|THE two friends had been in New York five days, and in the continual
round of theatres, and in sight-seeing, with occasional call at some
establishment with which Whipple had dealings, they spent the time very
pleasantly. The pain caused by Fred's secret visit to his old home was,
in a measure, assuaged by his constant effort to be cheerful for the
sake of his benefactor's enjoyment. He felt that he was succeeding,
and the realization of the fact buoyed him up to further activity in
self-obliteration. On occasion, Whipple acted like a college boy off
on a lark. He passed funny criticisms on the persons they saw on the
streets and in the cars, and at the table of the café where they got
their meals he purposely blundered over the French words on the menu, to
the great mystification of the polite waiter, who found it impossible to
reconcile actual ignorance with the costly clothing Whipple wore and his
extravagant tips and liberal orders.
On the sixth morning of their stay in the metropolis they went down to
pay a promised visit to Lewis Marston, the importer of teas and coffees
from whom Whipple had received many a shipment and had met once or twice
in New Orleans.
“So _this_ is the Mr. Spencer you've written me about so often?” Marston
smiled cordially as he was introduced to Fred, and begged them to take
seats in the spacious office of which he was the only occupant. “Young
man, as we used to say in the South, your ears ought to burn, for your
boss has written me lots of good things about you. I remember he wrote
last winter that his business was growing out of all bounds, owing to
the fresh blood and modern ideas you had put into it.”
Fred flushed modestly as he released the hand of the portly, pink-faced,
side-whiskered old merchant.
“Mr. Whipple is noted for his generosity,” he said, lamely.
“Well, you are the only one of his force he has mentioned to me, at any
rate,” the importer said, persistently, “and I know he means it, for a
man who has ability and can be thoroughly trusted is hard to find these
days.”
The three sat and chatted for an hour, Marston being interrupted now and
then by a telegram or a question asked by some clerk who came from an
adjoining room, where there was a din of clicking typewriting machines.
“Now we'll have to go,” Whipple said, as he arose. “Fred has got some
letters of instructions to write home, and I'm due in Wall Street at
this very minute.”
“To write letters!” Marston cried. “Well, he needn't go away to do
that. Do you see that desk at the window? It is for the sole use of our
customers. There is plenty of stationery. Sit down, Mr. Spencer. I'll
have to leave soon myself. My wife is coming to get me to help her
select some Persian rugs, and you'll have the whole office to yourself.”
“A good plan, Fred,” Whipple exclaimed; “then we could meet at the Astor
House and take lunch together at one o'clock. I want to see what the old
place is like. My daddy stopped there once before the war.”
“That's the idea!” the importer chimed in. “Make yourself thoroughly at
home, Mr. Spencer. If you need anything, just tap that bell and the boy
will attend to you.”
When his employer had left, Fred sat down at the desk and began to
write.
“Oh, I forgot,” Marston said, apologetically, as he looked up from the
letter he was writing. “I will call a stenographer, if you'd like to
dictate your correspondence.”
“Oh, thank you,” Fred answered, “it won't be necessary; I have only a
few lines to write.”
He had completed the task before him, and was waiting for an opportunity
to leave without interrupting the merchant, who was busily writing at
his desk, when an office-boy came and spoke to Marston in an undertone.
“Oh, she's not alone, then!” the merchant said aloud, as he pushed back
his chair. “Send them up. I am not quite ready yet, and they will have
to wait.”
A moment later a cheery feminine voice--evidently Mrs.
Marston's--sounded in the corridor outside, where her husband stood
waiting for her.
“Well, I'm glad you came along, too, Miss Margaret,” Fred heard the old
man saying. “You must sit down in my dusty office for a moment.” He made
an effort at lowering his voice, but it was still audible. “There
is only one man there, but he is young and decidedly good-looking.
By-the-way, he is that Mr. Spencer, the phenomenal young business man I
told you about. Come in, and I'll let you entertain him till I can get
away. I've got to run down to the main salesroom.”
“And I've got to telephone the cook.” It was evidently Mrs. Marston's
voice again. “We are going back to lunch. The General has promised to
meet us there. Where is the booth?”
“At the end of the corridor,” Marston was heard directing her. “Now,
come on, young lady. By George, that _is_ a stunning gown! The new
railroad helped pay for that, eh?”
The thin canvas door was pushed open. Fred stood up; his eyes dilated;
his blood ran cold. It was Margaret Dearing to whom the voluble merchant
was casually introducing him.
Margaret started and paled.
“Mr. _Spencer!_” she echoed, then quickly averted her face from the
inattentive glance of her host.
Walton's eyes went down as he bowed, white and quivering. He could say
nothing.
“Now, I'll leave you two to get acquainted,” Marston said, quite
unconscious that anything unusual had happened, and, gathering up some
sheets of paper from his desk, he hastened away.
“Margaret!” Walton gasped, when they were alone in the awful silence of
the room.
“Mr. Spencer?--_Spencer?_” the young lady groped, as she gazed on him in
helpless wonder.
“God forgive me, I had to change my name!” he panted, as he stood white
as death could have made him under her timid, almost frightened stare.
“I had no other reason than that I wanted to live down my disgrace, and
it looked like it would be impossible otherwise. I was a drowning
man, Margaret, grasping at a straw; a new life opened out to me, and I
entered it with the hope that--”
“I understand!” the girl gasped, and she drew herself up in pained
haughtiness and twisted her gloved hands tightly in front of her. “But
need we--talk about it?”
