"At any moment."
Brett answered in a low voice. Almost as soon as he had spoken he left her side and crossed the room as though not wishing to be a witness to the effect the news must have uponher. Before his back was turned she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. A long pause followed. Marion was the first to speak.
"Mr. Brett—" she said, and stopped.
"Yes." He came back to her side at once.
"Can you not help me?" she asked earnestly.
"How can I?"
"Is there nothing, nothing that can be done?"
"The whole matter is already beyond my power, or yours, or any one's."
Marion looked steadily at him for several seconds and then turned her face away, leaning against the mantelpiece.
"I am sure something can be done."
"No, nothing can be done."
He did not move, and spoke in a tone of the utmost decision.
"That is not true," said Marion turning upon him suddenly. "Money can help him, and we are wasting time. Do not lose a moment! Take all I have in the world and turn it into money and take it to him. Go! Do not lose a moment! Go! Why do you wait? Why do you look at me so?"
"It would not be a drop in the bucket," answered Brett, still not moving.
"All I have!"
"All you have."
"That is impossible," cried Mrs. Darche, incredulously. "I am not enormously rich, but it is something. It is between four and five hundred thousand dollars. Is it not? I have heard you say so."
"Something like that," assented Brett, as though the statement did not alter the case.
Mrs. Darche came close to him, laid her hand upon his arm and gently pushed him, as though urging him to leave her.
"Go! I say," she cried. "Take it. Do as I tell you. There may be time yet. It may save them."
But Brett did not move.
"It is utterly useless," he said stolidly. "It is merely throwing money out of the window. Millions could not stop the inquiry now, nor prevent the law from taking its course if it is appealed to."
"You will not do it?" asked Marion with something almost like a menace in her voice.
"No, I will not," said Brett, more warmly. "I will not let you ruin yourself for nothing."
"Are you really my friend?"
She drew back a little and looked at him earnestly.
"Your friend? Yes—and more—more than that, far more than you can dream of."
"Will you refuse, do you refuse, to do this for me?"
"Yes, I refuse."
"Then I will do it for myself," she said with a change of tone as though she had suddenly come to a decision. "I will let my husband do it for me. You cannot refuse to give me what is mine, what you have in your keeping."
But Brett drew back and folded his arms.
"I can refuse and I do refuse," he said.
"But you cannot! You have no right."
Her voice was almost breaking.
"That makes no difference," Brett answered firmly. "I have the power. I refuse to give you anything. You can bring an action against me for robbing you, and you will win your case, but by that time it will be too late. You may borrowmoney on your mere name, but your securities and title-deeds are in my safe, and there they shall stay."
Marion looked at him one moment longer and then sank back into her seat.
"You are cruel and unkind," she said in broken tones. "Oh, what shall I do?"
Brett hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do, and not finding anything especial to say. It is generally the privilege of man to be the bearer of whatever bad news is in store for woman, but as yet no hard and fast rule of conduct has been laid down for the unfortunate messenger's action under the circumstances. Being at a loss for words with which to console the woman he loved for the pain he had unwillingly given her, Brett sat down opposite her and tried to take her hand. She drew it away hastily.
"No, go away," she said almost under her breath. "Leave me alone. I thought you were my friend."
"Indeed I am," protested Brett in a soothing tone.
"Indeed you are not."
Marion sat up suddenly and drew back to her end of the sofa.
"Do you call this friendship?" she asked almost bitterly. "To refuse to help me at such a moment. Do you not see how I am suffering? Do you not see what is at stake? My husband's reputation, his father's name, good name, life perhaps—the shock of a disgrace would kill him—and for me, everything! And you sit there and refuse to lift a finger to help me—oh, it is too much! Indeed it is more than I can bear!"
"Of course you cannot understand it all now," said Brett, very much distressed. "You cannot see that I am right, but you will see it soon, too soon. You cannot save him. Why should you ruin yourself?"
"Why?"
"Is there some other reason," asked Brett, quickly. "Something that I do not know?"
"All the reasons," she exclaimed passionately, "all the reasons there ever were."
"Do you love him still?" asked Brett, scarcely knowing what he was saying.
Marion drew still further back from him and spoke in an altered tone.
"Mr. Brett, you have no right to ask me such a question."
"No right? I? No, perhaps I have no right. But I take the right whether it is mine or not. Because I love you still, as I have always loved you, because there is nothing in heaven or earth I would not do for you, because if you asked me for all I possessed at this moment, you should have it, to do what you like with it—though you shall have nothing of what is yours—because, to save you the least pain, I would take John Darche's place and go to prison and be called a rascal and a thief before all the world, for your sake, for your dear sake, Marion. I love you. You know that I love you. Right or wrong—but it is right and not wrong! There is not a man in the world who would do for any woman the least of the things I would do for you."
Again he tried to take her hand, though she resisted and snatched it from him after a little struggle.
"Leave me! leave me!" she cried despairingly. "Let me go!"
"Not until you know, not until you understand that every word I say means ten thousand times more than it ever meant to any one, not until youknow that I love you through and through with every part of me, with every thought and action of my life. Look at me! Look into my eyes! Do you not see it there, the truth, the devotion? No? Is it so long since I loved you and you said—you thought—you believed for one little day that you loved me? Can you not remember it? Can you not remember even the sound of the words? They were so sweet to hear! They are so very sweet as they come back now—with all they mean now—but could not mean then!"
"Harry!"
She could not resist pronouncing his name that once.
"I knew it! You loved me then. You love me now. What is the use of fighting against it, when we love each other so? Marion! Love! Ah God! At last!"
"Go!"
With a quick movement she sprang to her feet and stood back from him.
"Marion!"
But in a moment it was past. With a gesture she kept him at arm's length.
"Is that your friendship?" she asked reproachfully.
"No, it is love," he answered almost roughly. "There is no friendship in it."
"And you talk of helping me!" she cried. "And at such a time as this, when I am weak, unstrung, you force it all upon me, and drag out what I have hidden so long. No, no! You do not love me. Go!"
"Not love you!" Again he tried to get near her. "God in heaven! Do not hurt me so!"
