Geoff spent exactly a week in the East, where the money Margaret gave to him was judiciously used as the basis for certain operations of a shady nature, and he took to himself several large sums on which he had no shadow of a claim, viewed even from the broad latitudes of sport.
With this influx of wealth he had proceeded to enjoy himself, which duty discharged, he did what his sister had feared he would do, he came and overran the Perkins' household. He brought with him a valet, an accomplished rascal meagerly patterned on his master's more splendid dimensions. This, coupled to the many airs he gave himself, sufficed for a local sensation and Geoff's vanity was pleased in the supremest degree. To be stared at and to excite wide-eyed admiration and envy was one of the pinnacles of bliss he liked to scale when luck was with him. When it was not, he was more than content to slink through several grades of shabby genteel ruffianism, attracting just as little notice as possible. There were four people, however, who refused to accept him at the current valuation, and Perkins led the list—Perkins, who watched him as a cat does a mouse, and who fell foul of him innumerable times each day: while Mrs. Perkins, mindful of Russell's revelations, tried hard, but failed miserably, to be hospitable.
Nor did Philip and the prodigal prove congenial. They amused themselves by a frequent interchange of scantily veiled insults, staying perpetually and perilously near downright trouble of the head-breaking sort.
But the most pronounced ill will was felt by Franz.
No man fancies seeing the woman he loves controlled and commanded, with scant appreciation of her rights, by another, even when that other is her brother. This Franz had to witness, and his soul was not particularly prolific in patience either.
Just how often in the course of an evening he would have liked to take Geoff by the throat rose nightly into a handsome aggregate, for the impulse flourished mightily.
As for Geoff, his selfishness was on the alert. His sister had never known young men and here were three, and of the three, one was unmistakably in love with her, and supposing she should marry again. The thought was like a chilly devil. It gave him the shivers. Clearly Margaret must be removed from the Perkins' home and the Perkins' influence.
Fortunately, at this juncture, Madame Dennie's bankers in Paris forwarded a considerable sum of money, and notwithstanding his many resolutions to the contrary he permitted his habits to get the better of his purpose and with the major portion of the remittance in his possession, vanished from the quiet he had threatened to disturb.
Then was experienced a sense of relief by all. They had been happy until he came. Margaret had imparted to their intercourse the charm of refinement—the gentlest of companionship, and this is the best of friendship and the best of love.
It was a night or so after Geoff's departure. Perkins and Franz were in the library waiting for Margaret to join them. The former was worthily engaged in an attempt to improve the passing moments by vitriolic comments upon the morals of the profligate, a singularly congenial theme with him. He had aired his grievance against Geoff, and was basking in the agreeable glow of Franz's approval, when the door opened and Margaret entered the room. On seeing her he cried as if in astonishment:
“Why! What———-”
For Margaret was gowned entirely in some soft white fabric. He had never seen her in anything but black.
“Why!—I say—” It was Perkins who spoke, surveying her with the greatest admiration. “I say, you never looked half so dear or beautiful!”
Perkins was a privileged character, and said a good deal the rest could not but wish they might.
“Now,” he began again plaintively, “I call this rough—very rough, indeed. I've got to go to the Monroes' and say good-by to Bessie's sister and her two young ones... but, I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour. You see, to-night her sister and the two young ones go home and I have rashly agreed to see that they get safely started on their journey. I don't and didn't want to do this, but Bessie's mother said it would be a nice thing for me to do, and she is a woman you can't say no to. One of these days I must tell you about Bessie's mother, as she is the most remarkable lady of my acquaintance. She is always wanting a franchise. When it isn't a franchise it's an amendment and that's something you add to something else to make it different. She is interested in abolishing whatever she disapproves of, which I think myself would be a fine way to get rid of what you don't like. She is a member of more societies than I can recall, and she won't wear song-birds in her hat—you simply couldn't induce her to. I think if she could she would manage everybody's business except her own, which doesn't interest her. It is currently reported that she talked Mr. Monroe, who was a very superior man with a cork leg, straight into his coffin—from all accounts the place for him, because he drank like a fish. I assure you it's with the utmost difficulty that I keep her from calling on you. I don't think I ever mentioned it, but where Bessie and her mother are concerned I am but little better than ripened fruit. Now I must go.”
And before Margaret could reply to his outburst, Perkins was gone.
Franz had seated himself at the piano, idly fingering the keys. Margaret had taken her place beside the fire. She was rather wishing that Mrs. Perkins, who had slipped out an hour before, “to be gone five minutes,” would return.
All at once, Franz turning from the piano, looked at her as if trying to solve some problem.
Was she still absorbed by thoughts of the past, or did the present speak louder to her? Did her change of dress bear any significance... could she possibly forget the social barriers that stood between them? What a fool he was not to know more of woman's ways. All the locked secrets of her heart were hidden from him, he could but guess and wonder.
“Won't you play for me?” Margaret asked.
It was a new experience, that of being left alone with Becker; she was not quite easy in it. Franz turned to the keyboard. “What would you like to have me play?” he asked.
“Whatever you are in the mood for.”
Franz's fingers rested caressingly upon the keys. “I shall improvise for you.”
Then low and soft, as though each note was a love word, he began—his fingers shaping into sound his thoughts. As he played these changed from doubt to certainty and the blood rushed tingling through his veins.
The all but imperceptible rustle of Margaret's dress caused him to look up. The song of doubt, entreaty and of triumph stopped abruptly. She was standing at his side, pale and breathless, as though drawn there by a spell.
Then the red burned upon her cheeks—she would have turned away.
“Don't go! Don't leave me—you must not! Not until I know!”
He caught one of her hands into his own and held it firmly, but she offered no resistance.
“You must tell me now—now,” he said. “I can wait no longer, Margaret!—Margaret!”
“What shall I tell you?” she asked in tones so low he could scarcely hear. It gave him courage as hers seemed to ebb, for she was pale and trembling.
