CHAPTER IX. Margret Howth: A Story of To-Day | ||
9. CHAPTER IX.
IF Knowles hated anybody that night, he hated the man he had left standing there with pale, heavy jaws, and heart of iron; he could have cursed him, standing there. He did not see how, alter he was left alone, the man lay with his face to the wall, holding his bony hand to his forehead, with a look in his eyes that if you had seen, you would have thought his soul had entered on that path whose steps take hold on hell.
There was no struggle in his face; whatever was the resolve he had reached in the solitary hours when he had stood so close upon the borders of death, it was unshaken now; but the heart, crushed and stifled before, was taking its dire revenge. If ever it had hungered, through the cold, selfish days, for God's help, or a woman's love, it hungered now, with a craving like death. If ever he had thought how bare and vacant the years would be, going down to the grave with lips that never had known a true wife's kiss, he remembered it
It was of no use to repent of it now. He had frozen the love out of her heart, long ago. He remembered (all that he did remember of the blank night after he was hurt) that he had seen her white, worn-out face looking down at him; that she did not touch him; and that,
There was a wicker-basket that Lois had left by the fire, piled up with bits of cloth and leather out of which she was manufacturing Christmas gifts; a pair of great woollen socks, which one of the sisters had told him privately Lois meant for him, lying on top. As with all of her people, Christmas was the great day of the year to her. Holmes could not but smile, looking at them. Poor Lois!—Christmas would be here soon, then? And sitting by the covered fire, he went back to Christmases gone, the thought of all others that brought Margret nearest and warmest to him: since he was a boy they had been together on that day. With his hand over his eyes, he sat quiet by the fire until morning. He heard some boy going by in the gray dawn call to another that they would have holiday on Christmas week. It was coming, he thought, rousing himself,— but never as it had been: that could never be again. Yet it was strange how this thought of Christmas took hold of him, after this,— famished his heart. As it approached in the slow-coming winter, the days growing shorter, and the nights longer and more solitary, so Margret became more real to him,—not rejected and lost, but as the wife she might have
He watched Lois knitting and patching her poor little gifts, with a vague feeling that every stitch made the time a moment shorter until he should be free, with his life in his hand again. She left the hospital at last, sorrowfully enough, but he made her go: he fancied the close air was hurting her, seeing at night the strange shadow growing on her face. I do not think he ever said to her that he knew all she had done for him, or thanked her; but no dog or woman that Stephen Holmes loved could look into his eyes, and doubt that love. Sad, masterful eyes, such as are seen but once or twice in a lifetime: no woman but would
Do you remember how Christmas came that year? how there was a waiting pause, when the States stood still, and from the peoples came the first awful murmurs of the storm that was to shake the earth? how men's hearts failed them for fear, how women turned pale, and held their children closer to their breasts, while they heard a far cry of lamentation for their country that had fallen? Do you remember how, amidst the fury of men's anger, the storehouses of God were opened for that land? how the very sunshine gathered new splendours, the rains more fruitful moisture, until the earth poured forth an unknown fulness of life and beauty? Was there no promise there, no proph-
Holmes, even, in his dreary room and drearier thought, felt the warmth and expectant stir creeping through the land as the day drew near. Even in the hospital, the sisters were in a busy flutter, decking their little chapel with flowers, and preparing a fête for their patients. The doctor, as he bandaged his broken arm, hinted at faint rumours in the city of masquerades and concerts. Even Knowles, who had not visited the hospital for weeks, relented and came back, moody and grum. He brought Kitts with him, and started him on talking of how they kept Christmas in Ohio on his mother's farm; and the poor soul, encouraged by the silence of two of his auditors, and the intense interest of Lois in the background, mazed on about Santa-Claus trees and Virginia reels until the clock struck twelve, and Knowles began to snore.
Christmas was coming. As he stood, day after day, looking out of the gray window, he could see the signs of its coming even in the shop-windows glittering with miraculous toys, in the market-carts with their red-faced drivers and heaps of ducks and turkeys, in every stage-coach or omnibus that went by crowded with
Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which turned out to be an accordion for Sophy.
