Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “We shall see them by and by,” answered his mother. “It’s too hot to go back now.”

  The young man turned his head and lagged a little, looking after the girl’s graceful figure, till he stumbled awkwardly against a curbstone. But he did not protest any more. In his dull way, he worshipped his mother as a superior being, and hitherto he had always obeyed her with a half-childish confidence. His arrested intelligence still saw her as he had seen her ten years earlier, as a sort of high and protecting wisdom incarnate for his benefit, able to answer all questions and to provide him with unlimited pocket-money wherewith to buy bright-coloured posters and other gaudy things that attracted him. Up to a certain point, he could be trusted to himself, for he was almost as far from being an idiot as he was from being a normally thinking man. He was about as intelligent and about as well informed as a rather unusually dull schoolboy of twelve years or thereabouts. He did not lose his way in the streets, nor drop his money out of his pockets, and he could speak a little French and German which he had learned from a foreign nurse, enough to buy a ticket or order a meal. But he had scarcely outgrown toys, and his chief delight was to listen to the stories his mother told him. She was not very inventive, and she told the same old ones year after year. They always seemed to be new to him. He could remember faces and names fairly well, and had an average recollection of events in his own life; but it was impossible to teach him anything from books, his handwriting was the heavy, unformed scrawl of a child, and his spelling was one long disaster.

  So far, at least, Helen had found only his intellectual deficiency to deal with, and it was at once a perpetual shame to her and a cause of perpetual sorrow and sympathy. But he was affectionate and docile enough, not cruel as some such beings are, and certainly not vicious, so far as she could see. Dull boys are rarely mischievous, though they are sometimes cruel, for mischief implies an imagination which dulness does not possess.

  Archie Harmon had one instinct, or quality, which redeemed him from total insignificance and raised him above the level of an amiable and harmless animal. He had a natural horror of taking life, and felt the strongest possible impulse to save it at any risk to himself. His mother was never quite sure whether he made any distinction between the value of existence to a man, and its worth to an animal, or even to an insect. He seemed not to connect it with its possessor, but to look upon it as something to be preserved for its own sake, under all circumstances, wherever it manifested itself. At ordinary times he was sufficiently cautious for his own safety, and would hesitate to risk a fall or scratch in climbing, where most boys would have been quite unaware of such possibilities. But at the sight of any living thing in danger, a reckless instinct to save it took possession of him, and his sluggish nature was roused to sudden and direct activity, without any intermediate process of thought. He had again and again given proof of courage that might have shamed most men. He had saved a child from drowning in the North River, diving after it from a ferryboat running at full speed, and he had twice stopped bolting horses — once, a pair with a heavy brougham in the streets of New York, and once, in the park, a dog-cart driven by a lady. On the first of these two occasions he had been a good deal cut and bruised, and had narrowly escaped with his life. His mother was too brave not to be proud of his deeds, but with each one her fears for his own daily safety increased.

  He was never violent, but he occasionally showed a strength that surprised her, though he never seemed to care about exhibiting it. Once, she had fallen and hurt her foot, and he had carried her up many stairs like a child. After that, she had felt now and then as men must feel who tame wild beasts and control them.

  He worshipped her, and she saw that he looked with a sort of pity on other women, young or old, as not worthy to be compared with her in any way. She had begun to hope that she might be spared the humiliation of ever seeing him in love, despised or pitied, as the case might be, by some commonplace, pretty girl with white teeth and pink cheeks. She feared that, and she feared lest he should some day taste drink, and follow his father’s ways to the same ruin. But as yet he had been like a child.

  It was no wonder that she shuddered when, as he looked at Sylvia Strahan, she saw something in his face which had never been there before and heard that queer word of his uttered in such a tone. She wondered whether Colonel Wimpole had heard and seen, too, and for some time the three walked on in silence.

  “Will you come in?” asked Mrs. Harmon, as they reached the door of her hotel.

