Short Fiction · Eden (9/13) (1/2)

VIII

On reaching her room Eden bolted the door. The maid rapped, but she gave no answer. Without was a whistling wind that parodied her anger. For a moment she looked through the darkness for that lighthouse which is Hope, but presumably she looked in vain. Then there came another rap, and she heard her husband’s voice. Misery had offered her its arm, and she was silent. Her husband rapped again, entreating speech with her, and still she made no answer. Presently she caught the sound of retreating footsteps. She removed the opals, disrobed, undid her hair, and accepting the proffered arm, she took Misery for bedfellow.

It was hours before she slept. But at last sleep came. In its beneficence it remained until the morning had gone; then at noonday it left her, and she started with a tremor like to that which besets one who awakes from a debauch. The incidents of the preceding days paraded with flying standards before her. They were victors indeed. “Vae soli!” they seemed to shout. They had been pitiless in their assault, and now they exulted at her defeat. They jeered at their captive; and Eden, with that obsession which captives know, thought only of release. In all the chartless future, freedom was the one thing for which she longed. Her wounds were many; they had depleted her strength; but in freedom is a balm that cures. Her strength might be irrevocable and the cicatrices not to be effaced, yet give her that balm, and come what sorrow could. As for resignation, the idea of it did not so much as visit her. Resignation is a daily suicide, and she had not enough to outlast the night.

The hours limped. The afternoon was on the wane, and still she toyed with sorrow until suddenly she bethought herself of the need of immediate action. Usselex would presently return, but when he came again to her room, he should find it empty. At once, then, she made her preparations, and telling the startled maid to complete them, and to follow with the boxes to her father’s house, she started out on foot, her wardrobe packed, and ready for removal.

As Eden hurried through the streets, she was conscious only that freedom was her goal. Everything else she put from her. It was to her father she turned; it was through him that freedom would be obtained; and as she hurried she pictured the indignation with which he would hear her tale. He, indeed, was one on whom she could lean. Whatever other men might be, he, at least was above reproach. Had he not for twenty years been faithful to a memory. Surely her mother when she lived must have enjoyed that gift of gifts, perfect confidence and trust.

So far back in the past as her memory extended she saw him always considerate, gentle of manner, courteous to inferiors, deferential to women, unassuming, and exemplary of life. In very truth there was none other in the world like him. And when at last she entered his house she told herself she was safe, and when the door closed, that she was free.

She knew without inquiry where to find him, and hastened at once to the library, breathless when she reached his chair. He had been dozing over a book, but at the rustle of her gown, he started and rubbed his eyes.

“It’s good of you to come,” he said, by way of greeting. “Why, Eden, I haven’t seen you for two days. Sit down there and let me look at you. It’s odd; I was going to you after the funeral. You know about General Meredith, don’t you? He went off like that. He is to be buried this afternoon.”

Mr. Menemon stood up and hunted for a match with which to light a lamp. “Yes,” he continued, “he was only ill for twenty-four hours. Think of that, now! To tell you the truth, I haven’t been very bright myself. I wanted to speak to you about it. All last winter I was more or less under the weather, and for some time I have been planning a trip abroad. Now that you have an establishment of your own, Eden, you won’t want me.” And as he said this, he smiled.

“Father, I have more need of you than ever.”

“Yes,” he answered, “I was jesting. I know you will miss me; but I will come back with the violets.”

He had succeeded in lighting the lamp and, still smiling, he turned and looked at her. “The father-in-law element,” he continued, and then stopped abruptly, amazed at the expression of his daughter’s face. “What is it, Eden?” he asked at last.

“If you go abroad, I go with you.”

For a moment he eyed her, as though seeking, untold, to divine the meaning of her words.

“Nothing has gone wrong, has it?” he asked.

“He has deceived me.”

“Usselex?”

“Who else is there whose deception I would notice?”

“You are mistaken, Eden; it is my fault; he consulted me in the matter⁠—”

“He consulted you? But how is such a thing possible. He never could have consulted you, and if he had you would not have listened.”

“Ah! but I did though. Between ourselves I thought it not uninteresting. After all, it was not his fault. I thought it unadvisable that you should learn of it before marriage, and afterwards, well, afterwards, it was immaterial whether you did or whether you didn’t.”

