CHAPTER XVI
Braden Thorpe realised that he would have to pay, one way or another, for what had happened in the operating room. Either his honour or his skill would be attacked for the course his knife had taken.
The day after his grandfather's death, he went to the office of Dr. Bates, the deposed family physician and adviser. He did not go in a cringing, apologetic spirit, but as one unafraid, as one who is justified within himself and fears not the report of evil. His heart was sore, for he knew he was to be misjudged. Those men who looked on while he worked so swiftly, so surely, so skilfully in that never-to-be-forgotten hour, were not to be deceived. He knew too well that he had performed with the most noteworthy skill, and, if he had any other feeling than that of grief for the death of one who had been dear to him, it was that of pride in the consciousness that he deserved the praise of these men for the manner in which he performed the most delicate of operations. He knew that they knew, quite as well as he, that but for the fatal swerving of half an inch of the instrument in his steady fingers, Templeton Thorpe would not only be alive at that moment but conceivably might be expected to survive for many days.
They had seen everything and they understood. He did not seek to conceal the truth from himself. He had heard the sharply drawn breath that was taken through the parted lips of his tense observers as that admirably handled blade slid from its true course and spoiled what might have been heralded as a marvellous feat in surgery.It was as if something had snapped in the minds of these three men who watched. They had looked, however, upon all that was before him as he worked. They had seen, as he saw, the thing that no human skill could conquer. He felt their eyes upon him as he turned the knife quickly, suddenly, surely, and then they had looked into his eyes as he raised them for a second. He had spared his grandfather another month of agony, and they had seen everything. It was not unlikely that the patient might have survived the anæsthetic, and it was equally probable that subsequent care on the part of the doctor and the nurse might have kept him alive long enough to permit his case to be recorded by virtue of his having escaped alive from the operating table, as one of those exasperatingly smug things known to the profession as a "successful operation,"—sardonic prelude to an act of God!
There seems to be no such thing as an unsuccessful operation. If God would only keep his finger out of the business, nothing could go wrong. It is always the act of God that keeps a man from enjoying the fruits of an absolutely successful operation. Up to the instant that Braden's knife took its sanguinary course, there was every indication that the operation would be successful, even though Mr. Thorpe were to breathe his last while the necessary stitches were being taken.
He had slept soundly throughout the night just past. For the first night in a week his mind and body took the rest that had been denied them for so long. The thing was behind him. It was over. He had earned his right to sleep. When he laid his head upon the pillow there was no fear of evil dreams, no qualms, no troubled conscience to baffle the demands of exhaustion. He had done no wrong. His sleep was long, sweet, refreshing.He had no fear of God in his soul that night, for he had spoken with God in the silence of the long night before and he was at peace with Him. No man could say that he had not tried to save the life of Templeton Thorpe. He had worked with all the knowledge at his command; he himself felt that he had worked as one inspired,—so much so, in fact, that he now knew that never again in all his life would he be able to surpass or even equal the effort of that unforgettable day. But he had recognised the futility of skill even as it was being exerted to its utmost accomplishments. The inevitable was bared to his intelligence. He had done his best for Templeton Thorpe; no man could have done more than that. With the eyes of other men upon him, eyes that saw all that he saw, he took it upon himself to spare his grandfather the few days that might have been added to his hell by an act less kind,—though no doubt more eminently professional.
And as he performed that final act of mercy, his mind and heart were on the handshake, and the word of farewell that his benefactor had murmured in his ear. Templeton Thorpe was at rest; he had thanked his grandson in advance.
So it was that Braden slept the night through without a tremor. But with his waking came the sense of responsibility to others. Not to the world at large, not to the wife of the dead man, but to the three sincere and honourable members of his profession, who, no doubt, found themselves in a most trying position. They were, in a way, his judges, and as such they were compelled to accept their own testimony as evidence for or against him. With him it was a matter of principle, with them a question of ethics. As men theywere in all probability applauding his act, but as doctors they were bound by the first and paramount teachings of their profession to convict him of an unspeakable wrong. It was his duty to grant these men the right to speak of what they had seen.
He went first to see Dr. Bates, his oldest friend and counsellor, and the one man who could afterwards speak freely with the widow of the man who had been his lifelong patient. Going down in the elevator from his room at the hotel, Braden happened to glance at himself in the narrow mirror. He was startled into a second sharp, investigating look. Strange that he had not observed while shaving how thin his face had become. His cheeks seemed to have flattened out leanly over night; his heavy eyes looked out from shadowy recesses that he had failed to take account of before; there were deeper lines at the corners of his mouth, as if newly strengthened by some artful sculptor while he slept. He was older by years for that unguarded sleep. Time had taken him unawares; it had slyly seized the opportunity to remould his features while youth was weak from exhaustion. In a vague way he recalled a certain mysterious change in Anne Tresslyn's face. It was not age that had wrought the change in her, nor could it be age that had done the same for him.
The solution came to him suddenly, as he stepped out into the open air and saw the faces of other men. It was strength, not weakness, that had put its stamp upon his countenance, and upon Anne's; the strength that survives the constructive years, the years of development. He saw this set, firm strength in the faces of other men for the first time. They too no doubt had awakened abruptly from the dream of ambition to find themselves dominated by a purpose. That purpose wasin their faces. Ambition was back of that purpose perhaps, deep in the soul of the man, but purpose had become the necessity.