  The colonel followed her to her little sitting-room, and Archie disappeared; for the conversation of those whom he still, in his own thoughts, regarded as ‘grown-up people’ wearied him beyond bearing.

  “My dear friend,” said Colonel Wimpole, when they were alone, “I am so very glad to see you!”

  He held one of her hands in his while he spoke the conventional words, his eyes were a little misty, and there was a certain tone in his voice which no one but Helen Harmon had ever heard.

  “I am glad, too,” she said simply, and she drew away her hand from his with a sort of deprecation which he only half understood, for he only knew that half of the truth which was in himself.

  They sat down as they had sat many a time in their lives, at a little distance from each other, and just so that each had to turn the head a little to face the other. It was easier to talk in that position because there was a secret between them, besides many things which were not secrets, but of which they did not wish to speak.

  “It is terribly long since we last met,” said the colonel. “Do you remember? I went to see you in New York the day before we started for Japan. You had just come back from the country, and your house was in confusion.”

  “Oh yes, I remember,” replied Mrs. Harmon. “Yes, it is terribly long; but nothing is changed.”

  “Nothing?” The colonel meant to ask her about Harmon, and she understood.

  “Nothing,” she answered gravely. “There was no improvement when the doctor wrote, on the first of last month. I shall have another report in a day or two. But they are all exactly alike. He will just live on, as he is now, to the end of his life.”

  “To the end of his life,” repeated the colonel, in a low voice, and the two turned their heads and looked at each other.

  “He is in perfect health,” said Mrs. Harmon, looking away again.

  She drew out a long hat-pin and lifted her hat from her head with both hands, for it was a hot afternoon, and she had come into the sitting-room as she was. The colonel noticed how neatly and carefully she did the thing. It seemed almost unnecessary to do it so slowly.

  “It is so hot,” she said, as she laid the hat on the table.

  She was pale now, perhaps with the heat of which she complained, and he saw how tired her face was.

  “Is this state of things really to go on?” he asked suddenly.

  She moved a little, but did not look at him.

  “I am not discontented,” she said. “I am not — not altogether unhappy.”

  “Why should you not be released from it all?” asked the colonel.

  It was the first time he had ever suggested such a possibility, and she looked away from him.

  “It is not as if it had all been different before he lost his mind,” he went on, seeing that she did not answer at once. “It is not as if you had not had fifty good reasons for a divorce before he finally went mad. What is the use of denying that?”

  “Please do not talk about a divorce,” said Mrs. Harmon, steadily.

  “Please forgive me, if I do, my dear friend,” returned the colonel, almost hotly; for he was suddenly convinced that he was right, and when he was right it was hard to stop him. “You have spent half your life in sacrificing all of yourself. Surely you have a right to the other half. There is not even the excuse that you might still do him some good by remaining his wife in name. His mind is gone, and he could not recognize you if he saw you.”

  “What should I gain by such a step, then?” asked Hele
n, turning upon him rather suddenly. “Do you think I would marry again?” There was an effort in her voice. “I hate to talk in this way, for I detest the idea of divorce, and the principle of it, and all its consequences. I believe it is going to be the ruin of half the world, in the end. It is a disgrace, in whatever way you look at it!”

  “A large part of the world does not seem to think so,” observed the colonel, rather surprised by her outbreak, though in any case excepting her own he might have agreed with her.

  “It would be better if the whole world thought so,” she observed with energy. “Do you know what divorce means in the end? It means the abolition of marriage laws altogether; it means reducing marriage to a mere experiment which may last a few days, a few weeks, or a few months, according to the people who try it. There are men and women, already, who have been divorced and married again half a dozen times. Before the next generation is old that will be the rule and not the exception.”

  “Dear me!” exclaimed Colonel Wimpole. “I hope not!”

  “I know you agree with me,” said Mrs. Harmon, with conviction. “You only argue on the other side because—” She stopped short.

  “Why?” He did not look at her as he asked the question.

