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Glory Of The Conquered

<h2 id="id01588" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> <h4 id="id01589" style="margin-top: 2em">ALMOST DAWN</h4> She found that in the beginning at least it was as Dr. Parkman had said. It was good to sleep. It was good to go to bed at night with the sense of nothing to do in the morning, good to wake at the usual time only to feel she might go back to that comfortable, beautiful sleep. For Ernestine was indeed very tired. Since that day when the great idea had come to her there had been no time when she was free from the sense of all that lay before her. But now she could rest. Strangely enough she did not worry greatly about Karl. Her first waking thoughts were of him, but fuller consciousness always brought the feeling that it was all right with Karl; he was missing her, of course, but she was going back to him very soon and bring him the things he had believed shut away forever;—bring him the light!—that was the way she had come to think of it. The deliciousness of her rest was in the sense of its being right she should take it; she could best serve Karl by resting until she was her strongest self. Her room was so quiet and restful, the bed so comfortable, and Mrs. Rolfe, Dr. Parkman's old nurse, so good to her. It was soothing to be told to close her pretty eyes and go to sleep, sustaining to be met with—"Now here is something for our little lady to eat." After many days of responsibility it was good to be "mothered" a little. But after the first revel in sleep had passed she did a great deal of languid, undisturbed thinking. She seemed detached from her life, and it passed before her, not poignantly, but merely as something to look upon, quietly muse about. Soon she would step back into it, but now she was resting from it, simply viewing it as an interesting thing which kept passing before her. From the very first it came before her, from those days when she was a little girl at home, and she found much quiet entertainment in trying to connect herself of those days with herself of the now. "Am I all one?" she would want to know, and in thinking that over would quite likely fall asleep again. She thought a great deal about her father and mother; they were more real to her than they had been for a long time; but it was hard to connect the Ernestine of that home with the Ernestine who belonged to Karl. There was Georgia, to be sure, who extended clear through. Dear Georgia—how well she had looked Sunday in that beautiful black gown. She remembered such a funny thing, and such a dear thing, Georgia had done once. They had become chums as freshmen and when they were sophomores Georgia came to their house to live, and one night she inadvertently said something which started one of those terrible arguments, and ended in the saying of so many bitter things that Ernestine could not bear it—especially before Georgia, and as soon as she could she left the table and went up to her room. She did not cry, her mother cried so much that it seemed enough for the family, but she sat there very still looking straight ahead—denying herself even the luxury of tears. And then, just when that atmosphere of unhappiness and bitterness seemed pressing down upon her—crushing her—there had come a wild shriek from Georgia—"Ernestine—Ernestine—get your things quick—let's go to the fire!" That was not to be resisted even by a nineteen-year-old girl. She remembered tumbling into her things, running two blocks, and then gasping—"Where is it?" and Georgia replied, gasping too—"Don't know—small boys—said so." And then after running all over town they found there was no fire at all, and that had so overcome them with laughter that she forgot all about those other things which would have given her so miserable an evening. She had had just a little suspicion then, and now she had a firm conviction, that Georgia never heard small boys say anything about fire that night. Bless Georgia's big heart—she loved her for just such things as inventing fires for unhappy people to go to. As she lay there resting, away from the current of her life, she thought a great deal about a little grave over in France, such a very, very small grave which represented a life which had really never come into the world at all. She could fancy her baby here with her now—patting her face, pulling her hair—so warm and dear and sweet. Her arms ached for that little child which had been hers only in anticipation. And what it would have meant to Karl!—the laughter of a very small voice, the cuddling of a very small head…. Deep thoughts came then, and deeper yearnings, and when Mrs. Rolfe came in at one of those times she was startled at the look in the deep brown eyes of her patient, a look which seemed to be asking for something which no one could give, and when Ernestine smiled at her, as she always did, the woman could scarcely keep back the answering—"Never mind, dearie—never you mind." And through all of her thoughts there was Karl—his greatness, his work, his love. She would be so happy when she did not have to keep things back from Karl. It seemed it would be the happiest moment of her life when she could throw her soul wide open to him with—"There is never going to be another thing kept back from you!" She could not bear the thought of Karl's believing she was in New York. But soon there would be no more of that, and Karl himself would tell her she had done it because she cared so much. And most beautiful of all things to think about was the hour when she would tell him! How would he look? What would he say? On the fifth morning she awakened feeling quite different. Those birds!—What were they singing about? She got up and raised the curtain, and then drew in a long breath of delight. For it was a radiant spring morning, breathing gladness and joy and all beautiful things. Oh how beautiful off there in the trees!