On the following day the Marquis de Bienville found the execution of any
intentions he might have had toward Derek Pruyn postponed by the
circumstance that Miss Regina van Tromp was dead. The helpless,
inarticulate life, which for three years had served as a bond to hold
more active existences together, had failed suddenly, leaving in the
little group a curious impression of collapse. It became perceptible
that the hushed sick-room, where Miss Lucilla and Mrs. Eveleth were the
only ministrants, had in reality been a centre for those who never
entered it. Now that the living presence was withdrawn, there came the
consciousness of dispersing interests, inseparable from the passing away
of the long established, which gives the spirit pause. The days before
the funeral became a period of suspended action, in which Life refrained
from too marked a manifestation of its energies, out of reverence for
Death. Even when the grave was filled in, and the will read, and the
family face to face with its new conditions, there was a respectful
absence of hurry in beginning the work of reconstruction. The lull
lasted, in fact, till James van Tromp arrived from Paris; and it was
broken then only by the banker's desire "to get things settled" with all
possible speed, so that he might return to the Rue Auber.
The first sign of real disintegration came from Mrs. Eveleth. She had
waited for the arrival of the man whom she looked upon now as her
confidential adviser, to make the announcement that, since Miss Lucilla
would no longer need her, she meant to have a home of her own. The
economies she had been able to practise during the last two years,
together with a legacy from Miss van Tromp, would, when added to "her
own income," provide her with modest comfort for the rest of her days.
There was something triumphant in the way in which she proclaimed her
independence of the daughter-in-law who had been the author of so many
of her woes. It was the old banker himself who brought this intelligence
to Diane.
During the fortnight he had been in New York he had formed an almost
daily habit of dropping in on her. She was the more surprised at his
doing so from the fact that her detachment from the rest of the circle
of which she had formed a part was now complete. She had gone to see
Miss Lucilla with words of sympathy, but her reception was such that she
came away with cheeks flaming. Miss Lucilla had said nothing; she had
only wept; but she had wept in a way to show that Diane herself, more
than the departed Miss Regina, was the motive of her grief. After that
Diane had remained shut up in her linen-room, finding in its occupied
seclusion something of the peace which the nun seeks in the cloister.
There was no one but the old man to push his way into her sanctuary, and
for his visits she was grateful. They not only relieved the tedium of
her days, but they brought her news from that small world into which her
most vital interests had become absorbed.
"So the old lady is set up for life on your money," he observed, as he
watched Diane hold a white table-cloth up to the light and search it for
imperfections.
"It isn't my money now; and even if it were I'd rather she had the use
of it. She would have had much more than that if it hadn't been for me."
"She might; and then again she mightn't. Who told _you_ what would have
happened--if everything had been different from what it is? There are
people who think they would have had plenty of money if it hadn't been
for me; but that doesn't prove they're right."
"In any case I'm glad she has it."
"That's because you're a very foolish little woman, as I told you when
you came to me three years ago. I said then that you'd be sorry for it
some day--"
"But I'm not."
"Tut! tut! Don't tell me! Can't I see with my own eyes? No woman could
lose her good looks as you've done and not know she's made a mistake.
How old are you now?"
"I'm twenty-seven."
"Dear me! dear me! You look forty."
"I feel eighty."
"Yes; I dare say you do. Any one who's got into so many scrapes as you
have must feel the burden of time. I don't think I ever saw a young
woman make such poor use of her opportunities. Why didn't you marry
Derek Pruyn?"
Diane kept herself quite still, her needle arrested half-way through its
stitch. She took time to reflect that it was useless to feel annoyed at
anything he might say, and when she formed her answer it was in the
spirit of meeting him in his own vein.
"What makes you think I ever had the chance?"
"Because I gave it to you myself."
"You, Mr. van Tromp?"
"Yes; me. I did all that wire-pulling when you first came to New York;
and I did it just so that you might catch him."
"Oh?"
"I did," he declared, proudly. "And if you had been the woman I took you
for, you could have had him."
"But suppose I--didn't want him?"
"Oh, don't tell me that," he said, pityingly. "Why shouldn't you want
him?--just as much as he'd want you?"
"Well, I'll put it that way if you like. Suppose he didn't want me?"
"Then the more fool he. I picked you out for him on purpose."
"May I ask why?"
"Certainly. I saw he was getting on in life, and, as he'd been a good
many years a widower, I imagined he'd had some difficulty in getting any
one to have him. If he's good-looking, he's not what you'd call very
bright; and he's got a temper like--well, I won't say what. I'd pity the
woman who got him, that's all; and so--"
"And so you thought you'd pity me."
