THE GUIDING FINGER
Agnes Westbury watched her stepdaughter closely when the two young men
were gone. She did not droop. She was happy and serene, compliant with
whatever was proposed. She made some visits to the hospital with Miss
Doncaster; that was safe enough. Charity had not come to be a fad
then, though there were many earnest workers.
Mr. Westbury and Lord Wrexford took a run over to Paris. After that he
was a frequent visitor. Mrs. Westbury had a curious charm for him. She
was so intelligent that he sometimes forgot it was like talking to a
man.
"You American women know about your husband's business and never seem
to think it a bore," he said one evening. "Ours do take an interest in
politics when their husbands are up. And you have the art of making
attractive homes. Now, the average person would have a certain
stiffness about this place----" The belongings were of the regulation
sort, and individual taste was hardly comprehended.
She had added some easy chairs, an odd and pretty table, with a series
of shelves to hold books of engravings, and portraits of celebrated
authors and artists, several fine vases disposed around, and these
articles announced with an air "we belong to the present mistress,"
the furniture belongs to the house.
"I like to take some comfort and not be continually fretted with
surroundings. As we are living in furnished houses mostly, I can't
suit myself. I don't pretend to. I just have a little and dream of
what will be when we are permanently settled."
"I wonder if that will be here--in London?" tentatively.
"I think I shall not go back to America, 'the States,' as you call
it," smiling a little. "I shall have Laverne to keep me company if Mr.
Westbury has to take a business journey. I confess to a fondness for
the older civilization. Our land is still in an undeniably crude
state. But so were you a few centuries back."
This woman had a curious charm in her frankness, that was never rude
even in its most truthful moments. There was something about her that
he could not define, and that kept him studying and full of interest,
watching the next turn. If it was art, it was the most judiciously
managed. If it was due to temperament, then, indeed, she had a
many-sided nature. She kept young, but it was not the shy simplicity
of her daughter, she seemed to have a wide range of knowledge, but she
was not pedantic, not obtrusive. There were dainty concessions that
flattered a man, little embellishments that seemed an understanding of
a man's mood, too delicate for him to pick to pieces, if he could.
Then there was a mysterious charm about her attire, a French
adaptiveness of style, of something made different from most women,
with a touch of color, a bow or a flower. She was a pleasant study.
Now and then she delicately drew Laverne into the talk. She asked her
to bring over the portfolio of Albert Dürer's engravings they had
bought only a few days before, and draw up the small buhl stand. Then
they discussed them and Holland; she had been reading up a volume of
travels that very morning, and was as fresh as if she had just come
from there. Laverne was appealed to for this or that. She was not kept
in the background, but she seemed always flying there with adorable
shyness.
Afterward in his own room, smoking his pipe, he thought the matter
over, as he often did. He had been rescued from an _esclandre_, his
father had been buried as became one of the old line of Wrexfords. He
could go back to the Grange with a certain prestige. He might be asked
to stand for Chediston. There would be no more straits and pinches of
poverty, and he had suffered a good many during the last three years.
All this smooth sailing was conditioned on his marrying Laverne
Westbury. She was a nice enough young girl, but he had had a surfeit
of young girls. It would be hard to bridge over the seventeen years
between them, very hard for her.
If it was the mother instead! Not being her own daughter she was
hardly likely to resemble her more as time went on. He had a vague
feeling that the child was something less than money-making in her
father's life. All this matter was largely in her mother's hands, and
if the threads were not wisely pulled, Wrexford Grange would be in her
hands, too. Yes, if _she_ were single.
For the present he was out of society proper. He went to his club, he
called on a few old friends, and he was taking a rather curious
interest in one of the new companies. He really might be a rich man
again.
So passed away a month or two. Mrs. Westbury had meant to push Laverne
into society, perhaps have her "presented" at some Court drawing room
in the season. But as Lady Wrexford it would have a much greater
effect. There could be a marriage four or five months after the old
lord's death.
Was Laverne ignorant of the trend of all this? She was thinking that
at Easter she should see Victor again, and that would be another bit
of the old life to sustain her exile. So she listened with only half
attention to hints and suggestions. She knew her father had invested a
good deal of money in Wrexford Grange, and that her mother liked Lord
Wrexford, that as they were not very gay he enjoyed dropping in, that
he was their attendant on various occasions of the soberer sort.
