at him in silence. "I learned it a while ago. The business got away
from me. That fellow Lloyd, my son-in-law, I warned long ago not to
interfere with you; but I didn't think my daughter would dare oppose
me. Never mind about that! What do I care who you are? You could be a
drab out of the gutter for all I'm concerned. There's only one person
in the world I care about--that's David! What he wants I want. That's
what I'm here for; that's what my money's for! Listen, my girl; David
wants you! D'ye hear me? It's you he wants and you he's going to have!
You're going to marry him--do you understand?"
He had drawn close to her, his murky eyes staring into the depths of
hers, and Bab felt herself grow cold. But she did not give in. Now that
she had made up her mind, in her resolution she might indeed have been
a Beeston.
"No, I can't do that," she said.
Beeston threw her a thunderous look.
"What's that you say?"
"I said I couldn't marry him."
Again the fire flamed in his eyes.
"We'll see about that--can't, eh? Who says you can't?"
"I shall never marry him," she said doggedly. "Never!"
She saw then, as in a dream, the man's huge face draw near to hers, and
his eyes, fastened on hers, narrowed each to a pinpoint of light, like
sparks glowing among the dead gray embers of a hearth.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" he sneered, mocking her. "You're not going
to marry him, eh? Do you think I'd have kept you here, a fraud like
you, if I hadn't meant you should? I knew what you were long ago. I
knew, too, that David loved you. That's why I didn't turn you into the
street. Now listen! You know the man that did this forgery--that fellow
Mapleson. He's been like a father to you, hasn't he?"
[Illustration: "'It's you he wants and you he's going to have!'"]
"Yes, he's been a father to me," Bab answered. "Why do you wish to
know?"
"You think a heap of him, too, I shouldn't wonder?" Beeston continued,
ignoring her question. "Come, speak up now; isn't that so?" As Bab
nodded her assent a gleam of satisfaction leaped again into the old
man's eyes.
"All right!" he growled. "That's what I wanted to know!" He bent
nearer, his expression grim but triumphant. "You take your choice now,
young woman! Marry David, or if you don't I'll put that fellow Mapleson
in jail! Now make up your mind, my girl. I'll give you five minutes to
decide."
XXIII
Dinner at Mrs. Tilney's was at half-past six. At half-past seven the
last of the guests would be served and Lena, the waitress, slipslopping
wearily from pantry to dining-room, would begin clearing away for the
night. The clatter of dishes precariously piled upon her tray was an
intimation to those who lingered that they had better hurry.
On a Monday night, a week after his visit to the Blairs' summer place
at Eastbourne, half-past seven was striking when Varick pushed back
his chair from the table and arose. Only Miss Hultz, the Jessups, and
Mr. Backus, the Wall Street gentleman, remained. The others, having
finished, had sought either the parlor or Mrs. Tilney's front steps.
Miss Hultz arose with Varick. She and Mr. Backus planned that evening
to take in a moving-picture show near-by on Eighth Avenue.
The lady from Bimberg's wore a smartly cut polka-dotted voile that set
off well her abundant charms. Delicately brushing the crumbs from her
lap, she bestowed on Varick a flashing smile.
"I fancy we won't see much of you any more, Mr. V. Sorry to hear you're
leaving us."
Varick looked astonished.
"I?"
"Why, yes," returned Miss Hultz, puzzled; "I heard you'd been promoted
at the bank."
Varick had indeed again been promoted, the bank having made him
assistant cashier of its uptown branch; but, as he explained to Miss
Hultz, that didn't mean he was leaving Mrs. Tilney's.
"Well, it'd mean it with me," she rejoined with conviction. "I ain't
saying anything against Mrs. Tilney's, of course; only you know"--a
sapient smile accompanied this--"socially, boarding ain't to my idea.
Give me something select--an apartment hotel, say; or, if you'd be real
swagger, Riverside Drive with your own bath and kitchenette. I always
wanted to be a bachelor girl," Miss Hultz concluded.
Varick agreed with her. Nothing, he assured her, could be sweller. Miss
Hultz, having gathered up her key, her handkerchief, her handbag and
her evening newspaper, favored him with another flashing smile, then
departed.
"The tray's ready, Mr. Varick," called Lena from the pantry door.
Varick thanked her, and was starting toward the pantry when Jessup,
rising from his chair, touched him on the arm.
"How's the patient?" asked the bookkeeper. "Mapleson any better?"