Every man comes to that strange spot in the dash through life where he stops to divest himself of an ideal. He lays it down beside the road and, without noticing, picks up a resolve in its place and strides onward, scarcely conscious of the substitution. It requires strength to carry a resolve. An ideal carries itself and is no burden. So each of these men in the street,—truckman, motorman, merchant, clerk, what you will,—sets forth each day with the same old resolution at his heels; and in their set faces is the strength that comes with the transition from wonder to earnestness. Its mark was stamped upon the countenances of young and old alike. Even the beggar at the street corner below was without his ideal. Even he had a definite, determined purpose.
Then there was that subtle change in Anne. He thought of it now, most unwillingly. He did not want to think of her. He was certain that he had put her out of his thoughts. Now he realised that she had merely lain dormant in his mind while it was filled with the intensities of the past few days. She had not been crowded out, after all. The sharp recollection of the impression he had had on seeing her immediately after his arrival was proof that she was still to be reckoned with in his thoughts.
The strange, elusive maturity that had come into her young, smooth face,—that was it. Maturity without the passing of Youth; definiteness, understanding, discovery,—a grip on the realities of life, just as it was with him and all the others who were awake. Ayear in the life of a young thing like Anne could not have created the difference that he felt rather than saw.
Something more significant than the dimensions of a twelve-month had added its measure to Anne's outlook upon life. She had turned a corner in the lane and was facing the vast plain she would have to cross unguided. She had come to the place where she must think and act for herself,—and to that place all men and all women come abruptly, one time or another, to become units in the multitude.
We do not know when we pass that inevitable spot, nor have we the power to work backward and decide upon the exact moment when adolescence gave way to manhood. It comes and passes without our knowledge, and we are given a new vision in the twinkling of an eye, in a single beat of the heart. No man knows just when he becomes a man in his own reckoning. It is not a matter of years, nor growth, nor maturity of body and mind, but an awakening which goes unrecorded on the mind's scroll. Some men do not note the change until they are fifty, others when they are fifteen. Circumstance does the trick.
He was still thinking of Anne as he hurried up the front door-steps and rang Dr. Bates' bell. She was not the same Anne that he had known and loved, far back in the days when he was young. Could it be possible that it was only a year ago? Was Anne so close to the present as all that, and yet so indefinably remote when it came to analysing this new look in her eyes? Was it only a year ago that she was so young and so unfound?
A sudden sickness assailed him as he waited for themaid to open the door. Anne had been made a widow. He, not God, was responsible for this new phase in her life. Had he not put a dreadful charge upon her conscience? Had he not forced her to share the responsibility with him? And, while the rest of the world might forever remain in ignorance, would it ever be possible for her to hide the truth from herself?
She knew what it all meant, and she had offered to share the consequences with him, no matter what course his judgment led him to pursue. He had not considered her until this instant as a partner in the undertaking, but now he realised that she must certainly be looking upon herself as such. His heart sank. He had made a hideous mistake. He should not have gone to her. She could not justify herself by the same means that were open to him.
From her point of view, he had killed her husband, and with her consent!
He found himself treating the dead man in a curiously detached fashion, and not as his own blood-relation. Her husband, that was the long and the short of his swift reflections, not his grandfather. All her life she would remember that she had supported him in an undertaking that had to do with the certain death of her husband, and no matter how merciful, how sensible that act may have been, or how earnestly he may have tried to see his way clear to follow a course opposed to the one he had taken, the fact remained that she had acknowledged herself prepared for just what subsequently happened in the operating room.
Going back to the beginning, Templeton Thorpe's death was in her mind the day she married him. It had never been a question with her as to how he should die, butwhen. But this way to the desired end could neverhave been included in her calculations.Thiswas not the way out.
She had been forced to take a stand with him in this unhappy business, and she would have to pay a cost that he could not share with her, for his conscience was clear. What were her thoughts to-day? With what ugly crime was she charging herself? Was she, in the secrecy of her soul, convicting herself of murder? Wasthatwhat he had given her to think about all the rest of her life?
The servant was slow in answering the bell. They always are at the homes of doctors.
"Is Dr. Bates at home?"
"Office hours from eight to nine, and four to six."
"Say that Dr. Thorpe wishes to see him."
This seemed to make a difference. "He is out, Dr. Thorpe. We expect him in any moment though. For lunch. Will you please to come in and wait?"
"Thank you."
She felt called upon to deliver a bit of information. "He went down to see Mrs. Thorpe, sir,—your poor grandmother."
"I see," said Braden dully. It did not occur to him that enlightenment was necessary. A queer little chill ran through his veins. Was Dr. Bates down there now, telling Anne all that he knew, and was she, in the misery of remorse, making him her confessor? In the light of these disturbing thoughts, he was fast becoming blind to the real object of this, the first of the three visits he was to make.
Dr. Bates found him staring gloomily from the window when he came into the office half an hour later, and at once put the wrong though obvious construction upon his mood.
"Come, come, my boy," he said as they shook hands; "put it out of your mind. Don't let the thing weigh like this. You knew what you were about yesterday, so don't look back upon what happened with—"
Braden interrupted him, irrelevantly. "You've been down to see Mrs. Thorpe. How is she? How does she appear to be taking it?" He spoke rapidly, nervously.
"As well as could be expected," replied the older man drily. "She is glad that it's all over. So are we all, for that matter."
"Did she send for you?"
"Yes," said Dr. Bates, after an instant's hesitation. "I'll be frank with you, Braden. She wanted to know just what happened."
"And you told her?"
"I told her that you did everything that a man could do," said the other, choosing his words with care.
"In other words, you did not tell her what happened."
"I did not, my boy. There is no reason why she should know. It is better that she should never know," said Dr. Bates gravely.
"What did she say?" asked Braden sharply.