“That you love me!” he cried, “that you love me, Margaret! That you love me and will be my wife.” And he drew her into his arms. “Margaret! Margaret!” repeating her name in an ecstacy of delight. “Is it so? Do you love me, dear?”
She put up her hand appealingly as if she entreated him to say no more.
Slowly he loosed his arms from about her and she sank down into a chair, while Franz regarded her with a troubled brow.
“Let me think!” she gasped. “Oh! let me think!” Then sadly: “I have lost my friend. I am so sorry—so sorry.”
“Yes,” Franz answered steadily, “you must choose now and forever between your friend and your lover.”
On the table beside Margaret's chair lay the book she had been reading that afternoon. A black bordered handkerchief was visible where it rested in the leaves of the half-opened volume marking her place. In their nervous wanderings her eyes fell upon it and their roving glance was instantly arrested.
The memory of what had been fell like a cloud, blotting out the present.
Franz saw the handkerchief, too, saw that she shrank from it. He stretched forth his hand and took up the bit of black and white. He held it in his tightened grasp until it was a crushed and crumpled heap in his broad palm, then it was dropped to be whirled up in momentary brightness by the fire.
Margaret gave a little cry. What it meant he knew, for it was glad, free and bouyant, as if a load had been lifted from her by the single act.
She put out her arms and Franz sank down on his knees before her. A new feeling surged into his heart. He had felt a man's desire for possession—now, when the victory was won, this was changed to infinite tenderness. He looked up into her face and saw what a woman's love was like, and he was well content.
“Margaret,” he said, “Margaret, has it all ended—the past? Has the new day dawned for us—for both of us?”
And Margaret, her hand resting on his shoulder, answered, “Yes.”
How long they were together after that neither of them knew. The happy moments are those that are never counted. Only misery has time to note the flight of time and to curse its slowness, grumbling at the lagging seconds.
But she had space to tell him of the life she had lived, the life that took its place that night with the things to be forgotten.
Perkins, returning from seeing his friends started on their journey, chanced to open the library door quietly and saw something which he subsequently described to Philip as “paralyzing.”
His face grew very red—so red, that the freckles on it looked white and sickly by comparison.
He closed the door softly and tiptoed to the opposite side of the hall where he stood for a long time lost in profound thought. He might have stood there for an indefinite period had he not heard some one come up the steps and fumble around in the outer darkness for the bell.
It was Philip, and before he succeeded in finding what he was searching for, the door was opened by young Perkins who, seizing him by the neck, whispered hoarsely in his ear:
“Don't utter a sound! Don't!—or I shall strangle you on the spot.”
With no further explanation Philip was dragged back through the hall—Perkins executing a wild dance the while—and up to Perkins' apartments. Here he was relinquished from his friend's forceful grasp, becoming once more a free agent.
“What's got into you, Perkins?” he asked, adjusting his collar and cravat.
“It's settled!” Perkins said excitedly; “they have arranged it—and here I figured all along that I should have to do it for them, which just shows what a billy-goat I am. Aren't you glad, old fellow?”
“Look here, Perkins,” Philip remonstrated reproachfully, “why don't you tell me what you are talking about?”
“You fool! Haven't you got any sense?—Franz has gone and done it!”
Whereat, instead of being offended at such unusual language as applied to himself, Philip clutched Perkins much as Perkins had previously clutched him and they danced madly back and forth across the room.
“I pledge you my sacred word of honor,” Perkins managed to gasp in the midst of their careering, “I pledge you my sacred word of honor I felt as though I should faint—actually faint. I was paralyzed.”
“Why, see here!” and Philip came to a stand, struck by an idea he had long cherished but had lost sight of for the moment—“I thought you were in love with her yourself.”
“So I am. I adore her! positively adore her, you know, but what's a fellow to do when he feels himself thoroughly unworthy, like the dust beneath her feet?”
He folded his fat hands resignedly over the central region of his plump person—their favorite resting-place.
“You see, Philip, I could never satisfy her as Franz can and will; besides it's the most monstrous presumption to imagine even that she could care for a badly freckled specimen like myself. Dear old Franz! he will have his opportunity now, for you know she is very rich, has something tremendous a year, and she will gain a defender who will protect her from that blackguard of a brother of hers. Altogether, it is too lovely for words—quite ideal, you know.”
Philip looked at him admiringly. “I declare you are a good little beggar!”
Perkins winced at the adjective “little”. He did not like it applied to himself. He shook his head reflectively.
“My dear fellow, it could never have been me—and, too, there is Bessie. It has become solely a question of ripened fruit between us. Besides”—manfully—“I have from the first considered Margaret as so far above me that I have never wearied in my affection for Bessie—or her mother,” he made haste to add.
Philip laughed.
“Particularly her mother.”
“I simply include Mrs. Monroe, because it is impossible to leave her out. She is so accustomed to mixing in things.”
“I suppose they will live abroad pretty much,” Philip said. “It's the place for Franz.”
“I say,” Perkins burst out blankly, “that's so, isn't it? You know she thinks him a great composer.”
“And so he is,” Philip replied.
Perkins gazed at him mournfully, blinking his eyes, and when he spoke it was in gloomy accents.
“He will take her away, won't he? Having her here forever is all up. Do you know I hadn't thought of that—not till this minute. Really, it very much distresses me, just the mere thought.” Vouching for the truth of what he said, a tear trickled languidly down his nose, and after hanging reluctant upon its very tip as though undecided as to its ultimate course, fell to his clasped hands where it glistened like a dewdrop in May.
“I—this is very overpowering. I had lost sight of the future entirely in my great pleasure at what has taken place. Bless me! I never speculated on the results—never once.”
He raised his glance pathetically to his friend's face. “It's a damn poor showing for cousins, isn't it?”
The round face with its stubby fringe and blinking eyes shaded by their colorless lashes destroyed Philip's gravity.
“Why don't you get them to adopt you?” he said.
“Do you fancy they would?”—with a gleam of hope. Then as he saw the smile playing about the corners of Philip's mouth: “You are jollying. Please don't, old fellow—not now.”
