One of My Sons Read online

  XVI

  IN THE PARLOUR AT MRS. PENRHYN'S

  Meantime, the will of Mr. Gillespie had been admitted to probate; butas he had never made any secret of his intentions, and the share andshare alike of his sons had been left without a disturbing codicil,little help was afforded by its terms in settling the harassingproblem which more than ever occupied the minds of the community andpresented itself as an almost unanswerable puzzle to the police.

  Even Mr. Gryce, whose sagacity no one could doubt, showed howunpromising the affair looked to him by the line of care which nowmade its appearance on his forehead; a forehead which had remainedsingularly unclouded till now, notwithstanding his sixty or more yearsof experience with such knotty problems.

  This I had occasion to note in an interview I held with him some fewdays after the rendering of the abovementioned verdict.

  He had sought me with the intention of satisfying himself that theground had been thoroughly gone over, and no possible clue had beenignored. But he gained nothing new from me, not even my secret, andwent away at last, looking older and more careworn than my first viewof his benevolent and naturally composed countenance had led me toexpect.

  But while moved by this to consider the seriousness with which thesemen regarded their duty, I was much more deeply impressed by thecorresponding marks of secret disturbance which I presently discoveredin my own countenance. For, in my case, the trouble indicated did notdepend upon the settlement of an exciting case, but was the result ofa lasting impression made upon me by a woman who gave little sign ofsharing a passion likely to prove the one absorbing experience of mylife. Do what I would, I could not forget her or the position she heldamong these three men. Was she still the object of George's attentionsor--worse still--of Alfred's passionate hopes? Did she respond to thelatter's devotion, or was she still restrained by doubts of aninnocence not yet entirely proved?

  I longed to know. I longed to see for myself how she bore all theseuncertainties.

  But no excuse offered itself for a second intrusion upon her privacy,even if I had been sure I should find her still living with hercousins; and in this unrest and state of anxious waiting, the dayswent by, till suddenly I heard it casually mentioned at the Club thatMiss Meredith was with a distant connection of the Gillespies inFifty-seventh Street.

  This was like fire to tow. Without waiting to question my own motivesor to ask whether it would be for my happiness or misery to see heragain, I called at the Penrhyn mansion and inquired for MissMeredith.

  To my great relief and consequent delight she consented to receive me,and I presently found myself seated in a choice little reception-roomawaiting her coming. Only then did I begin to realise my own temerity.With what words should I accost her? How open conversation withoutsuggesting griefs I was burning to make her forget? I had no time todecide. She was at the door and in the room before my mind could framethe simplest greeting; and, once brought face to face with her, Iforgot everything but herself and the irresistible charm which herpresence exerted over me.

  She had been weeping, and I could not but see that the sight of myface recalled scenes suggestive of the deepest suffering. In my dismayI found my tongue and attempted some conventional expressions ofgood-will. These she no sooner heard than she cut me short by anirrepressible exclamation.

  "Pray,--" she entreated. "You have been with me during a time of toomuch misery for such formalities as these to pass between us." Then,before I could protest, "What is wanted of me now? I know you desireexplanations of some kind; everybody does who approaches me; even mybest friends. Yet I unburdened myself of everything I knew that firstnight."

  I may have looked hurt. I certainly felt so; but she did not noticethis result of her abrupt attack; she was too full of the feverishanxiety roused by the subject she had herself introduced.

  "But you are a just man and a good one," she went on. "I do not needto be told so; I see it in your face. _You_ will be honest with me,and will at least acquaint me with the motive underlying any questionsyou may put. Others deceive me, and lead me into confidences theyafterwards turn against me or against those I have reason to be trueto, though I was the first to betray them."

  Her cheek, so pale at her entrance, was burning red now, and she spokequickly, almost disconnectedly. I saw that she needed rallying, andsmiled.

  "Now it is you who are pressing the subject you abhor. I have notasked you anything; I shall not. I have not come here to satisfyeither my curiosity or the demands of the law. I am here to inquireafter your health and to renew my offer of service. May I be excusedfor my interest in yourself? It is involuntary on my part and sosincere that your uncle, were he living, could not object to it."

