CONTAINING SOME REFLECTIONS AND THE ENTRANCE OF MEPHISTOPHELES.
"Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor horrid lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime."--_Byron_.
Lennox Sanderson was stretched in his window-seat with a book, of
which, however, he knew nothing--not even the title--his mind being
occupied by other thoughts than reading at that particular time.
Did he dare do it? The audacity of the proceeding was sufficient to
make the iron will of even Lennox Sanderson waver. And yet, to lose
her! Such a contingency was not to be considered. His mind flew
backward and forward like a shuttle, he turned the leaves of his book;
he smoked, but no light came from within or without.
He glanced about the familiar objects in his sitting-room as one
unconsciously does when the mind is on the rack of anxiety, as if to
seek council from the mute things that make up so large a part of our
daily lives.
It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of the
appointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity. Heavy red
curtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparted
a degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere. Russian candlesticks of
highly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves.
Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark red
paper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintings
showed to excellent advantage. They were reproductions of Botticelli,
Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity.
Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes,
flintlocks and carbines. A helmet and breastplate filled the space
between the two windows. Some dozen or more of pipe racks held the
young collegian's famous collection of pipes that told the history of
smoking from the introduction during the reign of Elizabeth, down to
the present day.
In taking a mental inventory of his household goods, Sanderson's eyes
fell on the photograph of a woman on the mantel-piece. He frowned.
What right had she there, when his mind was full of another? He walked
over to the picture and threw it into the fire. It was not the first
picture to know a similar fate after occupying that place of honor.
The blackened edges of the picture were whirling up the chimney, when
Sanderson's attention was arrested by a knock.
"Come in," he called, and a young man of about his own age entered.
Without being in the least ill-looking, there was something repellent
about the new comer. His eyes were shifty and too close together to be
trustworthy. Otherwise no fault could be found with his appearance.
"Well, Langdon, how are you?" his host asked, but there was no warmth
in his greeting.
"As well as a poor devil like me ever is," began Langdon obsequiously.
He sighed, looked about the comfortable room and finished with: "Lucky
dog."
Sanderson stood on no ceremony with his guest, who was a thoroughly
unscrupulous young man. Once or twice Langdon had helped Sanderson out
of scrapes that would have sent him home from college without his
degree, had they come to the ears of the faculty. In return for this
assistance, Sanderson had lent him large sums of money, which the owner
entertained no hopes of recovering. Sanderson tried to balance matters
by treating Langdon with scant ceremony when they were alone.
"Well, old man," began his host, "I do not flatter myself that I owe
this call to any personal charm. You dropped in to ease a little
financial embarrassment by the request of a loan--am I not right?"
"Right, as usual, Sandy, though I'd hardly call it a loan. You know I
was put to a devil of a lot of trouble about that Newton affair, and it
cost money to secure a shut mouth."
Sanderson frowned. "This is the fifth time I have had the pleasure of
settling for that Newton affair, Langdon. It seems to have become a
sort of continuous performance."
Langdon winced.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Langdon. You owe me two thousand now, not
counting that poker debt. We'll call it square if you'll attend to a
little matter for me and I'll give you an extra thou. to make it worth
your while."
"You know I am always delighted to help you, Sandy."
"When I make it worth your while."
"Put it that way if you wish."
"Do you think that for once in your life you could look less like the
devil than you are naturally, and act the role of parson?"
"I might if I associate with you long enough. Saintly company might
change my expression."
"You won't have time to try. You've got to have your clerical look in
good working order by Friday. Incidently you are to marry me to the
prettiest girl in Massachusetts and keep your mouth closed."
As if to end the discussion, Sanderson strode over to his desk and
wrote out a check for a thousand dollars. He came back, waving it in
the air to dry the ink.
"Perhaps you will condescend to explain," Langdon said, as he pocketed
the check.
"Explanations are always bores, my dear boy. There is a little girl
who feels obliged to insist on formalities, not too many. She'll think
your acting as the parson the best joke in the world, but it would not
do to chaff her about it."
"Oh, I see," and Langdon's laugh was not pleasant.
"Exactly. You will have everything ready--white choker, black coat and
all the rest of it, and now, my dear boy, you've got to excuse me as
I've got a lot of work on hand."
They shook hands and Langdon's footsteps were soon echoing down the
corridor.
The foul insinuation that Sanderson had just made about Anna rankled in
his mind. He went to the sideboard and poured himself out a good stiff
drink. After that, his conscience did not trouble him.
The work on account of which he excused himself from Langdon's society,
was apparently not of the most pressing order, for Sanderson almost
immediately started for Boston, turning his steps towards Mrs. Standish
Tremont's.
"Mrs. Tremont was not at home," the man announced at the door, "and
Mrs. Endicott was confined to her room with a bad headache. Should he
take his card to Miss Moore?"
Sanderson assented, feeling that fate was with him.
"My darling," he said, as Anna came in a moment later, and folded her
close in a long embrace. She was paler than when he had last seen her
and there were dark rings under her eyes that hinted at long night
vigils.
"Lennox," she said, "do not think me weak, but I am terribly
frightened. It does not seem as if we were doing the right thing by
our friends."
"Goosey girl," he said, kissing her, "who was it that said no marriage
ever suited all parties unconcerned?"
She laughed. "I am thinking more of you Lennox, than of myself.
Suppose your father should not forgive you, cut you off without a cent,
and you should have to drudge all your life with mother and me on your
hands! Don't you think you would wish we had never met, or, at least,
that I had thought of these things?"
"Suppose the sky should fall, or the sun should go out, or that I could
stop loving you, or any of the impossible things that could not happen
once in a million years. Aren't you ashamed of yourself to doubt me in
this way? Answer me, miss," he said with mock ferocity.
For answer she laid her cheek against his.--"I am so happy, dear, that
I am almost afraid."
He pressed her tenderly. "And now, darling, for the
conspiracy--Cupid's conspiracy. You write to your mother to-night and
say that you will be home on Wednesday because you will. Then tell
Mrs. Tremont that you have had a wire from her saying you must go home
Friday (I'll see that you _do_ receive such a telegram), and leave
Friday morning by the 9:40. I will keep out of the way, because the
entire Tremont contingent will doubtless see you off. I will then meet
you at one of the stations near Boston. I can't tell you which, till I
hear from my friend, the Reverend John Langdon. He will have
everything arranged."
She looked at him with dilating eyes, her cheeks blanched with fear.
"Anna," he said, almost roughly, "if you have no confidence in me, I
will go out of your life forever."
"Yes, yes, I believe in you," she said. "It isn't that, but it is the
first thing I have ever kept from mother, and I would feel so much more
comfortable if she knew."
"Baby. An' so de ittle baby must tell its muvver ev'yting," he
mimicked her, till she felt ashamed of her good impulse--an impulse
which if she had yielded to, it would have saved her from all the
bitterness she was to know.
"And so you will do as I ask you, darling?"
"Yes."
"Do you promise?"
"Yes," and they sealed the bargain with a kiss.
"Dearest, I must be going. It would never do for Mrs. Tremont to see
us together. I should forget and call you pet names, and then you
would be sent supperless to bed, like the little girls in the story
books."
"I suppose you must go," she said, regretfully.
"It will not be for long," and with another kiss he left her.