Part 6

The night passed as even nights in sick-rooms will, and at last it began to grow toward day. The nurse became suddenly conscious of deadly weariness and need of rest. She called the servant and left her in charge, with a few directions and the injunction to call her at need, and then stole down the stairs to snatch, before she rested, the breath of morning air she craved.

As she stood at the veranda’s edge in the twilight coolness and twilight hush watching the whitening sky, there came steps behind her, and turning, she came face to face with Neil Hardesty. She stared at him with unbelieving eyes.

“Yes, it is I,” he said.

“You were with Mr. Leroy?” she asked. “Are you going?”

“My work is over here,” he answered, quietly. “I am going to send--some one else.”

She bent her head a second’s space with the swift passing courtesy paid death by those to whom it has become a more familiar friend than life itself, then lifted it, and for a minute they surveyed each other gravely.

“This is like meeting you on the other side of the grave,” she said. “How came you here? I thought you were in California.”

“I thought you were in Europe.”

“I was for awhile, but there was nothing there I wanted. Then I came back and entered the training school. After this is over I have arranged to join the sisterhood of St. Margaret. I think I can do better work so.”

“Let me advise you not to mistake your destiny. You were surely meant for the life of home and society, and can do a thousand-fold more good that way.”

“You do not know,” she answered, simply. “I am very happy in my life. It suits me utterly. I have never been so perfectly at peace.”

“But it will wear you out,” he murmured.

She looked at him out of her great eyes, surprisedly. It was a look he knew of old.

“Why, I expect it to,” she answered.

There was a little silence before she went on, apparently without effort:

“I am glad to come across you again, for there is one thing I have wanted to say to you almost ever since we parted, and it has grieved me to think I might never be able to say it. It is this. While I do not regret anything else, and while I am sure now that it was best for both of us--or else it would not have happened--I have always been sorry that the break between us came in the way it did. I regret that. It hurts me still when I remember of what I accused you. I am sure I was unjust. No wonder you were bitter against me. I have often prayed that that bitterness might pass out of your soul, and that I might know it. So--I ask your forgiveness for my suspicion. It will make me happier to know you have quite forgiven me.”

He did not answer. She waited patiently.

“Surely”--she spoke with pained surprise--“surely you can forgive me now?”

“_Oh, God!_”

She looked at his set face uncomprehending. Why should it be with such a mighty effort that he unclosed his lips at last? His voice came forced and hard.

“I--I did it, Mildred. I was the coward that you thought me. I don’t know what insensate fear came over me and took possession of me utterly, but it was nothing to the fear I felt afterwards--for those two weeks--that you might suspect me of it. And when I knew you did I was mad with grief and anger at myself, and yet--it seems to me below contempt--I tried to save my miserable pride. But I have always meant that you should know at last.”

She looked at him with blank uncomprehension.

“I did it,” he repeated, doggedly, and waited for the change he thought to see upon her face. It came, but with a difference.

“You--you did it?” for the idea made its way but slowly to her mind. “Then”--with a rush of feeling that she hardly understood, and an impetuous, tender gesture--“then let me comfort you.”

It was the voice of the woman who had loved him, and not of any Sister of Charity, however gracious, that he heard again, but he turned sharply away.

“God forbid,” he said, and she shrank from the misery in his voice; “God forbid that even you should take away my punishment. Don’t you see? It is all the comfort I dare have, to go where there is danger and to face death when I can, till the day comes when I am not afraid, for I am a coward yet.”

She stretched her hands out toward him blindly. I am afraid that she forgot just then all the boasted sweetness of her present life, her years of training, and her coming postulancy at St. Margaret’s, as well as the heinousness of his offence. She forgot everything, save that this was Neil, and that he suffered.

But all that she, being a woman and merciful, forgot, he, being a man and something more than just, remembered.

“Good-by, and God be with you,” he said.

“Neil!” she cried. “Neil!”

But his face was set steadfastly toward the heart of the stricken city, and he neither answered nor looked back.

