Chapter 15

The deep voice went on, even more tenderly, to speak of God; not of His power, but of His purpose, not of His justice, but His forgiveness, not of His vengeance, but of His love. A love so vast and far-reaching that there is no place where it is not; it enfolds not only our little world, poised in infinite space like a mote in a sunbeam, but all the shining, rolling worlds beyond. Every star that rises within our sight and all the million stars beyond, in misty distances so great as to be incomprehensible, are guided and surrounded by this same love. It is impossible to conceive of a place where it is not--even in the midst of pain, poverty, suffering, and death, God's love is there also. The minister pleaded with those who listened to him to lean wholly upon this all-sustaining, all-forgiving love; to believe that it sheltered both the living and the dead, and to trust, simply, as a little child.

[Sidenote: At the Close of the Service]

In the stillness that followed, Eloise went to the piano. The worn strings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys. In her full, low contralto she sang, to an exquisite melody:

"When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree; Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

"I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget."

The deep, manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little group of neighbours and friends went out with hushed and reverent step, into the golden Autumn afternoon. Miriam came in, to all outward appearance wholly unmoved. She stood by him for a moment, then turned away.

Eloise closed the door and Roger and Allan brought Barbara in. She bent down to her father, who lay so quietly, with a smile of heavenly peace upon his lips, and her tears rained upon his face. "Good-bye, dear Daddy," she sobbed. "It is Barbara who kisses you now."

* * * * *

When Ambrose North went out of his door for the last time, on his way to rest beside his beloved Constance until God should summon them both, Roger stayed behind, with Barbara. Doctor Conrad had said, positively, that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed.

The boy's heart was too full for words. He still kept her cold little hand in his. "There isn't anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara, dear?"

[Sidenote: The Pity of It]

"No," she sobbed. "That is the pity of it. There is never anything to be said or done."

"I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you," he said, simply. "Some way, we seem to belong together, you and I."

They sat in silence until the others came back. Eloise came straight to Barbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent little figure.

"Will you come with me, dear?" she asked. "We can get a carriage easily and I'd love to have you with me. Will you come?"

For a moment, Barbara hesitated. "No," she said, "I must stay here. I've got to live right on here, and I might as well begin to-night."

Allan took from his pocket several small, round white tablets, and gave them to Barbara. "Two just before going to bed," he said. "And if you're the same brave girl that you've been ever since I've known you, you'll have your bearings again in a short time."

[Sidenote: By the Open Fire]

Roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretence of eating. The odour of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought, inevitably, the thought of death. Afterward, Barbara sat by the open fire with one hand lying listlessly in Roger's warm, understanding clasp. In the kitchen, Miriam vigorously washed the few dishes. She had put away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant of table damask, and the Satsuma cup.

"Shall I read to you, Barbara?" asked Roger.

"No," she answered, wearily. "I couldn't listen to-night."

The hours dragged on. Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, by the light of one candle, remorsefully, after many years, face to face with herself.

She wondered what Constance would do to her now, when she went to bed and fearfully closed her eyes. She determined to cheat Constance by sitting up all night, and then realised that by doing so she would only postpone the inevitable reckoning.

Miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere, on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. Mysterious balances must be made before things were right, and her endeavours to get what she had conceived to be her own just due had all failed.

She wondered why. Constance had wronged her and she was entitled to pay Constance back in her own coin. But the opportunity had been taken out of her hands, every time. Even at the last, her subtle revenge had been transmuted into further glory for Constance. Why?

The answer flashed upon her like words of fire--"_Vengeance is mine; I will repay._"

Then, suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession came pitilessly upon her soul. Her lined face blanched in the candle-light and her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair.

[Sidenote: The Still Small Voice]

"Confess," she repeated to herself scornfully as though in answer to some imperative summons. "To whom?"

There was no answer, but, in her heart, Miriam knew. Only one of the blood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made. And if anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it must come to her through Barbara.

Miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others might hear. Roger heard--and wondered--but said nothing.

After he went home, Barbara still sat by the fire, in that surcease which comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it steps aside, to wait a little, before taking a fresh hold. She could wonder now about the letter, in her mother's writing, that she had picked up from the floor, and which her father had found, and very possibly read. She hesitated to ask Miriam anything concerning either her father or her mother.

[Sidenote: Miriam's Confession]

But, while she sat there, Miriam came into the room, urged by goading impulses without number and one insupportable need. She stood near Barbara for several minutes without speaking; then she began, huskily, "Barbara----"

The girl turned, wearily. "Yes?"

"I've got something to say and I don't know but what to-night is as good a time as any. Neither of us are likely to sleep much."

Barbara did not answer.

