CHAPTER XXVI
Anne Thorpe had set her heart on an eventuality. She could see nothing else, think of nothing else. She prayed each night to God,—and devoutly,—not alone for the safe return of her lover, but that God would send him home soon! She was conscious of no fear that he might never return at all.
To the surprise of every one, with the approach of spring, she announced her determination to re-open the old Thorpe residence and take up her abode therein. George was the only one who opposed her. He was seriously upset by the news.
"Good heaven, Anne, you don'thaveto live in the house, so why do it? It's like a tomb. I get the shivers every time I think about it. You can afford to live anywhere you like. It isn't as if you were obliged to think of expenses—"
"It seems rather sillynotto live in it," she countered. "I will admit that at first I couldn't endure the thought of it, but that was when all of the horrors were fresh in my mind. Besides, I resented his leaving it to me. It was not in the bargain, you know. There was something high-handed, too, in the way I wasorderedto live in the house. I had the uncanny feeling that he was trying to keep me where he could watch—but, of course, that was nonsense. There is no reason why I shouldn't live in the house, Georgie. It is—"
"There is a blamed good reason why you should never have lived in it," he blurted out. "There's no use digging it up, however, so we'll let it stay buried."He argued bitterly, even doggedly, but finally gave it up. "Well," he said in the end, "if you will, you will. All the King's horses and all the King's men can't stop you when you've once made up your mind."
A few days later she called for Lutie in the automobile and they went together to the grim old house near Washington Square. Her mind was made up, as George had put it. She was going to open the house and have it put in order for occupancy as soon as possible.
She had solved the meaning of Braden's postscript. She would have to prove to him, first of all, that she was not afraid of the shadow that lay inside the walls of that grim old house. "If you are not also a coward you will return to my grandfather's house, where you belong." It was, she honestly believed, his way of telling her that if she faced the shadow in her own house, and put it safely behind her, her fortitude would not go unrewarded!
It did not occur to her that she was beginning badly when she delayed going down to the house for two whole days because Lutie was unable to accompany her.
The windows and doors were boarded up. There was no sign of life about the place when they got down from the limousine and mounted the steps at the heels of the footman who had run on ahead to ring the bell. They waited for the opening of the inner door and the shooting of the bolts in the storm-doors, but no sound came to their ears. Again the bell jangled,—how well she remembered the old-fashioned bell at the end of the hall!—and still no response from within.
The two women looked at each other oddly. "Try the basement door," said Anne to the man. They stood at the top of the steps while the footman tried the irongate that barred the way to the tradesmen's door. It was pad-locked.
"I asked Simmy to meet us here at eleven," said Anne nervously. "I expect it will cost a good deal to do the house over as I want—Doesn't any one answer, Peters?"
"No, ma'am. Maybe he's out."
Lutie's face blanched suddenly. "My goodness, Anne, what if—what if he's dead in—"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Lutie," cried Anne impatiently, "don't go to imagining—Still it's very odd. Pound on the door, Peters,—hard."
She shivered a little and turned away so that Lutie could not see the expression in her eyes. "I have had no word from him in nearly two weeks. He calls up once every fortnight to inquire—You are not pounding hard enough, Peters."
"Let's go away," said Lutie, starting down the steps.
"No," said Anne resolutely, "we must get in somehow. He may be ill. He is an old man. He may be lying in there praying for help, dying for lack of—" Then she called out to the chauffeur. "See if you can find a policeman. We may have to break the door down. You see, Lutie, if he's in there I must get to him. We may not be too late."
Lutie rejoined her at the top of the steps. "You're right, Anne. I don't know what possessed me. But, goodness, Ihopeit's nothing—" She shuddered. "He may have been dead for days."
"What a horrible thing it would be if—But it doesn't matter, Lutie; I am going in. If you are nervous or afraid of seeing something unpleasant, don't come with me. Wade must be nearly seventy. He mayhave fallen or—Look! Why,—canthatbe him coming up the—" She was staring down the street toward Sixth Avenue. A great breath of relief escaped her lips as she clutched her companion's arm and pointed.
Wade was approaching. He was still half way down the long block, and only an eye that knew him well could have identified him. Even at closer range one might have mistaken him for some one else.
He was walking rather briskly,—in fact, he was strutting. It was not his gait, however, that called for remark. While he was rigidly upright and steady as to progress, his sartorial condition was positively staggering. He wore a high, shiny silk hat. It was set at just the wee bit of an angle and quite well back on his head. Descending his frame, the eye took in a costly fur-lined overcoat with a sable collar, properly creased trousers with a perceptible stripe, grey spats and unusually glistening shoes that could not by any chance have been of anything but patent leather. Light tan gloves, a limber walking stick, a white carnation and a bright red necktie—there you have all that was visible of him. Even at a great distance you would have observed that he was freshly shaved.