The future sister of St. Margaret’s watched him with a heart that ached as she had thought it could never ache again. All the hard-won peace of her patient years, which she thought so secure a possession, had gone at once and was as though it had not been; for he, with all his weaknesses upon him, was still the man she loved.

“Lord, give him back to me!” she cried, yet felt the cry was futile.

Slowly she climbed the stairs again, wondering where was the courage and quiet confidence that had sustained her so short a time ago.

Was it true, then, that heaven was only excellent when earth could not be had? She was the coward now. In her mind there were but two thoughts--the desire to see him again, and a new, appalling fear of death.

She re-entered the sick-room where the girl was watching her patients with awed eyes.

“You need not stay here,” she said, softly. “I cannot sleep now. I will call you when I can.”

“THE HONOR OF A GENTLEMAN”

I

Because there was so little else left him to be proud of, he clung the more tenaciously to his pride in his gentle blood and the spotless fame of his forefathers. There was no longer wealth nor state nor position to give splendor to the name, but this was the less sad in that he himself was the sole survivor of that distinguished line. He was glad that he had no sisters--a girl should not be brought up in sordid, ignoble surroundings, such as he had sometimes had to know; as for brothers, if there had been two of them to make the fight against the world shoulder to shoulder, life might have seemed a cheerier thing; but thus far he had gotten on alone. And the world was not such an unkindly place, after all. Though he was a thousand miles away from the old home, in this busy Northwestern city where he and his were unknown, he was not without friends; he knew a few nice people. He had money enough to finish his legal studies; if there had not been enough, he supposed he could have earned it somehow; he was young and brave enough to believe that he could do anything his self-respect demanded of him. If it sometimes asked what might seem to a practical world fantastic sacrifices at his hands, was he not ready to give them? At least, had he not always been ready before he met Virginia Fenley?

She reminded him of his mother, did Virginia, though no two women in the world were ever fundamentally more different. Nevertheless, there was a likeness between the little pearl-set miniature which he cherished, showing Honora Le Garde in the prime of her beauty, and this girl who looked up at him with eyes of the self-same brown. Surely, Virginia should not be held responsible for the fact that a slender, graceful creature with yellow hair and dark-lashed hazel eyes, with faint pink flushes coming and going in her cheeks, and the air of looking out at the world with indifference from a safe and sheltered distance, was Roderick Le Garde’s ideal of womanhood, and that he regarded her, the representative of the type, as the embodiment of everything sweetest and highest in human nature. Virginia’s physique, like Roderick’s preconceptions of life and love and honor, was an inheritance, but a less significant one; it required an effort to live up to it, and Virginia was not fond of effort.

His feeling for her was worship. Virginia had not been looking on at the pageant (Roderick would have called it a pageant) of society very long, but she was a beautiful girl and a rich one; therefore she had seen what called itself love before.

As an example of what a suitor’s attitude should be, she preferred Roderick’s expression of devotion to that of any man she knew. He made her few compliments, and those in set and guarded phrase; except on abstract topics, his speech with her was restrained to the point of chilliness; even the admiration of his eyes was controlled as they met hers. But on rare occasions the veil dropped from them, and then--Virginia did not know what there was about these occasions that she should find them so fascinating; that she should watch for them and wait for them, and even try to provoke them, as she did.

Worship is not exactly the form of sentiment of which hopelessness can be predicated, but Roderick was human enough to wish that the niche in which his angel was enshrined might be in his own home. He let her see this one day in the simplicity of his devotion.

“Not that I ask for anything, you understand,” he added, hastily. “I could not do that. It is only that I would give you the knowledge that I love you, as--as I might give you a rose to wear. It honors the flower, you see,” he said, rather wistfully.

She lifted her eyes to his, and he wondered why there should flash across his mind a recollection of the flowers she had worn yesterday, a cluster of Maréchal Niels that she had raised to her lips once or twice, kissing the golden petals. She made absolutely no answer to his speech, unless the faintest, most evanescent of all her faint smiles could be called an answer. But she was not angry, and she gave him her hand at parting.

