IT was late that night before Dr. Cheyney drove away from Broad
Acres. Colonel Royall had rallied a little, and the doctor and the
servants had put him to bed, not in the Shut Room, but in his own old
four-poster that had belonged to his mother.
Before the doctor went away he had sent for a trained nurse and
received and answered telegrams for Diana, who would not leave her
father. At half-past ten the old doctor drove up to his own door,
overtaxed and weary. As he climbed down from his old buggy his quick
eye detected a brighter light than usual in his study window, and Miss
Lucinda Colfax met him at the door.
“There’s been a lady waiting to see you for two hours,” she whispered,
pointing mysteriously at the study door.
The doctor sighed as he slipped off his overcoat. It was some belated
patient, of course, and a stranger, or Miss Lucinda would have named
her. He looked pale and worn, and his white head was bowed a little
with care, and the thought of old David, whom he loved, as he opened
the study door and came into the circle of light from the student’s
lamp on the table. A fire burned on the hearth, and a woman sat in
the great old-fashioned winged chair before it. As he entered she rose
and stood facing him. There was a certain grace and ease in the tall
figure and the black gown, but she wore a thick veil covering both her
large hat and her face and throat. She made a movement, an involuntary
one, it seemed, as the old man came toward her, and she saw the pallor
and age in his face, a face which was full of a rare sweetness and
strength. But, whatever her first impulse was, the sight of him seemed
to arrest it, to turn it aside, and she drew back, laying her hand on
the high chair and saying nothing.
“I am sorry that you had to wait so long, madam,” Dr. Cheyney said,
“but I was with a very sick man. What can I do for you? Will you be
seated?” he added, drawing forward another chair.
“Thank you,” she replied in a low voice, sinking into the chair by
which she stood. “I wanted to speak to you--about--about--some old
friends.”
“Ah?” The doctor looked curiously at the veil. He could not distinguish
a feature under it, but he seemed to be aware of the feverish
brightness of her eyes.
“I--I used to know people here,” she began and stopped, hesitating.
He did not offer to help her.
“I was born near here; I used to know you.” She leaned forward,
clasping her hands on her knee, and he noticed that her fingers
trembled.
“I am an old man and forgetful,” he said pleasantly; “you must jog my
memory. Who are the friends you wish to ask for?”
“Friends?” she repeated in a strange voice.
“You said friends,” he replied mildly.
She turned her face toward him, lifting her veil. “Don’t you know me?”
she asked abruptly.
Dr. Cheyney, looking over the tops of his spectacles, eyed her gravely.
It was a handsome face, slightly pale, with large eyes and full red
lips, beautiful, no doubt, in its first youth, but lined now and
hardened, with an indefinable expression which was elusive, fluttering,
passionate, and most of all unhappy. The old man shook his head. She
rose from her seat and crossing the room quickly, laid her large white
hand on his arm. She was close to him now; he could see her breathing
stir the laces on her bosom, and was sharply conscious of the agitation
that possessed her and seemed to thrill her very touch upon his sleeve.
She looked into his eyes, her own wild and sorrowful.
“Is it possible? Don’t you know me?”
He returned her gaze sorrowfully, his face changing sharply. “Yes,” he
said soberly, after a moment, “I do now, Letty.”
“Letty!” She bit her lips, with a little hard sob, and her fingers fell
from his arm. “My God!” she cried, “how it all comes back! No one has
called me that in twenty years.”
Dr. Cheyney made no responsive movement or gesture; he stood looking
at her quietly, curiously, a little sadly. He noted the dignity of
figure, and certain fine lines of beauty that had rather matured than
diminished, yet the change in her was for the worse in his eyes.
Whatever there had been of passion and vanity and waywardness in her
face in her youth had crystallized with maturity; there was a palpable
worldliness in her manner which sharpened his conception of her as she
must be now. The long gap in the years since he had known her as she
was, until now, when she must be another person, was opened suddenly by
the realization of the change in her, and it seemed to him that only
a woman could change so much. Deeply moved herself, she was only half
conscious of the criticism of his glance; she came back across the room
after a moment and stood beside him, looking at the falling embers, the
glow of the fire acting weirdly in its illumination of her face.
“Tell me about him,” she said in a low voice; “I know he has lost
nearly everything.”
Dr. Cheyney’s lips tightened a little, and he frowned. “Why do you want
to know?” he asked gravely.
She blushed deeply and painfully. “You mean I have no right?”
He nodded, looking at the fire.
“Perhaps, I haven’t,” she admitted quickly, pleadingly. “But there is
Diana--has he made her hate me?”
“She thinks you dead,” Dr. Cheyney replied quietly.
