Anne Thorpe had set her heart on an eventuality. She could see nothing
else, think of nothing else. She prayed each night to God,—and
devoutly,—not alone for the safe return of her lover, but that God would
send him home soon! She was conscious of no fear that he might never
return at all.
To the surprise of every one, with the approach of spring, she announced
her determination to re-open the old Thorpe residence and take up her
abode therein. George was the only one who opposed her. He was seriously
upset by the news.
"Good heaven, Anne, you don't _have_ to live in the house, so why do it?
It's like a tomb. I get the shivers every time I think about it. You can
afford to live anywhere you like. It isn't as if you were obliged to think
of expenses—"
"It seems rather silly _not_ to live in it," she countered. "I will admit
that at first I couldn't endure the thought of it, but that was when all
of the horrors were fresh in my mind. Besides, I resented his leaving it
to me. It was not in the bargain, you know. There was something high-
handed, too, in the way I was _ordered_ to live in the house. I had the
uncanny feeling that he was trying to keep me where he could watch—but, of
course, that was nonsense. There is no reason why I shouldn't live in the
house, Georgie. It is—"
"There is a blamed good reason why you should never have lived in it," he
blurted out. "There's no use digging it up, however, so we'll let it stay
buried." He argued bitterly, even doggedly, but finally gave it up.
"Well," he said in the end, "if you will, you will. All the King's horses
and all the King's men can't stop you when you've once made up your mind."
A few days later she called for Lutie in the automobile and they went
together to the grim old house near Washington Square. Her mind was made
up, as George had put it. She was going to open the house and have it put
in order for occupancy as soon as possible.
She had solved the meaning of Braden's postscript. She would have to prove
to him, first of all, that she was not afraid of the shadow that lay
inside the walls of that grim old house. "If you are not also a coward you
will return to my grandfather's house, where you belong." It was, she
honestly believed, his way of telling her that if she faced the shadow in
her own house, and put it safely behind her, her fortitude would not go
unrewarded!
It did not occur to her that she was beginning badly when she delayed
going down to the house for two whole days because Lutie was unable to
accompany her.
The windows and doors were boarded up. There was no sign of life about the
place when they got down from the limousine and mounted the steps at the
heels of the footman who had run on ahead to ring the bell. They waited
for the opening of the inner door and the shooting of the bolts in the
storm-doors, but no sound came to their ears. Again the bell jangled,—how
well she remembered the old-fashioned bell at the end of the hall!—and
still no response from within.
The two women looked at each other oddly. "Try the basement door," said
Anne to the man. They stood at the top of the steps while the footman
tried the iron gate that barred the way to the tradesmen's door. It was
pad-locked.
"I asked Simmy to meet us here at eleven," said Anne nervously. "I expect
it will cost a good deal to do the house over as I want—Doesn't any one
answer, Peters?"
"No, ma'am. Maybe he's out."
Lutie's face blanched suddenly. "My goodness, Anne, what if—what if he's
dead in—"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Lutie," cried Anne impatiently, "don't go to
imagining—Still it's very odd. Pound on the door, Peters,—hard."
She shivered a little and turned away so that Lutie could not see the
expression in her eyes. "I have had no word from him in nearly two weeks.
He calls up once every fortnight to inquire—You are not pounding hard
enough, Peters."
"Let's go away," said Lutie, starting down the steps.
"No," said Anne resolutely, "we must get in somehow. He may be ill. He is
an old man. He may be lying in there praying for help, dying for lack of—"
Then she called out to the chauffeur. "See if you can find a policeman. We
may have to break the door down. You see, Lutie, if he's in there I must
get to him. We may not be too late."
Lutie rejoined her at the top of the steps. "You're right, Anne. I don't
know what possessed me. But, goodness, I _hope_ it's nothing—" She
shuddered. "He may have been dead for days."
"What a horrible thing it would be if—But it doesn't matter, Lutie; I am
going in. If you are nervous or afraid of seeing something unpleasant,
don't come with me. Wade must be nearly seventy. He may have fallen
or—Look! Why,—can _that_ be him coming up the—" She was staring down the
street toward Sixth Avenue. A great breath of relief escaped her lips as
she clutched her companion's arm and pointed.
