CHAPTER XII
A LETTER FROM PARIS
For the first year Jane watched Archie's growth and development withthe care of a self-appointed nurse temporarily doing her duty by hercharge. Later on, as the fact became burned into her mind that Lucywould never willingly return to Warehold, she clung to him with thatabsorbing love and devotion which an unmarried woman often lavishesupon a child not her own. In his innocent eyes she saw the fulfilmentof her promise to her father. He would grow to be a man of courage andstrength, the stain upon his birth forgotten, doing honor to himself,to her, and to the name he bore. In him, too, she sought refuge fromthat other sorrow which was often greater than she could bear--the lossof the closer companionship of Doctor John--a companionship which onlya wife's place could gain for her. The true mother-love--the love whichshe had denied herself, a love which had been poured out upon Lucysince her father's death--found its outlet, therefore, in little Archie.
Under Martha's watchful care the helpless infant grew to be a big,roly-poly boy, never out of her arms when she could avoid it. At fivehe had lost his golden curls and short skirts and strutted about inknee-trousers. At seven he had begun to roam the streets, picking uphis acquaintances wherever he found them.
Chief among them was Tod Fogarty, the son of the fisherman, now a boyof ten, big for his age and bubbling over with health and merriment,and whose life Doctor John had saved when he was a baby. Tod hadbrought a basket of fish to Yardley, and sneaking Meg, who was thenalive--he died the year after--had helped himself to part of thecontents, and the skirmish over its recovery had resulted in afriendship which was to last the boys all their lives. The doctorbelieved in Tod, and always spoke of his pluck and of his love for hismother, qualities which Jane admired--but then technical classdistinctions never troubled Jane--every honest body was Jane's friend,just as every honest body was Doctor John's.
The doctor loved Archie with the love of an older brother; notaltogether because he was Jane's ward, but for the boy's ownqualities--for his courage, for his laugh--particularly for hisbuoyancy. Often, as he looked into the lad's eyes brimming with fun, hewould wish that he himself had been born with the same kind oftemperament. Then again the boy satisfied to a certain extent thelonging in his heart for home, wife, and child--a void which he knewnow would never be filled. Fate had decreed that he and the woman heloved should live apart--with this he must be content. Not that hisdisappointments had soured him; only that this ever-present sorrow hadadded to the cares of his life, and in later years had taken much ofthe spring and joyousness out of him. This drew him all the closer toArchie, and the lad soon became his constant companion; sitting besidehim in his gig, waiting for him at the doors of the fishermen's huts,or in the cabins of the poor on the outskirts of Barnegat and Warehold.
"There goes Doctor John of Barnegat and his curly-head," the neighborswould say; "when ye see one ye see t'other."
Newcomers in Barnegat and Warehold thought Archie was his son, andwould talk to the doctor about him:
"Fine lad you got, doctor--don't look a bit like you, but maybe he willwhen he gets his growth." At which the doctor would laugh and pat theboy's head.
During all these years Lucy's letters came but seldom. When they didarrive, most of them were filled with elaborate excuses for herprolonged stay. The money, she wrote, which Jane had sent her from timeto time was ample for her needs; she was making many valuable friends,and she could not see how she could return until the followingspring--a spring which never came. In no one of them had she everanswered Jane's letter about Bart's death, except to acknowledge itsreceipt. Nor, strange to say, had she ever expressed any love forArchie. Jane's letters were always filled with the child's doings; hisillnesses and recoveries; but whenever Lucy mentioned his name, whichwas seldom, she invariably referred to him as "your little ward" or"your baby," evidently intending to wipe that part of her lifecompletely out. Neither did she make any comment on the child'schristening--a ceremony which took place in the church, PastorDellenbaugh officiating--except to write that perhaps one name was asgood as another, and that she hoped he would not disgrace it when hegrew up.
These things, however, made but little impression on Jane. She neverlost faith in her sister, and never gave up hope that one day theywould all three be reunited; how or where she could not tell orforesee, but in some way by which Lucy would know and love her son forhimself alone, and the two live together ever after--his parentagealways a secret. When Lucy once looked into her boy's face she wasconvinced she would love and cling to him. This was her constant prayer.
All these hopes were dashed to the ground by the receipt of a letterfrom Lucy with a Geneva postmark. She had not written for months, andJane broke the seal with a murmur of delight, Martha leaning forward,eager to hear the first word from her bairn. As she read Jane's facegrew suddenly pale.
