In the course of the evening, desolated by the ugly responsibility that
had been thrust upon him, Braden put aside his scruples, his antipathy,
and sent word to Anne that he would like to discuss the new situation with
her. She had not appeared for dinner, which was a doleful affair; she did
not even favour him with an apology for not coming down. Distasteful as
the interview promised to be for him, he realised that it should not be
postponed. His grandfather's wife would have to be consulted. It was her
right to decide who should attend the sick man. While he was acutely
confident that she would not oppose his solitary attendance, there still
struggled in his soul the hope that she might, for the sake of appearances
at least, insist on calling in other physicians. It was a hope that he
dared not encourage, however. Fate had settled the matter. It was ordained
that he should stand where he now stood in this unhappy hour.
He recalled his grandfather's declaration that she still loved him. The
thought turned him sick with loathing, for he believed in his heart that
it was true. He knew that Anne loved him, and always would love him. But
he also knew that every vestige of love and respect for her had gone out
of his heart long ago and that he now felt only the bitterness of
disillusionment so far as she was concerned. He was not afraid of her. She
had lost all power to move a single drop of blood in his veins. But he was
afraid _for_ her.
She came downstairs at nine o'clock. He had not gone near the sick-room
since his initial visit, earlier in the day, literally obeying the command
of the sick man: to talk matters over with Anne before coming again to see
him.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," she said simply, as she advanced
into the room. "I have been talking over the telephone with my mother. She
does not come here any more. It has been nearly three weeks since she last
came to see me. The dread of it all, don't you know. She is positive that
she has all of the symptoms. I suppose it is a not uncommon fault of the
imagination. Of course, I go to see her every afternoon. I see no one
else, Braden, except good old Simmy Dodge. He stops in nearly every day to
inquire, and to cheer me up if possible."
She was attired in a simple evening gown,—an old one, she hastily would
have informed a woman visitor,—and it was hard for him to believe that
this was not the lovely, riant Anne Tresslyn of a year ago instead of the
hardened mistress of Templeton Thorpe's home. There was no sign of
confusion or uncertainty in her manner, and not the remotest indication
that her heart still owned love for him. If she retained a spark of the
old flame in that beautiful body of hers, it was very carefully secreted
behind a mask of indifference. She met his gaze frankly, unswervingly. Her
poise was perfect,—marvellously so in the face of his ill-concealed
antipathy.
"I suppose you know that I have been left in sole charge of the case," he
said, without preface.
"Oh, yes," she replied calmly. "It was Mr. Thorpe's desire."
"And yours?"
"Certainly. Were you hoping that I would interpose an objection?"
"Yes. I am not qualified to take charge of—"
"Pardon me, Braden, if I remind you, that so far as Mr. Thorpe's chances
for recovery are concerned, he might safely be attended by the simplest
novice. The result would be the same." She spoke without a trace of irony.
"Dr. Bates and the others were willing to continue, but what was the use?
They do not leave you a thing to stand on, Braden. There is nothing that
you can do. I am sorry. It seems a pity for you to have come home to
this."
He smiled faintly, whether at her use of the word "home" or the prospect
she laid down for him it would be difficult to say.
"Shall we sit down, Anne, and discuss the situation?" he said. "It is one
of my grandfather's orders, so I suppose we shall have to obey."
She sank gracefully into a deep chair at the foot of the library table,
and motioned for him to take one near-by. The light from the chandelier
fell upon her brown hair, and glinted.
"It is very strange, Braden, that we should come into each other's lives
again, and in this manner. It seems so long ago—"
"Is it necessary to discuss ourselves, Anne?"
She regarded him steadily. "Yes, I think so," she said. "We must at least
convince ourselves that the past has no right to interfere with or
overshadow what we may choose to call the present,—or the future, for that
matter, if I may look a little farther ahead. The fact remains that we are
here together, Braden, in spite of all that has happened, and we must make
the best of it. The world,—our own little world, I mean,—will be watching
us. We must watch ourselves. Oh, don't misconstrue that remark, please. We
must see to it that the world does not judge us entirely by our past." She
was very cool about it, he thought,—and confident.
"As I said before, Anne, I see no occasion to—"
"Very well," she interrupted. "I beg your pardon. You asked me to see you
to-night. What is it that you wish to say to me?"
He leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on the arms of it, and regarded
her fixedly. "Has my grandfather ever appealed to you to—to—" He stopped,
for she had turned deathly pale; she closed her eyes tightly as if to shut
out some visible horror; a perceptible shudder ran through her slender
body. As Braden started to rise, she raised her eye-lids, and in her
lovely eyes he saw horror, dread, appeal, all in one. "I'm sorry," he
murmured, in distress "I should have been more—"
"It's all right," she said, recovering herself with an effort. "I thought
I had prepared myself for the question you were so sure to ask. I have
been through hell in the past two weeks, Braden. I have had to listen to
the most infamous proposals—but perhaps it would be better for me to
repeat them to you just as they were made to me, and let you judge for
yourself."
She leaned back in the chair, as if suddenly tired. Her voice was low and
tense, and at no time during her recital did she raise it above the level
at which she started. Plainly, she was under a severe strain and was
afraid that she might lose control of herself.
It appeared that Mr. Thorpe had put her to the supreme test. In brief, he
had called upon his young wife to put him out of his misery! Cunningly, he
had beset her with the most amazing temptations. Her story was one of
those incredible things that one cannot believe because the mind refuses
to entertain the utterly revolting. In the beginning the old man, consumed
by pain, implored her to perform a simple act of mercy. He told her of the
four little pellets and the glass of water. At that time she treated the
matter lightly. The next day he began his sly, persistent campaign against
what he was pleased to call her inhumanity; he did not credit her with
scruples. There was something Machiavellian in the sufferer's scheming. He
declared that there could be no criminal intent on her part, therefore her
conscience would never be afflicted. The fact that he consented to the act
was enough to clear her conscience, if that was all that restrained her.
She realised that he was in earnest now, and fled the room in horror.
Then he tried to anger her with abuse and calumny to such an extent that
she would be driven to the deed by sheer rage. Failing in this, he resumed
his wheedling tactics. It would be impossible, he argued, for any one to
know that she had given him the soothing poison. The doctors would always
believe that he had overcome his prejudice against self-destruction and
had taken the tablets, just as they intended and evidently desired him to
do. But he would not take his own life. He would go on suffering for years
before he would send his soul to purgatory by such an act. He believed in
damnation. He had lived an honourable, upright life and he maintained that
his soul was entitled to the salvation his body had earned for it by its
resistance to the evils of the flesh. What, said he, could be more
incompatible with a lifelong observance of God's laws than the commission
of an act for which there could be no forgiveness, what more terrible than
going into the presence of his maker with sin as his guide and advocate?
His last breath of life drawn in sin!
Day after day he whispered his wily arguments, and always she fled in
horror. Her every hour was a nightmare, sleeping or waking. Her strength
was shattered, yet she was compelled to withstand his daily attacks. He
never failed to send for her to sit with him while the nurse took her
exercise. He would have no one else. Ultimately he sought to tempt her
with offers of gold! He agreed to add a codicil to his will, giving her an
additional million dollars if she would perform a "simple service" for
him. That was the way he styled it: a simple service! Merely the dropping
of four little tablets into a tumbler of water and holding it to his lips
to drain! Suicide with a distinction, murder by obligation! One of his
arguments was that she would be free to marry the man she loved if he was
out of the way. He did not utter the name of the man, however.
Anne spoke to no one of these shocking encounters in the darkened sick-
room. She would not have spoken to Braden but for her husband's command
given no later than the hour before that she should do so.
"Twice, Braden, I was tempted to do what he asked of me," she said in
conclusion, almost in a whisper. "He was in such fearful agony. You will
never know how he has suffered. My heart ached for him. I cannot
understand how a good and gentle God can inflict such pain upon one of his
creatures. Why should this Christian be crucified? But I must not say such
things. Twice I came near to putting those tablets in the glass and giving
it to him to drink, but both times I shrank even as I took them up from
the table. I shall never forget the look of joy that came into his eyes
when he saw me pick them up, nor shall I ever forget the look he gave me
when I threw them down and put my fingers to my ears to shut out the sound
of his moans. It would have been so easy to end it all for him. No one
could have known, and he would have died thanking me for one good deed at
least. Yesterday when I failed him for the second time, he made the most
horrible confession to me. He said that when he married me a year ago he
knew that this very crisis would come and that he had counted on me then
as his deliverer! He actually said to me, Braden, that all this was in his
mind when he married me. Can't you understand? If the time ever came when
he wanted to die, who would be more likely to serve his purpose than the
young, avaricious wife who loved another man? Oh, he was not thinking of
your good, my friend,—at least, not entirely. He did not want you to throw
yourself away on me, that's true, but your preservation was not his sole
object, let me assure you. He planned deeper than we knew. He looked ahead
for one year and saw what was coming, and he counted on me,—he counted on
the wife he had bought. Once he asked me if I had the faintest idea how
many wives have killed strong and healthy husbands in order that they
might wed the men they loved better. If murderesses can do that, said he,
why should I hesitate, when there could be no such thing as murder in
my—oh, it was too terrible! Thank God, he thinks better of me now than he
did on the day he married me. Even though he is your grandfather, Braden,
I can say to you frankly that if taking his own life means going to hell
for him, I would see him in hell before I would—"
"Anne, Anne!" cried he, shaken. "Don't say it! It is too horrible. Think
of what you were about to say and—"
"Oh, I've thought, my friend," she broke in fiercely. "It is time for you
to think of what he would have done for me. He would have sent me to hell
in his place. Do you understand? Do you suppose that if I had killed him,
even with mercy and kindness in my heart, I could ever have escaped from a
hell on earth, no matter what God's judgment may have been hereafter?
