Desires unsatisfied, abortive hope,
Repinings which provoked vindictive thought,
These restless elements forever wrought.
SOUTHEY.
"Good night," John Latimer says, as they stand at the gate of the
eyrie. They have been spending a delightful evening. Prof. Freilgrath
is on his way home, and after a brief visit must make a flying trip to
Germany. Latimer has half decided to go with him, and has been
persuading Floyd. It looks very tempting,--a two or three months'
vacation.
"I ought to go up to the factory," he begins, abruptly. "Our watchman
is down with the rheumatism. The foreman stayed last night, and I
promised to send in some one to-night. Am I growing old and forgetful?"
Latimer laughs as he asks how much money is in the safe. If half a
million, he will go.
"At all events I will walk up and see," Grandon says, and strides
along.
There is no moon, but he has been over the road so many times that it
is no journey at all. Silence and darkness reign supreme. He unfastens
the door with his skeleton key, lights a burner in the hallway and a
safety lamp which he carries with him. How weird and ghostly these long
passages look! The loom-rooms seem tenanted by huge, misshapen denizens
of some preadamic world. He stands and looks, and fantastic ideas float
through his brain.
The engine-room is satisfactory. Everything is right, except that once
or twice he catches a strong whiff of kerosene, which he hates utterly.
The men may have been using it for something. He inspects nooks and
corners, even looks into Wilmarth's little den. How often to traverse a
man's plans, makes an enemy of him for life, he ruminates.
He turns out the light in the hall and enters the office, remembering
two letters he laid in the drawer. How shadowy and tempting the little
rooms look! He enters and throws himself on the lounge. A few weeks
longer and the place will know him no more except for a chance visit.
There have been many cares and trials since the day he sat here and
read his father's letter, and his whole life has been changed by them.
"But I have done my duty in all honor and honesty," he cries, softly,
as if the dead man's spirit were there to hear. "I have defrauded no
one, I have taken no money upon usury, I have been true to the living,
true to the dead." And again he seems to see St. Vincent's closing
eyes.
The bell tells off midnight. The strokes sound slower and more august
than by busy daylight. If ever the ghost of the dead returned--
No ghost comes, however. He may as well throw himself down here and
sleep, as to tramp to the park. No one will miss him.
He says that bitterly. Even Cecil is weaned from him. He is no longer
her first thought. Is life full of ingratitude, or is he growing
morose, doubtful of affection?
He lies there awhile, thinking of Violet and the foolish madness he has
resolved to overcome. It is well enough for youth and inexperience, but
a man of his years! Is there another woman in the world who could have
loved him, would have loved him with maddening fervor? Is the old
Eastern story of Lilith true? Does she come to tempt him at this
midnight hour?
That is his last thought. When he turns again he is rather cramped, and
he knows he has been asleep. But a curious impression is on his mind,
as if some one came and looked at him. The lamp burns, the corners of
the room are shadowy. An ugly chill creeps up his back, and he rises,
stretches himself, whistles a stave of rondeau, and inspects the outer
room. All is as usual. He will go back to bed. Or had he better take
another turn through the factory?
The door is locked. Did he take out the key? It is always hung in one
place, and the nail is empty. He cudgels his brains for remembrance,
but surely he left the key on the outside.
What can he do? An old traveller, he ought to be fertile in expedients.
He is certainly trapped, and if so, some one is in the factory.
After a moment, he softly opens the iron shutters and vaults out. Some
rubbish stands in the corner of the yard; it looked unsightly to him
yesterday, but he is thankful now, and scrambles on the unsteady pile
until he can spring up to the top of the high street fence and let
himself drop on the other side. How odd that the dog should not hear.
There is a long ray of light flashing out of a window. Something is
wrong.
He lets himself in at the main entrance again. There is a smothering
smell, a smoke, a glare. He rushes to the engine-room, but it is
up-stairs as well, everywhere, it seems, and he flies to the alarm
bell.
Some stalwart grip seizes him from behind and throws him, but he is up
in a flash. Ah, now he knows his enemy! He makes a frantic endeavor to
reach the rope, and the other keeps him away. Neither speak, but the
struggle is deadly, for the one has everything at stake, honor,
standing, all that enables a man to face the world, and a revenge that
would be so sweet. To-morrow the last business of the transfer is to be
completed, to-night's loss will fall on the Grandon family.
Neither speak. The man who has been detected in a crime fights
desperately; the life of his more fortunate rival is as nothing to him.
If the place burns and Grandon's dead body is found there, who is to
know the secret covered up? If his dead body is _not_ there, it is
disgrace and ruin for his enemy, and he will struggle with all the
mastery of soul and body, with all the inspiration, of revenge, of
safety to himself.