"What is it?" Martha asked in a trembling voice.
For some minutes Jane sat staring into space, her hand pressed to herside. She looked like one who had received a death message. Then,without a word, she handed the letter to Martha.
The old woman adjusted her glasses, read the missive to the end withoutcomment, and laid it back on Jane's lap. The writing covered but partof the page, and announced Lucy's coming marriage with a Frenchman: "Aman of distinction; some years older than myself, and of ample means.He fell in love with me at Aix."
There are certain crises in life with conclusions so evident that nospoken word can add to their clearness. There is no need of comment;neither is there room for doubt. The bare facts stand naked. Nosophistry can dull their outlines nor soften the insistence of theirhigh lights; nor can any reasoning explain away the results that willfollow. Both women, without the exchange of a word, knew instantly thatthe consummation of this marriage meant the loss of Lucy forever. Nowshe would never come back, and Archie would be motherless for life.They foresaw, too, that all their yearning to clasp Lucy once more intheir arms would go unsatisfied. In this marriage she had found a wayto slip as easily from out the ties that bound her to Yardley as shewould from an old dress.
Martha rose from her chair, read the letter again to the end, andwithout opening her lips left the room. Jane kept her seat, her headresting on her hand, the letter once more in her lap. The revulsion offeeling had paralyzed her judgment, and for a time had benumbed heremotions. All she saw was Archie's eyes looking into hers as he waitedfor an answer to that question he would one day ask and which now sheknew she could never give.
Then there rose before her, like some disembodied spirit from along-covered grave, the spectre of the past. An icy chill crept overher. Would Lucy begin this new life with the same deceit with which shehad begun the old? And if she did, would this Frenchman forgive herwhen he learned the facts? If he never learned them--and this was mostto be dreaded--what would Lucy's misery be all her life if she stillkept the secret close? Then with a pathos all the more intense becauseof her ignorance of the true situation--she fighting on alone,unconscious that the man she loved not only knew every pulsation of heraching heart, but would be as willing as herself to guard its secret,she cried:
"Yes, at any cost she must be saved from this living death! I know whatit is to sit beside the man I love, the man whose arm is ready tosustain me, whose heart is bursting for love of me, and yet be alwaysheld apart by a spectre which I dare not face."
With this came the resolve to prevent the marriage at all hazards, evento leaving Yardley and taking the first steamer to Europe, that shemight plead with Lucy in person.
While she sat searching her brain for some way out of the threatenedcalamity, the rapid rumbling of the doctor's gig was heard on thegravel road outside her open window. She knew from the speed with whichhe drove that something out of the common had happened. The gig stoppedand the doctor's voice rang out:
"Come as quick as you can, Jane, please. I've got a bad case some milesout of Warehold, and I need you; it's a compound fracture, and I wantyou to help with the chloroform."
br /> All her indecision vanished and all her doubts were swept away as shecaught the tones of his voice. Who else in the wide world understoodher as he did, and who but he should guide her now? Had he ever failedher? When was his hand withheld or his lips silent? How long would herpride shut out his sympathy? If he could help in the smaller things oflife why not trust him in this larger sorrow?--one that threatened tooverwhelm her, she whose heart ached for tenderness and wise counsel.Perhaps she could lean upon him without betraying her trust. After all,the question of Archie's birth--the one secret between them--need notcome up. It was Lucy's future happiness which was at stake. This mustbe made safe at any cost short of exposure.
"Better put a few things in a bag," Doctor John continued. "It may be acase of hours or days--I can't tell till I see him. The boy fell fromthe roof of the stable and is pretty badly hurt; both legs are broken,I hear; the right one in two places."
She was upstairs in a moment, into her nursing dress, always hangingready in case the doctor called for her, and down again, standingbeside the gig, her bag in her hand, before he had time to turn hishorse and arrange the seat and robes for her comfort.
"Who is it?" she asked hurriedly, resting her hand in his as he helpedher into the seat and took the one beside her, Martha and Archieassisting with her bag and big driving cloak.
"Burton's boy. His father was coming for me and met me on the road. Ihave everything with me, so we will not lose any time. Good-by, myboy," he called to Archie. "One day I'll make a doctor of you, and thenI won't have to take your dear mother from you so often. Good-by,Martha. You want to take care of that cough, old lady, or I shall haveto send up some of those plasters you love so."
They were off and rattling down the path between the lilacs beforeeither Archie or the old woman could answer. To hearts like Jane's andthe doctor's, a suffering body, no matter how far away, was a sinkingship in the clutch of the breakers. Until the lifeboat reached her sideeverything was forgotten.
