CHAPTER XVIII

THE HARVEST

Doctor Rast had seen and heard nothing of Edith and Frank and had forgotten all about them. It was a crowded year and a half--there was much sickness with the changing seasons, and the months for him fled, too. Once or twice he had remembered that Frank was to return, but as no word came from him, he had let the matter drop. More important matters, people nearer and dearer to him, had to be attended to. Nell had often thought of Edith, inquired about her, and heard nothing. She had asked the Doctor, but he was ignorant as she. So she wondered in silence.

Then on a snowy Sunday afternoon Frank came in. The Doctor had been reading his medical journal, and his mind was very busy. But when he flung back the door, and saw Frank, he woke sharply:

“You? Frank Lasser?”

“Yes. I want to see you.”

“Come in.”

Frank came into the cozy office, which was very white with the snow-light outside, and was very snug and warm. The Doctor noticed that Frank’s face was drawn and touched by wrinkles. Frank slouched wearily into the office, and sat down in the armchair.

“Well,” said the Doctor, “been away?”

“No.”

“No? What then?”

“Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?”

“No.”

“_I’m married!_”

The Doctor felt a great shock smite his heart. He leaned nearer.

“Married?”

Frank smiled feebly.

“Yes, Doctor, I’m married.”

The Doctor’s face looked terrible at that moment--black and stern and forbidding.

“You married Edith, Frank?”

Frank spoke in a low voice:

“Yes--Edith.” Then in self-defense. “I had to, Doctor. You don’t understand, but I had to. I couldn’t stand it. I took the risks. I had to marry her. I’m a human being. Anyway, I didn’t believe what you told me.”

The Doctor could not believe his own ears. He reproached himself bitterly for not having kept track of Edith. His heart seemed to be smothered.

“But at least tell me, Frank,” he said with something of a sharp groan, “that you haven’t any child.”

Frank’s voice came on a sob.

“No. I have a child.”

The Doctor spoke with the edge of a knife-blade:

“Why didn’t you call me in?”

“Oh--you--you see you made such a row----”

The Doctor broke in angrily:

“Then why do you come now?”

Frank said nothing.

“Why do you come?”

The young father spoke humbly, simply--from his heart:

“Doctor, my little girl; she’s a month old. I want you to come and look at her--her eyes----”

The Doctor gave him a strange look. He spoke slowly, with a great effort, for he felt his heart tightening with dreadful pain:

“At the birth--did the doctor put drops in the child’s eyes?”

Frank gasped, and looked frightened.

“Doctor? We had a midwife. No--she didn’t do it. Why didn’t you tell me this that night?”

The Doctor stifled a groan.

“Because you had no right to marry Edith. And you promised to come again. Frank,” he raised his voice, he lifted his hands, “you went into this with eyes open.”

Frank’s lips parted. He spoke slowly, in a dead voice:

“Does this help now, Doctor? It’s done; ain’t it? Are you coming to see the kid?”

“Yes,” said the Doctor quietly, “I’m coming.”

Frank arose, bowed his head--he was a man humbled now--and spoke in a sob:

“I--I want to beg your pardon, Doctor. You’ll never understand how it happened. But it did, and maybe--maybe I ought to be forgiven.”

The Doctor rose with heart softened; he drew Frank close:

“I was only thinking of Edith, Frank! Come! We will go to her!”

He put on hat and coat and they stepped out into the soft white fall of snow. The fresh carpet on the pavement was black here and there with the indent of footprints, the red-brick houses had white sills and copings, the horse-cars came through a swirl of white and people hurried past muffled to the eyes. Autumn was gone; the winter of the earth had come. The Doctor walked close beside Frank.

“I want to tell you something,” said Frank.

“Yes.”

“About Edith.”

“How is she?”

“Oh--she’s not well.”

“Gets dizzy?”

“Yes.”

“Backache?”

“She’s in pain all the time.”

“Broken up?”

“She’s not herself,” his voice broke, “she’s not what she used to be. She’s not so beautiful any more.”

Poor wild-rose! The Doctor’s eyes filled. He spoke huskily:

“Does she know what’s the matter with her?”

“No.”

“Or the baby?”

“No.”

