The verdict of the doctors was a foregone conclusion. The family
physician, who was one of the three, the other two being specialists,
stayed behind and explained to John Darche the result of the
examination. There was no hope of recovery, he said, nor even of
improvement. The most that could be done was to give the old gentleman
the best of care so long as he remained alive. Little by little his
faculties would fail, and in a few years, if he did not die, he would
be quite as helpless as a little child.
John Darche was not in a state to receive the information with
equanimity, though he had expected nothing else and knew that every
word the doctor said was true--and more also. He protested, as he had
protested to Dolly half an hour earlier, that Mr. Darche was still a
serviceable president for the Company, since he could sign his name, no
matter whether he understood the value of the signature or not. The
doctor, who, like most people, was aware of the investigation then
proceeding, shook his head, smiled incredulously, asked after Mrs.
Darche and went away, pondering upon the vanity of human affairs and
consoling himself for the sins of the world with the wages thereof,
most of which ultimately find their way to the doctor's bank-book, be
the event life or death.
Old Mr. Darche, supremely unconscious of what had taken place, and
believing that he had been giving the benefit of his valuable advice to
the directors of a western railroad, had lighted one of his very fine
cigars and had fallen asleep in his easy chair in his own study before
it was half finished. Marion had returned to Dolly in the library and
John had sent for his stenographer and had taken possession of the
front drawing-room for the morning, on pretence of attending to the
business which, in reality, had already been withdrawn from his hands
during several weeks.
He was in great suspense and anxiety, for it was expected that the work
of the investigating committee would end on that afternoon. He knew
that in any event he was ruined, and even he felt that it would be
humiliating to live on his wife's income. They would go abroad at once,
he thought, New York had become hateful to him. He had as yet no
apprehension of being deprived of his liberty, even temporarily.
Whatever action was taken against him must be of a civil nature, he
thought. He did not believe that any judge would issue a warrant for
his arrest on such evidence as could have been collected by the
committee. Simon Darche was incapable of remembering what he had done
even a week previously, and since the doctors declared that his mind
was gone, almost anything might be attributed to him--anything, in
fact, about which the slightest trace of irregularity could be
discovered. John had been cautious enough in his actions when he had
been aware that he was violating the law, though he had been utterly
reckless when he had appealed to chance in the hope of retrieving his
losses, and recovering himself. He believed himself safe, and indulged
in speculations about the future as a relief to the excessive anxiety
of the moment.
Mrs. Darche had some right to know the result of the consultation which
had taken place, but her husband either intended to leave her in
ignorance or forgot her existence after the doctors had left the house.
During some time she remained with Dolly in the library, expecting that
John would at least send her some message, if he did not choose to come
himself. At last she determined to go to him.
"I am very busy now," he said as she entered the room and glanced at
the secretary.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Darche, "I see, but I must speak to you alone for
a minute."
"Well--but I wish you would choose some other time." He nodded to the
secretary who rose and quietly disappeared.
"What is it?" asked Darche, when they were alone.
"What did the doctors say?"
"Oh, nothing at all. They talked as doctors always do. Keep the patient
in good health, plenty of fresh air, food and sleep." He laughed sourly
at his own words.
"Is that all?" inquired Marion, rather incredulously. "They must have
said something else. Why, we can all see that he is not himself. There
is something very seriously wrong. I am quite sure that he did not
recognise me yesterday."
"Not recognise you?" said John with the same disagreeable laugh. "Not
recognise you? Do not be silly. He talks of nobody else. I tell you
there is nothing in the world the matter with him, he is good for
another twenty years."
"Thank heaven for that--for the twenty years of life, whether with all
his faculties or not--"
"Yes, by all means let us return thanks. At the present rate of
interest on his life that means at least two millions."
"It hurts me to hear you talk like that about your father," said
Marion, sitting down and watching her husband as he walked slowly up
and down before her.
"Does it? That is interesting. I wonder why you are hurt because he is
likely to live twenty years. You are not very likely to be hurt by his
death."
"Did I ever suggest such a thing?"
"No, it suggested itself."
At this speech Mrs. Darche rose. Standing quite still for a moment, she
looked quietly into his uncertain eyes. He was evidently in the worst
of humours, and quite unable to control himself, even had he wished to
do so. She felt that it would be safer to leave him, for her own temper
was overwrought and ready to break out. She turned towards the door.