The doctor adjusted the robe over Jane's lap and settled himself in hisseat. They had often driven thus together, and Jane's happiest hourshad been spent close to his side, both intent on the same errand ofmercy, and BOTH WORKING TOGETHER. That was the joy of it!
They talked of the wounded boy and of the needed treatment and whatpart each should take in the operation; of some new cases in thehospital and the remedies suggested for their comfort; of Archie's lifeon the beach and how ruddy and handsome he was growing, and of histender, loving nature; and of the thousand and one other things thattwo people who know every pulsation of each other's hearts are apt todiscuss--of everything, in fact, but the letter in her pocket. "It is aserious case," she said to herself--"this to which we are hurrying--andnothing must disturb the sureness of his sensitive hand."
Now and then, as he spoke, the two would turn their heads and look intoeach other's eyes.
When a man's face lacks the lines and modellings that stand for beautythe woman who loves him is apt to omit in her eager glance everyfeature but his eyes. His eyes are the open doors to his soul; in theseshe finds her ideals, and in these she revels. But with Jane everyfeature was a joy--the way the smoothly cut hair was trimmed about hiswhite temples; the small, well-turned ears lying flat to his head; thelines of his eyebrows; the wide, sensitive nostrils and the gleam ofthe even teeth flashing from between well-drawn, mobile lips; thewhite, smooth, polished skin. Not all faces could boast this beauty;but then not all souls shone as clearly as did Doctor John's throughthe thin veil of his face.
And she was equally young and beautiful to him. Her figure was stillthat of her youth; her face had not changed--he still caught the smileof the girl he loved. Often, when they had been driving along thecoast, the salt wind in their faces, and he had looked at her suddenly,a thrill of delight had swept through him as he noted how rosy were hercheeks and how ruddy the wrists above the gloves, hiding the dear handshe loved so well, the tapering fingers tipped with delicate pink nails.He could, if he sought them, find many telltale wrinkles about thecorners of the mouth and under the eyelids (he knew and loved themall), showing where the acid of anxiety had bitten deep into the plateon which the record of her life was being daily etched, but herbeautiful gray eyes still shone with the same true, kindly light, andalways flashed the brighter when they looked into his own. No, she wasever young and ever beautiful to him!
To-day, however, there was a strange tremor in her voice and ananxious, troubled expression in her face--one that he had not seen foryears. Nor had she once looked into his eyes in the old way.
"Something worries you, Jane," he said, his voice echoing his thoughts."Tell me about it."
"No--not now--it is nothing," she answered quickly.
"Yes, tell me. Don't keep any troubles from me. I have nothing else todo in life but smooth them out. Come, what is it?"
"Wait until we get through with Burton's boy. He may be hurt worse thanyou think."
The doctor slackened the reins until they rested on the dashboard, andwith a quick movement turned half around and looked searchingly intoJane's eyes.
"It is serious, then. What has happened?"
"Only a letter from Lucy."
"Is she coming home?"
"No, she is going to be married."
The doctor gave a low whistle. Instantly Archie's laughing eyes lookedinto his; then came the thought of the nameless grave of his father.
"Well, upon my soul! You don't say so! Who to, pray?"
"To a Frenchman." Jane's eyes were upon his, reading the effect of hernews. His tone of surprise left an uncomfortable feeling behind it.
"How long has she known him?" he continued, tightening the reins againand chirruping to the mare..
"She does not say--not long, I should think."
"What sort of a Frenchman is he? I've known several kinds in mylife--so have you, no doubt," and a quiet smile overspread his face."Come, Bess! Hurry up, old girl."
"A gentleman, I should think, from what she writes. He is much olderthan Lucy, and she says very well off."
"Then you didn't meet him on the other side?"
"And never heard of him before?"
"Not until I received this letter."
The doctor reached for his whip and flecked off a fly that had settledon the mare's neck.
"Lucy is about twenty-seven, is she not?"
"Yes, some eight years younger than I am. Why do you ask, John?"
"Because it is always a restless age for a woman. She has lost theprotecting ignorance of youth and she has not yet gained enough of theexperience of age to steady her. Marriage often comes as abalance-weight. She is coming home to be married, isn't she?"
"No; they are to be married in Geneva at his mother's."
"I think that part of it is a mistake," he said in a decided tone."There is no reason why she should not be married here; she owes thatto you and to herself." Then he added in a gentler tone, "And thisworries you?"
