XXV
A FINE HEROINE, TOO
Friday morning.
Miss Annesley possessed more than the ordinary amount of force andpower of will. Though the knowledge of it was not patent to her, shewas a philosopher. She always submitted gracefully to the inevitable.She was religious, too, feeling assured that God would provide. She didnot go about the house, moaning and weeping; she simply studied allsides of the calamity, and looked around to see what could be saved.There were moments when she was even cheerful. There were no new linesin her face; her eyes were bright and eager. All persons of genuinetalent look the world confidently in the face; they know exactly whatthey can accomplish. As Karloff had advised her, she did not troubleherself about the future. Her violin would support her and her father,perhaps in comfortable circumstances. The knowledge of this gave her asilent happiness, that kind which leaves upon the face a serene andbeautiful calm.
At this moment she stood on the veranda, her hand shading her eyes. Shewas studying the sky. The afternoon would be clear; the last rideshould be a memorable one. The last ride! Tears blurred her eyes andthere was a smothering sensation in her throat. The last ride! Afterto-day Jane would have a new, strange mistress. If only she might go tothis possible mistress and tell her how much she loved the animal, toobtain from her the promise that she would be kind to it always. Howmysteriously the human heart spreads its tendrils around the objects ofits love! What is there in the loving of a dog or a horse that, losingone or the other, an emptiness is created? Perhaps it is because theheart goes out wholly without distrust to the faithful, to theundeceiving, to the dumb but loving beast, which, for all its strength,is so helpless.
She dropped her hand and spoke to James, who was waiting near by forher orders.
"James, you will have Pierre fill a saddle-hamper; two plates, twoknives and forks, and so forth. We shall ride in the north country thisafternoon. It will be your last ride. To-morrow the horses will besold." How bravely she said it!
"Yes, Miss Annesley." Whom were they going to meet in the northcountry? "At what hour shall I bring the horses around?"
"At three."
She entered the house and directed her steps to the study. She foundher father arranging the morning's mail. She drew up a chair besidehim, and ran through her own letters. An invitation to lunch with Mrs.Secretary-of-State; she tossed it into the waste-basket. A dinner-danceat the Country Club, a ball at the Brazilian legation, a tea at theGerman embassy, a box party at some coming play, an informal dinner atthe executive mansion; one by one they fluttered into the basket. Abill for winter furs, a bill from the dressmaker, one from themilliner, one from the glover, and one from the florist; these she laidaside, reckoning their sum-total, and frowning. How could she have beenso extravagant? She chanced to look at her father. He was staringrather stupidly at a slip of paper which he held in his tremblingfingers.
"What is it?" she asked, vaguely troubled.
"I do not understand," he said, extending the paper for her inspection.
Neither did she at first.
"Karloff has not done this," went on her father, "for it shows that hehas had it discounted at the bank. It is canceled; it is paid. I didnot have twenty thousand in the bank; I did not have even a quarter ofthat amount to my credit. There has been some mistake. Our real estateagent expects to realize on the home not earlier than Monday morning.In case it was not sold then, he was to take up the note personally.This is not his work, or I should have been notified." Then, with aburst of grief: "Betty, my poor Betty! How can you forgive me? How canI forgive myself?"
"Father, I am brave. Let us forget. It will be better so."
She kissed his hand and drew it lovingly across her cheek. Then sherose and moved toward the light. She studied the note carefully. Therewas nothing on it save Karloff's writing and her father's and the redimprint of the bank's cancelation. Out of the window and beyond she sawJames leading the horses to the watering trough. Her face suddenly grewcrimson with shame, and as suddenly as it came the color faded. Shefolded the note and absently tucked it into the bosom of her dress.Then, as if struck by some strange thought, her figure grew tense andrigid against the blue background of the sky. The glow which stole overher features this time had no shame in it, and her eyes shone like thewaters of sunlit seas. It must never be; no it must never be.
"We shall make inquiries at the bank," she said. "And do not bedowncast, father, the worst is over. What mistakes you have made areforgotten The future looks bright to me."