David Westbury said to his wife: "You had better state the case to
her. She has some of that New England obtuseness. Well, she is very
young. We have grown much wiser in the world's ways since that early
period of our lives. It is the gain of experience," with a short,
brusque laugh.
Then he kissed her. She always exacted that, and it was generally
freely given.
"I may not be back until late to-night," he said.
It was a miserable day, with a blinding fog that had better have been
a rain. Laverne practiced two hours instead of one, then she read
aloud in a novel of the day. There was luncheon; some dawdling and
scolding about the weather.
Once Mrs. Westbury put her arms about Laverne and looked into her eyes
with an intense expression.
"I wonder how much you love me?" in a caressing, pleading tone. "I'm
trying to do all the nice things I can for you; what would you do for
me?"
"Why--there is nothing I _could_ do," with a delicate emphasis. Surely
she could not spend all her life with Mrs. Westbury--making that
mental reservation.
"You _could_ do something that would repay, that would give your
father and myself the greatest happiness."
She was not destined to hear it just then. Some styles had been sent
from the dressmaker's, would Mrs. Westbury look them over and choose
which suited her?
She was having a lavender satin made, and here were also patterns of
lace for the trimming. So they discussed them. Then the postman, a few
invitations to answer. It was so dark the house was lighted up.
Laverne went to the piano again and tried to catch some of the elusive
things she had learned from Isola Savedra. She could see the lovely,
half-tropical home, hear the sweet voices, smell the fragrances of a
hundred blooms. Ah, how lovely it must be on that Pacific slope. She
could have cried with rapture and pain.
Dinner, then a long evening. No one came in. Laverne read, hardly
taking in an impression.
"Put up the book, Laverne." The voice was persuasive, but it struck a
chord of fear in the girl's soul. "Your father wished me to lay a
subject before you that is very near his heart, that would really
crown his endeavors for wealth and standing. And it is _my_ desire as
well. I think I have always studied your welfare from the time I
snatched you out of that crude, half-barbarous life. And a third
person's happiness is at stake."
Laverne shivered. A sudden light broke in upon her. She had half
fancied that she had been used as a sort of blind that her mother
might enjoy Lord Westbury's society, but if it should be----
"What an odd girl you are, not a bit curious? So I must put my story
in plain terms."
It was embellished. In business statements Mrs. Westbury could come to
the point quickly, but she did somehow dread this a little, for she
began to mistrust the girl she had fancied would be easily convinced.
She went briefly over the commercial side, and suggested this had been
done because Lord Wrexford had taken a great fancy to her the first
evening he had met her at the Thorleys. For her sake and for her
advantage her father had rescued Wrexford Grange. Any girl would be
proud of such an opportunity. Lord Wrexford was getting impatient, and
desired to make his proposal, though the marriage would not be hurried
unduly.
"I saw you were not dreaming of such a thing, and your father thought
I had better prepare you a little. Think, Laverne, a simple American
girl becoming Lady Wrexford!"
Laverne threw herself at Mrs. Westbury's feet, and buried her face on
the elder's lap, shuddering in every limb.
"Oh, I cannot! I cannot!" she cried passionately. "No, do not ask me.
I cannot love him, he does not love me. Why, it is like being
sold----"
"Hush, you silly girl. There is no being sold about it. He has asked
for your hand honorably. It is a chance out of a thousand. Any girl
would jump at it. Your father put his money in the Grange for you, and
you will be a most ungrateful daughter not to accede to his wishes.
When you have made up your mind you will find Lord Wrexford most
agreeable. It can be a late spring marriage, and you really will be
the envy of many a high-born girl when you step among them. You can be
presented at the last drawing room, Lady Wrexford! Why, you would be
worse than an idiot to refuse it."
Laverne rose. "No, I cannot--I cannot," shuddering.
"Your father will have his say to-morrow. There, no words. You can go
to your room, and resolve that you will pay due respect to your
father. You are under age."
She was glad to go. Oh, yes, she had been blind. For the last month
Lord Wrexford had really been _their_ devoted admirer. Most of his
conversation had been addressed to Mrs. Westbury. Yet he had watched
her closely, she recalled that now. He had shown a delicate solicitude
in many things. Oh, could it be possible that he really cared for her!