Varick shook his head. Mr. Mapleson, he said, was still in bed. For
a week now the little man had kept to his room. Either Lena or Mrs.
Tilney carried up his meals during the day, and at night Varick
volunteered. They none of them knew just what was wrong with Mr.
Mapleson. He had refused to let a doctor see him.
Jessup frowned gravely.
"Any news?" he asked guardedly.
Guessing what he meant, Varick shook his head. Jessup ruminated.
Since that night, now months ago, when he had divulged to Varick Mr.
Mapleson's history, the bookkeeper had felt thoroughly uncomfortable
about it. Never in his life had he willingly harmed a fellow-creature;
and with a deep human understanding of the circumstances he pitied Mr.
Mapleson with all his heart. It was for Bab, not for himself, Jessup
knew, that the little man had done what he had. And for that very
reason, too, Bab now was on the bookkeeper's mind.
"She hasn't been here then?" he asked.
"No," returned Varick, "not yet."
Jessup, grunting, said no more. It was evident, though, that he had his
own opinion of Bab. Hardly a flattering one apparently.
Varick, taking the tray from Lena, climbed the stairs to Mrs. Tilney's
top floor. In the week that had passed since the afternoon when he had
met Bab in the road at Eastbourne he had not seen her again, nor had he
heard from her. But Mr. Mapleson had. The day Varick returned from Long
Island a letter had come to him. It was after that that Mr. Mapleson
had taken to his bed. It was a brief note, but brief though it was it
had seemed to stun Mr. Mapleson. Even Varick had been dismayed.
"Good-by," Bab had written. "They tell me I must never see you again. I
know everything and I forgive you. Good-by."
That same morning, on his way downtown in the subway, Varick had read
in his paper an announcement that to him seemed to make everything
clear.
The wedding of Miss Barbara Beeston and David Lloyd, it is announced,
will take place at noon, June the twelfth, at Byewolde, the Beeston
estate, Eastbourne, Long Island. Miss Beeston is a granddaughter of
Peter Beeston, the financier. She and Mr. Lloyd are cousins. Only
members of the immediate families will be present.
So she had taken him after all! All the days and the days that
followed, through every moment of the passing hours, Varick had debated
the matter. He was still debating it as he tapped on Mr. Mapleson's
door. Bab had taken his advice, that was evident--his suggestion that
she must decide for herself. But that she had not taken it in the way
he hoped she would, Varick's air made evident. He did not blame her.
He would not let himself even criticize what she had done. But he was
disappointed bitterly--disappointed and surprised at the choice she had
made.
Rich man, poor man,
Beggar man, thief;
Doctor, lawyer,
Merchant, chief!
Rich man the buttons had counted, that was all! At any rate, so Varick
thought.
* * * * *
Mr. Mapy never had looked more frail, more fragile than he did now
lying in the white enameled iron bed on which for seventeen years he
had slept. His eyes, deep sunk within their sockets, were bright with
an unwonted fire; his face was drawn and peaked. So gaunt were his
features and waxy white that, as he lay among the pillows, he had the
semblance of a ghost. At Varick's entrance he looked up expectantly.
The morning newspaper lay upon his bed. As Varick saw, it was opened
at the page devoted to social news. Mr. Mapleson was twittering with
excitement.
"Have you seen this?" he piped.
Varick set down the tray. In response to Mr. Mapleson's remark he
nodded.
"She is to be married Wednesday," the little man cried, drawing in a
sudden breath; "my little Bab's to be married!" Then, as if at a sudden
thought, he propped himself up among the pillows. The exertion, slight
as it was, had obviously tried his strength, and for a moment he could
not speak. "I see it now," he cried when he caught his breath again.
"That's why they kept her, isn't it? They wanted her to marry Lloyd!"
Varick smiled.
"Oh, yes," he answered dryly, "that was why."
Mr. Mapleson seemed overwhelmed.
"Does she love him?" he exclaimed.
Varick busied himself with rearranging the dishes on the tray. Love
David Lloyd? What had that to do with it? Wasn't she marrying him? He
did not say this, however, to Mr. Mapleson. He did not say anything, in
fact. But Mr. Mapleson was too occupied with his own thoughts to notice
this.
"She'll be happy, don't you think?" he chirped.
"Happy?" echoed Varick.
"Why, you think so, don't you?" cried Mr. Mapleson, alarm in his voice.
"Why shouldn't she be happy?"
