Part 14 (1/2)
Again and again she remembered the awful moment when she had believed her husband to be dead. Now she imagined the sweeter side of a withheld tragedy. For would Philip forget? Ever be the same man he had been before he went down disgraced in the eyes of a frightened throng fleeing from evil influence? Only a few Protestants understood; but these had come to the rescue, bearing the prostrate stranger into open air--out of the dreadful place. Isabel followed silently behind, like a widow, giving up her dead. When they laid her husband down on the worn stone platform before the mission, she had begged piteously not to halt an instant. But a doctor stayed her anguish with the a.s.surance of Philip's beating heart; and she had dropped unbelieving to his side. Every one had been kind--very kind. But it seemed hours, while she waited--waited!
And at last they told her that Philip had only fainted. All that followed was still fresh in her mind. And now as days pa.s.sed she found it impossible to forget vivid details of the quick departure from St.
Barnabas, of a miserable, unexpected home-coming.
Now her main hope was her husband's book: that might save him, yet raise his self-respect to normal. She awaited eagerly a letter of acceptance.
To watch for it without appearing to do so was difficult. Once she had missed the postman. Still undoubtedly she would have heard in the event of good news, and good news was sure! To-day, something seemed to cheer her, in spite of Philip's depression. Perhaps it was spring, glorious spring! March had come in as a veritable lamb, and after balmy days Isabel dreaded lowering clouds and rain. As long as she could drive Philip over the country time must appear to pa.s.s naturally, while in temporary confinement it would be harder to keep up pretenses. Already what is known in California as a ”weather breeder” seemed to overcharge the senses, and even as Isabel left the foothills for the the homeward down-grade spin she felt a change. By early evening clouds were forming above the mountains; next day the sun refused to s.h.i.+ne, and by night it rained so hard that March took on an Eastern temper and announced a storm. Isabel was disturbed at the prospect of seclusion. Once she had loved rain as well as suns.h.i.+ne, but now she listened to the incessant downpour with sinking heart. If only the publisher's letter would come.
She realized anew her husband's strange condition, which instead of lifting was getting worse. Despondency was gnawing at his self-respect.
He was ill, shattered beyond his own control. And his wife felt powerless to call a physician. For Philip had been obdurate with their home-coming, had refused to consult a doctor. Isabel feared to press the matter, yet wondered if she were wise to wait. Perhaps Philip's sudden fall had been more than mere fainting! The shock of public dishonor might have broken a blood vessel of his brain--a vessel so tiny that consciousness had soon returned. She told herself that at the end of the storm she would unburden her full story to a reliable specialist, then bring him to see her husband. She could no longer endure the strain alone. The determination brought her comfort, while with the force of her definite will she began to plan for intervening hours of rain. First of all, the open fire of the living-room should not die down a moment.
Like a vestal watching her lamp, she piled on wood until the dark paneled walls reflected the glow of a rising blaze. Then she enticed Philip and Reginald and madame about the hearth. Cheer within made compelling contrast to a dreary outside. And all day long she strove to divert her husband's mind from desperate musing. Madame read in French, or the boy manipulated toy automobiles between the rugs; and when these things failed, the latest liveliest music was run off on a really fine mechanical piano which until now had been practically forgotten. By early bedtime the strenuous day seemed an improvement on previous ones with pensive opportunity in the open. Isabel was hopeful, glad to believe that Philip would sleep. She felt weary herself, and sank to rest without the usual effort of nights past, and rain fell on.
CHAPTER x.x.xVIII
Very early in the morning a cloud burst flooded the valley. Little rivers ran on thoroughfares, and town gutters widened into das.h.i.+ng streams. Isabel awakened with a start, to hear the water in the Arroyo Seco roaring like some mad thing released. Rampant, swollen, an oncoming charge from the mountains struck a stony vent, transforming a dry, volcanic bed into a running torrent. At intervals lightning flashed lurid sheets, with distant rumbling thunder. The storm had broken into alarming fury.
”Are you awake?” asked Isabel, knowing too well that Philip was not sleeping.
”Yes,” he confessed. ”Shall I get up and look after the windows?”
She knew that he was trying to appear thoughtful. She a.s.sured him that every part of the house had been made secure before retiring. The two lay still, listening to the tempest.
”Isn't it frightful?” Isabel said timidly.
”I like it,” her husband answered.
The wail of the storm seemed a dirge to pent thoughts. Philip offered no tenderness to allay her fear, and she was afraid. Suddenly there came a rush of wind and a blasting zigzag charge, with terrible instantaneous cras.h.i.+ng thunder. The clap reverberated unchained through the mountains. In a second of powerful light Isabel forgot personal terror, forgot everything but Philip's face. For at last she knew the truth; saw the unchecked anguish of his tortured soul. It was all worse than she had thought. He was ill--very ill. Her arms went out about his neck. Her stored up tears fell free against his cheek. Isabel's self-control was lost. She could no longer, hide her fear. She had waited patiently, she would speak!
”Tell me! oh tell me!” she implored. ”I cannot bear it--I shall die if you do not tell me.” The secret she had caught gave her fierce strength.
”You wish to leave me, you are sorry! You want to go away because you think it is a sin to love me? You are miserable because you gave up--left your Church?” Everything was bursting from her like the tempest. ”I could let you go,” she sobbed, ”but I cannot believe that we have done wrong. It is too cruel. I cannot give you up. Your G.o.d never meant you to suffer alone. If you go back they will make you suffer--never let you forget. And--and you could not forget that I am your wife--that you love me?”
She clung to him in fear. Would he answer her--deny what she said? ”You do love me?” she softened at the thought, and kissed his forehead. ”We love each other as G.o.d meant we should. We will blot out the past, live!
You shall be another man.” She was pleading her own case with Philip's.
Her tears had ceased to fall. ”We will do good jointly, do something to better the world, a world outside of narrow creeds and inhuman dogma.”
She would not acknowledge the advantage of his lost opportunity.
Individual power for accomplishment was as honorable as to bow beneath a yoke. Her argument had been forming through miserable days. ”Life is beautiful! most beautiful when we may help others to enjoy it. When your book comes out----”
Philip sprang up, tearing loose her arms. Then he fell back. She thought again that he was dead. She tried to turn on light and failed. Something had been struck in the garden! The terrific bolt must have severed main electric wires. Trembling in darkness she thought of a wax taper on the dressing table and felt about for matches. In a momentary flash through the window she found what she sought. But she dreaded to look at Philip.
What if--she approached the bed, then he sat up and spoke to her as one utterly despairing.
”Never speak of the book again,” he implored. He sank on the pillow, and she waited for him to go on. ”I should have told you--forgive me,” he said at last. ”The ma.n.u.script has come back.”
Isabel burst into fresh tears. She seemed powerless to remember her husband's alarming condition. ”No! no!” she sobbed. ”You cannot mean it,--there is some mistake. The book will make you famous, it cannot fail!”
”But it has failed,” he answered with momentary strength. ”They do not care to publish it; it stands dishonored like--the man who wrote it.”