"I hated your mother," said Miriam, passionately. "I always hated her."

"I guessed that," answered Barbara, with a sigh.

"Your father was in love with me when she came from school, with her doll-face and pretty ways. She took him away from me. He never looked at me after he saw her. I had to stand by and see it, help her with her pretty clothes, and even be maid of honour at the wedding. It was hard, but I did it.

"She loved him, in a way, but it wasn't much of a way. She liked the fine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but, after he went blind, she could hardly tolerate him. Lots of times, she would have been downright cruel to him if I hadn't made her do differently.

"The first time they came here for the Summer, she met Laurence Austin, Roger's father, and it was love at first sight on both sides. They used to see each other every day either here or out somewhere. After you were born, the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him. I know, for I followed.

"When your father asked where she was, I lied to him, not only then, but many times. I wasn't screening her--I was shielding him. It went on for over a year, then she took the laudanum. She left four notes--one to me, one to your father, one to you, and one to Laurence Austin. I never delivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for five years. After he died, she still haunted me, but it was less often, and different.

"When you sent me into your father's room after that letter he had in his pocket, I took time to read it. She said, there, that she didn't trust me, and that I had always loved your father. It was true enough, but I didn't know she knew it.

"After you took the letter out, I put in the one to Laurence Austin. I'd opened it and read it some little time back. I thought it was time he knew her as she was, and I never thought about no name being mentioned in it.

"When he tore off the bandages, he read that letter, and never knew that it wasn't meant for him. Then, when you came in in that old dress of your mother's, he thought it was her come back to him, and never knew any different."

There was a long pause. "Well?" said Barbara, wearily. It did not seem as if anything mattered.

"I just want you to know that I've hated your mother all my life, ever since she came home from school. I've hated you because you look like her. I've hated your father because he talked so of her all the time, and hated myself for loving him. I've hated everybody, but I've done my duty, as far as I know. I've scrubbed and slaved and taken care of you and your father, and done the best I could.

"When I put that letter into his pocket, I intended for him to know that Constance was in love with another man. I'd have read it to him long ago if I'd had any idea he'd believe me. When he thought it was for him, I was just on the verge of telling him different when you came in and stopped me. You looked so much like your mother I thought Constance had taken to walking down here daytimes instead of back and forth in my room at night.

"I suppose," Miriam went on, in a strange tone, "that I've killed him--that there's murder on my hands as well as hate in my heart. I suppose you'll want to make some different arrangements now--you won't want to go on living with me after I've killed your father."

[Sidenote: A Wonderful Joy]

"Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, calmly, "I've known for a long time almost everything you've told me, but I didn't know how father got the letter. I thought he must have found it somewhere in the desk or in his own room, or even in the attic. You didn't kill him any more than I did, by coming into the room in mother's gown. What he really died of was a great, wonderful joy that suddenly broke a heart too weak to hold it. And, even though I've wanted my father to see me, all my life long, I'd rather have had it as it was, and he would, too. I'm sure of that.

"He told me once the three things he most wanted to see in the world were mother's letter, saying that she loved him, then mother herself, and, last of all, me. And for a long time his dearest dream has been that I could walk and he could see. So when, in the space of five or ten minutes, all the dreams came true, his heart failed."

"But," Miriam persisted, "I meant to do him harm." Her burning eyes were keenly fixed upon Barbara's face.

"Sometimes," answered the girl, gently, "I think that right must come from trying to do wrong, to make up for the countless times wrong comes from trying to do right. Father could not have had greater joy, even in heaven, than you and I gave him at the last, neither of us meaning to do it."

[Sidenote: Human Sympathy and Love]

The stern barrier that had reared itself between Miriam and her kind suddenly crumbled and fell. Warm tides of human sympathy and love came into her numb heart and ice-bound soul. The lines in her face relaxed, her hands ceased to tremble, and her burning eyes softened with the mist of tears. Her mouth quivered as she said words she had not even dreamed of saying for more than a quarter of a century:

"Will you--can you--forgive me?"

All that she needed from the dead and all they could have given her came generously from Barbara. She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around Miriam's neck. "Oh, Aunty! Aunty!" she cried, "indeed I do, not only for myself, but for father and mother, too. We don't forgive enough, we don't love enough, we're not kind enough, and that's all that's wrong with the world. There isn't time enough for bitterness--the end comes too soon."

[Sidenote: At Peace]

Miriam went upstairs, strangely uplifted, strangely at peace. She was no longer alien and apart, but one with the world. She had a sense of universal kinship--almost of brotherhood. That night she slept, for the first time in more than twenty years, without the fear of Constance.

And Constance, who was more sinned against than sinning, and whose faithful old husband had that day lain down, in joy and triumph, to rest beside her in the churchyard, came no more.

