CHAPTER XX
Matilda had knocked at Enoch’s door this crisp September morning and, getting no response, felt for his key under the mat, found it, and entered. To her surprise, not a chair or a book in the sitting-room was out of place. The fire she had built the day before was precisely as her black hands had left it.
“Fo’ God!” she exclaimed, as she entered the small bedroom and saw the untouched counterpane and pillow. “He ain’t been to bed.”
Never had Enoch, upon the rare occasions when some public dinner had called him out of town for the night, gone without letting either she or Moses know. Indeed, he was most punctilious about this—invariably leaving with them his telegraphic address. For a brief instant, Matilda stood by the bed—her bosom heaving. Then she turned anxiously to the closet where he kept his clothes, got down on her knees, groped in its depths, and, seizing a valise which he always took with him, drew it out with a trembling hand.
“Ain’t done—even took—his gripsack!” she faltered, her anxiety growing as she noted its emptiness.
Her fear told in her voice now as she summonedMoses, who had just entered the Grimsby-Atwater living-room with a scuttle of coal.
“Monstus strange,” declared Moses solemnly, as he stood with his wife before Enoch’s untouched bed. “It suttinly am monstus strange, Tildy,” he repeated, shaking his woolly head dubiously. “Dar’s his gripsack sho’ ’nouf,” he exclaimed, opening the closet door. “Yo’ sho’ he didn’t say nuffin ’bout gwine away? Rack yo’ brain, honey, an’ stop yo’ tremblin’, won’t do no good to go on dat-a-way.”
“Last time I seen him,” declared Matilda, “was yisterday when I was breshin’ up de sittin’-room. He sot over dar yonder in de big chair a-readin’ of his mail.”
“An’ he didn’t say nuffin ’bout gwine away?” Moses insisted.
“Nuffin mo’en ‘good mornin’, Matildy.’ Bimeby I done got through ma dustin’, an’ was a-gwine in to make his bed, when I seen him open one er de letters what come dat mornin’. He tar it open like it was a-hidin’ some news from him. Den he done read it anxious like. Den he jump up from de big chair an’ grab his hat an’ overcoat, an’ slap out de do’, lickety-split. Didn’t even close de do’. Den I run an’ look out de winder, an’ I seen him. He was a-walkin’ fast—like he couldn’t walk no faster—an’ a shakin’ of his head. I tell yo’, nigger, somethin’ was monstus heavy on his mine. I never seen Marser Crane like dat befo’.”
“Which-a-way was he a-goin’?” asked Moses anxiously.
“I dunno which-a-way he was a-goin’, but he done turned de corner leadin’ to de Broadway.”
When that night Enoch did not return, and no word had come from him, Moses and Matilda could no longer keep their fears secret. They informed the household. Joe seemed to be less alarmed and more philosophical than the rest. It was more probable, he assured them all, that Enoch had been hurriedly called away on important business, had even sent word of his intended absence, and the letter or telegram miscarried.
When the next night he did not return Joe, too, became alarmed. He called at three of Enoch’s clubs, only to learn that Mr. Crane had not entered any of them for over a week. Neither had he been at his office in South Street.
Ebner Ford now assumed the rôle of optimist, which far from easing Joe’s mind, exasperated him, for he declared in his blatant way that “Crane wa’n’t no fool, and so all-fired mysterious and peculiar that there was no tellin’ what he’d do next.”
At an opportune moment he nudged Joe meaningly in the ribs, winking one eye screened from his wife knowingly, and whispering something about “lettin’ him have his little fling”; further suggesting that “he wa’n’t the first man overdue on account of the affections of a lady friend, or a run of luck at poker.” Even following the silent but indignant Joe into the hall, and despite that young man’s disgust, recountedto him, with a sly and confidential grin, similar little absences of his own.
Late that afternoon, any one in passing the old house in Waverly Place might have seen Enoch going up the stoop. There was something about his whole personality, as he went wearily up the brownstone steps, to have arrested the attention of even a casual acquaintance. His shoulders were bent, and there was a grim look about his face—a strange pallor, the eyes sunken and haggard, like those of a man who had not slept.
He reached the vestibule, slipped his key in the door, opened it, and slowly ascended the dark stairs. No one so far was aware of his presence. It was only when he reached the third-floor landing that he encountered any one. Here he came face to face with Moses. For a brief moment the old servant’s surprise and relief was so great he could not speak.
“Praise de Lord!” he broke out with, in a voice that quavered with joy. “You done come back, marser. Praise de Lord!”
“Yes, Moses,” returned Enoch wearily. “I’m back.”
“I’se been most crazy, Marser Crane. Matildy, too—an’ de hull house a-watchin’ an’ a-waitin’ fo’ yer.”
“Is Mr. Grimsby in?” inquired Enoch.
“Spec’ he’s out—Marser Crane—I sho’ ’nouf ain’t seen him.”
“Tell Mr. Grimsby—when he comes in that—that—I should like to see him.”