“We shall have to get our comfort from the belief that this is for their great good,” Philip said.
“So we must,” Perkins acquiesced cheerfully. “What a disgusting pig I am to think of myself when they are so happy.”
Later, on going down-stairs, they encountered
Franz and Margaret in the hall, and Philip, glancing at Margaret as she stood just beneath the tempered light falling from the chandelier, decided he had never seen any one so beautiful—except Barbara, who was incomparable. He divined that now to her, life seemed to hold much—to be so fine a gift.
The two young men left the house together. Philip at first tried to talk, but Becker made his replies with such indifference that he soon abandoned the trial as useless.
Franz's elation was scarcely concealed by his silence or his reserve. It spoke in the exultant heaving of his breast, in his quick elastic step, in his every movement. As they came to his door he broke the silence with:
“I shall go on with you, Philip, and see you home.”
“As you like, old fellow,” Philip answered.
No more was said until they bade each other good night.
Franz turned back alone—but not to retrace his steps. Instead he rambled through the streets of the sleeping town—to find himself—he knew not how, a dozen times beneath her window. So he wore out the night, and when at last the day broke, it found him going in the direction of his home.
Philip was looking from his window out upon the street where the first snows of winter lay slowly melting in the sunshine, when a cab rattled up through the mud and slush. It stopped before the house and his interest became active.
“It's the saintly Anson! This is, indeed, penance for my sins.”
Almost with the thought Anson stepped from the cab and was followed by a gentleman who had no small trouble in wriggling through the narrow door.
Philip, with a groan of disgust, recognized the junior member of the firm employing his brother.
“As if Anson were not affliction enough,” he thought, “he brings Mr. Hale to bore us—especially me, by prosy recitals of his own worth.”
He promptly put himself beyond his brother's range of vision, as he wished to avoid the necessity of going down-stairs until the last moment.
He resumed his work, and for an hour or more wrote steadily on, then he threw down his pen and was resting his eyes, his hands before them, when the door opened and his mother entered the room. He knew who it was without looking up, since she was the only one of all the family who ever invaded his privacy.
“What is it, mother?” he asked.
“May I see you, Philip? Are you very busy?”
There was something in her voice that caused him to glance around quickly. “Why, what is it, mother?”
He left his chair and went to her side. He saw that her face was red and swollen as though from much weeping. “What is it, dear?” He put his arms about her. “Does Anson bring bad news of any sort?”
By a sudden gesture she freed herself from his embrace, covering her face with her apron.
“Oh! Philip, it's awful.” And she began to cry softly.
“But what is it—why don't you tell me?”
He tried to draw the apron away that he might see her face again, but she resisted his gentle force.
“What is it, dear? Is it Anson—is he ill?”
“It's worse than that! Oh! a million times worse!”
At her words the desperate sickening feeling begotten of some great and unknown calamity, the forerunner of actual knowledge, came into his heart.
“You must tell me, mother, or how can I ever help you?”
“I shall, only wait a minute until I am calm, for you must know—and you must save him!”
“I save him! What do you mean? What has happened to him?”
“You won't blame him? Promise me you won't be hard, now before I tell you. That you won't say of think unkind things of him? Promise me, promise me, Philip!” For he had hesitated.
“I promise, mother, for your sake.”
“No! no! for his own.”
“For his sake then. It is all one.”
“It is difficult to tell even you, Philip.”
He put his arms about her once more. “There, you don't mind me, you know,” he said tenderly. “Dear little mother, so brave and good, you really can't mean you mind me?”
It was in a hushed strained voice, as though she feared the shameful secret she had to confide would find a listener in the very air, that she told Philip of his brother's fall from grace.
“He has taken money from the firm. A thousand dollars. It was not stealing.” She was quick to shield him. “He expected—he fully expected to pay it back, down to the last penny, but the amount grew and grew, and soon it was beyond him. He meant to be honest. He has been so good always, no one would dare accuse him of stealing. You know it was not; say it was not! Say you don't think it!”
She had given way utterly to her grief, and to quiet her he said:
“Of course it wasn't stealing.”
“There!” reassured and rendered almost happy. “There, I knew you would understand. Why, even Mr. Hale speaks of it in the kindest way. He knows Anson to be perfectly reliable—he doesn't dare question it. Everybody knows how good he is, he wouldn't think of doing wrong. He has explained it all. At first he took the money as an advance upon his salary and then the indebtedness grew. He was never able to make good what he had borrowed. It was so easy to take what he needed—so easy to think he could repay it. He meant to do what was right: I am sure of this. If I were not it would kill me.” She paused for an instant. “It was unfair to put such a pitfall in any man's path, no matter how honest. It was unjust, and they should suffer, but—but”—looking up appealingly into his face—“we must save Anson, must we not? For if we don't—he will be arrested and then every one will know. The whole town. Think of the disgrace—the awful humiliation! We must save him. He is your brother, and deep in your heart you love him. Say you do!”
Philip, looking at her, bowed, broken, crushed, scarcely daring to raise her eyes to his, answered that he loved his brother, but in his soul he cursed him for the suffering he had caused.
“Mr. Hale assures me that if the money is returned at once, it shall be kept a secret—not even the girls need know. You are the only one who can do this, Philip. It all rests with you. Will you save him?”
“For his own sake and for yours—but, most of all for yours, dear, yes.”
In an instant he remembered what that money was to do for him. More than money ever did before. The thought made him sick with a deadly nausea. He saw his hope sink lower and lower until it entirely ceased to be and despair stood in its place. He had all but won in the struggle, and now to have the fruits snatched from him at the last moment!He had saved for another to scatter.
“What will become of Anson?” he asked. “Where will he go? Of course he can't remain with the firm. It wouldn't be permitted, I suppose, nor pleasant.”
“He has a friend in the West—some place in California—in business there. He has been urging Anson for months to come to him, and now, it is all most fortunate, he has decided to go. He can't very well stay here. If he should there is danger the secret might be discovered: he would have to get a new position and people would wonder, but once he is gone, they will forget all about him and then there will be no talk. No one will ever learn why he left.”