"No," she answered, still thrusting him back. "If you loved me you would help me, you would respect me, you would honour me, you would not try to drag me down."
"Drag you down! Ah, Marion!"
He spoke very unsteadily, then turning his face from her he leaned upon the mantelpiece and watched the fire. A long pause followed. After awhile he looked up again and their eyes met.
"Harry!" said Mrs. Darche quietly.
"Yes," he answered.
"Come and sit beside me on that chair."
Brett obeyed.
"We must forget this morning," said Marion in her natural tone of voice. "We must say to ourselves that all this has never happened and we must believe it. Will you?"
"You ask too much," answered Brett looking away. "I cannot forget that I have said it—at last, after all these years."
"You must forget it. You must—must—for my sake."
"For your sake?" Still he looked away from her.
"Yes, for my sake," she repeated. "If you cannot forget, I can never look any one in the face again.Lookat me, please," she said, laying her hand upon his arm. "Look into my eyes and tell me that you will not remember."
"For your sake I will try not to remember," he said slowly. "But I cannot promise yet," he added with sudden passion. "Oh no!"
"You will do your best. I know you will," said Marion, in a tone that was meant to express conviction. "Now go. And remember that I have forgotten."
"You are very kind," Brett answered with morehumility than she had expected. "You are very good to me. I was mad for a moment. Forgive me. Try to forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive, for I remember nothing," said Marion with a faint smile.
"Good-bye, then." He turned to go.
"Good-bye," she answered quite naturally.
"Now come back, please," she said, when he had almost reached the door. "You are Mr. Brett now, and I am Mrs. Darche. I am in great trouble and you are my friend, and you must help me as well as you can."
"In any way I can," he answered, coming back to her. "But I will help only you, I will not help any one else."
"Not even old Mr. Darche?"
"Yes, I do not mean to except him."
"That is right. And we must act quickly. We must decide what is to be done. We have," she hesitated, "we have lost time—at any moment it may be too late."
"It is too late now," Brett answered in a sudden change of tone, as Stubbs the butler suddenly entered the room.
"Please madam," said Stubbs, who was pale and evidently very much disturbed, "there are some strange gentlemen to see Mr. John Darche, and when I told them that he was out, they said they would see old Mr. Darche, and I said that old Mr. Darche was ill and could see no one, and they said they must see him; and they are coming upstairs without leave, and here they are, madam, and I cannot keep them out!"
Bail was refused, and John Darche remained in prison during the weeks that intervened between his arrest and his trial. He was charged with making use of large sums, the property of the Company, for which he was unable to account, with fraudulently tampering with the books and with attempting to issue certificates of stock to a very large amount, bearing forged signatures.
The house in Lexington Avenue was very gloomy and silent. Simon Darche, who was of course in ignorance of what had taken place, had caught cold and was confined to his bed. It was said that he was breaking down at last, and that his heart was affected. Dolly Maylands came daily and spent long hours with her friend, but not even her bright face could bring light into the house. Russell Vanbrugh and Harry Brett also came almost every day. Vanbrughhad undertaken Darche's defence, out of friendship for Marion, and it was natural that he should come. As for Brett, he could not stay away, and as Mrs. Darche seemed to have forgiven and forgotten his passionate outbreak and did not bid him discontinue his visits, he saw no reason for doing so on any other ground.
He was, on the whole, a very loyal-hearted man, and was very much ashamed of having seemed to take advantage of Marion's distress, to speak as he had spoken. But he was neither over-sensitive nor in any way morbid. Seeing that she intended to forgive him, he did not distress himself with self-accusations nor doubt that her forgiveness was sincere and complete. Besides, her present distress was so great that he felt instinctively her total forgetfulness of smaller matters, and even went so far as to believe himself forgotten. Meanwhile he watched every opportunity of helping Marion, and would have been ready at a moment's notice to do anything whatever which could have alleviated her suffering in the slightest degree. Nevertheless, he congratulated himself that he was not a criminallawyer, like Vanbrugh, and that it had not fallen to his share to defend John Darche, thief swindler, and forger. He would have done that, and more also, as Vanbrugh was doing, for Marion's sake, no doubt, but he was very glad that it could not be asked of him. It was bad enough that he should be put into the witness-box to state on his oath such facts as he could remember to Darche's advantage, and to be cross-examined and re-examined, and forced through the endless phases of torture to which witnesses are usually subjected. He was able, at least, to establish the fact that not the smallest sum had ever, so far as he knew, passed from the hands of John Darche to his wife's credit. On being asked why, as Mrs. Darche's man of business, he had not invested any of her money in the Company, he replied that his father had managed the estate before him, and that his father's prejudices and his own were wholly in favour of investment in real estate, bonds of long-established railways and first mortgages, and that Mrs. Darche had left her affairs entirely in his hands.
Marion herself gave her evidence bravely and truthfully, doing her best to speak to her husband's advantage. Her appearance and manner excited universal sympathy, to use the language of the reports of the case, but what she said did not tend in any way to exculpate John Darche. On the contrary, society learned for the first time from her lips that she had led a most unhappy life. She suffered acutely under the cross-examination. Being excessively truthful, she gave her answers without the slightest distortion of fact, while doing her best to pass over altogether any statement which could injure her husband's defence. As often happens, what she omitted to say told most heavily against him, while the little she was forced to admit concerning his father's condition amply corroborated the medical opinion of the latter's state, and proved beyond a doubt that he had been during more than a year a mere instrument in his son's hands. He, at least, was wholly innocent, and would be suffered to spend his few remaining years in the dreams of a peaceful dotage.
The court, to use the current phrase, showedMarion every consideration. That is, she was tacitly admitted from the first to have had no connection whatever with the crime of which her husband was accused. To the last, she intended to be present when the judge summed up the case, in order to help John to the end by seeming to believe in his innocence. On that very day, however, Simon Darche was so far recovered as to be able to leave his room for the first time, and her presence at his side seemed absolutely necessary. It was most important that all knowledge of what was happening should be kept from him. He was quite capable of leaving the house if left to himself, and he would certainly not have submitted to any suggestion to the contrary offered by Stubbs.