Would heaven after death affect the hell that came before?"
"Do you believe that there is life beyond the grave?" he demanded. "Do you
still believe that there is a heaven and a hell?"
"Yes," she said firmly, "and down in your soul, Braden, you believe it
too. We all believe it, even the scientists who scoff. We can't help
believing it. It is that which makes good men and women of us, which keeps
us as children to the end. It isn't honour or nobility of character that
makes us righteous, but the fear of God. It isn't death that we dread. We
shrink from the answer to the question we've asked all through life. Can
you answer that question now?"
"Of course not," he said, "nor can I solve the riddle of life. That is the
great mystery. Death is simple. We know why we die but we don't know why
we live."
"The same mystery that precedes life also follows it," she said
stubbornly. "The greatest scientist in the world was once a lifeless atom.
He acknowledges that, doesn't he? So, my friend, there is something even
vaster than the greatest of all intelligences, and that is ignorance. But
we are wasting time. I have told you everything. You know just what I've
been through. I don't ask for your sympathy, for you would be quite right
in refusing to give it me. I made my bed, so there's the end of it. I am
glad that you are here. The situation is in your hands, not mine."
"What is there for me to do except to sit down, like you, and wait?" he
groaned, in desperation.
She was silent for a long time, evidently weighing her next remark. "What
have you to say for your pet theory now, Braden?" she inquired, haltingly.
"You may rest assured, Anne, that even were it legally possible, I should
not put it into practice in this instance," he said coldly.
Her face brightened. "Do you really mean it?"
"I wish you and all the rest of them would understand that I am not
setting myself up as a butcher—" he began hotly.
"That is all I want to know," she cried, tremulously. "I have been
dreading the—I have found myself wondering if _you_ would give him those
tablets. Look me straight in the eye, Braden. You will not do that, will
you?"
"Never!" he exclaimed.
"You don't know what that means to me," she said in a low voice. Again
there was a long silence. He was studying her face, and queer notions were
entering his brain. "Another question, please, and that is all. Can his
life be prolonged by an operation?"
"I am assured that he could not survive an operation."
"He may ask you to—to perform one," she said, watching him closely.
He hesitated. "You mean that he is willing to take the chance?"
"I mean that he realises it will make no difference, one way or the other.
The other doctors have refused to operate."
"He will not ask me to operate," said Braden, but his soul shook within
him as he spoke.
"We shall see," said she strangely, and then arose. She came quite close
to him. "I do not want you to operate, Braden. Any one but you. You must
not take the—the chance. Now you would better go up to him. Tell him you
have talked with me. He will understand. He may even speak a good word for
me. Good night. Thank you for—for letting me speak with you to-night."
She left the room. He stood quite still for a full minute, staring at the
closed door. Then he passed his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the
vision that remained. He knew now that his grandfather was right.
In the hall upstairs he found Wade.
"Time you were in bed," said Braden shortly. "Get a little rest, man. I am
here now. You needn't worry."
"He's been asking for you, sir. The nurse has been out here twice within
the last ten minutes. Excuse me, Mr. Braden; may I have another word with
you?" He did not lower his voice. Wade's voice was of a peculiarly
unpenetrating character. Unless one _observed_ his speech it was scarcely
audible, and yet one had a queer impression, at a glance, that he was
speaking a little above the ordinary tone of voice. "Did Mrs. Thorpe tell
you that her brother has been here to see Mr. Thorpe three times within a
week?"
Braden started. "She did not, Wade."
"Why didn't she tell you, sir?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sir, it is just this way: Mr. Thorpe sent for young Mr. Tresslyn
last Friday afternoon. Considerable difficulty was had in finding him. He
was just a wee bit tipsy when he got here at eight o'clock. Mrs. Thorpe
did not see him, although Murray went to her room to tell her of his
arrival. Young Mr. Tresslyn was in Mr. Thorpe's room for ten or fifteen
minutes, and then left the house in a great hurry, sir. He came again on
Saturday evening, and acted very queerly. Both times he was alone with Mr.
