Chapter VI “Life at its End”
The April morning broke softly, implacably chill. There was a hint of cruelty in the frolicsome spring breeze that danced through the half-opened window, a hint of sorrow in the few faint tremulous notes of “half-awakened birds,” preparing once more to face the strange world of which they knew so little. There was something ominous in the softness of the spring air, something that chilled one’s blood with a faint terror.
Over the dreary tenements and horrible, rearing buildings of New York broke the pitiless day. The lovely rose of dawn softened all that was bare and bleak and gave it a semblance of tenderness and repose.
There was silence in the room where Death lay waiting. The body of Clara Allardi lay stretched upon a bed in slumber, her wasted hand, blue-veined, marble-white, plucking mechanically at the quilt, her restless voice muttering vaguely of things that had long since passed away; lips that had laughed, pulses that had leaped, hearts that had broken, long, long ago. Death, itself, might have laughed to hear her; but her daughter did not laugh.
Clara’s face was blue-veined now and hollow-eyed, but, even so, was lovely; delicately, uselessly lovely, with the flawless pulchritude of a marble statue, the sickening, unearthly hue of ivory. Clara Allardi had been very beautiful in her day, had had her share of the kingdoms of this world and the glories of them; she lay dying in a New York tenement, unloved, uncared-for, an old woman at the age of forty-five.
Nature “red of tooth and claw” is sometimes more horrible in tender mood than in fierce; this riot of delicate colour and tremulous song in the face of grisly Death seemed to Lynn Thayer insulting and indecorous. The tragedy of the breaking day and of the ebbing life gnawed at her heart. She sat silent, watching the dying with hungry eyes that held no trace of personal grief, only a dumb heart-craving for something she had never known.
In the farther end of the room lay a child who slept peacefully, his scarlet lips half-parted in a smile, his delicate arms thrust outside the bed-clothes and half-bared. The long black lashes which lay on the glowing dusk of his cheek; the thickness of the clustering curls which shaded his low brow; the almost insolent regularity of his childish features: all proclaimed him to be Guido Allardi’s son. He was an ideal and faithful representative of the old, Italian race to which his father belonged; before the family, ruined and disgraced, had sought refuge in America, many such a face had been seen in the family portrait gallery. Probably none quite so beautiful; beauty such as this child’s is rare and the possessors of it are seldom quite human. Perhaps this fact may have given rise to the old Greek myths of the gods descending in human shape and proceeding to the performance of most ungodlike actions.
Lynn’s thoughts wandered sometimes to the cot where the boy lay, looking as much out of place in the sordid setting which the room afforded as some strange tropical plant. As she thought of him, her face insensibly cleared. The baby brother of her childhood days had proved a fulfilled delight. As beautiful as in infancy and with the same caressing, clinging ways which had made him so dear to her then, he had justified, to her, her loving remembrance of him. She cherished a hidden thought of which she was half ashamed yet which held a very real sweetness; namely, that, in spite of the long years of separation, the boy loved and clung to her and, as of old, seemed to prefer her society to that of his mother. She failed to realize that the stock of bonbons and toys with which she had provided herself had induced the affection which the child showed so freely; she did not know that he would have left his dying mother with equal alacrity for anyone who would have fed him with chocolates. So little do we comprehend what is passing in the minds of those most near and dear to us; even in the crystal mind of a child there are depths which it is just as well not to probe too deeply.
In the bare and comfortless room where these three were congregated Life and Death were present and one more—Judgment. Judgment, the dread avenger who dogs the steps of Sin. Judgment which, after the fashion of Judgment, would fall most heavily on the innocent head, most cruelly on the undeserving. Could Lynn have looked into the future and seen the awful harvest of corruption which the sleeping child would reap it may be wondered whether she would not have killed him as he lay, out of sheer pity.
Ah, the tragedy of Life! Life that takes from us one by one all the glittering baubles with which she has amused our childish hours—the rose-hued hopes, the crimson loves, the golden ambitions—and gives us in their place—what? The dying moaned as though these thoughts had found an echo in her heart; then lay still, looking straight in front of her with eyes which, though glazed and uncertain, held a certain intelligence.
“Mother—are you better? do you understand me?” asked Lynn very softly, bending over the bed.
Clara Allardi turned her head slightly; her lips moved.