"Through innocent young eyes the future is ever bright; but as we agewe find most of the sunshine on either side, and we stand in the shadowbetween. Brave heart, I glory in your courage. God will provide foryou; He will not let my shadow fall on you. Yours shall be the joy ofliving, mine shall be the pain. God bless you! I wonder how I shallever meet your mother's accusing eyes?"
"Father, you _must_ not dwell upon this any longer; for my sake youmust not. When everything is paid there will be a little left, enoughtill I and my violin find something to do. After all, the world'sapplause must be a fine thing. I can even now see the criticisms in thegreat newspapers. 'A former young society woman, well-known in thefashionable circles of Washington, made her _debut_ as a concert playerlast night. She is a stunning young person.' 'A young queen of thediplomatic circles, here and abroad, appeared in public as a violinistlast night. She is a member of the most exclusive sets, and society wasout to do her homage.' 'One of Washington's brilliant younghorsewomen,' and so forth. Away down at the bottom of the column,somewhere, they will add that I play the violin rather well for anamateur." In all her trial, this was the one bitter expression, and shewas sorry for it the moment it escaped her. Happily her father was notlistening. He was wholly absorbed in the mystery of the canceled note.
She had mounted Jane and was gathering up the reins, while Jamesstrapped on the saddle-hamper. This done, he climbed into the saddleand signified by touching his cap that all was ready. So they rodeforth in the sweet freshness of that November afternoon. A steady windwas blowing, the compact white clouds sailed swiftly across thebrilliant heavens, the leaves whispered and fluttered, hither andthither, wherever the wind listed; it was the day of days. It was thelast ride, and fate owed them the compensation of a beautiful afternoon.
The last ride! Warburton's mouth drooped. Never again to ride with her!How the thought tightened his heart! What a tug it was going to be togive her up! But so it must be. He could never face her gratitude. Hemust disappear, like the good fairies in the story-books. If he leftnow, and she found out what he had done, she would always think kindlyof him, even tenderly. At twilight, when she took out her violin andplayed soft measures, perhaps a thought or two would be given to him.After what had happened--this contemptible masquerading and the crisisthrough which her father had just passed--it would be impossible forher to love him. She would always regard him with suspicion, as awitness of her innocent shame.
He recalled the two wooden plates in the hamper. Whom was she going tomeet? Ah, well, what mattered it? After to-day the abyss of eternitywould yawn between them. How he loved her! How he adored the exquisiteprofile, the warm-tinted skin, the shining hair!... And he had losther! Ah, that last ride!
The girl was holding her head high because her heart was full. No moreto ride on a bright morning, with the wind rushing past her, bringingthe odor of the grasses, of the flowers, of the earth to tingle hernostrils; no more to follow the hounds on a winter's day, with the packbaying beyond the hedges, the gay, red-coated riders sweeping down thefield; no more to wander through the halls of her mother's birthplaceand her own! Like a breath on a mirror, all was gone. Why? What had_she_ done to be flung down ruthlessly? She, who had been brought up inidleness and luxury, must turn her hands to a living! Without beingworldly, she knew the world. Once she appeared upon the stage, shewould lose caste among her kind. True, they would tolerate her, but nolonger would her voice be heard or her word have weight.
Soon she would be to
ssed about on the whirlpool and swallowed up. Thenwould come the haggling with managers, long and tiresome journeys,gloomy hotels and indifferent fare, curious people who desired to seethe one-time fashionable belle; her portraits would be lithographed andhung in shop-windows, in questionable resorts, and the privacy so lovedby gentlewomen gone; and perhaps there would be insults. And she wasonly on the threshold of the twenties, the radiant, blooming twenties!
"Go home, Colonel--and stay home!"--ACT III.]