Philip looked at her commiseratingly. With his hand he brushed away the white hair lying in disorder upon her forehead.
“Poor mother, poor mother! and you have been so proud of him!”
“As I shall always be. My poor Anson! As I shall always be—as I am of all of you.” She smiled bravely through her tears.
“I shall go for the money. I'd better go at once or I may find the bank closed.”
He spoke collectedly and his mother did not divine from any words of his that he was preparing to make the greatest sacrifice possible to him. Nor would he have her know. There was misery enough for her as it was. Yet the thought of what he had to do brought him unspeakable agony. It was not the loss of money, for money of itself was nothing to him, but everything in his little world was held in place by what he was giving up.
“I shall get the money,” he repeated quietly. “I shall go for it at once.”
“You are so good!” she cried. “You were always my comfort. I can rely upon you more than on the others.”
She reached up and kissed him again and again. “Though no one ever knows of the sacrifice you make, Anson and I will, and we will honor you for it. Do not think that we undervalue it.” He kissed her softly. No amount of praise could have wrung the money from him, but her tears had been more potent.
“You don't care,” she questioned, “that the girls are not to be told of what you do for Anson?”
“No, dear. Glory of that sort does not in the least appeal to me. I have no objections to being deprived of it. What I do I do quite willingly. I am satisfied with your thanks and the consciousness that I have in a measure eased this burden for you.” He smiled sadly down upon her. “Now I will go,” and unclasping her arms from about his neck, he turned and left the room.
After a few moments' waiting to regain her composure, Mrs. Southard went down to the parlor where Anson and Hale sat, the former crestfallen and not over-confident of Philip's generosity.
To Hale she said: “My son will be back in a few moments with the sum you require. He has just gone for it.”
Anson's face lit up with joy. He was safe! How lucky it was that Philip had kept his money instead of spending it!
They did not have to wait long for Philip's return. His mother, who had been watching from the window, saw him as he came into the yard, and quitting the room, joined him in the hall.
“You have it? You were in time?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” he said, placing a bundle of bills in her hand. “It is a thousand dollars you need, is it not?”
“Yes. It is so good of you. How can I ever tell you what it means to me!”
With a heavy step, as if all the vigor had left him, Philip slowly mounted the stairs leading up to the floor above.
“Won't you come in and see Mr. Hale?” his mother called.
“I had rather not, dear,” he answered.
He walked as one in a dream, mechanically closing the door behind him as he entered the room. Then he dropped wearily into his chair beside the table.
He was overwhelmed by the catastrophe. A comprehension of it all, and the probable results, began to come to him. He threw the few hundred dollars remaining of his little fortune on the table. They were worthless, so far as the purpose for which they had been saved was concerned.
Stunned and stupid he gazed at the little heap of paper. Each dollar represented some privation in his daily life.
With savage fervor he brought his clenched hand down on the little heap, while from between his set teeth he ground out curses, for now came a frenzy of disappointment.
It soon subsided, as all violent emotions are bound to do.
Only a dull pain remained. Still he kept his gaze fastened on the money before him. It reminded him of what the sum had once been—and was no longer. He must begin again,—go through the round of petty self-denial, the soul-stunting process of small economy.
“It will be so long—so very long until I get so much again,” he thought. “While I am about it a thousand things may happen to rob me of the inspiration of her love. And all for the theft of a wretched paltry pittance, so small it could have done Anson no good, and yet so large it may be the ruin of my hopes. It is unjust that I should suffer for him! A thousand dollars! Bah! The commonplaceness of it!”
With his fist hard pressed upon the table and his eyes fixed on vacancy, he sat and thought; thought with a brain mad and drunk with grief. He would have liked to turn his face toward the wall and give up. He was worsted. The props with which he had sustained himself were gone.
How he hated Anson! The fool!—who had lived in a false world of pious frauds; whose manhood had failed at the one test to which he had been put; who had succumbed to temptation at the first opportunity.
To cover up this—to put a patch upon the torn garment of his brother's honesty he must suffer. How he hated him!
He heard Hale leave the house, but dared not look to see him go. He took all his hope, all his aspirations with him. And now how would it all end? Could he ask Barbara to wait much longer? How would he meet her father's exactions? What excuse was there to offer for the sudden vanishing of his savings? Mr. Gerard would think he had been lied to from the start.
Down-stairs the girls and Mrs. Southard were making ready for Anson's departure. It had been arranged that he should leave at once. They moved about noiselessly, talking in whispers, the girls wildly curious, yet not venturing to question their mother. The whole atmosphere was as though some one had died. It pervaded the entire house. Where he sat in his room, Philip felt it. In fancy he saw his mother packing Anson's trunk—saw her tears fall silently as she folded away his clothes—and as his fancy saw it, so he knew it must be in reality.
Despite the load that lay upon him crushing him to earth, he was glad she had been spared the greater humiliation and disgrace that but for him would have come to them. The realization of this lessened the extent of his own anguish somewhat, at least it was a consolation to feel that he had shielded her, no matter at what cost.
It was dark when his mother finally knocked at his door and told him that supper was ready.
“I'm not hungry,” he answered.
She opened the door and came in, saying in some surprise as she did so, for his lamp was unlighted:
“Why, Philip, what's wrong?”
“Nothing, dear, nothing. Why do you ask?”
“You don't begrudge the money that kept us all from shame—you don't regret that?” She put her hand upon his shoulder.
“I regret nothing. For you I would have done a hundred times what I did to-day, and counted it a small recompense for what you have given me all these years.”
“You mean it, Philip?”
“Certainly. I was sitting here in the dusk thinking it over—thinking how glad I am that it was in my power to do this for you—and him. No matter what the outcome may be, I shall not regret it for one instant.”
Her hand caressed his cheek softly: “Won't you come down to supper?”
“What's the use? I couldn't eat now.”
“But you will not see Anson again. It may be years before he comes back to us. Do come down.”
