On reaching her room Eden bolted the door. The maid rapped, but she gave
no answer. Without was a whistling wind that parodied her anger. For a
moment she looked through the darkness for that lighthouse which is
Hope, but presumably she looked in vain. Then there came another rap,
and she heard her husband's voice. Misery had offered her its arm, and
she was silent. Her husband rapped again, entreating speech with her,
and still she made no answer. Presently she caught the sound of
retreating footsteps. She removed the opals, disrobed, undid her hair,
and accepting the proffered arm, she took Misery for bedfellow.
It was hours before she slept. But at last sleep came. In its
beneficence it remained until the morning had gone; then at noon-day it
left her, and she started with a tremor like to that which besets one
who awakes from a debauch. The incidents of the preceding days paraded
with flying standards before her. They were victors indeed. "_Vae soli!_"
they seemed to shout. They had been pitiless in their assault, and now
they exulted at her defeat. They jeered at their captive; and Eden, with
that obsession which captives know, thought only of release. In all the
chartless future, freedom was the one thing for which she longed. Her
wounds were many; they had depleted her strength; but in freedom is a
balm that cures. Her strength might be irrevocable and the cicatrices
not to be effaced, yet give her that balm, and come what sorrow could.
As for resignation, the idea of it did not so much as visit her.
Resignation is a daily suicide, and she had not enough to outlast the
night.
The hours limped. The afternoon was on the wane, and still she toyed
with sorrow until suddenly she bethought herself of the need of
immediate action. Usselex would presently return, but when he came again
to her room, he should find it empty. At once, then, she made her
preparations, and telling the startled maid to complete them, and to
follow with the boxes to her father's house, she started out on foot,
her wardrobe packed, and ready for removal.
As Eden hurried through the streets, she was conscious only that freedom
was her goal. Everything else she put from her. It was to her father she
turned; it was through him that freedom would be obtained; and as she
hurried she pictured the indignation with which he would hear her tale.
He, indeed, was one on whom she could lean. Whatever other men might be,
he, at least was above reproach. Had he not for twenty years been
faithful to a memory. Surely her mother when she lived must have enjoyed
that gift of gifts, perfect confidence and trust.
So far back in the past as her memory extended she saw him always
considerate, gentle of manner, courteous to inferiors, deferential to
women, unassuming, and exemplary of life. In very truth there was none
other in the world like him. And when at last she entered his house she
told herself she was safe, and when the door closed, that she was free.
She knew without inquiry where to find him, and hastened at once to the
library, breathless when she reached his chair. He had been dozing over
a book, but at the rustle of her gown, he started and rubbed his eyes.
"It's good of you to come," he said, by way of greeting. "Why, Eden, I
haven't seen you for two days. Sit down there and let me look at you.
It's odd; I was going to you after the funeral. You know about General
Meredith, don't you? He went off like that. He is to be buried this
afternoon."
Mr. Menemon stood up and hunted for a match with which to light a lamp.
"Yes," he continued, "he was only ill for twenty-four hours. Think of
that, now! To tell you the truth, I haven't been very bright myself. I
wanted to speak to you about it. All last winter I was more or less
under the weather, and for some time I have been planning a trip abroad.
Now that you have an establishment of your own, Eden, you won't want
me." And as he said this, he smiled.
"Father, I have more need of you than ever."
"Yes," he answered, "I was jesting. I know you will miss me; but I will
come back with the violets."
He had succeeded in lighting the lamp and, still smiling, he turned and
looked at her. "The father-in-law element," he continued, and then
stopped abruptly, amazed at the expression of his daughter's face. "What
is it, Eden?" he asked at last.
"If you go abroad, I go with you."
For a moment he eyed her, as though seeking, untold, to divine the
meaning of her words.
"Nothing has gone wrong, has it?" he asked.
"He has deceived me."
"Usselex?"
"Who else is there whose deception I would notice?"
"You are mistaken, Eden; it is my fault; he consulted me in the
matter----"
"He consulted _you_? But how is such a thing possible. He never could
have consulted you, and if he had you would not have listened."
"Ah! but I did though. Between ourselves I thought it not uninteresting.
