With Dorothy clinging to his hand, Marcus Gard watched the door of Mrs.
Marteen's library with an ever-growing anxiety. Only the presence of the
child, who clasped his hand in such fear and grief, kept him from giving
way. The long reign of terror that had dragged his heart and mind to the
very edge of martyrdom had worn thin his already exhausted nerves, and
now--now that the lost was found again, it was to learn by what a
slender thread of life they held her with them.
Every moment he could spare from the demands of his responsibilities was
spent in close companionship with Dorothy in the house where only the
sound of soft-footed nurses, the clink of a spoon in a medicine glass or
the tread of the doctor mounting the stairs broke the waiting silence.
For many days she had not known them. Now came intervals of
consciousness and coherence, but weakness so great that the two anxious
watchers, unused to illness, were appalled by the change it wrought. Now
for the twentieth time they sat longing for and yet fearing the moment
when Dr. Balys, with his friendly eyes and grim mouth, would enter to
them with the tale of his last visit and his hopes or fears for the
next.
The lamps were lighted, the shades drawn; the fire crackled quietly on
the hearth. The room was filled with the familiar perfume of violets,
for Dorothy, true to her mother's custom, kept every vase filled with
them.
Silently Gard patted the little cold hand in his, as the sound of
approaching footsteps warned them of the doctor's coming. In silence
they saw the door open, and welcomed with a throb of relief the smile on
the physician's face.
"A great, a very great improvement," he said quickly, in answer to
Dorothy's supplicating eyes. "Quite wonderful. She is a woman of such
extraordinary character that, once conscious, we can count on her own
great will to save the day for us--and to-morrow you shall both see her.
To-night, little girl, you may go in and kiss her, very quietly--not a
word, you know. Just a kiss and go."
"Now?" whispered Dorothy, as if she were already in the sick room. "May
I go now?"
"Yes. No tears, you know, and no huggings--just one little kiss--and
then come back here."
Dorothy flew from the room, light and soundless as blown thistledown.
The doctor turned to his friend.
"There is something troubling her," he said gravely, "something that is
eating at her heart. Ordinarily I wouldn't consent to anyone seeing her
so soon; but she called for you in her delirium; and now that she is
conscious, she whispers that she must consult you. Perhaps you can
relieve her trouble, whatever it is. I'm going to chance it; after
Dorothy has seen her, you may. I don't know exactly what to say,
but--well, answer the question in her eyes, if you can--but only a
moment--only give her relief. She must have no excitement."
Gard nodded.
"I think I know," he said slowly.
The doctor nodded in understanding, as the girl appeared, her face drawn
by emotion.
"Oh, poor mother!" she gasped. "She seemed--so--I don't know
why--grateful--to me--thanked me for coming to her--_thanked_ me, Dr.
Balys, as if I wasn't longing every minute to be with her! She is not
quite over her delirium yet, do you think?"
Balys smiled. "Of course she is grateful to see you. Your mother has
been very close to the Great Divide, and she, more than any of us,
realizes it. Now," he said, turning to Gard, "go in and make your little
speech; and, mind you, say your word and go. No conversation with my
patient."
Gard stood up, excitement gripping him. He was to see her eyes again,
open and understanding. He was to hear her voice in coherent tones once
more! The realization of this wonder thrilled him. He went to her
presence as some saint of old went to the altar, where, in a dream, the
vision of miracle had been promised him. All the pain and torture of the
past seemed nothing in the light of this one thing--that she was herself
again, to meet him hand to hand and eye to eye. He entered the quiet
room and crossed its dimly lighted spaciousness to the bed. The nurse
rose tactfully and busied herself among the bottles on the distant
dresser.
At last, after the ordeal that they had gone through, in the lonely,
hollow torture chamber of the heart, they met, and knew. With a sigh of
understanding, she moved her waxen fingers, and, comprehending her
gesture, he took her hand and held it, striving to impart to her
weakness something of his own vigor. For a moment they remained thus.