“I shall go with him to the train. Won't that do just as well? I wish to think a while longer, here in the dark by myself.”
“I know he will be delighted to have you,” she said. “Poor Anson! It has been a terrible blow to him.”
Philip smiled queerly to himself. He doubted the delight Anson would derive from his company just then, but he made no response.
“It seems unfair to ask any more of you,” his mother said with reluctance, “but Anson is almost penniless. If you could only help just a little it might make it easier for him.”
Philip gathered up the bills that still lay on the table where he had thrown them. “Here are one or two hundred dollars,” he said, “he may as well have them. They are of no use to me, and you will feel so much better to have him go, if you know he has something to fall back on!”
She took the money gratefully. “He has promised to repay all he has had from you, so don't worry about not getting it back.”
“Ah! dear,” and he laughed, “that does not worry me in the least. I don't bother about what he will or will not do.”
She turned to the door: “I shall call you then when he is ready.” And she left him to his solitude.
Philip wondered when he was once more alone what his mother's action would have been had she known what that money was to do for him. On the whole he concluded it was just as well she did not know. He became reflective. With practise it might be possible for him to acquire a habit which would enable him to derive a melancholy pleasure from being miserable. He laughed aloud.
“I never knew that farce and tragedy touched hands,” he thought.
It was quite late when his mother called from the foot of the stairs: “Anson is ready, Philip. If you will come, he will be so pleased to have you go down to the station with him.”
He went down and found her waiting for him in the hall. “You will be kind,” she whispered anxiously. “You won't say anything hard, when you are alone with him? Poor boy! he feels it so keenly. You will be considerate of him?”
“Yes, dear. Don't distress yourself. I shall be as kind as I know how.”
They went into the sitting-room where Anson was bidding good-by to his sisters. Philip had no wish to witness his mother's farewells. He picked up a valise his brother was to carry with him, saying: “I shall start on ahead, Anson.”
“All right. I shall be along presently,” his brother answered.
Philip escaped into the open air. Soon he heard Anson coming, waited until he caught up, and the two brothers, without a word, set off for the station very much as though they were trying to run away from each other, but had foolishly elected to go in the same direction while about it.
Their destination was reached before either had framed a speech diplomatic enough for the occasion.
Anson went to ascertain how much time he had and returned almost immediately to say that he had ten minutes left.
“But,” he added, “you needn't wait on my account.”
“I'll see you off. I told mother I would.”
“Of course—if you like. I thought you might want to go home.”
They fell to pacing back and forth across the platform, still apparently trying to get away from each other. Neither spoke, and it was only when the train rushed in with a trailing echo of sound from out the darkness, that Anson found courage to say hurriedly from the door of his car:
“Mother told you, didn't she, that I would pay up all I have had from you? I intend to and shall, but I can't do it at once.” The whistle of the engine broke in upon him. “I'll do it sure, Philip, I won't forget.”
“There is no haste,” his brother answered. “Don't sacrifice yourself because of me.”
He extended his hand. “Good-by and good luck to you.”
The train began to move.
“It was awfully good of you. You have done a lot for me. I——”
The train bore him swiftly away, but standing as he did on the rear platform of the last car, the door at his back, Philip saw him wave his handkerchief and he responded in a like fashion, wishing he were certain Anson could see him as plainly as he saw Anson.
And so he stood until long after the train had vanished, a miserable lonely feeling within him.
It was all hopeless—the whole affair.
His mother would never be quite the same again, she could never live beyond the memory of that day. At last he muttered:
“Poor devil! I am positive he didn't mean to harm any one, nor did he mean to be bad. He has not the sense in the first place. What he did, was simply the blundering clumsy conduct of a fool.”
Changes occurred in view of the altered relations between Franz and Margaret.
It came to be Perkins' nightly custom to formulate labored excuses that would enable him to retire to his own apartments, for as he said to Philip: “Just suppose it was one of us!”
Nor did the change stop here. Mrs. Perkins suddenly found it convenient to spend her evenings in the back parlor where the arrangement of lights was more to her taste and where she could sew without straining her eyes.
Perkins was treating himself to a few remarks one evening before taking Philip—who had just come in—up-stairs for a smoke:
“I think I got off a very good thing to-day,” he was saying, “not too amusing, but very bright and to the point. When you take into account that it comes from a fellow who lays no claim to being a wit, why it's not half bad. If you are all dying to hear, I might be induced to repeat it.” He did not wait for their entreaties however. “You see, it was this. It's quite complicated and calls for a lot of explanation. I was at Bessie's this afternoon and a Mrs. Cavendish came in. Philip and Franz know her, but, of course, you don't.” This last was to Margaret. “Well, we were talking about family. Mrs. Cavendish is great on family—she has been separated from her husband—that is part of the story, and it's got to be remembered.” Perkins came to a stand-still. “Now, isn't it strange that only the most gifted intellects can master the intricacies of a funny story. Really, you know, I am getting it all wrong. Oh, yes, this is it. Bessie was speaking of some one—I forget who, luckily that doesn't matter—and Mrs. Cavendish said—'He was a connection of mine by marriage.' And I said—to Bessie of course, 'I suppose she would call him a disconnection by divorce now.'.rdquo;
Philip turned to Margaret: “Have you met Bessie yet?”
“No; Ballard refuses to bring her to the house.”
Perkins shook his head. “My mother and Bessie don't get on.”
“Is it settled, Perkins?” Philip asked laughingly.
“I suppose it is. You see a fellow hasn't a ghost of a chance when a girl and her mother regularly set out to marry him. When that's the case he might just as well beg them to name the day—for they are bound to divide the spoils. Yes,” with placid resignation, “I really suppose I am as good as done for. I know it from the way their cook treats me. When the cook treats you with a deference you suppose she would only bestow on the heavenly host, you may be altogether positive your intentions have been discussed in the kitchen by members of the family.”
Philip turned from Perkins to gaze gloomily into the fire. He was wondering, as he had many times of late, how he would ever summon the resolution to tell Mr. Gerard of his altered fortunes.