He might stroll into a club or into the house of some old friend, and some one would be sure to offer him the tactless sympathy which goes about to betray secrets. Moreover, he had been told, in explanation of John's protracted absence, that the latter had been obliged to go away on business, and he had enough memory and power of reasoning left to be surprised atreceiving no letters. He was sure to make inquiries about John, if left to his own devices. Marion could not leave him. In the midst of her extreme anxiety she was obliged to pass the greater part of the day in reading to him, and in trying to divert his mind from the thought of John and his absence. His love and mistaken admiration for his son had been the strongest feelings in his life and continued to the end.
Dolly Maylands would have been faithful to Marion under any imaginable consequences, with that whole-souled belief and trust which is girlhood's greatest charm. On the last day of the trial she came in the morning and did not leave the house again. Brett appeared at intervals and told Dolly how matters were going.
He was not a man like Vanbrugh, of very varied acquaintances and wide experience, but in certain quarters he had great influence, and on Marion's behalf he exerted it to the utmost on the present occasion. Foreseeing that the verdict must inevitably be unfavourable, and knowing of Simon Darche's great anxiety about his son's absence, Brett succeeded in obtaining an orderto bring John Darche to see his father before he should be taken back to prison after the conclusion of the trial. It was agreed that the police officers should appear dressed as civilians, and should be introduced with John to the old man's presence as men of business accompanying his son. John would then have the opportunity of quieting his father's apprehensions in regard to his future absence, and he could take leave of his wife if he wished to do so, though of course he would not be allowed to be even a moment out of his guardians' sight. The order was ostensibly granted in consideration of Simon Darche's mental infirmity, and of the danger to his health which any shock must cause, and which already existed in the shape of acute anxiety. In reality, the favour was granted as a personal one to Brett. When everything was arranged, he returned to Lexington Avenue. He found Dolly alone in the library and told her what he had done.
It was very quiet in the room, and the dusk was stealing away the last glow of the sunset that hung over the trees and houses of Gramercy Park.Dolly sat near the window, looking out, her hands clasped upon one knee, her fair young face very grave and sad. Brett paced the floor nervously.
"How kind you are!" Dolly exclaimed.
"Kind?" repeated the young man, almost indignantly, and stopping in his walk as he spoke. "Who would not do as much if he could?"
"Lots of people."
"Not of her friends—not of those who know her. It is little enough that I can do for any of them. Vanbrugh has done more than I—can do much more."
"What a fight he has made!" The ready enthusiasm rang in the girl's clear voice. Then her tone changed as she continued. "Yes," she said thoughtfully, "Marion is lucky to have such friends as you and Russell Vanbrugh."
"And you yourself, Miss Maylands."
"I? Oh, I do not count. What can a woman do on days like these? I can only stay here and try to make her feel that I am a comfortable pillow for her to lay her head upon, when she is entirely worn out. Poor Marion! She is the bravest woman I ever knew. But then—"
She stopped, hesitating, and Brett, who was almost too much excited to follow all the words she spoke, was suddenly aware that she had not finished the sentence.
"What were you going to say?" he asked, struggling desperately to remember what she had said already.
"I hardly ought—I suppose," objected Dolly. "But then—what can it matter? He is sure to be found guilty, is he not?"
"Quite sure," Brett answered slowly.
"Well then—Marion must feel that when this last agony is over she will have much more peace in her life than she has enjoyed for a long time. I wonder whether it is very wrong to say such things."
"Wrong? Why? We all think them, I am sure. At least, you and Vanbrugh and I do. As for society, I do not know what it thinks. I have not had time to ask, nor time to care, for that matter."
"I suppose everybody sympathises with Marion as we do."
"Oh, of course. Do you know? I believe shewill be more popular than before. Everything that has come out in this abominable trial has been in her favour. People realise what a life she has been living during all these years—without a complaint. Wonderful woman! That brute Darche! I wish he were to be hanged instead of sent to the Penitentiary!"
"He deserves it," answered Dolly with the utmost conviction. "I suppose Marion will get a divorce."
Again Brett stopped short in his walk and looked at her keenly. The idea had doubtless passed through his own mind, but he had not heard any one else express it as yet.
"After all," he said slowly, "there is no reason why she should not."
Then he suddenly relapsed into silence and resumed his walk.
"And then I suppose," said Dolly thoughtfully, "she would marry again."
Brett said nothing to this, but continued to pace the floor, glancing at the young girl from time to time, and meditating on the total depravity of innocence.
"She might marry Russell Vanbrugh, for instance," observed Dolly, as though talking to herself.
This was too much for Brett. For the third time he stopped and faced her.
"Why Vanbrugh, of all people?" he asked.
"Of all people, Mr. Vanbrugh, I should think," Dolly answered. "Think of what he has done, how devoted he has been in all this trouble. And then, the way she spoils him! Any one can see that she is ready to fall in love with him. If she were not as good as—as anything can be—as spring water and snow drops and angels' prayers, so to say, she would be in love with him already. But then, she is, you know."
"I cannot imagine a woman being in love with Vanbrugh," said Brett impatiently.
"Oh, can't you? I can. I thought he was your best friend."
"What has that to do with it? My best friend might be deaf and lame and blind of one eye."
"Also, he might not," said Dolly with a smile.
"Oh, well!" exclaimed Brett, turning away, "ifyou have made up your mind that Mrs. Darche is to marry Russell Vanbrugh, of course I have nothing to say. I daresay people would think it a very good match."
"With John Darche alive and in the Penitentiary?" inquired the young girl, instantly taking the opposite tack.
"As though any one could care or ask what became of him!" cried Brett, with something like indignation. "Thank heaven we are just in this country! We do not visit the sins of the blackguard upon the innocent woman he leaves behind him. Fortunately, there are no children. The very name will be forgotten, and Mrs. Darche can begin life over again."
"Whoever marries her will have to take old Mr. Darche as an incumbrance," remarked Dolly.
