CHAPTER X
Much may happen in a year's time. The history of the few people involved in the making of this narrative presents but few new aspects, and yet there is now to be disclosed an unerring indication of great and perhaps enduring changes in the lives of every one concerned.
To begin with, Templeton Thorpe, at the age of seventy-eight, is lying at the edge of his grave. On the day of his marriage with Anne Tresslyn, he put down his arms in the long and hopeless conflict with an enemy that knows no pity, a foe so supremely confident that man has been powerless to do more than devise a means to temporarily check its relentless fury. The thing in Mr. Thorpe's side was demanding the tolls of victory. There was no curbing its wrath: neither the soft nor the harsh answer of science had served to turn it away. The hand with the gleaming, keen-edged knife had been offered against it again and again, but the stroke had never fallen, for always there stood between it and the surgeon who would slay the ravager, the resolute fear of Templeton Thorpe. Time there was when the keen-edged knife might have vanquished or at least deprived it of its early venom, but the body of a physical coward housed it and denied admittance to all-comers. Templeton Thorpe did not fear death. He wanted to die, he implored his Maker to become his Destroyer. The torture of a slow, inevitable death, however, was as nothing to the horror of the knife that is sharp and cold.
When he went upstairs with Wade on that memorable twenty-third of March, he said to his enemy: "Be quick, that's all I ask of you," and then prepared to wait as patiently as he could for the friendly end.
From that day on, he was to the eyes of the world what he had long been to himself in secret: a sick man without hope. Weeks passed before his bride recognised the revolting truth, and when she came to know that he was doomed her pity wassovast that she sickened under its weight. She had come prepared to see him die, as all men do when they have lived out their time, but she had not counted on seeing him die like this, with suffering in his bleak old eyes and a smile of derision on his pallid lips.
Old Templeton Thorpe's sufferings were for himself, and he guarded them jealously with all the fortitude he could command. His irascibility increased with his determination to fight it out alone. He disdained every move on her part to extend sympathy and help to him. To her credit, be it said, she would have become his nurse and consoler if he had let down the bars,—not willingly, of course, but because there was in Anne Thorpe, after all, the heart of a woman, and of such it must be said there is rarely an instance where its warmth has failed to respond to the call of human suffering. She would have tried to help him, she would have tried to do her part. But he was grim, he was resolute. She could not bridge the gulf that lay between them. His profound tolerance did not deceive her; it was scorn of the most poignant character.
Braden was in Europe. He was expected in New York by the middle of March. His grandfather would not consent to his being sent for, although itwas plain to be seen that he lived only for the young man's return.
Anne had once suggested, timorously, that Braden's place was at the sufferer's bedside, but the smile that the old man bestowed upon her was so significant, so full of understanding, that she shrank within herself and said no more. She knew, however, that he longed for the sustaining hand of his only blood relation, that he looked upon himself as utterly alone in these last few weeks of life; and yet he would not send out the appeal that lay uppermost in his thoughts. In his own good time Braden would come back and there would be perhaps' one long, farewell grip of the hand.
After that, ironic peace.
He could not be cured himself, but he wanted to be sure that Braden was cured before he passed away. He knew that his grandson would not come home until the last vestige of love and respect for Anne Tresslyn was gone; not until he was sure that his wound had healed beyond all danger of bleeding again. Mr. Thorpe was satisfied that he had served his grandson well. He was confident that the young man would thank him on his death-bed for turning the hand of fate in the right direction, so that it pointed to contentment and safety. Therefore, he felt himself justified in forbidding any one to acquaint Braden of the desperate condition into which he had fallen. He insisted that no word be sent to him, and, as in all things, the singular power of old Templeton Thorpe prevailed over the forces that were opposed. Letters came to him infrequently from the young man,—considerate, formal letters in which he never failed to find the touch of repressed gratitude that inspired the distant writer. Soon he would be coming home to "setup for himself." Soon he would be fighting the battle of life on the field that no man knew and yet was traversed by all.
Dr. Bates and the eminent surgeons who came to see the important invalid, discussed among themselves, but never in the presence of Mr. Thorpe, the remarkable and revolutionary articles that had been appearing of late in one of the medical journals over the signature of Braden Thorpe. There were two articles, one in answer to a savage, denunciatory communication that had been drawn out by the initial contribution from the pen of young Thorpe.
In his first article, Braden had deliberately taken a stand in favour of the merciful destruction of human life in cases where suffering is unendurable and the last chance for recovery or even relief is lost. He had the courage, the foolhardiness to sign his name to the article, thereby irrevocably committing himself to the propaganda. A storm of sarcasm ensued. The great surgeons of the land ignored the article, amiably attributing it to a "young fool who would come to his senses one day." Young and striving men in the profession rushed into print,—or at least tried to do so,—with the result that Braden was excoriated by a thousand pens. Only one of these efforts was worthy of notice, and it inspired a calm, dispassionate rejoinder from young Thorpe, who merely called attention to the fact that he was not trying to "make murderers out of God's commissioners," but was on the other hand advocating a plan by which they might one day,—a far-off day, no doubt,—extend by Man's law, the same mercy to the human being that is given to the injured beast.
Anne was shocked one day by a callous observationon the lips of old Dr. Bates, a sound practitioner and ordinarily as gentle as the average family doctor one hears so much about. Mr. Thorpe was in greater pain than usual that day. Opiates were of little use in these cruel hours. It was now impossible to give him an amount sufficient to produce relief without endangering the life that hung by so thin a thread.
"I suppose this excellent grandson of his would say that Mr. Thorpe ought to be killed forthwith, and put out of his misery," said the doctor, discussing his patient's condition with the young wife in the library after a long visit upstairs.