Suddenly his eye fell upon the automobile and then took in the smart looking visitors above. His pace slackened abruptly. After a moment of what appeared to be indecision, he came on, rather hurriedly. There had been a second or two of suspense in which Anne had the notion that the extraordinary creature was on the point of darting into a basement door, as if, unlike the peacock, he was ashamed of his plumage.
He came up to them, removing his high hat with an awkwardness that betrayed him. His employer was staring at him with undisguised amazement."I just stepped out for a moment, Mrs. Thorpe, to post a letter," said Wade, trying his best not to sink back into servility, and quite miserably failing. He was fumbling for his keys. The tops of the houses across the street appeared to interest him greatly. His gaze was fixed rather intently upon them. "Very sorry, Mrs. Thorpe,—dreadfully sorry. Ahem! Good morning. I hope you have not been waiting long. I—ah, here we are!" He found the key in the pocket of his fancy waistcoat, and bolted down the steps to unlock the gate. "Excuse me, please. I will run in this way and open the door from the—"
"Wade," cried out Mrs. Thorpe, "is it really you?"
He looked astonished—and a trifle hurt. "Who else could I be, Mrs. Thorpe?" Then he darted through the gate and a moment later the servants' door opened and closed behind him.
"I must be dreaming," said Anne. "What in the world has come over the man?"
Lutie closed one eye slowly. "There is only one thing under heaven that could make a man rig himself out like that,—and that thing is a woman."
"A woman? Don't be foolish, Lutie. Wade couldn't eventhinkof a woman. He's nearly seventy."
"They think of 'em until they drop, my dear," said Lutie sagely. "That's one thing we've got to give them credit for. They keep on thinking about us even while they're trying to keep the other foot out of the grave. You are going to lose the amiable Wade, Anne dear. He's not wearing spats for nothing."
Some time passed before the key turned in the inner door, and there was still a long wait before the bolts in the storm doors shot back and Wade's face appeared. He had not had the time to remove the necktieand spats, but the rest of his finery had been replaced by the humble togs of service—long service, you would say at a glance.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, ma'am, but—" He held the doors open and the two ladies entered the stuffy, unlighted hall.
"Turn on the lights, please," said Anne quickly. Wade pushed a button and the lights were on. She surveyed him curiously. "Why did you take them off, Wade? You looked rather well in them."
He cleared his throat gently, and the shy, set smile reappeared as if by magic. "It isn't necessary for me to say that I was not expecting you this morning."
"Quite obviously you were not," said Anne drily. She continued to regard him somewhat fixedly. Something in his expression puzzled her. "Mr. Dodge will be here presently. I am making arrangements to open the house."
He started. "Er—not to—er—live in it yourself, of course. I was sure Mr. Dodge would find a way to get around the will so that you could let the house—"
"I expect to live here myself, Wade," said she. After a moment, she went on: "Will you care to stay on?"
He was suddenly confused. "I—I can't give you an answer just at this moment, Mrs. Thorpe. It may be a few days before I—" He paused.
"Take all the time you like, Wade," she interrupted.
"I fancy I'd better give notice now, ma'am," he said after a moment. "To-day will do as well as any day for that." He seemed to straighten out his figure as he spoke, resuming a little of the unsuspected dignitythat had accompanied the silk hat and the fur-lined coat.
"I'm sorry," said Anne,—who was not in the slightest sense sorry. Wade sometimes gave her the creeps.
"I should like to explain about the—ah—the garments you saw me wearing—ah—I mean to say, I should have brought myself to the point of telling you a little later on, in any event, but now that you have caught me wearing of them, I dare say this is as good a time as any to get it over with. First of all, Mrs. Thorpe, I must preface my—er—confession by announcing that I am quite sure that you have always considered me to be an honest man and above deception and falsehood. Ahem! Thatisright, isn't it?"
"What are you trying to get at, Wade?" she cried in surprise. "You cannot imagine that I suspect you of—anything wrong?"
"It may be wrong, and it may not be. I have never felt quite right about it. There have been times when I felt real squeamish—and a bit underhanded, you might say. On the other hand, I submit that it was not altogether reprehensible on my part to air them occasionally—and to see that the moths didn't—"
"Air them? For goodness' sake, Wade, speak plainly. Why shouldn't you air your own clothes? They are very nice looking and they must have cost you a pretty penny. Dear me, I have no right to say what you shall wear on the street or—"
Wade's eyes grew a little wider. "Is it possible, madam, that you failed to recognise the—er—garments?"
She laid her hand upon Lutie's arm, and gripped it convulsively. Her eyes were fixed in a fast-growing look of aversion.
"You do not mean that—that they were Mr. Thorpe's?" she said, in a low voice.
"I supposed, of course, you would have remembered them," said Wade, a trifle sharply. "The overcoat was one that he wore every day when you went out for your drive with him, just before he took to his bed. I—"
"Good heaven!" cried Anne, revolted. "You have been wearing his clothes?"
