“I hate him.”
“He has money and all that sort of thing.”
“It's nothing to me. I can only care for you.”
“Has your father made any positive statement of his preference, Barbara?”
She shook her head. “Of course he does not speak of it, but I know.”
“Well, I'll go in for work harder than ever, dear—we need not despair, for we are sure of each other.”
“But—but—if I don't see you——”
“Can't you keep your love alive and not see me?”
“I suppose so, but you are so different from me. You don't feel the same.”
“I feel with my whole soul, Barbara. Can I do more?”
“It breaks my heart to think I am not to see you.” She glanced up into his face. “Not to see you at all—why how shall I manage to endure it?” Her eyes grew wide, filled with a pathetic grief that made him desperate. “And now scarcely a day passes, that I do not catch a glimpse of you.”
“It can't be for long, Barbara.”
“It may be forever.” This was said in a stifled voice.
“It's not as if I were going away—not as if I were to leave the town. We shall see each other constantly.”
“It's worse than if you were going away. It's a great deal worse. Then I could make up my mind to it and could, I suppose, bear it somehow.”
“Dear,” he spoke softly, “dearest, please look up. I want to talk to you. Can't you listen to me? Please, dear, it's not so bad. It might be worse.”
“It's bad enough!” without lifting her head from where it rested upon his arm. “It couldn't be worse. I couldn't suffer more.”
“Can't you be hopeful? Can't you try?”
“I do try.”
“It is coming nearer all the while. I am making money—I shall make more. Don't you believe in my ability?”
“It's not that. I am confident of the future, but the present is so horrible, with all manner of doubt. Do you,” looking up and letting her glance meet his for a moment, “do you honestly think it will ever be as we hope?”
“Yes. It can not be otherwise. It only means patience—only a little waiting.”
“Tell me what papa said.”
“He asked me to stop coming here until such time as I am in a position to be accepted formally as your intended husband.”
“And when will that be?” shaking her head.
“It can't be so very far off and it comes closer with every day. If I could only give you some of my hope—if I only could!”
“You do—but—”
“I do, but it fails in its mission.”
“Tell me what he said.”
“It all amounted to this. I must forego the pleasure of seeing you, except very infrequently.”
“Is it good-by you are saying to me? Is it? Is it?”
“I fear it is. You must forgive me, but I have to show some little pride, and there is but one course open to me. It's not choice, but necessity that influences me in my decision.”
“Does he want to make me hate him! I shall.” She gave way utterly to her emotions and Philip did the best he could to soothe her as she stood within the protecting circle of his arms.
“I have exhausted my patience. I am tired—tired. How do I know it will ever come. It has been years already,” she said at last.
“It is no more doubtful than anything else would be. I am putting forth all my energy.”
“I am tired. I am tired.”
“I have this to reproach myself with. I thought in the beginning success would come sooner. I have kept on and on, and now I am as far from it as ever. It has been four years, Barbara, four years. I am so sorry, dear, so sorry.”
“If you go I shall never see you again. Something will happen. I shall be driven into something dreadful. I shall be at papa's mercy, and I haven't any strength of character. He can do what he likes when you are gone, and I shall give in. I always do.”
Her whole attitude was one of weak complaint. It was fast forcing Philip to the verge of madness. As if she divined what his thoughts were, she said: “You don't respect me. You think I don't amount to anything.”
“I love you!” he said gravely. “And now I must go.”
“You are not going!—not yet!—not yet!”
“I shall write you every day when I don't happen to see you, so you will know how I get on.”
“Yes! yes! but are you going?”
“I must go sometime and it's better over with. We shall write each other and we shall meet quite often at various places. I shall go where I know you will be.”
She was crying violently.
“You must not leave me! You must not, Philip!”
But he moved slowly to the door.
“I can't tell you how hard I shall work. Just be brave and good as you have been from the start and it will come out all right.”
“I can't wait forever—and I need you now.”
“You will have to, dearest.”
“Doesn't it make you furious?”
“What, Barbara?”
“Furious, that he can interfere with us. It's our life—our love. We only ask to be left alone. Oh—I can't bear it!”
“I'm afraid we must bear it for a while. We won't be altogether separated—we will see each other now and then!”
“No! no! what will such meetings be—with people about—people who will stare at us with silly senseless curiosity!”
“Good-by for the present, dear—for to-day.”
“No—no!”
“We shall meet often. Try to think of that.”
“I am not brave and I invariably give in. He knows it. I shall have no peace if you go like this. Promise me you will come back!”
“I can not, Barbara.”
“Then the blame for whatever follows falls on you. You go willingly.”
“You are unjust.”
“You go willingly,” she insisted. “You desert me. You leave me for him to torture into doing what he wants! Is it nothing to you?”
“I love you,” he answered simply.
“And if we drift apart?”
“I don't know what you mean. How can we drift apart?”
“People do.”
“Are we like them?”
“Are we?”
