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Madelon: A Novel, a novel by Mary E Wilkins Freeman |
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Chapter 19 |
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_ Chapter XIX As for Madelon, she went home with her mind diverted from her own unhappiness by Burr's, and, in spite of his assurance, might have gone to visit her righteous anger upon Dorothy had she not heard that very night that Burr and Parson Fair's daughter were to be married in a month's time. The next day Lot sent again for her, and she obeyed, with her proud sense of duty to her future husband, although every step she took towards him carried her farther away. His conduct began to puzzle her more than ever. Again he sent her to the desk drawer, and this time for a roll of precious rose-colored satin stuff, fit for a queen's gown; but she would have none of that either, although he pleaded with her to take it. When she started to go away he called her back, and called her back, and when she came had nothing to say, until she lost patience and went home. And the day after that he sent again, and there was a great carved comb for her in the desk drawer, and some rose-colored satin shoes; but she thrust them back indignantly. "Understand once for all, Lot Gordon," said she, "you I will take, as I would take my death, because I have pledged my word; but your presents I will not take." "I have been buying them and treasuring them, against the time you would have them, for years," pleaded Lot. "I tell you I will not have them," said she. That day, as the day before, he called her back again and again, and looked at her as if he had something on his mind which he would and could not say; and she went home at last resolved not to go again until she was obliged to for the marriage ceremony. The next day was Sunday, and Madelon went to meeting and sang, as usual. Burr was not there, but pretty Dorothy was, and looked up at Madelon with a kind of wondering alarm when she sang. Madelon had the heart of one who sings her death-song, and there was something of it in her face that morning. Unconsciously people looked past her, when her voice rang out, to see some dead wall of horror at her back to account for the strange tones in it and the look in her face. She had never looked handsomer, however, than she did that day. Her cheeks had the bloom of roses, and her black eyes seemed to give out their own light, like stars. She held up her head like a queen as she sang, and her wonderful voice sounded through and beyond the viols and violins, and all the other singing voices. The agony within her was great to penetrate the consciousness of others through this fair triumphant mask. Madelon looked better than her rival that morning. Dorothy sat, as usual, daintily clad in her Sabbath silks and swan's-downs, with a sweet atmosphere as of a flower around her; but her delicate color had faded, and her blue eyes looked as if she had been weeping and had not slept. She never glanced once at Eugene Hautville up in the singing-seats; but sometimes he looked at her, and then her face quivered under his eyes. That noon Lot Gordon sent again for Madelon, but this time she refused to go. "Tell him I am busy and can't come," she told Margaret Bean's husband, who had brought the note. The old man went off, muttering over her message to himself lest he forget it. She heard him repeating it in a childish sing-song--"Tell him I'm busy and can't come; tell him I'm busy and can't come"--as he went out of the yard, slanting his old body before the south wind. The wind blew from the south that day in great gusts as warm as summer; the air was full of the sounds of running water, of sweet, interrupted tinkles and sudden gurgles and steady outpourings as from a thousand pitchers. The snow was going fast; here and there were bare patches that showed a green shimmer across the wind. Sometimes spring comes with a rush to New England on the 1st of April. That afternoon Madelon went to meeting and sang again, and when she got home Margaret Bean was waiting for her, sitting, a motionless, swaddled figure, beside a window. The Hautvilles never locked their doors while away from home, and she had walked in and waited at her ease until Madelon should return. Madelon came in alone; her father, Abner, and Eugene had stopped in the barn to look after the roan, who had gone somewhat lame in one foot, and Louis and Richard had lagged. Margaret Bean stood up when Madelon entered. "You'd better come over," said she. "Didn't I tell your husband I couldn't?" returned Madelon, harshly. "You'd better, I guess." "I've got my father's and brothers' supper to get, and other things to see to. Tell him he must leave me in peace to-day, or I'll never come." Madelon's voice rose high and strident. She unfastened her cloak as if it choked her. Margaret looked at her, her small black eyes peering out wrathfully from her swathing woollens. She was as much wrapped up on this mild day as she had been when the cold was intense. A certain dogged attitude towards the weather Margaret Bean always took. On Thanksgiving Day she donned her winter garments; on May Day she exchanged them for her summer ones, regardless of the temperature. She never made any compromises or concessions. She sweltered in her full regalia of wools on mild spring days; she weathered the early November blasts in her straw bonnet and silk shawl, without an extra kerchief around her stiff old neck. To-day she would not loosen her wraps as she sat waiting for Madelon in the warm room, but remained all securely pinned and tied as when she entered. However, her discomfort, although she would not yield to it, aroused her temper. "You'd better