A faint color mounted into his peaked face. It was evident that a
rising excitement fired the little man. Oblivious of how all this must
hurt Varick, the man Bab once had loved, Mr. Mapleson gave vent to a
sudden chuckle.
"Never mind the tray; I can't eat anything," he said feverishly; then
he darted a glance at Varick. "Say!" he cried, his eyes unnaturally
bright. "They won't turn her out now; they won't turn her out at all!
Yes, and that ain't all either! If she marries that fellow she'll still
have all that money! It's great, ain't it? Just think of it--she's
going to have everything after all!"
Then with a deep sigh, his face radiant with a smile, he lay back among
the pillows, his eyes closed. After an interval he spoke again.
"Well," he said, "even if I can't see her again, I'm happy, happy!" A
long while afterward he spoke again.
"I'm happy," he whispered; "very happy!"
Late that night Varick came down the stairs and tapped at the door of
Mrs. Tilney's bedroom. She arose hurriedly and, donning a dressing
gown, went to open the door. Varick had his hat in his hand.
"We'll have to have a doctor, and a nurse too--I'll pay for them," he
said. "Mr Mapleson's very ill, I'm afraid. And Mrs, Tilney," he added
awkwardly, "send word to Bab again, won't you? Maybe she'll come if she
knows how ill he is."
XXIV
The wedding was set for noon, Wednesday. Only two days remained now
before the event, and already in the big Beeston house the preparations
drew toward completion. The ceremony was to be performed in the
library, a spacious, well-lighted room with tall French windows
overlooking the terraced garden and the pool beneath the evergreens.
Only the family and two or three of their most intimate friends were
to be present; and the ceremony had at one time threatened to be even
smaller. Incensed at the turn affairs had taken, David's parents had at
first declined to lend their presence. Beeston, however, had attended
to this. He had, indeed, attended to almost every detail. Meanwhile,
with Miss Elvira to aid, Bab made ready.
It would be difficult to describe her sensations. After her interview
in the hall with Beeston a dull apathy seemed to have settled over
her. Beeston's threat had proved efficacious. Bab had given in to
him, for there had seemed nothing else to do. She had not, however,
struck her colors weakly. The conflict with Beeston had been a long
one, and it was only when she had no strength left to fight on that she
capitulated. Beeston's triumph was complete.
His had been a clever stroke of diplomacy. Machiavelli himself could
not have done better. Bab he might have threatened until doomsday, and
she would have scoffed at him. For herself she had no fear of him,
and Beeston knew it. Therefore, with an ingenious understanding of
the situation, he had used the one possible means to bring her to her
knees. Her heart like lead, she had gone back to her room upstairs.
There the things still lay helter-skelter on her bed. Among them was
Beeston's pearl. David's ring also was there. She was gazing at it
hollow-eyed when a sound at the door came to her. Beeston had followed
her. He stood for a moment in the doorway, gazing at the room's
disorder, and then a lurking smile had lighted up his eyes. He had
seen the ring, and that he knew who had given it to her was evident.
Pointing to it with his stick, he grunted, and the grunt was almost
friendly. The victor, it proved, meant to be kindly with the vanquished.
"You put that ring on again," he begged rather than directed. Then he
had stared at her, his eyes softening. "You understand, don't you?" he
appealed. "You won't say anything to David to kill his happiness!"
Bab understood, and she gave Beeston her promise. Then she put on
David's ring. It seemed to her to symbolize her submission. David, the
morning after, cried out as he saw it on her finger. Then he had tried
impulsively to draw Bab into his arms; but she quietly released herself.
"Wait, David--not now," she begged. Then she had looked up at him with
a brave little smile. "I'm very tired. Let me have these next few days
to myself, won't you?"
Humbly he had withdrawn, his face clouded sensitively. Again he had
been too rough, too clumsy, he told himself.
How swiftly the next few days sped by only Bab could have said. Two
days only now were left--forty-eight hours in all. This knowledge, even
in her apathy, gave her a creeping dread. Her mind dwelt on the women
she knew--girls, some of them--whom she had seen marry, not for love
but for money. Had they, too, felt that dread? Or had the jingling of
the coin stilled the hurt their honor felt? Bab often wondered.
The Beeston motors were busy vehicles those last few days at Byewolde.
Promptly at nine every morning, if it were fair, Beeston's big imported
touring car rolled round to the door. If it rained, as once or twice it
did, the limousine was there. Then, whatever the weather, Bab and Miss
Elvira appeared promptly, and an hour later they were in town.
Bab had _carte blanche_ to select what she wished for her trousseau.