After all, it was not his fault. I thought it unadvisable that you
should learn of it before marriage, and afterwards, well, afterwards, it
was immaterial whether you did or whether you didn't."
"Father, either it is not you that speak, or I am demented."
"There, my dear, don't take it so seriously. I can't call it an everyday
matter, of course, but such things do happen, and as I said before, a
man's a man for all of that. If he said nothing it was because--well,
Eden, how could he? Ask yourself, how could he?"
"You knew of this before my marriage and you permitted the marriage to
take place?"
"Well--er, yes, Eden. Frankly now, it was a difficult matter to discuss
with you. You see, it was this way: a young girl like yourself, brought
up as you have been, is apt to have prejudices which men and women of
the world do not always share. And this is a case in point. Even now
that you are married I can understand your disapproval, but----"
"Disapproval! Is that what you call it? Have you no other term? Father,
it seems to me that you are worse than he. Had anyone told me that you
could countenance such a thing I would have denied his sanity." She hid
her face in her hands and moaned dumbly to herself, "I am desolate,"
she murmured, "I am desolate, indeed."
"No, Eden, not that, not that. Eden, listen to me; there, if you only
listen to me a moment. Eden, it is not a thing that I countenance, nor
is it one of which I approve. But the fault is not his. It is in the
nature of some women that such things should be. It is a thing to be
deplored, to be overlooked. The old law held that the sins of the father
should be visited on the son; but we are more liberal now. Besides, it
is part of the past; what use is there----"
"Part of the past? I saw him with her the day before yesterday, and----"
"Why, she is dead."
"Father, of whom are you speaking?"
"Of his mother, of course; and you?"
"I am speaking of his mistress, whom he wishes your daughter to
entertain."
"Eden, it is impossible. I misunderstood you. What you say is absurd.
Usselex is incapable of such infamy."
"He is, then, and he has the capacity to have me share it too."
"But tell me, what grounds have you for saying----"
"On Monday I was at the opera. In the stalls was a woman that stared at
me----"
"Many another I am sure did that."
"And the next afternoon I saw him with her. He sent me a note saying he
was detained on business. When he returned he made some lame excuse,
which I, poor fool, believed. Previously I had intercepted a letter----"
"A letter?"
"Yes, a letter such as those women write. He pretended it was not for
him, and for the moment I believed that too. Oh, I have been credulous
enough."
"Eden, you must let it pass."
"Not I."
"Ah, but Eden, you must; you must let it pass. I will speak to Usselex."
"That you may, of course; but as for me, I never will."
"My child, you are so wrong. What can I say to you? Eden--"
"Father, he has deceived me. Wantonly, grossly, and without excuse.
Speak to him again, I never will--"
"Eden--"
"--And if I ever see him it will be in court. It was for victims like
myself that courts were invented."
At this speech Mr. Menemon stood up again, and paced the room; his head
was bent, and he had the appearance of one in deep perplexity. From time
to time he raised his hand and stroked his back hair. And as he walked
Eden continued, but her tone was gentler than before:
"Father, you can never know. As you say, there are things of which it is
not well to speak. But let me tell you: In marrying I thought my husband
like yourself, one whom I could believe, whom I could honor, and of whom
I should be proud. He was too old for me, people said. But my fear was
that I should seem too young for him. Others insisted that I knew
nothing of him, and all the while I hoped that he would not find me
lacking. I wanted to aid, to assist. I was ambitious. He seemed
possessed of the fibres of which greatness is the crown. I saw before
him a future, a career which history might note. I dreamed that with the
wealth which he had acquired and the power that was in him, he could win
recognition of men and fame of time. It would be pleasant, I thought, to
be the helpmate of such an one. How did it matter that he was an alien
if I were at home with him? Father, I was proud of him. I was glad to be
younger than he. What better guide could I find? Yes, I was glad of his
years, for I had brought myself to think that when two people equally
young and equally favored fall in love, it is nature that is acting in
them. Whereas I loved not the man, but the individual, and that, I told
myself, that is the divine. That is what I thought before marriage, and
now I detect him in a vulgar intrigue. Is it not hideous? It took him
six months to walk through my illusions, and one hour to dispel them.
See, I have nothing left. Nothing," she added pensively, "except
regret."
