CHAPTER XIV
Falltime was well gone for the year. Yet in the rigors of winter a flower came to bloom in the heart of Dolores Trent. Petal-soft had opened the peace of her to-day. Warm-hued glowed the hope of to-morrow. As though none such ever had pricked her mind were the thorn-fears of yesterday.
She first consciously viewed the miracle on a sharply bright afternoon when she and young Jack had crossed the Avenue for one of the strolls in Central Park which she was teaching him to enjoy. The fact that she had reached content glinted into her realization from off the sunlight. The green grass surviving the patches of snow, the birds darting hither and yon on their unaccountable errands, the branches swaying tractably to the breeze—each sight and sound about them accented the harmony with Nature of her changed mood. Hitherto, memories of her past had spoiled the present with dread of what the future might be. To-day the past was crowded into its proper position as the mere background of her life. So full of enjoyment was the present that she seemed almost—almost to have reached the future.
And her mental state seemed to have blessed her charge like a benediction. No longer did the cripple’s features twist into snarls at sight of more agile children at play. To his precocious mind had been submitted the law of compensation. Constantly reminding himself that there was meant to be no perfect earthly state, he compared nurse-maids and mothers unfavorably with his governess-pal; buttoned his coat thoughtfully when he passed a youngster in rags who could run; tilted his head farther to one side when a rheumy-eyed wreck of a father on a bench pointed the contrast with that of his god-man, his “John Cabot.”
“It is fun being happy,” he asserted gnomically.
“It is—it is,” she agreed, with conviction equal to his own.
“I think I have learned how to be happy more from you, ’Lores, than from Dick. But I don’t mind acknowledging that I was all wrong about the way I treated him before you came. Don’t you think he ’preciates, though, that I’ve tried to make it up to him? The way he pecks around my fingers when I hold his lettuce-leaf shows he’s not afraid of me any more. And the way he sings! ’Lores, when he perks his head on one side, just like John and me, and fixes his shiny eyes on mine—— D’you know, I think he is awful fond of me, ’spite of the way I acted. It makes me feel——” In the act of drooping, the over-large, brown-cropped head threw bravely back. “It makes me ashamed,” he finished. “Don’t you suppose we could let Dick out of the cage a while each day, just to give him a little the feeling that he’s free?”
“Of course we could, Jackie. I am sure he’d soon learn to stay inside your rooms. He has more philosophy than you’d credit to his size or he’d never sing as he does in a cage.”
The lad’s eyes up-flashed a radiant look. “I’d be relieved a lot to see Dick get something out of his life. I’d feel a better right to enjoy something awful wonderful that’s going to happen to me to-day. You won’t be cross that I’ve kept it a secret from you? I wanted to s’prise you. But I intended all along to tell you first of anybody. ’Lores——”
His slithering gait stopped in the center of the path that he might grasp her two hands instead of the one. Through the fur lining of his gloves she could feel the jump of his pulse. Looking down, she saw a sort of solemn joy upon his wizened little face. From under the beautiful sweep of his lashes gleamed what she had not seen there before, tears.
“John’s going to bring me the dog, ’Lores,” he announced in a voice surcharged with unchildlike feeling. “I never asked him again after that day. You know—the day you came—when two of the gold-fish died? It was he took that magazine with the kennel advertisement I had marked. You remember that we never could find it? That was a long time ago and I was afraid John had forgotten. But he hadn’t. I guess he never forgets anything. He saved the address and he’s got me one of the breed of that picture. It means more to me than getting what he’s never let me have, a live puppy. It means——”
“That your father trusts you now. Oh, Jack darling, I am so glad for you!” With emotion equal to his own Dolores filled in when the child-voice broke.
“And, ’Lores——” excitement fortified him, “he’s bringing it to-day—probably this very hour. I left word with Bradish the direction we were taking and just where we’d rest. But I guess, after all, we’d better go back. My dog mightn’t like it if I wasn’t home when he arrived. Naturally he’ll be anxious to get acquainted with his boy. Let’s start back.”
Despite Dolores’ readiness, he still hesitated.
“I kind of don’t feel that I dare be so happy, ’Lores, when I know you get sorry sometimes. You’re not to be sorry any more. I’ve explained to John about why I want to take care of you always. I’m not too little now to look after you and when I grow up I intend to make you awful happy. I’d like to tell you now that special name for you that I——”
The girl had to lean low to catch his confession. But not for all the lesser joys of her life would she have missed it. On her knees in the gravel of the path she held him for one precious moment to her heart. Although quickly she restrained herself in order not to offend his idea of big-boy decorum and although the homeward pace set by his physical limitations was slow, she seemed to walk on air—seemed to have realized in her virginity the joy of motherhood.