come," said she, "or you'll be sorry." Madelon made no reply. "He's sick," said Margaret Bean; "he's took considerable worse." She nodded her head angrily at Madelon. "Is his cough worse?" "He can scarcely sit up," said Margaret Bean, with severe emphasis. She rose up stiffly, as if she had but one joint, so girt about was she. "If a woman's going to marry a man, I calculate it's her place to go to him when he's sick and wants her," she added. "Is his cough worse?" "Ain't his cough bad all the time? Well, I'm going. If folks 'ain't got any feelings, they 'ain't. I've got to make some porridge for him." Madelon opened the door for her. "I'll come over after supper," said she; "you can tell him so." After supper Madelon went over to Lot's in the early twilight. The tinkles and gurgles and plashes of water came mysteriously from all sides through the dusk. The hill-sides were flowing with shallow cascades, and the woods were threaded with brooks. The wind blew strongly as ever from the south; it had lost the warmth of the sun, but was still soft. The earth was full of a strange commotion and stir--of disorder changing into order, as if creation had come again. It might have been the very birthnight of the spring. Madelon, as she hurried along, felt that memory of old, joyous anticipation which enhances melancholy when the chance of realization is over. The spring might come, radiant as ever, with its fulfilment of love for flowers and birds and all living things, but the spring would never come in its full meaning, with its old prophecies, for her again. Just before she reached Lot's home, Burr passed her swiftly with a muttered "good-evening." He was on his way to Dorothy Fair's. "Good-evening," Madelon returned, quite clearly. She found Lot sitting up, but she could see that he looked worse than usual. He was paler, and there was an odd, nervous contraction about his whole face, as if a frown of anxiety and perplexity had extended. He held out his hand, but she took no notice of it. "I have come," said she; "what is it?" "Won't you shake hands, Madelon?" Madelon held out her hand, with her face averted, but Lot did not take it, after all. "My hand is too cold," he muttered; "never mind--" He continued to look at her, and the anxious lines on his face deepened. "Are you feeling worse than usual?" Madelon asked; and a little kindness came into her voice, for Lot Gordon looked again like a sick child who had lost his way in the world. Lot shook his head, with his wistful eyes still upon her face. A little light-stand, with his medicines and a candle, stood on his left. Presently he reached out and took a little box from off it, and extended it to Madelon. She shrank back. "Take it, Madelon." "No, I don't want it." "Oh, Madelon, take it and open it at least, and let me see you." Madelon took the box, with an impatient gesture, and opened it, and a ring set with a great pearl gleamed on its red velvet cushion. She closed the box and held it out towards Lot. "I want no presents, Lot," she said, but almost gently. "Oh, Madelon, keep it!" She reached across him, and laid the little box back on the table. "There's another ring I've got for you you'll have to wear, Madelon." "I will wear what I must, for the sake of my promise, when the time comes, but that is all I will do," returned Madelon; and she seemed to feel, as she spoke, the wedding-ring close around her finger like a snake. "Can nothing I can give you please you, Madelon?" "No, Lot," she said, but not ungently. She began to move away. "Madelon," said Lot. "Well?" Madelon waited, but Lot said not another word. She went on towards the door. "Madelon," he whispered, and she stopped again; but this time also there was a long silence, which he did not break. Madelon opened the door, and his piteous cry came for the third time, and she waited on the threshold; but again he said nothing more. "Good-night," said she, shortly, and was out, and the door shut. Then she heard a cry from him, as if he were dying. "Madelon, Madelon!" She opened the door with a jerk, and went back. "Lot," said she, sternly, "this is the last time I will come back. Once for all, what is it you want of me?" Lot looked up at her, his face working. He strove to speak and could not. He strove again, and his voice was weak and gasping as if the breath of life had almost left him. "We--had better not be married--to-morrow," he said, with his piteous eyes upon Madelon's face. She started, and stared at him as if she feared she did not hear rightly. "I--have been--thinking it over," Lot went on, panting; "I am not as well--we had better wait--until--May. My cough--the doctor--we will wait--Madelon!" Lot's broken speech ended in a pitiful cry of her name. "Why do you do this?" she asked, looking at him with her white, stern face, through which an expression of joy, which she tried to keep back, was struggling. "I am not as well, Madelon," Lot answered, with sudden readiness and sad dignity. "If you do not object to the change of time we had best defer it." Madelon looked away. "There is no need of any pretence between us," she said; "I am sorry you are not as well." "But not sorry that our wedded bliss must be deferred?" "No," said she. Then she went away, and that time Lot did not call her back. She heard him coughing hard as she went through the entry. When she came out of the house into the tumultuous darkness of the spring night, and went down the road with the south wind smiting her with broadsides of soft air, and the living sounds of water ahead and on either hand of her, she was happy--in spite of Burr, in spite of everything--with the happiness of one to whom is granted a respite from death. _ |
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