“Father, either it is not you that speak, or I am demented.”

“There, my dear, don’t take it so seriously. I can’t call it an everyday matter, of course, but such things do happen, and as I said before, a man’s a man for all of that. If he said nothing it was because⁠—well, Eden, how could he? Ask yourself, how could he?”

“You knew of this before my marriage and you permitted the marriage to take place?”

“Well⁠—er, yes, Eden. Frankly now, it was a difficult matter to discuss with you. You see, it was this way: a young girl like yourself, brought up as you have been, is apt to have prejudices which men and women of the world do not always share. And this is a case in point. Even now that you are married I can understand your disapproval, but⁠—”

“Disapproval! Is that what you call it? Have you no other term? Father, it seems to me that you are worse than he. Had anyone told me that you could countenance such a thing I would have denied his sanity.” She hid her face in her hands and moaned dumbly to herself, “I am desolate,” she murmured, “I am desolate, indeed.”

“No, Eden, not that, not that. Eden, listen to me; there, if you only listen to me a moment. Eden, it is not a thing that I countenance, nor is it one of which I approve. But the fault is not his. It is in the nature of some women that such things should be. It is a thing to be deplored, to be overlooked. The old law held that the sins of the father should be visited on the son; but we are more liberal now. Besides, it is part of the past; what use is there⁠—”

“Part of the past? I saw him with her the day before yesterday, and⁠—”

“Why, she is dead.”

“Father, of whom are you speaking?”

“Of his mother, of course; and you?”

“I am speaking of his mistress, whom he wishes your daughter to entertain.”

“Eden, it is impossible. I misunderstood you. What you say is absurd. Usselex is incapable of such infamy.”

“He is, then, and he has the capacity to have me share it too.”

“But tell me, what grounds have you for saying⁠—”

“On Monday I was at the opera. In the stalls was a woman that stared at me⁠—”

“Many another I am sure did that.”

“And the next afternoon I saw him with her. He sent me a note saying he was detained on business. When he returned he made some lame excuse, which I, poor fool, believed. Previously I had intercepted a letter⁠—”

“A letter?”

“Yes, a letter such as those women write. He pretended it was not for him, and for the moment I believed that too. Oh, I have been credulous enough.”

“Eden, you must let it pass.”

“Not I.”

“Ah, but Eden, you must; you must let it pass. I will speak to Usselex.”

“That you may, of course; but as for me, I never will.”

“My child, you are so wrong. What can I say to you? Eden⁠—”

“Father, he has deceived me. Wantonly, grossly, and without excuse. Speak to him again, I never will⁠—”

“Eden⁠—”

“⁠—And if I ever see him it will be in court. It was for victims like myself that courts were invented.”

At this speech Mr. Menemon stood up again, and paced the room; his head was bent, and he had the appearance of one in deep perplexity. From time to time he raised his hand and stroked his back hair. And as he walked Eden continued, but her tone was gentler than before:

“Father, you can never know. As you say, there are things of which it is not well to speak. But let me tell you: In marrying I thought my husband like yourself, one whom I could believe, whom I could honor, and of whom I should be proud. He was too old for me, people said. But my fear was that I should seem too young for him. Others insisted that I knew nothing of him, and all the while I hoped that he would not find me lacking. I wanted to aid, to assist. I was ambitious. He seemed possessed of the fibres of which greatness is the crown. I saw before him a future, a career which history might note. I dreamed that with the wealth which he had acquired and the power that was in him, he could win recognition of men and fame of time. It would be pleasant, I thought, to be the helpmate of such an one. How did it matter that he was an alien if I were at home with him? Father, I was proud of him. I was glad to be younger than he. What better guide could I find? Yes, I was glad of his years, for I had brought myself to think that when two people equally young and equally favored fall in love, it is nature that is acting in them. Whereas I loved not the man, but the individual, and that, I told myself, that is the divine. That is what I thought before marriage, and now I detect him in a vulgar intrigue. Is it not hideous? It took him six months to walk through my illusions, and one hour to dispel them. See, I have nothing left. Nothing,” she added pensively, “except regret.”

She remained silent a little space, then some visitation of that renegade Yesterday that calls himself Tomorrow, seemed to stir her pulse.