That would make it so much harder. And how could she meet her father,
how defy him! Yes, she was really afraid of him. Oh, if he would only
be angry and send her back to California!
She opened the window as if she could look across to the old home. The
fog was absolute blackness, chilling, penetrating every nerve. She
shut it down again, but the breath of it seemed to strangle her. She
did not cry, her terror and dread were too deep for tears.
She would hear him come home presently, his full, strong voice, and
they would talk it over. So she listened and listened. The clocks
inside struck midnight, then the small hours. Would she never get to
sleep!
Somewhere toward dawn there was a sharp clang of the bell, and strange
voices. Then hurried steps up and down, Mrs. Westbury giving a shriek,
crying out confusedly, calling the maid, going downstairs, then a
carriage driving away, and the servants still talking. She opened her
door.
"Oh, what is it, what is it?" she asked.
"We were not to disturb you, Miss Laverne."
"But I was awake. I heard--has Mrs. Westbury gone away? Oh, did
something happen to father?"
"Yes, Miss. He was hurt, knocked down somehow, and taken to the
hospital. But I guess it will all be right. It's natural he would want
Mrs. Westbury."
Laverne threw herself down on the bed, shocked. One would never think
of associating death with that active, robust physique. Oh, no, it
would not be that, only some hurt. And if he should be ill and ask
this great sacrifice of her!
There was no word the next morning. The butler had even forgotten to
inquire what was the name of the hospital. Laverne did not want any
breakfast, she wandered from room to room, she sat down at the piano
and played a few melancholy tunes. How hard the uncertainty was! Her
very fingers grew nerveless.
At noon Lord Wrexford came. He was so gentle and sympathetic that her
heart almost went out to him. He told the story with a tender gravity.
Whether in the dense fog Mr. Westbury had missed his carriage or
slipped and fallen no one knew. An oncoming horse had stepped on him,
and the injury was severe. There had been an operation----
"But he will not die! He cannot die! He is so strong--Oh, surely,
surely----" and her voice broke.
"My dear child, we must wait and see. I am going back. Mrs. Westbury
will stay----"
He had not the courage to say that a few hours would end it all. The
young, grief-stricken face touched his heart. Yes, he would make her a
good, kind husband. If he were free to choose he would not select her
from all the women he knew, but now the marriage would be imperative,
and he would do his best.
That evening he brought Mrs. Westbury home. She would not see Laverne,
but went at once to her room. He told the child the story as far as
any one could learn the particulars. A horse's hoof had injured the
skull, crushed it in so that there was only a very faint hope from the
first, but he worded it delicately, and stayed in the library all day,
receiving the body when it came, seeing various people, and having one
interview with Mrs. Westbury. After that she sent for Laverne, and
they wept together in each other's arms. Laverne thought she must have
loved him, she was so shocked by his fate.
It was a distressing occurrence to all his friends, and he had won
many. Beside there was the great question of what the two companies
were to do without the working head. Lord Wrexford proved himself
invaluable through these troublous days.
A sad Easter it was. The Doncasters and others brought their warmest
sympathy. Victor Savedra came, and the pale girl in her deep mourning
went at once to the heart that had thought of her daily and kept
tryst. Ah, how should she tell him that since that fatal night she had
not! For now she began to understand the great reason why she could
never come to care for Lord Wrexford. He had not asked her to marry
him, but somehow he had taken a lover's authority.
Mrs. Westbury had many subjects to revolve in her mind, and was
alarmed at first lest matters might go wrong. So she accepted and
acted upon the fact that Lord Wrexford should be her son-in-law. She
would not give up the chance of this connection with nobility. Besides
Lord Wrexford was necessary.
Affairs were found in excellent order, and Mr. Westbury gained in the
esteem of the directors. But now the company must assume the
responsibility.
The new method of separating ore had been patented in both countries,
and was invaluable. Lord Wrexford, it was assumed, had been a kind of
confidential secretary and his knowledge must be devoted to the
company. Mrs. Westbury had large interests, he was made her agent at
once.
Now, it was found that he had willed everything to his wife, who was
to make such settlements on his daughter as she considered best. And
she held the right to Wrexford Grange.