Dr. Bates suddenly was struck by the pallor in the drawn face. "See here, Braden, you must get a little rest. Take my advice and—"
"Tell me what she had to say," insisted the young man.
"She cried a little when I told her that you had done your best, and that's about all."
"Didn't she confess that she expected—that she feared I might have—"
"Confess? Why do you use that word?" demanded Dr. Bates, as the young man failed to complete his sentence. His gaze was now fixed intently on Braden'sface. A suspicion was growing in his mind.
"I am terribly distressed about something, Dr. Bates," said Braden, uneasily. "I wish you would tell me everything that Anne had to say to you."
"Well, for one thing, she said that she knew you would do everything in your power to bring about a successful result. She seemed vastly relieved when I told her that you had done all that mortal man could do. I don't believe she has the faintest idea that—that an accident occurred. Now that I think of it, she did stop me when I undertook to convince her that your bark is worse than your bite, young man,—in other words, that your theories are for conversational and not practical purposes. Yes, she cut me off rather sharply. I hadn't attached any importance to her—See here, Braden," he demanded suddenly, "is there any reason why she should have cut me off like that? Had she cause to feel that you might have put into practice your—your—Come, come, you know what I mean." He was leaning forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arm-rests.
"She is more or less in sympathy with my views," said Braden warily. "Of course, you could not expect her to be in sympathy with them in this case, however." He put it out as a feeler.
"Well, I should say not!" exclaimed Dr. Bates. "It's conceivable that she may have been in some doubt, however, until I reassured her. By George, I am just beginning to see through her, Braden. She had me down there to—to set her mind at rest about—aboutyou. 'Pon my soul, she did it neatly, too."
"And she believes—you think she believes that her mind is at rest?"
"That's an odd question. What do you mean?"
"Just that. Does she believe that you told her the truth?"
"Oh! I see. Well, a doctor has to tell a good many lies in the course of a year. He gets so that he can tell them with a straighter face than when he's telling the truth. I don't see why Mrs. Thorpe should doubt my word—my professional word—unless there is some very strong reason for doing so." He continued to eye Braden keenly. "Do you know of any reason?"
Thorpe by this time was able to collect himself. The primal instinct to unburden himself to this old, understanding friend, embraced sturdy, outspoken argument in defence of his act, but this defence did not contemplate the possible inclusion of Anne. He was now satisfied that she had not delivered herself into the confidence of Dr. Bates. She had kept her secret close. It was not for him to make revelations. The newly aroused fear that even this good old friend might attach an unholy design to their motives impelled him to resort to equivocation, if not to actual falsehood. This was a side to the matter that had not been considered by him till now. But he was now acutely aware of an ugly conviction that she had thought of it afterwards, just as he was thinking of it now, hence her failure to repeat to Dr. Bates the substance of their discussion before the operation took place.
He experienced an unaccountable, disquieting sensation of guilt, of complicity in an evil deed, of a certain slyness that urged him to hide something from this shrewd old man. To his utter amazement, he was saying to himself that he must not "squeal" on Anne, his partner! He now knew that he could never speak of what had passed between himself and Anne. Of his own part in the affair he could speak frankly with thisman, and with all men, and be assured that no sinister motive would be attributed to him. He would be free from the slightest trace of suspicion so long as he stood alone in accounts of the happenings of the day before. No matter how violent the criticism or how bitter the excoriation, he would at least be credited with honest intentions. But the mere mention of Anne's name would be the signal for a cry from the housetops, and all the world would hear. And Anne's name would sound the death knell of "honest intentions."
"As I said a moment ago, Dr. Bates, Mrs. Thorpe is fully aware of my rather revolutionary views," he said, not answering the question with directness. "That was enough to cause some uneasiness on my part."
"Um! I dare say," said Dr. Bates thoughtfully. Back in his mind was the recollection of a broken engagement, or something of the sort. "I see. Naturally. I think, on the whole, my boy, she believes that I told her the truth. You needn't be uneasy on that score. I—I—for a moment I had an idea that you might havesaidsomething to her." It was almost a question.
Braden shook his head. His eyes did not flicker as he answered steadily: "Surely you cannot think that I would have so much as mentioned my views in discussing—"
"Certainly not, my boy," cried the other heartily. Braden did not fail to note the look of relief in his eye, however. "So now you are all right as far as Mrs. Thorpe is concerned. I made a point of assuring her that everything went off satisfactorily to the three of us. She need never know the truth. You needn't feel that you cannot look her in the eyes, Braden."
"'Gad, that sounds sinister," exclaimed Thorpe, staring. "That's what they say when they are talking about thieves and liars, Dr. Bates."
"I beg your pardon. I meant well, my boy, although perhaps it wasn't the nice thing to say. And now have you come to tell me that it was an accident, an unfortunate—"
"No," said Braden, straightening up. "I come to you first, Dr. Bates, because you are my oldest friend and supporter, and because you were the lifelong friend of my grandfather. I am going also to Dr. Bray and Dr. Ernest after I leave here. I do not want any one of you to feel that I expect you to shield me in this matter. You are at liberty to tell all that you know. I did what I thought was best, what my conscience ordered me to do, and I did it openly in the presence of three witnesses. There was no accident. No one may say that I bungled. No one—"
"I should say you didn't bungle," said the older man. "I never witnessed a finer—ahem! In fact, we all agree on that. My boy, you have a great future before you. You are one of the most skilful—"
"Thanks. I didn't come to hear words of praise, Dr. Bates. I came to release you from any obligation that you may—"
"Tut, tut! That's all right. We understand—perfectly. All three of us. I have talked it over with Bray and Ernest. What happened up there yesterday is as a closed book. We shall never open it. I will not go so far as to say that we support your theories, but we do applaud your method. There isn't one of us who would not havefeltlike doing the thing you did, but on the other hand there isn't one of us who could have done it. We would have allowed him a fewmore days of life. Now that it is all over, I will not say that you did wrong. I can only say that it was not right to do the thing you did. However, it is your conscience and not mine that carries the load,—if there is one. You may rest assured that not one of us will ever voluntarily describe what actually took place."
