Zelda Dameron by Meredith Nicholson - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXXVI
 WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE

“I think I have begun to live,” said Zelda the next afternoon.

She sat in the parlor at home, talking to her Uncle Rodney.

Her father was out walking about the neighborhood. He had not been down-town since the crisis in his affairs, which had left him much broken. He had been disposed to accept his brother-in-law’s kind offices warily at first, but Zelda had reassured him as to her uncle’s friendly intentions, and it was a relief to him to be able to shift the responsibility of adjusting his affairs to other shoulders.

To all intents and purposes nothing had changed, and beyond the short-lived gossip of business men who knew him personally, Ezra Dameron’s losses passed unnoticed. Olive, who was Zelda’s closest friend, never knew just what had happened. Zelda merely told her cousin that her father had gone through some business trouble, but that it had all been straightened out again. Mrs. Forrest knew even less than this; there was, Rodney Merriam said, no manner of use in discussing the loss of Zelda’s fortune with his sister, and talking about family matters was a bore anyhow. Rodney was surprised at his own amiable acceptance of the situation; but it had resulted in linking him closer to Zelda’s life; she was dependent on him now as she might never have been otherwise; and as for Ezra Dameron, he was a pitiful object, whose punishment was doubtless adequate. It was possible for Rodney Merriam to sit in the parlor of the old house in which he had been born, and talk to Zelda with an ease and pleasure that he had not known since she came home and went to her father instead of going to live with her aunt or with himself, which would have been the sensible thing for her to do.

“I think I have begun to live,” repeated Zelda.

“I hope you are happy, Zee. To be happy’s the main thing. There is nothing else in the wide world that counts; and I say it, whose life has been a failure.”

“You shouldn’t talk so! You must remember that I’m letting you be good to me, kinder and more helpful than any one ever was before to anybody, just because you said you couldn’t be happy any other way.”

“Yes; I’m going to lead a different life,” he said ironically. “It doesn’t pay to cherish the viper of enmity in one’s bosom. But I suppose there’s a certain fun in hating people, even though you never get a chance to even up with them.”

“You still have a little lingering paganism in you, mon oncle. But it’s disappearing. Olive tells me that you and Captain Pollock have quite hit it off. You certainly were nasty to him. He ought to have called you out and made you fight for the snubbings you gave him.”

“Bah! I’m a little absent-minded, that’s all.” But Merriam smiled when he remembered Pollock. “By the way, I’ve accepted his invitation for to-morrow afternoon to drive out to the post site with him, I believe you are asked? And Olive and Morris? Which wing of our family is Pollock trying to break into, will you kindly tell me? He has shown you rather marked attention, it seems to me.”

“You are quite likely to have a niece in the army. I fancy that it’s all arranged; of course, it’s been Olive all the time. She hasn’t told me yet,—but she doesn’t have to tell me!”

“You don’t say! I had no idea of it. I was troubled last winter for fear—”

“It was foolish of you. I flattered myself for an absurd little while,” she added mockingly, “that he might see something pleasing in me; but, alas and alack! Olive stole him away from me, and she didn’t have very hard work doing it, either. But you will help me to start Olive off happily, won’t you? You know there’s nobody to do anything for her except us. I think she ought to have a church wedding, and you could give the bride away and Aunt Julia could have a wedding breakfast or a large reception for her—all to show the community that we Merriams are really a united family. Maybe Olive will have a military wedding! The prospect is positively thrilling. In any event, you will do your very nicest for her, won’t you?”

“I don’t see any way out of it,” he said, in a tone that was wholly kind. “Olive is a pretty girl and a sensible one. If she’s going to be married, I’ll let you buy my wedding present for her. Good-by.”

It rained the next day and Pollock telephoned to the members of his party that the excursion would be postponed. Zelda hoped that Olive would come up to the house, and when the bell rang she thought it was her cousin and called to the black Angeline, who still acted as Polly’s assistant, to bring Miss Merriam directly up stairs. But it was Morris Leighton whom the girl announced.

“I’ll be down in a moment,” she said, but she waited, sitting at the table, where she had so often pondered great and little matters during the year, a troubled look upon her face, considering many things. The fact that her mother and Morris’s father had once been lovers, as blurted out by her father in his rage and confirmed by her uncle, had impressed her profoundly; she was not a morbid girl, but there seemed something uncanny in the story, and she had determined that Morris should never again speak words of love to her. It was all too pitiful; she had no right to any happiness that Morris might bring her; and here again her mother’s memory seemed to follow and lay a burden upon her. She was sorry that she had not asked the maid to excuse her, but it was too late and she went down to the parlor with foreboding in her heart.

Morris was standing at the window watching the rain beat upon the asphalt in the narrow street outside. He turned quickly as he heard her step.

“You are a brave man to venture out in a storm like this! Of course, you knew that our excursion is off? Captain Pollock telephoned that we’d wait until a better day.”

“I understood so. But I was keyed to vacation pitch and I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came,—if I didn’t stay very long.”

“Oh, of course,—if you don’t stay very long; but you needn’t stand—all the time!”

