There was no lack of sympathy for Marion Darche, and it was shown in
many ways during the period of calm which succeeded her husband's
disappearance and the sudden death of his father. Every one was anxious
to be first in showing the lonely woman that she was not alone, but
that, on the contrary, those who had been her friends formerly were
more ready than ever to proclaim the fact now, and, so far as they were
able, not in words only, but in deeds also.
She was relieved, all at once, of the many burdens which had oppressed
her life during the past years--indeed, she sometimes caught herself
missing the constant sacrifice, the daily effort of subduing her
temper, the hourly care for the doting old man who was gone.
But with all this, there was the consciousness that she was not
altogether free. Somewhere in the world, John Darche was still alive, a
fugitive, a man for whose escape a reward was offered. It was worse
than widowhood to be bound to a husband who was socially dead. It would
have been easier to bear if he had never escaped, and if he were simply
confined in the Penitentiary. There would not have been the danger of
his coming back stealthily by night, which Marion felt was not
imaginary so long as he was at large.
Yet she made no effort to obtain a divorce from the man whose name was
a disgrace. On the contrary, so far as outward appearances were
concerned, she made no change, or very little, in her life. Public
opinion had been with her from the first, and society chose to treat
her as a young widow, deserving every sympathy, who when the time of
mourning should have expired, would return to the world, and open her
doors to it.
There was a great deal of speculation as to the reasons which prevented
her from taking steps to free herself, but no one guessed what really
passed in her mind, any more than the majority of her acquaintances
understood that she had once loved John Darche. It had been commonly
said for years that she had married him out of disappointment because
something had prevented her from marrying another man, usually supposed
to have been Russell Vanbrugh. People attributed to her a greater
complication of motives than she could have believed possible.
In order not to be altogether alone, she took a widowed cousin to live
with her--a Mrs. Willoughby, who soon became known to her more intimate
friends as Cousin Annie. She was a gray, colourless woman, much older
than Marion, kind of heart but not very wise, insignificant but
refined, a moral satisfaction and an intellectual disappointment,
accustomed to the world, but not understanding it, good by nature and
charitable, and educated in religious forms to which she clung by habit
and association rather than because they represented anything to her.
Cousin Annie was one of those fortunate beings whom temptation
overlooks, passing by on the other side, who can suffer in a way for
the loss of those dear to them, but whose mourning does not reach the
dignity of sorrow, nor the selfish power of grief.
Marion did not feel the need of a more complicated and gifted
individuality for companionship. On the contrary, it was a relief to
her to have some one at her side for whom she was not expected to
think, but who, on the contrary, thought for her in all the commonplace
matters of life, and never acted otherwise than as a normal, natural,
human unit. There had been enough of the unusual in the house in
Lexington Avenue, and Marion was glad that it was gone.
Three months passed in this way and the spring was far advanced. Then,
suddenly and without warning, came the news that John Darche had been
heard of, traced, seen at last and almost captured. He had escaped once
more and this time he had escaped, for ever, by his own act. He had
jumped overboard in the English Channel from the Calais boat, and his
body had not been found.
Mrs. Darche wore black for her husband, and Cousin Annie said it was
very becoming. Dolly Maylands thought it absurd to put on even the
appearance of mourning for such a creature, and said so.
"My dear child," answered Marion gently, "he was my husband."
"I never can realise it," said Dolly. "Do you remember, I used to ask
you if you did not sometimes forget it yourself?"
"I never forgot it." Mrs. Darche's voice had a wonderful gravity in it,
without the least sadness. She was a woman without affectation.
"No," said Dolly thoughtfully, "I suppose you never had a chance. It is
of no use, Marion dear," she added after a little pause, and in a
different tone, as though she were tired of pretending a sort of
subdued sympathy, "it is of no use at all! I can never be sorry, you
know--so that ends it. Why, just think! You are free to marry any one
you please, to begin life over again. How many women in your position
ever had such a chance? Not but what you would have been just as free
if you had got a divorce. But--somehow, this is much more solidly
satisfactory. Yes, I know--it is horrid and unchristian--but there is
just that--there is a solid satisfaction in--"
She was going to say "in death," but thought better of it and checked
herself.