“I thought we were not,” he said.
“Why should you think that?” she answered. “I don't know. Perhaps we are the same as the rest. Perhaps I only imagine the difference.”
“You are going?” she said in alarm as he moved toward the door.
“Yes, Barbara.”
But Barbara threw herself down into a chair and commenced to cry afresh. This drew Philip back to her side in an instant.
“Won't you say good-by, Barbara, just for the present? Won't you say good-by, dear?” He sought to remove the hand she held before her face.
She gave him no answer and he turned from her, at first irresolute and then with more decision, for his mind was made up. After all, her sense of resentment would lighten her grief for the moment. It would be easier to bear because of it.
He stepped into the hall, the door closed, and Barbara heard his footsteps growing fainter. He was gone!
Curled up in the easy chair she sobbed out her sorrow and anger, for it was a mingling of both. At last she raised her head and looked about. She was still sobbing brokenly.
Suddenly she sat erect. It was growing late. She remembered that her father was to bring Mr. Shelden home with him to tea.
“I hate him!” she thought. “I hate everybody, but I shall have to see him and be agreeable, and I suppose I look like a perfect fright with my eyes all red. Of course while he is here, I shall have to pretend that I am enjoying myself, and my head hurts and I am miserable. I want Philip, and no one else!”
In proof of which she commenced to weep.
And so for an hour or more she lay curled up in the chair, a doleful little heap.
Itold them they must have a doctor,” Perkins explained to Franz, “and in spite of my mother's objections I called one in. Mother has been dosing her for a week now.”
Young Perkins and his mother practically lived with Margaret, now that Geoff was gone, and it was on the second day of their installment as members of her household, when Perkins, asserting himself in defiance of the paternal mandate, announced his intention of summoning a physician—“Right off, and with no more dependence on luck,” by which it is to be inferred that his mother's remedies did not inspire him with much confidence.
“He is with her?” Franz inquired, having just come in.
“Yes, if it hadn't been for my interference, I am certain my mother would have kept on dosing Margaret with her nasty home-made concoctions until doomsday. Poor Margaret would never have rebelled: she would have swallowed the stuff until it killed her rather than wound my mother by showing lack of faith.”
At this juncture they were joined by the doctor, a gray puffy man, reeking of stale tobacco smoke and staler drugs, who took the ills flesh is heir to as a personal grievance.
“Well?” Perkins interrogated him.
The doctor emitted a sound that could have been either a grunt or groan: “It won't do,” he said gloomily; “she must be sent South. She has not the stamina for this climate. It's using her up. Unless something is done she will not live through the winter, I'll stake my reputation.”
“Then she should go to Florida?” Perkins questioned.
“I said she must be sent South,—if you are interested in keeping her alive—and I suppose you are.”
“Good lord, yes!” Perkins gasped.
“I don't say her illness is critical at its present stage, but if you are going to do what I recommend, don't put it off. I don't want to be blamed. Good night.”
He snorted angrily at the inoffensive Perkins, picked up his hat and medicine-case and departed, leaving the young men staring apprehensively at each other.
Perkins jerked his head in the direction the doctor had gone. “He's a confounded fool! That's what he is. If he had waited a minute, I'd have said so. He doesn't have to scare us to death.”
Franz was busy with his thoughts. How could she go and how could she stay threatened by danger? The problem swung between the two alternatives and refused to be solved.
Suddenly Perkins cried joyously: “I've got it, Franz! You must marry her right off and take her South yourself—otherwise she will be left to the mercy of her brother. You love her,—I know all about it, old fellow. I saw it by accident and I take just stacks of interest in you young people.”
He put his hand on Franz's shoulder. His demeanor was both patronizing and affectionate. He looked as cupid might, grown to sturdy manhood, so thrilled was he by his purpose.
“If you are the least diffident, I'll adjust it. I'd. dearly love to, and won't it be a jolly little earthquake for Mr. Geoffrey Ballard,—won't it?” And he hopped around gleefully, proving there can be two good and sufficient reasons for a man's acts, namely—to please himself, and to annoy his fellow: and who shall determine which is sweeter?
Franz had felt his heart leap at the suggestion, but what would Margaret say?
Perkins plunged ahead vigorously: “What will you do; will you wait for Geoff to come and spoil it all?”
Before Franz could answer Margaret herself entered the room, accompanied by Mrs. Perkins. Instinctively they turned to her. Never had she looked so slight and fragile.
With an anxious throb of his heart Franz started toward her with outstretched hands. Perkins was no fool. He stepped into the hall, motioning his mother to follow. Then he shut the door, remarking: “I guess they would appreciate being by themselves,” and he winked with peculiar emphasis.
Left with Margaret, Franz arranged a chair for her. She watched his rather clumsy placing of wraps and pillows with an amused smile.
“You will make a baby of me, and I shall be a bother always,” she said. She was pathetically grateful for the slightest display of love or devotion.