Anne started violently. "What do you mean by that, Dr. Bates?" she inquired, after a moment in which she managed to subdue her agitation.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have said it," apologised the old physician, really distressed. "I did it quite thoughtlessly, my dear Mrs. Thorpe. I forgot that you do not read the medical journals."
"Oh, I know what Braden has always preached," she said hurriedly. "But it never—it never occurred to me that—" She did not complete the sentence. A ghastly pallor had settled over her face.
"That his theory might find application to the case upstairs?" supplied the doctor. "Of course it would be unthinkable. Very stupid of me to have spoken of it."
Anne leaned forward in her chair. "Then you regard Mr. Thorpe's case as one that might be included in Braden's—" Again she failed to complete a sentence.
"Yes, Mrs. Thorpe," said Dr. Bates gravely. "If young Braden's pet theory were in practice now, your husband would be entitled to the mercy he prescribes."
"He has no chance?"
"Absolutely no chance."
"All there is left for him is to just go on suffering until—until life wears out?"
"We are doing everything in our power to alleviate the suffering,—everything that is known to science," he vouchsafed. "We can do no more."
"How long will he live, Dr. Bates?" she asked, and instantly shrank from the fear that he would misinterpret her interest.
"No man can answer that question, Mrs. Thorpe. He may live a week, he may live six months. I give him no more than two."
"And if he were to consent to the operation that you once advised, what then?"
"That was a year ago. I would not advise an operation now. It is too late. In fact, I would be opposed to it. There are men in my profession who would take the chance, I've no doubt,—men who would risk all on the millionth part of a chance."
"You think he would die on the operating table?"
"Perhaps,—and perhaps not. That isn't the point. It would be useless, that's all."
"Then why isn't Braden's theory sound and humane?" she demanded sharply.
He frowned. "It is humane, Mrs. Thorpe," said he gravely, "but it isn't sound. I grant you that there is not one of us who would not rejoice in the death of a man in Mr. Thorpe's condition, but there is not one who would deliberately take his life."
"It is all so cruel, so horribly cruel," she said. "The savages in the heart of the jungle can give us lessons in humanity."
"I daresay," said he. "By the same reasoning, isit wise for us to receive lessons in savagery from them?"
Anne was silent for a time. She felt called upon to utter a defence for Braden but hesitated because she could not choose her words. At last she spoke. "I have known Braden Thorpe all my life, Dr. Bates. He is sincere on this question. I think you might grant him that distinction."
"Lord love you, madam, I haven't the faintest doubt as to his sincerity," cried the old doctor. "He is voicing the sentiment of every honest man in my profession, but he overlooks the fact that sentiment has a very small place among the people we serve,—in other words, the people who love life and employ us to preserve it for them, even against the will of God."
"They say that soldiers on the field of battle sometimes mercifully put an end to the lives of their mutilated comrades," she mused aloud.
"And they make it their business to put an end to the lives of the perfectly sound and healthy men who confront them on that same field of battle," he was quick to return. "There is a wide distinction between a weapon and an instrument, Mrs. Thorpe, and there is just as much difference between the inspired soldier and the uninspired doctor, or between impulse and decision."
"I believe that Mr. Thorpe would welcome death," said she.
Dr. Bates shook his head. "My dear, if that were true he could obtain relief from his suffering to-day,—this very hour."
"What do you mean?" she cried, with a swift shudder, as one suddenly assailed by foreboding.
"There is a very sharp razor blade on his dressing-table,"said Dr. Bates with curious deliberation. "Besides that, there is sufficient poison in four of those little—But there, I must say no more. You are alarmed,—and needlessly. He will not take his own life, you may be sure of that. By reaching out his hand he can grasp death, and he knows it. A month ago I said this to him: 'Mr. Thorpe, I must ask you to be very careful. If you do not sleep well to-night, take one of these tablets. If one does not give you relief, you may take another, but no more. Four of them would mean certain, almost instant death.' For more than a month that little box of tablets has lain at his elbow, so to speak. Death has been within reach all this time. Those tablets are still there, Mrs. Thorpe, so now you understand."
"Yes," she said, staring at him as if fascinated; "they are still there. I understand."
The thick envelope that Mr. Hollenback handed to Anne on the day of her wedding contained a properly executed assignment of securities amounting to two million dollars, together with an order to the executors under his will to pay in gold to her immediately after his death an amount sufficient to cover any shrinkage that may have occurred in the value of the bonds by reason of market fluctuations. In plain words, she was to have her full two millions. There was also an instrument authorising a certain Trust Company to act as depository for these securities, all of which were carefully enumerated and classified, with instructions to collect and pay to her during his lifetime the interest on said bonds. At his death the securities were to be delivered to her without recourse to the courts, and were to be free of the death tax, which was to be paid from the residue of the estate. There was a provision,however, that she was to pay the state, city and county taxes on the full assessed value of these bonds during his lifetime, and doubtless by premeditation on his part all of them were subject to taxation. This unsuspected "joker" in the arrangements was frequently alluded to by Anne's mother as a "direct slap in the face," for, said she, it was evidently intended as a reflection upon the Tresslyns who, as a family, it appears, were very skilful in avoiding the payment of taxes of any description. (It was a notorious fact that the richest of the Tresslyns was little more than a mendicant when the time came to take his solemn oath concerning taxable possessions.)
Anne took a most amazing stand in respect to the interest on these bonds. Her income from them amounted to something over ninety thousand dollars a year, for Mr. Thorpe's investments were invariably sound and sure. He preferred a safe four or four and a half per cent, bond to an "attractive six." With the coming of each month in the year, Anne was notified by the Trust Company that anywhere from seven to eight thousand dollars had been credited to her account in the bank. She kept her own private account in another bank, and it was against this that she drew her checks. She did not withdraw a dollar of the interest arising from her matrimonial investment!