"More than I can tell you, John." There was a note in her voice thatvibrated through him. He knew now how seriously the situation affectedher.
"But why, Jane? If Lucy is happier in it we should do what we can tohelp her."
"Yes, but not in this way. This will make her all the more miserable. Idon't want this marriage; I want her to come home and live with me andArchie. She makes me promises every year to come, and now it is oversix years since I left her and she has always put me off. This marriagemeans that she will never come. I want her here, John. It is not rightfor her to live as she does. Please think as I do!"
The doctor patted Jane's hand--it was the only mark of affection heever allowed himself--not in a caressing way, but more as a fatherwould pat the hand of a nervous child.
"Well, let us go over it from the beginning. Maybe I don't know all thefacts. Have you the letter with you?"
She handed it to him. He passed the reins to her and read it carefullyto the end.
"Have you answered it yet?"
"No, I wanted to talk to
you about it. What do you think now?"
"I can't see that it will make any difference. She is not a woman tolive alone. I have always been surprised that she waited so long. Youare wrong, Jane, about this. It is best for everybody and everythingthat Lucy should be married."
"John, dear," she said in a half-pleading tone--there were some timeswhen this last word slipped out--"I don't want this marriage at all. Iam so wretched about it that I feel like taking the first steamer andbringing her home with me. She will forget all about him when she ishere; and it is only her loneliness that makes her want to marry. Idon't want her married; I want her to love me and Marthaand--Archie--and she will if she sees him."
"Is that better than loving a man who loves her?" The words droppedfrom his lips before he could recall them--forced out, as it were, bythe pressure of his heart.
Jane caught her breath and the color rose in her cheeks. She knew hedid not mean her, and yet she saw he spoke from his heart. DoctorJohn's face, however, gave no sign of his thoughts.
"But, John, I don't know that she does love him. She doesn't sayso--she says HE loves her. And if she did, we cannot all follow our ownhearts."
"Why not?" he replied calmly, looking straight ahead of him: at thebend in the road, at the crows flying in the air, at the leaden skybetween the rows of pines. If she wanted to give him her confidence hewas ready now with heart and arms wide open. Perhaps his hour had comeat last.
"Because--because," she faltered, "our duty comes in. That is holierthan love." Then her voice rose and steadied itself--"Lucy's duty is tocome home."
He understood. The gate was still shut; the wall still confronted him.He could not and would not scale it. She had risked her ownhappiness--even her reputation--to keep this skeleton hidden, thesecret inviolate. Only in the late years had she begun to recover fromthe strain. She had stood the brunt and borne the sufferings ofanother's sin without complaint, without reward, giving up everythingin life in consecration to her trust. He, of all men, could not tearthe mask away, nor could he stoop by the more subtle paths offriendship, love, or duty to seek to look behind it--not without herown free and willing hand to guide him. There was nothing else in allher life that she had not told him. Every thought was his, everyresolve, every joy. She would entrust him with this if it was hers togive. Until she did his lips would be sealed. As to Lucy, it could makeno difference. Bart lying in a foreign grave would never trouble heragain, and Archie would only be a stumbling-block in her career. Shewould never love the boy, come what might. If this Frenchman filled herideal, it was best for her to end her days across the water--bestcertainly for Jane, to whom she had only brought unhappiness.
For some moments he busied himself with the reins, loosening them fromwhere they were caught in the harness; then he bent his head and saidslowly, and with the tone of the physician in consultation:
"Your protest will do no good, Jane, and your trip abroad will only bea waste of time and money. If Lucy has not changed, and this lettershows that she has not, she will laugh at your objections and end bydoing as she pleases. She has always been a law unto herself, and thisnew move of hers is part of her life-plan. Take my advice: stay whereyou are; write her a loving, sweet letter and tell her how happy youhope she will be, and send her your congratulations. She will notlisten to your objections, and your opposition might lose you her love."
Before dark they were both on their way back to Yardley. Burton's boyhad not been hurt as badly as his father thought; but one leg wasbroken, and this was soon in splints, and without Jane's assistance.
Before they had reached her door her mind was made up.
The doctor's words, as they always did, had gone down deep into hermind, and all thoughts of going abroad, or of even protesting againstLucy's marriage, were given up. Only the spectre remained. That thedoctor knew nothing of, and that she must meet alone.
Martha took Jane's answer to the post-office herself. She had talkedits contents over with the old nurse, and the two had put their heartsinto every line.