During the long ride (for they covered something like seven miles) nota word was spoken. The girl was biding her time; the man had nothing tovoice. They were going through the woods, when they came upon aclearing through which a narrow brook loitered or sallied down theincline. She reined in and raised her crop. He was puzzled. So far ashe could see, he and the girl were alone. The third person, for whom,he reasoned, he had brought the second plate, was nowhere in sight.
A flat boulder lay at the side of the stream, and she nodded toward it.Warburton emptied the hamper and spread the cloth on the stone. Then helaid out the salad, the sandwiches, the olives, the almonds, and twosilver telescope-cups. All this time not a single word from either;Warburton, busied with his task, did not lift his eyes to her.
The girl had laid her face against Jane's nose, and two lonely tearstrailed slowly down her velvety cheeks. Presently he was compelled tolook at her and speak.
"Everything is ready, Miss." He spoke huskily. The sight of her tearsgave him an indescribable agony.
She dropped the bridle-reins, brushed her eyes, and the sunshine of asmile broke through the troubled clouds.
"Mr. Warburton," she said gently, "let us not play any more. I am toosad. Let us hang up the masks, for the comedy is done."
XXVI
THE CASTLE OF ROMANCE
How silent the forest was! The brook no longer murmured, the rustle ofthe leaves was without sound. A spar of sunshine, filtering through theragged limbs of the trees, fell aslant her, and she stood in anaureola. As for my hero, a species of paralysis had stricken himmotionless and dumb. It was all so unexpected, all so sudden, that hehad the sensation of being whirled away from reality and bundledunceremoniously into the unreal.... She knew, and had known! A leafbrushed his face, but he was senseless to the touch of it. All he hadthe power to do was to stare at her. . . . She knew, and had known!
Dick stepped into the brook and began to paw the water, and theintermission of speech and action came to an end.
"You-and you knew?" What a strange sound his voice had in his own ears!
"Yes. From the very beginning--I knew you to be a gentleman inmasquerade; that is to say, when I saw you in the police-court. Theabsence of the beard confused me at first, but presently I recognizedthe gentleman whom I had noticed on board the ship."
So she had noticed him!
"That night you believed me to be your sister Nancy. But I did not knowthis till lately. And the night I visited her she exhibited somephotographs. Among these was a portrait of you without a beard."
Warburton started. And the thought that this might be the case hadnever trickled through his thick skull! How she must have laughed athim secretly!
She continued: "Even then I was not sure. But when Colonel Raleighdeclared that you resembled a former lieutenant of his, then I knew."She ceased. She turned to her horse as if to gather the courage to goon; but Jane had her nose hidden in the stream, and was oblivious ofher mistress' need.
He waited dully for her to resume, for he supposed that she had not yetdone.
"I have humiliated you in a hundred ways, and for this I want you toforgive me. I sent the butler away for the very purpose of making youserve in his stead. But you were so good about it all, with never amurmur of rebellion, that I grew ashamed of my part in the comedy. Butnow--" Her eyes closed and her body swayed; but she clenched her hands,and the faintness passed away. "But for you, my poor father would havebeen dishonored, and I should have been forced into the arms of a manwhom I despise. Whenever I have humiliated you, you have returned thegift of a kind deed. You will forgive me?"
"Forgive you? There is nothing for me to forgive on my side, much onyours. It is you who should forgive me. What you have done I havedeserved." His tongue was thick and dry. How much did she know?
"No, not wholly deserved it." She fumbled with the buttons of herwaist; her eyes were so full that she could not see. She produced anoblong slip of paper.
When he saw it, a breath as of ice enveloped him. The thing she heldout toward him was the canceled note. For a while he did me the honorto believe that I had betrayed him.
"I understand the kind and generous impulse which prompted this deed.Oh, I admire it, and I say to you, God bless you! But don't you see howimpossible it is? It can not be; no, no! My father and I are proud.What we owe we shall pay. Poverty, to be accepted without plaint, mustbe without debts of gratitude. But it was noble and great of you; and Iknew that you intended to run away without ever letting any one know."
"Who told you?"
"No one. I guessed it."
And he might have denied all knowledge of it!