Wade was approaching. He was still half way down the long block, and only
an eye that knew him well could have identified him. Even at closer range
one might have mistaken him for some one else.
He was walking rather briskly,—in fact, he was strutting. It was not his
gait, however, that called for remark. While he was rigidly upright and
steady as to progress, his sartorial condition was positively staggering.
He wore a high, shiny silk hat. It was set at just the wee bit of an angle
and quite well back on his head. Descending his frame, the eye took in a
costly fur-lined overcoat with a sable collar, properly creased trousers
with a perceptible stripe, grey spats and unusually glistening shoes that
could not by any chance have been of anything but patent leather. Light
tan gloves, a limber walking stick, a white carnation and a bright red
necktie—there you have all that was visible of him. Even at a great
distance you would have observed that he was freshly shaved.
Suddenly his eye fell upon the automobile and then took in the smart
looking visitors above. His pace slackened abruptly. After a moment of
what appeared to be indecision, he came on, rather hurriedly. There had
been a second or two of suspense in which Anne had the notion that the
extraordinary creature was on the point of darting into a basement door,
as if, unlike the peacock, he was ashamed of his plumage.
He came up to them, removing his high hat with an awkwardness that
betrayed him. His employer was staring at him with undisguised amazement.
"I just stepped out for a moment, Mrs. Thorpe, to post a letter," said
Wade, trying his best not to sink back into servility, and quite miserably
failing. He was fumbling for his keys. The tops of the houses across the
street appeared to interest him greatly. His gaze was fixed rather
intently upon them. "Very sorry, Mrs. Thorpe,—dreadfully sorry. Ahem! Good
morning. I hope you have not been waiting long. I—ah, here we are!" He
found the key in the pocket of his fancy waistcoat, and bolted down the
steps to unlock the gate. "Excuse me, please. I will run in this way and
open the door from the—"
"Wade," cried out Mrs. Thorpe, "is it really you?"
He looked astonished—and a trifle hurt. "Who else could I be, Mrs.
Thorpe?" Then he darted through the gate and a moment later the servants'
door opened and closed behind him.
"I must be dreaming," said Anne. "What in the world has come over the
man?"
Lutie closed one eye slowly. "There is only one thing under heaven that
could make a man rig himself out like that,—and that thing is a woman."
"A woman? Don't be foolish, Lutie. Wade couldn't even _think_ of a woman.
He's nearly seventy."
"They think of 'em until they drop, my dear," said Lutie sagely. "That's
one thing we've got to give them credit for. They keep on thinking about
us even while they're trying to keep the other foot out of the grave. You
are going to lose the amiable Wade, Anne dear. He's not wearing spats for
nothing."
Some time passed before the key turned in the inner door, and there was
still a long wait before the bolts in the storm doors shot back and Wade's
face appeared. He had not had the time to remove the necktie and spats,
but the rest of his finery had been replaced by the humble togs of
service—long service, you would say at a glance.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, ma'am, but—" He held the doors open and the
two ladies entered the stuffy, unlighted hall.
"Turn on the lights, please," said Anne quickly. Wade pushed a button and
the lights were on. She surveyed him curiously. "Why did you take them
off, Wade? You looked rather well in them."
He cleared his throat gently, and the shy, set smile reappeared as if by
magic. "It isn't necessary for me to say that I was not expecting you this
morning."
"Quite obviously you were not," said Anne drily. She continued to regard
him somewhat fixedly. Something in his expression puzzled her. "Mr. Dodge
will be here presently. I am making arrangements to open the house."
He started. "Er—not to—er—live in it yourself, of course. I was sure Mr.
Dodge would find a way to get around the will so that you could let the
house—"
"I expect to live here myself, Wade," said she. After a moment, she went
on: "Will you care to stay on?"
He was suddenly confused. "I—I can't give you an answer just at this
moment, Mrs. Thorpe. It may be a few days before I—" He paused.
"Take all the time you like, Wade," she interrupted.
"I fancy I'd better give notice now, ma'am," he said after a moment. "To-
day will do as well as any day for that." He seemed to straighten out his
figure as he spoke, resuming a little of the unsuspected dignity that had
accompanied the silk hat and the fur-lined coat.
"I'm sorry," said Anne,—who was not in the slightest sense sorry. Wade
sometimes gave her the creeps.