In spite of her silence she thought of his words. The little that she had to say upon the subject she said to her father as they were sitting before the library fire that evening.

John Fenley was a prosperous lumberman, possessed of an affluent good nature which accorded well with his other surroundings in life. Virginia was his only child, and motherless. She could not remember that her father ever refused her anything in his life; and certainly he had never done so while smoking his after-dinner cigar.

“Papa,” she began, in her pretty, deliberate way--“papa, Roderick Le Garde is in love with me.”

Her father looked up at her keenly. She was not blushing, and she was not confused. He watched a smoke-ring dissolve, then answered, comfortably,

“Well, there is nothing remarkable about that.”

“That is true,” assented Virginia. “The remarkable thing is that I like him--a little.” Her eyes were fixed upon the fire. There was a pause before she went on. “I have never liked any of them at all before, as you know very well. I never expect to--very much. Papa, you afford me everything I want; can you afford me Roderick Le Garde?”

“Do you know what you are asking, Virginia, or why?” he said, gravely.

“I have thought it over, of course. Couldn’t you put him in charge at one of the mills or somewhere on a comfortable number of thousands a year? Of course I can’t starve, you know, and frocks cost something.”

“My daughter is not likely to want for frocks,” said John Fenley, frowning involuntarily. “You did not take my meaning. I wish your mother were here, child.”

“I am sufficiently interested, if that is what you mean,” said Virginia, still tranquilly. “He is different, papa; and I am tired of the _jeunesse dorée_. Perhaps it is because I am so much _dorée_ myself that they bore me. Roderick has enthusiasms and ideals; I am one of them; I like it. You, papa, love me for what I am. It is much more exciting to be loved for what one is not.”

Her father knit his brows and smoked in silence for a few minutes. Virginia played with the ribbons of her pug.

“Marylander, isn’t he?”

“Something of the sort; I forget just what.”

“H’m!”

“Le Garde isn’t a business man,” John Fenley said, at length.

“Isn’t he?” asked Virginia, politely smothering a yawn.

“Is he? You know enough about it to know how important it is that any man who is to work into my affairs, and ultimately to take my place, should know business and mean business, Virgie. It is a long way from poverty to wealth, but a short one from wealth to poverty.”

“Yes,” said Virginia, “I know; but I also know enough about it to be sure that I could manage the business if it became necessary. You and I are both business men, dear. Let us import a new element into the family.”

Fenley laughed proudly. “By Jove! I believe you could do it!” A little further silence; then, “So your heart is set on this, daughter?”

“Have I a heart?” asked Virginia, sedately, rising and leaning an elbow on the mantel as she held up one small, daintily slippered foot to the blaze.

II

Long afterward he used to wonder how it had ever come to pass--that first false step of his, the surrender of his profession, and so of his liberty. Before middle life a man sometimes forgets the imperious secret of the springs that moved his youthful actions. In reality, the mechanism of his decision was very simple.

“How can I give up my profession?” he asked Virginia.

She smiled up into his eyes, her own expressing a divine confidence. “But how can you give up me?”

Though his doubts were not thereby laid to rest, the matter was practically settled, and it was understood between them that he was to accept her father’s unnecessarily liberal offer, and take his place in John Fenley’s business as his own son might have done. This may have been unwise, but it was not unnatural, and if there was any unwisdom in the proceeding, it was apparent to no eyes but Roderick’s own. Other people said what other people always say under such circumstances--that young Le Garde was in luck; that he would have a “soft snap” of it as John Fenley’s son-in-law; that he had shown more sagacity in feathering his own nest than could have been expected of such an impractical young fellow. They did not understand his chill reserve when congratulated on this brilliant bit of success in life. If they had spoken of his good fortune in being loved by Virginia, that was something a man could understand. The gods might envy Virginia’s lover, but that he, Roderick Le Garde, should be congratulated on becoming John Fenley’s son-in-law was intolerable.