"They were not really what you would call cast-off garments, ma'am," he explained in some haste, evidently to save his dignity. "They were rather new, you may remember,—that is to say, the coat and vest and trousers. As I recall it, the overcoat was several seasons old, and the hat was the last one he ordered before taking to the comfortable lounge hat—he always had his hats made from his own block, you see,—and as I was about to explain, ma'am, it seemed rather a sin to let them hang in the closet, food for moths and to collect dust in spite of the many times I brushed them. Of course, I should never have presumed to wear them while he was still alive, not even after he had abandoned them for good—No, that is a thing I have never been guilty of doing. I could not have done it. That is just the difference between a man-servant and a woman-servant. Your maid frequently went out in your gowns without your knowledge. I am told it is quite a common practice. At least I may claim for myself the credit of waiting until my employer was dead before venturing to cover my back with his—Yes, honest confession is good for the soul, ma'am. These shoes are my own, and the necktie. He could not abide red neckties. Of course, I need not say that the carnation I wore was quite fresh.The remainder of my apparel was once worn by my beloved master. I am not ashamed to confess it."
"Howcouldyou wear the clothes of a—a dead person?" cried Anne, cringing as if touched by some cold and slimy thing.
"It seemed such a waste, madam. Of late I have taken to toning myself up a bit, and there seemed no sensible reason why I shouldn't make use of Mr. Thorpe's clothes,—allow me to explain that I wore only those he had used the least,—provided they were of a satisfactory fit. We were of pretty much the same size,—you will remember that, I'm sure,—and, they fitted me quite nicely. Of course, I should not have taken them away with me when I left your employ, madam. That would have been unspeakable. I should have restored them to the clothes presses, and you would have found them there when I turned over the keys and—"
"Good heavens, man," she cried, "take them away with you when you go—all of them. Everything, do you hear? I give them all to you. Of what use could they be to me? They are yours. Take everything,—hats, boots, linen,—"
"Thank you, ma'am. That is very handsome of you. I wasn't quite sure that perhaps Mr. Braden wouldn't find some use for the overcoat. It is a very elegant coat. It cost—"
"Wade, you are either very stupid or very insolent," she interrupted coldly. "We need not discuss the matter any farther. How soon do you expect to leave?"
"I should say that a week would be sufficient notice, under the circumstances," said he, and chuckled, much to their amazement. "I may as well make a clean breast of it, ma'am. I am going to be married on theseventeenth of next month. That's just six weeks off and—"
"Married! You?"
"Ah, madam, I trust you will not forget that I have lived a very lonely and you might say profitless life," he said, rubbing his hands together, and allowing his smile to broaden into a pleased grin. "As you may know in the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,—and so on. A man is as old as he feels. I can't say that I ever felt younger in my life than I have felt during the past month."
"I wish you joy and happiness, Wade," said Anne dumbly. She was staring at his smirking, seamed old face as if fascinated. "I hope she is a good woman and that you will find—"
"She is little more than a girl," said he, straightening his figure still a little more, remembering that he had just spoken of his own youthful feelings. There may have been something of the pride of conquest as well. "Just twenty-one last December."
Lutie laughed out loud. He bent his head quickly and they saw that his lips were compressed.
"I beg your pardon, Wade," cried George's wife. "It—it really isn't anything to laugh at, and I'm sorry."
"That's all right, Mrs. George," he muttered.
"Only twenty-one," murmured Anne, her gaze running over the shabby old figure in front of her. "My God, Wade, is she—what can she be thinking of?"
He looked straight into her eyes, and spoke. "Is it so horrible for a young girl to marry an old man, ma'am?" he asked sorrowfully, and so respectfully that she was deceived into believing that he intended no affront to her.
"They usually know what they are doing when they marry very old men," she replied deliberately. "You must not overlook that fact, Wade. But perhaps it isn't necessary for me to remind you that young girls do not marry old men for love. There may be pity, or sentiment, or duty—but never love. More often than not it is avarice, Wade."
"Quite true," said he. "I am glad to have you speak so frankly to me, ma'am. It proves that you are interested in my welfare."
"Who is she, Wade?" she inquired.
Lutie had passed into the library, leaving them together in the hall. She had experienced a sudden sensation of nausea. It was impossible for her to remain in the presence of this shattered old hulk and still be able to keep the disgust from showing itself in her eyes. She was the wife of a real man, and the wife of a man whom she could love and caress and yield herself to with a thrill of ecstasy in her blood.
"The young lady I was speaking to you about some weeks ago, madam,—the daughter of my friend who conducts thedelicatessenjust below us in Sixth Avenue. You remember I spoke to you of the Southern lady reduced to a commercial career by—"
"I remember. I remember thinking at the time that it might be the mother who would prevail—I am sorry, Wade. I shouldn't have said that—"
"It's quite all right," said he amiably. "It is barely possible—ay, even probable,—that it was the mother who prevailed. They sometimes do, you know. But Marian appears to have a mind of her own. She loves me, Mrs. Thorpe. I am quite sure of that. It would be pretty hard to deceive me."
