"You told me some time ago that you were anxious. I thought that perhaps you might be in some trouble."
John did not answer at once but looked at her as though he did not see her, took up a paper and glanced absently over the columns of advertisements.
"Oh no," he said at last, as though her question had annoyed him. "There is nothing wrong, nothing whatever." Again a silence followed. Mrs. Darche went to her writing-table and began to write a note. John did not move.
"Marion," said he at last, "has any one been talking to you about my affairs?"
"No indeed," answered Mrs. Darche in evident surprise at the question, but with such ready frankness that he could not doubt her.
"No," he repeated. "I see that no one has. I only asked because people are always so ready to talk about what they cannot understand, and are generally so perfectly certain about what they donot know. I thought Dolly Maylands might have been chattering."
"Dolly does not talk about you, John."
"Oh! I wonder why not. Does she dislike me especially—I mean more than most people—more than you do, for instance?"
"John!"
"My dear, do not imagine that it grieves me, though it certainly does not make life more agreeable to be disliked. On the whole, I hardly know which I prefer—my father's perpetual outspoken praise, or your dutiful and wifely hatred."
"Why do you talk like that?"
Mrs. Darche did not leave her writing-table, but turned in her chair and faced him, still holding her pen.
"I fancy there is some truth in what I say," he answered calmly. "Of course you know that you made a mistake when you married me. You were never in love with me—and you did not marry me for my money."
He laughed rather harshly.
"No, I did not marry you for your money."
"Of course not. You have some of your own—enough—"
"And to spare, if you needed it, John."
"You are very kind, my dear," replied Darche with a scarcely perceptible touch of contempt in his tone. "I shall survive without borrowing money of my wife."
"I hope you may never need to borrow of any one," said Marion.
She turned to the table again and began arranging a few scattered notes and papers to conceal her annoyance at his tone, hoping that her inoffensive answer might soon have the effect of sending him away, as was usually the case. But Darche was not quite in his ordinary state. He was tired, irritable, and greedy for opposition, as men are whose nerves are overwrought and who do not realise the fact, because they are not used to it, and it is altogether new to them.
"I am tired of 'yea, yea.' Change the conversation, please, and say 'nay, nay.' It would make a little variety."
"Do you object to my agreeing with you? I am sorry. It is not always easy to guess whatyou would like. I am quite ready to give up trying, if you say so. We can easily arrange our lives differently, if you prefer it."
"How do you mean?"
"We might separate, for instance," suggested Mrs. Darche.
John was surprised. He had sometimes wondered whether it were not altogether impossible to irritate his wife's calm temper to some open expression of anger. He had almost succeeded, but he by no means liked the form of retort she had chosen. A separation would not have suited him at all, for in his character the love of his possessions was strong, and he looked upon his wife as an important item in the inventory of his personal property. He hesitated a moment before he answered.
"Of course we might separate, but I do not intend that we should—if I can help it," he added, as though an afterthought had occurred to him.
"You are not doing your best to prevent it," answered Mrs. Darche.
"Oh!—what are my sins? Are you jealous? This begins to interest me."
"No, I am not jealous, you have never given me any cause to be."
"You think that incompatibility of temper would be sufficient ground, then?"
"For a temporary separation—yes."
"Ah—it is to be only temporary? How good you are!"
"It can be permanent, if you like."
"I have already told you that I have no idea of separating. I cannot imagine why you go back to it as you do."
"You drive me back to it."
"You are suddenly developing a temper. This is delightful."
Mrs. Darche made no answer, but occupied herself with her papers in silence. She could hardly account for the humour in which she was answering her husband, seeing that for years she had listened to his disagreeable and brutal sayings without retort. It is impossible to foresee the precise moment at which the worm will turn, the beast refuse its load, and the human heart revolt. Sometimes it never comes at all, and then we call the sufferer a coward. After a pausewhich lasted several minutes, John renewed the attack.
"I am sorry you will not quarrel any more, it was so refreshing," he said.
"I do not like quarrelling," answered Marion, without looking up. "What good can it do?"
"You are always wanting to do good! Life without contrasts is very insipid."
Mrs. Darche rose from her seat and came and stood by the fireplace.
"John," she said, "something has happened. You are not like yourself. If I can be of any use to you, tell me the truth and I will do all I can. If not, go and ride as you said you would. The fresh air will rest you."
"You are a good creature, my dear," said Darche looking at her curiously.
"I do not know whether you mean to be flattering, or whether you wish to go on with this idle bickering over words—you know that I do not like to be called a good creature, like the washerwoman or the cook. Yes—I know—I am angry just now. Never mind, my advice is good. Either go out at once, or tell me just what is thematter and let me do the best I can to help you."
"There is nothing to tell, my dear."
"Then go out, or go and talk to your father—or stay here, and I will go away."
"Anything rather than stay together," suggested Darche.
"Yes—anything rather than that. I daresay it is my fault, and I am quite willing to bear all the blame, but if we are together in the same room much longer we shall do something which we shall regret—at least I shall. I am sure of it."
"That would be very unfortunate," said Darche, rising, with a short laugh. "Our life has been so exceptionally peaceful since we were married!"
"I think it has," answered Marion, calmly, "considering your character and mine. On the whole we have kept the peace very well. It has certainly not been what I expected and hoped that it might be, but it has not been so unhappy as that of many people I know. We both made a mistake, perhaps, but others have made worse ones. You ask why I married you. I believe that I loved you. But I might ask you the same question."
"You would get very much the same answer."
"Oh no—you never loved me. I cannot even say that you have changed much in five years, since our honeymoon. You did not encourage my illusions very long."
"No. Why should I?"
"I daresay you were right. I daresay that it has been best so. The longer one has loved a thing, the harder it is to part from it. I loved my illusions. As for you—"
"As for me, I loved you, as I understand love," said Darche walking up and down the room with his hands in his pockets. "And, what is more, as I understand love, I love you still."
"Love cannot be a very serious matter with you, then," answered Marion, turning from him to the fire and pushing back a great log with her foot.