"Christmas, you know,'' he said, taking off the brown paper, while he was cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely kneading at the keys, and stretching it until he made as much discord as five Congressmen. "I think Sophy will like that,'' he said, looking at it sideways, and tying it up carefully.
"I am sure she will,'' said Holmes,—and did not think the man a fool for one moment.
Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the certainty that home-comings or children's kisses or Christmas feasts were not for such as he,—never could be, though he sought for the old time in bitterness of heart; and so, dully remembering his resolve, and waiting for Christmas eve, when he might end it all. Not one of the myriads of happy children listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour after hour than the silent, stern man who had no hope in that day that was coming.
He learned to watch even for poor Lois coming up the corridor every day,—being the only tie that bound the solitary man to the inner
She ceased coming at last. One of the sisters went out to see her, and told him she was too weak to walk, but meant to be better soon, —quite well by the holidays. He wished the poor thing had told him what she wanted of him,-wished it anxiously, with a dull presentiment of evil.
The days went by, cold and slow. He watched grimly the preparations the hospital physician was silently making in his case, for fever, inflammation.
"I must be strong enough to go out cured on Christmas eve,'' he said to him one day, coolly.
The old doctor glanced up shrewdly. He was an old Alsatian, very plain-spoken.
"You say so?'' he mumbled. "Chut! Then you will go. There are some—bull-dog, men. They do what they please,—they never die unless they choose, begar! We know them in our practice, Herr Holmes!''
Holmes laughed. Some acumen there, he thought, in medicine or mind: as for himself, it was true enough; whatever success he had gained in life had been by no flush of enthusiasm or hope; a dogged persistence of "holding on,'' rather.
A long time; but Christmas eve came at last: bright, still, frosty. "Whatever he had to do, let it be done quickly;'' but not till the set hour came. So he laid his watch on the table beside him, waiting until it should mark the time he had chosen: the ruling passion of self-control as strong in this turn of life's tide as it would be in its ebb, at the last. The old doctor found him alone in the dreary room, coming in with the frosty breath of the eager street about him. A grim, chilling sight enough, as solitary and impenetrable as the Sphinx. He did not like such faces in this genial and gracious time, so hurried over his examination. The eye was cool, the pulse steady, the man's body, battered though it was, strong in its steely composure. "Ja wohl!—ja wohl!'' he went on chuffily, summing up: latent fever, —the very lips were blue, dry as husks; "he would go,—oui?—then go!''—with a chuckle. "All right, glück Zu!'' And so shuffled out. Latent fever? Doubtless, yet hardly from broken bones, the doctor thought,—with no sus-
Evening came at last. He stopped until the cracked bell of the chapel had done striking the Angelus, and then put on his overcoat, and went out. Passing down the garden walk a miserable chicken staggered up to him, chirping a drunken recognition. For a moment, he breathed again the hot smoke of the mill, remembering how Lois had found him in Margret's office, not forgetting the cage: chary of this low life, even in the peril of his own. So, going out on the street, he tested his own nature by this trifle in his old fashion. "The ruling passion strong in death,'' eh? It had not been self-love; something deeper: an instinct rather than reason. Was he glad to think this of himself? He looked out more watchful of the face which the coming Christmas bore. The air was cold and pungent. The crowded city seemed wakening to some keen enjoyment; even his own weak, deliberate step rang on the icy pavement as if it wished to rejoice with the rest. I said it was a trading city: so it was, but the very trade to-day had a jolly Christmas face on; the surly old banks and pawnbrokers' shops had grown ashamed of their doings, and shut their doors, and covered their windows
He passed crowds of thin-clad women looking in through open doors, with red cheeks and hungry eyes, at red-hot stoves within, and a placard, "Christmas dinners for the poor, gratis;'' out of every window on the streets came a ruddy light, and a spicy smell; the very sunset sky had caught the reflection of the countless Christmas fires, and flamed up to the zenith, blood-red as cinnabar.
