Part 9 (1/2)
They saw a lithe, exquisite animal figure, poised strongly on her feet, walking as in the very pride of s.e.x, radiating charms consciously, but with all the grace of a flower in the breeze. Her bright eyes, her ma.s.ses of dark hair, her dimpled face and neck, her lips that flamed with the joy of life, the enchantment of her whole body, was so complete a thing that morning, that she might well have told her story to the world. The little Doctor knew what her answer to Henry Fenn had been and always would be. He knew as well as though she had told him. In spite of himself, his heart melted a little and he had consciously to stop arguing with himself that she had done the wise thing; that to throw Henry over would only hasten an end, which her powerful personality might finally avert. But George Brotherton--when he saw the light in her eyes, was sad. In the core of him, because he loved his friend, he knew what had happened to that friend. He was sad--sad and resentful, vaguely and without reason, at the mien and bearing of Margaret Muller as she went to her work that morning.
Brotherton remembered her an hour later when, in the back part of the bookstore Henry Fenn sat, jaded, haggard, and with his dull face drawn with remorse,--a burned-out sky rocket. Brotherton was busy with his customers, but in a lull, and between sales as the trade pa.s.sed in and out, they talked. Sometimes a customer coming in would interrupt them, but the talk went on as trade flowed by. It ran thus:
”Yes, George, but it's my salvation. She's the only anchor I have on earth.”
”But she didn't hold you yesterday.”
”I know, but G.o.d, George, it was terrific, the way that thing grabbed me yesterday. But it's all gone now.”
”I know, Henry, but it will come back--can't you see what you'll be doing to her?”
Fenn, gray of face, with his straight, colorless hair, with his staring eyes, with his listless form, sat head in hands, gazing at the floor. He did not look up as he replied: ”George, I just can't give her up; I won't give her up,” he cried. ”I believe, after the depths of love she showed me in her soul last night, I'd take her, if I knew I was taking us both to h.e.l.l. Just let me have a home, George,--and her and children--George, I know children would hold me--lots of children--I can make money. I've got money--all I need to marry on, and we'll have a home and children and they will hold me--keep me up.”
In Volume XXI of the ”Psychological Society's Publications,” page 374, will be found a part of the observations of ”Mr. Left,” together with copious notes upon the Adams case by an eminent authority. The excerpt herewith printed is attributed by Mr. Left to Darwin or Huxley or perhaps one of the Brownings--it is unimportant to note just which one, for Mr. Left gleaned from a wide circle of intellects. The interesting thing is that about the time these love affairs we are considering were brewing, Mr. Left wrote: ”If the natural selection of love is the triumph of evolution on this planet, if the free choice of youth and maiden, unhampered by cla.s.s or nationality, or wealth, or age, or parental interference, or thought of material advantage, is the greatest step taken by life since it came mysteriously into this earth, how much of the importance of the natural selection of youth in love hangs upon full and free access to all the data necessary for choice.”
What irony was in the free choice of these lovers here in Harvey that day when Mr. Left wrote this. What did Henry Fenn know of the heart or the soul of the woman he adored? What did Laura Nesbit know of her lover and what did he know of her? They all four walked blindfolded. Free choice for them was as remote and impossible as it would have been if they had been auctioned into bondage.
CHAPTER X
IN WHICH MARY ADAMS TAKES A MUCH NEEDED REST
The changing seasons moved from autumn to winter, from winter to spring.
One gray, wet March day, Grant Adams stood by the counter asking Mr.
Brotherton to send to the city for roses.
”White roses, a dozen white roses.” Mr. Brotherton turned his broad back as he wrote the order, and said gently: ”They'll be down on No. 11 to-night, Grant; I'll send 'em right out.”
As Grant stood hesitating, ready to go, but dreading the street, Dr.
Nesbit came in. He pressed the youth's hand and did not speak. He bought his tobacco and stood cleaning his pipe. ”Could your father sleep any after--when I left, Grant?” asked the Doctor.
The young man shook his head. ”Mrs. Nesbit is out there, isn't she?” the Doctor asked again.
”Yes,” replied the youth, ”she and Laura came out before we had breakfast. And Mrs. Dexter is there.”
”Has any one else come?” asked the Doctor, looking up sharply from his pipe, and added, ”I sent word to Margaret Muller.”
Grant shook his head and the Doctor left the shop. At the doorway he met Captain Morton, and seemed to be telling him the news, for the Captain's face showed the sorrow and concern that he felt. He hurried in and took Grant's hand and held it affectionately.
”Grant, your mother was with my wife her last night on earth; I wish I could help you, son. I'll run right down to your father.”
And the Captain left in the corner of the store the model of a patent coffee pot he was handling at the time and went away without his morning paper. Mr. Van Dorn came in, picked up his paper, snipped off the end of his cigar at the machine, lighted the cigar, considered his fine raiment a moment, adjusted his soft hat at a proper angle, pulled up his tie, and seeing the youth, said: ”By George, young man, this is sad news I hear; give the good father my sympathy. Too bad.”
When Grant went home, the silence of death hung over the little house, in spite of the bustling of Mrs. Nesbit. And Grant sat outside on a stone by his father under the gray sky.
In the house the prattle of the child with the women made the house seem pitifully lonesome. Jasper was expressing his sorrow by chopping wood down in the timber. Jasper was an odd sheep in the flock; he was a Sands after Daniel's own heart. So Grant and his father sat together mourning in silence. Finally the father drew in a deep broken breath, and spoke with his eyes on the ground:
”'These also died in the faith, without having received the promise!'”