DANIEL was up the next morning at six o’clock and had breakfasted
before the other members of the distracted family appeared. The only
one he saw was his brother. William had stopped his weary tramp on the
piazza at daybreak, and, coming into the library, had thrown himself
on the lounge. He lay there when Daniel came down, sleeping the heavy
sleep of physical exhaustion. One arm trailed limply toward the floor,
the other was thrown across his haggard face, hiding it from view.
Daniel stopped a moment and stood looking at him, touched with pity. He
remembered him as he had brought his bride up from the station-gates
that first night, so confident in his happiness. It seemed so long
ago! The brothers had been very sympathetic as boys, though Daniel’s
accident and his subsequent illness, delaying his college course and
putting everything out of joint, had rather separated them.
He felt drawn toward the sufferer now. If William had sinned against
the finer ethics of society, if he had slighted a noble girl to marry
a showy flirt, he was paying the price; and Daniel felt it. He turned
away from the stricken figure on the lounge with a poignant feeling
of commiseration. Things like this could never be forgotten. No
patching-up would hide the scar in William’s heart, or make him regard
his wife in the same light again.
Daniel did not rouse him. He went out silently, bent on doing his
utmost for Leigh. Leigh was Fanchon’s victim as surely as William had
been.
And Corwin? Daniel, who had scarcely seen the man until he saw him
lying dead at the coroner’s, wondered in what measure Fanchon was
responsible for his death, too. There were women like that, he
reflected, and there were others like--Virginia!
The very thought of her brought him a feeling of happiness, of
reassurance. The world could not be such a bad place, after all,
when there were women like Virginia in it. Even in the darkness of
his present perplexity, Daniel smiled tenderly. No matter what else
happened, Virginia would not fail him. He felt the touch of her hand
on his and heard her voice again, her sympathy for Leigh. And she had
said nothing against Fanchon. Not by a word or a glance had she accused
Fanchon.
But he heard it elsewhere. Judge Jessup could not control himself,
and Mr. Payson, coming into Jessup’s office to express sympathy for
Leigh and the Carters, did not restrain himself at all. He thought
that William should have made his wife behave before this. This, in
his opinion, was the natural sequence to that shocking fandango at the
church musicale.
Daniel, meanwhile, labored for Leigh. In spite of his best efforts, his
brother was held for the grand jury without bail. The fact that Leigh
had gone to Corwin’s room, carrying a pistol with him, and had there
shot an unarmed man, went against him, despite his youth and his family
connections. Daniel had only a few moments’ talk with him before he was
removed to the county jail.
Judge Jessup, coming out from the inquest, and mopping his head, used
strong language.
“Can’t be for anything but manslaughter, anyway,” he growled fiercely.
Seeing Mr. Carter sitting in a crumpled heap in the corner of his
office, the judge got a flat, black bottle from under his desk, poured
something into a glass, and made Johnson Carter swallow it.
“That’ll get you on your feet, Johnson,” he said gruffly. “We give
it to racehorses down in Kentucky. You can call it arnica, if you’re
afraid of taking to drink.”
Then, while Mr. Carter tried to rally his scattered forces, he moved
over to Daniel, who was standing by the window observing the motor that
was carrying Leigh down to the jail.
“Dan,” said he, lowering his deep bass, “where’s that woman?”
Daniel started.
“Up at the house, I reckon,” he said. “She was locked in her room this
morning.”
“Who’s going to get her story out of her?” asked the judge. “William?”
Daniel stared out of the window in silence.
“That indictment has got to be either murder or manslaughter. It
depends on the story. Who’s going to get it? I reckon William can.”
“I’ll see,” said Daniel quietly. “I’m going up home now. Can you”--he
hesitated--“can you keep father here?”
The judge nodded. They both glanced at the man sitting in the judge’s
big swivel chair. Mr. Carter was leaning back dejectedly, with both
hands clenched on the arms of the chair, and his head bent forward.
He was staring fixedly at the blotting-paper on the judge’s desk, his
mouth hanging open. Daniel picked up his hat and quietly left the room.
He did not walk home. He was worn out and he hailed a taxi. He had
already telephoned the verdict of the coroner’s jury to his mother,
and he knew they were, in a measure, prepared for the worst; but his
heart sank as he ascended the familiar old steps. Even the rose-bush
beside the door seemed to bewail the thought of the youngest boy, the
mother’s pet, being in jail.
