bowed in his hand. Quickly the girl fell to her knees, hid her face on
his breast, and regardless of the groom's presence, silently wept.
"My poor child!" faltered the colonel. "God could not have intended to
give you so wretched a father. Poverty and dishonor, poverty and
dishonor; I who love you so well have brought you these!"
Warburton, biting his trembling lips, tiptoed cautiously to the window,
opened it and stepped outside. He raised his fevered face gratefully to
the icy rain. A great and noble plan had come to him.
As Mrs. Chadwick said, love is magnificent only when it gives all
without question.
XXIV
A FINE LOVER
Karloff remained in seclusion till the following Tuesday; after that
day he was seen no more in Washington. From time to time some news of
him filters through the diplomatic circles of half a dozen capitals to
Washington. The latest I heard of him, he was at Port Arthur. It was
evident that Russia valued his personal address too highly to exile him
because of his failure in Washington. Had he threatened or gone about
noisily, we should all have forgotten him completely. As it is, the
memory of him to-day is as vivid as his actual presence. Thus, I give
him what dramatists call an agreeable exit.
I was in the Baltimore and Potomac station the morning after that
unforgetable night at Senator Blank's house. I had gone there to see
about the departure of night trains, preparatory to making a flying
trip to New York, and was leaving the station when a gloved hand
touched me on the arm. The hand belonged to Mrs. Chadwick. She was
dressed in the conventional traveling gray, and but for the dark lines
under her eyes she would have made a picture for any man to admire. She
looked tired, very tired, as women look who have not slept well.
"Good morning, Mr. Orator," she said, saluting me with a smile.
"You are going away?" I asked, shaking her hand cordially.
"'Way, 'way, away! I am leaving for Nice, where I expect to spend the
winter. I had intended to remain in Washington till the holidays; but I
plead guilty to a roving disposition, and I frequently change my mind."
"Woman's most charming prerogative," said I, gallantly.
What a mask the human countenance is! How little I dreamed that I was
jesting with a woman whose heart was breaking, and numbed with a
terrible pain!
Her maid came up to announce that everything was ready for her
reception in the state-room, and that the train was about to draw out
of the station. Mrs. Chadwick and I bade each other good-by. Two years
passed before I saw her again.
At eleven o'clock I returned to my rooms to pack a case and have the
thing off my mind. Tramping restlessly up and down before my bachelor
apartment house I discerned M'sieu Zhames. His face was pale and
troubled, but the angle of his jaw told me that he had determined upon
something or other.
"Ha!" I said railingly. He wore a decently respectable suit of
ready-made clothes. "Lost your job and want me to give you a
recommendation?"
"I want a few words with you, Chuck, and no fooling. Don't say that you
can't spare the time. You've simply _got_ to."
"With whom am I to talk, James, the groom, or Warburton, the gentleman?"
"You are to talk with the man whose sister you are to marry."
I became curious, naturally. "No police affair?"
"No, it's not the police. I can very well go to a lawyer, but I desire
absolute secrecy. Let us go up to your rooms at once."
I led the way. I was beginning to desire to know what all this meant.
"Has anybody recognized you?" I asked, unlocking the door to my
apartment.
"No; and I shouldn't care a hang if they had."
"Oho!"
Warburton flung himself into a chair and lighted a cigar. He puffed it
rapidly, while I got together my shaving and toilet sets.
"Start her up," said I.
"Chuck, when my father died he left nearly a quarter of a million in
five per cents; that is to say, Jack, Nancy and I were given a yearly
income of about forty-five hundred. Nancy's portion and mine are still
in bonds which do not mature till 1900. Jack has made several bad
investments, and about half of his is gone; but his wife has plenty, so
his losses do not trouble him. Now, I have been rather frugal during
the past seven years. I have lived entirely upon my Army pay. I must
have something like twenty-five thousand lying in the bank in New York.
On Monday, between three and four o'clock, Colonel Annesley will become
practically a beggar, a pauper."
"What?" My shaving-mug slipped from my hand and crashed to the floor,
where it lay in a hundred pieces.
"Yes. He and his daughter will not have a roof of their own: all gone,
every stick and stone. Don't ask me any questions; only do as I ask of
you." He took out his check-book and filled out two blanks. These he
handed to me. "The large one I want you to place in the Union bank, to
the credit of Colonel Annesley."
