This Side of Glory (36 page)

She nodded. “Am I forgiven too?”

“Oh my darling, stop it. Nothing seems important except that I know I’ll never lose you again.”

“You never will.” She went on seriously. “That’s not just because we love each other, Kester. We’ve always loved each other. But I think it’s because we know now how hard it is to win this and how easy it is to risk losing it. And how terribly precious it is!” She put her head on his shoulder again. They were silent for some time, then Eleanor said, “I’d like to ask you something else.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did she suggest that you go to work at the cotton station?”

“Why yes.”

“Did she remind you of how much you knew about fertilizers and pest control and tell you how glad they’d be to get a man of your experience?”

“How did you know?”

“I’m wiser than I used to be. I haven’t learned very much, but at least I know I don’t know everything.” She laid her head on his shoulder again, and with a beloved gesture that she remembered he pushed her hair back from her temple and kissed it. “You thought I didn’t need you!” Eleanor whispered.

As she said it she had a strange sense of peace. She wondered if even now Kester knew how defeated she had felt until he put his arms around her.

2

The doctor gave Cornelia glasses that cleared her sight, but he advised that to save any possible taxing of her eyes she be sent to a special school where instruction was more oral than visual. Cornelia made no objection to having the glasses fitted, for she was so used to examinations of her eyes that she regarded such proceedings as part of the ordinary routine of life, but she protested volubly when Eleanor pinned a leather case containing the glasses to her dress and told her she must never be without them.

“Spectacles are for old ladies!” she exclaimed in disgusted bewilderment. At last, to her parents’ insistence, she agreed, “Well, I’ll keep them pinned to my dress a
little
while, till I can see the way I used to.”

Neither Kester nor Eleanor could bear yet to tell her that she would never see the way she used to. Though the case was always attached to her dress, Cornelia usually ignored it, and for the present they did not require her to do otherwise. But when they took her home they observed that except at close range she could not tell Mamie from Dilcy, and when Violet Purcell came to call, Cornelia, glancing from the window, said, “There’s a lady coming up the steps, mother,” and not until Violet came in and crossed the room to welcome her back did she exclaim, “Why hello, Miss Violet!”

But her handicap was not as great as they had feared, for Cornelia, apparently hardly realizing that she did so, made clever adjustments. They had not been at home a month before Kester and Eleanor discovered that while it was possible to speak in undertones before Philip and not attract his attention, they dared not say anything in Cornelia’s presence unless it was meant for her hearing. Evidently Cornelia had been sharpening her ears during her winter in darkness until now she listened as instinctively as most people looked. Her habit of listening supplemented her vision remarkably well. They were surprised and delighted to observe it.

According to promise, Eleanor took her shopping. Cornelia reveled in her new clothes, and smiled when acquaintances and strangers alike exclaimed, “What a beautiful little girl!” To the frequent “Where did you
get
those eyelashes?” she replied in some astonishment, “They grew on me,” which Eleanor thought a more intelligent answer than the query deserved. Fearing that Cornelia was going to be made a very vain little person, she tried to shield her from too many compliments, but there was little she could do about it. Cornelia was undeniably exquisite, and so far at least she accepted remarks on her own beauty as she did those on the beauty of the oak avenue, as reasonable observations about a fact nobody ever thought to question.

But sometimes her parents almost wished Cornelia were not so acute, for she was quick to realize that nobody had said anything about her going back to school. Insisting that her eyes were almost well, Cornelia wanted to know how soon she could go back. She liked school, and complained that all the others would learn to read better than she did. Eleanor would have been willing to postpone indefinitely the painful task of telling Cornelia her eyes would never recover completely. But with his new grim quietness Kester said she had to be told, and one day without warning he told her.

It was a summer afternoon. Kester and Eleanor were in the library discussing the merits of the school upstate where they had decided to send her, and as she went through the hall unnoticed by them Cornelia’s eager ears caught the word “school.” She came in, saying she wanted to go back.

“You can’t now,” Eleanor answered her with determined cheerfulness. “School is out—it’s summer.”