"It will not make very much difference to me just yet," said Marion.
"Meanwhile, as I said, he was my husband. I shall wear mourning a short
time, and then--then I do not know what I shall do."
"It must be very strange," answered Dolly.
"What, child?"
"Your life. Now you need not call me child in that auntly tone, as
though you were five hundred thousand years older and wiser and duller
than I am. There are not six years between our ages, you know."
"Do not resent being young, Dolly."
"Resent it! No, indeed! I resent your way of making yourself out to be
old. In the pages of future history we shall be spoken of as
contemporaries."
Mrs. Darche smiled, and Dolly laughed.
"School-book style," said the girl. "That is my morning manner. In the
evening I am quite different, thank goodness! But to go back--what I
meant was that your own life must seem very strange to you. To have
loved really--of course you did--why should you deny it? And then to
have made the great mistake and to have married the wrong man, and to
have been good and to have put up the shutters of propriety and
virtue--so to say, and to have kept up a sort of Sunday-go-to-meeting
myth for years, expecting to do it for the rest of your life, and
then--to have the luck--well, no, I did not mean to put it that
way--but to begin life all over again, and the man you loved not
married yet, and just as anxious to marry you as ever--"
"Stop, Dolly! How do you know?" Marion knit her brows in annoyance.
"Oh! I know nothing, of course. I can only guess. But then, it is easy
to guess, sometimes."
"I am not so sure," answered Marion thoughtfully, and looking at Dolly
with some curiosity.
As for Brett, he said nothing to any one, when the news of John
Darche's death reached New York. He supposed that people would take it
for granted that in the course of time he would marry Marion, because
the world knew that he had formerly loved her, and that she had made a
mistake in not accepting him and would probably be quite willing to
rectify it now that she was free. There had always been a certain
amount of inoffensive chaff about his devotion to her interests. But he
himself was very far from assuming that she would take him now. He knew
her better than the world did, and understood the unexpected
hesitations and revulsions of which she was capable, much better than
the world could.
He took a hopeful view, however, as was natural. For the present he
waited and said nothing. If she chose to go through the form of
mourning, he would go through the form of respecting it while it
lasted. Society is the better for most of its conventionalities, a fact
of which one may easily assure oneself by spending a little time in
circles that make bold to laugh at appearances. A man may break the
social barriers for a great object's sake, or out of true passion--as
sheer necessity may force a man to sleep by the road side. But a man
who habitually makes his bed in the gutter by choice is a madman, and
one who thinks himself above manners and conventionalities is generally
a fool. There is nothing more intolerable than eccentricity for its
own sake, nor more pitiful than the perpetual acting of it to a gallery
that will not applaud.
For some time Brett continued to come and see Marion regularly, and she
did not hesitate to show him that he was as welcome as ever. Then,
without any apparent cause, his manner changed. He became much more
grave than he had ever been before, and those who knew him well were
struck by an alteration in his appearance, not easily defined at first,
but soon visible to any one. He was growing pale and thin.
Vanbrugh strolled into his office on a warm day in early June and sat
down for a chat. Brett's inner sanctum was in the Equitable Building,
measured twelve feet by eight, and was furnished so as to leave a space
of about six feet by four in the middle, just enough for two chairs and
the legs of the people who sat in them. Vanbrugh looked at his friend
and came to the just conclusion that something was materially wrong
with him.
"Brett," he said, suddenly, "let us run over to Paris."
"I cannot leave New York at present," Brett answered, without
hesitation, as though he had already considered the question of going
abroad.
"Not being able to leave New York is a more or less dangerous disease
which kills a great many people," observed Vanbrugh. "You must leave
New York, whether you can or not. I do not know whether you are ill or
not, but you look like an imperfectly boiled owl."
"I know I do. I want a change."
"Then come along."
"No, I cannot leave New York. I am not joking, my dear fellow."
"I see you are not. I suppose it is of no use to ask what is the
matter. If you wanted help you would say so. You evidently have
something on your mind. Anything I can do?"
"No, I wish there were. I will tell you some day. It is something
rather odd and unusual."