Through all of this Anne was far from oblivious tothe sinister comparisons the man was drawing. She had always been a little afraid of him. Now an uneasy horror was laying its hold upon her. He had used her as an example in persuading a silly, unsophisticated girl to give herself to him. He had gone about his courtship in the finery his dead master had left behind him.
"I thank you for your good wishes, Mrs. Thorpe," he went on, smoothly. "If it is not too much to ask, I should like to have you say a few good words for me to Marian some day soon. She would be very greatly influenced by the opinion of so great a lady as—"
"But I thought you said it was settled," she broke in sharply.
"It is settled," he said. "But if you would only do me the favour of—er—advising her to name an earlier day than the seventeenth, I—"
"I cannot advise her, Wade," said she firmly. "It is out of the question."
"I am sorry," he said, lowering his gaze. "Mr. Thorpe was my best friend as well as my master. I thought, for his sake, you might consent to—"
"You must do your own pleading, Wade," she interrupted, a red spot appearing in each cheek. Then rashly: "You may continue to court her in Mr. Thorpe's clothes but you need not expect his wife to lend her assistance also."
His eyes glittered. "I am sorry if I have offended you, ma'am. And I thank you for being honest and straightforward with me. It is always best."
"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Wade," she began, half-sorry for her remark.
"Not in the least, ma'am. Nothing can hurt my feelings. You see, I lived with Mr. Thorpe a great deallonger than you did. I got quite beyond being hurt."
She drew a step nearer. "Wade," she said quietly, "I am going to advise you, not this wretched girl who is planning to marry you. How old are you?"
"Two score and a half and five," he answered promptly. Evidently he had uttered the glib lie before, and as on another occasion he waited for his listener to reduce the words to figures.
"Fifty-five," said Anne, after some time. She was not good at mathematics. "I thought you were older than that. It doesn't matter, however. You are fairly well-off, I believe. Upwards of fifty thousand dollars, no doubt. Now, I shall be quite frank with you. This girl is taking you for your money. Just a moment, if you please. I do not know her, and I may be doing her an injustice. You have compared her to me in reaching your conclusions. You do not deceive yourself any more than Mr. Thorpe deceived himself. He knew I did not love him, and you must know that the same condition exists in this affair of yours. You have thanked me for being honest. Well, I was honest with Mr. Thorpe. I would have been as true as steel to him, even if he had lived to be an hundred. The question you must ask of yourself is this, Wade: Will this girl be as true as steel to you? Is there no other man to be afraid of?"
He listened intently. A certain greyness crept into his hollow cheeks.
"Was there no other man when you married Mr. Thorpe?" he asked levelly.
"Yes, there was," she surprised him by replying. "An honest man, however. I think you know—"
She scarcely heard Wade as he went on, now in a most conciliatory way. "It may interest you to know thatI have arranged to buy out the delicatessen. We expect to enlarge and tidy the place up just as soon as we can get around to it. I believe I shall be very happy, once I get into active business. Mrs. Gadscomb,—that's the present mother,—I mean to say, the present owner, Marian's mother, has agreed to conduct the place as heretofore, at a very excellent salary, and I have no fear as to—But excuse me for going on like this, ma'am. No doubt you would like to talk about your own affairs instead of listening to mine. You said something about opening the house and coming back here to live. Of course, I shall consider it my duty to remain here just as long as I can be of service to you. There will be a little plumbing needed on the third floor, and I fancy a general cleaning—"
"Thank heaven, there is Mr. Dodge at last," cried Anne, as the bell jangled almost over her head, startling her into a little cry of alarm.
As Wade shuffled toward the front door, once more the simple slave of circumstance, she fled quickly into the library.
"Oh, Lutie," she cried, sinking into a chair beside the long, familiar table, and beating with her clenched hands upon the surface of it, "I know at last just how I look to other people. My God in heaven, what athing Imust seem to you."
Lutie came swiftly out of the shadows and laid her hands upon the shoulders of her sister-in-law.
"You ought to thank the Lord, dear old girl, for the revelation," she said gently. "I guess it's just what you've needed." Then she leaned over and pressed her warm, soft cheek to Anne's cold one. "If I owned this house," she said almost in a whisper, "I'd renovate it from top to bottom. I'd get rid of more than old Wadeand the old clothes. The best and cheapest way to renovate it would be to set fire to a barrel of kerosene in the basement."
"Oh, how horrible for that girl to marry a dreadful, shrivelled old man like Wade. The skin on his hands is all wrinkled and loose—I couldn't help noticing it as I—"
"Hello!" called out Simmy from the doorway, peering into the darkened room. "Where the deuce are you? Ah, that's better, Wade." The caretaker had switched on the lights in the big chandelier. "Sorry to be late, Anne. Morning, Lutie. How's my god-son? Couldn't get here a minute sooner. You see, Anne, I've got other clients besides you. Braden, for instance. I've been carrying out his instructions in regard to that confounded trusteeship. The whole matter is to be looked after by a Trust Company from now on. Simplifies matters enormously."
Anne started up. "Isn't—isn't he coming back to America?" she cried.