  “Because you are my best friend,” she answered, after a moment’s hesitation, “and because you have got it into your head that I should be happier. I cannot imagine why. It would make no difference at all in my life — now.”

  The last word fell from her lips with a regretful tone and lingered a little on the air like the sad singing of a bell’s last note, not broken by a following stroke. But the colonel was not satisfied.

  “It may make all the difference, even now,” he said. “Suppose that Harmon were to recover.”

  Helen did not start, for the thought had been long familiar to her, but she pressed her lips together a little and let her head rest against the back of her chair, half closing her eyes.

  “It is possible,” continued the colonel. “You know as well as I do that doctors are not always right, and there is nothing about which so little is really certain as insanity.”

  “I do not think it is possible.”

  “But it is, nevertheless. Imagine what it would be, if you began to hear that he was better and better, and finally well, and, at last, that there was no reason for keeping him in confinement.”

  Mrs. Harmon’s eyes were quite closed now, as she leaned back. It was horrible to her to wish that her husband might remain mad till he died, yet she thought of what her own life must be if he should recover. She was silent, fighting it out in her heart. It was not easy. It was hard even to see what she should wish, for every human being has a prime right of self-preservation, against which no argument avails, save that of a divinely good and noble cause to be defended. Yet the moral wickedness of praying that Harmon might be a madman all the rest of his life frightened her. Throughout twenty years and more she had faced suffering and shame without flinching and without allowing herself one thought of retaliation or hatred. She had been hardened to the struggle and was not a woman to yield, if it should begin again, but she shrank from it, now, as the best and bravest may shrink at the thought of torture, though they would not groan in slow fire.

  “Just think what it might be,” resumed Colonel Wimpole. “Why not look the facts in the face while there is time? If he were let out, he would come back to you, and you would receive him, for I know what you are. You would think it right to take him back because you promised long ago to love, honour, and obey him. To love, to honour, and to obey — Henry Harmon!”

  The colonel’s steady grey eyes flashed for an instant, and his gentle voice was suddenly thick and harsh as he pronounced the last words. They meant terribly much to the woman who heard them, and in her distress she leaned forward in her seat and put up her hands to her temples, as though she had pain, gently pushing back the heavy hair she wore so low on her forehead. Wimpole had never seen her so much moved, and the gesture itself was unfamiliar to him. He did not remember to have ever seen her touch her hair with her hands, as some women do. He watched her now, as he continued to speak.

  “You did all three,” he said. “You honoured him, you loved him, and you obeyed him for a good many years. But he neither loved, nor honoured, nor cherished you. I believe that is the man’s part of the contract, is it not? And marriage is always called a contract, is it not? Now, in any contract, both parties must do what they have promised, so that if one party fails, the other is not bound. Is not that true? And, Heaven knows, Harmon failed badly enough!”

  “Don’t! Please don’t take it that way! No, no, no! Marriage is not a contract; it is a bond, a vow — something respected by man because it is sacred before God. If Henry failed a thousand times more, I should be just as much bound to keep my promise.”

  Her head sank still more forward, and her hands pushed her hair straight back from the temples.

  “You will never persuade me of that,” answered the colonel. “You will never make me believe—” He stopped short, for as he watched her, he saw what he had never seen before, a deep and crooked scar high on her forehead. “What is that?” he asked suddenly, leaning towards her, his eyes fixed on the ugly mark.

  She started, stared at him, dropping her hands, realized what he had seen, and then instantly turned away. He could see that her fingers trembled as she tried to draw her hair down again. It was not like her to be vain, and he guessed at once that she had some reason other than vanity for hiding the old wound.

  “What is that scar?” he asked again, determined to have an answer. “I never saw it before.”

  “It is a — I was hurt long ago—” She hesitated, for she did not know how to lie.

  “Not so very long ago,” said the colonel. “I know something about scars, and that one is not many years old. It does not look as though you had got it in a fall either. Besides, if you had, you would not mind telling me, would you?”