Holmes turned down one of the back streets: he was going to see Lois, first of all. I hardly know why: the child's angel may have touched him, too; or his heart, full of a yearning pity for the poor cripple, who, he believed now, had given her own life for his, may have plead for indulgence, as men remember their childish prayers, before going into battle. He came at last, in the quiet lane where she lived, to her little brown frame-shanty, to which you mounted by a flight of wooden steps: there were two narrow windows at the top, hung with red curtains; he could hear her feeble voice singing within. As he turned to go up the steps, he caught sight of something crouched underneath them in the dark, hiding from him: whether a man or a dog he could not see. He touched it.
"What d' ye want, Mas'r?'' said a stifled voice.
He touched it again with his stick. The man stood upright, back in the shadow: it was old Yare.
"Had ye any word wi' me, Mas'r?''
He saw the negro's face grow gray with fear.
"Come out, Yare,'' he said, quietly. "Any word? What word is arson, eh?''
The man did not move. Holmes touched him with the stick.
"Come out,'' he said.
He came out, looking gaunt, as with famine.
"I+'ll not flurr myself,'' he said, crunching his ragged hat in his hands,—"I+'ll not.''
He drove the hat down upon his head, and looked up with a sullen fierceness.
"Yoh 've got me, an' I+'m glad of 't. I+'m tired, fearin'. I was born for hangin', they say,'' with a laugh. "But I+'ll see my girl. I've waited hyur, runnin' the resk,—not darin' to see her, on 'count o' yoh. I thort I was safe on Christmas-day,—but what+'s Christmas to yoh or me?''
Holmes's quiet motion drove him up the steps before him. He stopped at the top, his cowardly nature getting the better of him, and sat down whining on the upper step.
"Be marciful, Mas'r! I wanted to see my girl,—that+'s all. She+'s all I hev.''
Holmes passed him and went in. Was Christmas nothing to him? How did this foul wretch know that they stood alone, apart from the world?
It was a low, cheerful little room that he came into, stooping his tall head: a tea-kettle humming and singing on the wood-fire, that lighted up the coarse carpet and the gray walls, but spent its warmest heat on the low settee where Lois lay sewing, and singing to herself. She was wrapped up in a shawl, but
"It+'s the best Christmas gift of all! I can hardly b'lieve it!''—touching the strong hand humbly that was held out to her.
Holmes had a gentle touch, I told you, for dogs and children and women: so, sitting quietly by her, he listened for a long time with untiring patience to her long story; looked at the heap of worthless trifles she had patched up for gifts, wondering secretly at the delicate sense of colour and grace betrayed in the bits of flannel and leather; and took, with a grave look of wonder, his own package, out of which a bit of woollen thread peeped forth.
"Don't look till to-morrow mornin','' she said, anxiously, as she lay back trembling and exhausted.
The breath of the mill! The fires of the world's want and crime had finished their work on her life,—so! She caught the meaning of his face quickly.
"It+'s nothin','' she said, eagerly. "I+'ll be strong by New-Year's; it 's only a day or two rest I need. I+'ve no tho't o' givin' up.''
And to show how strong she was, she got up and hobbled about to make the tea. He had not the heart to stop her; she did not want to die,—why should she? the world was a great, warm, beautiful nest for the little cripple,— why need he show her the cold without? He saw her at last go near the door where old Yare sat outside, then heard her breathless cry, and a sob. A moment after the old man came into the room, carrying her, and, laying her down on the settee, chafed her hands, and mis-shapen head.
"What ails her?'' he said, looking up, bewildered, to Holmes. "We+'ve killed her among us.''
She laughed, though the great eyes were growing dim, and drew his coarse gray hair into her hand.
"Yoh wur long comin','' she said, weakly. "I hunted fur yoh every day,—every day.''
The old man had pushed her hair back, and was reading the sunken face with a wild fear.
"What ails her?'' he cried. "Ther' 's somethin' gone wi' my girl. Was it my fault? Lo, was it my fault?''