"Sure,—unless they pink him some day. My goodness, you don't suppose for an instant that he could manage the whole of that blooming foundation and have any time to spare forhopefulhumanity,—do you? Why, it will take a force of half a dozen men to keep the books straight and look after the ever-increasing capital. By the time old Brady is ready to start the ball rolling there will be so much money stored up for the job that Rockefeller will be ashamed to mention the pitiful fortune he controls. In the meantime he can go on saving people's lives while the trust company saves the Foundation."
CHAPTER XXVII
Thorpe returned to New York about the middle of May, in the tenth month of the war. The true facts concerning the abrupt severance of his connections with the hospital corps in France were never divulged. His confrères and his superiors maintained a discreet and loyal silence. It was to Simmy that he explained the cause of his retirement. Word had gone out among the troops that he was the American doctor whose practices were infinitely more to be feared than the bullets from an enemy's guns.... It was announced from headquarters that he was returning to the United States on account of ill-health. He had worked hard and unceasingly and had exposed himself to grave physical hardships. He came home with a medal for conspicuous and unexampled valour while actually under fire. One report had it that on more than one occasion he appeared not only to scorn death but to invite it, so reckless were his deeds.
Meanwhile James Marraville died in great agony. Those nearest to him said, in so many words, that it was a great pity he did not die at the time of the operation.
"But," began one of the reporters at the dock, "you are said to have risked your own life, Dr. Thorpe, on at least half a dozen occasions when you exposed yourself to the fire of the enemy by going out in front after men who had fallen and were as good as dead when you gotto them. In every case, we are told the men died on the stretchers while they were being carried to the rear. Do you mind telling us why you brought those men back when you knew that they were bound to die—"
"You have been misinformed," interrupted Thorpe. "One of those men did not die. I did all that was possible to save the lives as well as the bodies of those wretched fellows. Not one of them appeared to have a chance. The one who survived was in the most hopeless condition of them all. He is alive to-day, but without legs or arms. He is only twenty-two. He may live to be seventy. The others died. Will you say that they are not better off than he? And yet we tried to save them all. That is what we were there for. I saw a man run a bayonet through the heart of his own brother one day. We were working over him at the time and we knew that our efforts would be useless. The brother knew it also. He merely did the thing we refused to do. You want to know why I deliberately picked out of all the wounded the men who seemed to have the least chance for recovery, and brought them back to a place of safety. Well, I will tell you quite frankly, why I chose those men from among all the others. They were being left behind. They were as good as dead, as you say. I wanted to treat the most hopeless cases that could be found. I wanted to satisfy myself. I went about it quite cold-bloodedly,—not bravely, as the papers would have it,—and I confess that I passed by men lying out there who might have had a chance, looking for those who apparently had none. Seven of them died, as you say,—seven of the 'hopelessly afflicted.' One of them lived. You will now say that having proved to my own satisfaction that no man can be 'hopelessly afflicted,' I should be ready to admit the fallacy of my preachings.But you are wrong. I am more firmly intrenched in my position than ever before. That man's life should not have been saved. We did him a cruel wrong in saving it for him. He wanted to die, he still wants to die. He will curse God to the end of his days because he was allowed to live. Some day his relatives will exhibit him in public, as one of the greatest of freaks, and people will pay to enter the side shows to see him. They will carry him about in shawl straps. He will never be able to protest, for he has lost the power of speech. He can onlyseeandhear. Will you be able to look into the agonised eyes of that man as he lies propped up in a chair, a mere trunk, and believe that he is glad to be alive? Will you then rejoice over the fact that we saved him from a much nobler grave than the one he occupies in the side-show, where all the world may stare at him at so much per head? An inglorious reward, gentlemen, for a brave soldier of the Republic."
"We may quote you as saying, Dr. Thorpe, that you have not abandoned your theories?"
"Certainly. I shall go on preaching, as you are pleased to call my advocacy. A great many years from to-day—centuries, no doubt,—the world will think as I do now. Thank you, gentlemen, for your courtesy in—"
"Have you heard that James Marraville died last week, Dr. Thorpe?" broke in one of the reporters.
"No," said he, quite unmoved. "I am not surprised, however. I gave him five or six months."
"Didn't you expect him to get entirely well?" demanded the man, surprised.
Braden shook his head, smiling. "No one expected that, gentlemen,—not even Mr. Marraville."
"But every one thought that the operation was a success, and—"
"And so it was, gentlemen," said Thorpe unsmilingly; "a very terrible success."
"Gee, if we print that as coming from you, Dr. Thorpe, it will create the biggest sensation in years."
"Then I haven't the least doubt that you will print it," said Thorpe.
There was a short silence. Then the spokesman said: "I think I speak for every man here when I say that we will not print it, Dr. Thorpe. We understand, but the people wouldn't." He deliberately altered the character of the interview and inquired if German submarines had been sighted after the steamship left Liverpool. The whole world was still shuddering over the disaster to theLusitania, torpedoed the week before, with the loss of over a thousand souls.
