XII
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.