THE BARON'S CONTRIBUTION.
It may be that the Baron thought he had sucked the orange of life very
dry--at least, when the cold winds and the fog had done their work, he
accepted without passionate disinclination the hint that he must soon
take his lips from the fruit. He went to bed and made a codicil to his
will, having it executed and witnessed with every requisite formality.
Then he announced to Lord Semingham, who came to see him, that,
according to his doctor's opinion and his own, he might manage to
breathe a week longer; and Semingham, looking upon him, fancied, without
saying, that the opinion was a sanguine one. This happened five days
before Harry Dennison's arrival at Dieppe.
"I am very fortunate," said the Baron, "to have found such kind friends
for the last stage;" and he looked from Lady Semingham's flowers to
Adela's grapes. "I could have bought them, of course," he added. "I've
always been able to buy--everything."
The old man smiled as he spoke, and Semingham smiled also.
"This," continued the Baron, "is the third time I have been laid up like
this."
"There's luck in odd numbers," observed Semingham.
"But which would be luck?" asked the Baron.
"Ah, there you gravel me," admitted Semingham.
"I came here against orders, because I must needs poke my old nose into
this concern of yours----"
"Not of mine."
"Of yours and others. Well, I poked it in--and the frost has caught the
end of it."
"I don't take any particular pleasure in the concern myself," said
Semingham, "and I wish you'd kept your nose out, and yourself in a more
balmy climate."
"My dear Lord, the market is rising."
"I know," smiled Semingham. "Tom Loring can't make out who the fools are
who are buying. He said so this morning."
The Baron began to laugh, but a cough choked his mirth.
"He's an honest and an able man, your Loring; but he doesn't see clear
in everything. I've been buying, myself."
"Oh, you have?"
"Yes, and someone has been selling--selling largely--or the price would
have been driven higher. It is you, perhaps, my friend?"
"Not a share. I have the vices of an aristocracy. I am stubborn."
"Who, then?"
"It might be--Dennison."
The Baron nodded.
"But what did you want with 'em, Baron? Will they pay?"
"Oh, I doubt that. But I wanted them. Why should Dennison sell?"
"I suppose he doubts, like you."
"Perhaps it is that."
"Perhaps," said Semingham.
In the course of the next three days they had many conversations; the
talks did the Baron no good nor, as his doctor significantly said, any
harm; and when he could not talk, Semingham sat by him and told stories.
He spoke too, frequently, of Willie Ruston, and of the Company--that
interested the Baron. And at last, on the third day, they began to speak
of Maggie Dennison; but neither of them connected the two names in talk.
Indeed Semingham, according to his custom, had rushed at the possibility
of ignoring such connection. Ruston's disappearance had shown him a way;
and he embraced the happy chance. He was always ready to think that any
"fuss" was a mistake; and, as he told the Baron, Mrs. Dennison had been
in great spirits lately, cheered up, it seemed, by the prospect of her
husband's immediate arrival. The Baron smiled to hear him; then he
asked,
"Do you think she would come to see me?"
Semingham promised to ask her; and, although the Baron was fit to see
nobody the next day--for he had moved swiftly towards his journey's end
in those twenty-four hours--yet Mrs. Dennison came and was admitted;
and, at sight of the Baron, who lay yellow and gasping, forgot both her
acting and, for an instant, the reality which it hid.
"Oh!" she cried before she could stop herself, "how ill you look! Let me
make you comfortable!"
The Baron did not deny her. He had something to say to her.
"When does your husband come?" he asked.
"To-morrow," said she briefly.
She did all she could for his comfort, and then sat down by his bedside.
He had an interval of some freedom from oppression and his mind was
clear and concentrated.
"I want to tell you," he began, "something that I have done." He paused,
and added a question, "Ruston does not come back to Dieppe, I suppose?"
"I think not. He is detained on business," she answered, "and he will be
more tied when my husband leaves."
"Your husband will not long be concerned in the Omofaga," said he.
She started; the Baron told her what he had told Semingham.
"He will soon resign his place on the Board, you will see," he ended.
She sat silent.
"He will have nothing more to do with it, you will see;" and, turning to
her, he asked with a sudden spurt of vigour, "Do you know why?"
"How should I?" she answered steadily.
"And I--I have done my part too. I have left him some money (she knew
that the Baron did not mean her husband) and all the shares I held."
"You've done that?" she cried, with a sudden light in her eyes.
"You do not want to know why?"
"Oh, I know you admired him. You told me so."
