Hilary could not help himself, though when he took the legal steps he
was obliged to, it seemed to him that he was wilfully urging on the
persecution of that poor young girl and that poor old maid. It was
really ghastly to go through the form of indicting a man who, so far as
any one could prove to the contrary, had passed with his sins before the
tribunal that searches hearts and judges motives rather than acts. But
still the processes had to go on, and Hilary had to prompt them. It was
all talked over in Hilary's family, where he was pitied and forgiven in
that affection which keeps us simple and sincere in spite of the masks
we wear to the world. His wife and his children knew how kind he was,
and how much he suffered in this business which, from the first, he had
tried to be so lenient in. When he wished to talk of it, they all agreed
that Matt must not vex him with his theories and his opinions; and when
he did not talk of it, no one must mention it.
Hilary felt the peculiar hardships of his position, all the more keenly
because he had a conscience that would not permit him to shirk his duty.
He had used his influence, the weight of his character and business
repute, to control the action of the Board towards Northwick, when the
defalcation became known, and now he was doubly bound to respond to the
wishes of the directors in proceeding against him. Most of them believed
that Northwick was still alive; those who were not sure regarded it as a
public duty to have him indicted at any rate, and they all voted that
Hilary should make the necessary complaint. Then Hilary had no choice
but to obey. Another man in his place might have resigned, but he could
not, for he knew that he was finally responsible for Northwick's escape.
He made it no less his duty to find out just how much hardship it would
work Northwick's daughters, and he tried to lend them money. But Suzette
answered for both that her father had left them some money when he went
away; and Hilary could only send Louise to explain how he must formally
appear in the legal proceedings; he allowed Louise to put whatever
warmth of color she wished into his regrets and into his advice that
they should consult a lawyer. It was not business-like; if it were
generally known it might be criticised; but in the last resort, with a
thing like that, Hilary felt that he could always tell his critics to go
to the deuce, and fall back upon a good conscience.
It seemed to Louise, at first, that Suzette was unwilling to separate
her father from his office, or fully to appreciate his forbearance. She
treated her own father's course as something above suspicion, as
something which he was driven to by enemies, whom he would soon have
returned to put to confusion, if he had lived. It made no difference to
her and Adeline what was done; their father was safe, now, and some day
his name would be cleared. Adeline added that they were in the home
where he had left them; it was their house, and no one could take it
from them.
Louise compassionately assented to everything. She thought Suzette might
have been a little more cordial in the way she received her father's
regrets. But she remembered that Suzette was always undemonstrative, and
she did not blame her, after her first disappointment. She could see the
sort of neglect that was already falling upon the house, the expression
in housekeeping terms of the despair that was in their minds. The
sisters did not cry, but Louise cried a good deal in pity for their
forlornness, and at last her tears softened them into something like
compassion for themselves. They had her stay to lunch rather against her
will, but she thought she had better stay. The lunch was so badly cooked
and so meagre that Louise fancied they were beginning to starve
themselves, and wanted to cry into her tea-cup. The woman who waited
wore such dismal black, and went about with her eyes staring and her
mouth tightly pursed, and smelt faintly of horses. It was Mrs. Newton;
she had let Louise in when she came, and she was the only servant whom
the girl saw.
Suzette said nothing about their plans for the future, and Louise did
not like to ask her. She felt as if she was received under a flag of
truce, and that there could be no confidence between them. Both of the
sisters seemed to stand on the defensive with her; but when she started
to come away, Suzette put on her hat and jacket, and said she would go
to the avenue gate with her, and meet Simpson, who was coming to take
Louise back to the station.
It was a clear day of middle March; the sun rode high in a blue sky, and
some jays bragged and jeered in the spruces. The frost was not yet out
of the ground, but the shaded road was dry underfoot.
They talked at arm's length of the weather; and then Suzette said
abruptly, "Of course, Louise, your father will have to do what they want
him to, against--papa. I understand that."
"Oh, Sue--"
"Don't! I should wish him to know that I wasn't stupid about it."
"I'm sure," Louise adventured, "he would do anything to help you!"
Suzette put by the feeble expression of mere good feeling. "We don't
believe papa has done anything wrong, or anything he wouldn't have made
right if he had lived. We shall not let them take his property from us
if we can help it."