“How do you feel, Margaret?” Franz asked.
Margaret reclined languidly in her seat. The excitement of getting down-stairs had passed and she felt tired and weak.
“Tell me about yourself, Franz,” she said. “I haven't seen you in days. To-night I insisted that they should let me dress, I wished to see you so much.”
“What did the doctor tell you, Margaret?”
“That I must go South, but”—hastily—“I can not do that—I can not leave you!”
“But, if it is for the best, dear?”
“Surely it can not be best for me to be cut off from my friends, when they are so few—” She spoke in a frightened voice, as if appalled at the idea. “I should simply die of loneliness.” She glanced up at him appealingly, her lips quivering. “You would not have me go, would you, Franz? I am such a coward. What would become of me, without you?”
“I shall go with you, Margaret, if I may,” he said softly. “It all rests with you, dear. The grief of your going, if you went alone, would be quite as hard for me to bear as for you.”
For a space she was silent, then her reserve gave way entirely.
“If I go, Franz, it must be with you. I can not leave myself open to my brother's persecutions—I can not endure them! The doctor said—but he told you, too?”
“Yes.”
“I wish to live”—clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. “I never before minded what happened to me, life is so hard—but your love has changed everything. I wish to live for your sake—not for mine.”
“Are you willing to trust yourself to me?” Franz gently interposed.
Margaret's head half rested on the chair-back, half upon his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and the hands he held within his own burned feverishly. At last she whispered:
“Take me with you. It is best we go together. I am sick—sick—and he is killing me. If you would have me, you must take me now....”
The next day as Philip was at work, Franz entered his room unannounced. Seeing who it was, Philip put down his pen, turning from the pile of manuscript over which he had been toiling.
“Are you busy, Philip?” Franz asked.
“Not very. Why?”
“Because I should like a moment's talk with you.”
Philip nodded.
“Just knock those books off a corner of the bed and sit down—dump them on the floor. What is it, old fellow?”
Franz, having complied with the suggestion, said: “You know that Margaret is ill?”
“I knew she had a cold. I hope it's not serious.”
“Her physician advises that she spend the remainder of the winter in the South. This she will do as soon as she recovers sufficiently.”
Again Philip nodded.
“It's very unexpected, isn't it? I should consider it risky.”
“She is not to go alone.”
“Oh, I presume Mrs. Perkins is to go with her?”
“It would not be paying much of a compliment to your intelligence if I thought to surprise you by saying that I love Margaret.”
“Precious little,” Philip admitted laconically.
“Well, I shall surprise you. We are to be married immediately. The situation is so grave as to permit of no delay. Her health and the probable reappearance of her brother make it necessary.”
“Bless mel I never figured on this.” Philip looked his amazement. “What will you do then, Franz?”
“When she is able to travel, I suppose it means Florida, or the Bermudas.”
Philip had risen and gathered himself together while making the circuit of the room.
“I declare, I didn't congratulate you, did I? To be sure, old fellow, the thought of losing you is not agreeable.”
“If you will, Philip, you can be of great service to me.”
“I was about to volunteer,” said Philip heartily, “but you swept me squarely off my feet.”
On the authority of Perkins—“It was a mighty jolly wedding.”
The ceremony was performed in Margaret's own room and during its progress she lay upon a lounge, looking as fair as the lilies-of-the-valley in her hands, which Perkins had given her, after liberally bedewing them with his tears dropped in sentimental secrecy.
The sun was sinking far across the white fields, and the gold of its dying flames stole in through the windows, lighting up the room, as Franz, standing at Margaret's side, gave her his name and the protection of his love.
Mrs. Perkins and Franz's mother wept profusely, and Perkins disgraced himself in his own estimation by sobbing aloud in stifled tones be vainly sought to suppress on peril of choking. He finally retreated to the hall, where he encountered Russell with a limp handkerchief—“making an ass of herself, too.”
A little later Philip drew the curtains in front of the windows to exclude the darkening sky and Perkins said, “When you get screwed up to it a wedding is really more festive than a funeral, though they seem to have much in common. Now I am in a measure familiar with the ordeal, I venture to predict this has been the most blissful day I shall ever know—when one of my dearest friends is married to another of my dearest friends.”
Here he had difficulty with his words.
“Doubtless you all think me a driveling idiot, but I feel like I don't know what—and I can't really help it.”
Everybody laughed at this and Philip shook hands with him, saying he was the finest fellow in the world, while Margaret bestowed upon him a generous share of her bouquet. The gift bore with it a grateful little speech that caused him to weep afresh.
It was very late, indeed, when they separated.
“I assure you,” Perkins informed Philip when they had reached the Perkins home, “I assure you, it has been the most satisfactory event in my life, and it's a source of stupendous joy for me to reflect that my dear cousin Geoff is destined to undergo a severe mental shock in consequence. I think I am entitled to all the comfort I can get.”
Philip smiled appreciatively.