She remained silent a little space, then some visitation of that
renegade Yesterday that calls himself To-morrow, seemed to stir her
pulse.
"Father," she pleaded, "tell me; I can be free of him, can I not? You
will keep him from me? you will get me back my liberty again?"
Mr. Menemon had resumed his former place at the table, and sat there,
his head still bent. But at this appeal he looked up and nodded
abstractedly, as though his attention were divided between her and
someone whom he did not see.
"You are overwrought," he said. "Were you yourself, you would not speak
in this fashion about nothing."
A sting could not have been more sudden in its effect. She gasped; a
returning gust of anger enveloped her. She sprang from her seat as
though impelled by hidden springs. "Nothing?" she cried. "You call it
nothing to unearth a falsehood where you awaited truth, treachery where
honesty should be, deceit instead of candor! You call it nothing to
harbor a knight and discover him a knave, to give your trust
unfalteringly and find that it has reposed on lies! Nothing to be
jockied of your love, cozened of your faith! To wage a war with
blacklegs and mistake that war for peace! Do you call it nothing to
drown a soul, to make it a sponge of shadows that can no longer receive
the light? Is it nothing to hold out your arms and be embraced by Judas?
Is it nothing to be loyal and be gammoned for your innocence? Is it
nothing to be juggled with, to be gulled, cheated, and decoyed? Is it
nothing to grasp a hawser and find it a rope of sand? To pursue the real
and watch it turn into delusion? Nothing to see the promise vanish in
the hope? Is it nothing to take a mirage for a landscape, nothing to be
hoodwinked of your confidence, to see high noon dissolve into obscurest
night, a diamond into pinchbeck? Tell me, is it nothing to have trust,
sincerity, and love for heritage, and wake to find that you have pawned
them to a Jew? Do you think it nothing to be mated to a living perjury,
a felony in flesh and blood? Is this what you call nothing? Is this it?
Then tell me what something is."
For a moment she stared at her father, her lips still moving, her small
hands clenched, then, exhausted by the vehemence of her speech, she sank
back again into the chair which she had vacated.
"No, Eden, not that," her father answered; but he spoke despondently,
with the air of a man battling against a stream, and conscious of the
futility of the effort. "No, not that; you misunderstand. I mean this:
you have confounded suspicion with proof. Whoever this woman is,
Usselex's relations with her may be irreproachable. Mind you, I don't
say they are; I say they may be. I will question him, and he will answer
truthfully."
"Truthfully? You expect him to answer truthfully. In him nothing is
true, not even his lies."
"Eden, I will question him. If it is as you expect, he will tell me and
you will forgive."
"Forgive? yes, it is easy to forgive, but forget, never! Besides, he
will not tell the truth; he will deceive you, as he has deceived me."
"No, Eden," Mr. Menemon answered, "you are wrong." For a moment he
hesitated and glanced at her. "I suppose," he continued, "I may tell you
now. Perhaps it will help to strengthen your confidence."
Again he hesitated; but presently something of his former serenity
seemed to return. "H'm," he went on, "it's a long story and an odd one.
Previous to your engagement, Meredith was here. I wish, instead of lying
across the square in a coffin, he could be here now. However, he came to
see me one day. I happened to mention Usselex's name, and he told me
certain rumors about him. The next afternoon I went to Usselex on the
subject. 'I have already written to you on the matter,' he said; and
sure enough, when I got back here, I found the letter waiting. Would you
like to see it?"
Eden tossed her head. What had the letter to do with her?
"I will read it to you, then."
Mr. Menemon left his chair, went to a safe that stood in a corner,
unlocked it, and after a fumble of a moment, drew out a manuscript,
which he unfolded, and then resumed his former seat.
"It is not very long," he said, apologetically, and he was about to
begin to read it aloud when Eden interrupted him.
"Tell me what is in it, if you must!" she exclaimed; "but spare me his
phrases."
She had risen again and was moving restlessly about the room. Her father
coughed in sheer despair.
"Well, I will tell it to you," he said. "But Eden, do sit down. Do wait
at least until I can give you the gist of what he wrote."
"Go on; go on. Nothing matters now."