Emily opened the door for him. Her nose was still red, and she was
trying vainly to wink back her tears.
“Mama’s gone to bed,” she announced chokingly. “She’s cried herself
sick. And William’s gone out--I don’t know where he’s gone. Mama’s
afraid he’ll--he’ll drown himself!”
“He came down to Judge Jessup’s office to hear about Leigh, and he’s
gone over to the Payson Building,” said Daniel dryly. “You go and tell
mother he’s all right. And--listen, Emily--I’ve got to see Fanchon.
Will you please ask her to come down-stairs?”
“Ask Fanchon to come down-stairs? Me?” Emily crumpled. “I guess I
won’t!”
“I’ve got to see her,” repeated Daniel. He drew a pad from his pocket,
wrote a line on it, and folded it. “You take that up, Emmy.”
Emily backed.
“No!”
“Don’t you want to save Leigh?” asked Daniel sharply. “Yes? Then you
take that up and stick it under her door and knock. She’ll read it.”
“She won’t. She hasn’t eaten anything. I think she’s going to starve
herself to death.”
“Nonsense! You do as I say.”
Emily still backed. Then, catching his eye, she wavered, took the
paper, and ran, sobbing, up-stairs.
Daniel waited impatiently, walking up and down the hall. He had never
been able to form a clear idea of Fanchon. He could not even conjecture
what she would do. He had never believed in her, he did not believe
in her now, and he felt the deepest resentment toward her for having
brought his young brother to this.
He was still walking up and down the hall when Emily called to him from
the staircase in a watery stage whisper:
“She says, come up to her room.”
Reluctantly Daniel went up-stairs. Emily was hanging over the banisters
at the top.
“She’s in the little front room over the door,” she whispered,
sniffing. “I think she’s going away; I saw her trunks open.”
Daniel nodded and made his way to the small room over the front door,
which his mother had hastily converted into a boudoir for the bride.
He remembered the night when Leigh had helped her put a fresh polish
on the floor before they laid the new rug. These little things seemed
to crowd into his mind, bringing back Leigh’s boyish face in the dim
cell, his terror of the dead Corwin.
He knocked gently at the closed door.
“Come in,” said Fanchon’s voice.
Daniel entered and stood still.
The little room, finished in pink and white, was in wild disorder. A
small hat-box trunk stood open, a traveling-bag gaped, half-packed, and
innumerable articles, large and small, were scattered on the chairs
and on the floor. Stretched on a lounge, in front of the window, lay
Fanchon. Her head was on her arms, and her soft hair, falling loose
over her shoulders, hid her face. She wore some loose black robe which
made her small figure look even smaller and more childish than usual.
There was something in her very attitude broken and forlorn, and Daniel
felt his first touch of actual pity for her as she rose on her elbow
and lifted her haggard face from her arm. Her eyes were hollow, and
even her lips were white. No touch of rouge concealed the havoc of a
sleepless night and a day of anguish.
Her expression so amazed Daniel that he stood still, just inside the
door, looking at her. Fanchon straightened up, dropping her feet to the
floor, and holding herself erect in her place by gripping the edge of
the lounge with nervous, shaking fingers.
“Is--is Leigh in jail?” she asked faintly, her dark eyes fixed on
Daniel’s face.
He nodded.
“Held for the grand jury. Haven’t they told you?”
“No one tells me anything; no one speaks to me! I’m going away; I’m
packing up. But Leigh? _Mon Dieu!_ I’m human, I want to know about
Leigh!”
“I came here to ask you to help me save Leigh,” said Daniel quietly.
“It’s got to be either murder or manslaughter. It depends on you,
Fanchon.”
“On me?” She drew a long breath, her eyes darkening with emotion. “_Que
voulez vous?_ What can I do?”
“Tell us the whole story, Fanchon. Tell us about Corwin. I’ve no doubt
at all that he deserved to be shot--but not by Leigh.”
Fanchon drew in her breath, setting her small, white teeth hard
on her under lip. She did not look toward Daniel, but away into a
corner of the room, as if she saw things unseen and terrible. A deep
blush mounted suddenly and painfully to her forehead. Daniel waited
patiently, leaning against the door. At last she turned and raised her
eyes pitifully to his.