“Oh,” said Cornelia. She drew up a footstool and sat down upon it. “Then in the fall I can go back?” she asked. “My eyes will be cleared up by then?”

Over her head Eleanor and Kester exchanged glances. Kester straightened himself in his chair. He addressed her in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Cornelia, this fall you’re going to a new school. This one is up the river.”

“Up the river? But why must I go to a new place?”

“This is a special school. While you’re there you’ll learn a lot of things most boys and girls don’t ever learn.”

“Special? But I like my school!” Cornelia protested. “I want to be with all the children I know!”

But Kester went on, telling her in more detail that at the new school she would acquire accomplishments that would put her friends to shame. He made the prospect sound inviting, and as Cornelia heard him she gradually began to like it, while Eleanor for the hundredth time was admiring his bravery and tact. “You’ll have a fine time there,” Kester continued. “You’ll learn to typewrite without looking at the keys—”

“Like mother?”

“Maybe even faster than she can. And you’ll learn to play the piano—”

Cornelia was still puzzled. “But even learning all that why can’t I stay at home, like other people?”

Eleanor bit her lip hard, but Kester’s answer was unhesitating. “Because your eyes aren’t like other people’s, Cornelia.”

“But aren’t they going to be?” she cried.

“No.”

Cornelia started; she turned her head to look at him. Her glasses were in their case. She put them on, looking at him again through their lenses, and then slowly she took them off again. She asked in a hurt surprise, “You mean—my eyes aren’t going to clear up? Not ever?”

“Not ever,” said Kester.

Cornelia opened her eyes wide and stared around the room; she narrowed them, trying to look through her long lashes. Her eyes filled with tears, which she tried to blink back. One tear toppled over the edge and she lifted her hand quickly to brush it away. She rested her chin on her hand. For a long time she sat quite still.

Kester reached out and put his hand over Eleanor’s. Not daring to move or speak, they waited tensely. It was as though they had stumbled upon a scene too private to be fit for observation and now could not withdraw, so that all they could do with decency was try to make themselves as little obvious as possible. Cornelia’s experience of life was tiny. They did not know how much she remembered of what she used to see nor how sharp a contrast she felt between her previous situation and her present one. With the flexibility of childhood she had already to a great extent adapted herself to the change. The main difficulty she was facing now was that of being different from other people, though how clearly she was comprehending this they could not tell. But they both felt that they were seeing her, not yet seven years old, take the first step in the hard transition between being a child and an adult. At last Cornelia swallowed, drew a long breath, and turned to them.

“I thought—” she began, and her voice broke with the effort to make words. Her mouth quivered, and she turned helplessly to Kester. He picked her up. Cornelia flung her arms about his neck and buried her face. Kester held her tenderly, speaking to her in undertones until she grew quiet and lifted her head. Eleanor gave her a handkerchief, and when Cornelia had dabbed her face dry she sat curled up on Kester’s knees, folding the corners of the handkerchief with concentrated attention. At last she looked up.

“I can see
pretty
good!” she said to them defiantly.

Eleanor had such a pain in her throat that she could not speak. But Kester said,

“Why yes, you can. And by the time you’ve learned to swim and dive and dance folks will hardly notice that your eyes aren’t quite as good as theirs.”

“I can do all that?” Cornelia asked anxiously.

“Of course you can.”

“Like other girls?”

“Like other girls.”

Cornelia thought a moment, then scrambled down from his knees. “Can I go up there soon? Do they have school in the summertime?”

“You can go next month.”

She put up her hand to brush back a lock of her tumbled hair. “I can see all right,” she insisted. “I can see everything. I can see the door.”

As though to prove it she walked to the door and put her hand on the knob. Eleanor stood up. “Where are you going?” she asked. It was hard to keep her voice level.

“No place. Just upstairs. To tell Philip what a good school I’m going to.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I can see all
right!”
she exclaimed, and slammed the door behind her.