—the trees which were just coming back to life after their long sleep. She too had been asleep—but it was time now to wake up and be glad! She felt very much awake and alive this morning.—Oh, how those birds were singing! She laughed in sheer happiness, and began to sing too. She would dress and go out of doors. To remain in her room one hour longer would be unbearable bondage. For all the world was awake and glad! She could scarcely wait to get out there among the birds and trees. She had never felt so alive, so well tuned to life, so passionately eager for its every manifestation as when, after a hurried breakfast, she started up the beautiful green hill to the trees where all the birds were singing—the soft breath of the spring enfolding her, her spirit lifting itself up to meet the caress of the spirit of spring. She walked with long, swinging step, smiling to herself, humming a glad little air, now and then tossing her head just to get the breath of spring upon her face in some new way. Mrs. Rolfe watched her from the kitchen door, smiling. On the hill-top she stopped, standing straight, breathing deep, revelling in the song of the birds—they were fairly intoxicated with joy at this morning—listening to the soft murmur of the spring beneath it all—happy—oh so happy, as she looked off to the far distances. The long winter had gone, and now the spring had come again—the dear spring she had always loved! It was with her too almost an intoxication—the throwing off of gloom, the taking on of joy. On such a morning nature calls unto her chosen, and they hear her call, and are glad. As she stood there on her hill-top her spirit lifted itself up in lyric utterance; her whole being responded to the songs of the returning birds. How well Dr. Parkman had planned it! She would go back now and tell Karl what a great thing it was to be alive, how the spirit was everything, and could conquer all else. It seemed very easy now. It was all a matter of getting the spirit right;—how good of Dr. Parkman to think it out like this. But there was something a little wrong. She stopped for a minute, pondering. Now she knew! Karl!—why could he not be here too? All in an instant she saw it so clearly that she laughed aloud. She was rested now—ready to tell him—and this the place! She would send for him! Mr. Ross—or perhaps the doctor himself—would come with him, and here where it was all so beautiful, where the call of the spring reached them and made them glad—she would tell him! And then, his spirit strong as hers was now strong, he would respond to it, be made ready for the fight. How simple and how splendid! How stupid not to have thought of this before! And then again she laughed. It would be fun to improve on Dr. Parkman's idea. That was all very well—but this a thousand times better. Karl's spirit too needed lifting up;—what could do it as this? It was true he could not see it with his eyes—but there were so many other ways of being part of it: the singing of the birds, the scent of the budding trees, the rich breath of spring upon one's face. And even the vision should not be lost to him. She would make him see it! She would make him see the sunlight upon the trees, the roll of that farther hillside—one did not need to try to forget the park commissioners here!—and then she would say to him: "See, Karl—even as I can make you see the trees and that little brook there in the hollow, just as plainly as I can make you see the sky and the hill come together off there—so plainly will I make you see the things in the laboratory which belong with your work." She would prove to him by the picture she drew of these green fields in spring-time that she could make plain to him all he must see. How glorious to prove it to him by the spring-time! And then, both of them uplifted, gladdened, both of them believing it could be done, loving each other more than they had ever done before, newly assured of the power of love, they would go back and with firm faith and deep joy begin the work which lay before them. She turned to walk back to the house. She would send a telegram to Dr. Parkman that Karl must come. Perhaps he could be here to-night;—to-morrow, surely. Dear Karl—who needed a vacation more than he? Who needed the rejuvenation of the spring as Karl needed it? She had walked but a little way when she stopped. Someone was coming toward her, walking fast. Had the sun grown a little dim—or was something passing before her eyes? The world seemed to darken. She looked again at Mrs. Rolfe, coming toward her. How strange that she shivered! Was it a little chilly up here on the hill-top where a minute before it had been so soft and warm? She wanted to go to meet Mrs. Rolfe, but she did not; she stood strangely still, waiting. And why was it that the figure of Mrs. Rolfe was such a blur on the beauty of the hillside? But when at last she saw her face she did run to meet her. "What is the matter?"—her voice was quick and sharp. The woman hesitated. "Tell me!" demanded Ernestine. "I will not be treated like that!" "Dr. Parkman wants you to come home," the woman said, not looking Ernestine in the face. "Why?—Karl?"—she caught roughly at the other woman's arm. She knew then that she could not temporise nor modify. "Dr. Hubers was taken sick yesterday. He was to have an operation. The telegram should have been delivered last night." She thought Ernestine was going to fall—she swayed so, her face went so colourless, her hands so cold. But she did not fall. "That—is all you know?"—it came in hoarse, broken whisper. And when the woman answered, yes, Ernestine started, running, for the house. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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