FEELING the embarrassment of the moment most painfully on her side, Mrs.
Van Brandt spoke first.
"You have said nothing to me about yourself," she began. "Is your life a
happier one than it was when we last met?"
"I cannot honestly say that it is," I answered.
"Is there any prospect of your being married?"
"My prospect of being married still rests with you."
"Don't say that!" she exclaimed, with an entreating look at me. "Don't
spoil my pleasure in seeing you again by speaking of what can never be!
Have you still to be told how it is that you find me here alone with my
child?"
I forced myself to mention Van Brandt's name, rather than hear it pass
_her_ lips.
"I have been told that Mr. Van Brandt is in prison for debt," I said.
"And I saw for myself last night that he had left you helpless."
"He left me the little money he had with him when he was arrested," she
rejoined, sadly. "His cruel creditors are more to blame than he is for
the poverty that has fallen on us."
Even this negative defense of Van Brandt stung me to the quick.
"I ought to have spoken more guardedly of him," I said, bitterly. "I
ought to have remembered that a woman can forgive almost any wrong that
a man can inflict on her--when he is the man whom she loves."
She put her hand on my mouth, and stopped me before I could say any
more.
"How can you speak so cruelly to me?" she asked. "You know--to my shame
I confessed it to you the last time we met--you know that my heart, in
secret, is all yours. What 'wrong' are you talking of? Is it the wrong I
suffered when Van Brandt married me, with a wife living at the time (and
living still)? Do you think I can ever forget the great misfortune of my
life--the misfortune that has made me unworthy of you? It is no fault of
mine, God knows; but it is not the less true that I am not married, and
that the little darling who is playing out there with her doll is my
child. And you talk of my being your wife--knowing that!"
"The child accepts me as her second father," I said. "It would be better
and happier for us both if you had as little pride as the child."
"Pride?" she repeated. "In such a position as mine? A helpless woman,
with a mock-husband in prison for debt! Say that I have not fallen
quite so low yet as to forget what is due to you, and you will pay me
a compliment that will be nearer to the truth. Am I to marry you for my
food and shelter? Am I to marry you, because there is no lawful tie that
binds me to the father of my child? Cruelly as he has behaved, he has
still _that_ claim upon me. Bad as he is, he has not forsaken me; he
has been forced away. My only friend, is it possible that you think
me ungrateful enough to consent to be your wife? The woman (in my
situation) must be heartless indeed who could destroy your place in the
estimation of the world and the regard of your friends! The wretchedest
creature that walks the streets would shrink from treating you in that
way. Oh, what are men made of? How _can_ you--how _can_ you speak of
it!"
I yielded---and spoke of it no more. Every word she uttered only
increased my admiration of the noble creature whom I had loved, and
lost. What refuge was now left to me? But one refuge; I could still
offer to her the sacrifice of myself. Bitterly as I hated the man who
had parted us, I loved her dearly enough to be even capable of helping
him for her sake. Hopeless infatuation! I don't deny it; I don't excuse
it--hopeless infatuation!
"You have forgiven me," I said. "Let me deserve to be forgiven. It is
something to be your only friend. You must have plans for the future;
tell me unreservedly how I can help you."
"Complete the good work that you have begun," she answered, gratefully.
"Help me back to health. Make me strong enough to submit to a doctor's
estimate of my chances of living for some years yet."
"A doctor's estimate of your chances of living?" I repeated. "What do
you mean?"
"I hardly know how to tell you," she said, "without speaking again of
Mr. Van Brandt."
"Does speaking of him again mean speaking of his debts?" I asked. "Why
need you hesitate? You know that there is nothing I will not do to
relieve _your_ anxieties."
She looked at me for a moment, in silent distress.
"Oh! do you think I would let you give your money to Van Brandt?"
she asked, as soon as she could speak. "I, who owe everything to your
devotion to me? Never! Let me tell you the plain truth. There is
a serious necessity for his getting out of prison. He must pay his
creditors; and he has found out a way of doing it--with my help."
"Your help?" I exclaimed.
"Yes. This is his position, in two words: A little while since, he
obtained an excellent offer of employment abroad, from a rich relative
of his, and he had made all his arrangements to accept it. Unhappily,
he returned to tell me of his good fortune, and the same day he was
arrested for debt. His relative has offered to keep the situation open
for a certain time, and the time has not yet expired. If he can pay
a dividend to his creditors, they will give him his freedom; and he
believes he can raise the money if I consent to insure my life."