Brett was not an imaginative man, or Vanbrugh, judging from his
appearance and manner, would almost have suspected that he was
suffering from some persecution not quite natural or earthly. He had
the uneasy glance of a man who fancies himself haunted by a sight he
fears to see. Vanbrugh looked at him a long time in silence and then
rose to go.
"I am sorry, old man," he said, with something almost like a sigh. "You
live too much alone," he added, turning as he was about to open the
door. "You ought to get married."
Brett smiled in rather a ghastly fashion which did not escape his
friend.
"I cannot leave New York," he repeated mechanically.
"Perhaps you will before long," said Vanbrugh, going out. "I would if I
were you."
He went away in considerable perplexity. Something in Brett's manner
puzzled him and almost frightened him. As a lawyer, and one accustomed
to dealing with the worst side of human nature, he was inclined to play
the detective for a time; as a friend, he resolved not to inquire too
closely into a matter which did not concern him. In fact, he had
already gone further than he had intended. Only a refined nature can
understand the depth of degradation to which curiosity can reduce
friendship.
A day or two later Vanbrugh met Dolly Maylands at a house in Tuxedo
Park where he had come to dine and spend the night. There were enough
people at the dinner to insure a little privacy to those who had
anything to say to one another.
"Brett is ill," said Vanbrugh. "Do you know what is the matter with
him?"
"I suppose Marion has refused him after all," answered Dolly, looking
at her plate.
Vanbrugh glanced at her face and thought she was a little pale. He
remembered the conversation when they had been left together in the
library after John Darche's trial, and was glad that he had then spoken
cautiously, for he connected her change of colour with himself, by a
roundabout and complicated reasoning more easy to be understood than to
explain.
"Perhaps she has," he said coolly. "But I do not think it is probable."
"Mr. Brett does not go to see her any more."
"Really? Are you sure of that, Miss Maylands?"
"Marion has noticed it. She spoke to me of it yesterday. I wondered--"
"What?"
"Whether there had been any misunderstanding. I suppose that is what I
was going to say." She blushed quickly, as she had turned pale a moment
before. "You see," she continued rather hurriedly, "people who have
once misunderstood one another may do the same thing again. Say, for
instance, that he vaguely hinted at marriage--men have such vague ways
of proposing--"
"Have they?"
"Of course--and that Marion did not quite realise what he meant, and
turned the conversation, and that Mr. Brett took that for a refusal and
went away, and lost his appetite, and all that--would it not account
for it?"
"Yes," assented Vanbrugh with a smile. "It might account for it--though
Harry Brett is not a school girl of sixteen."
"Meaning that I am, I suppose," retorted Dolly, anxious to get away
from the subject which she had not chosen, and to lead Vanbrugh up to
what she would have called the chaffing point. But he was not in the
humour for that.
"No," he said quietly. "I did not mean that." And he relapsed into
silence for a time.
He was thinking the matter over, and he was also asking himself
whether, after all, he should not ask Dolly Maylands to marry him,
though he was so much older than she. That was a possibility which had
presented itself to his mind very often of late, and from time to time
he determined to solve the question in one way or the other, and be
done with it. But when he wished to decide it, he found it capable of
only two answers; either he must offer himself or not. Sometimes he
thought he would and then he fancied that he ought to prepare Dolly for
so grave a matter by giving up chaff when they were together. But the
first attempt at putting this resolution into practice was a failure
whenever he tried it. Chaff was Dolly's element,--she pined when she
was deprived of it. The serious part of her nature lay deep, and there
were treasures there, hidden far below the bright tide of rippling
laughter. Such treasures are sometimes lost altogether because no one
discovers them, or because no one knows how to bring them to the
surface.