"You are mistaken," returned Darche. "Love is a serious matter, but not half so serious as young girls are inclined to believe. Is it not a matter of prime importance to select carefully the woman who is to sit opposite to one at table for a lifetime, and whose voice one must hearevery day for forty years or so? Of course it is serious. It is like selecting the president of a company—only that you cannot turn him out and choose another when you are not pleased with him. Love is not a wild, insane longing to be impossibly dramatic at every hour of the day. Love is natural selection. Darwin says so. Now a sensible man of business like me, naturally selects a sensible woman like you to be the mistress of his household. That is all it comes to, in the end. There is no essential difference between a man's feeling for the woman he loves and his feeling for anything else he wants."
"And I fill the situation admirably. Is that what you mean?" inquired Marion with some scorn.
"If you choose to put it in that way."
"And that is what you call being loved?"
"Yes—being wanted. It comes to that. All the rest is illusion—dream-stuff, humbug, 'fake' if you do not object to Bowery slang."
"Are you going out?" asked Mrs. Darche, losing patience altogether.
"No. But I am going upstairs to see the old gentleman. It is almost the same."
He went towards the door and his hand was on the handle of the lock when she called him back.
"John—" there was hesitation in her voice.
"Well? What is the matter?" He came back a few steps and stood near her.
"John, did you never care for me in any other way—in any better way—from the heart? You used to say that you did."
"Did I? I have forgotten. One always supposes that young girls naturally expect one to talk a lot of nonsense, and that one has no choice unless one does—so one makes the best of it. I remember that it was a bore to make phrases so I probably made them. Anything else you would like to ask?"
"No—thanks. I would rather be alone."
John Darche left the room and Marion returned to her writing-table as though nothing had been said, intending to write her notes as usual. And indeed, she began, and the pen ran easily across the paper for a few moments.
Then on a sudden, her lip quivered, she wrote one more word, the pen fell from her fingers, andbowing her head upon the edge of the table she let the short, sharp sobs break out as they would.
She was a very lonely woman on that winter's afternoon, and the tension she had kept on herself had been too great to bear any longer.
In spite of her husband's denial, Marion Darche was convinced that he was in difficulties, though she could not understand how such a point could have been reached in the affairs of the Company, which had always been considered so solid, and which had the reputation of being managed so well. It was natural, when matters reached a crisis, that none of her acquaintances should speak to her of her husband's troubles, and many said that Mrs. Darche was a brave woman to face the world as she did when her husband was in all likelihood already ruined and was openly accused on all sides of something very like swindling. But as a matter of fact she was in complete ignorance of all this. John Darche laughed scornfully when she repeated her question, and she had never even thought of asking the old gentleman any questions. She was too proud to speak of her troubles to Vanbrugh or Brett; andDolly, foreseeing real trouble, thought it best to hide from her friend the fears she entertained. As sometimes happens in such cases, matters had gone very far without Mrs. Darche's knowledge. The Company was in hands of a receiver and an inquiry into the conduct of Simon and John Darche was being pushed forward with the utmost energy by the frightened holders of the bonds and shares, while Marion was dining and dancing through the winter season as usual. The Darches were accused of having issued an enormous amount of stock without proper authority; but there were many who said that Simon Darche was innocent of the trick, and that John had manufactured bogus certificates. Others again maintained that Simon Darche was in his dotage and signed whatever was put before him by his son, without attempting to understand the obligations to which he committed himself.
Meanwhile John's position became desperate, though he himself did not believe it to be so utterly hopeless as it really was. Since this is the story of Marion Darche and not of her husband, it is unnecessary to enter into thefinancial details of the latter's ruin. It is enough to say that for personal ends he had made use of the Company's funds in order to get into his own control a line of railroad by which a large part of the Company's produce was transported, with the intention of subsequently forcing the Company to buy the road of him on his own terms, as soon as he should have disposed by stealth of his interest in the manufacture. Had the scheme succeeded he should have realised a great fortune by the transaction, and it is doubtful whether anything could have been proved against him after the event. Unfortunately for him, he had come into collision with a powerful syndicate of which he had not suspected the existence until he had gone so far that either to go on or to retire must be almost certain ruin and exposure. The existence of this syndicate had dawned upon him on the day described in the preceding chapters, and the state of mind in which he found himself was amply accounted for by the discovery he had made.
As time went on during the following weeks, and he became more and more hopelessly involved,his appearance and his manner changed for the worse. He grew haggard and thin, and his short speeches to his wife lacked even that poor element of wit which is brutality's last hold upon good manners. With his father, however, he maintained his usual behaviour, by a desperate effort. He could not afford to allow the whole fabric of the old gentleman's illusions about him to perish, so long as Simon Darche's hand and name could still be useful. It is but just to admit, too, that he felt a sort of cynical, pitying attachment to his father—the affection which a spoiled child bestows upon an over-indulgent parent, which is strongly tinged with the vanity excited by a long course of unstinted and indiscriminating praise.
If Marion Darche's own fortune had been invested in the Company of which her husband was treasurer, she must have been made aware of the condition of things long before the final day of reckoning came. But her property had been left her in the form of real estate, and the surplus had been invested in such bonds and mortgages as had been considered absolutely safeby Harry Brett's father, who had originally been her guardian, and, after his death, by Harry Brett himself, who was now her legal adviser, and managed her business for her. The house in Lexington Avenue was her property. After her marriage she had persuaded her husband to live in it rather than in the somewhat pretentious and highly inconvenient mansion erected on Fifth Avenue by Simon Darche in the early days of his great success, which was decorated within, and to some extent without, according to the doubtful taste of the late Mrs. Simon Darche. Vanbrugh compared it to an "inflamed Pullman car."
Enough has been said to show how at the time, the Darches were on the verge of utter ruin, and how Marion Darche was financially independent. Meanwhile the old gentleman's mind was failing fast, a fact which was so apparent that Marion was not at all surprised when her husband told her that there was to be a consultation of doctors to inquire into the condition of Simon Darche, with a view to deciding whether he was fit to remain, even nominally,at the head of the Company or not. As a matter of fact, the consultation had become a legal necessity, enforced by the committee that was examining the Company's affairs.
