FATHER AND DAUGHTER
Richard Gessner returned to Hampstead on the Friday in Ascot week and
upon the following morning Anna and Alban came back from Henley. They
said little of their adventures there, save to tell of quiet days upon
sunny waters; nor did the shrewdest questioning add one iota to the
tale. Indeed, Gessner's habitual curiosity appeared, for the time being,
to have deserted him, and they found him affable and good-humored almost
to the point of wonder.
It had been a very long time, as Anna declared, since anything of this
kind had shed light upon the commonly gloomy atmosphere of "Five
Gables." For weeks past Gessner had lived as a man who carried a secret
which he dared to confess to none. Night or day made no difference to
him. He lived apart, seeing many strangers in his study and rarely
visiting the great bank in Lombard Street where so many fortunes lay. To
Alban he was the same mysterious, occasionally gracious figure which had
first welcomed him to the magnificent hospitality of his house. There
were days when he appeared to throw all restraint aside and really to
desire this lad's affection as though he had been his own son--other
days when he shrank from him, afraid to speak lest he should name him
the author of his vast misfortunes. And now, as it were in an instant,
he had cast both restraint and fear aside, put on his ancient bonhomie
and given full rein to that natural affection of which he was very
capable. Even the servants remarked a change so welcome and so manifest.
Let it be written down as foreordained in the story of this unhappy
house, that in like measure as the father recovered his self-possession,
so, as swiftly, had the daughter journeyed to the confines of tragedy
and learned there some of those deeper lessons which the world is ever
ready to teach. Anna returned from Henley so greatly changed that her
altered appearance rarely escaped remark. Defiant, reckless, almost
hysterical, her unnatural gaiety could not cloak her anxiety nor all her
artifice disguise it. If she had told the truth, it would have been to
admit a position, not only of humiliation but of danger. A whim, by
which she would have amused herself, had created a situation from which
she could not escape. She loved Alban and had not won his love. The
subtle antagonist against whom she played had turned her weapons
adroitly and caught her in the deadly meshes of his fatal net. Not for
an instant since she stood upon the lawn at Ascot and witnessed the
defeat of her great horse Lodestar had she ceased to tell herself that
the world pointed the finger at her and held up her name to scorn. "They
say that I cheated them," she would tell herself and that estimate of
the common judgment was entirely true.
It had been a great race upon a brilliant day of summer. Alban had
accompanied her to the enclosure and feasted his eyes upon that rainbow
scene, so amazing in its beauty, so bewildering in its glow of color
that it stood, to his untrained imagination, for the whole glory of the
world. Of the horses or their meaning he knew nothing at all. This
picture of radiant women, laughing, feasting, flirting at the heart of a
natural forest; the vast concourse of spectators--the thousand hues of
color flashing in the sunshine, the stands, the music, the royal
procession, the superbly caparisoned horses, the State carriages--what a
spectacle it was, how far surpassing all that he had been led to expect
of Money and its kingdom. Let Anna move excitedly amid the throng,
laughing with this man, changing wit with another--he was content just
to watch the people, to reflect upon their happy lives, it may be to ask
himself what justification they had when the children were wanting bread
and the great hosts of the destitute lay encamped beyond the pale. Such
philosophy, to be sure, had but a short shrift on such a day. The
intoxication of the scene quickly ran hot in his veins and he
surrendered to it willingly. These were hours to live, precious every
one of them--and who would not worship the gold which brought them, who
would not turn to it as to the lodestar of desire?
And then the race! Anna had talked of nothing else since they set out in
the motor to drive over to the course. Her anger against Willy Forrest
appeared to be forgotten for the time being--he, on his part, eying
Alban askance, but making no open complaint against him, met her in the
paddock and repeated his assurances that Lodestar could not lose.
"They run him down to evens, Anna," he said, "and precious lucky we
were to get the price we did. There'll be some howls to-night, but
what's that to us? Are we a philanthropic society, do we live to endow
the multitude? Not much, by no means, oh dear, no. We live to make an
honest bit--and we'll make it to-day if ever we did. You go easy and
don't butt in. I've laid all that can be got at the price and the rest's
best in your pocket. You'll want a bit for the other races--eh, what?
You didn't come here to knit stockings, now did you, Anna?"