To insure her life! The snare that had been set for her was plainly
revealed in those four words.
In the eye of the law she was, of course, a single woman: she was of
age; she was, to all intents and purposes, her own mistress. What was
there to prevent her from insuring her life, if she pleased, and from
so disposing of the insurance as to give Van Brandt a direct interest
in her death? Knowing what I knew of him--believing him, as I did, to be
capable of any atrocity--I trembled at the bare idea of what might have
happened if I had failed to find my way back to her until a later date.
Thanks to the happy accident of my position, the one certain way of
protecting her lay easily within my reach. I could offer to lend the
scoundrel the money that he wanted at an hour's notice, and he was the
man to accept my proposal quite as easily as I could make it.
"You don't seem to approve of our idea," she said, noticing, in
evident perplexity, the effect which she had produced on me. "I am very
unfortunate; I seem to have innocently disturbed and annoyed you for the
second time."
"You are quite mistaken," I replied. "I am only doubting whether your
plan for relieving Mr. Van Brandt of his embarrassments is quite so
simple as you suppose. Are you aware of the delays that are likely to
take place before it will be possible to borrow money on your policy of
insurance?"
"I know nothing about it," she said, sadly.
"Will you let me ask the advice of my lawyers? They are trustworthy and
experienced men, and I am sure they can be of use to you."
Cautiously as I had expressed myself, her delicacy took the alarm.
"Promise that you won't ask me to borrow money of you for Mr. Van
Brandt," she rejoined, "and I will accept your help gratefully."
I could honestly promise that. My one chance of saving her lay in
keeping from her knowledge the course that I had now determined to
pursue. I rose to go, while my resolution still sustained me. The sooner
I made my inquiries (I reminded her) the more speedily our present
doubts and difficulties would be resolved.
She rose, as I rose--with the tears in her eyes, and the blush on her
cheeks.
"Kiss me," she whispered, "before you go! And don't mind my crying. I am
quite happy now. It is only your goodness that overpowers me."
I pressed her to my heart, with the unacknowledged tenderness of a
parting embrace. It was impossible to disguise the position in which I
had now placed myself. I had, so to speak, pronounced my own sentence of
banishment. When my interference had restored my unworthy rival to his
freedom, could I submit to the degrading necessity of seeing her in his
presence, of speaking to her under his eyes? _That_ sacrifice of myself
was beyond me--and I knew it. "For the last time!" I thought, as I held
her to me for a moment longer--"for the last time!"
The child ran to meet me with open arms when I stepped out on the
landing. My manhood had sustained me through the parting with the
mother. It was only when the child's round, innocent little face laid
itself lovingly against mine that my fortitude gave way. I was past
speaking; I put her down gently in silence, and waited on the lower
flight of stairs until I was fit to face the world outside.
CHAPTER XXIX. OUR DESTINIES PART US.
DESCENDING to the ground-floor of the house, I sent to request a
moment's interview with the landlady. I had yet to learn in which of the
London prisons Van Brandt was confined; and she was the only person to
whom I could venture to address the question.
Having answered my inquiries, the woman put her own sordid construction
on my motive for visiting the prisoner.
"Has the money you left upstairs gone into his greedy pockets already?"
she asked. "If I was as rich as you are, I should let it go. In your
place, I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs!"
The woman's coarse warning actually proved useful to me; it started
a new idea in my mind! Before she spoke, I had been too dull or too
preoccupied to see that it was quite needless to degrade myself by
personally communicating with Van Brandt in his prison. It only now
occurred to me that my legal advisers were, as a matter of course,
the proper persons to represent me in the matter--with this additional
advantage, that they could keep my share in the transaction a secret
even from Van Brandt himself.
I drove at once to the office of my lawyers. The senior partner--the
tried friend and adviser of our family--received me.
My instructions, naturally enough, astonished him. He was immediately
to satisfy the prisoner's creditors, on my behalf, without mentioning
my name to any one. And he was gravely to accept as security for
repayment--Mr. Van Brandt's note of hand!
"I thought I was well acquainted with the various methods by which a
gentleman can throw away his money," the senior partner remarked. "I
congratulate you, Mr. Germaine, on having discovered an entirely new
way of effectually emptying your purse. Founding a newspaper, taking a
theater, keeping race-horses, gambling at Monaco, are highly efficient
as modes of losing money. But they all yield, sir, to paying the debts
of Mr. Van Brandt!"
I left him, and went home.
The servant who opened the door had a message for me from my mother. She
wished to see me as soon as I was at leisure to speak to her.