Eleanor sat on Kester’s knees where Cornelia had been and hid her face against him as Cornelia had done, and he held her as gently as he had held Cornelia. She was not shedding tears, but she clung to him for comfort. At length, when she raised her head, Kester said to her,

“Cornelia is very like you.”

“Yes,” said Eleanor, “she defies life. I’ve been observing that lately. But she’s like you too. She’s gallant. She’s going to boast to Philip about the superior advantages of that school until by suppertime he’ll want to go with her.”

“Don’t ever mention her eyes unless you have to,” Kester urged. “She doesn’t want to talk about them. I’m glad of that. She’ll never whine.”

Eleanor nodded. “I believe she has a chance to be happy. She’s beautiful, she’s clever, she’s courageous.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Kester. “Her eyes aren’t strong, but we’ve never been intellectuals anyway. She’s not likely to want to be a profound student. And she won’t need glasses for dancing—Eleanor, imagine that devastating child ten years from now at a Mardi Gras ball in New Orleans!”

She laughed at the picture, and then grew serious again. “I want her to be more than beautiful, Kester. I want her to be wise. To be generous. Do you think we can make her so?”

“At least,” he returned, “we have more knowledge than we used to have.”

“I hope so. Yes, I’m sure of it.”

Kester added, “I have an idea that she’s going to be a better person than either of us.”

Eleanor smiled suddenly. “Kester, has it occurred to you that she ought to be? You and I—we’re so intensely what we
are.
Your parents are very much like each other and so are mine. But our children have two inheritances. They’ll blend that fine, impractical idealism of your people with the savage strength of mine. You’re right. They can be better than either of us.”

“If we can teach them tolerance instead of pride,” Kester said.

Eleanor slipped off his knees. She went to the window and stood looking down the two long lines of oaks that had rustled above the heads of many generations.

“Why couldn’t we let each other alone?” she asked in a low voice. “We fell in love because we were so different. Then all we did was twist and pull at each other, trying to make changes that couldn’t be made—”

“I know. Why should anyone do that? Why is it that we can’t think of any higher destiny for the people we love than that they become just like ourselves?”

She shook her head. Through the window a warm drift of wind blew in from the cottonfields. Eleanor remembered the night when she had walked along the river toward Isabel Valcour’s home. She had been so desolate that night. Today was very different. Today she felt a spiritual security that was both an anchor and a guide.

“Kester,” she asked, “what has become of Isabel Valcour?”

“She’s gone away,” said Kester. “To New York, I think.”

“Why?”

“Possibly because I suggested it.”

“When did you see her?” she asked, turning around.

“I didn’t. She wrote to me several times while we were in New Orleans. At first I didn’t answer, then after you and I had that frank talk of ours I sent her a rather long letter.”

“What did you say to her?”

“None of your business,” he returned with a faint smile.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not. After all, she was in love with me, you know.”

“She wasn’t.”

Kester gave a little sigh, but there were humorous crinkles around his eyes. “I suppose men and women have been arguing about these things since the fall of Jericho. Since she’s gone, since I don’t give a damn whether or not she ever comes back, what difference does it make?”

Eleanor tied a loop in the cord that held back the curtain. For some time she said no more. She was thinking that in spite of what Kester said she would be very glad to hear that Isabel had starved to death in a garret, but she was sure life held for her no such prospect. Isabel had spoken of a millionaire she could marry if she chose. Though she had only half believed her at the moment, Eleanor reflected that she had probably been telling the truth. With her powers of enchantment unimpaired, now that she had no more hope of Kester, Isabel had almost certainly gone away to take up another bejeweled existence. Eleanor glanced around again at Kester, and as their eyes met she found suddenly that she did not care at all what happened to Isabel Valcour. She said,

“Very well. Now I’m never going to mention her name to you again as long as I live.”

“Thank you,” said Kester. “Thank you very much.”

He came over to the window and put his arm around her shoulders. Looking up at his handsome profile Eleanor thought of the time when he had first enraptured her imagination, and of the bright beginning of their marriage, and marveled at how little one learned from happiness.