“Dead?” She shuddered, looking up with frightened eyes. Then her face
blazed angrily. “What right had he to do it? What right--to make her
believe a falsehood?”
The old man’s eyes met hers gravely, rebukingly. “Wasn’t it the best
way, Letty?” he asked gently.
Her blush deepened again, her brow, her chin, even her throat were
crimson. She bit her quivering lip until the blood came. “You are very
cruel,” she said bitterly, “you righteous people!”
Dr. Cheyney leaned heavily on the mantel, his eyes on the fire. “Would
you have had us tell a little innocent child that, Letty? Tell her that
her mother had deserted her and brought shame upon her?”
“Do you mean that she has never known?” she cried, amazed.
“Never. David did not wish her to know, and we respected his wish. She
believes her mother died when she was three years old; she even has a
deep and constant tenderness for the Shut Room.”
She looked at him bewildered. “I do not understand.”
“Your room,” he explained simply; “he closed the door on it that
day, and for twenty years it has been unchanged. Yesterday I saw the
very book you laid face downwards on the table, the handkerchief you
dropped. He has mourned you as dead. In his gentleness, his humility,
his greatness of soul, he chooses to believe you died that day. He
loved you before it, he has loved and mourned you ever since. No one
has ever heard a reproach from his lips, no one ever will. You broke
his heart.”
She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
The old man stood looking at her unmoved, though the storm of her
emotion shook her from head to foot. Still weeping, she threw herself
into the chair by the fire and bowed her head on her arms.
“It is twenty years,” she said at last, “and I have suffered--have you
never forgiven me, William Cheyney?”
The old man’s face saddened yet more deeply. “There was nothing for me
to forgive; we all had his great example.”
She looked up with swimming eyes, her lips twitching with pain. “It’s
twenty years--he married me after David got the divorce, you knew that?”
The doctor nodded.
“He’s dead. Oh, he knew I had suffered, he wearied of me, and now he’s
dead and I’m all alone. Oh, don’t you understand?” she held out both
hands toward him, “don’t you know why I came?”
The old man shook his head sadly. “God knows,” he said.
“I want Diana!” she cried, “I want my daughter--I want her love!”
Dr. Cheyney looked at her thoughtfully. “She’s twenty-three, Letty,” he
said simply, “and she loves her father.”
She winced, turning her eyes from his to the fire. “I have seen her,”
she said, in subdued tones, “once or twice when she did not know it.
She looks--don’t you think she looks as I did?” she added eagerly.
“No,” he said sternly, “no, she’s like David’s mother.”
She flushed angrily. “Oh, never!” she exclaimed. “She is like me--but
you won’t admit it.”
Dr. Cheyney shook his head.
Disappointed, she dropped her chin into her hand and looked again into
the fire. “David has lost everything,” she said after a moment. “I
know, I heard in New York.”
Dr. Cheyney, looking down at her, wondered what her secret thought
was, how far remorse had touched her? “I’m afraid he’s badly hit,” he
admitted slowly.
She rose and went to him, her hands trembling. “Help me,” she said with
feverish eagerness, “help me to get Diana. I want her to come to me; I
can take care of her. It would help him, too. Oh, don’t you see I could
do that much?”
The old doctor’s penetrating eyes met hers. “You can take care of her,”
he repeated; “you were not wealthy, Letty; have you grown so?”
“You have always been hard in your judgment of me,” she cried bitterly.
“I am not a bad woman--I know, oh, I know I sinned! I married David so
young; I found out my mistake, and when Fenwick came--I loved him, I
ran away from my husband and my child, I was wicked--oh, I know it!
But I suffered. I am not poor. He left me well off, almost rich. I have
a right to it, he married me, I am his widow.”
Dr. Cheyney said nothing; he moved away from her a little and again
leant his elbow on the mantel.
“Will you help me, will you go to Diana?” she pleaded, following him
with sorrowful eyes.
He shook his head. “Never!”
She wrung her hands unconsciously. “You think I have no right to Diana?”
“Have you?” he asked quietly.
She hung her head, and the intensity of her suffering touched him
without shaking his resolve.
“Have you any right to spend a dollar of that money on her?” he added;
“surely you know that she could not receive it?”
There was a long silence. She turned, and hiding her face against the
high back of the chair, sobbed convulsively. “You want to rob me of the
last thing I have in the world!” she said at last.
“You deserted her,” he replied more gently.
She raised her face, wet with her passionate tears, and held out both
hands to him. “Will you help me, will you tell her I am not dead? I am
her mother; she has a right to know it.”
Dr. Cheyney still regarded her. “He is very ill, Letty,” he said, “he
may die; would you rob him of his daughter?”