XXI

The Perils of the City

"Roger," remarked Miss Mattie, laying aside her paper, "I don't know as I'm in favour of havin' you go to the city. Can't you get the Judge another dog?"

"Why not, Mother?" asked Roger, ignoring her question.

"Because it seems to me, from all I've been readin' and hearin' lately, that the city ain't a proper place for a young person. Take that minister, now, that those folks brought down for Ambrose North's funeral. I never heard anything like it in all my life. You was there and you heard what he said, so there ain't no need of dwellin' on it, but it wasn't what I'm accustomed to in the way of funerals." Miss Mattie's militant hairpins bristled as she spoke.

"I thought it was all right, Mother. What was wrong with it?"

[Sidenote: Everything Wrong]

"Wrong!" repeated Miss Mattie, in astonishment. "Everything was wrong with it! Ambrose North wasn't a church-member and he never went more'n once or twice that I know of, even after the Lord chastened him with blindness for not goin'. There was no power to the sermon and no cryin' except Barbara and that Miss Wynne that sang that outlandish piece instead of a hymn.

"Why, Roger, I was to a funeral once over to the Ridge where the corpse was an unbaptized infant, and you ought to have heard that preacher describin' the abode of the lost! The child's mother fainted dead away and had to be carried out of the church, it was that powerful and movin'. That was somethin' like!"

It was in Roger's mind to say he was glad that the minister had not made Barbara faint, but he wisely kept silent.

[Sidenote: Life in the City]

"That's only one thing," Miss Mattie went on. "What with religion bein' in that condition in the city, and the life folks live there, I don't think it's any fit place for a person that ain't strong in the faith, and you know you ain't, Roger. You take after your pa.

"I was readin' in _The Metropolitan Weekly_ only last week a story about a lovely young orphan that was caught one night by a rejected suitor and tied to the railroad track. Just as the train was goin' to run over her, the man she wanted to marry come along on the dead run with a knife and cut her bonds. She got off the track just as the night express come around the curve, goin' ninety-five miles an hour.

[Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Fears]

"This man says to her, 'Genevieve, will you come to me now, and let me put you out of this dread villain's power forever?' Then he opened his arms and the beautiful Genevieve fled to them as to some ark of safety and laid her pale and weary face upon his lovin' and forgivin' heart. That's the exact endin' of it, and I must say it's written beautiful, but when I wake up in the night and think about it, I get scared to have you go.

"You ain't so bad lookin', Roger, and you're gettin' to the age where you might be expected to take notice, and what if some designing female should tie you to the railroad track? I declare, it makes me nervous to think of it."

Roger did not like to shake his mother's faith in _The Metropolitan Weekly_, but he longed to set her fears at rest. "Those things aren't true, Mother," he said, kindly. "They not only haven't happened, but they couldn't happen--it's impossible."

"Roger, what do you mean by sayin' such things. Of course it's true, or it wouldn't be in the paper. Ain't it right there in print, as plain as the nose on your face? You can see for yourself. I hope studyin' law ain't goin' to make an infidel of you."

"I don't think it will," temporised Roger. "I'll keep a close watch for designing females, and will avoid railroad tracks at night."

Miss Mattie shook her head doubtfully. "That ain't a goin' to do no good, Roger, if they once get set after you. I've noticed that the villain always triumphs."

"But only for a little while, Mother. Surely you must have seen that?"

[Sidenote: The Villain Foiled]

She settled her steel-bowed spectacles firmly on the wart and gazed at him. "I believe you're right," she said, after a few moments of reflection. "I can't recall no story now where the villain was not foiled at last. Let me see--there was _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling_, and _Margaret Merriman, or the Maiden's Mad Marriage_, and _True Gold, or Pretty Crystal's Love_, and _The American Countess, or Hearts Aflame_, and this one I was just speakin' of, _Genevieve Carleton, or the Brakeman's Bride_. In every one of 'em, the villain got his just deserts, though sometimes they was disjointed owin' to the story bein' broke off at the most interestin' point and continued the followin' week."

"Well, if the villain is always foiled, you're surely not afraid, are you?"

"I don't know's I'm afraid in the long run, but I don't like to have you go through such things and be exposed to the temptations of a great city."

"Why don't you come with me, Mother, and keep house for me? We can find a little flat somewhere, and----"

"What on earth is that?"

[Sidenote: Apartments and Flats]

"I've never been in one myself, but Miss Wynne said that, if you wanted to come, she would find us a flat, or an apartment."

"What's the difference between a flat and an apartment?"

"That's what I asked her. She said it was just the rent. You pay more for an apartment than you do for a flat."

"I wouldn't want anything I had to pay more for," observed Miss Mattie, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "You ain't told me what a flat is."