Perkins, surveying the faces of his friends with an angelic smile upon his own freckled features, noted his abstraction.
“What's the matter, Philip?” he asked. “Nothing. I am simply in the depths to-night. I fear I am not very desirable to have about in my present mood.”
“Is it the work?” asked Margaret.
“It's everything!” He roused himself with an effort. “Utter and complete dissatisfaction with my surroundings for one thing—the feeling that I am dying with dry rot. I suppose to you it seems fresh and interesting. You can't fancy what it is to those who have to live here. The narrowness and meagerness of it all!”
“It's not so bad,” Perkins said. “The town has lots of intelligent and charming people and if you didn't go about with a chip on your shoulder, you would find them out.”
“I detest intelligence,” Philip retorted. “We have filled up the valleys by pulling down the mountains—when we get a dead level the millennium will be reached. All that will be left for the unfortunates who live then to do, will be to lie down and long for death.”
“I say,” said Perkins interrupting him, “what's wrong with intelligence, anyhow?”
“Everything's wrong with it. I can respect ignorance. As with any deformity it has its own pathetic dignity, but this thin spread of middle-class intelligence, which is one part enlightenment to nine parts of stupid prejudice, goes far to make me an ardent supporter of gaggings, clubbings and burnings at the stake.”
Margaret laughed: “Is intelligence so dreadful as that?”
“I think it is——” then he stopped abruptly, for the door opened and Geoffrey Ballard appeared upon the threshold.
With an attempt at dignity he moved toward his sister's chair. No one spoke. The surprise was too intense. But they observed that he walked as though tired.
Margaret shrank from him, her face paling. Every particle of happy color had fled from it when he entered the room. As Geoff bent and kissed her, Franz came to his feet with what sounded like a smothered oath upon his lips. After the perfunctory greetings with his sister were disposed of, Geoff swung around languidly to the others. First, he shook hands with Perkins with much cordiality. Next he saluted Philip:
“I am very glad to see you again, Mr. Southard,” he said.
“Thanks awfully,” growled Philip. He resented this intrusion. Besides he was not in a good humor. He didn't propose to be decent to a man he disliked. That was asking too much.
Silently and avoiding the danger of words, Franz and Geoff acknowledged each other's existence. They consoled themselves with looking their hate.
While they were thus engaged, Perkins stood on tiptoe at Philip's side and said in a hoarse whisper: “What business has he coming here sticking in and spoiling our fun! Damn him! Why doesn't he stay away? I should like to punch his head for him jolly good and well. That's what I would! I came mighty near doing it, too, when he shook hands with me.” And Perkins bristled pugnaciously.
Such was the prodigal's return and such his welcome.
Not many days elapsed before there dawned upon him a premonition of what had happened during his absence, and a chilly and uncomfortable premonition it was.
Most assuredly an understanding had been established between Margaret and the German. Whether it was love or a deepened friendship, he could not decide and he was reluctant to inquire. Until now he had never felt the least wish to familiarize himself with the emotions that swayed her, and he did not know just how to begin.
Geoff finally hit upon Perkins as a likely source of information. He sought him out and asked to be enlightened as to the relationship between his sister and “that Dutchman,”—and Perkins informed him,—becoming more and more pleased as gloom spread over the face of his questioner. Geoff was seriously alarmed. But if any one thought that after selling his sister at so great an advantage to himself as he had done he was going to sit supinely down and not endeavor to save the purchase money, they did him a rank injustice.
He began to urge upon his sister the advisability of their being domiciled elsewhere. He didn't demand any radical move to start with, simply that they obtain a house. This he urged on the grounds that they were wearing out their welcome at the Perkinses.
“We can't impose upon their good nature much longer, you know,” he said. “And since you are so very well satisfied here, don't you think we had better settle ourselves in some more permanent fashion?”
Margaret demurred, but what he said about the Perkinses made an impression upon her.
“I think,” Geoff continued, “you would enjoy a home of your own, where you could be mistress. Russell could, of course, relieve you of every burden. She is fully competent to order a much more extensive establishment than you will care to maintain. I find there is just such a place as you would fancy. It is furnished and ready for occupancy. The owner is holding some political office in Washington, his family is with him, and their home is for rent, providing a proper tenant can be found.”
He did not think it worth while to explain that he had learned the chief reason why the house stood vacant was that the location was unhealthful, especially during the winter months. He was positive he should experience no ill effects from this and he could afford to take a few risks with his sister.
“I wish you would think it over, Margaret,” he urged.
“Why can't you remain here?” said Margaret. And her glance wandered wistfully over the room. He was asking a great deal. She was very happy.
“I don't begin to have your knack at getting on with people. I trust you will not speak of this until you know what you will do.”
All this while Geoff was wonderfully circumspect. Never before had he been so considerate or kind. He seemed to have undergone a thorough reformation. He knew if he did not accomplish what he was striving for he would find himself face to face with ruin. This steadied him astonishingly. He showed no inclination to leave and for the moment conquered his tendencies to dissipation. He even ceased to be disagreeable to either Perkins or Philip, but he made it his duty to see that the interviews his sister had alone with Becker were few and far between—and as brief as possible.
So it happened, when one afternoon in December Margaret announced she had taken the lease of a house and intended going into it immediately,—that Perkins and his mother listened to her in horror-stricken amazement. They could scarcely believe it.
“What!” cried Perkins: “what! leave us, you know! A house of your own! Why, you can have all of this one if you will only include mother and me in the bargain.”
“What place is it?” Mrs. Perkins asked.
Margaret turned to her brother: “What did you say the name was, Geoff?”
Geoff braced himself mentally as he answered: “The Springer property.”
He was tolerably sure they knew the house and its reputation. Nor was he in error. What people in a town of ten thousand or less don't know of their neighbors' affairs isn't worth mentioning. They knew all there was to know of the house in question.