"I should like to explain about the—ah—the garments you saw me
wearing—ah—I mean to say, I should have brought myself to the point of
telling you a little later on, in any event, but now that you have caught
me wearing of them, I dare say this is as good a time as any to get it
over with. First of all, Mrs. Thorpe, I must preface my—er—confession by
announcing that I am quite sure that you have always considered me to be
an honest man and above deception and falsehood. Ahem! That _is_ right,
isn't it?"
"What are you trying to get at, Wade?" she cried in surprise. "You cannot
imagine that I suspect you of—anything wrong?"
"It may be wrong, and it may not be. I have never felt quite right about
it. There have been times when I felt real squeamish—and a bit
underhanded, you might say. On the other hand, I submit that it was not
altogether reprehensible on my part to air them occasionally—and to see
that the moths didn't—"
"Air them? For goodness' sake, Wade, speak plainly. Why shouldn't you air
your own clothes? They are very nice looking and they must have cost you a
pretty penny. Dear me, I have no right to say what you shall wear on the
street or—"
Wade's eyes grew a little wider. "Is it possible, madam, that you failed
to recognise the—er—garments?"
She laid her hand upon Lutie's arm, and gripped it convulsively. Her eyes
were fixed in a fast-growing look of aversion.
"You do not mean that—that they were Mr. Thorpe's?" she said, in a low
voice.
"I supposed, of course, you would have remembered them," said Wade, a
trifle sharply. "The overcoat was one that he wore every day when you went
out for your drive with him, just before he took to his bed. I—"
"Good heaven!" cried Anne, revolted. "You have been wearing his clothes?"
"They were not really what you would call cast-off garments, ma'am," he
explained in some haste, evidently to save his dignity. "They were rather
new, you may remember,—that is to say, the coat and vest and trousers. As
I recall it, the overcoat was several seasons old, and the hat was the
last one he ordered before taking to the comfortable lounge hat—he always
had his hats made from his own block, you see,—and as I was about to
explain, ma'am, it seemed rather a sin to let them hang in the closet,
food for moths and to collect dust in spite of the many times I brushed
them. Of course, I should never have presumed to wear them while he was
still alive, not even after he had abandoned them for good—No, that is a
thing I have never been guilty of doing. I could not have done it. That is
just the difference between a man-servant and a woman-servant. Your maid
frequently went out in your gowns without your knowledge. I am told it is
quite a common practice. At least I may claim for myself the credit of
waiting until my employer was dead before venturing to cover my back with
his—Yes, honest confession is good for the soul, ma'am. These shoes are my
own, and the necktie. He could not abide red neckties. Of course, I need
not say that the carnation I wore was quite fresh. The remainder of my
apparel was once worn by my beloved master. I am not ashamed to confess
it."
"How _could_ you wear the clothes of a—a dead person?" cried Anne,
cringing as if touched by some cold and slimy thing.
"It seemed such a waste, madam. Of late I have taken to toning myself up a
bit, and there seemed no sensible reason why I shouldn't make use of Mr.
Thorpe's clothes,—allow me to explain that I wore only those he had used
the least,—provided they were of a satisfactory fit. We were of pretty
much the same size,—you will remember that, I'm sure,—and, they fitted me
quite nicely. Of course, I should not have taken them away with me when I
left your employ, madam. That would have been unspeakable. I should have
restored them to the clothes presses, and you would have found them there
when I turned over the keys and—"
"Good heavens, man," she cried, "take them away with you when you go—all
of them. Everything, do you hear? I give them all to you. Of what use
could they be to me? They are yours. Take everything,—hats, boots,
linen,—"
"Thank you, ma'am. That is very handsome of you. I wasn't quite sure that
perhaps Mr. Braden wouldn't find some use for the overcoat. It is a very
elegant coat. It cost—"
"Wade, you are either very stupid or very insolent," she interrupted
coldly. "We need not discuss the matter any farther. How soon do you
expect to leave?"
"I should say that a week would be sufficient notice, under the
circumstances," said he, and chuckled, much to their amazement. "I may as
well make a clean breast of it, ma'am. I am going to be married on the
seventeenth of next month. That's just six weeks off and—"
"Married! You?"
