OCR Text |
Show LADY BLANCHE FARM A Romance of the Commonplace Frances Parkinson Keyes VTSV Service Copyright by Frances Parkinson Keyes CHAPTER XII Continued 14 Mrs. Elliott had seen Mrs. Gray watching her slow approach through the deep snow from the kitchen windows, win-dows, and bad waved a greeting. INow, as she mounted the porch, she Shook her umbrella and stamped the enow from her overshoes. "No, 1 ain't a bit wet," she said, returning Mrs. Gray's hearty kiss. "I'm dressed real warm. If we're goin' to set in the kitchen, I guess I won't lay off my overshoes. If I keep 'em on my feet, it'll take 'em off my mind." This point being satisfactorily settled, set-tled, the two ladies sat down in rockers rock-ers beside the stove and started work on their sleeveless sweaters. Mrs. Elliott, as usual, scarcely stopping for breath before she began her recital of the recent news of the neighborhood. neighbor-hood. "Have you heard that old Mis' Hunter, Hun-ter, up to White Water is married again? Mr. Taylor tried to reason with her, seein' he's buried four of her husbands already, but she said, as long as the Lord took 'em, she would. Shockin', ain't it? How's the baby? I shouldn't have thought that Austin could have borne to go off and leave that little helpless creature, but It seems to be thrivin', don't it? I don't s'pose you have the least notion he'd want to marry again, not for a while, anyway. Yes, I knew he was real fond of Sylvia, but men are human. hu-man. Writes you real regular, does he? And Thomas, too? I'm always real pleased to hear about your beys, but I declare I steer clear of Violet Mannin' these days. You know bow set she was against Paul goin' to war. But now she's got the biggest service flag in town and 'we are 100 per cent subscribed' on her Liberty loan card. I bet all she bought was $50 bonds, don't you? Be that as it may, morn-ln', morn-ln', noon and night she don't open her head except to talk about 'her hero. Goes around with a letter of Paul's In her hand, and " "Does he write her regular?" "Seems to. 1 can't make out that he's ben in any great danger yet. and I've questioned her close. Enjoyin' himself considerable, 1 should say. Them Mannin' children always just Itched and hankered to get out of Hamstead and 1 shouldn't be a mite surprised if that itchin' and hankerin' didn't have somethin to do with Paul's "patriotism' and Blanche's 'romance.' And that brings me to my main piece of news Philip Starr's number's been called and he's goin' to Devens this week. Blanche's corain' home for the present and I hear she's mad clear through." "Oh. the poor child !" "Poor child nothin'. 1 don't deny Elanche is pretty and pleasant, hul there ain't nothin' very deep about her. I bet she's lookin' forward to comin' here with lots of good-lookin' clothes and new ideas and puttin' on airs with her old neighbors. Mary's got her faults, but I'll say this for her, she ain't near so high and mighty as the rest of the family. Well. I must start along home. Clearln', ain't it? Well, this'll make nice sleighin' and (hat's one thing to be thankful for. It's lucky we got a few comforts left." Philip had longed to volunteer In the first days of the war and Blanche had been so bitterly opposed to it that he had given In to her wishes, trying not to let her see the bitter spiritual struggle and loss of self-esteem which it had cost him to do this. But when the draft came, there could be no question of evasion or hesitation. His little income would keep her comfortable, com-fortable, and there was no child This, Blanche knew, had been a source of disappointment and grief to Philip while she had secretly rejoiced at "not being tied down right away.'" Now the fact that a baby might have kept him at home made her resent fill that she did not have one. It was out of the rpiestion for her to slay on in the lit tie I'.rooklirie apartment apart-ment alone, and there was nothing for her to do hut to return, rehelliously. to Hamstead. Philip, with never fail ing understanding ati'l gentleness, saw how hard it was for her to do this and insisting that It should hereafter be called "Carte Blanche" to pcrpetu nte his joke, urged tier again to amuse herself by having the little law oilier renovated to suit the plans which he hail made so long before. This time the suggest ion was a godsend. Blanche berame genuinely Interested anil worked harder and more happily than hhe ever had door tiefore In order to liae the liny home In perfect order for his lirsl furlough. There was a merry little lion: -e-.vaniilng, when Philip appeared, wearing h Is sergea nt v uniform, for all I la rust ead wanted ti. l-;eo him. But utter I lie last guest had de parted, lie lighted tire In the wide shallow tin-place of tin? big, soft-col ored bedroom, and nnfastened Blanche's party dress by candle-light as they stood before It. It had grown very cold outside, and the many-paned windows were frosting over with deli cate shapes. The man, looking towards them from the fire, suddenly shivered a little. They were so icy