Then into her eyes, where at first great repose had shone, there came a
gleam of questioning. He leaned close above her to catch her whispered
words.
"She doesn't know?"
"No," he answered. "Dorothy came to me with his letter. I got everything
from the safe, and I sent her away so no further messages might reach
her. Now do you see?"
She looked up at him.
Again he took her hand in his and strove to give it life, as a
transfusion of blood is given through the veins.
There was silence for a moment. Then her white lips framed a request.
"Bring them--all the things from the inner safe--bring them to-morrow to
me." Her eyes turned toward the fire that glowed on the hearth.
He comprehended her intention.
"To-morrow," he murmured, and, turning, softly left the room. With a few
words to Dorothy he hurried from the house.
Instinctively he turned to seek the sanctuary of his library, but paused
ere he gave the order to his chauffeur. No, before he could call the day
complete, there was something else to do. He gave the address of the
house on Washington Square. The mansion, as the limousine drew up before
it, looked dark, almost deserted. He mounted the steps slowly, his mind
crowded with memories--with what burning hatred in his heart he had come
to face the owner of that house, to disarm Victor Mahr of his revengeful
power. With what primeval elation he had stood upon that topmost step
and drawn long breaths of satisfaction at the thought of the encounter
in which, with his own hands he had laid his enemy low! Its thrill came
to him anew. Again he recalled the hurried purposeful visit that had
ended with his finding the enemy passed forever beyond his reach.
Vividly he saw before him the silent room--soft lighted, remotely quiet;
the waxen hand of a man contrasting with the scarlet damask of a huge
winged chair, that hid the face of its owner. And more distinct than all
else, staring from the surrounding darkness of the walls, the glorious,
palpitating semblance of a warrior of long ago. The strangely living
lips, the dusky hollows where thoughtful eyes gleamed darkling. The
glint of armor half covered by velvet and fur. A gloved hand that seemed
to caress a sword hilt, that caught one crashing ruby light upon its
pommel--the matchless Heim Vandyke--the silent, attentive watcher who
had seen his sacking of the dead; who seemed, with those deep eyes of
understanding, to realize and know it all--the futile clash of human
wills, the little day of love and hate, the infinite mercy, and the
inexorable law.
Gard paused, his hand upon the bell. Now at last he could enter this
house, and wish it peace. His errand, even the all-comprehending eyes of
the dead and gone warrior could look upon without their half-cynic
sadness.
As he entered the great silent hall, where the footfalls of the servant
were hushed, as if overawed by tragedy, he seemed to leave behind him,
as distinctly as he discarded the garment he gave into the lackey's
hands, the bitterness of the past. He was ushered into a small and
elaborate waiting room to the right. And a moment later Teddy Mahr
entered to him, with extended hands.
The boy had aged. His face was white and drawn, but the eyes that looked
into Gard's face were courageous and clear.
"Thank you for coming," he said frankly. "Shall we sit here, or--in
Father's room?" His mouth twitched slightly. "It really must be part of
the house, you know. It was his workshop--and I want it to be mine in
the future. I haven't been in there since, and, somehow, if you don't
mind, sir, I'd like you to come with me--to be with me, when I first go
back."
Gard nodded and smiled rather grimly. "Yes, boy--I'd like to myself. I
would have asked it of you, but I feared to awaken memories that were
too painful for you. Let us go in. What I have to talk over with you
concerns him, too."
They crossed the hall, and Teddy unlocked the heavy door and paused to
find the switch. The anteroom sprung into light. In silence they crossed
the intervening space to the inner door, which was in turn unlocked.
As the soft lights were once more renewed, Gard started, so vividly had
he reconstructed the scene as he had last looked upon it, with that
hasty yet detailed scrutiny of the stage manager. He was almost
surprised to find the great damask-covered easy chair untenanted, and
order restored to the length and breadth of the library table.