She laughed with him and returned to see the race. Her excitement gave
her a superb color, heightened her natural beauty and turned many
admiring eyes upon her. To Alban she whispered that she was going to
make a fortune, and he watched her curiously, almost afraid for himself
and for her. When the great thrill passed over the stands and "they're
off" echoed almost as a sound of distant thunder, he crept closer to her
as though to share the excitement of which she was mistress. The specks
upon the green were nothing to him--those dots of color moving swiftly
across the scene, how odd to think that they might bring riches or
beggary in their train! This he knew to be the stern fact, and when men
began to shout hoarsely, to press together and crane their necks, when
that very torrent of sound which named the distance arose, he looked
again at Anna and saw that she was smiling. "She has won," he said, "she
will be happy to-night."
The horses passed the post in a cluster. Alban, unaccustomed to the
objects of a race-course, had not an eye so well trained that he could
readily distinguish the colors or locate with certainty the position of
the "pink--green sleeves--white cap"--the racing jacket of "Count
Donato," as Anna was known to the Jockey Club. He could make out nothing
more than a kaleidoscope of color changing swiftly upon a verdant arena,
this and an unbroken line of people stretching away to the very confines
of the woodlands and a rampart wall of stands and boxes and tents. For
him there were no niceties of effort and of counter-effort. The jockeys
appeared to be so many little monkeys clinging to the necks of wild
chargers who rolled in their distress as though to shake off the imps
tormenting them. The roar of voices affrighted him--he could not
understand that lust of gain which provoked the mad outcry, the sudden
forgetfulness of self and dignity and environment, the absolute
surrender to the desire of victory. Nor was the succeeding silence less
mysterious. It came as the hush in an interval of tempests. The crowd
drew back from the railings and moved about as quietly as though nothing
of any consequence had happened. Anna herself, smiling still, stood just
where she was; but her back was now toward the winning-post and she
seemed to have forgotten its existence.
"Do you know," she said very slowly, "my horse has lost."
"What does that mean?" Alban asked with real earnestness.
She laughed again, looking about her a little wildly as though to read
something of the story upon other faces.
"What does it mean--oh, lots of things. I wonder if we could get a cup
of tea, Alban--I think I should like one."
He said that he would see and led her across the enclosure toward the
marquee. As they went a sybilant sound of hissing arose. The "Alright"
had come from the weighing-in room and the people were hissing the
winner. Presently, from the far side of the course, a louder outcry
could be heard. That which the men in the gray frock-coats were telling
each other in whispers was being told also by the mob in stentorian
tones. "The horse was pulled off his feet," said the knowing ones; "they
ought to warn the whole crowd off."
Anna heard these cries and began dimly to understand them. She knew that
Willy Forrest had done this in return for the slight she had put upon
him at Henley. He had named his own jockey for the race and chosen one
who had little reputation to lose. Between them they would have reason
to remember the Royal Hunt Cup for many a day. Their gains could have
been little short of thirty thousand pounds--and of this sum, Anna owed
them nearly five thousand.
She heard the people's cries and the sounds affrighted her. Not an
Englishwoman, none the less she had a good sense of personal honor, and
her pride was wounded, not only because of this affront but that a
strange people should put it upon her. Had it been any individual
accusation, she would have faced it gladly--but this intangible judgment
of the multitude, the whispering all about her, the sidelong glances of
the men and the open contempt of the women, these she could not meet.
"Let us go back to the bungalow to tea," she exclaimed suddenly, as
though it were but a whim of the moment; "this place makes my head ache.
Let us start now and avoid the crush. Don't you think it would be a
great idea, Alban?"
He said that it would be--but chancing to look at her while she spoke,
he perceived the tears gathering in her eyes and knew that she had
suffered a great misfortune.
* * * * *
Richard Gessner knew nothing of Anna's racing escapades, nor had he any
friend who made it his business to betray them. The day was rare when he
made an inquiry concerning her amusements or the manner of them. Women
were in his eyes just so many agreeable decorations for the tables at
which men dined. Of their mental capacity he had no opinion whatever,
and it was a common jest for him to declare their brain power
consistently inferior to that of the male animal.
"There has been no woman financial genius since the world began," he
would observe, and if those who contradicted him named the arts, he
waved them aside. "What is art when finance is before us?" That Anna
should amuse herself was well and proper. He wished her to marry well
that he might have spoken of "my daughter, Lady Anna"--not with pride as
most men would speak, but ironically as one far above such petty titles
and able from his high place to deride them.
Of her daily life, it must be confessed that he knew very little. A
succession of worthy if incompetent dependants acted the chaperones part
for him and satisfied his conscience upon that score. He heard of her
at this social function or at that, and was glad that she should go. Men
would say, "There's a catch for you--old Gessner's daughter; he must be
worth a million if he's worth a penny." Her culpable predisposition
toward that pleasant and smooth-tongued rascal, Willy Forrest, annoyed
him for the time being but was soon forgotten. He believed that the man
would not dare to carry pursuit farther, and if he did, the remedy must
be drastic.