"Of course! Do you suppose that such a woman would leave the poor old gentleman to be taken care of by strangers? Besides, he is a beggar. He has not so much as pocket-money for his cigars. Of course Mr. Darche will stay with them. After all, it will not be so bad. He is very quiet and cheerful, and never in the way."
Brett spoke thoughtfully, in a tone which conveyed to Dolly the certainty that he had already revolved the situation of Marion's future husband in his mind.
"Tell me, Mr. Brett," she said, after a short pause, "will anybody say that she should have sacrificed her own little fortune?"
"People may say it as much as they please," answered the young man quickly. "No one will ever make me believe it."
"I thought conscientious people often did that sort of thing."
"Yes, they do. But this does not seem to me to be a case for that. The bogus certificates of stocks never really were on the market. The first that were issued excited suspicion, and proceedings began almost immediately. Whatever John Darche actually stole was practically taken from the funds of the Company. Now the Company is rich, and it was its own fault if it did not look after its affairs. In some failures, a lot of poor people suffer. That is different. It has fortunately not happened here. The stock will be depreciated for a time, but the Company will continue to existand will ultimately hold up its head again. The bonds are good enough. After all, what is stock? Lend me some money at your own risk and if I have anything I will pay you interest. If I have nothing, you get nothing. That is what stock means."
"I know," answered Dolly, whose clear little brain had long been familiar with the meanings of common business terms. "Yes, you are quite right. There is no reason why Marion should give anything of her own."
"None whatever," assented Brett.
If Dolly drew any conclusions from what Brett had said, she kept them to herself, and a long silence followed, which was broken at last by the appearance of Russell Vanbrugh, looking pale and tired. He shook hands in silence and sat down.
"I suppose it is all over?" said Dolly softly, in a tone of interrogation.
"Yes, just as we feared."
"What has he got?" inquired Brett, lowering his voice as though he feared that Marion might overhear him, though she was not in the room.
"Five years."
"Is that all?" asked the younger man almost indignantly.
Vanbrugh smiled faintly at the question.
"I am rather proud of it," he answered, "considering that I defended the case."
"True, I forgot." Brett began to walk up and down again.
Dolly looked at Vanbrugh and nodded to him with a little smile as though in approval of what he had done. He seemed pleased and grateful.
"You must be dreadfully tired," she said. "Do let me give you some tea."
"Thanks—I should like some—but some one ought to tell Mrs. Darche. Shall I? Where is she?"
"I will tell her," said Brett stopping suddenly. "I will send a message and she will come down to the drawing-room."
He went out, leaving Dolly to comfort Vanbrugh with tea, for he was far too much excited to sit down or to listen to their conversation. The whole matter might be more or less indifferent to them, whose lives could not be affected directly by Mrs. Darche's misfortunes, but he feltthat his own happiness was in the balance. He knew also that, by the arrangements he had made, John Darche would be brought to the house in the course of the next hour, before being taken back to prison for the night, and it was necessary to warn Marion and to see that the old gentleman was prepared to receive his son.
"How about old Mr. Darche?" inquired Dolly, when she and Vanbrugh were left alone.
"Every one is sorry for him," said Vanbrugh, "just as every one execrates John. I get very little credit for the defence," he added, with a dry laugh.
"How good you are!" exclaimed Dolly.
"Am I? It seems to me it was the least I could do."
"It will not seem so to every one," said Dolly.
"I would do a great deal for Mrs. Darche," said Vanbrugh.
"Yes, I know you would. You—you are very fond of her, are you not?" She turned her face away as she asked the question.
"I wish to be a good friend to her."
"And something more?" suggested Dolly, in a tone of interrogation.
"Something more?" repeated Vanbrugh, "I do not understand."
"Oh nothing! I thought you did."
"Perhaps I did. But I think you are mistaken."
"Am I?" Dolly asked, turning her face to him again. "I wish—I mean, I do not think I am."
"I am sure you are."
"This is a good deal like a puzzle game, is it not?"
"No, it is much more serious," said Vanbrugh, speaking gravely. "This is certainly not the time to talk of such things, Miss Maylands. John Darche may come at any moment, and as far as possible his father has been prepared for his coming. But that isn't it. Perhaps I had better say it at once. We have always been such good friends, you know, and I think a great deal of your good opinion, so that I do not wish you to mistake my motives. You evidently think that I am devoted—to say the least of it—to Mrs. Darche. After all, what is the use of choosing words and beat about the bush? You think I am in love with her. I should be very sorry to leave you with that impression—very, very sorry. Do you understand?"
Dolly had glanced at him several times while he had been speaking, but when he finished she looked into the fire again.
"You were in love with her once?" she said quietly.
"Perhaps; how do you know that?"
"She told me so, ever so long ago."
"She told you so?" Vanbrugh's tone betrayed his annoyance.
"Yes. Why are you angry? I am her best friend. Was it not natural that she should tell me?"
"I hardly know."
A pause followed, during which Stubbs entered the room, bringing tea. When he was gone and Dolly had filled Vanbrugh's cup she took up the conversation again.
"Are you thinking about it?" she asked, with a smile.
"About what?" Vanbrugh looked up quickly over his cup.
"Whether it was natural or not?"
"No, I was wondering whether you would still believe it."
"Why should I?" asked Dolly.
"You might. In spite of what I tell you. You know very little of my life."
"Oh, I know a great deal," said the young girl with much conviction. "I know all about you. You are successful, and rich and popular and happy, and lots of things."
"Am I?" asked Vanbrugh rather sadly.
"Yes. Everybody knows you are."
"You are quite sure that I am happy?"
"Unless you tell me that you are not."
"How oddly people judge us," exclaimed Vanbrugh. "Because a man behaves like a human being, and is not cross at every turn, and puts his shoulder to the wheel, to talk and be agreeable in society, everybody thinks he is happy."
"Of course." Dolly smiled. "If you were unhappy you would go and sit in corners by yourself and mope and be disagreeable. But you do not, you see. You are always 'on hand' as they call it, always ready to make things pleasant for everybody."
"That is because I am so good-natured."
"What is good nature?"
"A combination of laziness and vulgarity," Vanbrugh answered promptly.
"Oh!"