“Why must I tell?” she asked brokenly, twisting her handkerchief about
with feverish fingers, tears coming suddenly and running down her
cheeks.
“Leigh shot an unarmed man in his own room,” replied Daniel dryly.
“We’ve got to show cause why the man should have been shot. Corwin
has blackened you--yes, but that was William’s business, and there’s
nothing--forgive me, Fanchon, but there’s nothing to show that Corwin
didn’t speak the truth, except what you yourself can tell us.”
“William believes what he said, then!” she cried hoarsely. “That’s why
he hasn’t spoken to me or looked at me since--since Corwin was shot! He
believes it--you all believe it!”
Daniel’s face hardened. He saw a storm coming and he despised the way
she ranted.
“I’m asking you to tell us the truth.”
She half rose, panting.
“You ask it because--because you believe what he said!”
“I ask it--to save Leigh.”
She sank back, weak and shaken. Then she dashed the tears from her eyes.
“I’ll do anything for Leigh! He’s the only one who believed in me.”
“He believed in you enough to put his life in jeopardy,” Daniel replied
grimly. “If you want to help him, you’ll have to tell me the whole
story, Fanchon.”
She worked at her handkerchief again, winking back her tears, and he
had a chance to see how her face had hollowed and how weak she looked.
He remembered that Emily had said she had refused food, and it occurred
to him that they were cruel to her; that she resented their cruelty.
But, all the while, he saw that boyish face in the dingy light of the
cell, and his heart grew hot within him. He wouldn’t spare her.
“You want to know about Corwin?”
Her voice was very low. Daniel assented, and she seemed to struggle
with herself.
“_Dieu!_” she cried softly.
“As soon as you can, please,” said Daniel, watching her, wondering if
now, under this stress and pain, she would tell the truth. He doubted
it.
“Do you remember what I told you in the library that day?” she asked
abruptly. “About my father and my mother and the convent?”
“Yes.”
“It was a lie,” said Fanchon. “It was the same lie that I told William.”
Daniel looked at her grimly, unsparingly.
“I hope you’re going to tell me the truth now,” he said sternly.
She dragged some soft pillows toward her and leaned her elbows on
them, half hiding her face in her hands, not looking at him at all.
“Sit down,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you the whole story
from the beginning. It was true that my father was French, and that he
was a vine-grower and wine-maker on a ranch in California, and that my
mother, the Irish girl, died there. My father did take me to Paris, but
he didn’t put me in a convent school. He left me with his sister, a
milliner in one of the little back streets. They were alike, those two,
of an ugliness inside and out. For a while he paid for me, and then he
didn’t. I think he drank himself to death. My aunt brought me up. She
wasn’t a good woman and she was greedy for money. I was pretty, and she
had me taught to dance and sing. I was dancing when Aristide Corwin
saw me. He was managing a vaudeville company in London then. He took a
fancy to me.”
Fanchon stopped a moment, pressing her handkerchief against her lips.
Then she went on, speaking rapidly and recklessly.
“You think it was the old story? _Mais non_, it wasn’t! I was only
fifteen and I hated him. I hated his good looks and his showy dress
and his coarse voice--but I was a beggar and I was a child, _enfant
de Bohème_. My aunt told him he could have me for a price. He must
marry me--marry in Paris, too. You know French law? And he was to pay
her--about three thousand dollars in your money. She sold me. I was her
niece, and she made him marry me. She made me his slave good and fast,
for she made me his wife!”
“You mean that you were Corwin’s wife, and you never told my brother?”
Daniel exclaimed harshly, leaning forward to look at her.
She turned, her white, small face shadowed by her wild hair, her eyes
smoldering.