Mrs. Tresslyn, supremely confident and self-assured, sustained the greatest shock of her life when she found that Anne was behaving in this quixotic manner about the profits of the enterprise. At first she could not believe her ears. But Anne was obdurate, She maintained that her contract called for two million dollars and no more, and she refused to consider this extraneous accumulation as rightfully her own. Her motherberated her without effect. She subjected her to countless attacks from as many angles, but Anne was as "hard as nails."
"I'm not earning this ninety thousand a year, mother," she declared hotly, "and I shall not accept it as a gift. If I were Mr. Thorpe's wife in every sense of the term, it might be different, but as you happen to know I am nothing more than a figure of speech in his household. I am not even his nurse, nor his housekeeper, nor his friend. He despises me. I despise myself, for that matter, so he's not quite alone in his opinion. I've sold myself for a price, mother, but you must at least grant me the privilege of refusing to draw interest on my infamy."
"Infamy!" gasped Mrs. Tresslyn. "Infamy? What rot,—what utter rot!"
"Just the same, I shall confine myself to the original bargain. It is bad enough. I shan't make it any worse by taking money that doesn't belong to me."
"Those bonds are yours," snapped Mrs. Tresslyn. "You are certainly entitled to the interest. You—"
"They arenotmine," returned Anne decisively. "Not until Mr. Thorpe is dead, if you please. I am to have my pay after he has passed away, no sooner. That was the bargain."
"You did not hesitate to accept some rather expensive pearls if I remember correctly," said Mrs. Tresslyn bitingly.
"That was his affair, not mine," said Anne coolly. "He despises me so thoroughly that he thought he could go beyond his contract and tempt me with this interest we are quarrelling about, mother. He was sure that I would jump at it as a greedy fish snaps at the bait. But I disappointed him. I shall neverforget the look of surprise,—no, it was wonder,—that came into his eyes when I flatly refused to take this interest. That was nearly a year ago. He began to treat me with a little respect after that. There is scarcely a month goes by that he does not bring up the subject. I think he has never abandoned the hope that I may give in, after all. Lately he has taken to chuckling when I make my monthly protest against accepting this money. He can't believe it of me. He thinks there is something amusing about what I have been foolish enough to call my sense of honour. Still, I believe he has a little better opinion of me than he had at first. And now, mother, once and for all, let us consider the matter closed. I will not take the interest until the principal is indisputably mine."
"You are a fool, Anne," said her mother, in her desperation; "a simple, ridiculous fool. Why shouldn't you take it? It is yours. You can't afford to throw away ninety thousand dollars. The bank has orders to pay it over to you, and it is deposited to your account. That ought to settle the matter. If it isn't yours, may I enquire to whom does it belong?"
"Time enough to decide that, mother," said Anne, so composedly that Mrs. Tresslyn writhed with exasperation. "I haven't quite decided who is to have it in the end. You may be sure, however, that I shall give it to some worthy cause. It shan't be wasted."
"Do you mean to say that you will give it away—give it to charity?" groaned her mother.
"Certainly."
Words failed Mrs. Tresslyn. She could only stare in utter astonishment at this incomprehensible creature.
"I may have to ask your advice when the time comes," went on Anne, complacently. "You must assist me in selecting the most worthy charity, mother dear."
"I suppose it has never occurred to you that there is some justice in the much abused axiom that charity begins at home," said Mrs. Tresslyn frigidly.
"Not in our home, however," said Anne. "That's where it ends, if it ends anywhere."
"I have hesitated to speak to you about it, Anne, but I am afraid I shall now have to confess that I am sorely pressed for money," said Mrs. Tresslyn deliberately, and from that moment on she never ceased to employ this argument in her crusade against Anne's ingratitude.
There was no estrangement. Neither of them could afford to go to such lengths. They saw a great deal of each other, and, despite the constant bickerings over the idle money, there was little to indicate that they were at loggerheads. Mrs. Tresslyn was forced at last to recognise the futility of her appeals to Anne's sense of duty, and contented herself with occasional bitter references to her own financial distress. She couldn't understand the girl, and she gave up trying. As a matter of fact, she began to fear that she would never be able to understand either one of her children. She could not even imagine how they could have come by the extraordinary stubbornness with which they appeared to be afflicted.
As for George Tresslyn, he was going to the dogs as rapidly and as accurately as possible. He took to drink, and drink took him to cards. The efforts of Simmy Dodge and other friends, including the despised Percy Wintermill, were of no avail. He developeda pugnacious capacity for resenting advice. It was easy to see what was behind the big boy's behaviour: simple despair. He counted himself among the failures. In due time he lost his position in Wall Street and became a complaining dependent upon his mother's generosity. He met her arguments with the furious and constantly reiterated charge that she had ruined his life. That was another thing that Mrs. Tresslyn could not understand. How, in heaven's name, had she ruined his life?
He took especial delight in directing her attention to the upward progress of the discredited Lutie.
That attractive young person, much to Mrs. Tresslyn's disgust, actually had insinuated her vulgar presence into comparatively good society, and was coming on apace. Blithe, and gay, and discriminating, the former "mustard girl" was making a place for herself among the moderately smart people. Now and then her name appeared in the society columns of the newspapers, where, much to Mrs. Tresslyn's annoyance, she was always spoken of as "Mrs. George Dexter Tresslyn." Moreover, in several instances, George's mother had found her own name printed next to Lutie's in the alphabetical list of guests at rather large entertainments, and once,—heaven forfend that it should happen again!—the former "mustard girl's" picture was published on the same page of a supplement with that of the exclusive Mrs. Tresslyn and her daughter, Mrs. Templeton Thorpe, over the caption: "The Tresslyn Triumvirate," supplied by a subsequently disengaged art editor.
