For some time father and daughter were silent. Eden suppressed her sob,
and Mr. Menemon fidgeted nervously in his chair. The funeral across the
way, he told himself, would be gayer than this, and for the moment he
regretted that he had not taken time by its bang and gone to other
lands. Grief was always distressing to him, and the grief of his
daughter was torment. The idea that Usselex had been derelict, he put
from him. He had an interpretation of his own for the incidents on which
he had been called to sit in judgment. Trivialities such as they left
him unaffected. His enervation came of an inability to cope with Eden.
She treated an argument like a cobweb. And besides, had he not in a
spasm of discouragement disclosed a secret which for two decades he had
kept close-locked and secure?
Truly, if Eden had come to him with a valid complaint, he would have
taken arms in an instant. He was by no means one to suffer a child of
his to be treated with contumely. The bit of lignum vitae which served
him for a heart was all in all for her. A real grievance would have
enraged him more than anyone else. In spite of his apparent indifference
there was much of the she-wolf in his nature. He would have fought for
Eden, he would have growled over her, and shown his false teeth at any
assailant that might happen that way. But of danger there was not a
trace. Listen as he might he could not catch the faintest rumor of
advancing foes. And because she had met her husband in the street,
because a woman had stared at her and some idiotic note had come into
her hands, high-noon must change to night, and laughter into tears.
"She is her mother all over again," the old gentleman muttered. And in
his discomfiture he regretted the funeral, the confidence that he had
made, and fidgeted nervously in his chair.
And as he fidgeted, glancing obliquely the while at his daughter, and
engrossed in the torturing pursuit of some plea that should show her she
erred, and bring her to her senses again, Eden's earlier griefs crackled
like last year's leaves. In this new revelation they seemed dead indeed.
Of her mother she had not the faintest recollection; but there had been
moments when a breath, a perfume, something which she had just read, a
sudden strain, the intoning of a litany, an interior harmony perhaps, or
an emotion, had brought to her a whisper, the sound of her own name; and
with it for one second would come the shadowy reminiscence of an
anterior caress. For a second only would it remain with her, departing
as abruptly as it had come, but leaving her to stroll for hours
thereafter through lands where dreams come true. And at such times she
was wont to feel that could she but clutch that fleeting second and
detain it long enough to catch one further glimpse of the past, the key
of memory would be in it, and the past unlocked. But that second was
never to be detained; it was from her father only that she was able to
learn something of that which was nearest to her heart, and again and
again she had sat with him listening to anecdotes, absorbing repetitions
and familiar details with a renascent interest and a delight that no
other chronicles could arouse. On the subject of her mother she had
indeed been insatiable; she had wished to know everything, even to the
gowns she preferred and the manner in which she had arranged her hair;
and her father had taken evident pleasure in telling of one who had been
wife to him and mother to her, and whose life she now learned for the
first time he had marred.
Mr. Menemon meanwhile was still in pursuit of the plea; but nothing of
any cogency presented itself. In truth he had builded better than he
knew. Anger burns itself out; already its force was spent, and the
revelation he had made had affected his daughter like a douche. In his
ignorance, however, the safest and surest course that occurred to him
was to hold his tongue, send for Usselex, and leave him to settle the
matter as best he might. This course he was about to adopt, and he got
out some paper preparatory to wording the message when a servant
appeared with a card on a tray.
He picked it up, glanced at it, and then over at his daughter. She was
still leaning against the book-case, her back was turned, and her face
hidden in her arms. It seemed probable to him that she was unaware of
the servant's presence.
"Very good," he murmured, and motioned the man away. Again he glanced at
his daughter, but she had not moved, and noiselessly, that he might not
disturb her, he left the room.
Eden indeed had heard nothing. The revelation had been benumbing in its
unexpectedness, and as she leaned against the book-case, an immense pity
enveloped her, and she forgot her sorrow and herself. Her own distress
was trivial perhaps in comparison to what her mother had suffered, and
yet surely her father had repented. As she entered the house had she not
told herself that for twenty years he had been faithful to a memory. So
far back as she could remember, she had seen him compassionate of
others, striving, it may be, through the exercise of indulgence to earn
some little of it for himself. And should she refuse it now? He had
grieved; the stamp of it was on his face. She needed no one to remind
her of that, and that grief perhaps had effaced the fault. And if his
fault was effaceable, might not her husband's be effaceable as well? If
he would but come to her and let her feel that this misstep was one that
he regretted, she might yet forgive. It was as good to forgive as it was
to forget; and how beautiful the future still might be!
The indignation which had glowed so fiercely subsided; one by one the
sparks turned grey; the last one wavered a little and then disappeared.
She turned, her sultry eyes still wet, to where her father had sat. And
as she turned Mr. Menemon reentered the room. She made no effort to
account for his absence; she was all in all in her present idea, and
she went forward to him at once.
"Did she forgive you?" she asked.
"Who?"
"My mother."
Mr. Menemon made no answer, but his face spoke for him.
"Then I will," she cried, and wound her arms about his neck. "I will
forgive you for her."
"There is another whom you must forgive as well," he answered, gently.
"But you assured me he had done no wrong."
"Nor has he, I think." He hesitated a second. "Come down-stairs," he
added; "we can discuss it better there." And taking her hand in his he
led her from the room.
On reaching the parlor below, he drew the portiere aside that she might
pass, and then, as they say in France, he eclipsed himself. Eden entered
unattended. Her father, she supposed, was following her, and she was
about to address some remark to him, when before her, in the dim light
of twin candelabras, she perceived her husband.
Usselex was standing bolt upright, in the position of one who has come
not to render accounts, but to demand them. In his attitude there was
nothing of the repentant sinner, and at sight of him Eden felt herself
tricked. She turned in search of her father, but he had gone. Then,
seeing herself deserted, and yet disdaining retreat, she summoned the
princess air which was ever at her bidding, and crossed the room.
"Why have you left the house?" he began, abruptly.
To this Eden made no answer. She lowered the yellow shade of one candle
and busied herself with another.
"Why did you leave me last night?" he continued. And as she made no
reply, "Why," he asked, "why are you here?"
But still she was silent. To his questions she was dumb. It was as
though she had shut some door between him and her.
"Will you not speak?" he muttered.
And then, for the first time, she looked up at him, measuring him as it
were with one chill glance from head to heel. "If I remember rightly,"
she said, from the tips of her lips, "you left me for your mistress."
"It is false----" Usselex exclaimed. Presumably he was about to make
further protest, but the portiere was drawn aside and he was
interrupted.