"Tell him everything," Jane wrote. "Don't begin a new life with an oldlie. With me it is different. I saved you, my sister, because I lovedyou, and because I could not bear that your sweet girlhood should bemarred. I shall live my life out in this duty. It came to me, and Icould not put it from me, and would not now if I could, but I know thetyranny of a secret you cannot share with the man who loves you. Iknow, too, the cruelty of it all. For years I have answered kindlymeant inquiry with discourteous silence, bearing insinuations, calumny,insults--and all because I cannot speak. Don't, I beseech you, beginyour new life in this slavery. But whatever the outcome, take him intoyour confidence. Better have him leave you now than after you aremarried. Remember, too, that if by this declaration you should lose hislove you will at least gain his respect. Perhaps, if his heart istender and he feels for the suffering and wronged, you may keep both.Forgive me, dear, but I have only your happiness at heart, and I loveyou too dearly not to warn you against any danger which would threatenyou. Martha agrees with me in the above, and knows you will do right byhim."
When Lucy's answer arrived weeks afterward--after her marriage, infact--Jane read it with a clutching at her throat she had not knownsince that fatal afternoon when Martha returned from Trenton.
"You dear, foolish sister," Lucy's letter began, "what should I tellhim for? He loves me devotedly and we are very happy together, and I amnot going to cause him any pain by bringing any disagreeable thing intohis life. People don't do those wild, old-fashioned things over here.And then, again, there is no possibility of his finding out. Mariaagrees with me thoroughly, and says in her funny way that men nowadaysknow too much already." Then followed an account of her wedding.
This letter Jane did not read to the doctor--no part of it, in fact.She did not even mention its receipt, except to say that the weddinghad taken place in Geneva, where the Frenchman's mother lived, it beingimpossible, Lucy said, for her to come home, and that Maria Collins,who was staying with her, had been the only one of her old friends atthe ceremony. Neither did she read it all to Martha. The old nurse wasgrowing more feeble every year and she did not wish her blind faith inher bairn disturbed.
For many days she kept the letter locked in her desk, not having thecourage to take it out again and read it. Then she sent for CaptainHolt, the only one, beside Martha, with whom she could discuss thematter. She knew his strong, honest nature, and his blunt, outspokenway of giving vent to his mind, and she hoped that his knowledge oflife might help to comfort her.
"Married to one o' them furriners, is she?" the captain blurted out;"and goin' to keep right on livin' the lie she's lived ever since sheleft ye? You'll excuse me, Miss Jane,--you've been a mother, and asister and everything to her, and you're nearer the angels than anybodyI know. That's what I think when I look at you and Archie. I say itbehind your back and I say it now to your face, for it's true. As toLucy, I may be mistaken, and I may not. I don't want to condemn nothin''less I'm on the survey and kin look the craft over; that's why I'mpartic'lar. Maybe Bart was right in sayin' it warn't all his fault,whelp as he was to say it, and maybe he warn't. It ain't up before meand I ain't passin' on it,--but one thing is certain, when a ship'smade as many voyages as Lucy has and ain't been home for repairs nighon to seven years--ain't it?" and he looked at Jane forconfirmation--"she gits foul and sometimes a little miteworm-eaten--especially her bilge timbers, unless they'recopper-fastened or pretty good stuff. I've been thinkin' for some timethat you ain't got Lucy straight, and this last kick-up of hers makesme sure of it. Some timber is growed right and some timber is growedcrooked; and when it's growed crooked it gits leaky, and no 'mount o'tar and pitch kin stop it. Every twist the ship gives it opens theseams, and the pumps is goin' all the time. When your timber is growedright you kin all go to sleep and not a drop o' water'll git in. Yoursister Lucy ain't growed right. Maybe she kin help it and maybe shecan't, but she'll leak every time there comes a twist. See if shedon't."
But Jane never
lost faith nor wavered in her trust. With the old-timelove strong upon her she continued to make excuses for thisthoughtless, irresponsible woman, so easily influenced. "It is MariaCollins who has written the letter, and not Lucy," she kept saying toherself. "Maria has been her bad angel from her girlhood, and stilldominates her. The poor child's sufferings have hardened her heart anddestroyed for a time her sense of right and wrong--that is all."
With this thought uppermost in her mind she took the letter from herdesk, and stirring the smouldering embers, laid it upon the coals. Thesheet blazed and fell into ashes.
"No one will ever know," she said with a sigh.