Then he called her back.
"I say, Marion!"
"Well."
"What are you making such a fuss about?"
"Have I said anything?"
"No, not much, but you have a particularly uncomfortable way of letting
one see what you would like to say."
"Is that why you called me back?" asked Mrs. Darche on the point of
turning away again.
"I suppose so. It certainly was not for the pleasure of prolonging this
delightful interview."
Once more she moved in the direction of the door. Then something seemed
to tighten about her heart, something long forgotten, and which, if she
tried to understand it at all, she thought was pity. It was
nothing--only a dead love turning in its grave. But it hurt her, and
she stopped and looked back. John Darche was leaning against the high
mantlepiece, shading his eyes from the fire with his small, pointed
white hand. She came and stood beside him.
"John," she said gently, "I want to speak to you seriously. I am very
sorry if I was hasty just now. Please forget it."
Darche looked up, pulled out his watch and glanced at it, and then
looked at her again before he answered. His eyes were hard and dull.
"I think I said that I was rather busy this morning," he answered
slowly.
"Yes, I know," answered Marion, in her sweet, low voice. "But I will
not keep you long. I must speak. John, is this state of things to go on
for ever?"
"I fancy not. The death of one of us is likely to put a stop to it
before eternity sets in," he answered with some scorn.
"We can stop it now if we will but try," said Marion, laying her hand
entreatingly upon his arm.
"Oh yes, no doubt," observed John coldly.
"Let me speak, please, this once," said Mrs. Darche. "I know that you
are worried and harassed about business, and you know that I want to
spare you all I can, and would help you if I could."
"I doubt whether your help would be conducive to the interests of the
Company," observed Darche.
"No--I know that I cannot help you in that way. But if you would only
let me, in other ways, I could make it so much easier for you."
"Could you?" asked John, turning upon her immediately. "Then just lend
me a hundred thousand dollars."
Mrs. Darche started a little at the words. As has been said, she was
really quite in ignorance of what was taking place and had no idea that
her husband could be in need of what in comparison with the means of
the Company seemed but a small sum in cash.
"Do you need money, John?" she asked, looking at him anxiously.
"Oh no, I was only putting an imaginary case."
"I wish it were not merely imaginary--"
"Do you?" he asked, interrupting her quickly. "That is kind."
Marion seemed about to lose her temper at last, though she meant to
control herself.
"John!" she exclaimed, in a tone of reproach, "why will you so
misunderstand me?"
"It is you who misunderstand everything."
"I mean it quite seriously," she answered. "You know if you were really
in trouble for a sum like that, I could help you. Not that you ever
could be. I was only thinking--wishing that in some way or other I
might be of use. If I could help you in anything, no matter how
insignificant, it would bring us together."
John smiled incredulously.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "is that what you are driving at? Do you not think
life is very bearable as we are?"
By this time Marion had completely regained her self-possession. She
was determined not to be repulsed, but there was a little bitterness in
her voice as she spoke.
"No, frankly, John, as we are living now, life is not very bearable. I
cannot exchange half a dozen words with you without quarrelling, and it
is not my fault, John, it is not my fault! Could you not sometimes make
it a little easier for me?"
"By borrowing a hundred thousand dollars?"
A pause followed John's answer, and he walked as far as the window,
came back again and stopped.
"If you think it would be conducive to our conjugal happiness that I
should owe you a hundred thousand dollars, by all means lend it to me.
I will give you very good security and pay you the current rate of
interest."
Mrs. Darche hesitated a moment before she spoke again. She was not
quite sure that he was in earnest, and being determined to make the
utmost use of the opportunity she had created, she dreaded lest if she
pressed her offer upon him he should suddenly turn upon her with a
brutal laugh.
"Do you really mean it, John?" she asked at last. "Will it help you at
all?"
"Oh, if you insist upon it and think it will promote your happiness, I
have no objection to taking it," said Darche coolly. "As a matter of
fact it would be a convenience to-day, and it might help me to-morrow.
It will certainly not be of any importance next week."
"I do not know whether you are in earnest or not, but I am."
Once more she paused. She realised that he was in need of a great deal
of money, and that his scornful acceptance of her offer was really his
way of expressing real interest.