“What a funny little fellow you are! Such a good chap, too,” he added.
“Well, I am glad she has Franz to look after her, and he will have the means to go on with his studies,” continued Perkins.
“He is fortunate,” Philip replied. “We so seldom get what we want—generally it's what we don't want that comes to us.”
Perkins looked at him curiously, his head well to one side and his chubby hands buried in the depths of his trousers pockets.
“I say—what's up? Aren't you happy?”
“I am blue, and not so decent as I should be. I am always and everlastingly thinking of myself. I am wretched—but you know what's wrong with me, so don't discuss it. I can't stand it.”
“As you prefer, Philip. Still, don't you believe it will be all right in the end?”
“It's not the future that troubles me. It's what may occur while I am flat on my back. I am fairly desperate!”
Perkins gazed at him sorrowfully. Philip added:
“I can't seem very generous to you when I flop into the dumps on no greater provocation than seeing those who are contented and at peace. My nature is not sweetened by adversity, it's being pickled in it.” He struck the floor savagely with the heel of his shoe. “I feel like running off from everything, and if I could include my miserable self among what I left behind, I'd not remain undecided.”
“I hope you won't go any place, Philip!” Perkins said in alarm. “What the dickens will become of me? It will be absolutely forsaken when Franz and Margaret go.”
“You will see all you want of me. I shall unquestionably stay for a time at least.”
“Why—have you been actually thinking of leaving?”
Philip smiled grimly.
“Don't distress yourself; you can safely depend on having all you desire of my cheerful company. And now if you'll help me into my overcoat, I'll start home.”
No sooner was Philip gone than Perkins took from his waistcoat pocket, where he had secreted them, the lilies-of-the-valley Margaret had given him. As he gazed at them a telltale moisture mounted to his eyes. He could only shake his head mournfully and deposit them again—not next his heart—but near an equally important organ and one he knew more of, even though he was in doubt as to its exact location.
Poor Perkins! He was learning that a disinterested love has its griefs. It's not unmitigated bliss to witness another's rapture.
Time jogged forward. The year grew to its fullest age and died—the old giving birth to the new, and as the days went on Philip worked at his task, worked and struggled with what courage he could find.
He had at first seen Barbara quite often, but the frequency of their meetings gradually lessened. This, he knew, was the result of her father's interference.
Had his ears been open to the current gossip of the town, he might have been shocked by a rumor that even his mother forbore to tell him. He toiled away through the days, running his race with chance and fate, and when hope was once more beginning to burn within him, the blow fell. Spread out on the table before him was her letter. For the hundredth time he read it.
“You will hate me, but I told you how it would be. My father is determined that I marry Mr. Shelden. He is determined, and I have decided to do as he wishes. You will despise me, but I have tried to be hopeful and true to you—I have tried so hard, so very hard, Philip. I can only see that the future is doubtful and uncertain. Perhaps it is best as it is. If you achieve the success you deserve, I am unworthy to enjoy it with you. If you fail—you know I am not suited to poverty. I believe in your goodness, in your generosity, most firmly, as I have from the start, and I feel it will comfort you, when I say that the thought of marrying Mr. Shelden does not distress me in the least. I am not altogether unhappy that I am so soon to be his wife.”
Again and again Philip read it, until the words were jumbled together in meaningless confusion.
“No, she is not entirely unhappy—I can see that,” he thought. “What will she gain? A house on the best street; a man twice her age, and her father's blessing. Bah! It isn't much, though it counts for more than I.”
He turned and gazed out of the window. How many times he had done so when his day's work was finished and he was happy, tired, satisfied. He was looking on a different world—a world he had never viewed before. The coldness was only cold. There was no contrasting thought of warmth and cheer. It was bleak and lonely—only that!
He raised the letter to his lips suddenly and kissed it.
“I loved her!” he thought. “I still love her—and I hope she is happy.” He drew forward a sheet of note-paper, took up his pen, and dipping it in the ink, began to write an answer to her letter—his farewell to her and love, and the hope born and created of love.
When the letter was written, he put her letter—the last he should ever receive—with others of hers that he had kept.
“When she is his wife, I shall burn them,” he muttered. “Till then, I shall keep them here. It can do no harm.”
He marveled how he got through the days that followed. They came and found him, unable to write, wretched, but so composed his mother imagined his grief less than it was. But he was madly restless. There was no peace for him save in movement. Night after night he tramped the streets. Day after day, with a gun on his shoulder, he roamed the woods, about the town and by the river. The gun served for an excuse. It was never fired. In fact it was never even loaded.
He could not work—and work was usually his refuge in periods of distress. Now it was changed. He could only await the day she would marry Shelden.
“When it is over with it will be the same as if I had not loved her,” he assured himself.
One afternoon as he was going toward his home, he came on Geoffrey Ballard face to face. Not the splendid creature to whom he had been accustomed, but Geoff, the seedy and disreputable.
