CHAPTER XIXTHE LEADING OF THE BLIND
Onthe morrow’s morning Brant went to his work with a choir of new resolves making melody in his heart. He would get speech with Dorothy by fair means or other and make a frank avowal of his love, telling her what she should know of his past, and pleading only for the time wherein to make good his promises of amendment. Then he would settle down to his work, walking straitly and shunning even the appearance of evil through the weeks or months or years of his probation. And in the end he would win her and wear her in the face of all the world, and none should say him nay.
Thus he planned as he bent over the drawing-board, etching in the scheme of the future while he traced the intricate lines of the map. From summarizing he presently came down to the successive steps in the outworking of the problem, and then he remembered that he still held the money won in the night of madness at Draco’s. Then and there he determined to return it, whether the chief gambler would or no, and on the heels of this resolve came a nobler. He would draw out of his bank balance every dollar that had not come to him hallowed by honest toil, and, since it was manifestly impossible to make individual restitution, he would give the money to some worthy charity.
Being a man of action, he did not suffer the good resolution to cool by delay. Within the hour he hadmade a deposit in his bank, purchased New York exchange for the amount won at Draco’s, and cashed his check for six hundred and eight dollars and fifteen cents, the exact sum with which he had left Silverette on the night of the tragedy. Then he begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from the cashier and scribbled a note to Draco:
“Here is the money which you refused to take back the other night,” he wrote. “It is not yours, but it is still less mine, and I don’t want it. I have put it into New York exchange, so you will know it is out of my hands. Keep it, or throw it away, as you please.”
That done, he began to wonder what he should do with the six hundred odd dollars. There were worthy charities a-plenty, but he shrank equally from giving without explanations and from telling any part of his story to a stranger, however charitable or devout. Since it had to be done, he finally chose Dorothy’s clergyman as his beneficiary, and, having so decided, sought out the address and boarded a street car for the house of the minister. A servant answered the bell, and, in reply to Brant’s inquiry, sent him across the street to the church.
“You’ll find the study at the back,” she said. “If Mr. Crosswell ain’t there, you can go in and wait. He’ll not be long gone.”
Brant did as he was directed, and when his tap at the half-open door was unanswered, he went in. A young woman was sitting in a corner reading, and when he saw that it was Dorothy he stood abashed like any schoolboy. Only for a moment, however, for Dorothy rose quickly and came forward with hands outstretched.
“Why, Mr. Brant, you fairly startled me! I heard you at the door and thought it was Mr. Crosswell. How do you do? and where have you been all these weeks?”
Brant went dizzy with mingled joy and self-reproach.Then it was a hideous mistake, after all, and Mrs. Langford had kept her own counsel. It was almost beyond belief, and he stammered helplessly in his acknowledgments:
“I—I haven’t been anywhere—that is, I’ve been here—no, not just here, either——”
Dorothy’s laugh rang sweet and joyous, and it outran her words in restoring his self-possession.
“It’s the atmosphere of the place, you know,” she said archly. “People come here to confess their sins, and polite excuses are not allowed. Have you come to confession, Mr. Brant?”
Her jesting question went near enough to the truth to make him wince.
“Ye—yes; something of that sort. I came to have a little talk with Mr.—Mr.——”
“Crosswell?” she suggested. “So did I. Won’t you sit down and wait for him? He will be in before very long, I think.”
Brant did as he was bidden, and thus having the opportunity for free speech which he would have been willing to buy at a price, went dumb and could do no more than tie idle knots in his watch chain. Dorothy read the questions in his eyes, but she mistook their pointing, and wondered how she could help matters along without betraying Isabel. Much to her relief, he opened the way by breaking ground in the direction of things serious.
“The last time we met you were in trouble,” he began. “I hope the cause has been removed.”
“It has,” she assented; “and—and I have wanted so much to thank you. It was very, very good of you to help us.”
“Please don’t mention it; any one would have done as much under the circumstances,” he protested, adding, “and that without the hope of reward.”
She knew what he meant, or thought she did, and steeled herself to lead him on.
“I think we all expect rewards of some kind for our good deeds, and we usually get them, don’t we?”
“Rather oftener than we deserve, I think. But I missed mine.”
Dorothy had prayed for this opportunity, and for strength to improve it, but she had to turn away from him before she could go on.
“Sometimes we think we have lost things when we have only overlooked them,” she ventured; then, brushing aside the figure of speech, she went straight to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Brant, why don’t you come to see us any more?”
