"Not in the least," came the prompt retort. "I haven't come with any
such intention. I've come--and I may as well out with it at once--I've
come to tell you that I have found the reason for your dislike of 'the
Ballard tribe.' I've discovered the case you have against us. I've
been ferreting about among my grandfather's effects, and I've unearthed
his Journal. Curious, isn't it, that a _bailiff_ should have kept a
Journal?"
Madam Crewe deigned no response.
After a pause lasting several seconds, Dr. Ballard continued: "I presume
you would feel seriously affronted if I were to take the liberty of
supposing you might be interested."
"Fudge! Have you the Journal there?"
"Yes."
"You have read it?"
"Quite so."
"Then you--know?"
"Yes."
"Well? And what then? What are you going to do about it?"
"I am going to read my grandfather's Journal aloud, now, here--I mean,
that portion of it that relates to you."
Madam Crewe straightened to a military stiffness. "You are going to do
nothing of the sort," she averred stoutly.
"Indeed I am."
"I'll not permit it. I'll send Katherine from the room."
"Oh, no you won't. You are too just to do that. You have made certain
charges against my grandfather; now, the only fair thing, is to give him
a show--to let him state his case, from his side."
"No. He wouldn't tell the truth. He falsified once. He'd falsify
again."
"You haven't proved it."
"You have my word."
"Your word is all very well, as far as it goes. But even you would
hardly claim that it goes all the way 'round the truth, and then tucks
under, like Dick's hatband. My grandfather has a word too, and I'm
going to see that he has a chance to get it in edgewise, and--what's
more, that you listen."
Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine.
"Come here. Sit down!" she commanded autocratically.
Dr. Ballard took up his book, opening it at an obviously marked point.
"The first entry bearing any reference to you or yours was written in
1844. In the spring of that year he mentions going to see one Squire
Stryker, in connection with the stewardship of his estate. I'll skip
all the non-essentials and----"
"Skip nothing. Since you _will_ read, read!"
"Very well.
"'Boston, February 6th, 1844. This morning saw Squire Stryker. He
wishes to engage a bailiff. A hard man, I judge him to be. Not easy to
please, because he is exacting, arbitrary, without judgment or justice.
He is ruled by passion, not principle.
"'Feb. 10th. I have made my decision. For good or ill, I go to Squire
Stryker's, in New Hampshire, to-morrow.'
"Following are several pages given over to notes and data connected with
the estate. Its acreage, its possibilities, its limitations. Nothing
else. They carry one to April, and--this:
"'A strange thing has happened. No, not a strange thing. The thing is
simple, the strangeness is in its effect on me. There is a lane hard
by, called Cherry Lane. 'Tis part of the estate. At this season the
trees are in full blossom. I went there to estimate the probable yield
of fruit, and the condition of the trees, and--underneath the white and
pink boughs stood a white and pink maid. She looked at me and smiled.
She told me she was Squire Stryker's daughter. She knew I was the new
bailiff, she said.
"'April 14. I have seen the child again. Yes, again and again. Many
times, in fact. I call her child because so indeed she seems to me, who
am, at least, fifteen years older. She tells me she is seventeen. 'Tis
hard to believe for that in stature she's no higher than my heart, and
her eyes are as open and unconscious as a child's except when---- But
that is my fancy! I am sure 'tis my fancy.
"'June 1st. 'Tis many weeks since that was written. Not that I have
naught to say. Rather, too much. I find I cannot set down what is in
my heart. _Idea Stryker and I are betrothed!_
"'June 14. Every afternoon towards sundown my little sweetheart and I
walk in Cherry Lane. I wish she had a mother. I do not like these
clandestine meetings. Sometimes I doubt myself. Not my love for Idea,
God knows, but my power to make it tell for her best good. To-day I
told her my conscience troubled me. I am no friend to untruth or
furtive acts. Idea put on a look of high contempt, aping her father.