Geoff had just arrived. He had been wandering through back streets and alleyways for an hour or more, waiting until the darkness of evening should settle down that he might slink unobserved into his sister's presence and demand money sufficient to make himself presentable.
There was a moment of defiant silence on the part of the prodigal met by a contemptuous indifference from Philip. Then Geoff spoke:
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Southard.”
“Are you? Well, you don't look it.”
Geoff would have passed, but Philip detained him.
“Hold on! I have something to tell you.” Geoff came to a stand. “Have you heard from your sister during your absence? If you haven't there is a surprise in store for you. She has been dangerously ill and she is married to Becker. That was two or three weeks ago. They are preparing to go South, as soon as she is able to take the journey. Hold on!”—but Geoff moved rapidly away.
His sister married—and to the German! It put all other considerations out of his mind.
Perhaps Philip had lied. This was the meager hope with which he endeavored to sustain himself. He entered the house, and brushing past Russell, whom he encountered on the stairs, ran up to his sister's room. She was in bed and alone.
“Geoff!” she cried in alarm.
His face was purple with rage; he could not control his voice as he poured forth a volley of incoherent abuse, from which she shrank, frightened and shuddering.
“Is it so? Are you married?” He was a trifle calmer when he asked the question.
“Yes, Geoff.”
She answered steadily, but her cheeks were colorless. She feared him more than she even admitted to herself. Still it was well to have it over with. Franz was not by.... If he would only stay away until Geoff was through was her prayer.
“This is the advantage you took of my absence!”
“Oh, hush, Geoff,—” she implored. “He will hear you! It will be the same as it has always been—you have the claim on me you have always had—there is no change. I've only got a little happiness,—surely you don't begrudge me that!” Perhaps she appreciated the weakness of her plea, for she continued with dignity. “You forget yourself,—and what is due me—-”
As she spoke, Franz entered. He had caught the sound of Geoff's high-pitched voice in the room below.
“You don't seem to realize that your sister is ill,” he said coldly. For Margaret's sake he was prepared to endure much. “If you have any reproaches to make you must choose another occasion. She is not in condition to listen to you at present.”
The German's quiet demeanor sobered Geoff on the instant. “I have nothing to do with you,” he answered sullenly. “You have only done what any man would in your position, I suppose. It was an opportunity and you made the most of it. I am not blaming you, but”—turning hotly to the bed where Margaret lay—“I blame her for having no better sense than to do a thing like this without consulting me. It was my right, as her brother, to know!”
“But you were not here,” Margaret interposed. She was anxious to draw all the trouble that was brewing upon herself. Geoff's mood boded harm.
He paid no heed to her. He twirled a cane of flexible rattan he carried between thumb and forefinger, and glared at Becker. Stupidity, anger and partial drunkenness were in the glance.
“I say to you,” Franz began evenly and quietly, “I say to you that your sister is sick, and I insist upon your leaving the room.”
“I have nothing to do with you, Becker, though you did sneak into my place. For a fellow such as you it was a chance not apt to come again.” Franz flushed scarlet, but he managed to speak without perceptible emotion. “Whatever you may wish to tell your sister must be deferred. This is not the time.”
He deliberately pushed Geoff from the room, closing the door after them.
In the hall they confronted each other. Franz was sternly self-possessed. He would exercise all the tolerance at his command, at no matter what cost to his pride.
Within the room they had just quitted, Margaret lay breathless and listening, but when there penetrated to her ears the echo of Geoff's insulting speech, she arose with a dizzy aching head and with trembling fingers began to dress.
The two men were standing at the head of the stairs. Geoff was saying sneeringly: “For a fellow of your stamp you have done well. I can congratulate you even if I can't my sister.”
Franz was silent. He simply looked from underneath straight brows at his tormentor, biting his lips.
“You have done a fine thing for yourself. My sister's money will find more uses than ever. Of course, it was the main attraction.”
Still Franz was silent.
“Why don't you deny the truth of what I say?” Geoff insisted. “Why don't you tell me I lie, you fool?”
“If you speak to me like that again, I'll not be responsible for what I do,” said Franz evenly.
“I congratulate you—you have done a fine thing for yourself. It means ease and plenty.” He stretched out his hand mockingly.
Franz struck the extended hand roughly with his fist. “What you insinuate is a lie! You are a coward to get behind the advantage you have of me—a coward!”
Geoff dropped back a step. With his cane he hit Franz lightly at first, and then made as if to repeat the blow.
Forgetting everything but his hate for the man before him, Franz put out his hand to take Geoff by the throat. It was then the cane descended, striking him across the temples. Instantly foot and hand alike were stayed. He reeled as though he would fall,—putting up both hands to his eyes.
Geoff saw the door of his sister's room swing open, and turning with an oath from Franz, who stood swaying unsteadily, he ran down the stairs.
In the hall Franz lurched from side to side, his hands to his face. “Franz,” Margaret called, “Franz, dear! what did he do?”