"Yes, that in part. I did admire him. He was what I have never been. I
wish he was here now. I should like to look at that face of his before I
die. But it was not for his sake that I left him the money. Why, he
could get it without me if he needed it! You don't ask me why?"
In his excitement he had painfully pulled himself higher up on his
pillows, and his head was on the level with hers now. He looked right
into her eyes. She was very pale, but calm and self-controlled.
"I don't know," she said. "Why have you?"
"It will make him independent of your husband," said the Baron.
Mrs. Dennison dropped her eyes and raised them again in a swift,
questioning glance.
"Yes, and of you. He need not look to you now."
He paused and added, slowly, punctuating every word,
"You will not be necessary to him now."
Mrs. Dennison met his gaze full and straight; the Baron stretched out
his hand.
"Ah, forgive me!" he exclaimed.
"There is nothing to forgive," said she.
"I saw; I knew; I have felt it. Now he will go away; he will not lean on
you now. I have set him where he can stand alone."
A smile, half scornful and half sad, came on her face.
"You hate me," said the Baron. "But I am right."
"I was--we were never necessary to him," said she. "Ah, Baron, this is
no news you give me. I know him better than that."
He raised himself higher still, panting as he rested on his elbow. His
head craned forward towards her as he whispered,
"I'm a dying man. You can tell me."
"If you were a dead man----" she burst out passionately. Then she
suddenly recovered herself.
"My dear Baron," she went on, "I'm very glad you've done this for Mr.
Ruston."
He sank down on his pillows with a weary sigh.
"Let him alone, let him alone," he moaned. "You thought yourself
strong."
"I suppose you mean kindly," she said, speaking very coldly. "Indeed,
that you should think of me at all just now shows it. But, Baron, you
are disquieting yourself without cause."
"I'm an old man, and a sick man," he pleaded, "and you, my dear----"
"Ah, suppose I have been--whatever you like--indiscreet? Well----?"
She paused, for he made a feebly impatient gesture. Mrs. Dennison kept
silence for a moment; then in a low tone she said,
"Baron, why do you speak to a woman about such things, unless you want
her to lie to you?"
The Baron, after a moment, gave his answer, that was no answer.
"He is gone," he said.
"Yes, he is gone--to look after his railway."
"It is finished then?" he half asked, half implored, and just caught her
low-toned reply.
"Finished? Who for?" Then she suddenly raised her voice, crying, "What
is it to you? Why can't I be let alone? How dare you make me talk about
it?"
"I have done," said he, and, laying his thin yellow hand in hers, he
went on, "If you meet him again--and I think you will--tell him that I
longed to see him, as a man who is dying longs for his son. He would be
a breath of life to me in this room, where everything seems dead. He is
full of life--full as a tiger. And you can tell him----" He stopped a
moment and smiled. "You can tell him why I was a buyer of Omofagas. What
will he say?"
"What will he say?" she echoed, with wide-opened eyes, that watched the
old man's slow-moving lips.
"Will he weep?" asked the Baron.
"In God's name, don't!" she stammered.
"He will say, 'Behold, the Baron von Geltschmidt was a good man--he was
of use in the world--may he sleep in peace!' And now--how goes the
railway?"
The old man lay silent, with a grim smile on his face. The woman sat by,
with lips set tight in an agony of repression. At last she spoke.
"If I'd known you were going to tell me this, I wouldn't have come."
"It's hard, hard, hard, but----"
"Oh, not that. But--I knew it."
She rose to her feet.
"Good-bye," said the Baron. "I shan't see you again. God make it light
for you, my dear."
She would not seem to hear him. She smoothed his pillows and his scanty
straggling hair; then she kissed his forehead.
"Good-bye," she said. "I will tell Willie when I see him. I shall see
him soon."
The old man moaned softly and miserably.
"It would be better if you lay here," he said.
"Yes, I suppose so," she answered, almost listlessly. "Good-bye."
Suddenly he detained her, catching her hand.
"Do you believe in people meeting again anywhere?" he asked.
"Oh, I suppose so. No, I don't know, I'm sure."
"They've been telling me to have a priest. I call myself a Catholic, you
know. What can I say to a priest? I have done nothing but make money. If
that is a sin, it's too simple to need confession, and I've done too
much of it for absolution. How can I talk to a priest? I shall have no
priest."
She did not speak, but let him hold her hand.
"If," he went on, with a little smile, "I'm asked anywhere what I've
done, I must say, 'I've made money.' That's all I shall have to say."