Grandon is strong, supple, and has a sinewy litheness, beside his
height. His antagonist has the solidity of a rock, and though his body
is much shorter, his arms are Briarius-like, everywhere, and more than
once Grandon is lifted from his feet. It seems as if the awful struggle
went on for hours while the fire is creeping stealthily about with its
long blue and scarlet tongues. He hears a crackling up-stairs, it grows
lurid within, and he remembers stories of men struggling with fiends.
There floats over his sight the image of Irene Lepelletier; of Violet,
sweet and sad-eyed. Will it be too late for her to go to happiness?
Will Pauline Murray's love be only a green withe binding the Samson of
these modern days. One more desperate encounter, and Wilmarth comes
down with a thud. He seizes the rope and rings such peals that all
Westbrook starts. Then he runs through the passageway, but is caught
again. Whatever Wilmarth does he must do quickly.
Some voice in the street shouts, "Fire!" Grandon with a free hand deals
his adversary a blow, and the next instant he has the street door open.
"What's wrong?" cries a voice. "Who is here?" And the man, a workman,
though Grandon does not recognize him, rushes through in dismay, but
his presence of mind saves worse disaster. The hose in the engine-room
is speedily put in motion, and the hissing flames seem to explode.
Grandon follows in a dazed manner. There are other steps, and an
intense confusion like pandemonium prevails. One stentorian voice
orders, and men go to work with the forces at hand. The dense smoke is
enough to strangle them, but the waves of fire are beaten down. In a
moment they rise again, and now it is a fight with them. Fortunately
they can be taken singly, they have not had time to unite their
overmastering forces.
By the time the engines have reached the spot, the fire is pretty well
conquered. They open the windows to let out the thick, black smoke.
Every one questions, no one knows.
"Wait until to-morrow," says Floyd Grandon, who looks like a swarthy
Arab, he is so covered with grime.
Farley, who is foreman of one department, and lives almost in the
shadow of the building, who was first on the spot, is much puzzled.
"There is something wrong about all this," he declares. "The fire broke
out in four separate places. That was no accident!"
The morning soon dawns. The smoke dissipates slowly, and they find the
damage very small to what it might have been, but the signs of
incendiarism are unmistakable. Grandon goes carefully through the
place, searches every nook and corner, but discovers no trace of
Wilmarth. Then he despatches a messenger for Eugene and the two
gentlemen still at Grandon Park.
Meanwhile he walks up and down the office in deep thought. It seems
easy enough to tell a straightforward story, but what if Wilmarth
should deny all participation in it, treat it as a dream or a false
accusation on his part? He was here alone, he cannot deny that, and he
has no means of proving that Wilmarth was here with him. He found the
office door locked on the outside, as he supposed he should. No one
could believe for a moment that he would set fire to the place when he
had just disposed of it to his advantage, and yet not made a complete
legal transfer, but never was a man placed in more confusing
circumstances. Shall he attack Wilmarth with the power of the law? He
is his sister's husband, and it will make a family scandal just when he
believed he had all difficulties settled, and how _is_ he to prove his
charge? Wilmarth is not a man to leave a weak point if he can help. His
plans have all been nicely laid. Floyd feels certain now that he did
enter the office, attracted perhaps by a gleam of light. What if he had
not wakened until the fire was under full headway! Locked in, confused,
his very life might have been the forfeit, and he shudders. He is not
tired of life at three-and-thirty, if some events are not shaped quite
to his liking.
He washes up and tidies himself a little, but his coat he finds rather
a wreck after the deadly struggle. He sends one of the men out for some
breakfast, and shortly after that is despatched, the Grandon carriage
drives up, its occupants more than astonished. The brief alarm in the
night has not reached them.
Floyd leads them into the office and the door is closed. He relates his
singular story with concise brevity, and the little group listen in
amazement.
"The man has been a villain all the way through," declares Eugene, with
virtuous severity. "He did actually convince me last summer that St.
Vincent's plan would prove a complete failure, and that the business
would be nothing, yet he made me what I considered generous offers for
so poor an establishment. But for Floyd," he admits, with great
magnanimity, "I should have played into his hands."
"I think," Floyd announces, after every one has expressed frank
indignation, "that for a day or two we had better keep silent. I will
have the damage repaired, and now, it seems, having him at your mercy,
you can compel him to a bargain," and he glances at Murray.
They agree upon this plan and go over the building. The machinery is
very slightly damaged; the stock, not being inflammable, has been
injured more by water, but they find rags and cotton-waste saturated
with kerosene. Once under good headway the building would surely have
gone.
"Mr. Grandon," and a lad comes rushing up-stairs, "there is some one to
see you in a great hurry, down here in a wagon."
It is Marcia's pony phaeton, and two ladies are in it, one a Mrs.
Locke, Marcia's neighbor.