With staggering uncertain steps he started toward her.
“Franz!” she called. “Dear Franz! what is it?”
He gave no answer. He only groped his way nearer, and she saw the cruel red welts just above his eyes. He had come almost to her, when he sank to his knees at her feet.
“Franz, dear!” she cried, “what is it? Are you hurt, my love? Are you hurt?”
She put her cool palm against his forehead, and kneeling beside him slipped an arm around his neck. She felt him tremble as though every nerve and muscle in his body were wrenched and torn.
As she clung to him a chill stole into her own heart. She, too, could only crouch and cower and shudder.
Finally he spoke in strange hushed accents. “Margaret, I can't see! It is all black—black as night in front of me!”
She pressed close in his arms, and with her little hand she chafed his brow where the red line burned and stung.
He stood erect once more and slowly turned about as if in quest of something.
“Margaret, how does the light come? Is it there?” He faced the wall—the window at his back.
She had moved with him, her glance fastened upon his eyes.
They were fixed in a stony glare.
“Where is the window?” he asked appealingly.
She was sobbing now.
“Margaret, I can't see—I am blind—blind!”
He felt her fall lax in his embrace. The sobs ceased abruptly.
She was unconscious.
Franz knew that Margaret must die.
She weakened visibly with the moments that had the single mission—to kill.
He knew but too well what passed before him in his darkened world. He knew that since his blindness, she had sunk through stupor to stupor, each to drag her farther and farther from him.
There were intervals—seconds that might have been ages, when she would sit erect and call his name, but there were no conscious periods.
She was sinking by slow degrees, and the blind man held a dark vigil.
In the still room the other watchers came and went noiselessly, with the question continually on their lips: “Is she better?”
During those long days, when it was neither life nor death, Philip came frequently to make his inquiries, to be confronted by the vision of Mrs. Perkins' tear-stained countenance or, what was worse—to encounter Perkins.
He would wander in their company aimlessly from room to room, or with them listen at her door, seeing in his fancy Franz sitting, a blind sentinel, counting the minutes that stole up out of the lap of time to bear her away.
It was the evening of the fourth day. The doctor had just left the sick chamber to be met at the foot of the stairs by the three anxious friends.
“What are the chances?” Philip asked.
He shook his head. Then addressing Philip: “It may be well for you to stay here to-night. She is failing rapidly.”
Philip looked at him stupidly.
Perkins seized the doctor by the shoulder almost savagely: “Why don't you save her?” he demanded. “Why don't you?”
“I am doing all I can. The cure should have commenced weeks ago. I said then what should be done.”
He pushed past them, glad of the opportunity to escape that their momentary panic afforded; but Philip followed him from the house, and as the doctor turned—a lighted match between his fingers, for he was arranging to make his walk home comfortable with a cigar, Philip said, “Do you mean she will die? Is there no hope?”
“None whatever.”
“How soon will it be?” Philip questioned with a stolid curiosity which was a source of astonishment to himself.
“In an hour or so, I think.”
Philip twice essayed to speak and failed. The doctor puffed reflectively at his cigar. He added: “She was never strong, and the shock of Becker's blindness will prove too much for her. She was in no condition to meet it.”
Philip mopped his brow. It was damp and clammy. Of a sudden he dripped at every pore. “What do you mean to do?” he asked.
“I'll drop in later. I would remain if it wasn't for an old party up on the edge of town who can't last. His folks have sent for me a dozen times to-day. He insists he won't die unless I come to help him off, and I guess the family's afraid he will stick to his word.” And the man of pills laughed softly at his modest little joke. “I am of no use here. All has been done that can be—only keep an eye on Becker. He doesn't take it right. He is too undemonstrative. Good night.”
And he strode up the street, leaving an odor of tobacco smoke in his wake.
Philip went into the house, shutting the door quietly behind him. It was all like a hideous nightmare, and he felt himself as unreal as all the rest. He found Perkins seated on the lowest step of the stairs. His face was buried in his hands.
“What else did he say?” Perkins asked, shifting his position, and looking up.
“It was merely a repetition of his former statement.”
“I wish it were I!” Perkins blurted out. “I wish it were! Why can't we do something for her—for him! You love her, too, don't you?”
“Yes, I love her; maybe not with your unselfish devotion, but I have your desire to be of service.”
Perkins shook his head. “It's all up,” he sobbed. “Think of it—Margaret dying!”
Philip regarded his friend pityingly, and took to pacing back and forth in front of him.
Imperceptibly he moderated his step until he no more than tiptoed up and down the hall.
Perkins, worn and wretched with four nights of sleeplessness, slumbered against the newel post, his hands idly folded in his lap, his hair roughened and disordered, his dress creased and crumpled, his whole attitude one of utter dejection.
The solitary gas-jet in the center of the hall burned feebly.
