XIV
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.