"But I do not want to feel that you regard it your duty to protect me from the consequences of a deliberate—"
"See here, my lad, do you want the world to know that you took your grandfather's life? That's what it amounts to, you know. You can't go behind the facts."
Thorpe lowered his head. "It would be ridiculous for me to say that I do not care whether the world knows the truth about it, Dr. Bates. To be quite honest, sir, I do not want the world to know. You will understand why, in this particular instance, I should dread publicity. Mr. Thorpe was my grandfather. He was my benefactor. But that isn't the point. I had no legal right to do the thing I did. I took it upon myself to take a step that is not now countenanced by the law or by our profession. I did this in the presence of witnesses. What I want to make clear to you and to the other doctors is that I should have acted differently if my patient had been any one else in the world. I loved my grandfather. He was my only friend. He expected me to do him a great service yesterday. I could not fail him, sir. When I saw that there was nothing before him but a few awful days of agony, I did what he would have blessed me for doing had he been conscious. If my patient had been any one else I should have adhered strictly to the teachings of my profession. I would not have broken the law."
"Your grandfather knew when he went up to theoperating room that he was not to leave it alive. Is that the case?"
"He did not expect to leave it alive, sir," amended Braden steadily.
"You had talked it all over with him?"
"I had agreed to perform the operation, that is all, sir. He knew that his case was hopeless. That is why he insisted on having the operation performed."
"In other words, he deliberately put you in your present position? He set his mind on forcing this thing upon you? Then all I have to say for Templeton Thorpe is that he was a damned—But there, he's dead and gone and, thank God, he can't hear me. You must understand, Braden, that this statement of yours throws an entirely new light upon the case," said Dr. Bates gravely. "The fact that it was actually expected of you makes your act a—er—shall we say less inspirational? I do not believe it wise for you to make this statement to my colleagues. You are quite safe in telling me, for I understand the situation perfectly. But if you tell them that there was an agreement—even a provisional agreement—I—well, the thing will not look the same to them."
"You are right, Dr. Bates," said Braden, after a moment. "Thank you for the advice. I see what you mean. I shall not tell them all that I have told you. Still, I am determined to see them and—"
"Quite so. It is right that you should. Give them cause to respect you, my boy. They saw everything. They are sound, just men. From what they have said to me, you may rest assured that they do not condemn you any more than I do. The anæsthetician saw nothing. He was occupied. That young fellow—what's his name?—may have been more capable of observingthan we'd suspect in one so tender, but I fancy he wouldn't knoweverything. I happen to know that he saw the knife slip. He mentioned it to Simeon Dodge."
"To Simmy Dodge!"
"Yes. Dodge came to see me last night. He told me that the boy made some queer statement to him about the pylorus, and he seemed to be troubled. I set him straight in the matter. He doesn't know any more about the pylorus than he knew before, but he does know that no surgeon on earth could have avoided the accident that befell you in the crisis. Simmy, good soul, was for going out at once and buying off the interne, but I stopped him. We will take care of the young man. He doesn't say it was intentional, and we will convince him that it wasn't. How do you stand with young George Tresslyn?"
"I don't know. He used to like me. I haven't seen—"
"It appears that Simmy first inquired of George if he knew anything about the pylorus. He is Mrs. Thorpe's brother. I should be sorry if he got it into his head that—well, that there was anything wrong, anything that might take him to her with ugly questions."
"I shall have to chance that, Dr. Bates," said Braden grimly.
"Mrs. Thorpe must never know, Braden," said the other, gripping his hands behind his back.
"If it gets out, she can't help knowing. She may suspect even now—"
"But it is not to get out. There may be rumours starting from this interne's remark and supported by your avowed doctrines, but we must combine to suppress them. The newspapers cannot print a line without ourauthority, and they'll never get it. They will not dare to print a rumour that cannot be substantiated. I spoke of George a moment ago for a very good reason. I am afraid of him. He has been going down hill pretty fast of late. It wouldn't surprise me to hear that he had sunk low enough to attempt blackmail."
"Good heaven! Why—why, he's not that sort—"
"Don't be too sure of him. He is almost in the gutter, they say. He'sthatsort, at any rate."
"I don't believe George ever did a crooked thing in his life, poor devil. He wouldn't dream of coming to me with a demand for—"
"He wouldn't come to you," said the other, sententiously. "He would not have the courage to do that. But he might go to Anne. Do you see what I mean?"
Braden shook his head. He recalled George's experiences in the sick-room and the opportunity that had been laid before him. "I see what you mean, but George—well, he's not as bad as you think, Dr. Bates."
"We'll see," said the older man briefly. "I hope he's the man you seem to think he is. I am afraid of him."
"He loves his sister, Dr. Bates."
"In that case he may not attempt to blackmail her, but it would not prevent his going to her with his story. The fact that he does love her may prove to be your greatest misfortune."
"What do you mean?"
"As I said before, Anne must never know," said Dr. Bates, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder and gripping it suddenly. "Your grandfather talked quite freely with me toward the end. No; Anne must never know."
Braden stared at the floor in utter perplexity.