The light, stealing through the colored globe, imparted to Perkins' features a semblance of shrunken ghastliness. More than once Philip had a compelling impulse to turn it up, and had stepped to the chandelier to do so only to be resisted by an invisible force that possessed him, a chilling apathy that revolted at any change.
The least noise had a powerful fascination for him. The ticking of a clock—and numberless clocks appeared to be ticking with jarring clangor, some close by, some far off in the distance—or the footfall of an occasional belated wayfarer on the street without, would cause him to pause and listen breathlessly with a vague unexplainable fear. His sensations were so distressing that for the sake of personal contact he wedged in at Perkins' elbow on the steps. In spite of his care he aroused his companion, who stirred fretfully to ask sleepily: “What is it? Do they want me?”
“I wished to sit down. I didn't intend to disturb you.”
“Oh! that's all right.” And almost immediately Perkins was dozing as before.
In the room above, the watcher and watched kept their place.
Franz clasped her hands fast in both of his, as though through sheer physical strength he would keep her with him. As yet she had indicated by no sign that she understood what was going on about her. It was always the same tired tossing, but with greater weakness there slowly succeeded greater calm.
With a fixed rapt look Franz's gaze sought her face and never wavered; it preserved its direction as steadily from beneath his broad straight brows as though he really saw.
She turned restlessly for the thousandth time, and as he had a thousand times already, he whispered softly, “Margaret.”
Hitherto his words had fallen on deaf ears, now the head moved upon the pillow—the sweet wan face was raised to his.
“Margaret,” he said, “Margaret, do you hear me? My little wife! My little wife!” As he spoke her eyes opened.
The room was unlighted save for the night-lamp burning on the table, and peering at her in the gloom with those sunken sightless eyes of his, was her husband.
She remembered all. “Franz! Franz!” she cried, in a voice so faint as scarcely to be audible. “It was not a dream? I meant you should have so much,—say you forgive me!”
“You must not grieve, dear,” he said tenderly. “You must not think of me now.”
“It was all so beautiful until he came,” she said dreamily; “I have been so happy with you, dear, so happy.”
There was infinite regret and infinite tenderness in her all but inarticulate speech.
They were silent for a while, then Margaret said: “It is good-by we are saying, Franz. Who would imagine there would be so little to say?”
Franz bent over her, desolation in his soul.
“What was that?” she asked, her voice fainter than before.
“I thought it very quiet, dear,” he answered. “Perhaps it is the wind.”
“How many days ago was it?” she questioned.
“You mean when you were taken ill, dear? It was four days ago.”
“So many days ago as that? Where are the others?”
“They are here. My mother, Mrs. Perkins, Ballard and Philip. Would you like to see them, dear?”
“Only you, Franz. Take my love to them.”
Her voice had become the gentlest of murmurs, but the small white hand continued to stroke his face, though with a faltering movement. Then the soft caress stopped; a sigh escaped her; she appeared to slip from his grasp—to shrink within his arms.
“Margaret!” he said. “Margaret!” and his lips were ashen and tremulous.
He allowed her to fall limply to the pillow.
He waited a moment, then springing to his feet he started for the door. And as he groped his way, there burst from his quivering lips a great cry. “Margaret! Margaret!”
It was the second evening after Margaret's death, and the night of Barbara's marriage to Shelden.
To Philip the day had come, as all days must, where one exists for them alone, with no other interest in their passing than that they go swiftly. What was in store for him he wondered. Even supposing he eventually succeeded, it would be the bitter satire of success. What could fame or money give him!—he was robbed of every inspiration. At least he could turn to his work for forgetfulness. That was something, even if it yielded him no further recompense. He looked at his watch. “It must soon be over with. They must soon be married,” he thought, and slipping into his hat and coat started down-stairs. His mother heard him and came into the hall.
“Are you going out, Philip?” she asked.
“Yes, dear. I want to see Franz. I haven't been there to-day. I'll not be out late.”
“It's very cold.”
“I shall not care.”
She put up her lips to kiss him, then pressed her cheek to his. “I'm so sorry, Philip!” she whispered. It was the only expression of pity she had ventured.
“Don't, mother. I can't endure it. Not now—not yet.”
With a hasty good-by he hurried off.
Ten minutes later and he stood with Perkins before the door leading into the room where Margaret lay.
“Where is Franz?” Philip asked.
Perkins nodded toward the door. “We can't induce him to leave her,” he said.
“Why should you seek to? Poor fellow!”
They were silent, gazing at each other, a depth of sorrow in their glance. Finally Perkins said, with a show of control:
“Have you seen her, Philip?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I had decided to keep the memory I have of her unchanged. It is as I saw her when they were married. She was so happy, poor little thing!”
“There is more than happiness in her face now,” Perkins observed thoughtfully. “Do you believe in a hereafter?”
“What odds can it be? It's in the present our lot is cast.”
“Don't you like to think you are destined to meet those you love again?”
Philip placed his hand irresolutely upon the knob.
“I shall go in. Perhaps I shall be able to determine what I do believe.”