She scowled at me, folded her arms across her bosom and, measuring me up
and down, in his own manner to the life, said: "Deuce take your
conscience, sir! I'll have none of it." Then, suddenly changing, she
clung to me crying, "I'll have nothing but your love, Daniel! But, your
love I'll die to have, and to hold." I let my heart direct me rather
than my head, and gave way to her. But I still feel the better course
would be to tell her father and make an end of this deceit.
* * * * *
"''Tis many a long day since I have taken up this book to write in it.
Now that I do, 'tis in a different year and place. Yet I have often
thought 'twas cowardly to shun the setting down in black and white of
what will always be the deepest record of my heart. I have said Idea
and I were at variance upon the point of telling her father what was
between us. Again and again I tried to tell her 'twas unworthy of us
both. But she always overruled me. I gave way. Then, one day when I
spoke of it, she suddenly burst forth in such a passion as I have never
seen. Poor child! 'Twas her father's fury, but not, this time, done in
mimicry. She told me she was weary of being preached to about the
truth, deceit, and duty. She would have me know she'd as good a sense
of propriety as I. Nay, better, for, after all, who was I but her
father's servant, she would like to know. "How dare you criticise me?"
she blazed. "You forget I am your master's daughter."
"'I can see her now, standing there stamping her foot at me, her eyes
flashing, her cheeks like flame. The rage in her flared up, then died
down as quickly. That was her way. The heat in _me_ has a different
habit. It smolders and grows until it seems to freeze me with its white
intensity. It is my bosom-enemy which I am trying to conquer. I had
not done it then. "You are right," I said. "I had forgotten. I had
forgotten everything except that you are the girl I loved, who I thought
loved me. You have done well to remind me of my place. I will never
forget it again, or that you are _my master's daughter_."
"'With that I turned, and left her standing, stunned, bewildered, in
Cherry Lane. I could see she did not realize what had happened. She
thought I would come back. She waited for me. And so I did come back,
but not to let her see me. Only to watch over her, that no harm should
befall, for the spot was lonely and far from the house, and dusk was
about to fall. When the first star showed, she went home. I could hear
her crying softly, all the way. She would cry, then stop to dry her
tears, and call me names through her sobbing.
"'There were no more meetings after that, though she _got in my way_
more than once, as I went about my duties. I knew very well what she
wanted, but I could not relent. What my dear mother used to call my
dumb demon had taken possession of me. It would not let me speak. Would
not let me write to answer any of the letters Idea sent me begging me to
meet her when the sun went down.
"'Then, one day, I was summoned before the Squire. She had told him.
"'He was waiting for me in his library, clad in his riding-clothes just
as he had come from horseback. He carried a riding-crop. His face was
of a dull reddish color, his eyes green. He began, the moment I entered
the door, to assail me, standing with his back to it, his legs planted
wide.
"'"You miserable beggar!" he brandished his crop in my face. "First,
you have the insolence to make love to my daughter, then you insult her
by refusing, when she _stoops_ to offer you her hand in reconciliation."
"'"That is precisely the point," I heard myself say. "'Tis because she
_stoops_."
The words were no sooner out, than Idea was clinging to me. "I'm not
proud any more, Daniel," she cried. "I'll never stoop again. If you'll
only forgive me this once, I'll promise never to vex you any more.
Please, Daniel, please!"
"'The Squire snatched her wrist. "Silence!" he thundered, and would
have swung her violently aside, but I prevented it. I saw the old look
in her eyes.
"'"Then come with me," I said, "now--this hour. Marry me and----"
"'Her father flung himself between us, when she would have come to me.
He swore he would disown her. No shilling of his should she ever get.
She should be a beggar--married to a beggar.
"'I saw her shrink. She could not face it. When I saw that, I turned
to go, but the Squire stopped me.
"'"Not so fast, my fine fellow! You've not returned the letters, yet.
D'you think I'd let you keep them, you low dog, to use against her fair
name, for a price?"
"'I had forgotten the letters. I turned to Idea, and it was as if I had
not seen her before, so clear her image stood out, now. She was clad in
some flowery stuff ("dimity," she had once told me 'twas) with a sash
about her waist, and on the sash a pocket hung suspended by a strap.