“No, I haven't even _that_ right,” Walton declared, as he looked at
the woman, grown infinitely more beautiful and graceful than even her
girlhood had foreshadowed. “I promised Wynn the night I left that I'd
never insult you by coming in contact with you again, or even addressing
a line to you. I knew we had to part--that I could best serve you by
going away never to return. Your brother was right. He acted only as any
honorable man should in talking to me as he did. I was insane to aspire
to your friendship with that thing hanging over me; but it was the
insanity of love, Margaret--a love that never can die. I ought not to
say it now, but what does it matter? I am not fit for you to wipe your
feet on. I am still a fugitive from justice--a criminal living under an
assumed name.”
He paused, for she had collapsed limply into Marston's chair, and was
resting her white brow on her bloodless hand.
“Oh, don't--it is--is killing me!” she cried. “I had thought we might
never meet again. I was beginning to hope that, in time, the memory
of--of it all would be less painful, but it is revived again. Oh, it is
unbearable!” He took a deep, trembling breath, and moved a step nearer
to her.
“But even _you_ will grant that, by continued effort, I may purge my
soul of it--at least, in the eyes of God,” he said. “I don't mean that
I could ever ask you to receive me openly as an equal after what has
happened, but you will, at least, be glad that I am honestly striving to
lead a better life.”
“Yes, yes,” she said--“oh yes!”
“And I am not _wholly_ living under false colors,” he went on,
anxiously. “I have confessed the worst to my employer, and he is doing
all he can to help me. He trusts me. I don't like to say these things in
my own behalf, and yet surely you will forgive me for saying that I am,
at least, not living as I used to live.”
“You intend to make--make reparation?” she said, raising an awful glance
to his face.
“Of course. I have sent back all my savings so far--every dollar I could
get together; and before another year is past I hope to send enough, at
least, to--”
“Money!” she cried, almost in a tone of disgust--and as she spoke she
had a picture of a golden-haired child with a sunny face playing on the
lawn at her home--“money! As if that would count in a matter like--like
_that!_”
“It is all I can do now, Margaret!” he exclaimed, as he shrank under the
unexpected severity of her words.
“I presume so,” she answered, coldly, even sternly, and she fixed an
unreadable stare on his blighted face; “and yet if you could be back
at home, and see what I have seen, perhaps you'd realize that there are
things mere money cannot restore. I can't blame you wholly--to save my
life, I can't! The temptation was deliberately put in your track;
you were not born with the power to resist, and so you fell like many
another man has fallen, but you ought to have stayed on at Stafford and
done your duty--your _full_ duty!”
“I couldn't! I assure you, I _couldn't_, Margaret!” he went on, almost
piteously, his lips quivering under stress of the vast emotion let
loose within him. “My father would have punished me by law--would have
deprived me of every chance to atone in the way that I am now trying
to atone. But I have no right to talk to you this way. I am breaking
my promise to Wynn. By my own act, I have banished myself from you
forever.”
“Yes, forever!” she admitted, as her proud head went down. “There is
nothing either of us can do. We must try not to meet again, even by
accident. I must join Mrs. Marston now. I hear her in the corridor. You
are very pale, and she might wonder and imagine all sorts of things. I'd
have to introduce you, and I can't even remember your--your new name. I
will tell no one at home that I have seen you. You may trust that to me.
Your secret is safe. I can't recall the name of the place you live in. I
sha'n't try. I never have believed it was _all_ your fault--that is, not
_all_. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” he repeated, huskily; and he saw her rise, and, without
extending her hand, or giving him another glance, she moved unsteadily
toward the door.
When she was gone he sat down at the desk and took up his pen, and with
an inanimate hand began to address one of his letters, wondering dumbly
that such mere details as a street and number and a man's initials could
rise to his memory at such a moment.
That evening, in the big drawing-room at the Marstons', General
Sylvester sat down by his niece.
“You look tired,” he said. “I think you show it more than usual; being
on one's feet all day is no little tax on the energy. By-the-way, we are
invited to a big reception for next Wednesday evening at the Langleys'.
It is given to some foreign statesman or other. I have the card
somewhere. You must look your prettiest and wear the dandy gown I
selected.”
“Why, it isn't for evening wear.” Margaret smiled faintly. “Besides, do
you think we ought to stay as--long as that?”
“As long as that?” he exclaimed. “Are you really thinking of going home?
Of course, it lies with you, dear. As far as I am personally concerned,
it doesn't matter one way or the other. Say, little girl, are you really
homesick?”
“I think I am, Uncle Tom.” She avoided his eyes, which were so
solicitously bearing down on her from beneath their heavy brows. “I
presume the novelty of this sort of thing soon wears off, and our home
is so soothing and restful.”
“Ah, I smell a rat!” the General said, teasingly. “I forgot about that
lonely bachelor neighbor of ours. We were to look after him, weren't we?
Well, we'll go back, and you'll encourage him a little more, won't you?”
The girl shuddered, an irrepressible sob struggled up within her, and
her head sank to her tightly clasped hands.
“Oh, how _can_ you say such a thing?” she asked, under her breath. “I
don't love him. I know I can never do so now, and to think of what you
want is--horrible!” To the old man's utter bewilderment she rose, placed
her handkerchief to her lips, and left the room.