  Soothed by my voice as much as by my words, she sat down andendeavoured to open conversation. But there was a constraint in hermanner which convinced me that she was labouring under a too vividremembrance of the scene where we had last met.

  "What a position is mine!" burst at last from her lips. "I have threenatural protectors, yet I do not know of an arm on which I can placemy hand with implicit confidence. This is my reason for being in thishouse; and why I hail with eagerness, too great eagerness, perhaps,the prospect of a friend."

  It was an appeal for which I found myself poorly prepared, especiallyas it was made with such simplicity and in such evident disregard ofthe feelings which made my presence there of such import to myself.It recalled to me her position; and remembering that she was acomparative stranger in town, and that since her coming she had beenall in all to her uncle in capacities which had kept her much at homeand out of the society where she might have made friends and foundsupport in this dreadful emergency, I composed myself, and, leaningforward, took her hand in mine with a respect she could not but feel,since it permeated my whole being.

  "I am a stranger to you," was my plea, "notwithstanding the vividexperiences which have brought us together. You know little of mebeyond my name and the fact that my one wish, since first seeing you,has been to serve you and save you from every possible annoyance. Thismust be obvious to you, or you would not have accepted me sounhesitatingly for your lawyer. Will you add to this title--a titlewhich you have yourself given me, the more personal one you have justmentioned? Will you let me be the friend you need? You can find notruer one."

  She broke into a confused stammering, amid which I heard: "I will. Yougive me confidence." Then she sat still, her hand trembling in mineand her eyes shining with a new light. It was an innocent one, that ofa child who has stumbled on a protector in the dark; but to me it wasthe very glow of heaven, the first ray of promise by means of which Icould discern, even in fancy, the fairy-land of my dreams. Was it anywonder it intoxicated me? Forgetting that I had not been to her allthat she had been to me for the last few weeks; forgetting everythingbut that she was an unhappy woman whom I passionately loved, I gazedin her face as a man gazes at a woman but once in a lifetime.

  She did not lower her eyes; would that she had! but met my looks witha half smile whose open and indulgent kindness should have warned meto recover my ground while it was safe. But a sudden madness hadseized me, and seeing simply that it was a smile, I found itimpossible to realise in the frenzy of the moment that the feelings Ihad hitherto ascribed to her were true. She had liked, not loved hercousins. They had been good to her, and in return she had given them acousinly regard which in one instance, perhaps, approached the warmthof love. But it was a love far from necessary to her life--or so Idared dream; while my passion for her was a part of my being, so closea part that I felt forced to speak and claim her as my own in thishour of her greatest trouble and perplexity. Before I knew it; beforeshe had time to restrain me by word or look, I was pouring out my soulbefore her. Not in the respectful, measured way I had foreseen whenlooking forward to this hour, but wildly, hotly, as a man speaks whenthe treasure of his life is to be won by one strong effort.

  It was sudden; it was perhaps unwarranted; but my sincerity moved her.That was perhaps why she listened so patie
ntly, and it was to thisrecognition of my candid regard I attribute the look of wistfulnesswhich crept over her features when I ceased.

  "Oh!" she murmured, "why cannot I accept the love of this good man?"And, rising up, she walked away from me to the other end of the room.

  Breathlessly I watched her; breathlessly I noted her walk, the droopof her head, the agitated working of her hands. Would my good angelstand by me and turn her trembling heart my way, or must I preparemyself to see her pause, turn, and come back to me with denial in herlooks? The suspense of that moment I shall never forget. It has neverbeen repeated in my experience. Never since have I suffered so much inany one moment.

  Suddenly it was all over. She turned and I read my doom in hersorrowing face.

  "You are good," she cried, "and it would be an infinite rest to belifted out of the agony I am in and be cared for by someone I couldperfectly trust. But I cannot accept a devotion which fails to awakenin me aught but simple gratitude and friendliness. Unfortunately forme, and perhaps unfortunately for him whom I cannot trust myself toname, I have given my whole heart--" She choked back the words with acertain wildness. Then she faced me with mournful dignity and avowedcalmly, and with a certain finality which caused my hopes to sink backinto the depths from which they had so inconsiderately sprung, "I havefixed my heart where perhaps I should not. Pity me, but do not blame."