John Darche was making a desperate fight of it, sacrificing everything upon which he could lay his hands in order to buy in the fraudulent certificates of stock. He was constantly in want of money, and seized every opportunity of realising a few thousands which presented itself, even descending to gambling in the stock market in the hope of picking up more cash. He was unlucky, of course, and margin after margin disappeared and was swallowed up. From time to time he made something by his speculations—just enough to revive his shrinking hopes, and to whet his eagerness, already sharpened by extremest anxiety. He did not think of escaping from the country, however. In the first place, if he disappeared at this juncture, he must be a beggar or dependent on his wife's charity. Secondly, he could not realise that the end was so near and that the game was played out to the last card. Still hestruggled on frantically, hoping for a turn of the market, for a windfall out of the unknown, for a wave of luck, whereby a great sum being suddenly thrown into his hands he should be able to cover up the traces of his misdeeds and begin life afresh.
Marion was as brave as ever, but she got even more credit for her courage than she really deserved. She knew at this time that the trouble was great, but she had no idea that it was altogether past mending, and she had not renewed the offer of help she had made to her husband when she had first noticed his distress. In the meantime, she devoted herself to the care of old Simon Darche. She read aloud to him in the morning, though she was quite sure that he rarely followed a single sentence to the end. She drove with him in the afternoon and listened patiently to his rambling comments on men and things. His inability to recognise many of the persons who had been most familiar to him in the earlier part of his life was becoming very apparent, and the constant mistakes he made rendered it advisable to keep him out of intercoursewith any but the members of his own family. As has been said, Mrs. Darche had not as yet made any change in her social existence, but Dolly Maylands, who knew more of the true state of affairs than her friend, came to see her every day and grew anxious in the anticipation of the inevitable disaster. Her fresh face grew a little paler and showed traces of nervousness. She felt perhaps as men do who lead a life of constant danger. She slept as well and became almost abnormally active, seizing feverishly upon everything and every subject which could help to occupy her time.
"You work too hard, Dolly," said Mrs. Darche one morning as they were seated together in the library. "You will wear yourself out. You have danced all night, and now you mean to spend your day in slaving at your charities."
Dolly laughed a little as she went on cutting the pages of the magazine she held. This was a thing Mrs. Darche especially disliked doing, and Dolly had long ago taken upon herself the responsibility of cutting all new books and reviews which entered the house.
"Oh I love to burn the candle at both ends," she answered.
"No doubt you do, my dear. We have all liked to do that at one time or another. But at this rate you will light your candle in the middle, too."
"You cannot light a candle in the middle," said Dolly with great decision.
"If anybody could, you could," said Marion, watching her as she had often done of late and wondering if any change had come into the young girl's life. "Seriously, my dear, I am anxious about you. I wish you would take care of yourself, or get married, or something."
"If you will tell me what that 'something' is I will get it at once," said Dolly, with a smile that had a tinge of sadness in it. "I ask nothing better."
"Oh anything!" exclaimed Mrs. Darche. "Get nervous prostration or anything that is thoroughly fashionable and gives no trouble, and then go somewhere and rest for a month."
"My dear child," cried Dolly with a laugh, "I cannot think of being so old-fashioned as to havenervous prostration. Let me see. I might be astigmatic. That seems to be the proper thing nowadays. Then I could wear glasses and look the character of the school-ma'am. Then I could say I could not dance because I could not see, because of course I could not dance in spectacles. But for the matter of that, my dear, you need not lecture me. You are as bad as I am, and much worse—yours is a much harder life than mine."
Just as Dolly was about to draw a comparison between her own existence and her friend's, the door opened and Stubbs entered the room bearing a dozen enormous roses, of the kind known as American beauties. Dolly, who had a passion for flowers, sprang up, and seized upon them with an exclamation of delight.
"What beauties! What perfect beauties!" she said. "You lucky creature! Who in the world sends you such things?"
Mrs. Darche had risen from her seat and had buried her face in the thick blossoms while Dolly held them.
"I am sure I do not know," she said.
"Oh Marion!" answered Dolly, smiling. "Innocence always was your strong point, and what a strong point it is. I wish people would send me flowers like these."
"I have no doubt they do, my dear. Do not pretend they do not. Come and help me arrange them instead of talking nonsense. Even if it were true that my life is harder than yours—I do not know why—you see there are alleviations."
Dolly did not answer at once. She was wondering just how much her friend knew of the actual state of things, and she was surprised to feel a little touch of pain when she contrasted the truth, so far as she knew it, with the negatively blissful ignorance in which Mrs. Darche's nearest and best friends were doing their best to keep her.
"Of course there are alleviations in your life, just as there are in mine," she said at last, "changes, contrasts and all that sort of thing. My kindergarten alleviates my dancing and my cotillons vary the dulness of my school teaching."
She paused and continued to arrange the flowers in silence, looking back now and then and glancingat them. Mrs. Darche did not speak, but watched her idly, taking a certain artistic pleasure in the fitness of the details which made up the little picture before her.
"But I would not lead your life for anything in the world," added Dolly at last with great decision.
"Oh, nonsense, Dolly!"
"Are you happy, Marion?" asked Dolly, suddenly growing very grave.
"Happy?" repeated Mrs. Darche, a little surprised by the sudden question. "Yes, why not? What do you mean by happy?"
"What everybody means, I suppose."
"What is that?"
"Why, wanting things and getting them, of course—wanting a ten cent thing a dollar's worth, and having it."
"What a definition!" exclaimed Mrs. Darche. "But I really do believe you enjoy your life."
"Though it would bore you to extinction."
"Possibly. The alternate wild attacks of teaching and flirting to which you are subject would probably not agree with me."
"Perhaps you could do either, but not both at the same time."
"I suppose I could teach if I knew anything," said Mrs. Darche thoughtfully. "But I do not," she added with conviction.
"And I have no doubt you could flirt if you loved anybody. It is a pity you do not."
"Oh, my flirting days are over," answered Marion laughing. "You seem to forget that I am married."
"Do you not forget it sometimes?" asked Dolly, laughing, but with less genuine mirth.