Thorpe drove uptown with Simmy Dodge, who would not hear of his going to an hotel, but conducted him to his own apartment where he was to remain as long as he pleased.
"Get yourself pulled together, old chap, before you take up any work," advised Simmy. "You look pretty seedy. We're going to have a hot summer, they say. Don't try to do too much until you pick up a bit. Too bad they're fighting all over the continent of Europe. If they weren't, hang me if I wouldn't pack you onto a boat and take you over there for a good long rest, in spite of what happened to theLusitania. We'll go up into the mountains in June, Brady,—or what do you say to skipping out to the San Francisco fair for a few—"
"You're looking thin and sort of pegged out, old boy," began Simmy soothingly.
"I'm all right, Simmy. Sound as anything. I don't mind telling you that it wasn't my health that drove me out of the service,—and that's what hurts. They—they didn't want me. They thought it was best for me to get out."
"Good Lord!" gasped Simmy, struggling between amazement and indignation. "What kind of blithering fools have they got over—"
"They are not blithering fools," said Thorpe soberly. "The staff would not have turned me out, I'm sure of that. I was doing good work, Simmy," he went on rapidly, eagerly, "even though I do say it myself. Everybody was satisfied, I'm sure. Night and day,—all the time,—mind you, and I was standing up under it better than any of them. But, you see, it wasn't the staff that did it. It was the poor devil of a soldier out there in the trenches. They found out who I was. Newspapers, of course. Well, that tells the story. They were afraid of me. But I am not complaining. I do not blame them. God knows it was hard enough for them to face death out there at the front without having to think of—well, getting it anyhow if they fell into my hands. I—But there's no use speaking of it, Simmy. I wanted you to know why I got out, and I want Anne to know. As for the rest, let them think I was sick or—cowardly if they like."
Simmy was silent for a long time. He said afterwards that it was all he could do to keep from crying as he looked at the pale, gaunt face of his friend and listened to the verdict of the French soldiers.
"I don't see the necessity for telling Anne," he said, at last, pulling rather roughly at his little moustache.They were seated at one of the broad windows in Simmy's living-room, drinking in the cool air that came up from the west in advance of an impending thunderstorm. The day had been hot and stifling. "No sense in letting her know, old man. Secret between you and me, if you don't—"
"I'd rather she knew," said Thorpe briefly. "In fact, she will have to know."
"What do you mean?"
Thorpe was staring out over the Park, and did not answer. Simmy found another cigarette and lighted it, scorching his fingers while furtively watching his companion's face.
"How is Anne, Simmy?" demanded Thorpe abruptly. There was a fierce, eager light in his eyes, but his manner was strangely repressed. "Where is she?"
Simmy took a deep breath. "She's well and she's at home."
"You mean,—down there in the old—"
"The old Thorpe house. I don't know what's got into the girl, Brady. First she swears she won't live in the house, and then she turns around,—just like that,—and moves in. Workmen all over the place, working overtime and all that sort of thing,—with Anne standing around punchin' 'em with a sharp stick if they don't keep right on the job. Top to bottom,—renovated, redecorated, brightened up,—wouldn't recognise the place as—"
"Is she living there—alone?"
"Yes. New lot of servants and—By the way, old Wade has—what do you think he has done?"
"How long has she been living down there?" demanded the other, impatiently. His eyes were gleaming.
"Well, old Wade has gone and got married," went on Simmy, deliberately ignoring the eager question."Married a girl of twenty or something like that. Chucked his job, bloomed out as a dandy,—spats and chamois gloves and silk hats,—cleared out three weeks ago for a honeymoon,—rather pretty girl, by the way,—"
Braden's attention had been caught at last and held. "Wade married? Good Lord! Oh, I say, Simmy, youcan'texpect me to believe—"
"You'll see. He has shaken the dust of Thorpe house from his person and is gallivanting around in lavender perfumes and purple linen."
"My God! That old hulk and—twenty years, did you say? Why, the damned old scoundrel! After all he has seen and—" His jaws closed suddenly with a snap, and his eyes narrowed into ugly slits.
"Be careful, Brady, old top," said Simmy, shaking his head. "It won't do to call Wade names, you know. Just stop and think for a second or two."
Thorpe relaxed with a gesture of despair. "You are right, Simmy. Why should I blame Wade?"
He got up and began pacing the floor, his hands clenched behind his back. Simmy smoked in silence, apparently absorbed in watching the angry clouds that blackened the western sky.
Presently Thorpe resumed his seat in the window. His eyes did not meet Simmy's as the latter turned toward him. He look straight out over the tops of the great apartment houses on the far side of the Park.
"How long has she been living down there alone?" he asked again.
"Five or six weeks."
"When did you last see her?"
"Yesterday. She's been dreadfully nervous ever since the blowing up of theLusitania. I asked her to go to the pier with me. She refused. See here, Brady,"said Simmy, rising suddenly and laying his hand on the other's shoulder, "what are you going to do about Anne?"