George came near to being turned out into the street one day when he so far forgot himself as to declare that Lutie was worth the whole Tresslyn lot put together,and she ought to be thankful she had had "the can tied to her" in time. His mother was livid with fury.
"If you ever mention that person's name in this house again, you will have to leave it forever. If she's worth anything at all it is because she has appropriated the Tresslyn name that you appear to belittle. You—"
"She didn't appropriate it," flared George. "I remember distinctly of having given it to her. I don't care what you say or do, mother, she deserves a lot of credit. She's made a place for herself, she's decent, she's clever—"
"She hasn't earned a place for herself, let me remind you, sir. She made it out of the proceeds of a sale, the sale of a husband. Don't forget, George, that she sold you for so much cash."
"A darned good bargain," said he, "seeing that she got me at my own value,—which was nothing at all."
Lutie went on her way serenely, securely. If she had a thought for George Tresslyn she succeeded very well in keeping it to herself. Men would have made love to her, but she denied them that exquisite distraction. Back in her mind lurked something that guaranteed immunity.
The year had dealt its changes to Lutie as well as to the others, but they were not important. Discussing herself frankly with Simmy Dodge one evening, she said:
"I'm getting on, am I not, Simmy? But, after all, why shouldn't I? I'm a rather decent sort, and I'm not a real vulgarian, am I? Like those people over there at the next table, I mean. The more I go about,the more I realise that class is a matter of acquaintance. If you know the right sort of people, and have known them long enough, you unconsciously form habits that the other sort of people haven't got, so you're said to have 'class.' Of course, you've got to be imitative, you've got to be able to mimic the real ones, but that isn't difficult if you're half way bright, don't you know."
"Lord love you, Lutie, you don't have to imitate any one," said Simmy. "You're in a class by yourself."
"Thanks, Simmy. Don't let any one else at the table hear you say such things to me, though. They would think that I'd just come in from the country. Why shouldn't I get on? How many of the girls that you meet in your day's walk have graduated from a high-school? How many of the great ladies who rule New York society possess more than a common school education, outside of the tricks they've learned after they put on long frocks? Not many, let me tell you, Simmy. Four-fifths of them can't spell Connecticut, and they don't know how many e's there are in 'separate.' I graduated from a high school in Philadelphia, and my mother did the same thing before me. I also played on the basket-ball team, if that means anything to you. My parents were poor but respectable, God-fearing people, as they say in the novels, and they were quite healthy as parents go in these days, when times are hard and children so cheap that nobody's without a good sized pack of them. I was born with a brain that was meant to be used."
"What are you two talking about so secretively?" demanded Mrs. Rumsey Fenn, across the table from them.
"Ourselves, of course," said Lutie. "Bright people always have something in reserve, my dear. We save the very best for an extremity. Simmy delights in talking about me, and I love to talk about him. It's the simplest kind of small talk and doesn't disturb us in the least if we should happen to be thinking of something else at the time."
"Have you heard when Braden Thorpe is expected home, Simmy?"
"Had a letter from him yesterday. He sails next week. Is there any tinkering to be done for your family this season, Madge? Any little old repairs to be made?"
"I'm afraid not," said Mrs. Fenn desolately, "Rumsey positively refuses to imagine he's got a pain anywhere, and the baby's tonsils are disgustingly healthy."
"Old Templeton Thorpe's in a critical condition, I hear," put in Rumsey Fenn. "There'll be a choice widow in the market before long, I pledge you."
"Can't they operate?" inquired his wife.
"Not for malignant widows," said Mr. Fenn.
"Oh, don't be silly. I should think old Mr. Thorpe would let Braden operate. Just think what a fine boost it would give Braden if the operation was a success."
"And also if it failed," said one of the men, sententiously. "He's the principal heir, isn't he?"
Simmy scowled. "Brady would be the last man in the world to tackle the job," he said, and the subject was dropped at once.
And so the end of the year finds Templeton Thorpe on his death bed, Anne a quixotic ingrate, George among the diligently unemployed, Lutie on the crestof popularity, Braden in contempt of court, and Mrs. Tresslyn sorely tried by the vagaries of each and every one of the aforesaid persons.
Simmy Dodge appears to be the only one among them all who stands just as he did at the beginning of the year. He has neither lost nor gained. He has merely stood still.
CHAPTER XI
When Dr. Braden Thorpe arrived in New York City on the fourteenth of March he was met at the pier by a horde of newspaper men. For the first time, he was made to appreciate "the importance of being earnest." These men, through a frequently prompted spokesman, put questions to him that were so startling in their boldness that he was staggered by the misconception that had preceded him into his home land.
He was asked such questions as these: "But, doctor, would you do that sort of thing to a person who was dear to you,—say a wife, a mother or an only child?" "How could you be sure that a person was hopelessly afflicted?" "Have you ever put this theory of yours into practice on the other side?" "How many lives have you taken in this way, doctor,—if it is a fair question?" "Do you expect to practise openly in New York?" "And if you do practise, how many patients do you imagine would come to you, knowing your views?" "How would you kill 'em,—with poison or what?" And so on, almost without end.
He was to find that a man can become famous and infamous in a single newspaper headline, and as for the accuracy of the interviews there was but one thing to be said: the questions were invariably theirs and the answers also. He did his best to make them understand that he was merely advancing a principle and not practising a crime, that his hand had never beenbrought down to kill, that his heart was quite as tender as any other man's, and that he certainly was not advocating murder in any degree. Nor was he at present attempting to proselyte.
When he finally escaped the reporters, his brow was wet with the sweat of one who finds himself confronted by a superior force and with no means of defence. He knew that he was to be assailed by every paper in New York. They would tear him to shreds.