"Do not be silly!" exclaimed Marion with a slight shade of annoyance. She had been helping Dolly with the roses, all of which, with the exception of two, were now arranged in a vase.
"These will not go in," she said, holding up the remaining flowers. "You might stick them into that little silver cup."
"To represent you—and the other man. A red and a white rose. Is that it?"
"Or you and me," suggested Mrs. Darche in perfect innocence. "Why not?"
"Tell me," said Dolly, when they had finished, "who is he?"
"Why, Russell Vanbrugh, of course."
"Oh!" exclaimed Dolly, turning her head away. "Why of course?"
"Oh, because—"
"Why not Harry Brett?" asked Dolly, with the merciless insistence peculiar to very young people.
In all probability, if no interruption had occurred, the conversation of that morning would have taken a more confidential turn than usual, and poor Dolly might then and there have satisfied her curiosity in regard to the relations between Marion and Russell Vanbrugh.
It would be more correct, perhaps, to use a word of less definite meaning than relation. Dolly suspected indeed that Vanbrugh loved Mrs. Darche in his own quiet and undemonstrative fashion, and that this was the secret of his celibacy. She believed it possible, too, that her friend might be more deeply attached to Vanbrugh than she was willing to acknowledge even in her own heart. But she was absolutely convinced that whatever the two might feel for one another their feelings would remain for ever a secret. She had gone further than usualin asking Marion whether she were happy, and whether she had not at some time or another almost forgotten that she was married at all. And Marion had not resented the words. Dolly felt that she was on the very point of getting at the truth, and was hoping that she might be left alone half-an-hour longer with her friend, when the door opened and Simon Darche entered the room. At the sight of the two young women his pink silk face lighted up with a bright smile. He rubbed his hands, and the vague expression of his old blue eyes gave place to a look of recognition, imaginary, it is true, but evidently a source of pleasure to himself.
"Good morning, my dear," he said briskly, taking Marion's hand in both of his and pressing it affectionately. "Good morning, Mrs. Chilton," he added, smiling at Dolly.
"Dolly Maylands," suggested Marion in an undertone.
"Dolly? Dolly?" repeated the old man. "Yes, yes—what did you say? What did you say, Marion? Dolly Chilton? Silly child. Dolly Chilton has been dead these twenty years."
"What does he mean?" asked Dolly in a whisper. Simon Darche turned upon her rather suddenly.
"Oh yes, I remember," he said. "You are the little girl who used to talk about Darwin, and the soul, and monkeys without tails, and steam engines, when you were seven years old. Why, my dear child, I know you very well indeed. How long have you been married?"
"I am not married," answered the young girl, suppressing a smile.
"Why not?" inquired Mr. Darche with startling directness. "But then—oh, yes! I am very sorry, my dear. I did not mean to allude to it. I went to poor Chilton's funeral."
Just then, Stubbs, the butler, entered again, bearing this time a note for Mrs. Darche. While she glanced at the contents he waited near the door in obedience to a gesture from her. Old Mr. Darche immediately went up to him, and with hearty cordiality seized and shook his reluctant hand.
"Happy to meet you, old fellow!" he cried. "That is all right. Now just sit down here andwe will go through the question in five minutes."
"Beg pardon, sir," said the impassive butler. It was not the first time that his master had taken him for an old friend.
"Eh, what!" cried Simon Darche. "Calling me 'sir'? Did you come here to quarrel with me, old man? Oh, I see! You are laughing. Well come along. This business will not keep. The ladies will not mind if we go to work, I daresay."
And forthwith he dragged Stubbs to a table and forced him into a chair, talking to him all the time. Dolly was startled and grasped Marion's arm.
"What is it?" she asked under her breath. "Oh, Marion, what is it? Is he quite mad?"
Mrs. Darche answered her only by a warning look, and then, turning away, seemed to hesitate a moment. Stubbs was suffering acutely, submitting to sit on the edge of the chair to which his master had pushed him, merely because no means of escape suggested itself to his mechanical intelligence.
"Why can you not sit down comfortably?"asked Mr. Darche, with a show of temper. "You are not in a hurry, I know. Oh I see, you are cold. Well, warm yourself. Cold morning. It will be warm enough in Wall Street to-morrow, if we put this thing through. Now just let me explain the position to you. I tell you we are stronger than anybody thinks. Yes sir. I do not see any limit to what we may do."
Marion took a flower from one of the vases and went up to the old gentleman.
"Just let me put this rose in your coat, before you go to work."
Mr. Darche turned towards her as she spoke, and his attention was diverted. With a serio-comic expression of devout thankfulness, Stubbs rose and noiselessly glided from the room.
"Thank you, thank you," said the old gentleman, and as he bent to smell the blossom, his head dropped forward rather helplessly. "I was always fond of flowers."
The note which Stubbs had brought conveyed the information that the three doctors who were to examine old Mr. Darche with a view ofascertaining whether he could properly be held responsible for his actions, would come in half an hour. It was now necessary to prepare him for the visit, and Marion had not decided upon any plan.
It was evidently out of the question to startle him by letting him suspect the truth, or even by telling him that his visitors belonged to the medical profession. Mrs. Darche wished that she might have the chance of consulting Dolly alone for a moment before the doctors came, but this seemed equally impossible. She silently handed the note to her friend to read and began talking to the old gentleman again. He answered at random almost everything she said. It was clear that he was growing rapidly worse and that his state was changing from day to day. Marion, of course, did not know that the medical examination was to be held by order of the committee conducting the inquiry into the Company's affairs. Her husband had simply told her what she already knew, namely, that his father was no longer able to attend to business and that the fact mustbe recognised and a new president elected. It would be quite possible, he thought, to leave the old gentleman in the illusion that he still enjoyed his position and exercised his functions. There could be no harm in that. To tell him the truth might inflict such a shock upon his faculties as would hasten their complete collapse, and might even bring about a fatal result. He had impressed upon her the necessity of using the utmost tact on the occasion of the doctors' visit, but had refused to be present himself, arguing, perhaps rightly, that his appearance could be of no use, but that it might, on the contrary, tend to complicate a situation already difficult enough.