The Doctor gripped Frank’s arm:

“Then, Frank, you’re going to do the manly thing. You’re going to tell her. Otherwise she’ll reproach herself--she’ll think she had no right to marry--she’ll think she’s a burden on you.”

Frank did not speak for a moment; but then the agony of the last month, the frightful remorse, the black hours, spoke in his voice:

“I’ll do anything for Edith--anything in this world”--he went on bitterly--“now that it’s too late.”

The Doctor could say nothing. But as they rode uptown in silence he remembered the wild-rose of that enchanted April. Oh, the tragedy of life, the blighting of the blossoms, the crushing out of possibilities! Why did this have to be? His heart ached for the young mother. He longed to have superhuman power that he might set right the wrong of this world. He felt helpless and impotent. He felt as if he were rushing to the close of a ghastly tragedy. He felt as if all life broke in his hands and lay in ruins about him. With thoughts in a mad whirl, he climbed the three flights of stairs with Frank, and they walked into the pleasant parlor. At the window in a deep armchair, cushioned with a pillow, Edith was half lying. The Doctor stopped. His heart seemed twisted out of his breast. For was this the wild-rose? Was this sweet Edith--Edith of seventeen, laughing and blushing in early April? She was white-faced, thin, her eyes large and haunted by pain and trouble, her forehead puckered and quick at twitching, her lips dry and pulled down over her teeth. But it was the eyes mainly--so large and mournful, ringed with darkness, and very patient. The Doctor felt as a father that looked down on his dead child. How could the Power of this world permit such a thing? Poor blighted wild-rose.

She looked up with surprise.

“Doctor!”

A flush of pleasure came to her cheeks.

“Edith! Edith!” he cried, clasping her hand; “Edith!”

“He’s come to look at the baby,” said Frank, twisting his derby through his hands.

Edith gave a low cry:

“The baby!” She tried to rise, and added sharply; “where’s the baby--where is she? Oh!” She put her hand on her heart.

The baby was in the little crib beside her, quietly stirring its hands and feet.

The Doctor smiled sadly: “Edith! It’s always good to watch a growing baby. Frank’s quite right. But how you’ve changed! What a woman you are!”

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, Doctor,” she said quietly, in a way that cut his heart. “I don’t seem much of anything good.”

She smiled piteously, and the Doctor could hardly see. So this was the end of the enchantment, the sweet girlhood, the sacred marriage. He tried with all his soul to comfort her.

“But you have a little living baby, Edith--that’s worth every trouble, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” she said, with all the naiveness of a young mother, “did you ever see anything so sweet? Just look at her, just look! I watch her all day, my little Emily. I wish my mother could see her.”

“Yes,” murmured the Doctor, “yes.”

Edith smiled piteously:

“Poor little thing! See how sore her eyes are.” She leaned forward, pleadingly. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? The midwife said they’d be all right in a few weeks, anyhow.”

She gazed up at the Doctor, her eyes wide with question.

But the Doctor did not answer. He looked away, delaying almost instinctively the fatal moment. He felt as if he could not look. He felt as if he could not look. His pulse missed a beat, his blood surged up about his temples. Then, slowly, he leaned close over the crib. Frank came very near, slightly stooped, and watched with haggard eyes. The Doctor searchingly examined the tiny face. Then he slowly, and with shaking fingers drew the swollen lids apart, and looked in.

He stood up straight then, and all the pathos and tragedy of life seemed to go through him like a dreadful night. What could he say? What if this were his own child? He stood a moment looking down at Edith, his face lighted with struggling pity and love.

Edith spoke quaintly:

“Don’t you think she’s very, very lovely?”

The Doctor’s voice was almost inaudible, and pure with divine tenderness.

“Yes. She is more lovely than ever I have seen in my life--Edith!”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“You must be a good mother to her.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“You must be twice a mother to her.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Because,” he said slowly, “she needs you twice as much as other children need mothers.”

Frank bowed his head to his doom. Edith’s eyes changed strangely, filling with a wild light.

“What do you mean, Doctor?”

How soft his voice was, how tender:

“I mean--little Emily isn’t like other children. She hasn’t any pain, but it’s a trouble just the same.”

Edith felt lightning strike her; she sat forward.

“Doctor!--_Doctor!_ Tell me what’s the matter with the baby!”

He leaned, put a hand on her shoulder, and while his heart seemed to wither within him, spoke very gently:

“Edith--the baby is blind.”