Hesitatingly and unencouraged, half to his daughter, and half to some
invisible schoolmaster, whose lesson he might have learned by rote, Mr.
Menemon fluttered the letter and sought some prefatory word.
"You see, Eden," he began, "this was sent me just before he spoke to
you, and just after he had acquainted me of his intentions. You
understand that, do you not?"
"Go on," she repeated.
"Well, from what I had heard, and what he practically substantiates
here, Usselex is a trifle out of the common run. His earliest
recollections are of Cornwall, some manufacturing town there; let me
see--" and the old man fumbled with the letter and with his glasses.
"Yes, yes; Market Dipborough, to be sure. Well, he was brought up there
by his mother, who was of Swiss extraction, and by his father, who was
at the head of a large shoe factory. I say his father and mother;
but--However, he was brought up there. Well, to make a long story short,
it appears that he was given a very good education; his people evidently
were people of some means, and it was expected that he would study for
the bar. He was put at some public school or other, the name is
immaterial, and when he was on the point of entering Oxford, the Swiss
lady or her husband, I forget which--at any rate, somebody died. Do you
follow me, Eden? Well, he then learned that instead of being the son of
the people by whom he had been brought up, he was not their son at all.
And now comes the curious part of it. It seems that the Swiss lady had
been, in years gone by, companion or governess, or something of that
sort, to the Grand-Duchess Thyra of Gothland, who, as you know, became
the wife of the King of Suabia. She died, by the way, a year or two ago.
However, the Swiss lady was her companion or something of the kind, and
in consequence was placed in close relations with her. In fact, she was,
I suppose, what you might call a confidante. In any event, the
Grand-Duchess happened to have for music-teacher a good-looking young
German who took her fancy. The result of it all was that the Swiss lady
agreed to pretend that the offspring was her own, and was handsomely
rewarded for her pains. She left Gothland with the child, and it was not
until she died that Usselex learned that instead of being her son, he
was grandson of the Emperor. He had the bar-sinister, of course, but the
ancestry was there all the same. I don't know that I or any other man
would envy him it; but perhaps it is better than none. However, as soon
as Usselex learned the facts, he packed up and came over here. Now you
have that part of his existence in a nutshell. What do you say to it?"
And Mr. Menemon coughed again, and glanced inquiringly at his daughter.
"I say he is so base I might have known he was of royal blood."
"Eden, you are singularly unjust."
"But what does his birth matter to me?" she cried. "It was not for the
presence or absence of forefathers that I put my hand in his. It was for
the man himself, for what he seemed to me, and when I find that I have
been mistaken in him, when in return for my love I get deceit, when he
leaves me for another woman, and has the infamy to ask me to receive
that woman, then I say, that whether he be the son of a serf or the son
of a king, our ways divide--"
"Eden--"
"Yes, our ways divide."
Urged by her irritation, she still paced the room, graceful as a leopard
is, and every whit as unconstrained. But now, abruptly she halted before
a portrait that hung from the wall. For a moment she gazed at it, then
pointing to it with arm outstretched, she turned.
"Tell me," she asked, her sultry eyes flashing with vistas of victory.
"Tell me how my mother would have acted, had such an indignity been put
on her. Tell me," she repeated, "and through your knowledge of her, so
will I act. Yes," she added, and then paused, amazed at the expression
of her father's face. It was as though some unseen hand had stabbed him
from behind. The mouth twitched in the contraction of sudden pain, the
nostrils quivered, and he bowed his head; then, his eyes lowered and
turned from her, he answered in a voice that trembled just a little and
yet was perfectly distinct:
"It was such a thing as this that marred your mother's life; let it not
mar your own."
For the moment Eden could not credit her hearing. The words seemed
meaningless. She had caught them in a crescendo of stupor. "It is
impossible," she murmured. She stared at her father, her eyes dilated,
her heart throbbing, and every sense alert. "It is impossible," she
repeated, beneath her breath. And as she stared, her father's attitude
accentuated the words, reiterating that the avowal which had been wrung
from him was not the impossible, but the truth. No, there was no
mistake. She had heard aright, and presently, as the understanding of it
reached her, she moved back and away from him. For the first time that
day the tears came to her eyes. "I have drunk of shame," she sobbed;
"now let me drink of death."