For once Jack’s anxiety to precede his hero home had been well advised. It took time to reach the nearest exit, then to retrace their steps up-town along the pavement that fronted the park wall. Scarcely had they come opposite the Cabot block when they saw John in riding clothes about to mount the white Arabian which was the chief of his relaxations.
Scuttling to his side the curb, John, Jr., announced their return in his lustiest shout. Dolores understood the excitement which had snatched his hand from hers when she noticed that a scraggly Airedale puppy was tucked under the left parental elbow.
For the moment the “Stop” sign of the traffic policeman at the crossing just below had cut off the flow of vehicles. John Cabot, hearing and seeing his son, returned to the groom the reins of his horse. By neck-nap he held up the wriggling symbol of re-established faith; then, stooping, set the young dog on his feet and started him across the street to meet the lad who had earned his ownership.
Jack’s whistle of encouragement was out-shrilled by the “Go” blast from below. The puppy, despite the wobbliness of his legs, evidently had lived to learn. The louder the whistle, the stronger the canine obligation. His stub tail straight up, his square-chopped jowl low, his ears flat-pointed toward his goal, he set off in form that would have done proud his bull-terrier and otter-hound ancestors toward the policeman down the street.
Jack took after him. At a pace of which Dolores would not have believed him capable, with his overly-long arms outstretched and his head lopping well to one side, he slithered regardlessly into the crush of traffic. As one, the father and the governess realized his danger. From opposite curbs, both started after him. The Airedale, although debarred by youth from discrimination, showed that he had inherited speed. But Jack, urged beyond thought of self by desire to rescue his new and dear possession, gained in the pursuit. Lunging close, he reached for the waggling stub tail. Almost did he grasp it. Almost did he, as well as the dog, reach the safety zone.
On the right side of the Avenue, John Cabot had been hindered by the up-streaking cars. On the left, Dolores might have been in time, except that a misguided citizen, seeing a woman rush directly in front of a heavy car, laid violent hands upon her and dragged her back. Her shriek mingled with the automobile’s siren. Above both warnings the traffic whistle shrilled and shrilled again.
The movement of the street scene suddenly ceased. Each car was brought up short. Pedestrians stood to stare, as if under some horrid spell. Even the puppy paused at the repetition of the command which before had moved him. At the worst possible moment for the continuation of the house of Cabot, a sport car had spun around the corner.
The case was one of the present-day many too brief for emergency brakes. The tires smoked with the startled driver’s shout. But from the victim there came not the slightest protest.
In another moment, all was motion again. John Cabot gathered the lax form of his son into his arms. A detached look was on his face as he answered the questions of the policeman and other eye witnesses. But while he nodded vaguely and gave his name and address in a quiet voice, he remembered everything, even the puppy. Dolores took up the search of his eyes; followed and picked up the confused little dog. She felt a resentment very like hate at the insinuating way he wagged his tail, as though trying to humbug her into approval of his conduct When she rejoined John——
“Come, Dolores,” he said.
Always before he had called her “Miss Trent.”
When they reached the wrought-iron gate into the Cabot grounds he stepped aside for her to precede him. That he should think of the puppy and her before himself——
Even in that first full hour, she was impressed by these small remembrances. They told her more of the man than all the greater things which had been accredited to him.
She it was who led the way around the clustered shrubbery and past the dryad of the cynical smirk. At the steps she had to right herself from stumbling. Although she was not weeping, she could not see.
“Jackie.... Jack!”
She had not spoken his name; merely had thought it in a hurting dread for herself as well as for him. Was catastrophe always to follow her? Had she brought it upon the boy by growing so close to him through love? That name he had revealed—his “secret” name for her—had that aught to do with the close-heeling of tragedy?
“Other mother,” was what he had called her.
Other mother!
No. The accident was to have been. It could not occur because he had whispered a precious name. With passionate jealousy, she defended his tribute. She would—she must have that.
Along about midnight and quite unexpectedly, Jack became conscious. His mind seemed to open with his eyes. He saw his father first, seated on one side of the historic bed, then glanced about until he found Dolores on the other.
From the outer room could be heard the deep-breathing of the celebrated surgeon who had performed the operation. He had preferred to spend the night there, awaiting results. The nurse, too, had been persuaded to a brief rest, since Mr. Cabot and the governess elected to keep the watch.
The mother who, all evening, had been in a “state” of grief bordering on hysteria, had been retired to her own apartment by one of her headaches and Dr. Shayle. A remark made to the osteopath in a quite calm voice, however, had suggested that already she had found relief from the shock.
“It will be better when it is all over,” she had said, turning with one of her quavering, childlike smiles from placing a rose between her son’s unresponsive fingers. “A lame lad couldn’t have gone far in this rapid age.”