"Won't you--won't you let it be as it is? I have never done anythingworth while before, and this has made me happy. Won't you let me dothis? Only you need know. I am going away on Monday, and it will beyears before I see Washington again. No one need ever know."
"It is impossible!"
"Why?"
She looked away. In her mind's eye she could see this man leading atroop through a snow-storm. How the wind roared! How the snow whirledand eddied about them, or suddenly blotted them from sight! But, on andon, resolutely, courageously, hopefully, he led them on to safety....He was speaking, and the picture dissolved.
"Won't you let it remain just as it is?" he pleaded.
Her head moved negatively, and once more she extended the note. He tookit and slowly tore it into shreds. With it he was tearing up the dreamand tossing it down the winds.
"The money will be placed to your credit at the bank on Monday. We cannot accept such a gift from any one. You would not, I know. But alwaysshall I treasure the impulse. It will give me courage in thefuture--when I am fighting alone."
"What are you going to do?"
"I? I am going to appear before the public,"--with assumed lightness;"I and my violin."
He struck his hands together. "The stage?"--horrified.
"I must live,"--calmly.
"But a servant to public caprice? It ought not to be! I realize that Ican not force you to accept my gift, but this I shall do: I shall buyin the horses and give them back to you."
"You mustn't. I shall have no place to put them. Oh!"--with a gesturefull of despair and unshed tears, "why have you done all this? Why thismean masquerade, this submitting to the humiliations I have contrivedfor you, this act of generosity? Why?"
Perhaps she knew the answers to her own questions, but, womanlike,wanted to be told.
And at that moment, though I am not sure, I believe Warburton'sguarding angel gave him some secret advice.
"You ask me why I have played the fool in the motley?"--finding thestrength of his voice. "Why I have submitted in silence to your justhumiliations? Why I have acted what you term generously? Do you mean totell me that you have not guessed the riddle?"
She turned her delicate head aside and switched the grasses with herriding-crop.
"Well,"--flinging aside his cap, which he had been holding in his hand,"I will tell you. I wanted to be near you. I wanted to be, what youmade me, your servant. It is the one great happiness that I have known.I have done all these things because--because, God help me, I love you!Yes, I love you, with every beat of my heart!"--lifting his headproudly. Upon his face love had put the hallowed seal. "Do not turnyour head away, for my love is honest. I ask nothing, nothing; I expectnothing. I know that it is hopeless. What woman could love a man whohas made himself ridiculous in her eyes, as I have made myself inyours?"--bitterly.
"No, not ridiculous; never tha
t!" she interrupted, her face stillaverted.
He strode toward her hastily, and for a moment her heart almost ceasedto beat. But all he did was to kneel at her feet and kiss the hem ofher riding-skirt. He rose hurriedly.
"God bless you, and good-by!" He knew that if he remained he would loseall control, crush her madly in his arms, and hurt her lips with hisdespairing kisses. He had not gone a dozen paces, when he heard hercall pathetically. He stopped.
"Mr. Warburton, surely you are not going to leave me here alone withthe horses?"
"Pardon me, I did not think! I am confused!" he blundered.
"You are modest, too." Why is it that, at the moment a man succumbs tohis embarrassment, a woman rises above hers? "Come nearer,"--a commandwhich he obeyed with some hesitation. "You have been a groom, a butler,all for the purpose of telling me that you love me. Listen. Love islike a pillar based upon a dream: one by one we lay the stones ofbeauty, of courage, of faith, of honor, of steadfastness. We wake, andhow the beautiful pillar tumbles about our ears! What right have you tobuild up your pillar upon a dream of me? What do you know of the realwoman--for I have all the faults and vanities of the sex; what do youknow of me? How do you know that I am not selfish? that I am constant?that I am worthy a man's loving?"
"Love is not like Justice, with a pair of scales to weigh this or that.I do not ask _why_ I love you; the knowledge is all I need. And you are_not_ selfish, inconstant, and God knows that you are worth loving. AsI said, I ask for nothing."