I looked at the check. "Twenty thousand dollars?" I gasped.
"The Union bank has this day discounted the colonel's note. It falls
due on Monday. In order to meet it, he will have to sell what is left
of the Virginian estate and his fine horses. The interest will be
inconsiderable."
"What--" I began, but he interrupted me.
"I shall not answer a single question. The check for three thousand is
for the purchase of the horses, which will be put on sale Saturday
morning. They are easily worth this amount. Through whatever agency you
please, buy these horses for me, but not in my name. As for the note,
cash my check first and present the currency for the note. No one will
know anything about it then. You can not trace money."
"Good Lord, Bob, you are crazy! You are giving away a fortune," I
remonstrated.
"It is my own, and my capital remains untouched."
"Have you told her that you love her? Does she know who you are?" I was
very much excited.
"No,"--sadly, "I haven't told her that I love her. She does not know
who I am. What is more, I never want her to know. I have thrown my arms
roughly around her, thinking her to be Nancy, and have kissed her. Some
reparation is due her. On Monday I shall pack up quietly and return to
the West"
"Annesley beggared? What in heaven's name does this all mean?" I was
confounded.
"Some day, Chuck, when you have entered the family properly as my
sister's husband, perhaps I may confide in you. At present the secret
isn't mine. Let it suffice that through peculiar circumstances, the
father of the girl I love is ruined. I am not doing this for any
theatrical play, gratitude and all that rot,"--with half a smile, "I
admire and respect Colonel Annesley; I love his daughter, hopelessly
enough. I have never been of much use to any one. Other persons'
troubles never worried me to any extent; I was happy-go-lucky, careless
and thoughtless. True, I never passed a beggar without dropping a coin
into his cup. But often this act was the result of a good dinner and a
special vintage. The twenty thousand will keep the colonel's home, the
house his child was born in and her mother before her. I am doing this
crazy thing, as you call it, because it is going to make me rather
happy. I shall disappear Monday. They may or they may not suspect who
has come to their aid. They may even trace the thing to you; but you
will be honor-bound to reveal nothing. When you have taken up the note,
mail it to Annesley. You will find Count Karloff's name on it."
"Karloff?" I was in utter darkness.
"Yes. Annesley borrowed twenty thousand of him on a three months' note.
Both men are well known at the Union bank, Karloff having a temporary
large deposit there, and Annesley always having done his banking at the
same place. Karloff, for reasons which I can not tell you, did not turn
in the note till this morning. You will take it up this afternoon."
"Annesley, whom I believed to be a millionaire, penniless; Karloff one
of his creditors? Bob, I do not think that you are treating me fairly.
I can't go into this thing blind."
"If you will not do it under these conditions, I shall have to find
some one who will,"--resolutely.
I looked at the checks and then at him.... Twenty-three thousand
dollars! It was more than I ever before held in my hand at one time.
And he was giving it away as carelessly as I should have given away a
dime. Then the bigness of the act, the absolute disinterestedness of
it, came to me suddenly.
"Bob, you are the finest lover in all the world! And if Miss Annesley
ever knows who you are, she isn't a woman if she does not fall
immediately in love with you." I slapped him on the shoulder. I was
something of a lover myself, and I could understand.
"She will never know. I don't want her to know. That is why I am going
away. I want to do a good deed, and be left in the dark to enjoy it.
That is all. After doing this, I could never look her in the eyes as
Robert Warburton. I shall dine with the folks on Sunday. I shall
confess all only to Nancy, who has always been the only confidante I
have ever had among the women."
There was a pause. I could bring no words to my lips. Finally I
stammered out: "Nancy knows. I told her everything last night. I broke
my word with you, Bob, but I could not help it She was crying again
over what she thinks to be your heartlessness. I _had_ to tell her."
"What did she say?"--rising abruptly.
"She laughed, and I do not know when I have seen her look so happy.
There'll be a double wedding yet, my boy." I was full of enthusiasm.
"I wish I could believe you, Chuck; I wish I could. I'm rather glad you
told Nan. I love her, and I don't want her to worry about me." He
gripped my hand. "You will do just as I ask?"
"To the very letter. Will you have a little Scotch to perk you up a
bit? You look rather seedy."
