Fairy Godchild, why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because I'd forgotten it myself."

  "You're too young to begin to forget your birthdays. I'm past thirty,but I still 'keep tab' on mine."

  "If you're thirty, I must be at least forty, for I'm really much olderthan you are. And Roger is an infant in arms compared with me."

  "Wise lady, how did you grow so old in so short a time?"

  "By working and reading, and thinking--and suffering, I suppose."

  "When you're well, dear, I'm going to try to give you some of thegirlhood you've never had. You're entitled to pretty gowns and partiesand beaux, and all the other things that belong to the teens andtwenties. You're coming to town with me, I hope--that's why I'mstaying."

  Barbara's blue eyes filled and threatened to overflow. "Oh, FairyGodmother, how lovely it would be. But I can't go. I must stay here andsew and try to make up for lost time. Besides, father would miss me so."

  [Sidenote: Wait and See]

  Eloise only smiled, for she had plans of her own for father. "We won'targue," she said, lightly, "we'll wait and see. It's a great mistake totry to live to-morrow, or even yesterday, to-day."

  When Eloise went back to the hotel, her generous heart full of plans forher protege, Miriam did not hear her go out, and so it happened thatBarbara was alone for some time. Ambrose North had gone for one of hislong walks over the hills and along the shore, expecting to returnbefore Eloise left Barbara. For some vague reason which he himself couldnot have put into words, he did not like to leave her alone withMiriam.

  When Miriam came upstairs, she paused at the door to listen. Hearing novoices, she peeped within. Barbara lay quietly, looking out of thewindow, and dreaming of the day when she could walk freely and joyously,as did the people who passed and repassed.

  Miriam went stealthily to her own room, and took out the letter toBarbara. She had no curiosity as to its contents. If she had, it wouldbe an easy matter to open it, and put it into another envelope, withoutthe address, and explain that it had been merely enclosed withinstructions as to its delivery.

  [Sidenote: Miriam Delivers the Letter]

  Taking it, she went into the room where Barbara lay--the same room wherethe dead Constance had lain so long before.

  "Barbara," she said, without emotion, "when your mother died she leftthis letter for you, in my care." She put it into the girl's eager,outstretched hand and left the room, closing the door after her.

  With trembling fingers, Barbara broke the seal, and took out the closelywritten sheet. All four pages were covered. The ink had faded and thepaper was yellow, but the words were still warm with love and life.

  [Sidenote: The Letter]

  "Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," the letter began. "If you live to receive this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years and, perhaps, forgotten. I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this because I am twenty-two now, and, when you are the same age, you will, perhaps, be better fitted to understand than at any other time.

  "I trust you have not married, because, if you have, my warning may come too late. Never marry a man whom you do not know, absolutely, that you love, and when this knowledge comes to you, if there are no barriers in the way, do not let anything on God's earth keep you apart.

  "I have made the mistake which many girls make. I came from school, young, inexperienced, unbalanced, and eager for admiration. Your father, a brilliant man of more than twice my age, easily appealed to my fancy. He was handsome, courteous, distinguished, wealthy, of fine character and unassailable position. I did not know, then, that a woman could love love, rather than the man who gave it to her.

  "There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. On the contrary, it is I who have disappointed him, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never loved him more than to-day, when I leave you both forever.

  "My feeling for him is unchanged. It is only that at last I have come face to face with the one man of all the world--the one God made for me, back in the beginning. I have known it for a long, long time, but I did not know that he also loved me until a few days ago.

  "Since then, my world has been chaos, illumined by this unutterable light. I have been a true wife, and when I can be true no longer, it is time to take the one way out. I cannot live here and run the risk of seeing him constantly, yet trust myself not to speak; I cannot bear to know that the little space lying between us is, in reality, the whole world.

  "He is bound, too. He has a wife and a son only a little older than you are. If I stay, I shall be false to your father, to you, to him, and even to myself, because, in my relation to each of you, I shall be living a lie.

  [Sidenote: The Message]

  "Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failed him, that I have not been a better wife, but God knows I have done the best I could. Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day. But oh, my baby, do not tell him that the full-orbed sun has risen before one who knew only twilight before.

  "And, if you can, love your mother a little, as she lies asleep in her far-away grave. Your father, if he has not forgotten me, will have dealt gently with my memory--of that I am sure. But I do not quite trust Miriam, and I do not know what she may have said. She loved your father and I took him away f
rom her. She has never forgiven me for that and she never will.

  [Sidenote: A Burden]

  "If I have done wrong, it has been in thought only and not in deed. I do not believe we can control thought or feeling, though action and speech can be kept within bounds. Forgive me, Barbara, darling, and love me if you can.

  "Your

  "MOTHER."

  The last words danced through the blurring mist and Barbara sobbed aloudas she put the letter down. Blind though he was, her father had felt thelack--the change. The pity of it all overwhelmed her.

  Her thought flew swiftly to Roger, but--no, he must not know. Thisletter was written to the living and not to the dead. Aunt Miriam wouldask no questions--she was sure of that--but the message to her fatherlay heavily upon her soul. How could she make him believe in the love heso hungered for even now?

  As the hours passed, Barbara became calm. When Miriam came in to see ifshe wanted anything, she asked for pencil and paper, and for a book tobe propped up on a pillow in front of her, so that she might write.

  Miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look atBarbara, but the calm, impassive face and the deep eyes wereinscrutable.