The only course that suggested itself to Mrs. Darche's imagination, was to represent the three doctors as men of business who came to consult her father-in-law upon an important matter. At the first mention of business, the old gentleman's expression changed and his manner became more animated.
"Eh, business?" he cried. "Oh yes. Never refuse to see a man on business. Where are they?Good morning, Mrs. Chilton. I am sorry I cannot stay, but I have some important business to attend to."
He insisted upon going to his study immediately in order to be ready to receive his visitors.
"Wait for me, Dolly," said Marion, as she followed him.
Dolly nodded and sat down in her own place by the fireplace, taking up the magazine she had begun to cut and thoughtfully resuming her occupation. Under ordinary circumstances she would perhaps have gone away to occupy herself during the morning in some of the many matters which made her life so full. But her instinct told her that there was trouble in the air to-day, and that the affairs of the Darches were rapidly coming to a crisis. She liked difficulties, as she liked everything which needed energy and quickness of decision, and her attachment to her friend would alone have kept her on the scene of danger.
Marion did not return immediately, and Dolly supposed that she had determined to stay with the old gentleman until the doctors came. It was rather pleasant to sit by the fire and think, andwonder, and fill out the incidents of the drama which seemed about to be enacted in the house. Dolly realised that she was in the midst of exciting events such as she had sometimes read of, but in which she had never expected to play a part. There were all the characters belonging to the situation. There was the beautiful, neglected young wife, the cruel and selfish husband, the broken-down father, the two young men who had formerly loved the heroine, and last, but not least, there was Dolly herself. It was all very interesting and very theatrical, she thought, and she wished that she might watch it or watch the developments in the successive scenes, entirely as a spectator, and without feeling what was really uppermost in her heart—a touch of sincere sympathy for her friend's trouble.
Just as she was thinking of all that Marion had to suffer, John Darche, the prime cause and promoter of the trouble, entered the room, pale, nervous, and evidently in the worst of humours.
"Oh, are you here, Miss Maylands?" he inquired, discontentedly.
Dolly looked up quietly.
"Yes. Am I in the way? Marion has just gone with Mr. Darche to his study. This note came a few moments ago and she gave it to me to read. I think you ought to see it."
John Darche's brow contracted as he ran his eye over the page. Then he slowly tore the note to shreds and tossed them into the fire.
"I do not know why my wife thinks it necessary to take all her friends into the confidences of the family," he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and going to the window, thereby turning his back upon Dolly.
Dolly made no answer to the rude speech, but quietly continued to cut the pages of the magazine, until, seeing that Darche did not move and being herself rather nervous, she broke the silence again.
"Am I in the way, Mr. Darche?"
"Not at all, not at all," said John, waking, perhaps, to a sense of his rudeness and returning to the fireplace. "On the contrary," he continued, "it is as well that you should be here. There will probably be hysterics during the course of the day, and I have no doubt you know what is the right thing to do under the circumstances. There seems to bea horticultural show here," he added, as he noticed for the first time the vases of flowers on the tables.
"They are beautiful roses," answered Dolly in a conciliatory tone.
"Yes," said John, drawing in his tin lips. "Beautiful, expensive—and not particularly appropriate to-day. One of my wife's old friends, I suppose. Do you know who sent them?"
"Stubbs brought them in, a little while ago," Dolly replied. "I believe there was no note with them."
"No note," repeated John, still in a tone of discontent. "It is rude to send flowers without even a card. It is assuming too much intimacy."
"Is it?" asked Dolly innocently.
"Of course it is," answered John.
"Half an hour," he said, after a moment's pause. "Half an hour! How long is it since that note came?"
"About twenty minutes I should think."
"Doctors are generally punctual," observed Darche. "They will be here in a few minutes."
"Shall you be present?" asked Dolly.
"Certainly not," John answered with decision. "It would give me very little satisfaction to see my father proved an idiot by three fools."
"Fools!" repeated Dolly in surprise.
"Yes. All doctors are fools. The old gentleman's head is as clear as mine. What difference does it make if he does not recognise people he only half knows? He understands everything connected with the business, and that is the principal thing. After all, what has he to do? He signs his name to the papers that are put before him. That is all. He could do that if he really had softening of the brain, as they pretend he has. As for electing another president at the present moment it is out of the question."
"Yes, so I should suppose," said Dolly.
John turned sharply upon her.
"So you should suppose? Why should you suppose any such thing?"
"I have heard that the Company is in trouble," answered Dolly, calmly.
John opened his lips as though he were about to make a sharp answer, but checked himself and turned away.
"Yes," he said more quietly, "I suppose that news is public property by this time. There they are," he added, as his ear caught the distant tinkle of the door bell.
"Shall I go?" asked Dolly for the third time.
"No," answered Darche, "I will go out and meet them. Stay here please. I will send my wife to you presently."
The verdict of the doctors was a foregone conclusion. The family physician, who was one of the three, the other two being specialists, stayed behind and explained to John Darche the result of the examination. There was no hope of recovery, he said, nor even of improvement. The most that could be done was to give the old gentleman the best of care so long as he remained alive. Little by little his faculties would fail, and in a few years, if he did not die, he would be quite as helpless as a little child.
John Darche was not in a state to receive the information with equanimity, though he had expected nothing else and knew that every word the doctor said was true—and more also. He protested, as he had protested to Dolly half an hour earlier, that Mr. Darche was still a serviceable president for the Company, since he could sign his name, no matter whether he understoodthe value of the signature or not. The doctor, who, like most people, was aware of the investigation then proceeding, shook his head, smiled incredulously, asked after Mrs. Darche and went away, pondering upon the vanity of human affairs and consoling himself for the sins of the world with the wages thereof, most of which ultimately find their way to the doctor's bank-book, be the event life or death.
Old Mr. Darche, supremely unconscious of what had taken place, and believing that he had been giving the benefit of his valuable advice to the directors of a western railroad, had lighted one of his very fine cigars and had fallen asleep in his easy chair in his own study before it was half finished. Marion had returned to Dolly in the library and John had sent for his stenographer and had taken possession of the front drawing-room for the morning, on pretence of attending to the business which, in reality, had already been withdrawn from his hands during several weeks.
