But one day was left to me before I went to my new life, and yet I was
still asking myself if I was taking care of Penelope. I had set myself
to go through life alone, regarding all women with cynical
indifference. But of her I could not think with cynical indifference.
Her one act which might have fed my cynicism was her choice of a man of
the character of Herbert Talcott. Then, after all, I reflected, she
did not know his true character. And yet did I? Was it my place to
become a bearer of tales? Over and over I asked myself the question,
and I could find no other answer than that of affirmation, for it was
her right to know what had occurred between her father and Talcott.
And she should know it, I said at last decisively; she should know it,
not from me, but from Rufus Blight. And, telling it, I must give up my
last hope of her.
So I went to Rufus Blight on the afternoon before I sailed, and I went
not without misgivings as to the part that I was playing. Many times
in the walk up the Avenue I turned back, doubting, and then I would
repeat my old-time promise to Penelope and the Professor's injunction
given to me that early morning as we stood together on the street. And
so at last I found myself before the great house, and the grilled door
closed behind me, leaving no retreat.
Mr. Blight was in his "den," resting after his day's golf in a deep
chair by an open window, and he rose from a litter of evening papers to
greet me.
"Well, David, we thought that you had forgotten us," he said.
"Penelope remarked just this morning that it was high time you appeared
to offer your congratulations."
"I have been very busy," I returned. "To-morrow I start abroad for a
year at least, and I came to say good-by and to tell you----"
In my eagerness to have my story over I should have plunged right into
it, but he interrupted me.
"Abroad, eh? Well, we may see you after the wedding. We are all going
over after the wedding."
The calm way in which Mr. Blight spoke of the wedding chilled me. It
was so absolutely settled that there was to be a wedding that in me
there seemed to be embodied that mythical person who is commanded so
sternly to speak or forever hold his peace. For a time I did hold my
peace, but it was only because Rufus Blight evinced such a lively
interest in my affairs that I had no opportunity to speak of those
matters which touched him so intimately.
"Well, we certainly shall hunt you up in London in September," he said.
"We shall be over in September. The wedding is to be in July at
Newport. We have taken a house there, or rather Mrs. Bannister has for
us." He saw that I could not restrain a smile at the mention of Mrs.
Bannister, and he laughed heartily. "I don't know how we should get
along without Mrs. Bannister. You see, David, all I know anything
about is the steel trade, and being out of that I have to have a
general manager for this social business. She certainly does manage.
Why, if it wasn't for her I doubt if we could arrange a wedding.
Indeed, I sometimes even doubt if there would be an engagement."
This same doubt had been tenaciously present in my own mind for some
days, and much as I should have liked to express it with heat and to
join to it my opinion of the masterful woman's manoeuvres, I simply
laughed formally and said, "Indeed!"
"I can talk to you confidentially, David," Rufus Blight went on,
leaning toward me with his cigar poised in the air. "It is good to
have an old friend to whom you can unburden your mind, and it has been
on my mind that Mrs. Bannister has had too large a finger in this
matrimonial pie--not, of course, that I am not pleased. I am getting
old, and it is a relief to think of Penelope settled in life with a
thoroughly respectable, steady young man like Talcott; but, do you
know, I suspect sometimes that Mrs. Bannister had more to do with
Penelope making up her mind than is altogether wise? She has talked
about him continually, and between his coming to the house continually
and Mrs. Bannister talking of him continually, Penelope didn't have a
fair chance."
Rufus Blight smoked thoughtfully, and I remarked that I had no doubt
that Penelope knew her own mind.