"Of course not! I'm sure papa wouldn't wish you to."
"It would be confessing that they were right, and we will _never_ do
that. But I don't blame your father, and I want him to know it."
Louise stopped short and kissed Suzette. In her affectionate optimism it
seemed to her for the moment that all the trouble was over now. She had
never realized anything hopelessly wrong in the affair; it was like a
misunderstanding that could be explained away, if the different people
would listen to reason.
Sue released herself, and said, looking away from her friend: "It has
been hard. He is dead; but we haven't even been allowed to see him laid
in the grave."
"Oh, perhaps," Louise sobbed out, "he _isn't_ dead! So many people think
he isn't--"
Suzette drew away from her in stern offence. "Do you think that if he
were alive he would leave us without a word--a sign?"
"No, no! He couldn't be so cruel! I didn't mean that! He is dead, and I
shall always say it."
They walked on without speaking, but at the gate Suzette offered to
return Louise's embrace. The tears stood in her eyes, as she said, "I
would like to send my love to your mother--if she would care for it."
"Care for it!"
"And tell your brother I can never forget what he did for us."
"He can never forget that you let him do it," said Louise, with eager
gratitude. "He would have liked to come with me, if he hadn't thought it
might seem intrusive."
"_Intrusive!_ Your _brother_!" Sue spoke the words as if Matt were of
some superior order of beings.
The intensity of feeling she put into her voice brought another gush of
tears into Louise's eyes. "Matt _is_ good. And I will tell him what you
say. He will like to hear it." They looked down the road, but they could
not see Simpson coming yet. "Don't wait, Sue," she pleaded. "Do go back!
You will be all worn out."
"No, I will stay till your carriage comes," said Suzette; and they
remained a moment silent together.
Then Louise said, "Matt has got a new fad: a young man that writes on
the newspapers--"
"The newspapers!" Suzette repeated with an intimation of abhorrence.
"Oh, but he isn't like the others," Louise hastened to explain. "Very
handsome, and interesting, and pale, and sick. He is going to be a poet,
but he's had to be a reporter. He's awfully clever; but Matt says he's
awfully poor, and he has had such a hard time. Now they think he won't
have to interview people any more--he came to interview papa, the first
time; and poor papa was very blunt with him; and then so sorry. He's got
some other kind of newspaper place; I don't know what. Matt liked what
he wrote about--about, your--troubles, Sue."
"Where was it?" asked Sue. "They were all wickedly false and cruel."
"His wasn't cruel. It was in the _Abstract_."
"Yes, I remember. But he said papa had taken the money," Sue answered
unrelentingly.
"Did he? I thought he only said _if_ he did. I don't believe he said
more. Matt wouldn't have liked it so much if he had. He's in such bad
health. But he's awfully clever."
The hack came in sight over the rise of ground, with Simpson driving
furiously, as he always did when he saw people. Louise threw her arms
round her friend again. "Let me go back and stay with you, Sue! Or, come
home with me, you and Miss Northwick. We shall all be so glad to have
you, and I hate so to leave you here alone. It seems so dreadful!"
"Yes. But it's easier to bear it here than anywhere else. Some day all
the falsehood will be cleared up, and then we shall be glad that we bore
it where he left us. We have decided what we shall do, Adeline and I. We
shall try to let the house furnished for the summer, and live in the
lodge here."
Louise looked round at the cottage by the avenue gate, and said it would
be beautiful.
"We've never used it for any one, yet," Suzette continued, "and we can
move back into the house in the winter."
This again seemed to Louise an admirable notion, and she parted from her
friend in more comfort than she could have imagined when they met. She
carried her feeling of elation home with her, and was able to report Sue
in a state of almost smiling prosperity, and of perfect resignation, if
not acquiescence, in whatever the company should make Hilary do. She
figured her father, in his reluctance, as a sort of ally of the
Northwicks, and she was disappointed that he seemed to derive so little
pleasure from Sue's approval. But he generally approved of all that she
could remember to have said for him to the Northwicks, though he did not
show himself so appreciative of the situation as Matt. She told her
brother what Sue had said when she heard of his unwillingness to intrude
upon her, and she added that now he must certainly go to see her.