He was in great suspense and anxiety, for it was expected that the work of the investigatingcommittee would end on that afternoon. He knew that in any event he was ruined, and even he felt that it would be humiliating to live on his wife's income. They would go abroad at once, he thought, New York had become hateful to him. He had as yet no apprehension of being deprived of his liberty, even temporarily. Whatever action was taken against him must be of a civil nature, he thought. He did not believe that any judge would issue a warrant for his arrest on such evidence as could have been collected by the committee. Simon Darche was incapable of remembering what he had done even a week previously, and since the doctors declared that his mind was gone, almost anything might be attributed to him—anything, in fact, about which the slightest trace of irregularity could be discovered. John had been cautious enough in his actions when he had been aware that he was violating the law, though he had been utterly reckless when he had appealed to chance in the hope of retrieving his losses, and recovering himself. He believed himself safe, and indulged in speculations about the future as a relief to the excessive anxiety of the moment.
Mrs. Darche had some right to know the result of the consultation which had taken place, but her husband either intended to leave her in ignorance or forgot her existence after the doctors had left the house. During some time she remained with Dolly in the library, expecting that John would at least send her some message, if he did not choose to come himself. At last she determined to go to him.
"I am very busy now," he said as she entered the room and glanced at the secretary.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Darche, "I see, but I must speak to you alone for a minute."
"Well—but I wish you would choose some other time." He nodded to the secretary who rose and quietly disappeared.
"What is it?" asked Darche, when they were alone.
"What did the doctors say?"
"Oh, nothing at all. They talked as doctors always do. Keep the patient in good health, plenty of fresh air, food and sleep." He laughed sourly at his own words.
"Is that all?" inquired Marion, rather incredulously."They must have said something else. Why, we can all see that he is not himself. There is something very seriously wrong. I am quite sure that he did not recognise me yesterday."
"Not recognise you?" said John with the same disagreeable laugh. "Not recognise you? Do not be silly. He talks of nobody else. I tell you there is nothing in the world the matter with him, he is good for another twenty years."
"Thank heaven for that—for the twenty years of life, whether with all his faculties or not—"
"Yes, by all means let us return thanks. At the present rate of interest on his life that means at least two millions."
"It hurts me to hear you talk like that about your father," said Marion, sitting down and watching her husband as he walked slowly up and down before her.
"Does it? That is interesting. I wonder why you are hurt because he is likely to live twenty years. You are not very likely to be hurt by his death."
"Did I ever suggest such a thing?"
"No, it suggested itself."
At this speech Mrs. Darche rose. Standing quite still for a moment, she looked quietly into his uncertain eyes. He was evidently in the worst of humours, and quite unable to control himself, even had he wished to do so. She felt that it would be safer to leave him, for her own temper was overwrought and ready to break out. She turned towards the door. Then he called her back.
"I say, Marion!"
"Well."
"What are you making such a fuss about?"
"Have I said anything?"
"No, not much, but you have a particularly uncomfortable way of letting one see what you would like to say."
"Is that why you called me back?" asked Mrs. Darche on the point of turning away again.
"I suppose so. It certainly was not for the pleasure of prolonging this delightful interview."
Once more she moved in the direction of the door. Then something seemed to tighten about her heart, something long forgotten, and which, if she tried to understand it at all, she thoughtwas pity. It was nothing—only a dead love turning in its grave. But it hurt her, and she stopped and looked back. John Darche was leaning against the high mantlepiece, shading his eyes from the fire with his small, pointed white hand. She came and stood beside him.
"John," she said gently, "I want to speak to you seriously. I am very sorry if I was hasty just now. Please forget it."
Darche looked up, pulled out his watch and glanced at it, and then looked at her again before he answered. His eyes were hard and dull.
"I think I said that I was rather busy this morning," he answered slowly.
"Yes, I know," answered Marion, in her sweet, low voice. "But I will not keep you long. I must speak. John, is this state of things to go on for ever?"
"I fancy not. The death of one of us is likely to put a stop to it before eternity sets in," he answered with some scorn.
"We can stop it now if we will but try," said Marion, laying her hand entreatingly upon his arm.
"Oh yes, no doubt," observed John coldly.
"Let me speak, please, this once," said Mrs. Darche. "I know that you are worried and harassed about business, and you know that I want to spare you all I can, and would help you if I could."
"I doubt whether your help would be conducive to the interests of the Company," observed Darche.
"No—I know that I cannot help you in that way. But if you would only let me, in other ways, I could make it so much easier for you."
"Could you?" asked John, turning upon her immediately. "Then just lend me a hundred thousand dollars."
Mrs. Darche started a little at the words. As has been said, she was really quite in ignorance of what was taking place and had no idea that her husband could be in need of what in comparison with the means of the Company seemed but a small sum in cash.
"Do you need money, John?" she asked, looking at him anxiously.
"Oh no, I was only putting an imaginary case."
"I wish it were not merely imaginary—"
"Do you?" he asked, interrupting her quickly. "That is kind."
Marion seemed about to lose her temper at last, though she meant to control herself.
"John!" she exclaimed, in a tone of reproach, "why will you so misunderstand me?"
"It is you who misunderstand everything."
"I mean it quite seriously," she answered. "You know if you were really in trouble for a sum like that, I could help you. Not that you ever could be. I was only thinking—wishing that in some way or other I might be of use. If I could help you in anything, no matter how insignificant, it would bring us together."
John smiled incredulously.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "is that what you are driving at? Do you not think life is very bearable as we are?"
By this time Marion had completely regained her self-possession. She was determined not to be repulsed, but there was a little bitterness in her voice as she spoke.
"No, frankly, John, as we are living now, lifeis not very bearable. I cannot exchange half a dozen words with you without quarrelling, and it is not my fault, John, it is not my fault! Could you not sometimes make it a little easier for me?"
"By borrowing a hundred thousand dollars?"
A pause followed John's answer, and he walked as far as the window, came back again and stopped.
"If you think it would be conducive to our conjugal happiness that I should owe you a hundred thousand dollars, by all means lend it to me. I will give you very good security and pay you the current rate of interest."