"I will buy up his debts and send him through the Court," Gessner said.
"If that does not do, we must find out his past and see where we can
have him. My daughter may not marry as I wish, but if she marries a
jockey, I have done with her." And this at hazard, though he had not the
remotest idea who Forrest really was and had not taken the trouble to
find out. When the man ceased to visit "Five Gables" he forgot him
immediately. He was the very last person in all London whom he suspected
when Anna, upon the day following his return from Paris, asked that they
might have a little talk together and named the half-hour immediately
before dinner for that purpose. He received her in his study, whither
Fellows had already carried him a glass of sherry and bitters, and being
in the best of good humor, he frankly confessed his pleasure that she
should so appeal to him.
"Come in, Anna, come in, my dear. What's the matter now--been getting
into mischief? Oh, you girls--always the same story, a man or a
milliner, and the poor old father to get you out of it. What is it this
time--Paquin or Worth? Don't mind me, Anna. I can always live in a
cottage on a pound a week. The doctor says I should be the better for
it. Perhaps I should. Half the complaints we suffer from are just 'too
much.' Think that over and add it up. You look very pale, my girl.
You're not ill, are you?"
The sudden change of tone occurred as Anna advanced into the light and
seated herself in the bow-window overlooking the rose garden. She wore a
delicate skirt of pink satin below a superb gown of chiffon and real
lace. A single pink rose decorated her fine black hair which she had
coiled upon her neck to betray a shapely contour of dazzlingly white
skin beneath it. Her jewels were few but remarkable. The pearls about
her neck had been called bronze in tint and were perfect in their shape.
She carried a diamond bracelet upon her right arm, and its glitter
flashed about her as a radiant spirit of the riches whose emblems she
wore. The pallor of her face was in keeping with the picture. The wild
black eyes seemed alight with all the fires of tragedy unconfessed.
"I am not ill, father," she said, "but there is something about which I
must speak to you."
"Yes, yes, Anna--of course. And this is neither Paquin nor Worth, it
appears. Oh, you little rogue. To come to me like this--to come to your
poor old father and bring him a son-in-law for dinner. Ha, ha,--I'll
remember that--a son-in-law to dinner. Well, I sha'n't eat him, Anna, if
he's all right. It wouldn't be Alban Kennedy now?"
He became serious in an instant, putting the question as though his
favor depended upon her answer in the negative. Anna, however, quite
ignored the suggestion when she replied.
"I came to speak to you about Ascot, father--"
"About Ascot--who's Ascot?"
"The races at Ascot. I ran a horse there and lost five thousand pounds."
"What--you lost--come, Anna, my dear child--you lost--think of it
again--you lost fifty pounds? And who the devil took you there, I want
to know--who's been playing the fool? I don't agree with young girls
betting. I'll have none of that sort of thing in this house. Just tell
him so--whoever he is. I'll have none of it, and if it's that--"
He broke off at the words, arrested in his banter by the sudden memory
of a name. As in a flash he perceived the truth. The man Forrest was at
the bottom of this.
"Now be plain with me," he cried, "you've seen Willy Forrest again and
this is his doing. Yes or no, Anna? Don't you tell me a lie. It's
Forrest--he took you to Ascot?"
She smiled at his anger.
"I ran a horse named Lodestar under the name of Count Donato. I believed
that he would win and he lost. That's the story, father. Why drag any
names into it?"
He regarded her, too amazed to speak. His daughter, this bit of a
schoolgirl as he persisted in calling her, she had run a race-horse in
her own name? What a thing to hear! But was it an evil thing. The girl
had plenty of courage certainly. Very few would have had the pluck to
do it at all. Of course it was unlucky that she had not won--but, after
all, that could soon be put straight.
"You ran a race-horse--but who trained it for you? where did you keep
it? Why did I know nothing about it? Look here, Anna, this isn't dealing
very fair with me. I have never denied you any pleasure--you know I
haven't. If you wanted to play this game, why couldn't you have come to
me and told me so? I wouldn't have denied you--but five thousand; you're
not serious about that--you don't mean to say that you lost five
thousand pounds?"
"I lost five thousand pounds, father--and I must pay the money. They
will call me a cheat if I do not. It must be paid on Monday--Willy says
so--"
He turned upon her with a shout that was almost a roar. She knew in an
instant how foolish she had been.