Wade was at the pier. He waited patiently in the background while the returned voyager dealt with the reporters, appearing abruptly at Braden's elbow as he was giving his keys to the inspector.
"Good morning, sir," said Wade, in what must be recorded as a confidential tone. He might have been repeating the salutation of yesterday morning for all that his manner betrayed.
"Hello, Wade! Glad to see you." Braden shook hands with the man. "How is my grandfather?"
"Better, sir," said the other, meaning that his master was more comfortable than he had been during the night.
Wade was not as much of an optimist as his reply would seem to indicate. It was his habit to hold bad news in reserve as long as possible, doubtless for the satisfaction it gave him to dribble it out sparingly. He had found it to his advantage to break all sorts of news hesitatingly to his master, for he was never by way of knowing what Mr. Thorpe would regard as bad news. For example, early in his career as valet, he had rushed into Mr. Thorpe's presence with what he had every reason to believe would be good news. He had been sent over to the home of Mr. Thorpe's son for an important bit of information, and he suppliedit by almost shouting as he burst into the library: "It's a fine boy, sir,—a splendid ten-pounder, sir." But Mr. Thorpe, instead of accepting the good news gladly, spoiled everything by anxiously inquiring, "And how is the poor little mother getting along?"—a question which caused Wade grave annoyance, for he had to reply: "I'm sorry, sir, but she's not expected to live the hour out."
All of which goes to show that Mr. Thorpe never regarded any news as good without first satisfying himself that it wasn't bad.
"I have the automobile outside, sir," went on Wade, "and I am to look after your luggage."
"Thank you, Wade. If you'll just grab these bags and help the porter out to the car with them, I'll be greatly obliged. And then you may drop me at the Wolcott. I shall stop there for a few days, until I get my bearings."
Wade coughed insinuatingly. "Beg pardon, sir, but I was to fetch you straight home."
"Do you mean to my grandfather's?" demanded the young man sharply.
"Yes, sir. Those were the orders."
"Orders to be disobeyed, I fear, Wade," said Braden darkly. "I am not going to Mr. Thorpe's house."
"I understand, sir," said Wade patiently. "I quite understand. Still it is my duty to report to you that Mr. Thorpe is expecting you."
"Nevertheless, I shall not—"
"Perhaps I should inform you that your grandfather is—er—confined to his bed. As a matter of fact, Mr. Braden, he is confined to his death-bed."
Braden was shocked. Later on, as he was being rushed across town in the car, he drew from Wade allof the distressing details. He had never suspected the truth. Indeed, his grandfather had kept the truth from him so successfully that he had come to look upon him as one of the fortunate few who arrive at death in the full possession of health, those who die because the machinery stops of its own accord. And now the worst possible death was stalking his benefactor, driving,—always driving without pity. Braden's heart was cold, his face pallid with dread as he hurried up the steps to the front door of the familiar old house.
He had forgotten Anne and his vow never to enter the house so long as she was mistress of it. He forgot that her freedom was about to become an accomplished fact, that the thing she had anticipated was now at hand. He had often wondered how long it would be in coming to her, and how she would stand up under the strain of the half score of years or more that conceivably might be left to the man she had married. There had been times when he laughed in secret anticipation of the probabilities that attended her unwholesome adventure. Years of it! Years of bondage before she could lay hands upon the hard-earned fruits of freedom!
As he entered the hall Anne came out of the library to greet him. There was no hesitation on her part, no pretending. She came directly to him, her hand extended. He had stopped stock-still on seeing her.
"I am glad you have come, Braden," she said, letting her hand fall to her side. Either he had ignored it or was too dismayed to notice it at all. "Mr. Thorpe has waited long and patiently for you. I am glad you have come."
He was staring at her, transfixed. There was no change in her appearance. She was just as he hadseen her on that last, never-to-be-forgotten day,—the same tall, slender, beautiful Anne. And yet, as he stared, he saw something in her eyes that had not been there before: the shadow of fear.
"I must see him immediately," said he, and was at once conscious of a regret that he had not first said something kind to her. She had the stricken look in her eyes.
"You will find him in his old room," she said quietly. "The nurse is a friend of yours, a Miss McKane."
"Thank you." He turned away, but at the foot of the staircase paused. "Is there no hope?" he inquired. "Is it as bad as Wade—"
"There is only one hope, Braden," she said, "and that is that he may die soon." Curiously, he was not shocked by this remark. He appreciated the depth of feeling behind it. She was thinking of Templeton Thorpe, not of herself.
"I—I can't tell you how shocked, how grieved I am," he said. "It is—terrible."
She drew a few steps nearer. "I want you to feel, Braden, that you are free to come and go—and to stay—in this house. I know that you have said you would not come here while I am its mistress. I am in no sense its mistress. I have no place here. If you prefer not to see me, I shall make it possible by remaining in my room. It is only fair that I should speak to you at once about—about this. That is why I waited here to see you. I may as well tell you that Mr. Thorpe does not expect me to visit his room,—in fact, he undoubtedly prefers that I should not do so. I have tried to help him. I have done my best, Braden. I want you to know that. It is possible that he may tell you as much. Your place is here. You must notregard me an obstacle. It will not be necessary for you to communicate with me. I shall understand. Dr. Bates keeps me fully informed." She spoke without the slightest trace of bitterness.
He heard her to the end without lifting his gaze from the floor. When she was through, he looked at her.
"Youarethe mistress of the house, Anne. I shall not overlook the fact, even though you may. If my grandfather wishes me to do so, I shall remain here in the house with him—to the end, not simply as his relative, but to do what little I can in a professional way. Why was I not informed of his condition?" His manner was stern.