"Nothing. Anne can never be anything to me, nor I to her," said Thorpe, white-faced and stern. His face was rigid.
"Nonsense! You love her, don't you?"
"Yes. That has nothing to do with it, however."
"And she loves you. I suppose that hasn't anything to do with it, either. I suppose it is right and proper and natural that you both should go on loving each other to the end of time without realising the joys of—"
"Don't try to argue the—"
"It's right that you should let that glorious, perfect young creature wither and droop with time, grow old without—oh, Lordy, what a damn fool you are, Brady! There isn't the slightest reason in this world why you shouldn't get married and—"
"Stop that, Simmy!"
"Here you are, two absolutely sound, strong, enduring specimens of humanity,—male and female,—loving each other, wanting each other,—and yet you say you can never be anything to each other! Hasn't nature anything to do with it? Are you going to sit there and tell me that for some obstinate, mawkish reason you think you ought to deprive her of the one man in all this world that she wants and must have? It doesn't matter what she did a couple of years ago. It doesn't matter that she was,—and still may be designing,—the fact remains that she is the woman you love and that you are her man. She married old Mr. Thorpe deliberately, I grant you. She doesn't deny it. She loved you when she did it. And you can't, to save your soul, hate her for it. You ought to do so, I admit. But you don't, and that solves the problem. You wanther now even more than you did two years ago. You can't defy nature, old chap. You may defy convention, and honour, and even common decency, but you can't beat nature out of its due. Now, look me in the eye! Why can't you marry Anne and—be everything to her, instead of nothing, as you put it? Answer me!"
"It is impossible," groaned Thorpe. "You cannot understand, Simmy."
"Nothing is impossible," said Simmy, the optimist. "If you are afraid of what people will say about it, then all I have to say is that you are worse than a coward: you are a stupid ass. People talked themselves black in the face when she married your grandfather, and what good did it do them? Not a particle of good. They roasted her to a fare-you-well, and they called her a mean, avaricious, soulless woman, and still she survives. Everybody expects her to marry you. When she does it, everybody will smile and say 'I told you so,'—and sneer a little, perhaps,—but, hang it all, what difference should that make? This is a big world. It is busier than you think. It will barely take the time to sniff twice or maybe three times at you and Anne and then it will hustle along on the scent of something new. It's always smelling out things, but that's all it amounts to. It overlooks divorces, liaisons, murders,—everything, in fact, except disappointments. It never forgives the man or woman who disappoints it. Now, I know something else that's on your mind. You think that because you operated—fatally, we'll say,—on your grandfather, that that is an obstacle in the way of your marriage with Anne. Tommy-rot! I've heard of a hundred doctors who have married the widows of their patients, and their friends usually congratulate 'em, which goes to prove something, doesn't it? You are expected by ninety per cent. of the inhabitants ofgreater New York to marry Anne Tresslyn. They may have forgotten everything else, but that one thing theydoexpect. They said it would happen and it must. They said it when Anne married your grandfather, they said it when he died and they say it now, even though their minds are filled with other things."
Thorpe eyed him steadily throughout this earnest appeal. "Do you think that Anne expects it, Simmy?" he inquired, a harsh note in his voice.
Simmy had to think quickly. "I think she does," he replied, and always was to wonder whether he said the right thing. "She is in love with you. She wants you, and anything that Anne wants she expects to get. I don't mean that in a disparaging sense, either. If she doesn't marry you, she'll never marry any one. She'll wait for you till the end of her days. Even if you were to marry some one else, she'd—"
"I shall not marry any one else," said Thorpe, almost fiercely.
"—She'd go on waiting and wanting you just the same, and you would go on wanting her," concluded Simmy. "You will never consider your life complete until you have Anne Tresslyn as a part of it. She wants to make you happy. That's what most women want when they're in love with a man."
"I tell you, Simmy, I cannot marry Anne. I love her,—God knows how terribly I want her,—in spite of everything. Itisnature. You can't kill love, no matter how hard you try. Some one else has to do the killing. Anne is keeping it alive in me. She has tortured my love, beaten it, outraged it, but all the time she has been secretly feeding it, caressing it, never for an instant letting it out of her grasp. You cannot understand, Simmy. You've never been in love with a woman like Anne. She may have despaired at times, but shehas never given up the fight, not even when she must have thought that I despised her. She knew that my love was mortally hurt, but do you think she would let it die? No! She will keep it alive forever,—and she will suffer, too, in doing so. But what's that to Anne? She—"
"Just a second, old chap," broke in Simmy. "You are forgetting that Anne wants you to be happy."
"God, how happy I could have been with her!"
"See here, will you go down there and see her?" demanded Simmy.