"Be quiet!'' said Holmes, sternly.
"Is it that?'' he gasped, shrilly. "My God! not that! I can't bear it!''
Lois soothed him, patting his face childishly.
"Am I dyin' now?'' she asked, with a frightened look at Holmes.
He told her no, cheerfully.
"I+'ve no tho't o' dyin'. I dunnot thenk o' dyin'. Don't mind, dear! Yoh 'll stay with me, fur good?''
The man's paroxysm of fear for her over, his spite and cowardice came uppermost.
"It+'s him,'' he yelped, looking fiercely at Holmes. "He+'s got my life in his hands. He kin take it. What does he keer fur me or my girl? I+'ll not stay wi' yoh no longer, Lo. Mornin' he+'ll send me t' th' lock-up, an' after''—
"I care for you, child,'' said Holmes, stooping suddenly close to the girl's livid face.
"To-morrow?'' she muttered. "My Christmas-day?''
He wet her face while he looked over at the wretch whose life he held in his hands. It was the iron rule of Holmes's nature to be just; but to-night dim perceptions of a deeper justice than law opened before him,—problems he had no time to solve: the sternest fortress is liable to be taken by assault,—and the dew of the coming morn was on his heart.
"So as I+'ve hunted fur him!'' she whispered, weakly. "I did+n't thenk it wud come to this. So as I loved him! Oh, Mr. Holmes, he+'s hed
She caught the old man's head in her arms with an agony of tears, and held it tight.
"I hev hed a pore chance,'' he said, looking up,—"that+'s God's truth, Lo! I dunnot keer fur that: it+'s too late goin' back. But Lo— Mas'r,'' he mumbled, servilely, "it+'s on'y a little time t' th' end: let me stay with Lo. She loves me,—Lo does.''
A look of disgust crept over Holmes's face.
"Stay, then,'' he muttered,—"I wash my hands of you, you old scoundrel!''
He bent over Lois with his rare, pitiful smile.
"Have I his life in my hands? I put it into yours,—so, child! Now put it all out of your head, and look up here to wish me good-bye.''
She looked up cheerfully, hardly conscious how deep the danger had been; but the flush had gone from her face, leaving it sad and still.
"I must go to keep Christmas, Lois,'' he said, playfully.
"Yoh+'re keepin' it here, Sir.'' She held her weak gripe on his hand still, with the vague outlook in her eyes that came there sometimes.
"Was it fur me yoh done it?''
"Yes, for you.''
"And fur Him that 's comin', Sir?'' smiling.
Holmes's face grew graver.
"No, Lois.'' She looked into his eyes bewildered. "For the poor child that loved me'' he said, half to himself, smoothing her hair.
Perhaps in that day when the under-currents of the soul's life will be bared, this man will know the subtile instincts that drew him out of his self-reliance by the hand of the child that loved him to the Love beyond, that was man and died for him, as well as she. He did not see it now.
The clear evening light fell on Holmes, as he stood there looking down at the dying little lamiter: a powerful figure, with a face supreme, masterful, but tender: you will find no higher type of manhood. Did God make him of the same blood as the vicious, cringing wretch crouching to hide his black face at the other side of the bed? Some such thought came into Lois's brain, and vexed her, bringing the tears to her eyes: he was her father, you know. She drew their hands together, as if she would have joined them, then stopped, closing her eyes wearily.
"It's all wrong,'' she muttered,—"oh, it's far wrong! Ther' 's One could make them 'like. Not me.''
She stroked her father's hand once, and
"Lois,'' he said, "I want you to wish me a happy Christmas, as people do.''
Holmes had a curious vein of superstition: he knew no lips so pure as this girl's, and he wanted them to wish him good-luck that night. She did it, looking up laughing and growing red: riddles of life did not trouble her childish fancy long. And so he left her, with a dull feeling, as I said before, that it was good to say a prayer before the battle came on. For men who believed in prayers: for him, it was the same thing to make one day for Lois happier.
CHAPTER IX. Margret Howth: A Story of To-Day | ||