“There was something, something you wanted to say,” cried Lynn, desperately. “If you could only tell me now; it will not take long, will it?”
Her mother’s face brightened into life; an anxious gleam shone in her eyes which now held no uncertainty, but were the homes of an insistent purpose, a keen desire. She struggled a moment, then spoke, faintly.
“Your brother?”—
“Yes. Yes.”
“Not really—only your half-brother—but you always cared just as much”—
“More. Oh, mother, a thousand times more. Don’t waste time in saying all this. Is it something you want me to do for Lionel? Surely you know that anything I could do would be all too little—tell me, just tell me what it is. I swear to do it, whatever it may be.”
“See to him. His father—you know”—
“I know.”
“—Doesn’t understand children—the little fellow may be hungry, cold”—Clara Allardi’s voice broke into a pitiful quaver which shook Lynn’s composure, terribly.
“Mother,” she said, growing white and speaking distinctly, “you are wasting time and you may not have much more time. You know—you must know—that, while I live, Liol shall want for nothing that I can give him. He can never be cold—or hungry—or friendless—or—loveless—while I live. You must know all that. I have my teacher’s salary; if that is not enough I will get money in some other way; I have some saved, I have some jewelry—oh, don’t talk of anything so trivial, so absurd, as the idea of Lionel ever wanting for anything which I can give him. You understand all that, don’t you, mother?”
Her mother’s face cleared, then clouded.
“You may marry—change?” she muttered, looking wistfully at her daughter.
“Never!” said Lynn, choking. “You don’t understand me, mother. I could never think of marriage while Liol was dependent on me; and, as for change—if that is all, you can die happy.”
“Swear,” said her mother, faintly.
Lynn hesitated. “I don’t like swearing,” she returned, reluctantly, “but, if it will make you any happier—I swear by everything in heaven and earth—by God Almighty—by the memory of my father—that I will do exactly as I have said. I will look after Lionel always, always, no matter what it costs me. Now are you satisfied?”
“You won’t be hard on him—he is,” she winced, “he is—Guido’s child. We don’t—don’t always understand foreigners—women don’t always—understand—men. You will remember?—you will think of his heritage—and be merciful? I have always had to be.” Her voice dropped and broke in a dry sob.
“If he develops into what your husband is,” returned Lynn, quietly, “it will make no difference. You don’t understand me, mother. Just as you never left the other one, because you couldn’t, because you wouldn’t have cared to live away from him; so I—I couldn’t desert Liol. I have always loved him; how dearly you have never even guessed. I shall always love him and—and when he leaves his father and goes to a good school and knows only good people”—
“It’s in his blood,” said his mother, faintly. “Already—already it shows. You—you must make—allowances. Another thing!” she attempted to raise herself in the bed and her eyes shone with a feverish glitter, “another thing, Lynn! No one must know.” Her voice grew firmer, her hand more steady. “You remember the conditions—when your uncle”—
“I remember them well. But, dear mother, you don’t think Uncle Horace would hold me to them—now?”
“Horace is hard—a hard man. When—if—Liol did take after his father—they would never let you see him—or know him. No. If I am to die in peace you must swear never to tell a living soul that he is your brother. If anyone at all knew—your uncle might find out—oh, Lynn, promise?”
Lynn spoke, slowly. “You have not thought, mother. This secrecy will lead to all sorts of complications. Uncle Horace is a hard man, but he is just. He will grumble and think me a fool, but he can’t refuse his consent. At present—for a while—it won’t matter, not telling anyone about Liol; but later on—oh, mother, don’t ask me to promise that. Let me use my discretion about it, won’t you?”
Clara Allardi half raised herself in bed; her eyes shone with unnatural lustre, her delicate features thickened with a sort of fury and fever of determination.
“You refuse?” she said with terrible distinctness. “You refuse? Then—I curse you. I curse you. You—you’re taking your revenge now when I’m dying and helpless for the years that I’ve put him before you. I curse you—why can’t you let me die in peace? You’ll tell—you’ll tell the Thayers; they’ll make you give him up or turn you out of doors. How will you look after him then on a miserable pittance that depends upon your strength anyway and may fail at any moment? Ah, you’re your father in the flesh,”—she spoke, slowly and with a concentrated bitterness that appalled Lynn. “Good—hard—hateful! Why did I ever bring you into the world?”