“No, oh, no!” she cried impetuously, “but I--I want her, too; I have
wanted her for twenty years. Oh, Dr. Cheyney, there is joy in heaven
over one sinner that repenteth!”
“Diana will not go with you,” he said quietly. “I know it, and if she
would, I would not tell her.”
“You refuse?” She leaned forward, still holding the chair with one hand
and the other pressed against her heart.
“Absolutely.”
She shivered. “Cruel!” she whispered bitterly.
He turned to his medicine cabinet and began to unlock the door. “Stay a
moment,” he said kindly, “you need something, you will be ill.”
But she fastened her wraps at her throat and let her veil fall over her
face again. “I am not ill,” she said bitterly, “only heart-broken.”
He urged her to taste the cordial in his hand, but she put it aside and
went to the door. The old man followed her.
“Letty,” he said, “David Royall is very ill; do not lay another sin
against him on your conscience.”
She had opened the door and, at his words, turned and laid her cheek
against the lintel with a hard dry sob. “I will see Diana,” she said.
The doctor made no reply; his quick ear had caught the sound of a step
on the veranda, and almost at the same moment Caleb Trench appeared in
the lighted space before the open door.
“What is it, Caleb?” the doctor asked quickly.
The young man glanced at the tall woman who still leaned against the
door. “I’ve just got back from town,” he said, “and I wanted to ask you
about Colonel Royall. I hear that he is ill.”
The woman started and drew away, and Caleb saw it.
Dr. Cheyney shook his head apprehensively. “Very ill,” he said; “he was
taken with a sinking spell about noon. Come in, Caleb, and I’ll tell
you about it.”
Trench stood aside to let the veiled woman pass out, and then he
followed Dr. Cheyney into the study with a face of some anxiety. He
looked worn and old for his years, but resolutely calm. “How do you
think he really is?” he asked.
Dr. Cheyney sank down into his easy-chair by the fire. “I’m not sure
that he’ll live,” he said despondently.
Trench frowned, making an inarticulate sound. The firelight flared on
his face now, and its expression was significant. Dr. Cheyney bent down
and began a desultory search for his carpet slippers; even in the most
interesting moments of life, physical discomforts pinch the unwary, and
the old man’s feet ached. “He’s worn out, broken-hearted,” he said,
referring to his old friend and removing his boots absently. “He’s
taken this affair to heart, too.”
“Jacob Eaton?”
The doctor nodded. “Smooth young scamp,” he said bitterly, “I always
wanted to deal out the husks to him, but I reckon he’ll get ’em in the
Lord’s good time. It’s pretty bad, I suppose, Caleb.”
“Worse than we thought,” replied Caleb. “The Harrisons’ bank closed its
doors to-night; he’s wrecked it and there’s a terrible panic in the
city. I wonder if he took much with him?”
“All he could get, I reckon,” mused the doctor, his mind dwelling not
on Jacob but on Letty, and the climax which he saw impending.
Meanwhile Caleb Trench sat staring into the fire. “I’m afraid Colonel
Royall will suffer heavily,” he said; “he wasn’t so deeply involved, it
appears, but--as soon as he heard of the wide-spread ruin--he offered
to redeem a number of Jacob Eaton’s pledges. His offer was accepted,
the papers signed, and now all these claims are rolling up. I honor
him for what he did,” Trench added simply; “it was noble, but it was
quixotic. I fear greatly for the consequences.”
Dr. Cheyney settled himself back in his winged chair and put the tips
of his fingers together. “I think likely he’ll escape it all,” he
remarked gravely; “he was unconscious twenty minutes to-day and David
isn’t as young as he was. He may be fortunate enough to pass beyond
this trouble.”
Trench moved uneasily, then he rose and stood, his back to the fire.
“And Miss Royall?” he said.
“She’s with her father,” replied Dr. Cheyney. “Caleb, I never saw
anything so fine as she was at your trial.”
Trench was silent for a moment, and his face in the shadow eluded
scrutiny. “I would have given my right hand to save her that
notoriety,” he said at last.
Dr. Cheyney looked thoughtful, but there was the shadow of a smile
in the depths of his mild eyes. “You’ve never asked me to finish my
testimony,” he remarked. “I’m in the possession of a secret that would
clear up all this scandal about poor little Sammy; I’ve waited three
weeks and you don’t ask me. I wonder if you’re human, Caleb Trench?”
Trench swung around and faced him. The expression of his face, its
power and its mastery and self-control had never been more poignant.
“Dr. Cheyney,” he said, “it doesn’t concern me; let them say what they
please.”
“On my soul!” said Dr. Cheyney, “I won’t tell you! You’re too pesky
proud to live. I reckon they’ll say all you want and more too, young
man.”
“Let them!” said Caleb.