Mrs. Darche hesitated a moment before she spoke again. She was not quite sure that he was in earnest, and being determined to make the utmost use of the opportunity she had created, she dreaded lest if she pressed her offer upon him he should suddenly turn upon her with a brutal laugh.
"Do you really mean it, John?" she asked at last. "Will it help you at all?"
"Oh, if you insist upon it and think it will promote your happiness, I have no objection to taking it," said Darche coolly. "As a matter of fact it would be a convenience to-day, and it mighthelp me to-morrow. It will certainly not be of any importance next week."
"I do not know whether you are in earnest or not, but I am."
Once more she paused. She realised that he was in need of a great deal of money, and that his scornful acceptance of her offer was really his way of expressing real interest.
"You shall have it as soon as I can get it for you. If you really need it I shall be very glad. If you are only laughing at me—well, I can bear that too."
"No," answered John, speaking much more seriously than hitherto. "It is a simple matter, of course—but it is quite true that it would be a convenience to me to have a hundred thousand dollars in cash during the next twenty-four hours, and after all, it will not make any difference to you, as so much of your property is in bonds. All you need to do is to borrow the money on call and give the bonds as collateral."
"I do not understand those things, of course," said Marion in a tone of grief, "but I suppose it can be managed easily enough, and I shall beso proud if I am able to help you a little. Oh, John," she added, after a little pause, "if we could only be as we used to be, everything to each other."
"I wish we could," John answered with real or assumed gravity. "But in this existence, there is everything to separate us and hardly anything to bring us together. You see, I am worried all day long, I never get any rest and then I lose my temper about everything. I know it is wrong but I cannot help it, and you must try to be as patient as you can, my dear."
"I do try, John, I do try, do I not? Say that you know I do." For a moment she thought she had produced an impression upon him, and a vision of a happier and more peaceful life rose suddenly before her ready imagination. But the tone in which he spoke the next words dispelled any such illusion.
"Oh yes," he said dryly, "I know you do, of course. You are awfully good—and I am awfully bad. I will reform as soon as I have time. And now, if you do not mind, I will go and attend to my letters."
"And I will see about getting the money at once," she said, bravely hiding her disappointment at his change of tone. "I may be able to have it by this evening."
"Oh yes," he answered with some eagerness, "if you are quick about it. Well good-bye, and I am really much more gratefulthanI seem."
His dry unpleasant laugh was the last sound she heard as she left the room. After all, it seemed perfectly useless, though she did her best all day and every day.
Marion Darche left her husband more than ever convinced of the hopelessness of any attempt at a happier and more united existence. Faithful, brave, loving, a woman of heart rather than head, she encountered in every such effort the blank wall of a windowless nature, so to say—the dull opposition of a heartless intelligence incapable of understanding any natural impulse except that of self-preservation, and responding to no touch of sympathy or love. Against her will, she wondered why she had married him, and tried to recall the time when his obstinacy had seemed strength, his dulness gravity, his brutality keenness. Butno inner conjuring with self could give an instant's life to the dead illusion. The nearest approach to any real resurrection which she had felt for years had been the little pang that had overtaken her when she had turned to leave him and had thought for one moment that he might be suffering, as she was apt to suffer—this being, whom she had once misunderstood and loved, whom she loved not at all now, but to whom she had been lovelessly faithful in word and thought and deed for years past.
Yet she knew that others had loved her well, most of all Harry Brett, and girl-like, groping for her heart's half-grown truth she had once believed that she loved him too, with his boyish, careless ways, his thoughtless talk and his love of happiness for its own sake. He had disappointed her in some little way, being over-light of leaf and flower, though the stem was good to the core; she had looked for strength on the surface as a child breaks a twig and laughs at the oak for its weakness; she had expected, perhaps, to be led and ruled by a hand that would be tender and obedient only for her, and she had turned from Harry Brett to John Darche as from a delusionto a fact, from a dream to the strong truth of waking—very bitter waking in the end.
But though she had wrecked heart and happiness, and had suffered that cold and hunger of the soul which the body can never feel, she would not change her course nor give up the dream of hope. Worse than what had been, could not be to come, she said to herself, realising how little difference financial ruin, even to herself, could make now.
As she took up her pen to write a word to Brett, begging him to come to her without delay, she paused a moment, thinking how strange it was that in an extremity she should be obliged to send for him, who had loved her, to help her to save her husband, if salvation were possible. She even felt a little warmth about her heart, knowing how quickly Harry would come, and she was glad that she had known how to turn a boy's romantic attachment into a man's solid friendship. Brett would not disappoint her.
She sent Dolly away, and Dolly, obedient, docile and long-suffering for her friend's sake, kissed her on both pale cheeks and left her, tripping down the brown steps with a light gait and a heavy heart.
Marion had sent a messenger down town after Brett, and the latter did not lose a moment in answering the note in person. He was a little pale as he entered.
"What is it?" he asked, almost before he had shaken hands.
"It is kind of you to come at once," answered Marion. "I asked you to come about a matter of business. Sit down. I will explain."
"Can I be of any use?"
"Yes, I want some money, a great deal of money, in fact, and I want it immediately."
"Are you going to buy a house?" he inquired in some surprise. "How much do you want?"
"A hundred thousand dollars."
Brett did not answer at once. He looked at her rather anxiously, then stared at the fire, then looked at her again.
"It is rather short notice for such an amount.But you have nearly as much as that in bonds and mortgages."
"Yes, I know."
"Well then, there need not be any difficulty. What you have in bonds you have already, to all intents and purposes. Do I understand that you want this money in cash?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Darche with decision, "in cash."
"I suppose a cheque will do as well?" suggested Brett with a smile.
"A cheque?" She repeated the word and seemed to hesitate. "I should have to write my name on it, should I not?"
"Yes."
During the pause which followed, Marion seemed to be reviewing the aspects of the transaction.
"The name of the person to whom I give it?" she asked at last, and she seemed to avoid his glance.
"Yes," answered Brett, surprised at the inexperience betrayed by the question, "unless you cashed it yourself and took the money in notes."