  [Sidenote: The Meaning Changed]

  As soon as she was alone again, she began to write, with difficulty,from her mother's letter, altering it as little as possible, and yetchanging the meaning of it all. She could trust herself to read from herown sheet, but not from the other. It took a long time, but at last shewas satisfied.

  It was almost dusk when Ambrose North returned, and Barbara asked for acandle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. She alsosent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used. Miriam'scuriosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait.She had already waited long.

  "Daddy," said, Barbara, softly, when they were alone, "do you know whatday it is?"

  "No," he answered; "why?"

  "It's my birthday--I'm twenty-two to-day."

  "Are you? Your dear mother was twenty-two when she--I wish you were likeyour mother, Barbara."

  "Mother left a letter with Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, gently. "Shegave it to me to-day."

  The old man sprang to his feet. "A letter!" he cried, reaching out atrembling hand. "For me?"

  [Sidenote: Barbara Reads to her Father]

  Barbara laughed--a little sadly. "No, Daddy--for me. But there issomething for you in it. Sit down, and I'll read it to you."

  "Read it all," he cried. "Read every word."

  "Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," read the girl, her voiceshaking, "if you live to read this letter, your mother will have beendead for many years, and possibly forgotten."

  "No," breathed Ambrose North--"never forgotten."

  "I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this, because I amtwenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we weresisters, rather than mother and daughter."

  "Dear Constance," whispered the old man.

  "When I came from school, I met your father. He was a brilliant man,handsome, courteous, distinguished, of fine character and unassailableposition."

  Barbara glanced up quickly. The dull red had crept into his wrinkledcheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile.

  "There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He hasfailed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. I have disappointedhim, I fear, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have neverloved him more than I do to-day, when I leave you both forever.

  "Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good tome, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and thebeautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failedhim----"

  "Oh, dear God!" he cried. "_She_ fail?"

  "That I have not been a better wife," Barbara went on, brokenly. "Tellhim I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved himmore than I do to-day.

  "Forgive me, both of you, and love me if you can. Your Mother."

  In the tense silence, Barbara folded up both sheets and put them backinto the envelope. Still, she did not dare to look at her father. When,at last, she turned to him, sorely perplexed and afraid, he was stillsitting at her bedside. He had not moved a muscle, but he had changed.If molten light had suddenly been poured over him from above, while therest of the room lay in shadow, he could not have changed more.

  [Sidenote: As by Magic]

  The sorrowful years had slipped from him, and, as though by magic, Youthhad come back. His shoulders were still stooped, his face and handswrinkled, and his hair was still as white as the blown snow, but hissoul was young, as never before.

  "Barbara," he breathed, in ecstasy. "She died loving me."

  The slender white hand stole out to his, half fearfully. "Yes, Daddy,I've always told you so, don't you know?" Her senses whirled, but shekept her voice even.

  "She died loving me," he whispered.

  The clock ticked steadily, a door closed below, and a little birdoutside chirped softly. There was no other sound save the wild beatingof Barbara's heart, which she alone heard. Still transfigured, he satbeside the bed, holding her hand in his.

  [Sidenote: Far-Away Voices]

  Far-away voices sounded faintly in his ears, for, like a garment, theyears had fallen from him and taken with them the questioning and thefear. Into his doubting heart Constance had come once more, radiant withnew beauty, thrilling his soul to new worship and new belief.

  "She died loving me," he said, as though he could scarcely believe hisown words. "Barbara, I know it is much to ask, for it must be veryprecious to you, but--would you let me hold the letter? Would you let mefeel the words I cannot see?"

  Choking back a sob, Barbara took both sheets out of the envelope andgave them to him. "Show me," he whispered, "show me the line where shewrote, 'Tell him I love him still, and have never loved him more thanI do to-day.'"

  When Barbara put his finger upon the words, he bent and kissed them."What does it say here?"

  He pointed to the paragraph beginning, "I have made the mistake whichmany girls make."

  "It says," answered Barbara, "'There is not a word to be said of himthat is not wholly good.'" He bent and kissed that, too. "And here?" Hisfinger pointed to the line, "I did not know that a woman could lovelove, rather than the man who gave it to her."

  "That is where it says again, 'Tell him I have loved him, that I lovehim still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.'"

  "Dear, blessed Constance," he said, crushing the lie to his lips. "Dearwife, true wife; truest of all the world."

  Barbara could bear no more. "Let me have the letter again, Daddy."

  [Sidenote: After Years of Waiting]

  "No, dear, no. After all these years of waiting, let me keep it for alittle while. Just for a little while, Barbara. Please." His voice brokeat the end.

  "For a little while, then, Daddy," she said, slowly; "only a littlewhile."

  [Sidenote: His Illumined Face]

  He went out, with the precious letter in his hand. Miriam was in thehall, but he was unconscious of the fact. She shrank back against thewall as he passed her, with his fine old face illumined as from somelight within.

  In his own room, he sat down, after closing the door, and spread the twosheets on the table before him. He moved his hands caressingly over thelines Constance had written in ink and Barbara in pencil.

  "She died loving me," he said to himself, "and I was wrong. She did notchange when I was blind and Barbara was lame. All these years I havebeen doubting her while her own assurance was in the house.

  "She thought she failed me--the dear saint thought she failed. It musttake me all eternity to atone to her for that. But she died loving me."His thought lingered fondly upon the words, then the tears streamedsuddenly over his blind face.

  "Oh, Constance, Constance," he
cried aloud, forgetting that the deadcannot hear. "You never failed me! Forgive me if you can."