I presented myself at once in my mother's sitting-room.
"Well, George?" she said, without a word to prepare me for what was
coming. "How have you left Mrs. Van Brandt?"
I was completely thrown off my guard.
"Who has told you that I have seen Mrs. Van Brandt?" I asked.
"My dear, your face has told me. Don't I know by this time how you look
and how you speak when Mrs. Van Brandt is in your mind. Sit down by me.
I have something to say to you which I wanted to say this morning; but,
I hardly know why, my heart failed me. I am bolder now, and I can say
it. My son, you still love Mrs. Van Brandt. You have my permission to
marry her."
Those were the words! Hardly an hour had elapsed since Mrs. Van Brandt's
own lips had told me that our union was impossible. Not even half an
hour had passed since I had given the directions which would restore to
liberty the man who was the one obstacle to my marriage. And this was
the time that my mother had innocently chosen for consenting to receive
as her daughter-in-law Mrs. Van Brandt!
"I see that I surprise you," she resumed. "Let me explain my motive as
plainly as I can. I should not be speaking the truth, George, if I told
you that I have ceased to feel the serious objections that there are to
your marrying this lady. The only difference in my way of thinking is,
that I am now willing to set my objections aside, out of regard for your
happiness. I am an old woman, my dear. In the course of nature, I cannot
hope to be with you much longer. When I am gone, who will be left to
care for you and love you, in the place of your mother? No one will
be left, unless you marry Mrs. Van Brandt. Your happiness is my first
consideration, and the woman you love (sadly as she has been led astray)
is a woman worthy of a better fate. Marry her."
I could not trust myself to speak. I could only kneel at my mother's
feet, and hide my face on her knees, as if I had been a boy again.
"Think of it, George," she said. "And come back to me when you are
composed enough to speak as quietly of the future as I do."
She lifted my head and kissed me. As I rose to leave her, I saw
something in the dear old eyes that met mine so tenderly, which struck a
sudden fear through me, keen and cutting, like a stroke from a knife.
The moment I had closed the door, I went downstairs to the porter in the
hall.
"Has my mother left the house," I asked, "while I have been away?"
"No, sir."
"Have any visitors called?"
"One visitor has called, sir."
"Do you know who it was?"
The porter mentioned the name of a celebrated physician--a man at the
head of his profession in those days. I instantly took my hat and went
to his house.
He had just returned from his round of visits. My card was taken to him,
and was followed at once by my admission to his consulting-room.
"You have seen my mother," I said. "Is she seriously ill? and have you
not concealed it from her? For God's sake, tell me the truth; I can bear
it."
The great man took me kindly by the hand.
"Your mother stands in no need of any warning; she is herself aware of
the critical state of her health," he said. "She sent for me to confirm
her own conviction. I could not conceal from her--I must not conceal
from you--that the vital energies are sinking. She may live for some
months longer in a milder air than the air of London. That is all I can
say. At her age, her days are numbered."
He gave me time to steady myself under the blow; and then he placed his
vast experience, his matured and consummate knowledge, at my disposal.
From his dictation, I committed to writing the necessary instructions
for watching over the frail tenure of my mother's life.
"Let me give you one word of warning," he said, as we parted. "Your
mother is especially desirous that you should know nothing of the
precarious condition of her health. Her one anxiety is to see you
happy. If she discovers your visit to me, I will not answer for the
consequences. Make the best excuse you can think of for at once taking
her away from London, and, whatever you may feel in secret, keep up an
appearance of good spirits in her presence."
That evening I made my excuse. It was easily found. I had only to tell
my poor mother of Mrs. Van Brandt's refusal to marry me, and there was
an intelligible motive assigned for my proposing to leave London. The
same night I wrote to inform Mrs. Van Brandt of the sad event which was
the cause of my sudden departure, and to warn her that there no longer
existed the slightest necessity for insuring her life. "My lawyers" (I
wrote) "have undertaken to arrange Mr. Van Brandt's affairs immediately.
In a few hours he will be at liberty to accept the situation that has
been offered to him." The last lines of the letter assured her of my
unalterable love, and entreated her to write to me before she left
England.
This done, all was done. I was conscious, strange to say, of no acutely
painful suffering at this saddest time of my life. There is a limit,
morally as well as physically, to our capacity for endurance. I can only
describe my sensations under the calamities that had now fallen on me in
one way: I felt like a man whose mind had been stunned.
The next day my mother and I set forth on the first stage of our journey
to the south coast of Devonshire.