“Father,” she pleaded, “tell me; I can be free of him, can I not? You will keep him from me? you will get me back my liberty again?”

Mr. Menemon had resumed his former place at the table, and sat there, his head still bent. But at this appeal he looked up and nodded abstractedly, as though his attention were divided between her and someone whom he did not see.

“You are overwrought,” he said. “Were you yourself, you would not speak in this fashion about nothing.”

A sting could not have been more sudden in its effect. She gasped; a returning gust of anger enveloped her. She sprang from her seat as though impelled by hidden springs. “Nothing?” she cried. “You call it nothing to unearth a falsehood where you awaited truth, treachery where honesty should be, deceit instead of candor! You call it nothing to harbor a knight and discover him a knave, to give your trust unfalteringly and find that it has reposed on lies! Nothing to be jockied of your love, cozened of your faith! To wage a war with blacklegs and mistake that war for peace! Do you call it nothing to drown a soul, to make it a sponge of shadows that can no longer receive the light? Is it nothing to hold out your arms and be embraced by Judas? Is it nothing to be loyal and be gammoned for your innocence? Is it nothing to be juggled with, to be gulled, cheated, and decoyed? Is it nothing to grasp a hawser and find it a rope of sand? To pursue the real and watch it turn into delusion? Nothing to see the promise vanish in the hope? Is it nothing to take a mirage for a landscape, nothing to be hoodwinked of your confidence, to see high noon dissolve into obscurest night, a diamond into pinchbeck? Tell me, is it nothing to have trust, sincerity, and love for heritage, and wake to find that you have pawned them to a Jew? Do you think it nothing to be mated to a living perjury, a felony in flesh and blood? Is this what you call nothing? Is this it? Then tell me what something is.”

For a moment she stared at her father, her lips still moving, her small hands clenched, then, exhausted by the vehemence of her speech, she sank back again into the chair which she had vacated.

“No, Eden, not that,” her father answered; but he spoke despondently, with the air of a man battling against a stream, and conscious of the futility of the effort. “No, not that; you misunderstand. I mean this: you have confounded suspicion with proof. Whoever this woman is, Usselex’s relations with her may be irreproachable. Mind you, I don’t say they are; I say they may be. I will question him, and he will answer truthfully.”

“Truthfully? You expect him to answer truthfully. In him nothing is true, not even his lies.”

“Eden, I will question him. If it is as you expect, he will tell me and you will forgive.”

“Forgive? yes, it is easy to forgive, but forget, never! Besides, he will not tell the truth; he will deceive you, as he has deceived me.”

“No, Eden,” Mr. Menemon answered, “you are wrong.” For a moment he hesitated and glanced at her. “I suppose,” he continued, “I may tell you now. Perhaps it will help to strengthen your confidence.”

Again he hesitated; but presently something of his former serenity seemed to return. “H’m,” he went on, “it’s a long story and an odd one. Previous to your engagement, Meredith was here. I wish, instead of lying across the square in a coffin, he could be here now. However, he came to see me one day. I happened to mention Usselex’s name, and he told me certain rumors about him. The next afternoon I went to Usselex on the subject. ‘I have already written to you on the matter,’ he said; and sure enough, when I got back here, I found the letter waiting. Would you like to see it?”

Eden tossed her head. What had the letter to do with her?

“I will read it to you, then.”

Mr. Menemon left his chair, went to a safe that stood in a corner, unlocked it, and after a fumble of a moment, drew out a manuscript, which he unfolded, and then resumed his former seat.

“It is not very long,” he said, apologetically, and he was about to begin to read it aloud when Eden interrupted him.

“Tell me what is in it, if you must!” she exclaimed; “but spare me his phrases.”

She had risen again and was moving restlessly about the room. Her father coughed in sheer despair.

“Well, I will tell it to you,” he said. “But Eden, do sit down. Do wait at least until I can give you the gist of what he wrote.”

“Go on; go on. Nothing matters now.”

Hesitatingly and unencouraged, half to his daughter, and half to some invisible schoolmaster, whose lesson he might have learned by rote, Mr. Menemon fluttered the letter and sought some prefatory word.

“You see, Eden,” he began, “this was sent me just before he spoke to you, and just after he had acquainted me of his intentions. You understand that, do you not?”

“Go on,” she repeated.