"Oh, yes," he returned. "Understand that I have nothing whatever
against Talcott. She might fare far worse. He is unapproachable as
far as character goes, but sometimes he seems to me rather dull. I
suppose that is because he doesn't do anything, and I wonder how long
Penelope will be satisfied with a man who doesn't do anything but what
Mrs. Bannister calls 'go everywhere.' Will she not soon weary of going
everywhere? I couldn't stand it myself. The other night I had to go
to Talcott's uncle's to dine, and how I wished that I was home! The
uncle is a respectable old man, too, who has never done anything
either, and all he talked about was terrapin and gout. When he had
finished with them in the smoking-room, his mind seemed exhausted, and
he left me to the mercy of another man who tried to pump me about
International Steel common. Is that pleasure?" Rufus Blight waved his
cigar with a gesture of contempt. "I suppose Penelope would be
perfectly safe with such people if anything happened to me; but would
she be happy? Mrs. Bannister says that I should be satisfied to have
her marry into a family so eminently respectable, and I suppose I
should."
He looked at me, asking my opinion.
"Undoubtedly the Talcotts are highly respectable," said I. "They are
one of the few old families who have succeeded in maintaining their
position in New York."
"That is just what Mrs. Bannister says," he returned. "They are
certainly very kindly, and could not have treated Penelope better than
they have. Talcott's aunt has Penelope with her all the time. I
suppose I should be satisfied." He hesitated a moment. "But, confound
it, David, don't you see, I am not? Sometimes I think it must be
because I am jealous, and I try to put that feeling away and to look
impartially at Penelope's happiness. Then I must agree with Mrs.
Bannister. Here is Talcott, a young man of good family, of exemplary
conduct. The only thing against him is an idle life; but if he doesn't
have to work, why should he? Yet it seems to me that Penelope is not
the kind of woman who would be satisfied with a husband who sat around
the house all day and found his main interest in terrapin and gout.
Can't you see my predicament, David?"
He rose and paced the room. Twice he circled the table, while I sat in
silence watching him. Then he halted at the fireplace and stood there,
forgetfully warming his hands at an imaginary blaze. After a moment he
faced me. "I know about making steel, David, but in matters like this
I am utterly lost. How I wish Hendry were here to advise me!"
My opportunity had come more easily than I had expected. "I can help
you, perhaps," said I, "for I have seen him."
"You have seen him?" cried Rufus Blight, and he crossed the room to me
in great excitement. "When, David, and where?"
"Here in New York."
"Splendid! And he is coming to us, eh? I know he is at last."
"In two years. He has promised to come home in two years."
Rufus Blight sat down in his old chair and stared at me. "In two
years? Why, David, we need him now. He must come now. We will bring
him home--you and I."
"But we can't," said I. "He is far from here now; he went away last
winter."
"You saw him and did not bring him home!" Rufus Blight's voice rose to
a pitch of indignation. "I don't understand. Did you tell him how we
wanted him--Penelope and I--how we had searched for him everywhere?" I
nodded. "You told him that and he would not come?" He leaned toward
me angrily. "Well, why didn't you let me know about him?"
"Because it could have done no good," I answered. "I had to promise
him that I would not, yet because he feared that I should break my
promise, he slipped away. I saw him but once. When I went to see him
again he was gone--to Argentina."
"I see," said Rufus Blight more gently. "You must pardon my losing my
temper, but it was hard to think that he was near us and yet we never
knew it; strange that you did not tell us of it earlier."
"I should not tell you now were there not certain circumstances
connected with my meeting with your brother that it is best that you
know," I returned.