'Twas to hold her handkerchief, but her handkerchief had to hold her
tears now--and the pocket hung empty. I went to her and held out the
letters. She would not take them.
"'"Here are your letters," I said.
"'Still she would not touch them.
"'Her father cursed us both. I felt my self-control slipping from me.
If I let it go to lay my hand upon the man--God help him--and me. But I
could not escape until Idea had the letters. Again, she would not take
them. With a quick movement I thrust them in her pocket. She did not
seem to understand what I was doing. She thought I was trying to grasp
her hand, I think, for she flung it out to me imploringly. But I only
dimly saw that as I wheeled about, and so, off and away. That day I
left the place. Later, I learned, the Squire and Idea went too. But
before they did so he caused his man of law to follow me, again
demanding the letters.
"'"The letters have already been returned," was all I could say. "She
has them. I gave them back. When she would not take them, I thrust them
in her pocket."
"'With that the lawyer had, perforce, to be content. At least he has
not troubled me since. So I close this book. A closed book, too, the
story of my love. A book I know I must never open if ever I am to be at
peace with life. For I will say it once and so be done, Idea is my
mate--the one woman in the world whom only I love, or ever shall. I have
lost her, but the memory of her I must keep until I die--my passionate,
headstrong, struggling, loving child. May God be with her, true and
loyal little heart, wherever she may go.'"
Dr. Ballard looked up, as he closed down the cover.
"You see, he _did_ give back the letters," he said.
Madam Crewe clutched the arms of her chair, sitting forward, gazing
fixedly into space. When she spoke it was as if she spoke in a dream,
filling out the bailiff's tale.
"I had no letters and, as for the pocket, 'twas never seen from that day
on. My father insisted 'twas a ruse on my--the bailiff's part, his
offering to return them. He said he had kept them to use as a means of
blackmail. I was too desperate to care. My father swore the man would
presently show his hand, but he did not, nor his face either. I never
saw him again. At first I would hear no ill of him, but my father and
the attorney told me I was too young, too ignorant of the world, to know
how base the creature was, what a narrow escape I had had. There were
nights--many and many of them--when, here and abroad, I cried myself to
sleep, regretting my _escape_ hadn't been narrower.
"Now, sir, you know the story of your grandfather and me. It is all
very long ago. The wonder is, the memory has stayed by me all these
years."
For the first time within her recollection, Katherine felt herself drawn
to her grandmother. It was as if a means of communication had been
opened up between them. She would have liked to go to her and lay her
arms about her shoulders lovingly.
Dr. Ballard broke the silence.
"The truth lies between your word, and my grandfather's. _I_ believe he
was honest. You believe the contrary."
Madam Crewe was silent.
The doctor continued. "Now, as you say, all that took place very long
ago. Even granting my grandfather's motives to have been the worst, I
count myself out of the tangle. I stand on my own feet, don't I? If I
have built up my life on honest principle, I can't see how you can
reasonably hold me to account for the sins or fancied sins of my
forbears. Our democracy isn't worth the name, if it doesn't admit a
man's a man for a' that. I love your granddaughter. I wish to marry
her. I ask your consent."
Katherine could not see her grandmother's face for the sudden mist that
had gathered to trouble her vision. But she heard the familiar voice
distinctly enough.
"Wait a moment. Hear me out. Then repeat your declaration, if you
choose. They say I'm avaricious. Rich, grasping, penurious. Suppose I
told you I'm poor? That the bulk of my fortune was squandered long ago?
That I've had a hard time to keep my nose, and this girl's here, above
water? Would you wish to marry her, still?"
"Certainly. Why not?"
"You say that because you don't believe it's true."
"I say it because, saving your presence, I don't care a continental
whether it's true or not. Your money or the lack of it, is nothing to
me. I care for _Katherine_!"
"Suppose I told you Katherine's grandfather, the man I married, was a
coward and a liar, as they said your grandfather was? Suppose I told
you her father, my son, followed in his father's footsteps?"