“That I might look after the child whom you love, I suppose,” returned Lynn with equal bitterness. “Have no fear, mother. You needn’t curse me. If nothing else will make you happy, I’ll swear. You know, of course, that you’re making me deceive and lie to my guardians and all the rest of the world and that you may land me in hopeless confusion and trouble; but if you think that will benefit Liol and minimize the chances of his being deprived of anything or annoyed in any way—why, of course, there is nothing more to be said—is there?”
But Clara Allardi had sunk back with a look of satisfaction and relief at hearing her daughter’s bitter promise to take the oath required, and it is doubtful whether she even heard the rest.
“Swear, then!” was all she answered.
Lynn hesitated; looked imploringly at her mother; then slowly and reluctantly repeated her former oath. “By God Almighty—by the memory of my father—by all I hold sacred in heaven and earth—mother, mother, mother!”
Clara’s fair face had turned the colour of parchment; no breath of life seemed issuing from her blue lips. Struck by a deadly fear, a still more poignant longing, Lynn Thayer bent over her mother’s death-bed, yearning with an intensity which surprised herself, for some word of kindness, of recognition, ere the poor dust turned to dust. It almost seemed as though her prayer had been answered, for Clara opened her eyes and looked at Lynn, a lovely light of longing in them. Her lips moved faintly.
“My child!”—the whisper came softly—“my boy—my only child!”
She did not realize, of course, what she was saying. Lynn understood that. She rose from her knees, with lips firmly set. Her face was a little white.
“You want to see him again,” she said, in tones which sounded clearly. “I will bring him to you.”
Mrs. Allardi’s face brightened. Lynn had divined her inmost thought. She yearned for the child. She hungered to die, holding him. But Fate, implacable as iron to the profitless wishes of poor foolish, failing, mortal things, decreed otherwise. A change on the dying face, an ominous rattle and choking, arrested Lynn’s footsteps and brought her hurriedly back.
Clara Allardi gasped a little, a very little, then lay quiet. Lynn stood and watched her, looking pinched and plain in the trying light of early dawn. The other woman lay with eyes that stared a little. Presently Lynn realized that she was dead; it did not come as a shock, only as an added desolation. She leaned forward and touched the cold cheek, timidly.
“Mother!” she said in a low voice, “Mother!”
There was a brief and bitter silence. Then Lynn took the cold head in her arms and held it for a moment while her tears fell fast and bitterly over it.
“She was my mother,” she said, weeping, “she—was—my mother!” There was no complaint in her tones, only a dull pain. Her face held an unconscious desolation as she laid the fair head back on the pillow and settled it, decently. She shivered a little as one soft, scented tress fell against her hand. She had never touched her mother’s hair in life and, oddly enough, this trifling remembrance cut her to the naked soul. She gasped and looked away, choking down her rising sobs with a species of horror and disgust. Life had taught her self-control, and she disliked noise in the presence of the dead.
Presently she rose and moved softly to the cot where the boy lay sleeping. She looked at him in silence. He stirred in his sleep and smiled a little. Her sallow face flamed into sudden life and beauty as she stood, watching him, an adoring smile curving her thin lips. She had forgotten the other silent inmate of the room who lay, smiling too, the dead eyes which her daughter had forgotten to close, gazing in front of her as though she saw nothing to fear in the eternity upon which she had entered.
Suddenly there was a burst of radiance, a riot of colour and fragrance and song. The chill, pink light of sunrise streamed through the window and lay on the dead face, making it very lovely. A delicate rose was reflected in the icy cheek, a brilliant gold in the faded hair. Lynn, who had turned, startled by the sudden light, was struck by her mother’s beauty. Despite anxiety, illness, sorrow, Clara Allardi made rather an exquisite corpse; and, as her plain daughter sat watching her in the trying light of early dawn, she reflected with a smile that held no mirth that even in death it was well to have regular features and abundance of soft hair. Then her face changed and softened. She moved reverently to the side of the bed, veiled the staring eyes, crossed the thin hands. Then she knelt and prayed; while far, immeasurably far below, the slow wail of the sick child, the low moan of the hungry animal, smote on the deaf ear, the cold heart, of great New York.