I went on with my story very quietly, as if it were one in which I had
little personal concern. I knew that Rufus Blight was not quick to
catch the hidden meaning of a word or tone, so that it was not from any
fear of him discovering my biassed mind that I made my statement so
unimpassioned. It was because I wanted to satisfy myself that I was
acting alone for Penelope's good and disclosing the truth, uncolored,
for her to judge. Slowly I told it all, in a dry, unvarnished sequence
of facts. I told him of my visit to O'Corrigan's; of the fight and my
interference; of my hours with his brother and his account of his
wanderings and trials; of my vain plea to bring him back to Penelope
and his refusal to surrender his search for that chimerical prize for
which he had struggled so futilely. To me the vital part of my story
had to do with Herbert Talcott. But for its apparent effect on Rufus
Blight I had as well discovered his brother thrashing Tom Marshall. To
him that incident was trivial. What he wanted to know was how
Henderson looked. Was he well? Was he in absolute poverty? Did he
speak as though he really meant to come home in two years? When I had
finished he asked me these questions again and again. He thrashed the
whole story over, all but the essential part. He leaned back in his
chair and stared at the ceiling. Henderson in want? To think of his
brother in want and he so willing to share with him the fruits of his
enormous prosperity. Henderson going afoot to Tibet? What a man he
was! That was just the kind of thing he would do--some wild chase like
that. And the South Seas? How I should like to hear him tell about
them, David! He will come back--he has promised--in two years. He
will fail. Poor old Hendry always fails, but it will be good to have
him--he in that chair, I in this--and to hear him talk of it all.
So always was the essential fact missed. I was angry with Rufus
Blight. I wanted to shake him, to shout into his ear, to drive into
his dull brain the real purpose of my story. But I held my temper and
reverted to the fight with quiet but meaning emphasis.
"Hendry was always a handy man with his fists, David," said Rufus
Blight. "In his younger days he was hard to arouse, but get him angry
and he was the devil himself. He wasn't afraid of anything. It was
just like him to start alone to Lhasa--just like him, David."
I had begun to suspect that Rufus Blight was not so obtuse as I judged
him, but was passing over that part of my story which had to do with
Talcott, because he really liked Talcott and was inclined to lighten
the shadow which his conduct that night had thrown on his exemplary
character. I had told him all. I had repeated the exact words which
the Professor had given me as the cause of the assault, and now in his
brother's mind they were lost in a rapt interest in his adventures. If
with design, then my mission had been futile, and it was wisdom to
retreat. If without design, I could not bring myself to the rôle of a
prosecutor, and to argue was to tread on dangerous ground. I had done
what I believed right. I had kept my promise. So I rose to go. I
must have given Rufus Blight a strange look as I held out my hand. I
was furious at him for his obtuseness or his cunning, and I must have
shown it, for he returned my gaze with a puzzled stare. Then a gleam
of light filtered into that brain, so competent to deal with
steel-works, so hopelessly dull on other matters.
"David," he said, "you have delayed a long time in telling me this.
Now, why?"
I answered him, speaking no longer in cold, business-like tones. I
held out my hands wide apart and took a step toward him to bring my
eyes nearer his, for every nerve was set to drive the truth into him.
"I tell you now because your brother's last words to me were, 'Take
care of Penelope.' How can I take care of Penelope? She has gone far
from me. It is for you that his words have meaning. Can't you see?"
His hands were groping vaguely in the air behind him. He found the
arms of his chair and sat down weakly, and with his head thrown back he
looked up at me with an expression of wonder on his face.
"I leave to-morrow," said I. "It will be a long time before I see you
again. Will you say good-by to Penelope for me?"
"I see, David," he exclaimed. His voice snapped, as I fancy it did
sometimes when affairs in the steelworks were awry. "I was so
interested in Hendry I forgot all about that fellow Talcott. Now, tell
me this--did he----"
"I have told you everything," said I. "There is nothing left for me to
say except good-by."
* * * * * *
Far, indeed, had Penelope gone from me. So I had said to Rufus
Blight--almost my last word to him. So I said to myself as I stood by
the steamer's rail and looked back to the towering mass of the lower
city. That very morning I had seen her: she driving down the Avenue,
alone, sitting very straight and still in her victoria; I on the
pavement, taking my last walk up-town in the never failing hope to have
a glimpse of her. Now, what would I have given not to have yielded to
that temptation? She had seen me. I halted sharply and raised my hat,
thinking that she might stop to say good-by, for she knew that I was
going away. She did see me. She looked straight at me, coldly, and
not even by a tremor of her eyebrows did she give a sign that to her I
was other than any stranger loitering on the curb.