"Yes," said Vanbrugh. "The vulgarity that wishes to please everybody, and the laziness that cannot say no."
"You are not a lawyer for nothing. But you are not lazy and you are not vulgar. If you were I should not like you."
"Do you like me?" asked Vanbrugh quickly.
"Very much," she answered with a little laugh.
"You just made me define good nature, Miss Maylands. How do you define liking?"
"Oh, it is very vague," said Dolly in an airy tone. "It is a sort of uncly, auntly thing."
"Oh. I see."
"Do you?"
"Uncles and aunts sometimes marry, do they not?"
"What an idea? They are always brothers and sisters."
"Unless they are uncles and aunts of different people," suggested Vanbrugh.
At this point they were interrupted by theentrance of Stubbs. That dignified functionary had suffered intensely during the last few days, but his tortures were not yet over. So far as lay in his power he still maintained that absolute correctness of appearance which distinguished him from the common, or hirsute "head man"; but he could not control the colour of his face nor the expression of his eyes. He had been a footman in the house of Marion's father, in that very house in fact, and had completely identified himself with the family. Had he considered that he was in the employment of Simon and John Darche, he would have long since given notice and sought a place better suited to his eminent respectability. But having always waited upon Marion since she had been a little girl, he felt bound by all the tenets of inherited butlerdom—and by a sort of devotion not by any means to be laughed at—to stand by his young mistress through all her troubles. By this time his eyes had a permanently unsettled look in them as though he never knew what fearful sight he might next gaze upon, and the ruddy colour was slowly but certainly sinking to the collar line. Ithad already descended to the lower tips of his ears.
"Beg pardon, Miss Maylands," he said in a subdued tone, "beg pardon, sir. Mr. John has come with those gentlemen."
Both Dolly and Vanbrugh started slightly and looked up at him. Vanbrugh was the first to speak.
"Do you not think you had better go away—to Mrs. Darche?" he asked. "She may want to see you for a minute."
Dolly rose and left the room.
"I suppose they will come in here," said Vanbrugh, addressing Stubbs.
"Yes, sir," answered the butler nervously, "they are coming."
"Well—let us make the best of it."
A moment later John Darche entered the room, followed closely by three men, evidently dressed for the occasion, according to superior orders, in what, at policehead-quarters, was believed to be the height of the fashion, for they all wore light snuff-coloured overcoats, white ties, dark trousers and heavily-varnished shoes, and each had a perfectlynew high hat in his hand. They looked about the room with evident curiosity.
Darche himself was deathly pale and had grown thinner. Otherwise he was little changed. As soon as he caught sight of Vanbrugh, he came forward, extending his hand.
"I have not had a chance to thank you for your able defence," he said calmly.
"It is not necessary," answered Vanbrugh coldly, and putting his hands behind him as he leaned against the mantelpiece. "It was a matter of duty."
"Very well," said John Darche stiffly, and drawing back a step. "If you do not want to shake hands we will treat it as a matter of business."
"He is pretty fresh, ain't he?" remarked one of the officers in an undertone to his neighbour.
"You bet he is," answered the other.
"Now I have got to see the old gentleman," said Darche, speaking to Vanbrugh. "Before I go, I would like to have a word with you. There is no objection to my speaking privately to Mr. Vanbrugh, I suppose?" he inquired, turning to the officer.
"Not if you stay in the room," answered the one who took the lead.
Darche nodded to Vanbrugh, who somewhat reluctantly followed him to the other end of the room.
"I say," he began in a tone not to be overheard by the detectives. "Can you not give me another chance?"
"What sort of chance?" replied Vanbrugh, raising his eyebrows.
"If I could get through that door," said John looking over Vanbrugh's shoulder, "I could get away. I know the house and they do not. Presently, when my father comes, if you could create some sort of confusion for a moment, I could slip out. They will never catch me. There is an Italian sailing vessel just clearing. I have had exact information. If I can get through that door I can be in the Sixth Avenue Elevated in three minutes and out of New York Harbour in an hour."
Vanbrugh had no intention of being a party to the escape. He met Darche's eyes coldly as he answered.
"No, I will not do it. I have defended you in open court, but I am not going to help you evade the law."
"Do not be too hard, Vanbrugh," said Darche, in a tone of entreaty. "Things are not half so bad as they are made out."
"If that is true, I am sorry. But you have had a perfectly fair trial."
"Will you not help me get away?" Darche urged knowing that this was his last chance.
"No."
"Vanbrugh," said John in an insinuating tone, "you used to be fond of my wife. You wanted to marry her."
"What has that to do with it?" asked Vanbrugh turning sharply upon him.
"You may marry her and welcome, if you let me get through that door. I shall never be heard of again."
"You infernal scoundrel!" Vanbrugh was thoroughly disgusted. "Now gentlemen," he said, turning to the officer in charge, "I will bring Mr. Darche here to see his son. I am sure that for the old gentleman's sake, out of mere humanity,you will do the best you can to keep up the illusion we have arranged. He is old and his mind wanders. He will scarcely notice your presence."
"Yes, sir," the man answered. "You may trust us to do that, sir. Now then, boys," he said, addressing his two companions, "straighten up, best company manners, stiff upper lip—keep your eye on the young man. He is rather too near that door for my taste."
John Darche's face expressed humiliation and something almost approaching to despair. He was about to make another attempt, and had moved a step towards Vanbrugh, when he suddenly started a little and stood still. Marion stood in the open door beyond three detectives. She touched one of them on the shoulder as a sign that she wished to pass.
"Pardon me, lady," said the man, drawing back. "Anything that we can do for you?"
"I am Mrs. Darche. I wish to speak to my husband."
"Certainly, madam," and all three made way for her.
She went straight to her husband, and stood before him at the other end of the room, speaking in a low voice.
"Is there anything I can do for you, John?" she asked so that he could barely hear her.
"You can help me to get away—if you will." John Darche's eyes fell before hers.
She gazed at him during several seconds, hesitating, perhaps, between her sense of justice and her desire to be faithful to her husband to the very end.
"Yes, I will," she said briefly.