  “Please don’t ask me about it! I cannot tell you about it.”

  The colonel’s face was hardening quickly. The lines came out in it stern and straight, as when, at evening, a sudden frost falls upon a still water, and the first ice-needles shoot out, clear and stiff. Then came the certainty, and Wimpole looked as he had looked long ago in battle.

  “Harmon did that,” he said at last, and the wrathful thought that followed was not the less fierce because it was unspoken.

  Helen’s hands shook now, for no one had ever known how she had been wounded. But she said nothing, though she knew that her silence meant her assent. Wimpole rose suddenly, straight as a rifle, and walked to the window, turning his back upon her. He could say things there, under his breath, which she could not understand, and he said them, earnestly.

  “He did not know what he was doing,” Helen said, rather unsteadily.

  The colonel turned on his heels at the window, facing her, and his lips still moved slowly, though no words came. Helen looked at him and knew that she was glad of his silent anger. Not realizing what she was thinking of, she wondered what sort of death Harmon might have died if Richard Wimpole had seen him strike her to the ground with a cut-glass decanter. For a moment the cloak of mercy and forgiveness was rent from head to heel. The colonel would have killed the man with those rather delicate looking hands of his, talking to him all the time in a low voice. That was what she thought, and perhaps she was not very far wrong. Even now, it was well for Harmon that he was safe in his asylum on the other side of an ocean.

  It was some time before Wimpole could speak. Then he came and stood before Helen.

  “You will stay a few days? You do not mean to go away at once?” he said, with a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think I shall go away now, and come and see you again later.”

  He took her hand rather mechanically and left the room. But she understood and was grateful.

  CHAPTER III

  WHEN ARCHIE HARMON disappeared and left the colonel and
his mother together, she supposed that he had gone to his room to sleep, for he slept a great deal, or to amuse himself after his fashion, and she did not ask him where he was going. She knew what his favourite amusement was, though he did his best to keep it a secret from her.

  There was a certain mysterious box, which he had always owned, and took everywhere with him, and of which he always had the key in his pocket. It took up a good deal of space, but he could never be persuaded to leave it behind when they went abroad.

  To-day he went to his room, as usual, locked the door, took off his coat, and got the box out of a corner. Then he sat down on the floor and opened it. He took out some child’s building-blocks, some tin soldiers, much the worse for wear, for he was ashamed to buy new ones, and a small and gaudily painted tin cart, in which an impossible lady and gentleman of papier-mâché, dressed in blue, grey, and yellow, sat leaning back with folded arms and staring, painted eyes. There were a few other toys besides, all packed away with considerable neatness, for Archie was not slovenly.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor, a strong grown man of nearly twenty years, and began to play with his blocks. His eyes fixed themselves on his occupation, as he built up a little gateway with an arch and set red-legged French soldiers on each side of it for sentinels. He had played the same game a thousand times already, but the satisfaction had not diminished. One day in a hotel he had forgotten to lock the door, and his mother had opened it by mistake, thinking it was that of her own room. Before he could look round she had shut it again, but she had seen, and it had been like a knife-thrust. She kept his secret, but she lost heart from that day. He was still a child, and was always to be one.

  Yet there was perhaps something more of intelligence in the childish play than she had guessed. He was lacking in mind, but not an idiot; he sometimes said and did things which were certainly far beyond the age of toys. Possibly the attraction lay in a sort of companionship which he felt in the society of the blocks, and the tin soldiers, and the little papier-mâché lady and gentleman. He felt that they understood what he meant and would answer him if they could speak, and would expect no more of him than he could give. Grown people always seemed to expect a great deal more, and looked at him strangely when he called Berlin the capital of Austria and asked why Brutus and Cassius murdered Alexander the Great. The toy lady and gentleman were quite satisfied if their necks were not broken in the cunningly devised earthquake which always brought the block house down into a heap when he had looked at it long enough and was already planning another.