She demanded the utmost affection and sympathy from Laverne.
"Of course, you cannot understand all that he was to me. Marriage
interprets one to the other. And you have only known him such a brief
while. Then, I think these placid natures cannot love and suffer like
the more intense ones. The shock has nearly killed me. Oh, do comfort
me! You are all I have left."
Laverne tried earnestly. But she noted that she quickly overcame a
paroxysm of grief when Lord Wrexford or the lawyer came, and could
spend hours over the business.
"Of course," she said, a few weeks afterward, "the marriage must be
put off a while, but it is more necessary than ever. Your father felt
you were too young to be made independent. The Grange was to be your
dowry on your wedding day--to you and your children. The marriage can
be rather a quiet one, and in six months, under the circumstances, you
can lay your mourning aside. Meanwhile we may be considering the
trousseau. We can go to Paris----"
Laverne threw herself at her stepmother's feet, and clasped her hands
in entreaty. "Oh, do not, do not compel me," she cried, in anguish. "I
do not care for the Grange nor the money. If you will only send me
back to America----"
"I shall not send you back. I am your natural, lawful guardian now. I
shall do what I consider best for you, and in the years to come you
will thank me for it. There, we will have no discussion."
What should she do? A dozen plans came and went through her brain. She
remembered how Carmen Estenega had run away from a hateful marriage.
But she had an ardent lover. This would be such a long journey, and
she would have no friends on the way. Should she appeal to Victor? Oh,
no, she could not. Yet she had a consciousness that he would respond
at once.
She was coming to have a strange fear of Mrs. Westbury, as if she
might dominate all her life. Surely she would if this marriage should
take place. Oh, it could not. She would not consent even at the last
moment. No one was forced to marry. Ah, would not Carmen have been
forced?
Lord Wrexford came and went. There were visits from lawyers and
directors, and calls of condolence. A certain kind of peace, but it
seemed like an armed truce. And Laverne realized more thoroughly every
day that there had never been any true and tender love for her in Mrs.
Westbury's heart. She was older now, and could see more clearly, had
more discrimination, yet she did wonder why her father's wife had been
so exigent. She could not understand the vanity, the selfish desire
for the admiration of this young soul. And she also saw that Mrs.
Westbury sought her own advantage in this marriage. To be allied to
the higher orders, to be the mother-in-law to Lord Wrexford, to have
the entrée into the charmed circles. How had she grown so wise!
She thought of her father with infinite pity, that he should have been
wrenched out of the life he enjoyed so much. She felt that he had
never truly loved her, and that she had not succeeded in loving him.
Always her heart was turning back to Uncle Jason. Yes, that was the
sweet, tender, and true life, finer and nobler than this striving and
subterfuge, this greediness for wealth and high places.
Lord Wrexford came one afternoon, quite a custom with him now. Mrs.
Westbury had been sent for to some important meeting. He walked in
with the easy familiarity that characterized him, and passed a few
pleasant conventionalities. How many times she had thought if she
could see him alone, and now that the opportunity had come she
trembled with a certain kind of fear and shame. What could she say to
a man who had not yet asked her to marry him?
He began to perceive that she was unduly excited. The color wavering
over her face and the quivering lips touched him. He was not a
heartless man, and every day he was feeling this was more of a dilemma
for him.
"My child," he began, rather blunderingly, realizing all the years
between them, and then he saw that her eyes were overflowing.
"Lord Wrexford," she tried to steady her voice, but it trembled
noticeably, "I believe I have been offered to you as--as--an
equivalent----"
"No, don't put it that way," he interrupted quickly. "Your father was
very honorable."
"I do not know much about marriage, but it seems as if----"
"As if youth and love should go hand in hand? Middle age and money may
make a dicker. But if there were love, or if the title won you in any
degree," and he knew there were some who would have been won even by
poverty and a title with the background of the Grange.
"I do not love you," she said simply. "It seems ungrateful when you
have been both kind and patient. Indeed, I have been trying----" There
was such a wistful cadence to her tremulous voice that it touched him,
man of the world as he was. The slow tears dropped from her lashes,
but she could not raise her eyes, though there was entreaty in every
line of her slight figure, even in the limp hands that hung by her
side.