"No,"--smiling dryly. "If she smelt liquor on my breath I should lose
my position. Good-by, then, till Sunday."
I did not go to New York that night. I forgot all about going. Instead,
I went to Nancy, to whom I still go whenever I am in trouble or in
doubt.
XXV
A FINE HEROINE, TOO
Friday morning.
Miss Annesley possessed more than the ordinary amount of force and
power of will. Though the knowledge of it was not patent to her, she
was a philosopher. She always submitted gracefully to the inevitable.
She was religious, too, feeling assured that God would provide. She did
not go about the house, moaning and weeping; she simply studied all
sides of the calamity, and looked around to see what could be saved.
There were moments when she was even cheerful. There were no new lines
in her face; her eyes were bright and eager. All persons of genuine
talent look the world confidently in the face; they know exactly what
they can accomplish. As Karloff had advised her, she did not trouble
herself about the future. Her violin would support her and her father,
perhaps in comfortable circumstances. The knowledge of this gave her a
silent happiness, that kind which leaves upon the face a serene and
beautiful calm.
At this moment she stood on the veranda, her hand shading her eyes. She
was studying the sky. The afternoon would be clear; the last ride
should be a memorable one. The last ride! Tears blurred her eyes and
there was a smothering sensation in her throat. The last ride! After
to-day Jane would have a new, strange mistress. If only she might go to
this possible mistress and tell her how much she loved the animal, to
obtain from her the promise that she would be kind to it always. How
mysteriously the human heart spreads its tendrils around the objects of
its love! What is there in the loving of a dog or a horse that, losing
one or the other, an emptiness is created? Perhaps it is because the
heart goes out wholly without distrust to the faithful, to the
undeceiving, to the dumb but loving beast, which, for all its strength,
is so helpless.
She dropped her hand and spoke to James, who was waiting near by for
her orders.
"James, you will have Pierre fill a saddle-hamper; two plates, two
knives and forks, and so forth. We shall ride in the north country this
afternoon. It will be your last ride. To-morrow the horses will be
sold." How bravely she said it!
"Yes, Miss Annesley." Whom were they going to meet in the north
country? "At what hour shall I bring the horses around?"
"At three."
She entered the house and directed her steps to the study. She found
her father arranging the morning's mail. She drew up a chair beside
him, and ran through her own letters. An invitation to lunch with Mrs.
Secretary-of-State; she tossed it into the waste-basket. A dinner-dance
at the Country Club, a ball at the Brazilian legation, a tea at the
German embassy, a box party at some coming play, an informal dinner at
the executive mansion; one by one they fluttered into the basket. A
bill for winter furs, a bill from the dressmaker, one from the
milliner, one from the glover, and one from the florist; these she laid
aside, reckoning their sum-total, and frowning. How could she have been
so extravagant? She chanced to look at her father. He was staring
rather stupidly at a slip of paper which he held in his trembling
fingers.
"What is it?" she asked, vaguely troubled.
"I do not understand," he said, extending the paper for her inspection.
Neither did she at first.
"Karloff has not done this," went on her father, "for it shows that he
has had it discounted at the bank. It is canceled; it is paid. I did
not have twenty thousand in the bank; I did not have even a quarter of
that amount to my credit. There has been some mistake. Our real estate
agent expects to realize on the home not earlier than Monday morning.
In case it was not sold then, he was to take up the note personally.
This is not his work, or I should have been notified." Then, with a
burst of grief: "Betty, my poor Betty! How can you forgive me? How can
I forgive myself?"
"Father, I am brave. Let us forget. It will be better so."
She kissed his hand and drew it lovingly across her cheek. Then she
rose and moved toward the light. She studied the note carefully. There
was nothing on it save Karloff's writing and her father's and the red
imprint of the bank's cancelation. Out of the window and beyond she saw
James leading the horses to the watering trough. Her face suddenly grew
crimson with shame, and as suddenly as it came the color faded. She
folded the note and absently tucked it into the bosom of her dress.
Then, as if struck by some strange thought, her figure grew tense and
rigid against the blue background of the sky. The glow which stole over
her features this time had no shame in it, and her eyes shone like the
waters of sunlit seas. It must never be; no it must never be.