"You shall have it as soon as I can get it for you. If you really need
it I shall be very glad. If you are only laughing at me--well, I can
bear that too."
"No," answered John, speaking much more seriously than hitherto. "It is
a simple matter, of course--but it is quite true that it would be a
convenience to me to have a hundred thousand dollars in cash during the
next twenty-four hours, and after all, it will not make any difference
to you, as so much of your property is in bonds. All you need to do is
to borrow the money on call and give the bonds as collateral."
"I do not understand those things, of course," said Marion in a tone of
grief, "but I suppose it can be managed easily enough, and I shall be
so proud if I am able to help you a little. Oh, John," she added, after
a little pause, "if we could only be as we used to be, everything to
each other."
"I wish we could," John answered with real or assumed gravity. "But in
this existence, there is everything to separate us and hardly anything
to bring us together. You see, I am worried all day long, I never get
any rest and then I lose my temper about everything. I know it is wrong
but I cannot help it, and you must try to be as patient as you can, my
dear."
"I do try, John, I do try, do I not? Say that you know I do." For a
moment she thought she had produced an impression upon him, and a
vision of a happier and more peaceful life rose suddenly before her
ready imagination. But the tone in which he spoke the next words
dispelled any such illusion.
"Oh yes," he said dryly, "I know you do, of course. You are awfully
good--and I am awfully bad. I will reform as soon as I have time. And
now, if you do not mind, I will go and attend to my letters."
"And I will see about getting the money at once," she said, bravely
hiding her disappointment at his change of tone. "I may be able to have
it by this evening."
"Oh yes," he answered with some eagerness, "if you are quick about it.
Well good-bye, and I am really much more grateful than I seem."
His dry unpleasant laugh was the last sound she heard as she left the
room. After all, it seemed perfectly useless, though she did her best
all day and every day.
Marion Darche left her husband more than ever convinced of the
hopelessness of any attempt at a happier and more united existence.
Faithful, brave, loving, a woman of heart rather than head, she
encountered in every such effort the blank wall of a windowless nature,
so to say--the dull opposition of a heartless intelligence incapable of
understanding any natural impulse except that of self-preservation, and
responding to no touch of sympathy or love. Against her will, she
wondered why she had married him, and tried to recall the time when his
obstinacy had seemed strength, his dulness gravity, his brutality
keenness. But no inner conjuring with self could give an instant's
life to the dead illusion. The nearest approach to any real
resurrection which she had felt for years had been the little pang that
had overtaken her when she had turned to leave him and had thought for
one moment that he might be suffering, as she was apt to suffer--this
being, whom she had once misunderstood and loved, whom she loved not at
all now, but to whom she had been lovelessly faithful in word and
thought and deed for years past.
Yet she knew that others had loved her well, most of all Harry Brett,
and girl-like, groping for her heart's half-grown truth she had once
believed that she loved him too, with his boyish, careless ways, his
thoughtless talk and his love of happiness for its own sake. He had
disappointed her in some little way, being over-light of leaf and
flower, though the stem was good to the core; she had looked for
strength on the surface as a child breaks a twig and laughs at the oak
for its weakness; she had expected, perhaps, to be led and ruled by a
hand that would be tender and obedient only for her, and she had turned
from Harry Brett to John Darche as from a delusion to a fact, from a
dream to the strong truth of waking--very bitter waking in the end.
But though she had wrecked heart and happiness, and had suffered that
cold and hunger of the soul which the body can never feel, she would
not change her course nor give up the dream of hope. Worse than what
had been, could not be to come, she said to herself, realising how
little difference financial ruin, even to herself, could make now.
As she took up her pen to write a word to Brett, begging him to come to
her without delay, she paused a moment, thinking how strange it was
that in an extremity she should be obliged to send for him, who had
loved her, to help her to save her husband, if salvation were possible.
She even felt a little warmth about her heart, knowing how quickly
Harry would come, and she was glad that she had known how to turn a
boy's romantic attachment into a man's solid friendship. Brett would
not disappoint her.
She sent Dolly away, and Dolly, obedient, docile and long-suffering for
her friend's sake, kissed her on both pale cheeks and left her,
tripping down the brown steps with a light gait and a heavy heart.