Thorpe. Again he fairly rushed out of the house as if he was pursued by
devils. Then he came on Sunday night, and the same thing happened. As he
was going out, I spoke to him, and this is what he said to me,—scared-like
and shaking all over, sir,—'I'm not coming here again, Wade. No more of it
for me. Damn him! You tell my sister that I'm not coming again!' Then he
went out, mumbling to himself. Right after that I went up to Mr. Thorpe.
He was very angry. He gave orders that Mr. Tresslyn was not to be admitted
again. It was then, sir, that he spoke to me about the money in the
envelope. I have had a notion, sir, that the money was first intended for
Mr. George Tresslyn, but he didn't like that way of earning it any more
than I did. Rather strange, too, when you stop to think how badly he needs
money and how low he's been getting these past few months. Poor chap, he—"
"Now, Wade, you are guessing," interrupted Braden, with a sinking heart.
"You have no right to surmise—"
"Beg pardon, sir; I was only putting two and two together. I'm sorry. I
dare say I am entirely wrong, perhaps a little bit out of my head because
of the—Please, sir, do not misunderstand me. I would not for the world
have you think that I connect Mrs. Thorpe with the business. I am sure
that she had nothing whatever to do with her brother's visits
here,—nothing at all, sir."
Braden's blood was like ice water as he turned away from the man and
entered his grandfather's room. The nurse was reading to the old man. With
the young man's entrance, Mr. Thorpe cut her off brusquely and told her to
leave the room.
"Come here, Braden," he said, after the door had closed behind the woman.
"Have you talked with Anne?"
"Yes, grandfather."
"She told you everything?"
"I suppose so. It is terrible. You should not have made such demands—"
"We won't go into that," said the other harshly, gripping his side with
his claw-like hand. His face was contorted by pain. After a moment, he
went on: "She's better than I thought, and so is that good-for-nothing
brother of hers. I shall never forgive this scoundrel Wade though. He has
been my servant, my slave for more than thirty years, and I know that he
hasn't a shred of a conscience. While I think of it, I wish you would take
this key and unlock the top drawer in my dressing table. See if there is
an envelope there, will you? There is, eh? Open it. Count the bills,
Braden."
He lay back, with tightly closed eyes, while Braden counted the package of
five hundred dollar bank-notes.
"There are fifty thousand dollars here, grandfather," said the young man
huskily.
"'Pon my soul, they are more honest than I imagined. Well, well, the world
is getting better."
"What shall I do with this money, sir? You shouldn't have it lying around
loose with all these—"
"You may deposit it to my account in the Fifth Avenue Bank to-morrow. It
is of absolutely no use to me now. Put it in your pocket. It will be quite
safe with you, I dare say. You are all so inexcusably honest, confound
you. Sit down. I want to tell you what I've finally decided to do. These
surgeons say there is about one chance in a million for me, my boy. I've
decided to take it."
"Take it?" muttered Braden, knowing full well what was to come.
"I have given you the finest education, the finest training that any young
man ever had, Braden. You owe a great deal to me, I think you will admit.
Never mind now. Don't thank me. I would not trust my one chance to any of
these disinterested butchers. They would not care a rap whether I pulled
through or not. With you, it is different. I believe you would—"
"My God, grandfather, you are not going to ask me to—"
"Sit still! Yes, I am going to ask you to give me that one chance in a
million. If you fail, I shall not be here to complain. If you
succeed,—well, you will have performed a miracle. You—"
"But there is no possible chance,—not the slightest chance of success,"
cried Braden, the cold sweat running down his face. "I can tell you in
advance that it means death to—"
"Nevertheless, it is worth trying, isn't it, my boy?" said Templeton
Thorpe softly. "I demand it of you. You are my flesh and blood. You will
not let me lie here and suffer like this for weeks and months. It is your
duty to do what you can. It is your time to be merciful, my lad."
Braden's face was in his hands. His body was shaking as if in convulsions.
He could not look into the old man's eyes.
"Send for Bates and Bray to-morrow. Tell them that you have decided to
operate,—with my consent. They will understand. It must be done at once.
You will not fail me. You will do this for your poor old granddaddy who
has loved you well and who suffers to-day as no man in all this world has
ever suffered before. I am in agony. Nothing stops the pain. Everything
has failed. You _will_ do this for me, Braden?"
The young man raised his haggard face. Infinite pity had succeeded horror
in his eyes.