"No," said Mrs. Darche, as firmly as before. "Iwant the notes here, please. What I want you to do, is to take enough bonds and get the money for me. I do not care to know anything else about it, because I shall not understand."
"I suppose I ought not to be inquisitive, my dear friend," replied Brett after a little hesitation, "but I ought to tell you what you do not seem to realise, that a hundred thousand dollars is a great deal of money and that you ought not to keep such a sum in the house."
"I do not mean to keep it in the house. It is to be taken away immediately."
"I see."
He concluded that the money was to be taken from the house by John Darche, and he determined to prevent such a result if possible.
"May I ask one question?" he inquired.
"I will not promise to answer it." She still looked away from him.
"I hope you will. Do you mean to lend this money to some one? If it were an ordinary payment you would certainly not want it in notes in the house."
"How do you know?" asked Marion with some impatience.
"Because no human man of business with whom I have ever had anything to do likes to trot about town with a hundred thousand dollars' worth of notes in his pocket. And there is very little doubt in my mind about what you mean to do with the money. You mean to give it to your husband. Am I right?"
Mrs. Darche blushed a little and a shade of annoyance crossed her face.
"Why should I tell you what I am to do with it?" she asked.
"Because I am your legal adviser," answered Brett without hesitating, "and I may give you some good advice."
"Thank you, I do not want any advice."
Another pause followed this declaration, which only seemed to confirm the lawyer in his surmises.
"I will call it by another name," he said at last in a conciliatory tone. "I will call it information. But it is information of a kind that you do not expect. I should certainly not have said anything about it if you had not sent for me on this business. Is it of any use to beg you to reconsider the question of lending this money?"
"No, I have made up my mind."
"To lend it to your husband?"
"Dear Mr. Brett," said Marion, beginning to be impatient again, "I said that I would rather not tell you."
"I fancy that I am not mistaken," Brett answered. "Now my dear friend, you will be the last to know what every one has known for some time, but it is time that you should know it. The affairs of the Company are in a very bad state, so bad indeed, that an inquiry has been going on into the management. I do not know the result of it yet, but I am very much afraid that it will be bad, and that it will have very disagreeable consequences for you all."
"Consequences?" repeated Mrs. Darche. "What consequences? Do you mean that we shall lose money?"
"I mean that and I mean something more. It is very serious. Your husband is deeply involved, and his father's name is so closely associated with his in all the transactions that it seems almost impossible to say which of the two is innocent."
"Innocent!" cried Marion, laying her handsuddenly upon the arm of her chair and starting forward, then rising quickly to her feet and looking down at him. "What do you mean? Why do you use that word?"
The expression had hardly escaped Brett's lips when he realised the extent of his carelessness. He rose and stood beside her, feeling, as a man does, that she had him at a disadvantage while he was seated and she was standing.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I should have been more careful. I should have said which of the two is responsible for—"
"Something disgraceful?" interrupted Mrs. Darche whose excitement was only increased by his hesitation. "For heaven's sake, do not keep me in this suspense. Speak! Tell me! Be quick!"
"I should not have spoken at all except as your adviser," said Brett. "Nothing definite is known yet, but something is wrong. As a purely business transaction it is madness to lend money to John Darche. Can you believe for a moment that the treasurer of such a Company, that the men who control such a Company, would ask youto lend them a hundred thousand dollars at a few hours' notice, if they were not on the very verge of ruin?"
"No, but that is not what happened."
She stopped short and moved away from him a little, hesitating as to what she should say next. It was impossible to describe to him the scene which had taken place between her and her husband.
"I cannot tell you, and yet I want you to know," she said, at last.
"Do you not trust me?" said Brett, hoping to encourage her.
"Certainly. Trust you! Oh yes, I trust you with all my heart."
She turned and faced him again.
"Then tell me," said he. "Tell me what happened in as few words as possible. Just the bare facts."
"It is the bare facts that are so hard to tell."
She turned away from him again feeling that if she allowed her eyes to meet his she could not long withhold her confidence.
"I suppose your husband let you guess thatthere was trouble, so that you made the offer spontaneously, and then he accepted it."
"Well—yes—no—almost."
Still she hesitated, standing by the writing-table, and idly turning over the papers.
"I saw that he was worried and harassed and that something was wearing upon him, and I did so want to help him! I thought it might—no I will not say that."
"But it will not help matters to throw good money after bad," answered Brett thoughtfully. "Believe me, there is no more chance of saving this money you mean to give him, than all the other millions that have gone through his hands—gone heaven knows where."
"Millions?"
There was surprise in her tone.
"I am afraid so," answered Brett, as though he had no reason in making any correction in his estimate.
"You must tell me all you can, all you know," said Marion, turning to him again.
"That would be a long affair," said Brett, "though I know a great deal about it. But I donot know all, though the situation is simple enough and bad enough. In spite of the large earnings of the Company, the finances are in a rotten state and it is said that there are large sums not accounted for. An inquiry has been going on for some time, and was, I believe, closed last night, but the result will not be known until this afternoon."
"What sort of an inquiry?" asked Mrs. Darche, anxiously.
"The regular examination of the books and of all the details which have gone through the hands of your father-in-law and your husband."
"My father-in-law! Do you mean to say that they are trying to implicate the old gentleman too?"
Marion's face expressed the utmost concern.
"As president of the Company, he cannot fail to be implicated."
"But he is no more responsible for what he does than a child!" cried Mrs. Darche, in a tone of protestation.
"I know that, but he is nominally at the head of the administration. That is all you need know.The rest is merely a mass of figures with an account of tricks and manipulations which you could not understand."
"And what would happen if—if—"
She leaned towards him unconsciously, watching his lips to catch the answer.
"I suppose that if the inquiry goes against them, legal steps will be taken," said Brett.
"Legal steps? What legal steps?"
Brett hesitated, asking himself whether he should be justified in telling her what he expected as well as what he knew.
"Well—" he continued at last, "you know in such cases the injured parties appeal to the law. But it is of no use to talk about that until you know the result of the inquiry."
"Do you mean, do you really mean that John may be arrested?" asked Mrs. Darche, turning pale.