Before she spoke again she turned quite naturally, as though in hesitation, and satisfied herself that the three men were out of hearing. Vanbrugh, perhaps suspecting what was taking place, had engaged them in conversation near the door.
"How?" she asked, looking at John again. "Tell me quickly."
"Presently, when my father comes, get as many people as you can. Let me be alone for a moment. Make some confusion, upset something, anything will do. Give me a chance to get through the door into the library."
"I will try. Is that all?"
"Thank you," said John Darche, and for one moment a look of something like genuine gratitude passed over his hard face. "Yes, that is all. You will be glad to get rid of me."
Marion looked one moment longer, hesitated, said nothing and turned away.
"If you have no objections," said Vanbrugh addressing the officer in charge, "we will take Mr. Darche to his father's room instead of asking him to come here."
"Yes, sir," answered the detective. "We can do that."
As they were about to leave the room, Brett met them at the door. He paused a moment and looked about. Then he went straight to Vanbrugh.
"Has he seen him yet?" he asked.
"No, we are just going," answered Vanbrugh.
"Can I be of any use?"
"Stay with Mrs. Darche."
"Shall we go?" he asked, turning to John.
"How brave you are!" exclaimed Brett when they were alone.
"Does it need much courage?" asked Marion, sinking into a chair. "I do not know. Perhaps."
"I know that there are not many men who could bear all this as well as you do," Brett answered, and there was a little emotion in his face.
"Men are different. Mr. Brett—" she began after a short pause.
"Yes, do you want to ask me something?"
"Yes, something that is very hard to ask. Something that you will refuse."
"That would be hard indeed."
"Will you promise not to be angry?" asked Marion faintly.
"Of course I will," Brett answered.
"Do not be so sure. Men's honour is such a strange thing. You may think what I am going to ask touches it."
"What is it?"
He sat down beside her and prepared to listen.
"Will you help my husband to escape?" asked Marion in a whisper. "No—do not say it. Wait until I tell you first how it can be done. Presently I will get them all into this room. Old Mr.Darche is too ill to come, I am afraid. You have not spoken alone to John yet. Take him aside and bring him close to this door on pretence of exchanging a few words. I will make a diversion of some sort at the other end of the room and as they all look round he can slip out. If he has one minute's start they will never see him again. Will you do it?"
"You were right," said Brett gravely. "It is a hard thing to ask."
"Will you do it?"
"It is criminal," he answered.
"Will you do it?"
"For God's sake, give me time to think!" He passed his hand over his eyes.
"There is no time," said Marion anxiously. "Will you do it for me?"
"How can I? how can I?"
"You told me that you loved me the other day—will you do it for my sake?"
A change came over Brett's face.
"For your sake?" he asked in an altered tone. "Do you mean it?"
"Yes. For my sake."
"Very well. I will do it." He turned a little pale and closed one hand over the other.
"Thank you—thank you, Harry." Her voice lingered a little, as she pronounced his name. "Stay here. I will make them come. It is of no use to leave them there. It is a mere formality, at best."
"I am ready," said Brett, rising.
Marion left her seat, and crossing the room again tried the door in question to satisfy herself that it would open readily. She looked out into the passage beyond and then came back, and passing Brett without a word left the room.
She was not gone long, and during the minutes of her absence Brett tried hard not to think of what he was going to do. He could not but be aware that it was a desperately serious matter to help a convicted criminal to escape. He thought of the expression he had seen on Marion's face when he had promised to do it, and of the soft intonation of her sweet voice, and he tried to think of nothing else.
In a moment more she was in the room again leading old Mr. Darche forward, his arm linkedin hers. John came in on his father's other side, while Vanbrugh and the three officers followed.
"I understand, I understand, my boy," cried old Darche in his cheery voice. "It is a grand thing."
John was very pale as he answered, and was evidently making a great effort to speak lightly.
"Yes, of course. It has turned out much simpler than we expected, however, thanks to your immense reputation, father. Without your name we could not have done it, could we, gentlemen?" he asked, turning to the detectives as though appealing to them.
"No, guess not," answered the three together.
"Good God, what a scene!" exclaimed Brett under his breath.
"Mr. Brett," said Marion approaching him. "You said you wanted to speak to my husband. Now you must tell me all about it, father," she continued, drawing the old gentleman towards the fire. "I do not half understand in all this confusion."
"Why it is as plain as day, child," said Simon Darche, ever ready to explain a matter of business."The second mortgage of a million and a half to square everything. Come here, come close to the fire, my hands are cold. I think I must have been ill."
"You would never think Mr. Darche had been ill, would you, gentlemen?" asked Marion, appealing again to the detectives.
"No, guess not," they answered in chorus.
Meanwhile Brett led Darche across the room, talking to him in a loud tone until they were near the door.
"Your wife will make some diversion presently," he whispered. "I do not know how. When she does, make for that door and get out."
"Thank you, thank you," said John with genuine fervour, and his face lighted up. "God bless you, Brett!"
"Do not thank me," answered Brett roughly. "I do not want to do it. Thank your wife."
"Oh!" exclaimed John Darche, and his eyelids contracted. "My wife! Is it for her?"
"Yes."
"I will remember that. I will remember it as long as I live."
Brett never forgot the look which accompanied the words.
"Well, be grateful to her anyhow," he said.
At that moment a piercing scream rang through the room. Marion Darche, while talking to her father-in-law, had been standing quite close to the fire. When Brett turned his head the front of her dress was burning with a slow flame and she was making desperate efforts to tear it from her.
"Good Heavens, you are really burning!" cried Brett as he crushed the flaming stuff with his bare hands, regardless of the consequences to himself.
"Did you think that I cried out in fun?" asked Marion calmly.
On hearing his wife's cry John Darche had bestowed but one glance upon her. It mattered but little to him that she was really on fire. The detectives had rushed to her assistance and for one moment no one was looking. He was close to the door. A moment later he had left the room and turned the key behind him.
"My God!" exclaimed the officer in charge, suddenly. "He has gone! Run, boys! Stop! One of you take the old one. We will not lose them both."