"Ah, madam, I trust you will not forget that I have lived a very lonely
and you might say profitless life," he said, rubbing his hands together,
and allowing his smile to broaden into a pleased grin. "As you may know in
the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,—and so
on. A man is as old as he feels. I can't say that I ever felt younger in
my life than I have felt during the past month."
"I wish you joy and happiness, Wade," said Anne dumbly. She was staring at
his smirking, seamed old face as if fascinated. "I hope she is a good
woman and that you will find—"
"She is little more than a girl," said he, straightening his figure still
a little more, remembering that he had just spoken of his own youthful
feelings. There may have been something of the pride of conquest as well.
"Just twenty-one last December."
Lutie laughed out loud. He bent his head quickly and they saw that his
lips were compressed.
"I beg your pardon, Wade," cried George's wife. "It—it really isn't
anything to laugh at, and I'm sorry."
"That's all right, Mrs. George," he muttered.
"Only twenty-one," murmured Anne, her gaze running over the shabby old
figure in front of her. "My God, Wade, is she—what can she be thinking
of?"
He looked straight into her eyes, and spoke. "Is it so horrible for a
young girl to marry an old man, ma'am?" he asked sorrowfully, and so
respectfully that she was deceived into believing that he intended no
affront to her.
"They usually know what they are doing when they marry very old men," she
replied deliberately. "You must not overlook that fact, Wade. But perhaps
it isn't necessary for me to remind you that young girls do not marry old
men for love. There may be pity, or sentiment, or duty—but never love.
More often than not it is avarice, Wade."
"Quite true," said he. "I am glad to have you speak so frankly to me,
ma'am. It proves that you are interested in my welfare."
"Who is she, Wade?" she inquired.
Lutie had passed into the library, leaving them together in the hall. She
had experienced a sudden sensation of nausea. It was impossible for her to
remain in the presence of this shattered old hulk and still be able to
keep the disgust from showing itself in her eyes. She was the wife of a
real man, and the wife of a man whom she could love and caress and yield
herself to with a thrill of ecstasy in her blood.
"The young lady I was speaking to you about some weeks ago, madam,—the
daughter of my friend who conducts the _delicatessen_ just below us in
Sixth Avenue. You remember I spoke to you of the Southern lady reduced to
a commercial career by—"
"I remember. I remember thinking at the time that it might be the mother
who would prevail—I am sorry, Wade. I shouldn't have said that—"
"It's quite all right," said he amiably. "It is barely possible—ay, even
probable,—that it was the mother who prevailed. They sometimes do, you
know. But Marian appears to have a mind of her own. She loves me, Mrs.
Thorpe. I am quite sure of that. It would be pretty hard to deceive me."
Through all of this Anne was far from oblivious to the sinister
comparisons the man was drawing. She had always been a little afraid of
him. Now an uneasy horror was laying its hold upon her. He had used her as
an example in persuading a silly, unsophisticated girl to give herself to
him. He had gone about his courtship in the finery his dead master had
left behind him.
"I thank you for your good wishes, Mrs. Thorpe," he went on, smoothly. "If
it is not too much to ask, I should like to have you say a few good words
for me to Marian some day soon. She would be very greatly influenced by
the opinion of so great a lady as—"
"But I thought you said it was settled," she broke in sharply.
"It is settled," he said. "But if you would only do me the favour
of—er—advising her to name an earlier day than the seventeenth, I—"
"I cannot advise her, Wade," said she firmly. "It is out of the question."
"I am sorry," he said, lowering his gaze. "Mr. Thorpe was my best friend
as well as my master. I thought, for his sake, you might consent to—"
"You must do your own pleading, Wade," she interrupted, a red spot
appearing in each cheek. Then rashly: "You may continue to court her in
Mr. Thorpe's clothes but you need not expect his wife to lend her
assistance also."
His eyes glittered. "I am sorry if I have offended you, ma'am. And I thank
you for being honest and straightforward with me. It is always best."
"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Wade," she began, half-sorry for
her remark.
"Not in the least, ma'am. Nothing can hurt my feelings. You see, I lived
with Mr. Thorpe a great deal longer than you did. I got quite beyond being
hurt."