As he entered the room, a rush of cold air met him, for the windows were partially raised—the outer shutters only being closed. The dim light filled the apartment with shadowy indistinctness.
Slowly and overpoweringly objects became plain in the somberness of his surroundings.
Margaret lay upon a couch in the center of the room. She might have been asleep.
At her side sat Franz, regardless of the stinging gusts of wind that came in between the shutters.
Philip stepped to the couch and looked down upon the beautiful face, then he moved back quietly, and would have quitted the room, but Franz detained him by saying: “Is it you, Perkins?”
“It is I,” Philip answered.
Franz arose instantly, putting out his hand, and Philip clasped it eagerly.
Without the wind sighed drearily. The sound was depressing.
The naked branches of a tree growing in a corner of the yard lashed the house incessantly. The single lamp burned with a flickering flame.
“What is it?” Franz questioned, for twice Philip had essayed to speak.
“I am so sorry, Franz. So sorry,” he cried in broken tones.
“I know you are,” Franz answered simply.
“There is this that I want to tell you, Franz, if I may,” Philip continued.
“Yes?”
“Barbara is to be married to-night.” He came to an abrupt stop. “I have determined to go East,” he went on presently. “It will mean greater opportunity. A garbled version of that affair of Anson's has got abroad and my mother is equally anxious to break up here. What I wished to ask you is, won't you join me, dear old fellow?”
“And allow my blindness to be your affliction?”
“You are more to me than I can express. First my mother—then you, and after you—Perkins.”
Franz swept his hand across his forehead.
“Wait! How can I think of the future? My very world is ended! Wait.”
Philip stole out of the room and from the house. It was snowing heavily. The ground was already covered. It had been bare at supper-time. He kept on up the street until he was opposite the Gerards.
The house was brilliantly lighted, but the wedding party was still absent at the church. He must see her once more!
So he waited in the cold, half hidden by the falling snow that clung to him and that drifted about the quiet and empty streets.
Yes, Franz should live with him and his mother. Comfort was possible with favoring circumstances where happiness was not.
Presently, disturbing his reverie, the dull rumble of wheels was audible, muffled and deadened by the fall of snow.
The carriages rolled into view.
He saw the many figures moving about, as the guests streamed into the house, and straining his eyes he saw Barbara. She stood in the open door, and as she turned to answer some one who had spoken on the walk—her voice reached him, gay and bright.
The guests had disappeared, yet he waited. He would wait until she entered her carriage to be driven to the station. It could not be very long, and then he, too, would forget.
Suddenly the doors swung back. He saw her, attended by her friends, clinging to her husband's arm, and then—she was whirled away and it was over.
Turning he went directly home and to his room, and took from the drawer the bundle of letters. One by one he burned them—and as the last letter left his hand, far off in the distance pealed the shrill shriek of the whistle that announced the approach of the train.
The sound drew him to the window. He opened it and leaned upon the ledge.
He heard the shrill whistle once again, the creaking of the wheels upon the frosted rails, the ringing of a bell—and she was gone! gone!
A desperate sense of wrong and injury—of pain and grief swept over him.
He turned from the white night and threw himself upon the bed,—abject, lonely, miserable! If he could only die—if he only could! but it was the sickness not of death, but of life, that was on him.
For a time he was unable to think or to throw off the stupor possessing him.
His mother came into the room, but he did not look up.
She closed the window, saying: “Philip, if you intend to lie there, you must be wrapped up, or you will take cold.”
He did not speak, and she added: “It's late. It's almost midnight. Won't you go to bed?”
He shook his head.
“My poor boy! my poor boy!—I am so sorry!”
“The worst is over with,” he said.
“Can't I help you? It hurts me to see you so. I wish——”
“Please go. You can't help me—nothing can. Please go!” His voice was full of entreaty.
“How could she treat you so, Philip!”
“It wasn't her fault. It was mine. I didn't trust myself. I didn't trust her. I was a coward! She would have taken any risk had I asked it of her, but I was afraid, and this is my punishment.”
“Won't you let me spread a blanket over you?”
“No, no. I'll get up in a few moments.” He lifted his white drawn face to hers: “Please go, mother. Please go. I—I—can't talk about it.” Reluctantly his mother left him to his solitude. For a while he rested motionless on the bed, then he came to his feet and went to the table, taking his seat beside it, his elbows propped upon its blotted and discolored top. He pictured his altered life. There remained to him one solace if he willed it. He could cheat time by work, and so, perhaps, win fame to fill the place of love, and for the rest—the world could go hang!
So he pictured his future, a future vastly less successful than the reality was destined to be, and when he had built his new ideal—buttressed it with hope and courage—he picked up his pen, cleared it of the black rust that had gathered on its point, and commenced to write—to finish the work he had abandoned when the blow fell.
All through the night and into the dawn, to and fro across the long pages, with a cheerful little murmur of approval, the pen scratched and labored.