He by no means pretended to scorn money, however, and he felt as strongly as did Fenley that Virginia must have it. Luxury was her natural atmosphere--any woman’s perhaps, but surely hers. Other men sacrificed other things for the women that they loved. He gave up his proud independence and his proper work, and was sublimely sure that Virginia understood what the sacrifice cost him.

But it was true that he was not a business man by nature, and his first few years in John Fenley’s service were not the exacting drill which would have given him what he lacked. Although he conscientiously endeavored to carry his share of the burden and do well what fell to him to do, the fact was that John Fenley was a great deal too energetic and too fond of managing his own affairs to give up any duties to another which he could possibly perform for himself. Thus Roderick’s various positions were always more or less of sinecures as far as responsibility was concerned, and he had a large margin of leisure as well as a sufficient amount of money to devote to good books and good horses, pursuits which met the approval of his father-in-law as being the “tastes of a gentleman.”

John Fenley did not show his usual foresight, certainly, in encouraging Roderick to be in the business and not of it; but then he confidently expected to live to settle up all his own affairs, and turn his large fortune into a shape in which it would be more easily managed than in its primitive form of timber lands and sawmills. No one could have anticipated his death, which occurred in the prime of his active life, some five years after his daughter’s marriage.

Even then his son-in-law hardly took the position expected of him. His long habit of standing aside was not easily overcome, and Mrs. Le Garde, who had a taste for affairs, and Mr. Rogers, her father’s private secretary, had actually more to do with certain important transactions than the nominal head of the business.

One of these transactions was as follows:

“Mrs. Le Garde,” said Mr. Rogers, being shown into the library one chilly afternoon in early October, “Macomb has cabled from Vienna to his agent here to close with us for that tract of Michigan timber, paying the price agreed upon for cash. I have had the papers ready for some time, and they only want signing. If you can come down town at once----”

Virginia looked down at her tea-gown, and then at the cheerful little fire on the hearth, and her novel lying face downward on the easiest chair.

“Won’t to-morrow morning do as well?” she asked, languidly.

“If you will permit me to say so, by no means, Mrs. Le Garde,” said Mr. Rogers, suavely.

Something in his manner attracted her attention.

“Why not?” she demanded.

Mr. Rogers looked at the fire for a moment before replying. “You wish to realize upon the land, you see,” he observed, vaguely. “The cablegram was received this morning. Macomb’s agent has no choice but to act on it now. By to-morrow, or next day at the farthest, there may be reasons apparent which would justify him in declaring the deal off. It is worth your while, _and it should be made worth mine_,” said Mr. Rogers, leaning upon the words, “to see that the matter is settled this afternoon. I have private advices that forest fires have started in northern Michigan--ah--somewhat in this vicinity, and their spread is greatly to be feared. I have not mentioned this to Mr. Le Garde.”

Mrs. Le Garde hesitated a moment. It would be charitable to suppose that she did not understand the situation so lightly sketched in, but I am afraid she did. Mr. Rogers did not raise his eyes.

“Oh, well,” she said, carelessly, “to-day or to-morrow, it doesn’t signify. If you will have a notary and Macomb’s agent at Mr. Le Garde’s office in half an hour, Mr. Rogers, I will be there.”

So it was that the papers were executed and payment made that afternoon. The next day but one, “Forest Fires. Danger to Lumber Interests in Michigan,” was a prominent head-line in the morning papers.

When Macomb came home from Vienna to look after his own affairs a month later he found himself the owner of a diminished bank account and some hundreds of acres of smoking pine-stumps.

He made a trip to northern Michigan to survey these latter possessions, and while there succeeded in securing some interesting statements which it pleased him to call “facts.” Armed with these, he went to Roderick Le Garde, and laid his case before him.