From the personal point of view it was the cruelest of questions, but she was determined to secure her own safety and Isabel’s happiness by forcing his confidence, and she knew no better way to do this. Nevertheless, she was wholly unprepared for his reply.
“For the best of reasons, Miss Langford: I have been forbidden the house.”
It seemed incredible that he should put such a harsh construction upon Isabel’s refusal, and Dorothy was bewildered. “But I don’t understand,” she began. “Surely——”
“One moment, please. Do you believe in repentance?”
“In its efficacy, you mean? Why, certainly; otherwise we should all be beyond hope.”
“Then let me suppose a case—call it a parable, if you will. There was once a man who was thoroughly bad; quite given over to the service of the Evil One. One day this man saw the error of his way and resolved to live thenceforth a clean life. Then he met and loved a woman”—he paused and got up to pace slowly back and forth behind her chair—“loved her with a love thatrecked nothing of the great gulf separating him from her; forgetting the gulf, indeed, until the spectre of his evil past was called up to remind him of his unworthiness. Do you follow me?”
Her “Yes” was the faintest of whispers, but he heard it and went on.
“Judge, then, between that man and an exacting world. Is there any hope for such a one? Would patient perseverance in well-doing some time earn him the right to contend for such a prize as the love of a good woman? Might he venture to look forward to a time when the great gulf would be fairly bridged—when a pure woman, knowing the worst of him, would not turn from him in loathing?”
Dorothy rose and faced him with the light of self-sacrifice shining in her eyes.
“Who am I that I should judge any one?” she asked softly.
“You are yourself, Dorothy; and you know the man—and the woman.”
It was a moment of supreme trial. How could she give him the word of encouragement from Isabel without betraying Isabel’s secret? And how could she ever forgive herself if she should waste the opportunity and send him away empty-handed. In her embarrassment she again took counsel of frankness.
“It is only the faint-hearted who despair,” she said steadily. “Difficulties are made to be overcome, and for one who presses forward steadfastly there is always hope.” She stopped with the feeling that all these phrasings were but generalities, and he broke in eagerly:
“That is enough. You have heard the parable; this is the interpretation. I am the man, Dorothy, and you——”
“Are the woman,” he was going to say, but she heldup a warning finger, and he heard a step at the door. It was the clergyman returning, and before Brant could add the word to which all the other words had been but the preface his chance was gone. The next moment Dorothy was introducing him to an elderly little man with a kindly face and a hand-clasp that spoke of warm friendships and a broad personality.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brant—always glad to know any friend of Miss Dorothy’s. Sit down—sit down, both of you, and let us be comfortable.”
Brant obeyed, but Dorothy hesitated.
“I wanted to see you a moment about the Crowleys,” she said. “They are in trouble again, and this time it is beyond me. Mr. Brant wishes to see you about another matter, and if you can give me a minute——”
“Certainly, certainly; Mr. Brant will excuse us,” and they went apart to discuss the case of the unfortunate Crowleys, while Brant took up a book and pretended to read. Presently Dorothy took her leave, giving her hand to Brant at parting and inviting him to call soon at Hollywood.
He told no lie in saying that he should be glad to, and he tried to say with his eyes that other thing which had been denied lip utterance. Dorothy flushed faintly under his gaze and her hand trembled a little in his; whereupon he made bold to revert to the object of their common solicitude in another offer of assistance.
“About William: be sure to command me if I can ever help you again. I hope the occasion won’t arise, but if it does, you must manage to let me know at once.”
“Indeed I shall,” she rejoined gratefully. “But you must come to see us. Good-bye.”
When she was gone the clergyman drew up his chair opposite Brant’s. “A most devoted young woman,” he said with kindly emphasis. “I don’t know how weshould get along in the parish without her. Have you known the Langfords long?”
“Not very long; no.”
“Charming family—that is—er—all but the boy. He is a little wild, I’m afraid.”
“Yes,” assented Brant. He was finding his introduction by Dorothy a very considerable hindrance to his errand.
“The judge knows it, and tries to do what he can,” Mr. Crosswell went on, following out his own line of thought. “But Mrs. Langford puts the lad on a pedestal and so spoils him. But pardon me, you came on an errand of your own, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Brant braced himself and took the simplest way out of the entanglement. “You probably have many ways in which you can use money for charitable purposes, haven’t you, Mr. Crosswell?”
“Yes, indeed. You are always safe to assume that in the case of a working clergyman,” was the reply.
“I supposed so. I have some money here”—taking the roll of bills from his pocket—“which is, in a certain sense, what you might call conscience money. Would you object to adding it to your charity fund?”
