Flower of the Dusk. Reed Myrtle
than fifty times, and she always gave the same answer.
"But you must know—someone must know! A woman does not die by her own hand without having a reason! She was well and strong, loved, taken care of and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts of friends. I was blind and Barbara was lame, but she loved us none the less. If I only knew why!" he cried, miserably; "Oh, if I only knew why!"
Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. She pressed her cold hands to her throbbing temples. "I shall go mad," she muttered. "How long, O Lord, how long!"
Constance North
Twenty-one years ago to-day, Constance North had, intentionally, taken an overdose of laudanum. She had left a note to her husband begging him to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the three years they had lived together. She had also written a note to Miriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother to Barbara. Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. One was addressed "To My Daughter, Barbara. To be opened on her twenty-second birthday." Miriam had both the letters safely put away. It was not time for Barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to the person to whom it was addressed—so often does the arrogant power of the living deny the holiest wishes of the dead.
The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam—the late afternoon sun streaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North's dainty sitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendour of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of heavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man's hands straying over her as she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed Barbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room.
Years of Torture
Miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied. She had said there were but two when, in reality, there were four. Two had been read and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to be read. She was keeping the one for Barbara; the other had tortured her through all of the twenty years.
The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to whom it was addressed was dead. But he had survived Constance by nearly five years, and, at any time during those five years, Miriam might have given it to him, unseen and safely. She justified herself by dwelling upon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would give Barbara her letter upon the appointed day. Sternly she said to herself: "I will fulfil one trust. I will keep faith with Constance in this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me."
Haunting Dreams
Yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep was haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for some boon. Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her hands outstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much. After his death, Constance still continued to come, but less often and reproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now.
Miriam had grown old, but Constance, though sad, was always young. One of Death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too soon. In her old husband's grieving heart, Constance had assumed immortal beauty as well as immortal youth. She was now no older than Barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs.
Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes in dread. When she dreamed it was always of Constance—Constance laughing or singing, Constance bringing "the light that never was on sea or land" to the fine, grave face of Ambrose North; Constance hugging little lame Barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. And, above all, Constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad eyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer.
"Miriam! Oh, Miriam!" The blind man in the next room was calling her. Fearfully, she went back.
"Sit down," said Ambrose North. "Sit down near me, where I can touch your hand. How cold your fingers are! I want to thank you for all you have done for us—for my little girl and for me. You have been so faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish."
Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh already quivering.
Miriam and Ambrose
"We have always been such good friends," he said, reminiscently. "Do you remember how much we were together all that year, until Constance came home from school?"
"I have not forgotten," said Miriam, in a choking whisper. A surge of passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance.
"And I shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "I am on the westward slope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time. But a few more years—or months—or days—as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the sunset, where she waits for me.
"I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has my will, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your share to go to Barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it."
"Don't!" cried Miriam, sharply. The strain was insupportable.
"I do not wish to pain you, Sister," answered the old man, with gentle dignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. I shall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please, and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow—I cannot bear to write down this day."
When Barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano, quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. He seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street paused to listen.
"Are you making a song, Father?" she asked, softly, when the last deep chord died away.
Too Sad for Songs
"No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day."
"There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me so yourself."
"Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?"
"The seventh—the seventh of June."
"Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear mother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible.
Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" she whispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!"
He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him.
"Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I want to talk to you—of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?"
"Yes, just a few minutes ago."
"You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Then you are a woman grown. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when—" He choked on the words.
"When she died," whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears.
A Torturing Doubt
A Change
"Yes, when she—died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it was because I was blind and you were lame. But all these years there has been a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after my blindness, I fancied that a change came over her. She was still tender and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt that she had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could—?"
"Never, Father, never." Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "That would only have made her love you more."
"Thank you, my dear. Someway it comforts me to have you say it. But, after you came, I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in the books, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it into the world, but I have seen,