CHAPTER XVII
Wade went through the unnecessary form of "giving notice" a day or two after his old master was laid to rest. On the day that Templeton Thorpe went to the hospital he abandoned an almost lifelong habit of cocking his head in an attitude of listening, and went about the house with the corners of his mouth drooping instead of maintaining their everlasting twist upward in the set smile of humility.
He had been there for thirty years and more, and now he was no longer needed. He would have to get out. He had saved a little money,—not much, but enough to start a small business of some sort,—and he was complaining bitterly to himself of the fate that deprived him of Mr. Thorpe's advice just when it was imperative that he should know what enterprise would be the safest for him to undertake. It nettled him to think that he had failed to take advantage of his opportunities while this shrewd, capable old man was alive and in a position to set him on the right path to prosperity. He should have had the sense to look forward to this very day.
For thirty years he had gone on believing that he knew so much more than Mr. Thorpe that Mr. Thorpe couldn't possibly get along without him, and now he was brought up sharply against the discovery that he couldn't get along without Mr. Thorpe. For thirty years he had done only the things that Mr. Thorpe wanted him to do, instructed him to do, or even drove him to do. Suddenly he found himself with absolutelynothing to do, or at any rate with no one to tell him what to do, and instead of a free and independent agent, with no one to order him about, he wasn't anything,—he wasn't anything at all. This was not what he had been looking forward to with such complacency and confidence. He was like a lost soul. No one to tell him what to do! No one to valet! No one to call him a blundering idiot! No one to despise except himself! And he had waited thirty years for the day to come when he could be his own man, with the power to tell every one to go to the devil—and to do so himself if he saw fit. He hardly recognised himself when he looked in the mirror. Was that scared, bleak, wobegone face a reflection? Was he really like that?
He was filled with a bitter rage against Mr. Thorpe. How he hated him for dying like this and leaving him with nothing to do after all these years of faithful service. And how shocked he was, and frightened, to discover himself wanting to pause outside his master's door with his head cocked to hear the voice that would never shout out to him again.
He knew to a penny just how much he had in the Savings Banks about town,—a trifle over twelve thousand dollars, the hoardings of thirty years. He had gone on being a valet all these years without a single thought of being anything else, and yet he had always looked forward to the day when he could go into some nice, genteel little business for himself,—when he could step out of service and enjoy life to the full. But how was he to go about stepping out of service and into a nice, genteel little business without Mr. Thorpe to tell him what to do? Here was he, sixty-five years old, without a purpose in life. Beginning life at sixty-five!
Of course, young Mrs. Thorpe would have no usefor a valet. No doubt she would marry again,—Wade had his notions!—but he couldn't think of subjecting himself to the incompetency of a new master, even though his old place were held open for him. He would not be able to adjust himself to another master,—or to put it in his own words, it would be impossible to adjust another master to himself. Young Master Braden might give him something to do for the sake of old times, but then again Mrs. Thorpe would have to be taken into consideration. Wade hadn't the slightest doubt that she would one day "marry into the family again." As a matter of fact, he believed in his soul that there was an understanding between the young people. There were moments when he squinted his eyes and cringed a little. He would have given a great deal to be able to put certain thoughts out of his mind.
And then there was another reason for not wanting to enter the service of Dr. Braden Thorpe. Suppose he were to become critically ill. Would he, in that event, feel at liberty to call in an outside doctor to take charge of his case? Would it not be natural for Dr. Braden to attend him? And suppose that Dr. Braden were to conclude that he couldn't get well!
He gave notice to Murray, the butler. He hated to do this, for he despised Murray. The butler would not have to go. He too had been with Mr. Thorpe for more than a quarter of a century, and death had not robbed him of a situation. What manner of justice was it that permitted Murray to go on being useful while he had to go out into the world and become a burden to himself?
"Murray informs me, Wade, that you have given notice," said Anne, looking up as he shuffled into an attitude before her. "He says that you have saved quitea lot of money and are therefore independent. I am happy to hear that you are in a position to spend the remainder of your life in ease and—why, what is the matter, Wade?"
He was very pale, and swayed slightly. "If you please, madam, Murray is mistaken," he mumbled. An idea was forming in his unhappy brain. "I—I am leaving because I realise that you no longer have any use for my services, and not because I am—er—well off, as the saying is. I shall try to get another place." His mind was clear now. The idea was completely formed. "Of course, it will be no easy matter to find a place at my age, but,—well, a man must live, you know." He straightened up a bit, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
She was puzzled. "But you have money, Wade. You have worked hard. You have earned a good rest. Why should you go on slaving for other people?"
"Alas," said Wade, resuming the patient smile that had been missing for days and cocking his head a little, "it is not for me to rest. Murray does not know everything. My savings are small. He does not know the uses to which I have been obliged to—I beg pardon, madam, you cannot, of course, be interested in my poor affairs." He was very humble.
"But Mr. Thorpe always spoke of you as an exceedingly thrifty man. I am sure that he believed you to be comfortably fixed for life, Wade."
"Quite so," agreed Wade. "And I should have been had it been possible to lay by with all these unmentioned obligations crowding upon me, year in, year out."
"Your family? I did not know that there was any one dependent upon you."
"I have never spoken of my affairs, ma'am," saidWade. "It is not for a servant to trouble his employer with—ahem! You understand, I am sure."
"Perfectly. I am sorry."
"So I thought I would give notice at once, madam, so that I might be on the lookout as soon as possible for a new place. You see, I shall soon be too old to apply for a place, whilst if I manage to secure one in time I may be allowed to stay on in spite of my age."
"Have you anything in view?"