"You must ask that question of Mr. Thorpe himself," said she. "As I have told you, he is the master of the house. The rules are his, not mine; and, by the same token, the commands are his."
He hesitated for a moment. "You might have sent word to me. Why didn't you?"
"Because I was under orders," she said steadily. "Mr. Thorpe would not allow us to send for you. There was an excellent purpose back of his decision to keep you on the other side of the Atlantic until you were ready to return of your own accord. I daresay, if you reflect for a moment, you will see through his motives."
His eyes narrowed. "There was no cause for apprehension," he said coldly.
"It was something I could not discuss with him, however," she returned, "and so I was hardly in a position to advise him. You must believe me, Braden, when I say that I am glad for his sake that you are here. He will die happily now."
"He has suffered—so terribly?"
"It has been too horrible,—too horrible," she cried, suddenly covering her eyes and shivering as with a great chill.
The tears rushed to Braden's eyes. "Poor old granddaddy," he murmured. Then, after a second's hesitation, he turned and swiftly mounted the stairs.
Anne, watching him from below, was saying to herself, over and over again: "He will never forgive me, he will never forgive me." Later on, alone in the gloomy library, she sat staring at the curtained window through which the daylight came darkly, and passed final judgment upon herself after months of indecision: "I have been too sure of myself, too sure of him. What a fool I've been to count on a thing that is so easily killed. What a fool I've been to go on believing that his love would survive in spite of the blow I've given it. I've lost him. I may as well say farewell to the silly hope I've been coddling all these months." She frowned as she allowed her thoughts to run into another channel. "But they shall not laugh at me. I'll play the game out. No whimpering, old girl. Stand up to it."
Wade was waiting outside his master's door, his ear cocked as of old. The same patient, obsequious smile greeted Braden as he came up.
"He knows you are here, Mr. Braden. I sent in word by the nurse."
"He is conscious?"
"Yes, sir. That's the worst of it. Always conscious, sir."
"Then he can't be as near to death as you think, Wade. He—"
"That's a pity, sir," said Wade frankly. "I wasin hopes that it would soon be all over for him."
"Am I to go in at once?"
"May I have a word or two with you first, sir?" said Wade, lowering his voice to a whisper and sending an uneasy glance over his shoulder. "Come this way, sir. It's safer over here. Uncommonly sharp ears he has, sir."
"Well, what is it? I must not be delayed—"
"I shan't keep you a minute, Mr. Braden. It's something I feel I ought to tell you. Mr. Thorpe is quite in his right mind, sir, so you'll appreciate more fully what a shock his proposition was to me. In a word, Mr. Braden, he has offered me a great sum of money if I'll put four of those little pills into a glass of water to-night and give it to him to drink. There's enough poison in them to kill three men in a flash, sir. My God, Mr. Braden, it was—it was terrible!" The man's face was livid.
"A great sum of money—" began Braden dumbly. Then the truth struck him like a blow in the face. "Good God, Wade,—he—he wanted you tokillhim!"
"That's it, sir, that's it," whispered Wade jerkily. "He has an envelope up there with fifty thousand dollars in it. He had me count them a week ago, right before his eyes, and hide the envelope in a drawer. You see how he trusts me, sir? He knows that I could rob him to-night if I wanted to do so. Or what's to prevent my making off with the money after he's gone? Nobody would ever know. But he knows me too well. He trusts me. I was to give him the poison the night after you got home, and I would never be suspected of doing it because the pills have been lying on his table for weeks, ready for him to take at any time. Everyone might say that he took them himself, don't you see?"
"Then, in God's name, why doesn't he take them,—why does he ask you to give them to him?" cried Braden, an icy perspiration on his brow.
"That's the very point, sir," explained Wade. "He says he has tried to do it, but—well, he just can't, sir. Mr. Thorpe is a God-fearing man. He will not take his own life. He—he says he believes there is a hell, Mr. Braden. I just wanted to tell you that I—I can't do what he asks me to do. Not for all the money in the world. He seems to think that I don't believe there is a hell. Anyhow, sir, he appears to think it would be quite all right for me to kill a fellow man. Beg pardon, sir; I forgot that you have been writing all these articles about—"
"It's all right, Wade," interrupted Braden. "Tell me, has he made this proposition to any one else? To the nurses, to Murray—any one?"
Wade hesitated. "I'm quite sure he hasn't appealed to any one but me, sir, except—that is to say—"
"Who else?"
"He told me plainly that he couldn't ask any of the nurses to do it, because he thought it ought to be done by a friend or a—member of the family. The doctors, of course, might do it unbeknownst to him, but they won't, sir."
"Whom else did he speak to about it?" insisted Braden.
"I can't be sure, but I think he has spoken to Mrs. Thorpe a good many times about it. Every time she is alone with him, in fact, sir. I've heard him pleading with her,—yes, and cursing her, too,—and her voiceis always full of horror when she says 'No, no! I will not do it! I cannot!' You see, sir, I always stand here by the door, waiting to be called, so I catch snatches of conversation when their voices are raised. Besides, she's always as white as a sheet when she comes out, and two or three times she has actually run to her room as if she was afraid he was pursuing her. I can't help feeling, Mr. Braden, that he considers her a member of the family, and so long as I won't do it, he—"
"Good God, Wade! Don't say anything more! I—" His knees suddenly seemed about to give way under him. He went on in a hoarse whisper: "Why, I—I am a member of the family. You don't suppose he'll—you don't suppose—"
"I just thought I'd tell you, sir," broke in Wade, "so's you might be prepared. Will you go in now, sir? He is most eager to see you."
Braden entered the room, sick with horror. A member of the family! A member of the family to do the killing!