“You wouldn’t have had me keep my office a dreary afternoon like this. It’s rather cheerless in our office on rainy days, I should like you to know.”

“But I’ve heard that the office is picturesque. You ought to give a tea or do something of that sort, so that the rest of us, who daren’t go down otherwise, may see it.”

“You should make the suggestion to Mr. Carr when he gets home. It would have weight coming from you.”

“I can’t imagine it! The firm would probably lose all its clients if a social function were held there.”

“I see that you’re not really interested in us; you’re afraid of the microbes. I suppose our old office must have a lot of them.”

They both laughed at the inanity of their talk. The room was chilly, and she rose and found the matches on the mantel.

“No! I can’t allow you,” she said. “I superintend the laying of these pyres—I know exactly where the paper is—behold!”

The flame leaped suddenly through the light kindling, and as she watched it he felt that her interest in it was the simple unaffected interest of a child. Her dark-red gown enhanced her faint color; he accused the slight black velvet line that crept here and there over the cloth of trying to match her hair and eyes; then he turned his attention to her hands,—that were, he told himself, like swift little birds in their quickness and certainty.

Her father came to the door and hesitated.

“Won’t you come and share our fire, father?” Zelda asked.

“No, oh, no! I’m quite busy. It’s a very bad day, Mr. Leighton.” He turned and they presently heard him climbing the stairs to his room.

It was very still in the parlor, and the wind outside sobbed through the old cedars in accompaniment to the splash of the rain. It was very sweet to her to know that Morris was so near; there was in his presence in the house at this unwonted hour of the day a suggestion of something intimate and new. She was looking away from him into the fire when he rose and drew close to her.

“I have come to ask you to do something for me,” he said. “I want you to sing me the song—my song—the one that means—so much—that means everything.”

“I can’t, I can’t! Please don’t ask me,”—and she clenched her hands upon her knees.

“You hurt me once,—when you knew you did, when you wished me to be hurt, when I spoke to you of the song,—of my song,—of our song! But I want you to sing it to me now, Zee, and if you can sing it and then tell me that you don’t care,—that you don’t know what love is,—then I shall never again speak to you—of love—or anything.”

“No; I don’t know—the song. I can’t sing it,—ever again!”

“Is it because you are afraid,—is that it? You can’t wound me now by anything that you may say; but if you will sing me the song and then tell me that your word will always be no, then I shall go away, Zee, and I shall never trouble you again.”

She remembered, as she listened with her head bowed over her hands, the first time she had heard his voice, that was deep and strong. It was only a year ago, in Mrs. Carr’s drawing-room.

She rose and walked away and looked out through the window upon the rain-swept street; she saw the wet leaves clinging in the walk; it was a desolate picture; and something of the outer dolor, the change of the year, touched her.

“I can’t sing your song—any song!” and she turned to him suddenly with laughter in her eyes. “My throat is very painful,” she added and laughed.

He did not smile, but took a step nearer.

“Is the reason because you are afraid? I must know,—I have waited a long time to know.”

“Some other time,—when the sun is shining, then I may sing it,” she said, her eyes upon the window.

“Then if you won’t sing it,—if you are afraid of it,—then you mean for me to believe—”

“Nothing!”

“But I won’t be thrown off so easily, Zee,” he said, as though he had always addressed her so. “You may as well take me seriously,—”

“I’m not—” and mirth lighted her eyes—“I’m not taking you at all!”

“Zee,”—and he drew still nearer, so that he could have put out his hand and touched her.

“Please,” she begged, grave again, “please forget all about the song,—and me! I wish you to,—very much. There are reasons,—a great many reasons,—why you must forget all about the song you liked, and everything that I may—suggest to you. Won’t you believe me,—please?”

“There can’t be any reasons that make any difference.”

“You can be kind if you will,” she said, “and merciful.”

“There is a reason; there is myself! I’m not fit to call your name or to stand near you. I have little to offer; but I love you, Zee,”—and the sincerity of his plea touched her, so that she did not speak for a moment, but stood staring at the rain-beaten pane with eyes that saw nothing.

“You could spare me—if you would,” she said.

“I would give my life for you,” he answered steadily, unyieldingly. “But I can’t let you put me aside,—for any idle fears or doubts. You must tell me what troubles you; you have not told me that you did not care. I shall not go until you tell me what it is that weighs against me. I have a right to one or the other.”

She looked at him suddenly; it would be easy to say that she did not care; but her eyes filled at the thought, and she turned to the window again. The beat of hoofs upon the hard street struck upon her with a sense of the world’s vastness and the wind in the cedars sang like a mournful prophet of the coming winter. She could not tell him that he meant nothing to her, when he meant so nearly all; but if she should set up a barrier, it might be enough and he would go.

“You know we have had trouble,—that my father has met with losses,—and he needs me. My duty is here; that must be a sufficient reason.”

“No,” he said instantly, “that is not a reason at all, Zee. You are doing for your father all that you could be asked to do,—and I should not ask you to do less.”

“I must do all I can,” she said. “There must be no question of loyalty. And now,”—she turned to him smiling,—“it’s very disagreeable outside; let us be cheerful indoors.”