"I did pity you as it was. It seemed to me you couldn't be worse off,
not even if you married Derek Pruyn."
"It was certainly good of you to give me the opportunity; and if I had
only known--"
"You would have let it slip through your fingers just the same. You're
one of the young women who will always stand in their own light. I dare
say, now, that if I told you I was willing to marry you myself, you
wouldn't profit by the occasion."
"I should never want to profit by your loss, Mr. van Tromp."
"But suppose I could afford--to lose?"
Unable to answer him there, she held her peace, though it was a relief
that, before he had time to speak again, a page-boy knocked at the door
and entered with a card. Diane took it hastily and read the name.
"Tell the gentleman I can't see him," she said, with a visible effort to
speak steadily.
"Wait!" the banker ordered, as the boy was about to turn. "Who is it?"
Without ceremony he drew the card from Diane's hand and looked at it.
"Heu!" he cried. "It's Bienville, is it? Of course you'll see him; of
course you will; of course! Here, boy, I'll go with you."
Returning to Gramercy Park after this interview, the banker pottered
about his apartment until, on hearing the door-bell ring, he looked out
of the window and recognized Derek Pruyn's chauffeur. On the stairs, as
he went down, he heard Miss Lucilla's voice in the hall.
"Oh, come in, Derek. Marion isn't here yet, but she won't be long. I
asked you to come punctually, because I gathered from her note that she
wanted to see you very particularly, and without Mrs. Bayford's
knowledge. She has evidently something on her mind that she wants to
tell you."
"Hello, dears!" the old man interrupted suddenly, as, leaning heavily on
the baluster, he descended the stairs. "I've got good news for you."
"Good news, Uncle James?" Miss Lucilla said, reproachfully. With her
long, grave face, and in her heavy crape, she looked as though she found
good news decidedly out of place.
"The very best," the banker declared, reaching the hall and taking his
nephew and niece each by an arm. "Come into the library and I'll tell
you. There!" he went on, pushing Miss Lucilla into an arm-chair. "Sit
down, Derek, and make yourself comfortable. Now, listen, both of you.
Perhaps you're going to have a new aunt."
"Oh, Uncle James!" Miss Lucilla cried, in the voice of a person about to
faint.
"You're going to be married!" Derek roared, with the fury of a father
addressing a wayward son.
"The young woman," the banker went on to explain, "is of French
extraction, but Irish on the mother's side."
Derek grasped the arms of his chair and half rose, making an
inarticulate sound.
"'Sh! 'Sh!" the old man went on, lifting a warning hand. "She'd had
reverses of fortune; but that wasn't the reason why she came to me.
Though her husband had just died, leaving nothing, she had her own
_dot_, on the income of which she could have lived. But that didn't suit
her. Her husband had left a mother, who had neither _dot_ nor anything
else in the world. At the age of sixty the old woman was a pauper. My
little lady came to see me in order to transfer all her own money
secretly to her mother-in-law, and face the world herself with empty
hands."
"My God!" Derek breathed, just audibly. Miss Lucilla sat upright and
tense, hot tears starting to her eyes.
"Plucky, wasn't it?" the uncle went on, complacently. "I didn't approve
of it at first, but I let her do it in the end, knowing that some good
fellow would make it up to her."
"Don't joke, uncle," Derek cried, nervously. "It's too serious for
that."
"I'm not joking. It's what I did think. And if the world wasn't full of
idiots who couldn't tell diamonds from glass, a little woman like that
would have been snapped up long ago."
Derek sprang up and strode across the room.
"Do you mean to tell me," he demanded, turning abruptly, "that she made
over all her money to Mrs. Eveleth--a woman who has deserted her, like
the rest of us?"
"That's what she did; but there's this to be said for the old lady, that
she doesn't know it. She thinks it's the wreck of her own fortune, and
Diane wouldn't let me tell her the truth. Since you seem to be
interested in the little story," he added, with sarcasm, "you may hear
all about it."
With tolerable accuracy he gave the details of his first interview with
Diane, three years previous. Long before he finished, Lucilla was
weeping silently, while Derek stood like a man turned to stone. Even the
banker's own face took on an expression of whimsical gravity as he said
in conclusion:
"And so I've decided to give her a home--that is," he added,
significantly, "if no one else will."
"Do you mean that for me?" Derek asked, in a tone too low for Lucilla to
hear it.
"Oh no--not particularly. I mean it for--any one."
"Because," Derek went on, "as for me--I'm not worthy to have her under
my roof."
The banker made no comment, sitting in a hunched attitude and humming to
himself in a cracked voice while Derek stared down at him.
They were still in this position when Marion Grimston was shown in.