"Nothing, madam. I am quite at a loss where to—"
"Take all the time you like, Wade," she said, genuinely sorry for the man. She never had liked him. He was the one man in all the world who might have pitied her for the mistake she had made, and he had steeled his heart against her. She knew that he felt nothing but scorn for her, and yet she was sorry for him. This was new proof to her that she had misjudged her own heart. It was a softer thing than she had supposed. "Stay on here until you find something satisfactory. Mr. Thorpe would have wished you to stay. You were a very faithful friend to him, Wade. He set great store by you."
"Thank you, madam. You are very kind. Of course, I shall strive to make myself useful while I remain. I dare say Murray can find something for me to do. Temporarily, at least, I might undertake the duties of the furnace man and handy-man about the house. He is leaving to-morrow, I hear. If you will be so good as to tell Murray that I am to take O'Toole's place,—temporarily, of course,—I shall be very grateful. It will give me time to collect my thoughts, ma'am."
"It will not be necessary, Wade, for you to take on O'Toole's work. I am not asking you to performhard, manual labor. You must not feel that my—"
"Pardon me, madam," interrupted he; "I very much prefer to do some sort of regular work, if I may be permitted."
She smiled. "You will find Murray a hard task-master, I am afraid."
He took a long breath, as of relief—or could it have been pleasure? "I quite understand that, madam. He is a martinet. Still, I shall not mind." The same thought was in the mind of each: he was accustomed to serving a hard task-master. "If you don't mind, I shall take O'Toole's place until you find some one else. To-morrow I shall move my belongings from the room upstairs to O'Toole's room off the furnace-room. Thank—"
"No!" she exclaimed. "You are not to do that. Keep your old room, Wade. I—I cannot allow you to go down there. Mr. Thorpe would never forgive me if he knew that—" He lifted his eyes at the sudden pause and saw that she was very white. Was she too afraid of ghosts?
"It's very good of you," he said after a moment. "I shall do as you wish in everything, and I shall let you know the instant I find another place." He cleared his throat. "I fear, madam, that in the confusion of the past few days I have failed to express to you my sympathy. I assure you the oversight was not—"
She was looking straight into his eyes. "Thank you, Wade," she interrupted coldly. "Your own grief would be sufficient excuse, if any were necessary. If you will send Murray to me I will tell him that you have withdrawn your notice and will stay on in O'Toole's place. It will not be necessary for him to engage another furnace-man at present."
"No, ma'am," said Wade, and then added without a trace of irony in his voice: "At any rate not until cold weather sets in."
And so it was that this man solved the greatest problem that had ever confronted him. He went down into the cellars to take orders from the man he hated, from the man who would snarl at him and curse him and humiliate him to the bitter end, and all because he knew that he could not begin life over again. He wanted to be ordered about, he wanted to be snarled at by an overbearing task-master. It simplified everything. He would never be called upon to think for himself. Thorpe or Murray, what mattered which of them was in command? It was all the same to him. His dignity passed, away with the passing of his career as a "Man," and he rejoiced in the belief that he had successfully evaded the responsibilities that threatened him up to the moment he entered the presence of the mistress of the house. He was no longer without a purpose in life. He would not have to go out and be independent.
Toward the end of the second week Templeton Thorpe's will was read by Judge Hollenback in the presence of "the family." There had been some delay on account of Braden Thorpe's absence from the city. No one knew where he had gone, nor was he ever to explain his sudden departure immediately after the funeral. He simply disappeared from his hotel, without so much as a bag or a change of linen in his possession, so far as one could know. At the end of ten days he returned as suddenly and as casually as he had gone away, but very much improved in appearance. The strange pallor had left his cheeks and his eyes had lost the heavy, tired expression.
At first he flatly refused to go down for the readingof the will. He was not a beneficiary under the new instrument and he could see no reason for his attendance. Anne alone understood. The old vow not to enter the house while she was its mistress,—that was the reason. He was now in a position to revive that vow and to order his actions accordingly.
She drooped a little at the thought of it. From time to time she caught herself wishing that she could devise some means of punishing him, only to berate herself afterward for the selfishness that inspired the thought.
Still, why shouldn't he come there now? She was the same now that she was before her marriage took place,—a year older, that was all, but no less desirable. That was the one thing she could not understand in him. She could understand his disgust, his scorn, his rage, but she could not see how it was possible for him to hold out against the qualities that had made him love her so deeply before she gave him cause to hate her.
As for the operation that had resulted in the death of her husband, Anne had but one way of looking at it. Braden had been forced to operate against his will, against his best judgment. He was to be pitied. His grandfather had failed in his attempt to corrupt the souls of others in his desire for peace, and there remained but the one cowardly alternative: the appeal to this man who loved him. In his extremity, he had put upon Braden the task of performing a miracle, knowing full well that its accomplishment was impossible, that failure was as inevitable as death itself.
The thought never entered her mind that in persuading Braden to perform this strange act of mercy her husband may have been moved by the sole desire to put the final touch to the barrier he had wrought between them. The fact that Braden was responsible for hisdeath had no sinister meaning for her. It was the same as if he had operated upon a total stranger with a like result and with perhaps identical motives.
She kept on saying to herself that she had given up hope of ever regaining the love she had lost. She tried to remember just when she had ceased to hope. Was it before or after that last conversation took place in the library? Hope may have died, but he was alive and she was alive. Then how could love be dead?
It was Simmy Dodge who prevailed upon Braden to be present at the reading of the will. Simmy was the sort of man who goes about, in the goodness of his heart, adjusting matters for other people. He constituted himself in this instance, however, as the legal adviser of his old friend and companion, and that gave him a certain amount of authority.