“Zee,” he began gravely, “I’m not so easily dismissed as that. There’s something that I want to say, that I shouldn’t dare say to you, if I did not love you. I knew months ago that you were showing a cheerful face to the world while you suffered.”

“Please, oh, please!” and she lifted her hands to her face. “It is not kind! You must not!”

“You made light of things that you knew were good; you said things often that you did not mean; but you were brave and strong and fine. I understood it, Zee. But now that is all out of the way. There is no use in thinking about it any more.”

“No; but you must know that I talked to you as I did because,—oh, because I hated goodness! I tried to hate it! It was because—father—but I mustn’t—speak of it.”

“I understand all about that, Zee.”

“But I am very old,”—she went on pitifully; “I am very old, and my girlhood—it all went away from me last year—and every day I had to act a part, and I did so many foolish things,—you must have thought—”

“That I loved you, Zee,” he declared, refusing to meet her on the ground she sought.

“The sweetest thing in the world,” she said, “must be—not to know—of evil; not to know!” and there was the pent-up heartache of a year in the sigh that broke from her.

“Yes; it was all too bad, Zee; but we’ll find better things ahead—I’m sure of it.”

She was not ready to look into the future. Her mind was still busy with the year that had just ended.

“I said so many things that I did not mean, sometimes, and I was hard—on you, when you meant to be kind; but I’m sorry now.”

“You were a little hard on me now and then, but I think I liked it. Some day I shall laugh about it.”

“I don’t see how you ever could,” she declared severely.

“I was thinking of the moose,” he answered, smiling down on her. “It was your idea that I lacked enterprise; I wasn’t the venturesome knight you had hoped to see. You liked to make me humble by setting goals for me in new fields that you knew well enough I could never reach. That was the way of it, wasn’t it, Zee?”

“It was very foolish of me. I really never meant anything at all about the moose—and things like that.”

“Don’t take it back! I’m still going to get the moose or his equivalent. I’m going to do something quite large and fine before I give up the fight, only I want you to make it worth while.”

He rested one hand on the back of a chair; the other was dropped lightly into the pocket of his coat. His gray eyes, when she looked up at him, were steady and kind. He had not the appearance of a defeated man. She had once heard Mr. Carr say that Morris Leighton was a fellow who “got things done,” and the remembrance of this did not reassure her.

“I hope—I know—you will be a successful man,” she said slowly, “and now let us be good friends.”

She turned as though to sit down and be quit of a disagreeable topic forever, but he drew a step nearer and took her hands.

“Zee,”—and the smile was all gone from his eyes—“there isn’t any such easy escape for you. Your reasons are no reasons. You have said all that there is to say, haven’t you? But you haven’t said that you do not love me. If you will say that I shall go away, and if that is so I must know it now.”

She struggled to free her hands, but he held them tight. She drew away from him, her face very white.

Suddenly she raised her eyes and looked at him.

“You must let me go. I can’t tell you why; but there can be nothing between you and me.”

“I love you, Zee,” he said steadily. “You must let me help you,—if there is any new trouble,—if your father has met some new difficulty—”

“Oh, you don’t understand! It isn’t father—alone—I mean. I can’t tell you—I can’t speak of it—it was my mother—and your father—their unhappy story; but there is a fate in these things! It’s not that I don’t believe in you; it’s because I have grown afraid of happiness! And it is all so strange, that you and I should meet here and that I should have hurt you last summer—maybe—as my mother hurt your father. And that was before I knew their story.”

“We must not think of them and what they did; we must think of ourselves. I know the story of your mother and my father. Your uncle told me, quite recently.”

“Yes; Uncle Rodney knew.”

“And now that is all there is of that and you haven’t alarmed me a particle, Zee.”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she faltered.

“I love you, Zee,” he said, simply and sincerely, as a man speaks who does not use words lightly. He put his arms about her and drew her close to him. The tears sprang into his eyes as he saw how wholly she yielded her girl’s heart to him and how little there remained to win. He felt her breath, broken with happy little sobs, against his face.

“We have our own life to live, Zee; there is no fate that is stronger than love,” he said.

Midnight had struck. The rain had ceased and the autumn stars looked down benignly upon the world. It was very still in the Dameron house. Zelda sat dreaming before her table, her mother’s little book lying closed before her. A new heaven and a new earth had dawned for her on the day just ended and in her heart there was peace. She rose and lighted a candle and went down through the silent old house, carrying the book in her hand. In the parlor a few coals still burned fitfully in the fireplace and she knelt before it, holding the book against her cheek. Then she poised it above the flames, hesitated a moment and let it fall where the embers were brightest. She watched the leather and paper curl and writhe until they ceased to be distinguishable, and still her eyes rested for a moment upon the place where they had been.

She rose and held the candle close to a photograph of her mother that stood upon the mantel and studied it wistfully.

“Mother, dear little mother!” she whispered. “Morris!”

Then with a smile of happy content showing in the soft light of the candle, she went out into the dark hall and up the long stair to her room.

END