She drew a step nearer. "Wade," she said quietly, "I am going to advise
you, not this wretched girl who is planning to marry you. How old are
you?"
"Two score and a half and five," he answered promptly. Evidently he had
uttered the glib lie before, and as on another occasion he waited for his
listener to reduce the words to figures.
"Fifty-five," said Anne, after some time. She was not good at mathematics.
"I thought you were older than that. It doesn't matter, however. You are
fairly well-off, I believe. Upwards of fifty thousand dollars, no doubt.
Now, I shall be quite frank with you. This girl is taking you for your
money. Just a moment, if you please. I do not know her, and I may be doing
her an injustice. You have compared her to me in reaching your
conclusions. You do not deceive yourself any more than Mr. Thorpe deceived
himself. He knew I did not love him, and you must know that the same
condition exists in this affair of yours. You have thanked me for being
honest. Well, I was honest with Mr. Thorpe. I would have been as true as
steel to him, even if he had lived to be an hundred. The question you must
ask of yourself is this, Wade: Will this girl be as true as steel to you?
Is there no other man to be afraid of?"
He listened intently. A certain greyness crept into his hollow cheeks.
"Was there no other man when you married Mr. Thorpe?" he asked levelly.
"Yes, there was," she surprised him by replying. "An honest man, however.
I think you know—"
She scarcely heard Wade as he went on, now in a most conciliatory way. "It
may interest you to know that I have arranged to buy out the delicatessen.
We expect to enlarge and tidy the place up just as soon as we can get
around to it. I believe I shall be very happy, once I get into active
business. Mrs. Gadscomb,—that's the present mother,—I mean to say, the
present owner, Marian's mother, has agreed to conduct the place as
heretofore, at a very excellent salary, and I have no fear as to—But
excuse me for going on like this, ma'am. No doubt you would like to talk
about your own affairs instead of listening to mine. You said something
about opening the house and coming back here to live. Of course, I shall
consider it my duty to remain here just as long as I can be of service to
you. There will be a little plumbing needed on the third floor, and I
fancy a general cleaning—"
"Thank heaven, there is Mr. Dodge at last," cried Anne, as the bell
jangled almost over her head, startling her into a little cry of alarm.
As Wade shuffled toward the front door, once more the simple slave of
circumstance, she fled quickly into the library.
"Oh, Lutie," she cried, sinking into a chair beside the long, familiar
table, and beating with her clenched hands upon the surface of it, "I know
at last just how I look to other people. My God in heaven, what a _thing
I_ must seem to you."
Lutie came swiftly out of the shadows and laid her hands upon the
shoulders of her sister-in-law.
"You ought to thank the Lord, dear old girl, for the revelation," she said
gently. "I guess it's just what you've needed." Then she leaned over and
pressed her warm, soft cheek to Anne's cold one. "If I owned this house,"
she said almost in a whisper, "I'd renovate it from top to bottom. I'd get
rid of more than old Wade and the old clothes. The best and cheapest way
to renovate it would be to set fire to a barrel of kerosene in the
basement."
"Oh, how horrible for that girl to marry a dreadful, shrivelled old man
like Wade. The skin on his hands is all wrinkled and loose—I couldn't help
noticing it as I—"
"Hello!" called out Simmy from the doorway, peering into the darkened
room. "Where the deuce are you? Ah, that's better, Wade." The caretaker
had switched on the lights in the big chandelier. "Sorry to be late, Anne.
Morning, Lutie. How's my god-son? Couldn't get here a minute sooner. You
see, Anne, I've got other clients besides you. Braden, for instance. I've
been carrying out his instructions in regard to that confounded
trusteeship. The whole matter is to be looked after by a Trust Company
from now on. Simplifies matters enormously."
Anne started up. "Isn't—isn't he coming back to America?" she cried.
"Sure,—unless they pink him some day. My goodness, you don't suppose for
an instant that he could manage the whole of that blooming foundation and
have any time to spare for _hopeful_ humanity,—do you? Why, it will take a
force of half a dozen men to keep the books straight and look after the
ever-increasing capital. By the time old Brady is ready to start the ball
rolling there will be so much money stored up for the job that Rockefeller
will be ashamed to mention the pitiful fortune he controls. In the
meantime he can go on saving people's lives while the trust company saves
the Foundation."