As he sat by her side in silence, Vanbrugh was impelled to turn
suddenly upon Dolly and ask her to marry him, without further
diplomacy. But he reflected upon the proverbial uncertainty of woman's
temper and held his peace. He had never made love to her, and there had
never been anything approaching to a show of sentiment between them
until that memorable afternoon when the trial was over. Moreover
Russell Vanbrugh was a very comfortable man. Nothing less grammatically
incorrect could express the combination of pleasant things which made
up his life. He was not lonely, in his father's house--indeed, he was
not lonely anywhere. He was contented, rich enough to satisfy all his
tastes, popular in a certain degree among those he liked, peaceful,
never bored, occupying, as it were, a well upholstered stall at the
world's play, when he chose to be idle, and busy with matters in which
he took a healthy, enduring interest when he chose to work. To marry
would be to step into an unknown country. He meant to make the venture
some day, but he had just enough of indolence in his character to
render the first effort a little distasteful. Nevertheless, he was
conscious that he thought more and more of Dolly, and that he was, in
fact, falling seriously in love with her, and foreseeing that there was
to be a change in their relations, there arose the doubt, natural in a
man not over-vain, as to the reception he might expect at her hands.
When Dolly next saw Marion Darche she proceeded to attack the question
in her own way. Marion was still in town, hesitating as to what she
should do with her summer. She had no house in the country. The place
which had belonged to her husband had gone with such little property as
he had still owned at the time of his conviction to repair some of the
harm he had done.
The windows of the library were open, and a soft south-easterly breeze
was blowing up from the square bringing a breath of coming summer from
the park leaves. Those who love New York, even to the smell of its mud,
know the strange charm of its days and evenings in late spring. Like
the charm of woman, the charm of certain great cities can never be
explained by those who feel it to those who do not. There were flowers
in the library, and Dolly sat down near the windows and breathed the
sweet quiet air before she spoke.
"Harry Brett is ill," she said.
"Ill? Seriously?" Marion had started slightly at the news.
"Not ill at home," explained Dolly. "Mr. Vanbrugh spoke of it the other
night."
"Oh--" Marion seemed relieved. "Perhaps that is the reason why he does
not come to see me," she added rather inconsequently, after a moment's
pause.
Dolly turned in her seat and looked into her friend's eyes.
"Marion," she said gravely. "You know that is not the reason why he
does not come."
"I know? What do you mean, Dolly?"
In spite of the genuine and innocent surprise in the tone, Dolly was
not satisfied.
"He has asked you to marry him and you have refused him," she said with
conviction.
"I?"
For a moment Marion Darche stared in amazement. Then her eyes filled
with tears and she turned away suddenly. Her voice was unsteady as she
answered.
"No. He has not asked me to marry him."
"Are you quite sure, dear?" insisted Dolly. "You know men have such odd
ways of saying it, and sometimes one does not quite understand--and
then a word, or a glance--if a man is very sensitive--you know--"
"Do not talk like that," said Marion, a little abruptly.
A short silence followed, during which she moved uneasily about the
room, touching the objects on the table, though they needed no
arrangement. At last she spoke again, out of the dusk from the corner
she had reached in her peregrination.
"If he asked me to marry him, I should accept him," she said in a low
voice.
Dolly was silent in her turn. She had not expected a direct confidence
so soon, and had not at all foreseen its nature, when it came almost
unasked.
"It is very strange!" she exclaimed at last.
"Yes," echoed Marion Darche, quite simply. "It is very strange."
It was long before the mystery was solved, and Dolly did not refer to
it in the meantime. Brett did not go abroad, nor did he leave New York
for more than a few days during the summer, though it was almost
inconceivable that his business should require his constant presence
during the dull season, and he could certainly have left matters to his
partner, had he not had some very good reason for refusing to take a
holiday.
Mrs. Darche took Cousin Annie with her and wandered about during a
couple of months, visiting various places which did not interest her,
falling in with acquaintances often, and sometimes with friends, but
rather avoiding those she met than showing any wish to see much of
them.
To tell the truth, the great majority showed no inclination to intrude
upon her privacy. People understood well enough that she should desire
to be alone and undisturbed, considering the strange circumstances
through which she had passed during the winter and spring. Moreover
Brett's conduct elicited approval on all sides. It was said that he
showed good taste in not following Mrs. Darche from place to place, as
he might easily have done, and as most men in his position undoubtedly
would have done, for it was quite clear that he was seriously in love.