“Not at all, if it be truly conscience money. But you must give me some assurance that it is—that there is no possibility of restitution to the proper parties.”
“There is none whatever. It is money which was won across the gaming table—not recently,” he added, in deference to the look of pained surprise in the kindly eyes, “but some months ago. I don’t know what else to do with it, and it will be truly an act of charity to me if you will take it.”
“Under those circumstances I shall be quite willing to disburse it for you, Mr. Brant. It is very commendable in you to take such an honourable view of the matter—a thing as commendable as it is rare, I assure you.”
But Brant could not let that stand. “It is a simple matter of justice, and I am afraid the motive is purely selfish. To be very frank about it, the stuff burns my fingers.”
“A most hopeful sign, my dear sir,” said the little clergyman, warming to Brant as most good people did, without any reason that could be set in words. “It is not often that we are given to see such practical proofs of repentance.”
Being an honest man in the better sense of the word, Brant made haste to remove the false impression:
“Don’t misunderstand me. I am not at all sure that I am repentant in your meaning of the word; in fact, I am quite sure I am not. I drank the cup of evil living to the dregs, and the dregs nauseated me—that is all.”
“But that is a very good beginning—very good, indeed,” asserted the clergyman benignly. “Go on as you have begun, and we shall see better things; I am quite sure of that.”
Brant remembered his desperate plunge of less than forty-eight hours before, and smiled.
“It is very evident that you haven’t sounded all the depths of wickedness in the human heart, Mr. Crosswell, and perhaps it is just as well for us sinners that you haven’t. We are a sorrier lot than you have any idea of, I fancy.”
“We are all ‘vile earth’ when it comes to that, Mr. Brant; but I shall continue to consider your case as a most hopeful one.” Then, as Brant found his hat, “Must you go? Come and see me often. I want to know more of you.”
Brant bowed himself out and went his way musing. As he approached the side gate giving upon the street, a carriage drew up to the curb and a lady descended therefrom. He had opened the gate for her and liftedhis hat before he saw that it was Mrs. Langford; but in any case he could have done no less. Notwithstanding, her chilling stare cut him to the quick, and he went back to his office with the comfortable feeling of elation engendered by the meeting with Dorothy and the act of restitution somewhat dashed by the chance encounter.
Meanwhile Mrs. Langford had entered the study and made known her errand, which was to call for Dorothy.
“She said she wouldn’t wait,” explained the clergyman. “Mr. Brant was here, waiting to see me about a matter which was—ah—er—a matter which I presume Miss Dorothy knew to be private, and so she kindly made room for him.”
“Mr. Brant!” Mrs. Langford’s frown was quite portentous. “Do you mean to say they were here together, Mr. Crosswell?”
“Why, yes; that is, I—er—I found them both here when I came in.” Then, as the lines of displeasure deepened in the lady’s brow, he tried to set himself right by adding: “A most excellent young man, Mrs. Langford; I am glad to know that he is a friend of the family.”
“He is not,” she rejoined with aggressive emphasis. “He was never more than a calling acquaintance, and he is not even that at present. I have forbidden him the house.”
“Forbidden him the house?” echoed the good man in unfeigned astonishment. “May I—may I ask your reason?”
“You may; and I will tell you, if you will tell me what he was doing here.”
“He came on a very worthy errand, I assure you, Mrs. Langford; he came to devote a certain sum of money to charitable objects—money acquired in a mannerwhich is all too common in this our day and generation, but which he felt that he could not conscientiously keep.”
“Humph! Some of the proceeds of his gambling, I suppose. It was a mere trick, Mr. Crosswell, and I hope you won’t let him impose upon you. I know his whole history, and it is thoroughly bad and disgustingly disreputable.”
“But, my dear madam, are we not commanded——”
“I know what you would say,” she broke in, with her hand on the door. “But you know my views, Mr. Crosswell. If a woman had done the tenth part of the evil things this man has, you would be the first to recommend sackcloth and ashes and a sisterhood, if not a solitary cell.”
The indignant lady swept down the walk and stepped into her carriage. “Conscience money, indeed!” she said to herself. “It is much more likely that he made the whole thing an excuse to get a chance to talk to Dorothy. Well, I’ll put a stop to that!”
But when Mrs. Langford’s carriage turned and rolled away, the good little man stood in the doorway of his study and shook his head sadly to the tune of a musing commentary on his latest visitor.
“Strange, passing strange, that she can be so uncharitable, when her own son stands so sorely in need of the broadest charity! I do hope there is no dreadful day of retribution in store for her, but it is certainly tempting Providence to be so pitiless.”