She was to spend what she liked. Miss Elvira in this assisted ably.
Said she one morning: "I've never had a trousseau--which is no fault
of mine! But there's this about it; if ever you're going to have your
fling, have it now. I've never got over thinking how much I must have
missed!"
Whether Miss Elvira knew what had occurred between Bab and her brother,
Bab had no way of telling. That she knew of the fraud, however, was
evident, though it seemed to make scant change in her demeanor. She was
fond of Bab; and once fond of anyone, Miss Elvira was not the sort to
change easily. Once, as they drove home through the dusk, Miss Elvira
of a sudden had laid a hand on Bab's. Her craggy features for a moment
were transfigured with a light Bab never before had seen there.
"I understand; I know, my child," she said, her voice suddenly thick.
"Take courage, can't you?" Then she had gazed at Bab with a look of
timid appeal. "Love him," she whispered. "Oh, my child, love David,
won't you?" Though she did not answer, Bab's eyes had grown moist.
Laces, linens, embroideries--all by the dozen, by the box--that
week came pouring into Byewolde. With conflicting, curious emotions
Bab bought things and had them sent home. There were dresses, too,
and wraps of all sorts. There were boxes of gloves, boxes of silk
stockings, dainty bundles of lingerie. With all these things added to
what she had already, her rooms were filled to overflowing. Bab, in
spite of herself, felt her interest reawaken. The things were charming,
the daintiest and the finest that could be bought. The result was
that before long she began to have a pride in these fast-accumulating
possessions. What interested her most of all was the linen, much of
which there had even been time to embroider with her monogram. She saw
herself, in the years to come, established in the life she already had
learned to love. Money, luxury, power--all these had come to make their
insidious appeal. The balm of dollars! The healing hyssop of ease! She
did not love David, but some day he would have millions! Again she
heard that inner, unacknowledged voice whisper to her conscience. She
must live the life she'd accepted! There was no escape from it. So why
not take David and all David offered, and be happy? To be sure, she was
marrying neither for wealth nor for place, but because she had to. Just
the same, if wealth, if place, were offered with the marriage, why not
take them?
* * * * *
Ten o'clock had just struck. A half-hour before this, Bab, pleading
fatigue, had excused herself downstairs and, slipping up to her
bedroom, had exchanged her dinner dress for a dressing gown. Her
animation had for the moment revived. Humming lightly to herself, she
was occupying her leisure by going over and rearranging the day's batch
of purchases when her maid entered the room.
"What is it, Mawson?" Bab asked.
"Another parcel, miss."
Bab glanced at the clock. She was astonished to receive anything at
that hour.
"For me?" she exclaimed.
"It's a present, I think," volunteered the maid. "A man from Mr.
Blair's just left it."
At the name Bab colored faintly. She knew, she thought, from whom
that present had come. Since she had last seen Linda Blair a week
had passed, yet Bab in that time had not forgotten a word of their
interview. Silently she took the parcel from the maid. Mawson lingered,
busying herself with the litter of paper, string and cardboard boxes on
the floor. Bab gazed at the parcel in her hand, then as irresolutely
she glanced at the Englishwoman.
"Never mind that, Mawson," she directed. "I'll ring when I need you."
When the maid had departed Bab slowly undid the wrappings. For years
Linda had been the intimate companion, the playmate, of David, and Bab
was curious to see now what sort of a wedding gift Linda would make
the girl her friend was to marry. Linda she had always liked. In her
loneliness now she wished she had been able to make Linda her friend.
There was something substantial about her. She was a person, Bab knew,
one could rely upon in a crisis.
There was a cardboard box inside the paper. Bab opened it. Then,
as her eyes fell on what was within, her face underwent a curious
transformation. She could have laughed, but in her heart was no
merriment. It had needed but a glance at the gift she had received to
show her clearly the attitude of the sender. Indifference Linda could
not have expressed more clearly. She had sent Bab a small silver bonbon
dish and, considering all the means at her disposal, she could hardly
have selected anything less personal, less friendly and intimate. The
gift was costly enough. It was its significance that hurt Bab--the
evident apathy it showed on the part of the giver.
The reason for that apathy Bab knew only too well.
"Why are you marrying David?" Linda had inquired. Why, indeed? And if
Linda were to hear the whole truth, what would she think then? What
would she say were she able to read Bab's mind--to see that David's
wealth had become a balm to cure Bab's wounded spirit?