"I have been down to Grandon Park," she begins, nervously. "I had some
dreadful tidings! What a terrible night! Your sister----"
"What has happened to Mrs. Wilmarth?" he cries, in alarm. Can her
husband have wreaked his vengeance upon her?
"Her husband was found dead this morning in his library. He had been
writing, and had not gone to bed. She discovered him, and it was an
awful shock. She has just gone from one faint to another. Her mother
sent me here, though Mrs. Grandon has gone to her."
Are the horrors of this strange night never to cease? For a moment
Floyd seems stricken dumb, then the tidings appear quite impossible.
"No one could do anything," Mrs. Locke says. "A physician came, but he
was quite dead; and he, Dr. Radford, ordered some members of your
family to be sent for immediately."
"Eugene," calls Floyd. "Here, change coats with me if I can get into
yours. There is trouble at Marcia's. Remain here until I send you
word," and he springs into the large carriage, driving away at full
speed.
The house wears an unusual aspect. Several people are gathered on the
porch. Floyd hurries within, and goes straight through to the library,
lifting the portière. Dr. Radford is sitting by the window. Jasper
Wilmarth is still in his chair, his head fallen over on the desk,
pillowed by one arm. The swarthy face is now marble pale, the line of
eyebrows blacker than ever, the lips slightly apart.
Radford bows and steps forward. "Mr. Grandon--I am glad you have come,
for there is a little--a--I wish to tell _you_--before any steps are
taken. It is suicide, beyond doubt, by prussic acid. Can you divine any
cause?"
Floyd Grandon is as pale as the corpse, and staggers a step or two; but
when the terrible shock abates, an admiration for his enemy pervades
his very soul. It is what he would have done rather than meet criminal
disgrace.
"I have been treating him for a heart trouble, not anything critical,
and a local affection that caused him some anxiety. My first thought
was that he had taken an overdose of medicine, but I detected the
peculiar odor. Had there better be an inquest?"
Floyd shivers at the thought of the publicity. Death seems by far the
best solution of events, but to make a wonderment and scandal--
"Is it absolutely necessary?"
"Not unless the family desire it."
"Doctors are sometimes taken into strange confidences," Floyd Grandon
begins, gravely. "A difficulty came to my knowledge last night that
supplies the clew. Since the man could not have retained his honor,
this is the sad result. But having paid the penalty, if he might go to
his last rest quietly----"
"There can be no suspicion of foul play. His wife left him here
writing, at eleven. He seemed rather as if he wished her away, and she
retired, falling soundly asleep. He has sometimes remained down all
night, and even when she entered the room this morning she supposed him
still asleep. I should judge the poison had been taken somewhat after
midnight. There are various phases of accidental death----"
"Let it be managed as quietly as is lawful," decides Floyd Grandon.
Dr. Radford bows. "A post mortem will be sufficient, though that is not
absolutely necessary. You prefer it to pass as an accidental death?"
"The family would, I am positive. Can I intrust the matter with you?"
"Certainly."
"Well. Prepare the body for burial. Mrs. Wilmarth may choose to order
the rest."
He finds Marcia still in hysterics, and his mother half bewildered. "It
is so horribly sudden!" she cries. "Poor Marcia! she did really love
him!"
Let her keep her faith in him if she can. Her short wedded life has
been the froth and sparkle on the beaded cup, never reaching the dregs.
This man has hated him because he interfered with his plans and
unearthed his selfish purposes, but _he_, Grandon, has no desire for
revenge. Let him wrap himself in the garment of dead honor, his shall
not be the hand to tear it asunder.
He takes the tidings back to the factory with him. They look over
Wilmarth's desk. There are no private papers, but they find two notices
that the insurance policy has expired. For almost a week the place has
been uninsured.
"Well," he comments, with a grim smile, "we shall at least escape an
inquisitorial examination. Jasper Wilmarth planned better for us than
he knew. But this must be renewed to-day, and the damage repaired as
speedily as possible. The transfer will have to wait until after the
funeral. As for the rest, we may as well keep our own counsel."
They all agree with him. The factory will be closed for repairs. That
it was an incendiary fire they must perforce admit, but beyond that
they will make no unnecessary talk. Eugene drives down home and does a
few errands, but the others are busy all day arranging matters for the
future. Before Floyd goes home he visits Marcia, who is still wild with
her grief. The house is full of friends. The library is closed and
watchers are there. Mrs. Grandon will remain.