He spoke with an effort, as if each word was painful to him.
“Dat I suttinly will, marser,” declared Moses and watched him in silence as he continued up the short flight of stairs leading to his door—awed by the change in him. Then he rushed down to tell Matilda.
Enoch entered his sitting-room, felt in the desk for the matches, lighted the Argand burner on the centre-table, turned its flame low, struck another match, kindled his fire, drew a deep sigh, laid his overcoat and hat on the table, and sank into his chair.
For a long while he sat there immovable, staring vacantly into the slowly kindling fire. How long he was not conscious of. Now and then his lips moved, but he uttered no sound; a thin tongue of flame struggling up between the hickory logs played over his haggard face, rigid as a mask. His hands lay motionless on the broad arms of his chair. Thus an hour passed, an hour full of tragic memories. So absorbed was he that he did not hear Joe spring up-stairs and rap at his door.
Joe rapped again.
“It’s Joe!” he called sharply.
Enoch slowly roused himself.
“Come in,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat.
“Good heavens,” cried Joe, entering briskly, “where on earth have you been? The whole house has been worried about you.”
Enoch did not speak.
Joe strode over to the motionless form in the chair and caught sight of the haggard face.
“Mr. Crane!” he exclaimed. “Why—you’re ill—what has happened?”
“Sit down,” returned Enoch slowly. “Joe, I have something to tell you. My wife died last night.”
“Yourwife!”
“Yes, my boy—my wife. Rather alters a man’s life, Joe. I had been hoping for twenty years she would pull through—some of them do,” he added, staring into the flames. “I saw some indications of it last Sunday,” he went on before Joe could speak. “I spent the morning with her as usual—again last night—for a brief instant I saw what I believed to be some recognition—a faint hope. It was only a flash before the light went out.” He raised his hands helplessly and let them fall.
Joe, who had not yet taken his seat, turned to the crackling fire, and stood for a long moment looking down at the flames.
“I did not know you were married,” he said at length, breaking the ensuing silence—“that—your wife was an invalid.”
“She was insane,” replied Enoch evenly.
“Insane! Oh! Mr. Crane!”
Enoch lifted his head.
“She has been insane since the first year of our marriage,” said he. “Sit down, won’t you?” he pleaded, motioning to the chair in the shadow of the chimney-piece. “I have much to tell you. Come a littlenearer—there, that is better—my voice is not over-strong to-night. You are surprised, no doubt. I do not blame you, my boy. That is why I want you to understand. So few have ever understood me. None, I might say, in all these lonely years. A man cannot live under what I have suffered, and not be misunderstood. To be separated from the one who is nearest and dearest to you in life. Far worse than a stranger to her, since for years I have passed out of even her memory. The past has been a blank to her. She became another being. It was that flash of supposed recognition which gave me hope last Sunday. I felt she remembered me; knew me at last; that little by little her mind was clearing. The physicians thought so, too. We were mistaken.”
He paused, leaning forward in the firelight, his hands clasped over his knees; Joe silent, waiting for him to continue. His heart went out to him, he tried to say something to comfort him, at least to express his deep and sincere sympathy. Before Enoch’s tragic revelation, the words he struggled to frame seemed trivial and out of place.
“We were children together,” resumed Enoch, in a voice that had grown steadier. “We grew up together in fact—in Philadelphia—my wife was barely eighteen when we were married, and I just your age. One year of happiness is not much in a man’s life. It has been my lot—yet I am even grateful for that. Then came her serious illness, due to an operation that it was a miracle she lived through—only her willand her nervous, high-strung nature saved her. The result was the beginning of acute melancholia. We travelled, we went abroad. I felt that constant moving from place to place would distract her mind. We spent two winters in Egypt, but she grew worse, even violent at times, and I was obliged to bring her home. Our home-coming marked the period of my exile. It meant that I could no longer keep her with me. The end came last night.”
He paused again.
Joe did not speak. Somehow he felt that he, who, little by little, was revealing to him the secret history of his life, wished to continue uninterrupted.
“You, my boy,” continued Enoch; “are beginning your life; mine is ended. I shall move away from here. Travel, perhaps; I must decide something, though it matters so little where I go. There is a limit to all suffering. I had hope before. To-night even that is gone. I tell you all this, for I want you to know.”
He passed his hand wearily over his brow.
“I must eat something, I suppose,” said he. “I have not eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.”
“You must have something at once,” declared Joe, rising. “I’ll ring for Moses.”
“No, not yet,” protested Enoch; “but I’ll have a glass of port, I believe. Would you mind getting it? It’s over there in the bookcase. There are some crackers, too, on the lower shelf; next to the glasses.”
Joe brought him a full glass of port and he drainedit, ate a cracker, and resumed, strengthened by the wine.
“You have grown very near to me, Joe; more than you realize, perhaps. The glorious beginning of yours and Sue’s happiness is a comfort to me, even in these sad hours. Your success, your love for one another, mean much to me.”