The silver bonbon dish slid unheeded to the floor, and for a long time
she sat looking straight before her with eyes that now saw nothing
of all the beautiful things that a few moments before had filled her
thoughts. Then slowly she rose to her feet and began pacing the bedroom
to and fro. She herself had once called Varick a fortune hunter; to
think how the tables had now been turned on her. It wasn't true, of
course, that she was marrying for money; but how would the world know
that? She could not tell people she had married to save Mr. Mapleson
from jail. If she did she would have to tell also the truth about
herself. Her tongue was tied. She could not even defend herself. She
must let the world think that she was like all those other women who
had taken men just for their money. And Varick would think that too!
Here a dry sob broke from her. Flinging herself upon the piled-up mass
of finery on her bed she lay, her face hidden among the pillows. If
only he could know! If only once before her marriage she could see him,
tell him the truth. She could not bear to have him think she had given
herself for the money. But it was too late now. That afternoon, there
in the road when she had left him, she knew he had finished with her.
The look in his face had been enough to tell her that. At the thought
a new despair came to her and the unutterable loneliness of her plight
came over her anew. Everyone had left her, it seemed--everyone! Part of
her bargain with Beeston was that she should renounce even those who
had loved her. Varick was not the only one. She must not even see poor
little Mr. Mapleson.
Then, surging over her again and drowning out all other thoughts, came
the remembrance that in two days now she was to marry a man she did not
love!
* * * * *
Her mistress not having rung for her, at half-past eleven Mawson of
her own accord tapped at the sitting-room door. There being no answer,
she tapped at the bedroom door. Still getting no response, she opened
the door and stepped in. The room was vacant, and in the center of the
floor Bab's dressing gown lay in a heap. Beside it, too, were the mauve
silk stockings and satin slippers that she had worn down to dinner. But
Bab, it seemed, had vanished.
XXV
It was after midnight; and at Mrs. Tilney's the household, at this hour
usually plunged in slumber, had awakened to a hushed, subdued activity.
Mr. Mapleson was dying.
It was about ten when Varick first had noted a change in him. For
two hours Mr. Mapleson had lain among the pillows, his face passive,
peaceful with a smile, and Varick had thought he slept. Then, as he
looked up from the book he had brought to keep him company, he had seen
Mr. Mapleson's eyelids flutter. His lips, too, moved as if he spoke.
"Anything I can get you?" asked Varick.
Mr. Mapleson did not appear to hear him. He seemed to be looking at
something in the distance, and again his lips parted. Putting down his
book, Varick bent over him.
"What is it, Mr. Mapleson?"
From a long way off came the little man's voice: "Keep step, John
Mapleson. Keep step!"
Varick was puzzled. He laid a hand on Mr. Mapy's shoulder, and the
little man quivered as if he had been struck.
"Mr. Mapleson!" said Varick. "What is it?"
The slight figure on the bed stirred restlessly.
"Yes, that's me, John Mapleson, number 556, sir. Keeping step, ain't I?
One, two! One, two!" Again he moved slightly.
Then Varick understood. In his dream, whatever it was, John Mapleson
lived over again his life in prison. And Varick now realized, too, that
he would not live it over very much longer. He gave the little man
one more glance, then went hurrying down the stairs to Mrs. Tilney's
door. The doctor had come immediately. One look at Mr. Mapleson told
him the story, and in haste a nurse was summoned. Before midnight she
was installed--a young, pleasant-faced girl, pretty in her crisp blue
gingham dress and white cap and apron.
For two hours now Mrs. Tilney had been running up and down the stairs
to Mr. Mapleson's door. She did not enter, however, until she had made
sure the nurse had all she needed. Then she came in quietly and, with
both hands resting on the foot piece of the little man's bed, Mrs.
Tilney looked down at him. He was still unconscious. Varick, after a
single glance at her, turned away.
"Good-by, John," said Mrs. Tilney and that was all. The words came from
her like a croak. One had only to glance at the gaunt, unlovely face
to read in it all that went with that farewell. Godspeed she gave Mr.
Mapleson, and God, one can be very sure, heard her. Varick followed her
into the hall.
"Just what did that woman say--the one that came to the telephone?" he
asked.
A single tear, the solitary expression of her feeling, stood in Mrs.
Tilney's eye, and as she answered him she dried it with a corner of her
sleeve.
"A servant answered," she replied--"a woman. What she said was that Bab
couldn't come to the phone."
"Couldn't?" echoed Varick. "Do you think she really got the message?"