He tried one last argument.
"Well, then for yourself; can't you see that it's contemptible to cling
so to a fortune? What's poverty, after all? You're young. Marry the
young man."
She stared at him.
"But, Mr. Williams," she said, "that's exactly what I promised Antonia
I wouldn't do."
"Break your promise."
She looked really shocked.
"What a funny thing for you to say--a lawyer!" She shook her head.
"I never broke my word in all my life. Besides, Antonia says that
Alexander particularly disliked the idea of my remarriage."
Williams thought this was too trifling.
"You can hardly suppose," he said stiffly, "that you will be
fulfilling the wishes of your husband by going to Spain with a man to
whom you are not married."
She raised her shoulders as if beset by inconsistencies.
"What can I do?"
"You can give up the whole thing."
"Give up Dominic? No! I gave him up once because I thought it was
better for him. I don't think I'd do it again, even for that--certainly
not for anything else. I love him, Mr. Williams, and I'm of rather a
persistent sort of nature."
Williams reported his failure to Antonia. He began to feel sorry for
Antonia. Her age, her previous power and, above all, her mere bulk
made it seem somehow humiliating that she could make no impression on
this calm, steely chit of a girl. He was struck, too, by the depth and
sincerity of her emotion.
"Don't care so much, my dear Miss Southgate," he said. "You've done
your best to protect your brother's memory. Wash your hands of it all
and go back to California. Forget there ever was such a person."
And then he saw what perhaps he had been stupid not to see before, that
under all Miss Southgate's anger and family pride was a more creditable
feeling--a love of Doris Helen, an almost maternal desire to protect
her. As soon as Williams understood this--and he did not understand for
some weeks--he advised compromise.
"Offer her half the income and let her marry the fellow."
Antonia's eyes flashed.
"Let myself be blackmailed?" she said. "You admit they are trying to
blackmail me?"
"I admit they are in the stronger position," said Williams, as if in
the experience of a lawyer it was pretty much the same thing.
"I shall not yield--for her own sake," answered Antonia.
In spite of the bitter issue between them the two women continued to
live in the same house, and to discuss with interest and sometimes with
affection all those endless daily details which two people who live
in the same house must discuss. It was the preparations for the trip
that finally drove Antonia to the wall: Doris' passport, her letter of
credit from Southgate's bank, and the trunks all marked with the name
of Southgate--"in red, with a bright-red band," Antonia explained to
Williams, "so that no one can fail to notice them."
The final item was a dozen black-bordered pocket handkerchiefs.
Williams, coming in late one afternoon, at the time when the shops are
making their last delivery, found Antonia sobbing on the sofa and the
little widow erect and pale, with the small, flat, square box open
between them.
He looked questioningly at Doris, and she answered, pointing to the
handkerchiefs, "It seems as if she did not want me to wear mourning.
But I can hardly go into colors when Alexander has been dead such a
short time."
Antonia sobbed out without raising her head, "Can she go careering
about Europe in widow's mourning with that dreadful young man in bright
colours?"
"Dominic's clothes are not bright," said Doris gently.
"They're not black like yours," returned Antonia.
The widow looked up at Williams.
"I don't think it's necessary for Dominic to wear black for my
husband," she said, as one open to reason. "One puts one's footman in
black, but not one's secretary."
At that terrible word "secretary" Antonia gave way.
"I can't let her do it!" she wailed. "In crape and he in colors--at
hotels! Oh, Doris, it's horrible--what you're doing, but I must save
you from utter ruin! I will make proper legal arrangements to give you
half the income from the estate, and you can marry this--this person."
She covered her large statuesque face with her large white hands. Doris
patted the heaving shoulder, but she did not leap at the offer. For an
instant Williams thought she was going to bargain. She was, but not for
money.
"Antonia, it's very kind of you," she said; "but I don't see how I
could take your money--money which at least legally would have become
yours--to do something that you hated."
"You can't expect me to approve of your marriage."
"If you don't, I won't do it," said Doris. "I'll just go--the way I
said."
And on this she obstinately took her stand. Nor would she be content
with Antonia's cry that she disapproved less of marriage than of this
other horrible immoral plan.
"There was nothing immoral in my plan," answered Doris proudly, "and I
cannot let you say so."
She insisted on being approved, and at length Antonia approved of
her--or said she did. And so the papers were drawn up and signed,
and the arrangements for the wedding went forward, and at last Hale
returned.
Williams had been waiting eagerly for this. He was more curious than
he had ever been in his life. His whole estimate of his own judgment
of men was at stake. Did Hale know, or didn't he? Five minutes alone
with the young artist would tell him, but those five minutes were
hard to get; Doris Helen was always there. Even when Williams made an
appointment with Hale at his office, the young widow was with him.
They were married early one morning, and their vessel was to sail at
noon. Then at last, while Doris was changing her clothes, Hale was left
alone in the front drawing-room with Antonia and the lawyer. Antonia,
who still clung to her belief that her sister-in-law was an innocent
instrument in the hands of a wicked man, would not speak to Hale, but
sat erect, with her eyes fixed on her brother's portrait. It was Hale
who opened the conversation.
"Miss Southgate," he said, with his engaging energy, "I can understand
you don't like me much for taking Doris away, but I do hope you'll let
me tell you how nobly I think you have behaved."
Antonia stared at him as if in her emptied safe she had discovered a
bread-and-butter letter from the burglar. Then without an articulated
word she rose and swept out of the room. Hale sighed.
"I do wish she didn't hate me so," he said. "Doris tells me she says
she approves of our marriage, but she doesn't behave as if she did."
"At least," said Williams, "she made it possible."
Hale took him up quickly.
"Not a bit of it. It was settled quite irrespective of her--that day
when you saw me kiss Doris in the hall. It was all arranged then; only,
of course, we thought we were going to be hard up. I shall never forget
that, Mr. Williams--that Doris was willing to give up that enormous
income for me."
"Was she?" said Williams. And as Hale nodded to himself he went on,
"Why did you go away like that for a month?"
"Doris wanted me to," he answered. "She thought it was only fair to
Miss Southgate. I felt perfectly safe. I had her promise, and she
thought she might bring Miss Southgate round to approving of the
marriage. I never thought she'd succeed; but, you see, she did. She's a
very remarkable woman, is Doris."
"She is, indeed," said Williams cordially.
Presently she came downstairs--the very remarkable woman--hand in hand
with Antonia, and she and Hale drove away to the steamer.
Williams found himself holding Antonia's large, heavy, white hand.
"I think you've been wonderful, Miss Southgate," he said.
She wiped her eyes.
"I did not want to make it impossible for her to come back," she said,
"when she finds that man out."
The lawyer did not answer, for it was his opinion that if there was to
be any finding out it would be done by Hale.