Involuntarily his eyes sought the wall behind the desk, where the
panoply of ancient arms glinted somberly, then scanned the polished
surface of the wood in search of what?--of the stiletto that was a foil
in miniature. Somehow, though he knew that it, along with other relics
of that dreadful passing, were in charge of the officials of the law, he
had expected to see it there. Something of the impermanence of life and
the indifferent, soulless permanence of things, flashed through his
mind. "Art and art alone, enduring, stays to us," he quoted the words
aloud unconsciously. "The bust outlasts the throne, the coin--Tiberius."
His eyes were fixed upon the picture, which, though thrown in no relief
by the unlighted globes above it, yet in its very obscurity, dominated
the room with its all but unseen presence.
"Oh, no, not that alone," Teddy Mahr objected. "Don't you think we live
on, in what we have done, in what we have been, in what we desire to
do?"
Gard was silent. The words seemed irony. "I believe," he said slowly,
"that the end is not yet. I believe that we are each accountable for our
individual being. I believe that every one of us is his brother's
keeper." He was silent. His own short, newly evolved credo, surprised
him.
Teddy crossed to the great armchair, and laid his hand on it reverently.
"It was here his Fate found him," he said with quiet self-control.
"Where will Fate find me--or you--I wonder?"
"Fate _has_ found me," said Gard. "Death isn't the only thing that Fate
means, but Life also; and it's of Life I came to speak to you--as well
as the Past, that we must realize _is_--the Past. Of course, you know
what has been learned--something about what happened here. Now, I want
to tell you of my plans. I want, if possible, to keep things quiet--Oh,
it's only comparatively speaking--but we can avoid a great deal of
publicity, if you will let me handle the matter. It's for your sake, and
I'm sure your father would desire it--and--pardon me, if I presume on
grounds I'm not supposed to know anything of--but for Dorothy's, too.
Dorothy may have to face bereavement too. Publicity, details, the nine
days' wonder--it's all unpleasant, distressing. I have arranged to see
the District Attorney to-morrow night. He can, if he will, materially
aid us. This poor insane woman has delusions that it would be painful
for you to even know. It would certainly be most unfortunate if she were
tried or examined in public. I'd rather you didn't come--did not even
see her at any time. Will you trust me? You have a perfect right to do
otherwise, I know--but--will you believe me when I say I've given this
my best thought, and I believe I am giving you the best advice?"
He stood very erect, speaking with formality, with a certainly stilted,
"learned by rote" manner, very different from his usual fiery
utterances.
Teddy respected his mood and bowed with courtly deference. "You were my
father's friend," he said. "You were the last to be with him. I know you
are giving me the wisest advice a wise man can give, and I accept it
gratefully, Mr. Gard--for myself, and father and for Dorothy, too."
The older man held out his hand. Their clasp was strong and responsive.
There were tears in Teddy's eyes, and he turned his head away quickly.
"Then," said Gard briskly, "it is understood. You also know and realize
why I have kept the whole matter under seal. Why I have secreted this
poor demented creature, have kept even you in ignorance of her
whereabouts. Oh, I know I have had your consent all along; I know you
have given me your complete trust long before this; but to-night I
wanted your final cooperation in the hardest task of all--to acquiesce,
while in ignorance, to permit matters that concern you, and you alone
most truly and deeply, to be placed in the hands of others. I thank you
for your faith, boy. God bless you."
Teddy saw his guest to the door, stood in the entry watching him descend
to the street and his car, and turned away with a sigh. He reëntered the
room they had left, and stood for a moment in grave thought. He sighed
again as he plunged the apartment in darkness and, leaving, locked the
doors one after the other. Something, some very vital part of his
existence was shut behind him forever. There were questions that he
might not ask himself--there were veils he must not lift--there was a
door in his heart, the door to the shrine of a dead man--it must be
locked forever, if he would keep it a sanctuary.
In the hall once more, he turned toward the entrance; his thoughts again
with the strong, kindly presence of the man who had just left him. He
wondered why he had never realized the vast, unselfish human force in
Gard. "What an indomitable soul," he said softly. "I must have been very
blind."
* * * * *