“I didn’t tell your brother? _Non!_ I didn’t tell. Now, listen--I’ll
tell you all, and you can tell your brother,” she added bitterly. “I
was fifteen, and I was small for my years. Corwin trained me. He saw
what I could do, and he trained me like a spaniel. For what? To support
him, _mon ami_! I danced and I sang for four years to support a man
who never worked. He lived on me. Sometimes I was ill, sometimes I was
broken with grief and shame, but it made no difference--he lived on
what I made. I was worth more than the money he had paid--a hundred
times over! When he was drunk he beat me. I’ve had black welts on my
shoulders that I had to hide when I danced. I was sixteen then, and
afraid, deadly afraid of him. I was even afraid to run away. Then I
grew older, and I tried to get a divorce in Paris, but I couldn’t. I
tried in London, and failed again. He saw to that. Then I knew I must
wait. I was American; I was born here. I waited. By and by Aristide
brought me to New York and put me in a company to tour the Western
States. That was luck--great luck--for he was ill. He was strong as
an ox, but he had appendicitis, and had to go to a hospital in New
York. I went to California. I was just twenty-one. I told William I
was eighteen, but I’m twenty-four. In California I got a divorce for
cruelty. I got my freedom. From a child I had been in the hands of a
brute; suddenly I was free!” She looked up again, pressing her hands
against her breast. “_Mon Dieu_, I can’t tell you what I felt!”
She ceased speaking and sank down again on her elbows. This time she
tore at the cushions with her restless fingers.
“Go on,” said Daniel ruthlessly. “This doesn’t bring us to Leigh.”
She looked around at him, her face twisting oddly to keep back her
tears.
“I’ll tell you. I was divorced--it was legal in California, though
Aristide swore it wasn’t. He came at me like a wild beast. He tried
to get the decree set aside. He threatened; he swore vengeance. Then
I told him that I’d die before I went back to him. I meant it, and
he knew it. I remember when we were first married, and I was only
fifteen, I used to go about looking for places to throw myself into
the Seine; but I never could, it was so dirty!” She shuddered. “He
vowed he’d never let me go, and he never has. He followed me about and
published false stories about me. Once he got me arrested for theft. I
was innocent. He couldn’t prove it, and they let me go. He tried and
tried to get me back, to take away my work and starve me into coming
back. Then, when he saw that I wouldn’t come back, he was terrible. I
married William. No, not in Paris! We were married in New York when the
ship docked. You didn’t know that, _n’est-ce-pas_? But what would you?
I couldn’t be married in Paris. I couldn’t tell my story; I wouldn’t
tell it.” She raised tortured eyes to Daniel’s face. “I loved William;
I couldn’t risk it. We were married, and Corwin heard of it. He wrote
me a letter then. He said he’d ruin me; he’d see to it that my husband
got a divorce; he’d fix me--and he’s done it!”
“Have you got that letter?” Daniel asked quickly, a flash in his dark
eyes. “Where is it?”
“I’ll give it to you,” she said brokenly. “It’s all true, Dan, this
time--all true! You can have his letter. That night--the ride--your
father thinks I disgraced you all. I went alone. Corwin rode after me,
and I did go back with him. I ate dinner with him. I begged him not to
ruin me; not to publish lies about me. I begged and begged. I had no
money. He had always taken every cent I earned, and the little I got
after the divorce I’d paid out for clothes--all but a trifle. I offered
that, and he laughed at me. He boasted that he had me; that no other
man would keep me. He said I’d be turned out of a respectable family
when he got done with me--and then I would come back to him.” She
turned with a pitiful gesture. “I could do nothing to stop his mouth.
Who would speak for me? Whoever speaks for a woman when a man like that
blackmails her? You--you all hated me!”
Daniel, who had risen, stood looking at her, his face brooding.
“On my soul, Fanchon, I pity you!” he said simply. “But why--why, in
Heaven’s name, didn’t you tell William the truth?”
She shivered, cowering away from him.
“I--I’ve always been a liar,” she replied with white lips. “I was
brought up to lie. And”--she rose and faced him--“I couldn’t give him
up. He was good, he loved me--_mon Dieu_!” She covered her face with
her shaking hands. “And I’ve ruined his brother, the boy who liked me
so well!”
Daniel pitied her, pitied her profoundly. Her story had appealed to
the lawyer in him, he had been watching and listening for some word
that he could use to save Leigh; but now something in her cry of pain,
in her small, black-clad figure, her wildly lovely face, touched him.
“Fanchon,” he said gently, “please give me that letter.”
She lifted her head. Her tear-stained eyes met his, searched his, read
a touch of friendliness in them, and her lips shook.
“I’ll get it,” she said.
She took a step forward, she seemed about to go into her bedroom, but
suddenly she swayed, her head fell forward, and she stretched out both
her hands helplessly, gropingly.
“It’s all black!” she gasped. “I can’t see!”
Daniel caught her barely in time, for she had fainted in his arms.