"And what's more," he said in arguing with the obdurate Braden, "we'll probably have to smash the will, if, as you say, you have been cut off without a nickel. You—"
"But I don't want to smash it," protested Braden.
"And why not?" demanded Simmy, in surprise. "You are his only blood relation, aren't you? Why the deuce should he leave everything away from you? Of course we'll make a fight for it. I've never heard of a more outrageous piece of—"
"You don't understand, Simmy," Braden interrupted, suddenly realising that his position would be a difficult one to explain, even to this good and loyal friend. "We'll drop the matter for the present, at any rate."
"But why should Mr. Thorpe have done this rotten, inconceivable thing to you, Brady?" demanded Dodge. "Good Lord, that will won't stand a minute in a court of—"
"It will stand so far as I'm concerned," said Braden sharply, and Simmy blinked his eyes in bewilderment.
"You wouldn't be fighting Anne, you know," he ventured after a moment, assuming that Braden's attitude was due to reluctance in that direction. "She is provided for outside the will, she tells me."
"Are you her attorney, Simmy?"
"Yes. That is, the firm represents her, and I'm one of the firm."
"I don't see how you can represent both of us, old chap."
"That's just what I'm trying to get into your head. I couldn't represent you if there was to be a fight with Anne. But we can fight these idiotic charities, can't we?"
"No," said Braden flatly. "My grandfather's will is to stand just as it is, Simmy. I shall not contest for a cent. And so, if you please, there's no reason for my going down there to listen to the reading of the thing. I know pretty well what the document says. I was in Mr. Thorpe's confidence. For your own edification, Simmy, I'll merely say that I have already had my share of the estate, and I'm satisfied."
"Still, in common decency, you ought to go down and listen to the reading of the will. Judge Hollenback says he will put the thing off until you are present, so you might as well go first as last. Be reasonable, Brady. I know how you feel toward Anne. I can appreciate your unwillingness to go to her house after what happened a year ago. Judge Hollenback declares that his letter of instruction from Mr. Thorpe makes it obligatory for him to read the document in the presence of his widow and his grandson, and in the library of hislate home. Otherwise, the thing could have been done in Hollenback's offices."
In the end Braden agreed to be present.
When Judge Hollenback smoothed out the far from voluminous looking document, readjusted his nose glasses and cleared his throat preparatory to reading, the following persons were seated in the big, fire-lit library: Anne Thorpe, the widow; Braden Thorpe, the grandson; Mrs. Tresslyn, George Tresslyn, Simmy Dodge, Murray, and Wade, the furnace-man. The two Tresslyns were there by Anne's request. Late in the day she was overcome by the thought of sitting there alone while Braden was being dispossessed of all that rightfully belonged to him. She had not intended to ask her mother to come down for the reading. Somehow she had felt that Mrs. Tresslyn's presence would indicate the consummation of a project that had something ignoble about it. She knew that her mother could experience no other sensation than that of curiosity in listening to the will. Her interest in the affairs of Templeton Thorpe ended with the signing of the ante-nuptial contract, supplemented of course by the event which satisfactorily terminated the agreement inside of a twelve-month. But Anne, practically alone in the world as she now found herself to be, was suddenly aware of a great sense of depression. She wanted her mother. She wanted some one near who would not look at her with scornful, bitter eyes.
George's presence is to be quickly explained. He had spent the better part of the week with Anne, sleeping in the house at her behest. For a week she had braved it out alone. Then came the sudden surrender to dread, terror, loneliness. The shadows in the hallswere grim; the sounds in the night were sinister, the stillness that followed them creepy; the servants were things that stalked her, and she was afraid—mortally afraid in this home that was not hers. She had made up her mind to go away for a long time just as soon as everything was settled.
As for the furnace-man, Judge Hollenback had summoned him on his arrival at the house. So readily had Wade adapted himself to his new duties that he now felt extremely uncomfortable and ill-at-ease in a room that had been like home to him for thirty years. He seemed to feel that this was no place for the furnace-man, notwithstanding the scouring and polishing process that temporarily had restored him to a more exalted office,—for once more he was the smug, impeccable valet.
Braden was the last to arrive. He timed his arrival so that there could be no possibility of an informal encounter with Anne. She came forward and shook hands with him, simply, unaffectedly.
"You have been away," she said, looking straight into his eyes. He was conscious of a feeling of relief. He had been living in some dread of what he might detect in her eyes. But it was a serene, frank expression that he found in them, not a question.
"Yes," he said. "I was tired," he added after a moment.
She hesitated. Then: "I have not seen you, Braden, since—since the twenty-first. You have not given me the opportunity to tell you that I know you did all that any one could possibly do for Mr. Thorpe. Thank you for undertaking the impossible. I am sorry—oh, so sorry,—that you were made to suffer. I want you to remember too that it was with my sanction that you made the hopeless effort."
He turned cold. The others had heard every word. She had spoken without reserve, without the slightest indication of nervousness or compunction. The very thing that he feared had come to pass. She had put herself definitely on record. He glanced quickly about, searching the faces of the other occupants of the room. His gaze fell upon Wade, and rested for a second or two. Something told him that Wade's gaze would shift,—and it did.