“First of all, I want to say that I have always thought you an honest man, Le Garde,” he observed, “and I wish to say that I am bringing no personal accusations, though the case looks black for you. But I know your man Rogers is a d----d scoundrel, though I fail to see how the sale could profit him, apart from its advantages to you. But you will see I have proof that he was well-informed on the day the transfer took place that that tract of timber was already on fire in a dozen places, and nothing on earth could save it from destruction. I call that obtaining money under false pretences, and I warn you if you don’t desire to repurchase the entire tract at the price I paid for it, that I propose to see at once what the courts will call it.”

“Much obliged for your good opinion of me,” said Le Garde, dryly. “I have perfect confidence in Rogers”--this was not strictly true, but Roderick was angry--“and none at all in your so-called ‘proofs.’ I shall do a little investigating for myself. If I find, as I believe, that Rogers had no other information in the matter than I myself possessed, and that you have met with your losses only in the ordinary course of events, you may bring as many suits as you like, and rest assured that the Fenley estate will fight them to the last dollar. If it is otherwise--but nothing else is possible! Good-morning, sir.”

III

“Virginia! Do you mean that Rogers actually approached _you_ in the matter?”

Mrs. Le Garde moved uneasily under the scorching light in her husband’s eyes. It was a new experience to see anything but tenderness in his face, but she respected him for the look she resented.

“He had to consult some one, of course. You have given no attention to things of late.” Her voice was irritatingly even. “Papa always said you had no head for business.”

“Your father was an honest man, Virginia,” cried her husband, desperately. “He would have been the last person in the world to attempt to increase his gains dishonestly.”

“I see nothing dishonest about it,” said Virginia, coldly. “I really think, Roderick, under all the circumstances, it would have been more appropriate if you had learned something about money in the last seven years--besides how to spend it.”

Nothing dishonest!

“Don’t you understand,” demanded Le Garde, in a terrible voice, “that the ‘commission’ you paid Rogers was blackmail, the price of his ‘news’ and his silence?”

Mrs. Le Garde shrugged her shoulders.

Roderick rose dumbly. He knew all that he need. The room whirled round him. How he made his way out of the house he did not know. Had he served seven years--for this? The fair house of his life, built up on the insubstantial foundations of a woman’s silence and her sweet looks, was tumbling about his ears. She whom he had made his wife, who wore the name he honored though it was his own, whom he had worshipped as woman never yet was worshipped, had failed in common honesty, and taunted him with the life he had led for her sake. She had betrayed him into a shameful position. That restitution was an easy matter and might be a secret one did not make the case less hard. He could have defended her had she been disgraced in the world’s eyes, but how might he defend her from himself?

It was a raw November night. As he went swiftly on, he felt the river-mists sweep soft against his face. He wrung his helpless hands. “Oh, God! It is dishonor! What shall I do? What shall I do?”

No help in the murky sky above him; none in the home whose lights lay behind; none in the river that rushed along beneath the bluff--that was the refuge of a coward and a shirk. Had he not already shirked too much in life?

What must he do? He tried to think collectedly, but in his pain he could not. There were visions before his eyes. He saw Virginia as she had seemed to him seven years ago--five years--yesterday--to-night. Was it true that he had never really seen her till to-night?

Oh, that brave, lost youth of his! His strong, light-hearted youth, with its poverty, its pride, and its blessed, blessed freedom! If he could but go back to it, and feel himself his own man once more, with his life before him to be lived as he had planned it. How was it that he had become entangled with a soul so alien to his own? And what did a man do when he reached a point from which he could not go back, yet loathed to go forward?

He tramped on and on through the drizzling November darkness. Gradually the tumult in his heart was stilled. He became aware that the air was cold, that he was splashed with mud and rain, that he had no hat, and wore only thin evening clothes. He turned at last, his teeth chattering in his head, and plodded back.

Two things grew clear before his mind--he must settle with Macomb to-morrow, and he must henceforth assume the control of John Fenley’s affairs which he had hitherto nominally possessed. Thank Heaven for the gift of work!

And Virginia?