and spark ling, reflecting the frozen moonlight out there, that there was something of almost unearthly loveliness about them, something ghostly "Blanche," he said abruptly, "when you fixed up Carte Blanche, what did you do with those old law books that were here?" ;' Blanche was standing before the mirror, combing her hair. She did not even turn. "They were so musty and shabby and dry-looking, 1 burned them up. Why, did you want them?" "No. Did you burn them all?" "Yes." "Read any of them first?" "No. I could tell by the looks that they were dull. Not what you and I wanted In our lovely home." She walked across the room to him, her golden hair falling over her shoulders, shoul-ders, her soft white dressing gown flowing from her bare neck and arms in an unbroken line to the floor. De liberately. she blew out the flickering candles, one after the other, and. in the dim firelight, put her arms around his neck. "It is lovely, isn't It?" she whispered. whis-pered. Philip bent over her. There was something in her manner that had never been there before. Was she, too. feeling the mystery and power of the night? Had these last weeks of separation been teaching her. too teaching her the lessons that for a time, it seemed as if he, for all his love, had failed to make clear to her? Was the dread which had been slowly growing through the spring and summer sum-mer that his white star was to prove only a will-o'-the-wisp, to be taken from him after all? "Yes. sweetheart, Deautiful," he answered. an-swered. "But 1 want you to know a story that was in one of those books you burned, just the same, if you don't already. I ought to have spoken of it to you before " As quietly as he could, he told her first of his reading of the legend and then of his talk with Mary about it afterwards. "1 can't pretend to explain it. But It seems to me the first Blanche didn't want to hurt any person, especially espe-cially that it isn't a curse In that sense but to teach her descendants, if she could, what a terrible thing It Is to be selfish. Most of all. the selfish ness that calls Itself love. Occasionally Occasion-ally mothers feel that kind of love for their sons, or children for their parents, par-ents, or husbands for their wives " "You mean that Is the bind that Colonel Sloses felt for the countess." said Blanche slowly, "and and it's been so straight through the family. That's the way mother cares for Paul. That's the way that's the way I cared for you once. But. oh. I don't any more!" "That Isn't the way I've cared for you." said Philip "I'm not very strong, and I'm not very good. I don't think that for a minute. But I do love you with all my heart and soul. That that makes more difference than any thing else. 1 believe. That curse Is never going beyond this generation, and you must tell me tonight, that you're glad ! ought to have gone to war when I first knew It was the right thing for me to do. We can't help that now. But you've got to say you're glad I'm going now " His arms tightened around her. his lips, meeting hers, lay for a long time against them. "If only we had a son " "Whenever I think of Lady Blanche farm." he went on. after a long silence. "I think of you and the brook its freshness and fragrance and purity. It's shallow in . places. It rushes Into little falls, hut where I found you. It widens to a deep pool, clear as crystal, a haven of refreshment and delight and holiness. That's what you seem to me tonight do you understand? Oh, my darling " CHAPTER XIII And so the first winter of Hie war came to Hamstead. The mall, that brought letters from .laipieline, nurs ing In a convalescents' home In Brittany; Brit-tany; from David, operating In a Meld hospital directly behind the firing lines; from Austin, driving his am bulance over .shell-shot roads; from Paul, "somewhere in France;" from .lark and Thomas and Philip at Camp Devens all as yet. unharmed and well. There was a ball, arid a hanrpirt. and "comfort kits" for all the hoys There was the preparation of Christ mas packages. There was the careful searching of the newspapers for lie counts of the unsa t is! act ory conditions existing at Camp Devens. . . , Then, suddenly, the lirst blow fell. A telegram ratne for Blanrlie. And Sol Daniels, instead of tele phoning It up I" the house, as he had telephoned so many times, wrote It down slowly Willi his stubby pencil and locking up the station, walked down the road through the deep snow wltli II In his porket. blowing his nose hard on his red handaria handkerchief as he went along. To his Intense relief. It was .Mary who was with her cousin a good deal in those days, who answered the knocker at Carle Blanche. Sol hand ed Ihi' grimy paper to her without n word as she opened the door, and elenrrd his throat. "i'or Blanche?" asked Mary In n ;larllcd voire. "Yes It's a doggone shame. You better open it first, and then tell her what's in it." "No I want It myself, please." Mary and Sol turned quickly. Blanche was standing on the tiny winding staircase, holding out her hand. She, too, had heard