"I did everything, Anne. Thank you for believing in me." That was all. No word of sympathy, no mawkish mumbling of regret, no allusion to his own loss. He looked again into her eyes, this time in quest of the motive that urged her to make this unnecessary declaration. Was there a deeper significance to be attached to her readiness to assume responsibility? He looked for the light in her eye that would convince him that she was taking this stand because of the love she felt for him. He was immeasurably relieved to find no secret message there. She had not stooped to that, and he was gratified. Her eyes were clouded with concern for him, that was all. He was ashamed of himself for the thought,—and afterwards he wondered why he should have been ashamed. After all, it was only right that she should be sorry for him. He deserved that much from her.
An awkward silence ensued. Simmy Dodge coughed nervously, and then Braden advanced to greet Mrs. Tresslyn. She did not rise. Her gloved hand was extended and he took it without hesitation.
"It is good to see you again, Braden," she said, with the bland, perfunctory parting of the lips that stands for a smile with women of her class. He meant nothing to her now.
"Thanks," he said, and moved on to George, who regarded him with some intensity for a moment and then gripped his hand heartily. "How are you, George?"
"Fine! First stage of regeneration, you know. I'm glad to see you, Brady."
There was such warmth in the repressed tones that Thorpe's hand clasp tightened. Tresslyn was still a friend. His interest quickened into a keen examination of the young man who had pronounced himself in the first stage of regeneration, whatever that may have signified to one of George's type. He was startled by the haggard, sick look in the young fellow's face. George must have read the other's expression, for he said: "I'm all right,—just a little run down. That's natural, I suppose."
"He has a dreadful cold," said Anne, who had overheard. "I can't get him to do anything for it."
"Don't you worry about me, Anne," said George stoutly.
"Just the same, you should take care of yourself," said Braden. "Pneumonia gets after you big fellows, you know. How are you, Wade? Poor old Wade, you must miss my grandfather terribly. You knew him before I was born. It seems an age, now that I think of it in that way."
"Thirty-three years, sir," said Wade. "Nearly ten years longer than Murray, Mr. Braden, It does seem an age."
The will was not a lengthy document. The reading took no more than three minutes, and for another full minute after its conclusion, not a person in the room uttered a word. A sort of stupefaction held them all in its grip,—that is, all except the old lawyer who wasputting away his glasses and waiting for the outburst that was sure to follow.
In the first place, Mr. Thorpe remembered Anne. After declaring that she had been satisfactorily provided for in a previous document, known to her as a contract, he bequeathed to her the house in which she had lived for a single year with him. All of its contents went with this bequest. To Josiah Wade he left the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars, to Edward Murray ten thousand dollars, and to each of the remaining servants in his household a sum equal to half of their earnings while in his service. There were bequests to his lawyer, his doctor and his secretary, besides substantial gifts to persons who could not by any chance have expected anything from this grim old man,—such as the friendly doorman at his favourite club, and the man who had been delivering newspapers to him for a score of years or more, and the old negro bootblack who had attended him at the Brevoort in the days before the Italian monopoly set in, and the two working-girls who supported the invalid widow of a man who had gone to prison and died there after having robbed the Thorpe estate of a great many thousands of dollars while acting as a confidential and trusted agent.
Then came the astounding disposition of the fortune that had accumulated in the time of Templeton Thorpe. There were no bequests outright to charity, contrary to all expectations. The listeners were prepared to hear of huge gifts to certain institutions and societies known to have been favoured by the testator. Various hospitals were looked upon as sure to receive splendid endowments, and specific colleges devoted to the advancement of medical and surgical science were also regarded as inevitable beneficiaries. It was all cut and dried, sofar as Judge Hollenback's auditors were concerned,—that is to say, prior to the reading of the will. True, the old lawyer had declared in the beginning, that the present will was drawn and signed on the afternoon of the day before the death of Mr. Thorpe, and that a previous instrument to which a codicil had been affixed was destroyed in the presence of two witnesses. The instrument witnessed by Wade and Murray was the one that had been destroyed. This should have aroused uneasiness in the mind of Braden Thorpe, if no one else, but he was slow to recognise the significance of the change in his grandfather's designs.
With his customary terseness, Templeton Thorpe declared himself to be hopelessly ill but of sound mind at the moment of drawing his last will and testament, and suffering beyond all human endurance. His condition at that moment, and for weeks beforehand, was such that death offered the only panacea. He had come to appreciate the curse of a life prolonged beyond reason. Therefore, in full possession of all his faculties and being now irrevocably converted to the principles of mercy advocated by his beloved grandson, Braden Lanier Thorpe, he placed the residue of his estate in trust, naming the aforesaid Braden Lanier Thorpe as sole trustee, without bond, the entire amount to be utilised and expended by him in the promotion of his noble and humane propaganda in relation to the fate of the hopelessly afflicted among those creatures fashioned after the image of God. The trust was to expire with the death of the said Braden Lanier Thorpe, when all funds remaining unused for the purposes herein set forth were to go without restriction to the heirs of the said trustee, either by bequest or administration.
In so many words, the testator rested in his grandsonfull power and authority to use these funds, amounting to nearly six million dollars, as he saw fit in the effort to obtain for the human sufferer the same mercy that is extended to the beast of the field, and to make final disposition of the estate in his own will. Realising the present hopelessness of an attempt to secure legislation of this character, he suggested that first of all it would be imperative to prepare the way to such an end by creating in the minds of all the peoples of the world a state of common sense that could successfully combat and overcome love, sentimentality and cowardice! For these three, he pointed out, were the common enemy of reason. "And in compensation for the discharge of such duties as may come under the requirements of this trusteeship, the aforesaid Braden Lanier Thorpe shall receive the fees ordinarily allotted by law and, in addition, the salary of twenty-five thousand dollars per annum, until the terms of this instrument are fully carried out."
Anne Tresslyn Thorpe was named as executrix of the will.