Dolores, overhearing, felt a sensation new to her. By contrast with its violence, she knew that it was not hate she felt for the puppy. This was the first hate that had racked her—this feeling for Catherine Cabot. “All over”—his mother to anticipate that!
Now that the boy’s eyes had opened and widened with relief to find herself and John by the bed, the suggestion seemed more inhuman than before. She reached across to take away the rose of such cruel suggestiveness.
But Jack’s fingers now closed around the stem. His lips moved.
Both she and his father leaned close.
“Evening, John Cabot.”
“Jack Cabot, good evening.” In an effortful murmur the older John made his usual reply.
“And you, ’Lores—— I am glad you are both—— Don’t have anyone else——” Jack’s voice dwindled. Then soon he roused again. “If a picture was taken—of my heart, it would show—just two faces, John’s and ’Lores’. You’ll take my place, John—with Lores? You’ll try to make her happy—like I meant to do? She never was—happy, you know—until she and Dick and I——”
The father’s whispered reassurance Dolores tried not to hear, just as she tried not to see the look on his face. But without ears or eyes she must have heard and seen. Her heart was near breaking with grief for the two Johns.
“Anything you decide—all right with me. I can trust—her with you. I’d like to see—my dog.”
Dolores lifted the young Airedale, which had been biting at her skirt, to the edge of the bed and kept her hand on his collar while he wobbled over the coverlet and licked, in his boisterous, insinuating way, the outstretched hand of “his boy.” Soon she drew him away and replaced him on the floor, from where he whimpered and coaxed to get up again.
John, the while, had replaced the rose in his son’s searching hand.
They two sat watching the fingers that began to tear apart its petals.
“You are wasting your rose, Jackie dear,” Dolores said, to keep his thoughts distracted from the puppy.
He paused, but evidently not at her protest. The twittering of his canary in the other room seemed to disturb him.
“Poor Dick, he’s taking it hard,” he said and returned to the destruction of the rose.
After all the petals lay plucked on the coverlet, he gathered them up in both hands. His gaze, too, settled on the sight of the crimson life-leaves sifting through his pale fingers.
“See, they look prettier—and smell sweeter—than before,” he urged, his voice loudening from his effort to reassure them. “The rose isn’t wasted. Nothing ever is. Even I—am not wasted. I’ve never been what other boys—are. But I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to ’preciate you, John. Maybe if I hadn’t—you and ’Lores——”
His voice was cut by a hurting gasp. They hovered close over him, watching the changes—from physical pain to mental relief—which drifted like sunshine after shadows over his face.
Dolores would gladly have died to save him one pang; yet all she could do was to share his suffering. Her heart stopped beating from relief when the dark, appealing lashes swept back again. From far away, yet intensely, he looked up at them.
“Remember, John and ’Lores, nothing’s—ever—wasted”
As he spoke, a light not from the night lamp was shafted into the room. Direct as a search-ray it found his face and settled there.
At its touch Jack lifted to one elbow on the pillow, forgetful of pain; gazed with an alert look into its unearthly radiance; leant his head to one side, as if listening.
“I will come. I am coming,” he said.
“No, not yet, Jack—don’t go yet!” At last moved from his outer calm, the father threw forward his body to screen off the sourceless shaft. But not the faintest shadow showed. Through his brawn the light glowed steadily. With a groan he slid to his knees beside the ancestral bed and stretched clutching hands across the counterpane as if longing, yet not daring to drag back into the semi-gloom the last of the line.
His appeal sounded desperate—tortured from him.
“How can you leave me, boy? You are part of me, Jack Cabot. Don’t you realize that? You are all that I have. Don’t go yet awhile, my son—little crushed bone of my bone!”
Perhaps Jack heard. Perhaps he should have preferred to wait, if only for the “while” that his man-god craved. But his eyes did not lower from the blinding light or his head relax from its listening slant. Any courteous desire which he may have had to stay was overruled by the authoritative command that had reached him. In a last effort to reassure the beloved two he must leave behind, he tried to smile—was able to whisper:
“I am not—afraid.... I see—the way.... The light——”
Through the numbness that made one pain of her heart and her head, Dolores remembered sometime afterward that unprecedented midnight twittering which had disturbed the boy. Softly, so as not to awaken the great surgeon, she crossed the living-room to the window. The canary greeted her with no flutter of wings. She lifted the cage off its hook, carried it into the bedroom and placed it beside the night lamp.
She and John Cabot stood in the utter silence which seemed to fill the world, looking through the wires at the fluffed, yellow body that lay upon the floor of the cage. Indeed Dick had taken it “hard.” Jack’s wish for the small creature whose large love had made him “ashamed” was fulfilled. His bird, too, had gone—set free.