"And a love that is forced is no love at all. But you must realize the
sacrifice you will make, and consider. It will be more than giving up
a title. Everything is in your mother's hands----"
"Oh, I have told her that I do not care for the money. I remembered so
little of papa that he seemed an utter stranger to me, and--some one
had loved and adopted me before. She knows I wish to go back home----"
Her voice faltered and broke.
"You are a brave little girl," he exclaimed admiringly. "An honest and
true one, and you deserve to be happy, to love some one who has love
and youth to give in return." Did she know such a one? "I think you
are not taking root here."
"You know mamma is not any real relation," she began as if in apology.
"She has been very kind and indulgent to me. I would like to please
her. But, oh, I would so much rather have been left in San Francisco.
My dear uncle would not have gone away. We should have been poor, for
he had just lost everything in a dreadful fire, but I wouldn't have
minded----"
"My dear child, you shall not be sacrificed." He wanted to take the
drooping figure in his arms, and kiss away the tears that rolled
silently over the softly rounded cheeks. She looked so fragile in her
black frock. If she could be his little sister! But he had nothing to
dower her with, he would even lose the Grange himself. But he said,
"Do not give yourself any further uneasiness, I will see Mrs.
Westbury."
"Oh, thank you a thousand times!" She did not know how adorably her
face lighted up. Yes, if she had loved him it might have done. And if
the race of Wrexford died out with him what matter?
Laverne felt so much more friendly toward him that she could not help
showing it. Mrs. Westbury hailed this with delight.
"Have you asked, and has she accepted?" she inquired one afternoon
when they were alone.
It was a warm day, and she defied custom sufficiently to lay aside
heavy crapes indoors. Her gown was of some thin black stuff, trailing
and cloud-like. Her arms, that were well shaped, showed through in
their whiteness, and she often used them in a caressing sort of
manner. Her throat had the delicate prettiness of art, and she looked
really younger in this half simplicity. The fragrance and quiet of the
room seemed to be a perfect setting for her, and it made her
suggestive, attractive to the verge of fascination.
"Neither," he said, drawing nearer. "We understand each other. When
the time comes, a year hence or less, perhaps, I am going to ask you
to accept the title to Wrexford Grange. It will suit me worlds
better. I have outgrown the bread and butter period."
She was very little rouged, and a color flushed up in her face. She
had cultivated the trick of this. She was versed in men's meanings and
knew this was no idle compliment. But she was surprised.
"Yes, a year or so," in a slow charming manner with becoming
hesitation.
"Meanwhile be good to the poor little thing."
"Since you plead for her. I confess I have been somewhat disappointed
in her. Perhaps no child can be quite like your own. She wants to go
back to America--shall I send her?"
She did not care for a daughter now. As Lady Wrexford she would rather
have all the homage. The girl had been useful. There are people who
can drop one easily when no longer needed. Laverne Westbury was too
honest to be a comfortable companion. And then--what if Lord Wrexford
should come to consider a younger wife preferable? Men _did_ change in
many of their views, she had learned by experience.
In a way she had loved David Westbury. He was fond of caresses, but
she had never tired him of them. She was proud of his successes, yet
she had a conviction that it was her money that had been the keynote
of prosperity. He was one of the men who dropped an unsuccess very
soon, and did not spend his energies fighting his way through. For the
first weeks she had been crushed by the loss, and this she said to
herself was because of her deep love for him. When she found that
affairs were in a good shape, that she was a rich woman, to be
consulted by the directors, that she still held many things in her
hands, and that she would have still more prestige by being the
mother-in-law of a lord, who had about sown all his wild oats, and
found the crop unprofitable; Laverne was of use to her. And now with a
better understanding the child had become something of a trial. She
was no longer a half-blind worshipper.
"What friends has she there?" he asked after some consideration.
"Oh, I suppose the man who adopted her is somewhere--he was a lover of
her own mother. And there was another family connected with the
Savedras--why, there _is_ the young man. I half suspected he was a
rival about Christmas time. And I'm not sure now----"
"He was here at the Easter holidays. Well, that would be more
appropriate. May and December, you know," with a vague smile.