"Willy Forrest--did you lose the money to him? Come, speak out. I shall
get at the truth somehow--did you lose the money to him?"
"I lost it through him--he made the bets for me."
"Then I will not pay a penny of it if it sends you to prison. Not a
penny as I'm a living man."
She heard him calmly and delivered her answer as calmly.
"I shall marry him if you do not," she said.
Gessner stood quite still and watched her face closely. It had grown
hard and cold, the face of a woman who has taken a resolution and will
not be turned from it.
"You will marry Forrest?" he asked quietly.
"I shall marry him and he will pay my debts."
"He--he hasn't got two brass pieces to rub together. He's a needy
out-at-elbow adventurer. Do you want to know who William Forrest
is--well, my detectives shall tell me in the morning. I'll find out all
about him for you. And you'd marry him! Well, my lady, there you'll do
as you please. I've done with a daughter who tells me that to my face.
Go and marry him. Live in a kennel. But don't come to me for a bone,
don't think I'm to be talked over, because that's not my habit. If you
choose such a man as that--"
"I do not choose him. There are few I would not sooner marry. I am
thinking of my good name--of our good name. If I marry Willy Forrest,
they will say that I helped to cheat the public. Do you not know that it
is being said already. The horse was pulled--I believe that I am not to
be allowed to race again. Poor Mr. Farrier is terribly upset. They say
that we were all cheats together. What can I do, father? If I pay the
money and they know that we lost it, that is a good answer to them. If I
do not, Willy is probably the one man who can put matters straight and I
shall marry him."
She rose as though this was the end of the argument. Her words, lightly
spoken, were so transparently honest that the shrewd man of business
summed up the whole situation in an instant. The mere possibility that
his name should be mixed up with a racing scandal staggered him by its
dangers and its absurdity. Anger against his daughter became in some
measure compassion. Of course she was but a woman and a clever charlatan
had entrapped her.
"Sit down--sit down," he said bluffly, motioning her back to her seat.
"It is perfectly clear that this William Forrest of yours is a rogue,
and as a rogue we must treat him. I am astonished at what you tell me.
It is a piece of nonsense, women's sense as ridiculous as the silly
business which is responsible for it. Of course you must pay them the
money. I will do the rest, Anna. I have friends who will quickly put
that matter straight--and if your rogue finds his way to a race-course
again, he is a very lucky man. Now sit down and let me speak to you in
my turn, Anna. I want you to speak about Alban--I want to hear how you
like him. He has now been with us long enough for us to know something
about him. Let us see if your opinion agrees with mine."
His keen scrutiny detected a flush upon her face while he asked the
question and he understood that all he had suspected had been nothing
but the truth. Anna had come to love this open-minded lad who had been
forced upon them by such an odd train of circumstances; her threats
concerning Willy Forrest were the merest bravado. Gessner would have
trembled at the knowledge a week ago, but to-night it found him
singularly complacent. He listened to Anna's response with the air of a
light-hearted judge who condemned a guilty prisoner out of her own
mouth.
"Alban Kennedy has many good qualities," she said. "I think he is very
worthy of your generosity."
"Ah, you like him, I perceive. Let us suppose, Anna, that my intentions
toward him were to go beyond anything I had imagined--suppose, being no
longer under any compulsion in the matter, the compulsion of an
imaginary obligation which does not exist, I were still to consider him
as my own son. Would you be surprised then at my conduct?"
"It would not surprise me," she said. "You have always wished for a son.
Alban is the most original boy of his age I have ever met. He is clever
and absurdly honest. I don't think you would regret any kindness you may
show to him."
"And you yourself?"
"What have I to do with it, father?"
"It might concern you very closely, Anna."
"In what way, father?"
"In the only way which would concern a woman. Suppose that I thought of
him as your husband?"
She flushed crimson.
"Have you spoken to him on the matter?"
"No, but being about to speak to him--after dinner to-night."
"I should defer my opinion until that has happened."
He laughed as though the idea of it amused him very much.
"Of course, he will have nothing to do with us, Anna. What is a fortune
to such a fine fellow? What is a great house--and I say it--a very
beautiful wife? Of course, he will refuse us. Any boy would do that,
especially one who has been brought up in Union Street. Now go and look
for him in the garden. I must tell Geary to have that cheque drawn
out--and mind you, if I meet that fellow Forrest, I will half kill him
just to show my good opinion of him. This nonsense must end to-night.
Remember, it is a promise to me."
She shrugged her shoulders and left the room with slow steps. Gessner,
still smiling, turned up a lamp by his writing-table and took out his
cheque-book.