Old Darche started as though he had suddenly been waked out of a deep sleep, and his voice rang out loud and clear.
"Hey, what is this?" he cried. "Hello! Detectives in my house? Disguised too?"
"Yes, sir," answered one of the detectives, seizing him by the wrist just as the other two left the room in pursuit of John Darche. "And one of them has got you."
"Got me!" roared the old man. "Hands off, there! What do you mean? Damn you, sir, let me go!"
"Oh, well," replied the officer calmly, "if you are going to take on like that, you may just as well know that your son was tried and convicted for forgery to-day. Not that I believe that you had anything to do with it, but he is a precious rascal all the same, and has escaped from your house—"
"I!Forgery?The man is mad! John, where are you? Brett! Vanbrugh! Help me, gentlemen!"
He appealed to Brett, and then to Vanbrugh who, indeed, was doing his best to draw the officer away.
"No, no," answered the latter firmly. "I've got one of them—it's all in the family."
Though Marion's dress was still smouldering and Brett was on his knees trying to extinguish the last spark with his own hands, she forgot her own danger, and almost tearing herself away from Brett she clasped the policeman's hand trying to drag it from Simon Darche's shoulder.
"Oh, sir," she cried in tearful entreaty, "pray let him go! He is innocent—he is ill! He will not think of escaping. Don't you see that we have kept it all from him?"
"Kept it all from me?" asked the old gentleman fiercely turning upon her. "What do you mean? Where is John? Where is John? I say!"
"In handcuffs by this time I guess," said the detective calmly.
"But I insist upon knowing what all this means," continued old Darche, growing more and more excited, while the veins of his temples swelled to bursting. "Forgery! Trial! Conviction! John escaping! Am I dreaming? Are not you three directors of the other road? Good God,young man, speak!" He seized Brett by the collar in his excitement.
"Pray be calm, sir, pray be calm," answered the young man, trying to loosen the policeman's sturdy grasp.
By a tremendous effort, such as madmen make in supreme moments, the old man broke loose, and seizing Marion by the wrist dragged her half across the room while he spoke. "Tell me this thing is all a lie!" he cried, again and again.
"The lady knows the truth well enough, sir," said the policeman, coming up behind him. "She caught fire just right."
For one moment Simon Darche stood upright in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other with wild frightened eyes.
"Oh, it is true!" he cried in accents of supreme agony. "John has disgraced himself! Oh, my son, my son!"
One instant more, and the light in his eyes broke, he threw out his arms and fell straight backwards against the detective. Simon Darche was dead.
There was no lack of sympathy for Marion Darche, and it was shown in many ways during the period of calm which succeeded her husband's disappearance and the sudden death of his father. Every one was anxious to be first in showing the lonely woman that she was not alone, but that, on the contrary, those who had been her friends formerly were more ready than ever to proclaim the fact now, and, so far as they were able, not in words only, but in deeds also.
She was relieved, all at once, of the many burdens which had oppressed her life during the past years—indeed, she sometimes caught herself missing the constant sacrifice, the daily effort of subduing her temper, the hourly care for the doting old man who was gone.
But with all this, there was the consciousness that she was not altogether free. Somewhere in the world, John Darche was still alive, a fugitive,a man for whose escape a reward was offered. It was worse than widowhood to be bound to a husband who was socially dead. It would have been easier to bear if he had never escaped, and if he were simply confined in the Penitentiary. There would not have been the danger of his coming back stealthily by night, which Marion felt was not imaginary so long as he was at large.
Yet she made no effort to obtain a divorce from the man whose name was a disgrace. On the contrary, so far as outward appearances were concerned, she made no change, or very little, in her life. Public opinion had been with her from the first, and society chose to treat her as a young widow, deserving every sympathy, who when the time of mourning should have expired, would return to the world, and open her doors to it.
There was a great deal of speculation as to the reasons which prevented her from taking steps to free herself, but no one guessed what really passed in her mind, any more than the majority of her acquaintances understood that she had once loved John Darche. It had been commonly said foryears that she had married him out of disappointment because something had prevented her from marrying another man, usually supposed to have been Russell Vanbrugh. People attributed to her a greater complication of motives than she could have believed possible.
In order not to be altogether alone, she took a widowed cousin to live with her—a Mrs. Willoughby, who soon became known to her more intimate friends as Cousin Annie. She was a gray, colourless woman, much older than Marion, kind of heart but not very wise, insignificant but refined, a moral satisfaction and an intellectual disappointment, accustomed to the world, but not understanding it, good by nature and charitable, and educated in religious forms to which she clung by habit and association rather than because they represented anything to her. Cousin Annie was one of those fortunate beings whom temptation overlooks, passing by on the other side, who can suffer in a way for the loss of those dear to them, but whose mourning does not reach the dignity of sorrow, nor the selfish power of grief.
Marion did not feel the need of a more complicated and gifted individuality for companionship. On the contrary, it was a relief to her to have some one at her side for whom she was not expected to think, but who, on the contrary, thought for her in all the commonplace matters of life, and never acted otherwise than as a normal, natural, human unit. There had been enough of the unusual in the house in Lexington Avenue, and Marion was glad that it was gone.
Three months passed in this way and the spring was far advanced. Then, suddenly and without warning, came the news that John Darche had been heard of, traced, seen at last and almost captured. He had escaped once more and this time he had escaped, for ever, by his own act. He had jumped overboard in the English Channel from the Calais boat, and his body had not been found.
Mrs. Darche wore black for her husband, and Cousin Annie said it was very becoming. Dolly Maylands thought it absurd to put on even the appearance of mourning for such a creature, and said so.
"My dear child," answered Marion gently, "he was my husband."
"I never can realise it," said Dolly. "Do you remember, I used to ask you if you did not sometimes forget it yourself?"
"I never forgot it." Mrs. Darche's voice had a wonderful gravity in it, without the least sadness. She was a woman without affectation.