"We shall make inquiries at the bank," she said. "And do not be
downcast, father, the worst is over. What mistakes you have made are
forgotten The future looks bright to me."
"Through innocent young eyes the future is ever bright; but as we age
we find most of the sunshine on either side, and we stand in the shadow
between. Brave heart, I glory in your courage. God will provide for
you; He will not let my shadow fall on you. Yours shall be the joy of
living, mine shall be the pain. God bless you! I wonder how I shall
ever meet your mother's accusing eyes?"
"Father, you _must_ not dwell upon this any longer; for my sake you
must not. When everything is paid there will be a little left, enough
till I and my violin find something to do. After all, the world's
applause must be a fine thing. I can even now see the criticisms in the
great newspapers. 'A former young society woman, well-known in the
fashionable circles of Washington, made her _debut_ as a concert player
last night. She is a stunning young person.' 'A young queen of the
diplomatic circles, here and abroad, appeared in public as a violinist
last night. She is a member of the most exclusive sets, and society was
out to do her homage.' 'One of Washington's brilliant young
horsewomen,' and so forth. Away down at the bottom of the column,
somewhere, they will add that I play the violin rather well for an
amateur." In all her trial, this was the one bitter expression, and she
was sorry for it the moment it escaped her. Happily her father was not
listening. He was wholly absorbed in the mystery of the canceled note.
She had mounted Jane and was gathering up the reins, while James
strapped on the saddle-hamper. This done, he climbed into the saddle
and signified by touching his cap that all was ready. So they rode
forth in the sweet freshness of that November afternoon. A steady wind
was blowing, the compact white clouds sailed swiftly across the
brilliant heavens, the leaves whispered and fluttered, hither and
thither, wherever the wind listed; it was the day of days. It was the
last ride, and fate owed them the compensation of a beautiful afternoon.
The last ride! Warburton's mouth drooped. Never again to ride with her!
How the thought tightened his heart! What a tug it was going to be to
give her up! But so it must be. He could never face her gratitude. He
must disappear, like the good fairies in the story-books. If he left
now, and she found out what he had done, she would always think kindly
of him, even tenderly. At twilight, when she took out her violin and
played soft measures, perhaps a thought or two would be given to him.
After what had happened--this contemptible masquerading and the crisis
through which her father had just passed--it would be impossible for
her to love him. She would always regard him with suspicion, as a
witness of her innocent shame.
He recalled the two wooden plates in the hamper. Whom was she going to
meet? Ah, well, what mattered it? After to-day the abyss of eternity
would yawn between them. How he loved her! How he adored the exquisite
profile, the warm-tinted skin, the shining hair!... And he had lost
her! Ah, that last ride!
The girl was holding her head high because her heart was full. No more
to ride on a bright morning, with the wind rushing past her, bringing
the odor of the grasses, of the flowers, of the earth to tingle her
nostrils; no more to follow the hounds on a winter's day, with the pack
baying beyond the hedges, the gay, red-coated riders sweeping down the
field; no more to wander through the halls of her mother's birthplace
and her own! Like a breath on a mirror, all was gone. Why? What had
_she_ done to be flung down ruthlessly? She, who had been brought up in
idleness and luxury, must turn her hands to a living! Without being
worldly, she knew the world. Once she appeared upon the stage, she
would lose caste among her kind. True, they would tolerate her, but no
longer would her voice be heard or her word have weight.
Soon she would be tossed about on the whirlpool and swallowed up. Then
would come the haggling with managers, long and tiresome journeys,
gloomy hotels and indifferent fare, curious people who desired to see
the one-time fashionable belle; her portraits would be lithographed and
hung in shop-windows, in questionable resorts, and the privacy so loved
by gentlewomen gone; and perhaps there would be insults. And she was
only on the threshold of the twenties, the radiant, blooming twenties!
[Illustration: "Go home, Colonel--and stay home!"--ACT III.]
During the long ride (for they covered something like seven miles) not
a word was spoken. The girl was biding her time; the man had nothing to
voice. They were going through the woods, when they came upon a
clearing through which a narrow brook loitered or sallied down the
incline. She reined in and raised her crop. He was puzzled. So far as
he could see, he and the girl were alone. The third person, for whom,
he reasoned, he had brought the second plate, was nowhere in sight.
A flat boulder lay at the side of the stream, and she nodded toward it.