He was shocked by the appearance of the sick old man. Templeton Thorpe had wasted to a thin, greyish shadow. His lips were as white as his cheek, and that was the colour of chalk. Only his eyes were bright and gleaming with the life that remained to him. The grip of his hand was strong and firm, and his voice, too, was steady.
"I've been waiting for you, Braden, my boy," said Mr. Thorpe, some time after the greetings. He turned himself weakly in the bed and, drawing a little nearer to the edge, lowered his voice to a more confidential tone. His eyes were burning, his lips drawn tightly across his teeth,—for even at his age TempletonThorpe was not a toothless thing. They were alone in the room. The nurse had seized upon the prospect of a short respite.
"I wish I had known, granddaddy," lamented Braden. "You should have sent for me long ago."
"That is the fifth or sixth time you've made that remark in the last ten minutes," said Mr. Thorpe, a querulous note stealing into his voice. "Don't say it again. By the way, suppose that I had sent for you: what could you have done? What good could you have done? Answer me that."
"There is no telling, sir. At least, I could have done my share of the—that is to say, I might have been useful in a great many ways. You may be sure, sir, that I should have been in constant attendance. I should have been on hand night and day."
"You would have assisted Anne in the death watch, eh?" said Mr. Thorpe, with a ghastly smile.
"Don't say that, sir," cried Braden, flinching.
"I may not have the opportunity to speak with you again, Braden,—privately, I mean,—and, as my time is short, I want to confess to you that I have been agreeably surprised in Anne. She has tried to do her best. She has not neglected me. She regards me as a human being in great pain, and I am beginning to think that she has a heart. There is the bare possibility, my boy, that she might have made you a good wife if I had not put temptation in her way. In any event, she would not have dishonoured you. It goes without saying that she has been wife to me in name only. You may find some comfort in that. In the past few weeks I have laid even greater temptations before her and she has not fallen. I cannot explain further to you, but—" here he smiled wanly—"someday she may tell you in the inevitable attempt to justify herself and win back what she has lost. Don't interrupt me, please. Shewilltry, never fear, and you will have to be strong to resist her. I know what you would say to me, so don't say it. You are horrified by the thought of it, but the day will come when you must again raise your hand against the woman who loves you. Make no mistake, Braden; she loves you."
"I believe I would strike her dead if she made the slightest appeal to—"
"Never mind," snapped the old man. "I know you well enough to credit you with self-respect, if not self-abnegation. What I am trying to get at is this: do you hold a grudge against me for revealing this girl's true character to you?"
"I must ask you to excuse me from answering that question, grandfather," said Braden, compressing his lips.
The old man eyed him closely. "Is that an admission that you think I have wronged you in saving you from the vampires?" he persisted ironically.
"I cannot discuss your wife with you, sir," said the other.
Mr. Thorpe continued to regard his grandson narrowly for a moment or two longer, and then a look of relief came into his eyes. "I see. I shouldn't have asked it of you. Nevertheless, I am satisfied. My experiment is a success. You are qualified to distinguish between the Tresslyn greed and the Tresslyn love, so I have not failed. They put the one above the other and so far they have trusted to luck. If Anne had spurned my money I haven't the slightest doubt that she would have married you and made you a good wife. The fact that she did not spurn my money would seemto prove that she wouldn't make anybody a good wife. I know all this is painful to you, my boy, but I must say it to you before I die. You see I am dying. That's quite apparent, even to the idiots who are trying to keep me alive. They do not fool me with their: 'Aha, Mr. Thorpe, how are we to-day? Better, eh?' I am dying by inches,—fractions of inches, to be precise." He stopped short, out of breath after this long speech.
Braden laid his hand upon the bony fore-arm. "How long have you known, granddaddy, that you had this—this—"
"Cancer? Say it, my boy. I'm not afraid of the word. Most people are. It's a dreadful word. How can I answer your question? Years, no doubt. It became active a year and a half ago. I knew what it was, even then."
"In heaven's name, sir, why did you let it go on? An operation at that time might have—"
"You forget that I could afford to wait. When a man gets to be as old as I am he can philosophise even in the matter of death. What is a year or two, one way or the other, to me? An operation is either an experiment or a last resort, isn't it? Well, my boy, I preferred to look upon it as a last resort, and as such I concluded to put it off until the last minute, when it wouldn't make any difference which way it resulted. If it had resulted fatally a year and a half ago, what would I have gained? If it should take place to-morrow, with the same result, haven't I cheated Time out of eighteen months?"
"But the pain, the suffering," cried Braden. "You might at least have spared yourself the whole lifetime of pain that you have lived in these last few months. You haven't cheated pain out of its year and a half."
"True," said Mr. Thorpe, his lips twitching with the pain he was trying to defy; "I have not been able to laugh at the futility of pain. Ah!" It was almost a scream that issued from between his stretched lips. He began to writhe....
"Come in again to-night," he said half an hour later, whispering the words with difficulty. The two nurses and the doctor's assistant, who had been staying in the house for more than a week, now stood back from the bedside, dripping with perspiration. The paroxysm had been one of the worst he had experienced. They had believed for a time that it was also to be the last. Braden Thorpe, shaking like a leaf because of the very inactivity that was forced upon him by the activity of others, wiped the sweat from his brow, and nodded his head in speechless despair. "Come in to-night, after you've talked with Anne and Dr. Bates. I'm easier now. It can't go on much longer, you see. Bates gives me a couple of weeks. That means a couple of centuries of pain, however. Go now and talk it over with Anne."
With this singular admonition pounding away at his senses, Braden went out of the room. Wade,—the ever-present Wade,—was outside the door. His expression was as calmly attentive as it would have been were his master yawning after a healthy nap instead of screaming with all the tortures of the damned. As Braden hurried by, hardly knowing whither he went, the servant did something he had never done before in his life. He ventured to lay a detaining hand upon the arm of a superior.