Edith rose up, rose straight up. She gave a wild, strangling cry:

“Blind? Blind? Emmy blind?--Good God! Good God!”

She leaped to the crib, the Doctor making way for her, she snatched up the child, and stared at it.

“Emmy blind? Good God! My heart! My heart! Emmy!”

The little one whimpered plaintively. Then slowly--a weird and terrible sight--the mother passed her finger before the baby’s eyes, fluttered the ribbon of her sleeve above the tiny face, stared nearer and nearer like one possessed. Suddenly she put the child down, stretched out her arms, and shrieked. It was a cry as when the child was born. Frank sank on a chair, groaning. The Doctor seized her arms, and whispering, “Edith! Edith!” pushed her into the chair again. She leaned forward staring at the Doctor. He stood, eyes half-closed, and pain and pity on his face.

“Edith,” he said quietly, “think how Emmy needs you--and will always need you!”

Edith clenched her fist, looked up, and shook it.

“God,” she cried hoarsely, “you punished us--we were too happy. I hate you, God, I hate you. Make a baby blind! I hate you!”

Was it the wild-rose speaking?

Then in the awful silence, Frank arose. The time had come; the great moment had arrived. His face was ashen, writhing with agony. He began in a low voice:

“No, Edith, it wasn’t God. It was a human being. Maybe it usually is. It was I, Edith.”

The Doctor looked at him sharply. The dreadful words fell on Edith’s torn heart, and she gasped.

“You?”

“Yes,” he went on quietly, “I. Before I married you I sowed my wild oats. I went around with women. And then I got into trouble. I went to the Doctor and he told me not to marry for a while. He told me what might happen--about you” his voice broke--“and the baby. I honestly meant to tell you and go away. That’s why I went up to the country to see you.”

Edith breathed sharply, the revelation pouring light into her mind.

“Edith,” he stood sobbing, “what could I do? Do you remember? How could I help having you? Oh, I was so sure the Doctor was mistaken! I was so sure I was all right. Edith!” he cried sharply; “I loved you too much, and now,” his shoulders wrenched coarse sobs, “what have I done? What have I done?”

He threw up his hands, sank at her feet, buried his head in her lap.

“Mother! Mother! I ought to be killed! Forgive me! Forgive me!”

Edith looked from side to side, and kept moistening her lips.

And then the Doctor’s voice came, came as if he could not speak for utter love:

“Children--Edith, Frank. What’s done is done. And the worst has been done that can be. Take up your lives as they are, and use them well. There is still love--you have one another. Make up for your losses with more love, purer love; for in our poor human world that is the only healer. Oh, give each other that, give each other much of that.”

He paused.

“Edith”--he leaned near--“love him enough to forgive him. He has made a clean breast of it. He loved you enough for that.”

Edith did not stir.

“Edith--he is your husband.”

Again there was silence, and the Doctor spoke sweetly:

“As for that little child--much can be done. And possibly in the years to come little new children will laugh in this house, play about here on the floor, cling to your knees. Oh, take up your lives, take them up, and go on to what human glories there are. Frank--Edith!”

Again there was silence.

“Edith.”

“Yes.”

“Forgive him, even as a mother forgives her only child.”

Then suddenly Edith lifted the low head, lifted it, put her arms out and drew his body toward her, and kissed and kissed his face, and both sobbed brokenly, heart-brokenly together.

“Edith!”

“Frank!”

“Oh,” she sobbed, “Frank--husband--why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me?”

“Mother,” he cried, “forgive me!”

“Ah,” she murmured, “what else can I do? I need you--I need you so much!”

“Edith!” Then he spoke low: “Hereafter I will never hide anything.”

The Doctor murmured gently:

“Now, indeed, you are truly married. Now you are man and wife.”

And he passed out into the storm. And as he wiped at his eyes he muttered:

“When will the young men understand?”

And then again:

“Yes--the women--they always get the raw end of the deal.”

* * * * *

And up in the little parlor into two broken hearts the first rays of perfect marriage stole, not without a touch of glory, not without a touch of victory.

But the little blind baby said nothing, but lay there. Blighted was our wild-rose, our sweet Seventeen; sightless her first-born. The sowing was of wild oats; and this was the harvest.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.