"I can't do that,—I can't do it. Simmy—" he lowered his voice to almost a whisper,—"I can't trust myself. I don't know what would happen if I were to see her again,—be near her, alone with her. This longing for her has become almost unbearable. I thought of her every minute of the time I was out there at the front—Yes, I had to put the heaviest restraint upon myself at times to keep from chucking the whole thing and dashing back here to get her, to take her, to keep her,—maybe to kill her, I don't know. Now I realise that I was wrong in coming back to America at all. I should have gone—oh, anywhere else in the world. But here I am, and, strangely enough, I feel stronger, more able to resist. It was the distance between us that made it so terrible. I can resist her here, but, by heaven, I couldn't over there. I could have come all the way back from France to see her, but I can't go from here down to Washington Square,—so that shows you how I stand in the matter."
"Now I know the real reason why you came back to little old New York," said Simmy sagely, and Thorpe was not offended.
"In the first place I cannot marry her while she still has in her possession the money for which she sold herself and me," said Thorpe, musing aloud. "You oughtto at least be able to understand that, Simmy? No matter how much I love her, I can't make her my wife with that accursed money standing—But there's no use talking aboutthat. There is an even graver reason why I ought not to marry her, an insurmountable reason. I cannot tell you what it is, but I fear that down in your heart you suspect."
Simmy leaned forward in his chair. "I think I know, old man," he said simply. "But even that shouldn't stand in the way. I don't see why you should have been kind and gentle and merciful to Mr. Thorpe, and refuse to be the same, in a different way, to her." His face broke into a whimsical smile. "Anne is what you might call hopelessly afflicted. Dammit all, put her out of her misery!"
Thorpe stared at him aghast. The utter banality of the remark left him speechless. For the first time in their acquaintance, he misjudged Simmy Dodge. He drew back from him, scowling.
"That's a pretty rotten thing to say, Simmy," he said, after a moment. "Pretty poor sort of wit."
"It wasn't meant for wit, my friend," said Simmy seriously. "I meant every word of it, no matter how rotten it may have sounded. If you are going to preach mercy and all that sort of silly rot, practise it whenever it is possible. There's no law against your being kind to Anne Tresslyn. You don't have to be governed by a commission or anything like that. She's just as deserving as any one, you know."
"Which is another way of saying that shedeservesmy love?" cried Thorpe angrily.
"She's got it, so it really doesn't matter whether she deserves it or not. You can't take it away from her. You've tried it and—well, she's still got it, so there's no use arguing."
"Do you think it gives me any happiness to love her as I do?" cried the other. "Do you think I am finding joy in the prospect of never having her for my own—all for my own? Do you—"
"Well, my boy, do you think she is finding much happiness living down there in that old house all alone? Do you think she is getting much real joy out of her little old two millions? By the way, why is she living down there at all? I can tell you. She's doing it because she's got nerve enough to play the game out as she began it. She's doing it because she believes it will cause you to think better of her. This is a guess on my part, but I know darned well she wouldn't be doing it if there wasn't some good and sufficient reason."
Thorpe nodded his head slowly, an ironic smile on his lips. "Yes, sheisplaying the game, but not as she began it. I am not so sure that I think better of her for doing it."
"Brady, I hope you'll forgive me for saying something harsh and disrespectful about your grandfather, but here goes. He played you a shabby trick in taking Anne away from you in the first place. No matter how shabbily Anne behaved toward you, he was worse than she. Then he virtually compelled you to perform an operation that—well, I'll not say it. We can forgive him for that. He was suffering. And then he went out of his way to leave that old house down there to Anne, knowing full well that if she continued to live in it, it would be a sort of prison to her. She can't sell it, she can't rent it. She's got to live in it, or abandon it altogether. I call it a pretty mean sort of trick to play on her, if you'll forgive my—"
"She doesn't have to live in it," said Thorpe doggedly.
"She is going to live there until you take her out ofit, bodily if you please, and you are going to become so all-fired sorry for her that you'll—"
"Good Lord, Simmy," shouted Thorpe, springing to his feet with a bitter imprecation, "don't go on like this. I can't stand it. I know how she hates it. I know how frightened, how miserable she is down there. Itisa prison,—no, worse than that, it is haunted by something that you cannot possibly—My God, it must be awful for her, all alone,—shivering, listening,—something crawly—something sinister and accusing—Why, she—"
"Here, here, old fellow!" cried Simmy in alarm. "Don't go off your nut. You're talking like a crazy man,—and, hang it all, I don't like the look in your eye. Gosh, if it gives you the creeps—who don't have to be down there of nights,—what must it be for that shrinking, sensitive—Hey! Where are you going?"
"I'm going down there to see her. I'm going to tell her that I was a cur to write what I did to her the day I sailed. I—" He stopped short near the door, and faced his friend. His hands were clenched.
"I shall see her just this once,—never again if I can avoid it," he said. "Just to tell her that I don't want her to live in that house. She's got to get out. I'll not know a moment's peace until she is out of that house."
Simmy heard the door slam and a few minutes later the opening and closing of the elevator cage. He sat quite still, looking out over the trees. He was a rather pathetic figure.
"I wonder if I'd be so loyal to him if I had a chance myself," he mused. "Oh, Lordy, Lordy!" He closed his eyes as if in pain.