“Why, look here!” Perkins stuttered, his words falling over one another in their haste for utterance. “You can't go there, you know. It will never do, you see. The house is damp as all get out from cellar to garret, and it's so mildewy in some of the rooms that the paper won't stick to the walls. I have been there lots of times and have seen it. Why, I say, you should just see the Springer children. They are sick all the time. You can't go there. We won't let you.” And he fell to pacing the floor, his thumbs tucked in his waistcoat, as was his wont when nervous or excited.
Geoff watched him from between narrowed lids. There was a steely glitter in the look, and a baleful twitching at the corners of his mouth, as though he had it strong within him to express a good deal more than was policy just then.
“You have been most kind to us,” he said; “you overwhelm us with your goodness. Still I know my sister will be better contented in her own home. As for the dampness of which you speak, I will see to that. It is a small matter and can be readily overcome.”
“Aren't you contented here?” Mrs. Perkins asked quickly, turning to Margaret. “You know we will do anything for you—anything.”
Margaret seized both her hands and clasped them to her breast, then raised them to her lips while her eyes glistened: “I have never been so happy. Not in all my life. Oh, you are so dear and kind! How shall I ever thank you for all you've done for me!”
“We can not possibly add to the sense of gratitude beneath which we are already struggling,” Geoff interposed. He spoke coldly and insolently. He wished to stop this burst of sentiment or else it might go to dangerous lengths. He succeeded in mortally offending Perkins, who said hotly and with the bottled-up acrimony of many days in his tones:
“Why do you cut in when my mother and Margaret are talking! You are always cutting in where you haven't any right to.”
This outburst quieted things down for the moment and no more was said about Madame Dennie's plans for the future, but in two minds at least the thought of her pending departure was uppermost.
When Geoff quitted the library a few minutes later, Mrs. Perkins, excusing herself to Margaret, followed promptly in his wake, and at once returned to the charge with unabated zeal.
“Are you going to take that child there and selfishly jeopardize her health? Are you? Answer me.”
“That's exactly what I am going to do, my dear Mrs. Perkins, and the sooner the better, if you will allow me to say so.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Perkins, “you are the most contemptible—the most thoroughly contemptible of living creatures! That's what I think of you, and I am the easier for having said it!”
“Don't you think, my dear Mrs. Perkins, that you rather strain the case?” Geoff retorted. “After all, one's own business is about the only business one should undertake.”
Mrs. Perkins flushed, but she put a check upon herself. “I positively decline to quarrel with you. I don't, for I see through you. I won't quarrel no matter what you do and you needn't try to make me.”
“Your conception of what constitutes incompatibility would prove entertaining,” Geoff replied. “I have the impression that that stage of disagreement has already been reached. The only course open for my sister is to leave.”
Mrs. Perkins fairly gasped at the deftness with which he made their dislike of him embrace Margaret as well, but being of an emotional temperament she trusted herself to speak no further and retired to her own rooms where she could weep in solitude.
And so it was decided that Margaret should leave the Perkinses.
When the day came—and it came quickly, as Geoff's patience was all but exhausted—she wept as she passed out through the wide doors that had opened so hospitably to receive her.
“We shall see a great deal of each other, shall we not?” she said to Mrs. Perkins. “You will come to me whenever you can? I fear the cold will keep me somewhat confined, but you won't mind it as I shall, and you will come often to see me?”
Perkins and his mother went down to see that she was properly installed in her home, and then sadly took their leave of her just as the night came on. Geoff, being inordinately elated by his success, was absent, celebrating his victory in a spree.
In spite of the fires and a superheated furnace below stairs, the house had a musty odor and the big rooms held a damp chill that could not be warmed out of them.
Finally Geoff came in, with unsteady step and bloodshot eyes, to add what he could to the load resting on the poor little shoulders, which for years had been so weighted down with care and weariness. He found her lonely, miserable and in tears. This exhibition of weakness, as he termed it, he took in very bad part.
The initial dinner was a meal long remembered, with Geoff, stupid and maudlin from too much drink, constantly going to sleep and as constantly waking to growl his complaints.
When it was finished, he took himself from his sister's sight, while Margaret waited for Perkins and Franz to come as they had said they would.
Eight o'clock brought them and the evening was passed pleasantly enough.
Madame Dennie had been suffering from a cold for some days, and the next morning she was quite ill. Her brother took no notice of this, and for several days did nothing but press forward to the goal at which he aimed. He pursued his former tactics with the utmost industry, seeing that his sister never had a moment alone with her friends; and wishing to discourage their devotion, was aggressive and rude to such an extent that Philip made just one call on Margaret and then in unmistakable language announced his intention of not repeating the experiment.
“I don't intend to walk half-way across the town simply for the delirious joy of letting that fellow insult me!” And he kept to his word.
To be sure, with Perkins and Franz, it was different. They were blind to affronts and proof against the insufferable. For Margaret's sake they were willing to endure the unendurable, but the ordeal was too much for them to live down without an inward revolt at least.
Franz became habitually morose and sullen. Perkins waxed shockingly profane and his mother spent most of her time on the verge of tears; and all this while Margaret's condition grew rapidly worse.
When brother and sister were alone it was the eternal harping on the one theme. Geoff wished her to go East with him—anywhere. He gave her no peace. Morning, noon and night, he stuck to the dreary round of argument and objection.
This continued for a week. Margaret's cold developed into an alarming cough. She was confined to her room and could see no one but Mrs. Perkins and Russell.
Having space for deliberation, Perkins was seized with a brilliant conception: a project that anticipated nothing less than the getting of Geoff drunk and starting him on what Perkins called “a protracted spree.”
He reasoned that a man of his cousin's inclinations could only hold up so far in combating the unholy charms of a properly presented temptation.
But Perkins was not called upon to assume the tempter's rtle. Geoff accomplished his downfall himself.
There was one fatal quality in all his plotting. He invariably gave out before the final blow was dealt.
He now exemplified this by going away when there was most cause for his remaining. He could not stand the quiet longer. He would have one bout, he told himself,—just one. When it was over with he would return and Margaret should go with him where he pleased. He felt almost safe in leaving: she was so ill.