"Did he ask you to—to do it, Master Braden?" he whispered hoarsely. The man's eyes were glazed with dread.
Braden stopped. At first he did not comprehend. Then Wade's meaning was suddenly revealed to him. He drew back, aghast.
"Good Lord, no! No, no!" he cried out.
"Well," said Wade deliberately, "he will, mark my words, sir. I don't mind saying to you, Mr. Braden, that hedependsupon you."
"Are you crazy, Wade?" gasped Braden, searching the man's face with an intentness that betrayed his own fear that the prophecy would come true. Something had already told him that his grandfather would depend upon him for complete relief,—and it was that something that had gripped his heart when he entered the sick-room, and still gripped it with all the infernal tenacity of inevitableness.
He hurried on, like one hunted and in search of a place in which to hide until the chase had passed. At the foot of the stairs he came upon Murray, the butler.
"Mrs. Thorpe says that you are to go to your old room, Mr. Braden," said the butler. "Will you care for tea, sir, or would you prefer something a little stronger?"
"Nothing, Murray, thank you," replied Braden, cold with a strange new terror. He could not put aside the impression that Murray, the bibulous Murray, was also regarding him in the light of an executioner. Somewhere back in his memory there was aroused an old story about the citizens who sat up all night to watch for the coming of the hangman who was to do a grewsome thing at dawn. He tried to shake off the feeling, he tried to laugh at the fantastic notion that had so swiftly assailed him. "I think I shall go to my room. Call me, if I am needed."
He did not want to see Anne. He shrank from therevelations that were certain to come from the harassed wife of the old man who wanted to die. As he remounted the stairs, he was subtly aware that some one opened a door below and watched him as he fled. He did not look behind, but he knew that the watcher was white-faced and pleading, and that she too was counting on him for support.
An hour later, a servant knocked at his door. The afternoon was far gone and the sky was overcast with sinister streaks of clouds that did not move, but hung like vast Zeppelins over the harbour beyond: long, blue-black clouds with white bellies. Mournful clouds that waited for the time to come when they could burst into tears! He had been watching them as they crept up over the Jersey shores, great stealthy birds of ill-omen, giving out no sound yet ponderous in their flight. He started at the gentle tapping on his door; a strange hope possessed his soul. Was this a friendly hand that knocked? Was its owner bringing him the word that the end had come and that he would not be called upon to deny the great request? He sprang to the door.
"Dr. Bates is below, sir," said the maid. "He would like to see you before he goes."
Braden's heart sank. "I'll come at once, Katie."
There were three doctors in the library. Dr. Bates went straight to the point.
"Your grandfather, Braden, has a very short time to live. He has just dismissed us. Our services are no longer required in this case, if I—"
"Dismissed you?" cried Braden, unbelievingly.
Dr. Bates smiled. "We can do nothing more for him, my boy. It is just as well that we should go. He—"
"But, my God, sir, you cannot leave him to die in—"
"Have patience, my lad. We are not leaving him to die alone. By his express command, we are turning the case over to you. You are to be his sole—"
"I refuse!" shouted Braden.
"You cannot refuse,—you will not, I am sure. For your benefit I may say that the case is absolutely hopeless. Not even a miracle can save him. If you will give me your closest attention, I will, with Dr. Bray's support, describe his condition and all that has led up to this unhappy crisis. Sit down, my boy. I am your good friend. I am not your critic, nor your traducer. Sit down and listen calmly, if you can. You should know just what is before you, and you must also know that every surgeon who has been called in consultation expresses but one opinion. In truth, it is not an opinion that they venture, but an unqualified decision."
For a long time Braden sat as if paralysed and listened to the words of the fine old doctor. At last the three arose and stood over him.
"You understand everything now, Braden," said Dr. Bates, a tremor in his voice. "May God direct your course. We shall not come here again. You are not to feel that we are deserting you, however, for that is not true. We go because you have come, because you have been put in sole charge. And now, my boy, I have something else to say to you as an old friend. I know your views. Not I alone, but Dr. Bray and thousands of others, have felt as you feel about such things. There have been countless instances, like the one at hand, when we have wished that we might be faithless to the tenets of a noble profession. But we have never faltered. It is not our province to be merciful, if I may put it in that way, but to be conscientious.It is our duty to save, not to destroy. That is what binds every doctor to his patient. Take the advice of an old man, Braden, and don't allow your pity to run away with your soul. Take my advice, lad. Let God do the deliberate killing. He will do it in his own good time, for all of us. I speak frankly, for I know you consider me your friend and well-wisher."
"Thank you, Dr. Bates," said Braden, hoarsely. "The advice is not needed, however. I am not a murderer. I could not kill that poor old man upstairs, no matter how dreadfully he suffers. I fear that you have overlooked the fact that I am an advocate, not a performer, of merciful deeds. You should not confuse my views with my practice. I advocate legalising the destruction of the hopelessly afflicted. Inasmuch as it is not a legal thing to do at present, I shall continue to practise my profession as all the rest of you do: conscientiously." He was standing before them. His face was white and his hands were clenched.
"I am glad to hear you say that, Braden," said Dr. Bates gently. "Forgive me. One last word, however. If you need me at any time, I stand ready to come to you. If you conclude to operate, I—I shall advise against it, of course,—you may depend upon me to be with you when you—"
"But you have said, Dr. Bates, that you do not believe an operation would be of—"
"In my opinion it would be fatal. But you must not forget that God rules, not we mortals. We do not know everything. I am frank to confess that there is not one among us who is willing to take the chance, if that is a guide to you. That's all, my boy. Good-bye. God be with you!"
They passed out of and away from the house.