"A few rooms all on one floor, like a cottage. It's like several cottages, all under one roof."

"What do they want to cover the cottages with a roof for? Don't they want light and air?"

"You don't understand, Mother. Suppose that our house here was an apartment house. The stairs would be shut off from these rooms and the hall would be accessible from the street. Instead of having three rooms upstairs, there might be six--one of them a kitchen and the others living-rooms and bedrooms. Don't you see?"

"You mean a kitchen on the same floor with the bedrooms?"

"Yes, all the rooms on one floor."

"Just as if an earthquake was to jolt off the top of the house and shake all the bedrooms down here?"

"Something like that."

"Well, then," said Miss Mattie, firmly, "all I've got to say is that it ain't decent. Think of people sleepin' just off kitchens and washin' their faces and hands in the sink."

"I think some of them must be very nice, Mother. Miss Wynne expects to live in an apartment after she is married and she has a little one of her own now. If you'll come with me we'll find some place that you'll like. I don't want to leave you alone here."

[Sidenote: Under One Roof]

"No," she answered, after due deliberation, "I reckon I'll stay here. You can't transplant an old tree and you can't take a woman who has lived all her life in a house and put her in a place where there are several cottages all under one roof with bedrooms off of kitchens and folks washin' in the sinks. Miss Wynne can do it if she likes, but I was brought up different."

"I'm afraid you'll be lonesome."

"I don't know why I should be any more lonesome than I always have been. All I see of you is at meals and while you're readin' nights. You're just like your pa. If I propped up a book by the lamp, it would be just as sociable as it is to have you settin' here. Readin' is a good thing in its place and I enjoy it myself, but sometimes it's pleasant to hear the human voice sayin' somethin' besides 'What?' and 'Yes' and 'All right' and 'Is supper ready?'

[Sidenote: The Blue Hair Ribbon]

"I've been lookin' over your things to-day and gettin' 'em ready. The moths has ate your Winter flannels and you'll have to get more. I've mended your coat linin's and sewed on buttons, and darned and patched, and I've took Barbara North's blue hair ribbon back to her--the one you found some place and had in your pocket. You mustn't be careless about those things, Roger--she might think you meant to steal it."

"What did Barbara say?" he stammered. The high colour had mounted to his temples.

"She didn't know what to say at first, but she recognised it as her hair ribbon. I told her you hadn't meant to steal it--that you'd just found it somewheres and had forgot to give it to her, and it was all right. She laughed some, but it was a funny laugh. You must be careful, Roger--you won't always have your mother to get you out of scrapes."

Roger wondered if the knot of blue ribbon that had so strangely gone back to Barbara had, by any chance, carried to her its intangible freight of dreams and kisses, with a boyish tear or two, of which he had the grace not to be ashamed.

"Your pa was in the habit of annexin' female belongin's, though the Lord knows where he ever got 'em. I suppose he picked 'em up on the street--he was so dreadful absent-minded. He was systematic about 'em in a way, though. After he died, I found 'em all put away most careful in a box--a handkerchief and one kid glove, and a piece of ribbon about like the one I took back to Barbara. He was flighty sometimes: constant devotion to readin' had unsettled his mind.

"That brings me to what I wanted to say when I first started out. I don't want you should load up your trunk with your pa's books to the exclusion of your clothes, and I don't want you to spend your evenin's readin'."

"I'm not apt to read very much, Mother, if I work in an office in the daytime and go to law school at night."

[Sidenote: Ten Books Only]

"That's so, too, but there's Sundays. You can take any ten of your pa's books that you like, but no more. I'll keep the rest here against the time the train is blocked and the mails don't come through. I may get a taste for your pa's books myself."

Roger did not think it likely, but he was too wise to say so.

"And I didn't tell you this before, but I've made it my business to go and see the Judge and tell him how you saved my life at the expense of Fido's. I don't know when I've seen a man so mad. I was goin' to suggest that we get him another dog from some place, and land sakes! he clean drove it out of my mind.

"I don't know how you've stood it, bein' there in the office with him, and I told him so. He's got a red-headed boy from the Ridge in there now, and I think maybe the Judge will get what's comin' to him before he gets through. I've learned not to trifle with anybody what has red hair, but seemin'ly the Judge ain't. It takes some folks a long time to learn.

"Barbara's goin' to the city, too, to spend the Winter with that Miss Wynne in the cottage that's under the same roof with other cottages and the bedrooms off the kitchen. I don't know how Barbara'll take to washin' in the sink, when she's always had that rose-sprigged bowl and pitcher of her ma's, but it's her business, not mine, and if she wants to go, she can.

[Sidenote: "Me and Miriam"]