All his friends had noticed the change of appearance and manner, and
others besides Vanbrugh had advised him to take a rest, to go abroad,
to go and shoot bears, in short, to do one of the many things which are
generally supposed to contribute to health and peace of mind. Then it
was rumoured that he was working harder than usual, in view of his
approaching marriage, that he was not so well off as had generally been
supposed, and that he wished to forestall any remarks to the effect
that he was going to marry Mrs. Darche for the sake of her fortune,
which was considerable. In short, people said everything they could
think of, and all the things that are usually thought of in such cases,
and when they had reached the end of their afflictions they talked of
other friends whose doings formed a subject of common interest.
Mrs. Darche did not find much companionship in her cousin, but that was
not exactly what she required or expected of Mrs. Willoughby. She
wanted the gray, colourless atmosphere which the widowed lady seemed to
take about with her, and she liked it merely because it was neutral,
restful and thoroughly unemotional. She did not think of creating new
diversions for herself, nor of taking up new interests. Her life had
been so full that this temporary emptiness was restful to her. She was
surprised at finding how little the present resembled what she had
expected it to be, so long as it had been still a future. As yet, too,
there was an element of uncertainty in it which did not preclude
pleasant reflections. Though she had said to Dolly that Brett's conduct
was changed, she could still explain it to herself well enough to be
satisfied with her own conclusions. Doubtless he felt that it was yet
too soon to speak or even to show by his actions that he had anything
to say. She could well believe--and indeed it was flattering--that he
abstained from seeing her because he felt that in her presence he might
not be able to control his speech. She called up in her memory what had
taken place many months previously when she had sent for him and had
told him that she needed a large sum of money at short notice--how he
had lost his head on that occasion, and allowed words to break out
which both of them had regretted. Since there was now no obstacle in
the way, it would of course be harder for him than ever to act the part
of a disinterested friend, even for the short time--the shortest
possible--during which she went through the form of wearing mourning
for John Darche. She could still say to herself that it was delicate
and tactful on Brett's part to act as he was acting, although she
sometimes thought, or wished, that he might have allowed what was
passing in his mind to betray itself by a glance, a gesture or a gentle
intonation. It was certainly pushing the proprieties to the utmost to
keep away from her altogether. Even when he wrote to her, as he had
occasion to do several times during the summer, he confined himself
almost entirely to matters of business, and the little phrase with
which he concluded each of his communications seemed to grow more and
more formal. There had always been something a little exaggerated in
Harry Brett's behaviour. It had been that perhaps, which in old times
had frightened her, had prevented her from accepting him, and had made
her turn in mistaken confidence to the man of grave moderation and
apparently unchanging purpose who had become her husband.
Dolly Maylands had no such illusions with regard to Brett's conduct,
though she did not again discuss the matter with Russell Vanbrugh. She
was conscious that he felt as she did, that something mysterious had
taken place about which neither of them knew anything, but which was
seriously and permanently influencing Harry Brett's life. Dolly,
however, was more discreet than was commonly supposed, and kept her
surmises to herself. When Mrs. Darche and Brett were discussed before
her, she said as little as she could, and allowed people to believe
that she shared the common opinion, namely, that the two people would
be married before the year was out and that, in the meanwhile, both
were behaving admirably.
Vanbrugh wandered about a good deal during the summer, returning to New
York from time to time, more out of habit than necessity. He made
visits at various country houses among his friends, spent several days
on board of several yachts, was seen more than once in Bar Harbour, and
once, at least, at Newport and on the whole did all those things which
are generally expected of a successful man in the summer holidays. He
wrote to Brett several times, but they did not meet often. The tone of
his friend's letters tended to confirm his suspicion of some secret
trouble. Brett wrote in a nervous and detached way and often complained
of the heat and discomfort during July and August, though he never gave
a sufficient reason for staying where he was.
On the other hand, Vanbrugh found that where he was invited Dolly
Maylands was often invited too, and that there seemed to be a general
impression that they liked one another's society and should be placed
together at dinner.
More than once, Vanbrugh felt again the strong impulse to which he had
almost yielded at Tuxedo. More than once he made a serious attempt to
change the tone of his conversation with Dolly. She did not fail to
notice this, of course, and being slightly embarrassed generally became
grave and silent on such occasions, thereby leading Vanbrugh to
suppose that she was bored, which very much surprised the successful
man of the world at first and very much annoyed him afterwards.
So the summer passed away, and all concerned in this little story were
several months older if not proportionately wiser.