Dr. Ballard shrugged impatiently. "It's Katherine I want for my wife.
It's not her dead and buried ancestors. I have to deal with Katherine's
faults and virtues, not those of her family."
"You hear that, Katherine? It's _your_ faults and virtues he----"
Madam Crewe put the question with a sort of bravado, but her utterance
was slightly unsteady. She did not conclude her sentence.
Katherine had grown very white.
When she did not respond, the old woman demanded peevishly, "Well, well?
What have you to say for yourself? Can't you speak?"
"I say--I can't marry--Dr. Ballard." The girl rose and stood holding on
to the back of her chair with two cold, trembling hands.
Her grandmother fairly raised herself up in her seat. "What do you
mean----? 'You can't marry Dr. Ballard?'" Her voice rose to a sharp
falsetto.
Katherine shook her head.
"Nonsense! Whim!" The old woman spoke with unaccountable passion.
Dr. Ballard laid a firm, warm hand on Katherine's cold ones. His face
was rather pale, but his tone, when he spoke, was quite composed.
"Forgive me," he said. "I see I've got in all wrong on this. I didn't
mean to distress you. Let us drop it now, and later, some time, when we
two are alone together, we'll thresh it out, eh?"
Again Katherine shook her head. "No, I want never to talk about it
again," she said tremulously.
"Why?" The old woman asked the question almost fiercely, bending
forward to peer searchingly into her granddaughter's face.
For a moment it looked as if Katherine were in danger of being swept off
her feet by the intensity of her hidden feeling. She opened her lips,
then resolutely closed them again. Her grandmother did not seem to see,
or, at all events, did not regard her effort at self-control.
"Have you no tongue in your head?"
"Say it isn't true--what you've just hinted, about my father and his.
Say it isn't true, and I'll--_tell_----"
"Ho! Do you think I'm to be called to account by you, young miss?"
Madam Crewe interrupted testily. "If Dr. Ballard is ready to marry you,
in the face of the conditions I asked him to suppose, why, get down on
your knees, and thank God for such a disinterested lover. But don't
flatter yourself you can oblige me to do as you choose. I am
sixty-eight years old and I will not be forced."
Dr. Ballard laughed out.
"Don't you see it's all nonsense, Katherine? The whole thing isn't
worth a serious thought. If your grandmother likes to have her little
joke, why, let us try to see the humor of it. Perhaps she doesn't want
you to marry me. But now she sees it's inevitable, she'll----"
"No," said Katherine. "It's not inevitable. I can't marry you."
Dr. Ballard was silent, but Madam Crewe's words snapped out like sparks
from a live wire.
"The day Norris was here, you said you would. You _insisted_ you would.
Does your refusal now mean you've reconsidered the conditions he
suggested? You've thought better of your first decision?"
Katharine gave her a long look. It seemed to her, her humiliation was
complete. And still she managed to hold herself in check.
"You make it very hard for me--you force me to say things--I---- Very
well, then listen! I _do_ love Dr. Ballard and--I'd have married him
if--I could!"
He was on his feet in a second, the chair he had sat in crashing
backward with the violence of the sudden spring he made from it. But
Katherine was quicker than he. She turned and had run from the room
before he could prevent her.
Madam Crewe let her breath escape in a long sigh of fatigue.
"Dear me! What tiresome things the young are! As Slawson says, they're
hard as nails. You'd better reconsider, and ask _me_ to marry you
instead of Katherine. I'm seasoned, if not mellowed. Yes, you'd much
better marry me."
Dr. Ballard smiled grimly. "Where my handsomer grandfather failed, how
could _I_ hope to win?" he retorted, throwing her a glance of mock
gallantry. But even as he looked, he saw her face blench, her figure
sag together like a wilted plant. In a second he had her in his arms,
carrying her to the couch, forgetting the personal in the professional,
working over her with a will.
A familiar figure appeared in the open doorway.
Martha paused a moment, then came forward swiftly.
"Another----?" she inquired, her hands busying themselves at once in
obedience to the doctor's silent orders.