So it is almost night when Floyd reaches home. Violet and Pauline know
there was a fire that would have worked complete devastation if Floyd
had not fortunately gone to the factory. Eugene has given him the
setting off of a hero, and would like to picture to their wondering
eyes that deadly struggle, but is bound by a sacred promise. They are
horrified, too, by Mr. Wilmarth's sudden death. Violet's heart swells
with pity as she sees the pale, tired face and heavy eyes. She would
like to fly to his arms with infinite sympathy, but he is never very
demonstrative, and now it seems ill-timed. She starts to follow him
up-stairs, but Briggs intercepts her,--cook wants to know something,
and she has to give a few orders. There seems some difficulty about
dessert, and she attends to its arrangement, then the bell rings.
Dinner topics are quite exciting. The Brades come in afterward, and
several of the near friends.
"I must beg to be excused," Floyd says, after smoking a cigar with the
gentlemen. "I am dead tired and half asleep. Good night," softly, with
a little pressure on Violet's arm. Cecil runs for a kiss, and he passes
through the group on the porch. Violet's heart swells and for an
instant she forgets what she is saying. When, three hours afterward,
she steals noiselessly to his room, he is locked in slumber. If she
dared bend and kiss him! If only he _loved_ her!
The excitement does not in any wise die out, but the one incident seems
to offset the other. Mr. Haviland returns to his family, as some time
must elapse before the completion of the matter, but they are to take
full possession on the first of October. Mr. Murray is planning some
kind of a home for Polly that will presently include her husband.
Eugene really blossoms out in a most attractive light. Prosperity and
freedom from care are the elements on which he thrives serenely. He
could never make any fight with circumstances,--not so much from
inability as sheer indolence. For such people some one always cares.
"Life's pure blessings manifold" seem showered upon them, while
worthier souls are left to buffet with adversity.
Marcia is inconsolable, Mrs. Grandon advises a little composure and
common sense, but it is of no avail. Madame comes, with her sweet
philosophy and sweeter voice, and Violet with tears, but nothing rouses
her except the depth of crape on her dress and the quality of her veil.
Grandon Park and Westbrook are shocked by the awful suddenness. There
is always a peculiar awe about an accidental death, and it passes for
an overdose of powerful medicine Mr. Wilmarth was in the habit of
using.
The dead face holds its secret well. A rugged, unhandsome one at the
best, it is softened by the last change; the sneer has gone out of it,
and an almost grand composure settles in its place. Floyd Grandon
studies it intently. A few trifling circumstances roused his distrust,
and--was it destined beforehand that he should cross Wilmarth at every
turn? He has saved his enemy's honor as well as his own, and a great
pity moves him.
Floyd attends Marcia; no one else can control her. Eugene takes Violet
and his mother, Mr. Murray has his own pretty daughter and Madame
Lepelletier. Besides this there is a long procession to the church, and
carriages without number to the beautiful cemetery two miles distant.
The world may not have much admired Mr. Wilmarth, but it knows nothing
against him, and his romantic marriage was in his favor. So he is
buried with all due respect in that depository of so many secrets,
marred and gnarled and ruined lives.
Marcia is brought home to her brother's and takes to her bed. The day
following is Sunday, a glorious, sun-ripe September day. The air is
rich with ripening fruit, the pungent odor of drying balsams,
chrysanthemums coming into bloom, and asters starring the hillsides.
The sky is a faultless blue overhead, the river takes its tint and
flows on, a broad blue ribbon between rocky shores. A strange, calm day
that moves every one to silence and tender solemnity.
But to Sunday succeeds the steady tramp of business. Fortunately for
Marcia, and Floyd as well, Mr. Wilmarth has made a will in the first
flush of marital satisfaction, bequeathing nearly everything to her,
except a few legacies. It increased her adoration at the time, and did
no harm to him since he knew he could change it if he saw passionately,
decorously, and she can also enjoy her new found liberty.
Laura's return is next in order, and she is not a little surprised at
the changes. The Murrays are still at Grandon Park; Floyd insists upon
this, as he really does not want Marcia to return, brotherly kind as he
proves to her. The Latimers go to the city, and the professor is again
domiciled a brief while at the cottage that seems so like home. Laura
and Mr. Delancy set up a house of their own, and Marcia has a craze
about the furnishing, making herself quite useful. Laura considers her
rather picturesque, with the brief romance for background. But Eugene's
engagement delights her.
"Upon my word, mamma," she exclaims, "you are a singularly fortunate
dowager! Just think; less than a year and a half ago we were a doleful
lot, sitting around our ancestral hearth, which was Floyd's, spinsters
in abundance, and a woful lack of the fine gold of life, without which
one is nobody. And here you have two distinguished married daughters,
an interesting widow, a son who will serenely shadow himself under the
wings of a millionnaire, and--well, I can almost forgive Floyd for
marrying that red-haired little nonentity. Who ever supposed she was
going to have such a fortune? And if she should have no children,
Eugene may one day be master of Grandon Park! Who can tell?"
For, after all, Floyd's interests seem hardly identical with their own.