She stooped low over him and whispered,
"You can say one more thing, Baron--one little thing. You once tried to
save a woman," and she kissed him again and was gone.
Outside the house, she found Semingham waiting for her.
"Oh, I say, Mrs. Dennison," he cried, "Harry's come. He got away a day
earlier than he expected. I met him driving up towards your house."
For just a moment she stood aghast. It came upon her with a shock;
between a respite of a day and the actual terrible now, there had seemed
a gulf.
"Is he there--at the house--now?" she asked.
Semingham nodded.
"Will you walk up with me?" she asked eagerly. "I must go directly, you
know. He'll be so sorry not to find me there. Do you mind coming? I'm
tired."
He offered his arm, and she almost clutched at it, but she walked with
nervous quickness.
"He's looking very well," said Semingham. "A bit fagged, and so on, you
know, of course, but he'll soon get all right here."
"Yes, yes, very soon," she replied absently, quickening her pace till he
had to force his to match it. But, half-way up the hill, she stopped
suddenly, breathing rapidly.
"Yes, take a rest, we've been bucketing," said he.
"Did he ask after me?"
"Yes; directly."
"And you said----?"
"Oh, that you were all right, Mrs. Dennison."
"Thanks. Has he seen Mr. Loring?"
"No; but he knew he had come here. He told me so."
"Well, I needn't take you right up, need I?"
Semingham thought of some jest about not intruding on the sacred scene,
but the jest did not come. Somehow he shrank from it. Mrs. Dennison did
not.
"We shall want to fall on one another's necks," said she, smiling. "And
you'd feel in the way. You hate honest emotions, you know."
He nodded, lifted his hat, and turned. On his way down alone, he stopped
once for a moment and exclaimed,
"Good heavens! And I believe she'd rather meet the devil himself. She is
a woman!"
Mrs. Dennison pursued her way at a gentler pace. Before she came in
sight, she heard her children's delighted chatterings, and, a moment
later, Harry's hearty tones. His voice brought to her, in fullest force,
the thing that was always with her--with her as the cloak that a man
hath upon him, and as the girdle that he is always girded withal.
When the children saw her, they ran to her, seizing her hands and
dragging her towards Harry. A little way off stood Marjory Valentine,
with a nervous smile on her lips. Harry himself stood waiting, and Mrs.
Dennison walked up to him and kissed him. Not till that was done did she
speak or look him in the face. He returned her kiss, and then, talking
rapidly, she made him sit down, and sat herself, and took her little boy
on her knee. And she called Marjory, telling her jokingly that she was
one of the family.
Harry began to talk of his journey, and they all joined in. Then he grew
silent, and the children chattered more about the delights of Dieppe,
and how all would be perfect now that father was come. And, under cover
of their chatter, Maggie Dennison stole a long covert glance at her
husband.
"And Tom's here, father," cried the little boy on her lap exultingly.
"Yes," chimed in Madge, "and Mr. Ruston's gone."
There was a momentary pause; then Mrs. Dennison, in her calmest voice,
began to tell her husband of the sickness of the Baron. And over Harry
Dennison's face there rested a new look, and she felt it on her as she
talked of the Baron. She had seen him before unsatisfied, puzzled, and
bewildered by her, but never before with this look on his face. It
seemed to her half entreaty and half suspicion. It was plain for
everyone to see. He kept his eyes on her, and she knew that Marjory must
be reading him as she read him. And under that look she went on talking
about the Baron. The look did not frighten her. She did not fear his
suspicions, for she believed he would still take her word against all
the world--ay, against the plainest proof. But she almost broke under
the burden of it; it made her heart sick with pity for him. She longed
to cry out, then and there, "It isn't true, Harry, my poor dear, it
isn't true." She could tell him that--it would not be all a lie. And
when the children went away to prepare for lunch, she did much that very
thing; for, with a laughing glance of apology at Marjory, she sat on her
husband's knee and kissed him twice on either check, whispering,
"I'm so glad you've come, Harry."
And he caught her to him with sudden violence--unlike his usual manner,
and looked into her eyes and kissed her. Then they rose, and he turned
towards the house.
For a moment Marjory and Mrs. Dennison were alone together. Mrs.
Dennison spoke in a loud clear voice--a voice her husband must hear.
"We're shamefully foolish, aren't we, Marjory?"
The girl made no answer, but, as she looked at Maggie Dennison, she
burst into a sudden convulsive sob.
"Hush, hush," whispered Maggie eagerly. "My God! if I can, you can!"
So they went in and joined the children at their merry noisy meal.