Warburton emptied the hamper and spread the cloth on the stone. Then he
laid out the salad, the sandwiches, the olives, the almonds, and two
silver telescope-cups. All this time not a single word from either;
Warburton, busied with his task, did not lift his eyes to her.
The girl had laid her face against Jane's nose, and two lonely tears
trailed slowly down her velvety cheeks. Presently he was compelled to
look at her and speak.
"Everything is ready, Miss." He spoke huskily. The sight of her tears
gave him an indescribable agony.
She dropped the bridle-reins, brushed her eyes, and the sunshine of a
smile broke through the troubled clouds.
"Mr. Warburton," she said gently, "let us not play any more. I am too
sad. Let us hang up the masks, for the comedy is done."
XXVI
THE CASTLE OF ROMANCE
How silent the forest was! The brook no longer murmured, the rustle of
the leaves was without sound. A spar of sunshine, filtering through the
ragged limbs of the trees, fell aslant her, and she stood in an
aureola. As for my hero, a species of paralysis had stricken him
motionless and dumb. It was all so unexpected, all so sudden, that he
had the sensation of being whirled away from reality and bundled
unceremoniously into the unreal.... She knew, and had known! A leaf
brushed his face, but he was senseless to the touch of it. All he had
the power to do was to stare at her. . . . She knew, and had known!
Dick stepped into the brook and began to paw the water, and the
intermission of speech and action came to an end.
"You-and you knew?" What a strange sound his voice had in his own ears!
"Yes. From the very beginning--I knew you to be a gentleman in
masquerade; that is to say, when I saw you in the police-court. The
absence of the beard confused me at first, but presently I recognized
the gentleman whom I had noticed on board the ship."
So she had noticed him!
"That night you believed me to be your sister Nancy. But I did not know
this till lately. And the night I visited her she exhibited some
photographs. Among these was a portrait of you without a beard."
Warburton started. And the thought that this might be the case had
never trickled through his thick skull! How she must have laughed at
him secretly!
She continued: "Even then I was not sure. But when Colonel Raleigh
declared that you resembled a former lieutenant of his, then I knew."
She ceased. She turned to her horse as if to gather the courage to go
on; but Jane had her nose hidden in the stream, and was oblivious of
her mistress' need.
He waited dully for her to resume, for he supposed that she had not yet
done.
"I have humiliated you in a hundred ways, and for this I want you to
forgive me. I sent the butler away for the very purpose of making you
serve in his stead. But you were so good about it all, with never a
murmur of rebellion, that I grew ashamed of my part in the comedy. But
now--" Her eyes closed and her body swayed; but she clenched her hands,
and the faintness passed away. "But for you, my poor father would have
been dishonored, and I should have been forced into the arms of a man
whom I despise. Whenever I have humiliated you, you have returned the
gift of a kind deed. You will forgive me?"
"Forgive you? There is nothing for me to forgive on my side, much on
yours. It is you who should forgive me. What you have done I have
deserved." His tongue was thick and dry. How much did she know?
"No, not wholly deserved it." She fumbled with the buttons of her
waist; her eyes were so full that she could not see. She produced an
oblong slip of paper.
When he saw it, a breath as of ice enveloped him. The thing she held
out toward him was the canceled note. For a while he did me the honor
to believe that I had betrayed him.
"I understand the kind and generous impulse which prompted this deed.
Oh, I admire it, and I say to you, God bless you! But don't you see how
impossible it is? It can not be; no, no! My father and I are proud.
What we owe we shall pay. Poverty, to be accepted without plaint, must
be without debts of gratitude. But it was noble and great of you; and I
knew that you intended to run away without ever letting any one know."
"Who told you?"
"No one. I guessed it."
And he might have denied all knowledge of it!
"Won't you--won't you let it be as it is? I have never done anything
worth while before, and this has made me happy. Won't you let me do
this? Only you need know. I am going away on Monday, and it will be
years before I see Washington again. No one need ever know."
"It is impossible!"
"Why?"
She looked away. In her mind's eye she could see this man leading a
troop through a snow-storm. How the wind roared! How the snow whirled
and eddied about them, or suddenly blotted them from sight! But, on and
on, resolutely, courageously, hopefully, he led them on to safety....
He was speaking, and the picture dissolved.