the knocker. "I've been been expecting It ever since Philip was home for his furlough. fur-lough. Take Sol In where it's warm. Mary, and give him some coffee. It .was awfully kind of you, Sol, to bring it yourself." "I'd a-rather ben licked than to a-brnng it." "I know please." She opened it slowly, almost carefully. care-fully. It was from one of the doctors, doc-tors, and It was rather long. Philip had been stricken, very suddenly, with pneumonia. The entire illness had been a matter of only thirty-six hours. The doctor was obliged, with the deepest deep-est regret, to inform her ... If she would telegraph her wishes, they would of course, be complied with insofar in-sofar as possible The yellow sheet crackled in her hand. For a moment she shut her eyes, swaying, and Mary started towards her hut she put out her hand as if to keep her back. Not even Mary could help her through this moment; mo-ment; she wanted to meet It alone. Then she came slowly down the stairs, and going to the window where the service flag hung, she took it down and stood for a long time with It In her arms, her lips quivering. At last she gathered It up. and crossing the room with it, she hung it, as if It had been an emblem of victory, over the portrait of the little French countess. Then she faced her cousin and her old friend. "I'll have a new one. with a gold star, in the window." she said quietly, "but that one belongs there. Can you have the express stopped at Hamstead Ham-stead for me, Sol? You'll go with me, Mary, of course? Please tell mother and Cousin Jane. I'd like to be alone a little while, 1 think But I'll be ready to start in an hour." There was no time to waste in "breaking the news gently." Mary found the two older women together and. without a single unnecessary word, told them what had happened. Violet, horribly stunned and shocked, broke into angry and rebellious grief which prostrated her completely. But when Jane had done all she could to relieve her and the frailer woman had recovered somewhat and they had taken the necessary steps to send Blanche and Mary to bring Philip home and to prepare Hamstead for Its first military funeral, Jane went alone to her room and sat a long time, the tears rolling down her grim, plain face, the old candy box tied with red ribbons which Piiilip had given her long before and which she had kept ever since on her bed-side table near her Bible, clasped In her hands. "That nice, pleasant, happy boy," she said repeatedly, and added Involuntarily, Invol-untarily, "and he was a real Christian, Chris-tian, too. same as Mary said from the first." Violet, when she had discarded her mourning for her husband, had laid It away In her attic with her usual exquisite ex-quisite neatness, and Mary, unlocking the trunk, brought down the things that Blanche needed and helped her put them on. just as she harf helped her dress for her wedding, a year and a half before. "If 1 had let him go when he wanted to, this wouldn't have happened." That was the only complaint she made, the only grief which, so far. she seemed able to voice. But she said It over and over again, after she and Mary were on the train, and the door of the pullman drawing room had been closed, leaving them quiet and alone together. "Hush, dear! He might have been killed in battle." "There'd have been some meaning some compensation a glory of achievement In that! This was Just waste! Hundreds of hoys are dying like that when it could perfectly well have been avoided. They've been almost al-most freezing to death In the camps all over the country." "I know. I see how you feel. But I don't believe that anything Philip ever did was wasted, just the same." "If Paul dies, at least It won't be this way." "No." "Oli, Mary, how could you let him go the way you did? Supposing he never comes back, either do you ever think of that?" Did she ever think of It! Not long before. .Mrs. Weston had handed her a letter that had lust come from Rosalie King. She had married her lloorwalker on a hurry rail" and they had had three days together before he "wciil across." And that, she had learned, was to lie all the honeymoon she would ever have. Mary, taking the letter from Mrs. Weston's limp hand, read It over twice. And she had refused "a week at some (pilot place by the sea" had denied Paul the chance of looking forward to coming com-ing bark to tier "that way." . . . Did she e er think of It ! "Yes. I think of It," she said slowly. slow-ly. "But I had to do what I did. Just the same hi veil If I'd known he was going to be killed Paul didn't didn't love me the way Philip loved you." "Mary what do you think It all means? Why do the people who aren't needed, who aren't even wanted, live and live and live? While Hie ones like Philip -Do you think that It's really punishment I'or selfishness not lust mine, but --" "This whole war Is a punishment, of selli;hness rind an atonement for it, Philip is -one of thousands " "But my part. That story coming true. And the certainly we both had that II was going to." (TO IIIC CONTINUICO.) |