Then,” said Philip shortly, “if I understand you aright, you wish me to discontinue my visits?”
Mr. Gerard was rather taken aback by the directness with which Philip put it. To be sure that was what it amounted to, but—“You see, you keep other men at a distance: you take up most of the leisure she has to devote to society. I don't mean to be hard. I trust you appreciate the delicacy of my position—the peculiarity of it. I want to be fair to you and at the same time just to Barbara. It occurs to me that I can only accomplish this by having you——” He was very much mixed—very red and very miserable.
The cause of all his annoyance stood before him—cool and collected, but it was the calm of desperation.
The comfort of knowing this was, however, denied to Mr. Gerard. He took up the tangled thread of his discourse. “My dear boy, you must know I don't want to seem hard”—getting a fresh start—“I don't want to interfere with your happiness, but where my daughter is concerned I must be just. I can't be remiss in my duty there. Now I leave it to you—to your sense of fairness. You know what I think—do what you consider right.”
“I suppose you can not understand just how I got rid of my money,” Philip said grimly.
“I confess I can't,” Mr. Gerard replied nervously. “Your admission has been a great surprise to me. It was only a month or so ago that you had quite a large sum saved and now you inform me it's all gone, and you don't tell me where.”
“I can not, Mr. Gerard.”
“Of course—of course. That is your business. I appreciate that—I ask for no explanation—and I do like your frankness in coming to me at once,” but there was small favor in the glance he bestowed upon Philip. “If it's gone—why——-” he came to a stop again.
“It is gone. Every penny of it.” Philip said relentlessly.
“It's very unusual, very.”
“And you had rather I slow up on my visits?”
“I leave it entirely with you, as I said before. I don't understand and I am not satisfied. I—really it may be as well for you to keep away. But do whatever you think proper.”
“You put it to me in such shape that there is just one thing I can do, and that is keep away and stay away.”
“My dear boy, I——”
Philip cut him short by turning on his heel. “You have no objection to my calling this afternoon?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. It's right that you should.”
“Thank you,” said Philip, and took himself off, leaving Mr. Gerard puffing and agitated in the door of his office.
Philip was glad that he had carried off the honors of the interview where calmness and dispassion were involved, but he knew that the triumph was a small one, and that Mr. Gerard's turn would come later, when he himself could but compress his lips and suffer.
He was thinking of this and bitter revolt was in his heart when he presented himself to Barbara. His face told plainly what he felt. Indeed, it was so apparent that she silently followed him into the parlor.
He threw his hat down upon a chair and stood in the center of the room looking at her, wondering how it would be possible to exist, deprived of her companionship.
“What is it, Philip? Why don't you tell me?” she at last found courage to ask.
“It's what I have known would happen all along. Your father——”
“What has my father done?” she interrupted him.
“He has told me I must stop coming here.”
Barbara's eyes blazed. Her diminutive figure was drawn wrathfully up to its fullest height. “Has he dared to do that—has he dared!”
“I felt in honor bound to tell him I had been compelled to spend my savings. He said—he was very kind—that a continuation of my attentions would compromise you, and since my future was very uncertain——”
“My life is mine—it belongs to me!” she interposed. “And if I choose to give it to you, it's mine to give. I know what I need better than he does.”
“I wish I could have told him how the money went. He evidently attributes my poverty to wild and reckless extravagance. I could see it completely finished me off in his estimation. I wish I could have told—but I couldn't. I can't even tell you.”
“It's nobody's affair but your own, and if we are satisfied I don't see what it is to him.”
“Just the same, Barbara, he has made it his affair. He is your father, and it is his privilege.” Her little foot tapped the floor angrily. His submission offended her.
“It's all right, Barbara.”
“It's not all right,” she burst out. “Is it all right that our happiness should be wrecked?”
“I don't say that. I refer to his requesting me to cease coming here. He evidently regards me as not the proper sort of person.”
“What are you going to do?”
“There is but one thing I can do.”
“And that?”
“Respect his wishes.”
“If you do, what is going to become of me?”
Philip put his hand to his aching head. That was more than he could tell. He had thought of it, too. His personal pain and anxiety gave him no concern. He had become accustomed to it, but it would be so hard for her. She had not his training in disappointment. What could he do?
“What will become of me?” she repeated, with tears in her eyes.
“As soon as I have the money it will be as it was before. The separation will be but temporary—unless you forget me.”
“I shall never forget you. I love you.”
“Then as soon as I succeed even partially, I shall come back to you. I shall work so hard, it shan't be for long. Iwillsucceed.” And he set his teeth. “I know I shall and it will be no ordinary success when it does come. You have faith in me?”
“Yes! yes! but that's so far off! Think of the time we have already waited.”
“I know, dear, but I am making every effort. I know, too, that despite all his efforts a man may fail—absolutely—and through no fault of his own. He may get down and never rise, though he struggle ever so hard. There is a savage remorseless quality to life, a cruel indifference to work and worth. This risk we are compelled to take. In any business or profession it would be the same. It does not apply alone to one who thinks he can write——”
He was striding back and forth across the room. “Yet I can't bring myself to believe that I am to be one of the failures, all I want is time—time! I know I can do so much. You must have faith in me, Barbara!”
“It has been so long,” she said sadly, going to his side and clasping both her hands about his arm, “and I am afraid. I don't quite know of what—but I am afraid.”
“Can't you be brave just a little longer—just a little longer?”
“I try to be—I really do, but——”
“But what?”
“I am afraid he wants me to marry Mr. Shel-den. He does not say so, but I know.” And she began to cry again, clinging to Philip the while. “I know it! I know it! and unless you save me I shall be forced into it. I can't stand black looks and constant coercion. I shall yield. I know I shall, and my whole life will be ruined.”
“So that's it, is it?” Philip's voice was hoarse and dry. “So that's it? That's what it signifies? He wants to get me out of the road, does he?” And after a brief pause: “Do you like him in the least, Barbara?”