  _I_ blame, _I!_ who had committed the same folly, was suffering fromthe same mistake!

  "He may be the one true heart amongst them. Sometimes I think he is;sometimes I think his faults are blemishes upon a nature noble enoughfor any love and worship; then doubt comes, horrible, corroding doubt,and I see in him a fiend, a monster, a being too dreadful tocontemplate, much less dream of and adore. Oh, if I did but know----"

  "You shall know!" I burst forth, forgetting my own misery in hers. "Ihave been selfish in urging my personal wishes upon you when I shouldhave been occupied with yours. Henceforth I shall think only of you.To see you happy, to see you at peace, shall be my joy and prove myconsolation. I cannot rejoice at the task, if task it can be called,but from this day on my energies shall be devoted to the settling ofthat doubt which, while it exists, robs you of all peace of mind. IfAlfred is the guiltless man we are fain to believe him, you shall knowit. I feel that it is possible to prove him so, and my feelings haveoften been very reliable guides in difficult undertakings."

  She was startled; she was more than startled; she was alarmed. "Idon't understand you," she cried. "What can you do? If the one guiltyheart among my cousins refuses to respond to the appeal made to it bymy uncle, how can you hope to move so callous a soul to a sense of itsduty?"

  "I cannot. With the hand of the law raised in threat against him, hewould be throwing away his life to proclaim his guilt to anyone now.It would be folly on our part to expect it. But there are other meansby which this question may be settled. We do not gather figs of thornsor grapes of thistles. Consider, then, in which of these three breaststhe thorns are found thickest; and, if uncertainty yet remains, towhich of your cousins your uncle's death offered the greatestrelease."

  "Have I not already asked myself these questions? Have I not repeatedthem over and over in my own mind till their ceaseless repetition haswell-nigh maddened me? I think I know George, yet I dare not say hehas a heart incapable of crime. I think I know Alfred and I think Iknow Leighton; but what certainty can this imaginary knowledge give meof the integrity of men who hide their best impulses under wild waysor cloud them with plausible hypocrisies? There is not an open soulamong the three; and unless one of them consents to confess his crime,we can never feel sure of the two true men who are guiltless. That is,I never can. I should be haunted by doubts just as I am to-day, and tobe doubt-haunted is misery, the depth of which you cannot judge unlessyou know my history."

  "And that I cannot ask for--" I began.

  "Yet why should I keep it from you? You have earned my confidence. Youare, and are likely to remain, my only friend; then why should I holdback facts well known to those who come in daily contact with me? I amunfortunate in having a father who is no father to me. From earliestchildhood till I left him to come to New York, I had never receivedfrom either parent a caress which was more than a formality. Myfather's lack of sympathy rose from the mortal disappointment hesuffered when, of his two children, it was the girl and not the boywho survived the illness which prostrated both. My mother--but I willnot talk of her; she has been dead a dozen years--only you willbelieve me when I say that all tokens of affection were lacking to mychildhood and that the first word expressive of warmth and protectioncame to me from the cousin who met me at the train the day I enteredupon my new life in my dear uncle's home. Do you wonder thisunexpected tenderness blinded me a little to faults which I had noreason then to think would ever develop into anything worse?"

  I rose to leave; my self-control was not strong enough for me to bearup against these repeated attacks. As I did so, I said:

  "Miss Meredith, you have heard my promise. May I be prospered in myundertaking, for success in it means not only satisfaction to myselfbut great relief to you. Why do you tremble?"

  "I fear--I dread your interference. Sometimes I wish never to know thetruth. You will call me inconsistent, unreasonable. Indeed, I know Iam; but what can you expect from a girl upon whom the blessing of Godhas never rested?"

  This was a new phase in her nature, the more distressing to me, that,knowing little of women, I did not understand her. She saw the effectof her outburst, and melted immediately.

  "This is a bad return for your generosity," she cried. "Ascribe it tomy weakness and the dread I feel lest he----"

  "The guilty man," I interposed, "is not a subject for sympathy. But hewhom you love is not the guilty man," I bravely assured her. "Take myword and my hope for that. A man who could win your regard has no suchblack spot in his breast."

  And, bowing over her hand, I escaped before she could propound any ofthe many questions my declared purpose was likely to call up.