“I’m glad of that,” returned Joe. “Sue will feel dreadfully when she hears you are going away. And I—well, you know how I feel about it. Somehow I can’t imagine our wedding without you. Must you go?”
“When are you to be married?” he asked, looking up.
“Well, you see, it is not exactly decided yet. Sue has set her heart on before Christmas.”
“That’s right, my boy, have as many Christmases as you can together,” he returned thoughtfully.
“Although the job’s done,” declared Joe, “as far as my part is concerned—specifications all in—and the last of the full-sized details went to the contractors two weeks ago—but our first payment, you see, on the new building is not due us until February. I do not see how we can very well manage to get married before.”
“Who is to make this payment to you?” asked Enoch.
“The committee, we are told.”
“It has always been the duty of its chairman to attend to such matters,” Enoch remarked, not lettinghim know it was he who had acted in that capacity; then, before Joe could question him, he added seriously: “Promise me something. I do not wish you to mention my wife’s death to Sue. It would do no good—only worry her uselessly. I have carried it alone and will continue to. I tell you of her death, because its effect on my movements in life might be misunderstood by you. People, I say, have always misunderstood me. I know what they think of me. Their opinions have time and time again reached my ears. I have heard them call me crabbed, crusty—a sour and malignant old man,” he went on, “even mean. Ah, yes! A sour and malignant old man, always in a temper—an old curmudgeon.”
Joe started to protest, but Enoch continued:
“A hermit, who prefers his own companionship to that of friends—but if you knew how little the opinions of others affect me. I have long ago ceased to care for other people’s opinions. I have learned something in my life, lonely as it has been—and that is tolerance. Be tolerant, Joe; tolerant of every one—of even the ignorance, the vindictiveness of others. Perhaps even you think I am hard-hearted”—and before Joe could interrupt him: “You see me dry-eyed, and yet you have no idea what her death means to me. She did not suffer, even when the end came. I am grateful for that.”
He paused again, seeming to lapse into a revery, his chin sunk deep between his hands.
“Could nothing be done?” ventured Joe.
Enoch slowly shook his head.
“Only a miracle would have accomplished that,” said he.
“Might I ask where Mrs. Crane died?”
“At Ravenswood, at my old friend Doctor Brixton’s sanatorium, where she had been for nearly five years.”
“And you say you thought she recognized you?”
“Yes—for that brief instant I did; so did Brixton and the nurse—a certain look in her eyes, an old, familiar gesture of the hands; it was only a flash before the light went out,” he repeated. “She was dying then; I tried to force her to speak my name, but it was useless, Joe. She was conscious but very weak. I tried to force her to continue her train of thought, in what I believed was a brief awakening. She looked at me blankly as I held her hands, and murmured faintly: ‘Why have you come again, doctor?’ Presently she added, almost inaudibly, ‘You have not thanked me for the roses’—and then, after a moment, ‘I have hidden them again—I shall hide them always’—she ceased speaking. Before I could summon Brixton she was dead.”
Enoch got up stiffly out of his chair and stood gazing down at the smouldering ashes of the fire.
“Gone,” he said slowly. “Gone like all precious things in life.”
He turned wearily to the table, raised the flame of the Argand burner to a soft glow, and proceeded with a determined, slow step to his desk. Here for a momenthe hesitated. Then he felt for the small key on his watch-chain, and unlocked the tiny drawer containing the daguerreotype of the young girl with the dark, wistful eyes. For a moment he held it in his hand.
“My wife at eighteen,” he said, returning to the table and holding the portrait under the light.
Joe bent over it reverently, studying the delicate features, the drooping, melancholy mouth, the wondering, dark eyes.
“What a beautiful face!” he said.
“Yes, poor child, she was beautiful—then,” returned Enoch.
“What wonderful eyes!” said Joe.
“Yes,” said Enoch. “They reflected her whole nature; her sensitiveness, her melancholy, high-strung intensity. Too delicate a mechanism to last; a nature capable of great suffering—gentle natures always are. One who loved with her whole heart—her whole being—her very soul. When the change came, all this complex and delicate fabric withered—was consumed to ashes like lace in a flame. She became another being; when the mind is gone there is nothing left. I wanted you to see her as she was,” said he, returning the portrait to the drawer and locking it. Then seating himself on the arm of his chair, he continued, in a calm voice full of courage: “I must return to Ravenswood to-night. The funeral is on Monday. Explain my absence to Moses—to the rest, if you like, simply say that I am out of town, and if——”
The sound of some one rushing up to the top floor silenced him.
“Mr. Crane! Mr. Crane!” cried a woman frantically, beating her hands upon the door. Enoch sprang to his feet, as Joe rushed to open it.
In her wrapper, her gray hair dishevelled, Miss Ann burst into the room.
“Oh, Mr. Crane!” she gasped, staggering toward him, her frail hands clutching at her temples. “Oh, my God! Jane is dying!”