"No," said Dolly thoughtfully, "I suppose you never had a chance. It is of no use, Marion dear," she added after a little pause, and in a different tone, as though she were tired of pretending a sort of subdued sympathy, "it is of no use at all! I can never be sorry, you know—so that ends it. Why, just think! You are free to marry any one you please, to begin life over again. How many women in your position ever had such a chance? Not but what you would have been just as free if you had got a divorce. But—somehow, this is much more solidly satisfactory. Yes, I know—it is horrid and unchristian—but there is just that—there is a solid satisfaction in—"
She was going to say "in death," but thought better of it and checked herself.
"It will not make very much difference to me just yet," said Marion. "Meanwhile, as I said, he was my husband. I shall wear mourning a short time, and then—then I do not know what I shall do."
"It must be very strange," answered Dolly.
"What, child?"
"Your life. Now you need not call me child in that auntly tone, as though you were five hundred thousand years older and wiser and duller than I am. There are not six years between our ages, you know."
"Do not resent being young, Dolly."
"Resent it! No, indeed! I resent your way of making yourself out to be old. In the pages of future history we shall be spoken of as contemporaries."
Mrs. Darche smiled, and Dolly laughed.
"School-book style," said the girl. "That is my morning manner. In the evening I am quite different, thank goodness! But to go back—what I meant was that your own life must seem very strange to you. To have loved really—of course you did—why should you deny it? Andthen to have made the great mistake and to have married the wrong man, and to have been good and to have put up the shutters of propriety and virtue—so to say, and to have kept up a sort of Sunday-go-to-meeting myth for years, expecting to do it for the rest of your life, and then—to have the luck—well, no, I did not mean to put it that way—but to begin life all over again, and the man you loved not married yet, and just as anxious to marry you as ever—"
"Stop, Dolly! How do you know?" Marion knit her brows in annoyance.
"Oh! I know nothing, of course. I can only guess. But then, it is easy to guess, sometimes."
"I am not so sure," answered Marion thoughtfully, and looking at Dolly with some curiosity.
As for Brett, he said nothing to any one, when the news of John Darche's death reached New York. He supposed that people would take it for granted that in the course of time he would marry Marion, because the world knew that he had formerly loved her, and that she had made a mistake in not accepting him and would probably be quite willing to rectify it now that shewas free. There had always been a certain amount of inoffensive chaff about his devotion to her interests. But he himself was very far from assuming that she would take him now. He knew her better than the world did, and understood the unexpected hesitations and revulsions of which she was capable, much better than the world could.
He took a hopeful view, however, as was natural. For the present he waited and said nothing. If she chose to go through the form of mourning, he would go through the form of respecting it while it lasted. Society is the better for most of its conventionalities, a fact of which one may easily assure oneself by spending a little time in circles that make bold to laugh at appearances. A man may break the social barriers for a great object's sake, or out of true passion—as sheer necessity may force a man to sleep by the road side. But a man who habitually makes his bed in the gutter by choice is a madman, and one who thinks himself above manners and conventionalities is generally a fool. There is nothing more intolerable than eccentricityfor its own sake, nor more pitiful than the perpetual acting of it to a gallery that will not applaud.
For some time Brett continued to come and see Marion regularly, and she did not hesitate to show him that he was as welcome as ever. Then, without any apparent cause, his manner changed. He became much more grave than he had ever been before, and those who knew him well were struck by an alteration in his appearance, not easily defined at first, but soon visible to any one. He was growing pale and thin.
Vanbrugh strolled into his office on a warm day in early June and sat down for a chat. Brett's inner sanctum was in the Equitable Building, measured twelve feet by eight, and was furnished so as to leave a space of about six feet by four in the middle, just enough for two chairs and the legs of the people who sat in them. Vanbrugh looked at his friend and came to the just conclusion that something was materially wrong with him.
"Brett," he said, suddenly, "let us run over to Paris."
"I cannot leave New York at present," Brett answered, without hesitation, as though he had already considered the question of going abroad.
"Not being able to leave New York is a more or less dangerous disease which kills a great many people," observed Vanbrugh. "You must leave New York, whether you can or not. I do not know whether you are ill or not, but you look like an imperfectly boiled owl."
"I know I do. I want a change."
"Then come along."
"No, I cannot leave New York. I am not joking, my dear fellow."
"I see you are not. I suppose it is of no use to ask what is the matter. If you wanted help you would say so. You evidently have something on your mind. Anything I can do?"
"No, I wish there were. I will tell you some day. It is something rather odd and unusual."
Brett was not an imaginative man, or Vanbrugh, judging from his appearance and manner, would almost have suspected that he was suffering from some persecution not quite natural or earthly. He had the uneasy glance of a man who fancieshimself haunted by a sight he fears to see. Vanbrugh looked at him a long time in silence and then rose to go.
"I am sorry, old man," he said, with something almost like a sigh. "You live too much alone," he added, turning as he was about to open the door. "You ought to get married."
Brett smiled in rather a ghastly fashion which did not escape his friend.
"I cannot leave New York," he repeated mechanically.
"Perhaps you will before long," said Vanbrugh, going out. "I would if I were you."
He went away in considerable perplexity. Something in Brett's manner puzzled him and almost frightened him. As a lawyer, and one accustomed to dealing with the worst side of human nature, he was inclined to play the detective for a time; as a friend, he resolved not to inquire too closely into a matter which did not concern him. In fact, he had already gone further than he had intended. Only a refined nature can understand the depth of degradation to which curiosity can reduce friendship.
A day or two later Vanbrugh met Dolly Maylands at a house in Tuxedo Park where he had come to dine and spend the night. There were enough people at the dinner to insure a little privacy to those who had anything to say to one another.
"Brett is ill," said Vanbrugh. "Do you know what is the matter with him?"
"I suppose Marion has refused him after all," answered Dolly, looking at her plate.
Vanbrugh glanced at her face and thought she was a little pale. He remembered the conversation when they had been left together in the library after John Darche's trial, and was glad that he had then spoken cautiously, for he connected her change of colour with himself, by a roundabout and complicated reasoning more easy to be understood than to explain.
"Perhaps she has," he said coolly. "But I do not think it is probable."
"Mr. Brett does not go to see her any more."
"Really? Are you sure of that, Miss Maylands?"