"On the other hand," she continued, as if she had not heard hisinterpolation, "I know you thoroughly. I have had evidence of yourcourage, your steadfastness, your unselfishness. Do not misunderstandme. I am proud that you love me. This love of yours, which asks for noreward, only the right to confess, ought to make any good woman happy,whether she loved or not. And you would have gone away without tellingme, even!"
"Yes." He dug into the earth with his riding-boot. If only she knew howshe was crucifying him!
"Why were you going away without telling me?"
He was dumb.
Her arms and eyes, uplifted, appealed to heaven. "What shall I say? Howshall I make him understand?" she murmured. "You love me, and you askfor nothing? Is it because in spirit my father has committed acrime?"--growing tall and darting a proud glance at him.
"Good heaven, do not believe that!" he cried,
"What _am_ I to believe?"--tapping the ground with her boot so that thespur jingled.
A pause.
"Mr. Warburton, do you know what a woman loves in a man? I will tellyou the secret. She loves courage, constancy, and honor, purpose thatsurmounts obstacles; she loves pursuit; she loves the hour ofsurrender. Every woman builds a castle of romance and waits for PrinceCharming to enter, and once he does, there must be a game of hide andseek. Perhaps I have built my castle of romance, too. I wait for PrinceCharming, and--a man comes, dressed as a groom. There has been a gameof hide and seek, but somehow he has tripped. Will you not ask me if Ilove you?"
"No, no! I understand. I do not want your gratitude. You are meetinggenerosity with generosity. I do not want your gratitude."--brokenly."I want your love, every thought of your mind, every beat of yourheart. Can you give me these, honestly?"
She drew off a glove. Her hand became lost in her bosom. When she drewit forth she extended it, palm upward. Upon it lay a faded, witheredrose. Once more she turned her face away.
He was at her side, and the hand and rose were crushed between his twohands.
"Can you give what I ask? Your love, your thoughts, your heart-beats?"
It was her turn to remain dumb.
"Can you?" He drew her toward him perhaps roughly, being unconscious ofhis strength and the nervous energy which the sight of the rose hadcalled into being.
"Can we give those things which are--already--given?"
Only Warburton and the angels, or rather the angels and Warburton, toget at the chronological order of things, heard her, so low had grownher voice.
You may tell any kind of secret to a horse; the animal will neverbetray you. Warburton would never tell me what followed; and I am toosensible to hang around the horses in hopes of catching them in the actof talking over the affair among themselves. But I can easily imaginethis bit of equine dialogue:
_Jane_: Did you ever see such foolishness?
_Dick_: Never! And with all this good grass about!
Whatever _did_ follow caused the girl to murmur: "This is the lover Ilove; this is the lover I have been waiting for in my castle ofromance. I am glad that I have lost all worldly things; I am glad,glad! When did you first learn that you loved me?"
(Old, very old; thousands of years old, and will grow to be manythousand years older. But from woman's lips it is the sweetest questionman ever heard.)
"At the _Gare du Nord_, in Paris; the first time I saw you."
"And you followed me across the ocean?"--wonderingly.
"And when did you first learn that you loved me?" he asked.
(Oh, the trite phrases of lovers' litany.)
"When I saw you in the police-court. Mercy! what a scandal! I am tomarry my butler!"
_Jane:_ They are laughing!
_Dick:_ That is better than weeping. Besides, they will probably walkus home. (Wise animal!)
He was not only wise but prophetic. The lovers _did_ walk the horseshome. Hand in hand they came back along the road, through the flame andflush of the ripening year. The god of light burned in the far west,blending the brown earth with his crimson radiance, while the purpleshadows of the approaching dusk grew larger and larger. The man turned.
"What a beautiful world it is!" he said.
"I begin to find it so," replied the girl, looking not at the world,but at him.
THE END
Postscript:
I believe they sent William back for the saddle-hamper and my jehu'scap.
The Man on the Box Page 25