"You have a long later summer and autumn before you reach December,"
and she raised her eyes with a look of appreciation, and that
admiration which always touches a man's vanity. "I will not have you
growing old too fast. And I think almost any young girl would fall in
love with you, unless there was some prior claim. Perhaps there was."
"He returns home in July. Well, why not give him the opportunity?"
smiling softly.
She looked undecided.
"At least give her a choice. I _do_ admire her sincerely. Many girls
would not have refused a title."
She knew that. And Laverne's refusal was going to bring her the best
of good fortune. So she could afford to pardon her high
conscientiousness.
"I will have a talk with her. If we cannot make her happy here, and I
think she is not suited to this sort of life, it would be cruel to
keep her."
The reluctance betokened some affection on Mrs. Westbury's part, he
thought, though he could not divine the secret joy this new aspect had
brought her. She was not desirous of sharing her right in him with
anybody.
Laverne waited in a state of tremulous fear and expectation. Mrs.
Westbury was quietly gracious at dinner. Afterward they retired to the
library.
"Lord Wrexford came to me this afternoon when you had dismissed him,"
she began rather severely.
She did not mean to be too lenient with the girl.
"You have been most foolish and short-sighted," she said. "And knowing
that it was your father's dearest wish, his plan for a splendid
future. The money he put in Wrexford Grange was for you. He would not
have risked his money merely for the young man."
"I--I couldn't have married him. Oh, you do not understand----"
"You are a little fool. I suppose that young Savedra stood in the
way?"
Laverne was silent. She was glad she had her scarlet face turned away.
"You pride yourself on truthfulness and honor, yet you have been
underhand and deceitful. You have carried on an intrigue with a lover
while you assumed a sort of ultra conscientiousness toward Lord
Wrexford----"
Laverne rose and came forward in the light. Now she was very pale, but
her face wore a high, serene expression.
"You accuse me unjustly, Mrs. Westbury," she began with quiet dignity,
that awed the older woman. "I have carried on no intrigue. No word of
love has been uttered between us. He has not asked me anything that
you and Lord Wrexford might not hear. He wrote me a letter of
condolence--if you would like you can see it. It called for no answer.
We had been friends since childhood. The home at Oaklands was like a
second home to me. If Victor Savedra had been engaged to Amy Doncaster
I should have felt just the same toward Lord Wrexford. Oh, I think he
understands it better than you do."
"You needn't be so tragic about it. I _am_ disappointed in you. I
hoped to have a daughter who would love me tenderly, sincerely. If I
had been opposed to the plan, your father would have left you there in
that wild land among barbarians, who do not know what to do with their
gold, when they have dug it out of the ground."
No, it was not for any real love for her, she had known that this long
while. And now she understood that she and her stepmother were on
lines that were too dissimilar for friendship even. She was an alien
and a stranger, she would drift farther and farther away.
"You seem to have made up your mind that you cannot be happy here,
that my regard is worth very little. Matters have changed with me
somewhat. I shall not keep this house, I must get away from the
remembrance that my dear husband has lain dead in it, after the awful
tragedy. And if you have any choice----"
"Oh, I have, I have! Send me back home, that is all I ask. And--I do
not want the money. My father's wish that you should have it all was
right enough. You see, I never seemed like a real child to him. I do
not think he cared much for my mother. Yes, let me go----"
The voice with its pathos did pierce Agnes Westbury's heart, but there
were so many motives ranged on the other side, and she persuaded
herself that the child really had been ungrateful and was incapable of
any ardent or sustained feeling. It would be much better for them to
part.
"I will consider," she said languidly. "Now go, I have a headache, and
these scenes are too much for me in my weak and excited state. I have
had so much sorrow to bear."
"Good-night," Laverne said. She did not offer the kiss that after it
had failed to be tenderness, remained a perfunctory duty, but now had
ceased to be even that.
"Good-night, to you. Mine will be wretched enough, they always are."
But after a few moments' thought, and when Laverne had dismissed the
maid on the upper landing, she stepped briskly over to the desk,
turned up the light, and wrote a letter to Victor Savedra.
Fate or Providence had played into her hands always. She would be very
decorous and observe the strictest propriety, but she counted up the
months that must elapse before she could be Lady Wrexford. She had her
lover in her own hands.