CHAPTER XXV
THE COLONEL GIVES UP HIS LUXURIES
The Colonel pulled himself together. Ellis was gone, and relieved fromthat oppressive influence Blanchard held up his head. He tried to smile,and found that he succeeded fairly well. He tested his voice; it came asusual, sonorously.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, "the fellow's gone."
"Father," answered Judith, "you and I have both done wrong."
He waved his hand impatiently; would her confounded straightforwardnessnot let him forget? "Never mind."
"Never mind?" she repeated. "Father, we can't put this aside for asingle minute. We must plan at once what shall be done."
"You always were fiery," he said indulgently. "Well, go ahead."
"We need Beth," and Judith went to call her in. Beth came, white withapprehension, having heard tones but not words, and feeling rather thanknowing that there was trouble. She sought to learn all from onequestion. "Where is Mr. Ellis?"
"Gone," answered Judith. "He will not come here again."
"Oh," she cried, "I am glad. Then why so grave?"
"Mr. Ellis," her sister said, "has gone away very angry, and father oweshim money." Then she looked upon the Colonel with sudden suspicion."Father, you said _about_ ten thousand dollars. Was it more?"
"My dear child," he protested, "this matter is not so great as yousuppose. And I cannot tell you all of my affairs."
"Father," she returned, "for my sake, if not for yours, Mr. Ellis shouldbe paid at once."
He rebuked her. "I know how to keep our honour clean. Mr. Ellis shall bepaid at once."
"You promise that, sir?"
"I do."
"And will it mean that we must sell the house?"
"It will." The Colonel always excelled in the delivery of monosyllables.
"Sell the house?" gasped Beth.
"Come here, dear," said Judith, and drew her to her side. "Beth, youhave plenty of courage, I know."
"I hope so." Pleased by the unusual caress, Beth controlled hertrembling. "What are you planning, Judith?"
"We must entirely change our way of life." Judith looked to her fatherfor confirmation; he nodded. "Are you willing to work, Beth?"
"I am willing," was the confident answer.
"Father," Judith asked, "how much will the house bring?"
"Come here," he answered. "Let me tell you what we must do."
He went to the sofa; they followed. Beth took the place he indicated athis side; Judith sat in a chair. The Colonel, still smiling, looked onthem paternally, and began to depict in words his ready imaginings.
"When the house is sold and the debt is paid," he said, "we shall haveleft--let me see, perhaps twenty thousand dollars. I don't need toexplain," he interrupted himself to say, "that had not other resourcespreviously failed me--mismanagements and losses, dears, not from myfault--I should never have turned to Mr. Ellis for assistance. No, no;of course you understand that. Therefore, the house is our only sourceof capital. Well, twenty thousand left: that would mean perhaps athousand dollars a year to house and feed and clothe us. Yes, perhaps athousand." The Colonel clung to the _perhaps_; it was covering a lie,several lies. "You see, we shall really be in difficulties."
"Yes," murmured Beth.
The Colonel warmed to his task. "Now, you are both young; on the otherhand I am not old, and I am a soldier. The habit of courage, girls, Ilearned in my youth. So we are well equipped. But, only a thousanddollars! That will pay rent; perhaps it will pay for food. And ourclothes, our little knick-knacks, we must earn for ourselves."
"Shall we take an apartment?" asked Beth, for Judith remained silent,watching her father intently. "One of the new ones they have beenputting up?"
"Ah, no," he said kindly. "They cost five hundred a year, my child. Thismust be something of an emigration, Beth: this quarter of the town is nolonger for us. But there are very respectable, quiet neighbourhoodswhere we can go; and even houses, not apartments, that we can rent. Doesthat dismay you?"
Beth pressed his hand. "No, father, no!"
He avoided Judith's steady look, and smoothed Beth's hair. "Servants--Idon't think we can afford them. One of you two must do the housework.Which shall it be?"
"I!" Beth answered promptly.
"Cooking, dishwashing, sweeping," he warned her. "Are you reallywilling?"
"If you will be patient with my mistakes."
"My dear little girl, I am proud of you. Judith, is she not fine?" Butstill he kept his eyes upon the pleased and blushing Beth. "And we twoothers will earn the money."
"I am sorry," responded Beth. Then she brightened. "But, father, need itbe so bad as this? You know so much of affairs; you can command a goodsalary at once."
"Remember," he said, "that I have failed. The world has gone against me.No one will have use for me. A clerk or a bank messenger--that is themost I can look to be."
"No, no!" cried Beth, shocked.
"It is natural," he said with resignation. "And perhaps Judith, with hertalents and her typewriter, before long will be supporting all three ofus." For the first time Judith heard his natural tone, in this reminderof his many little flings. "And we will all economise!"
"It will not be hard," Beth said.
"No," was the paternal response, "because we shall be doing it together.Think--some little four-room cottage. Perhaps not all the modernimprovements, but never mind. We leave you early in the morning, Judithand I; we take the crowded electrics with all the other people going totheir work. Judith snatches a few minutes to go to a bargain sale; I, ata ready-made-clothing store, fit myself to a twelve-dollar suit. Then wework hard all day, we three--and perhaps it will be hardest for you,Beth, to be so much alone. But at night we meet over the simple meal youhave prepared, and go early to bed, fatigued by our day."
Even Beth saw how far this was from the Colonel's nature. "Father, itwill be hardest for you."
"No worse," he replied, "than the Wilderness campaign. Never you fret,dear; I can resign my luxuries. And if our friends over here sometimesspeak of us with pity, we shall not meet them often enough to feel hurtwhen they do not recognise us in our cheap clothes."
"Father," cried Beth. "Our friends will stand by us. You shall see!"
"They will patronise us," he answered. "Shall we care for that?Especially Judith." And he turned to her at last.
"I can stand anything," she replied. "I am glad that you have foreseenall this, father."
"Did you doubt me?" he asked. He rose, and the girls rose with him. "Butnow I must go to my room; I must make a beginning on my new life.Good-night, Beth. Kiss me. Kiss me, Judith. Dears," he said, gazing onthem affectionately, "we have had little dissensions from time to time,but I promise never to quarrel with you more. No, don't reply; I knowyou will be as forbearing toward me. Good-night; I am going to mystudy." He went to the door, and paused a moment. "Judith, did youreally doubt me? You shall see what I can do."
Waving them a final good-night, he was gone. He climbed the stairbriskly at first; then his step became slower, and his head bowed. Inhis study he sank into a chair and passed his hand across his forehead,where the perspiration had already started out. That had been an effort,but it was over, and now----!
He was sitting alone in this little room; like shadows his thoughtsclosed in on him. No, he had not lied; he had said _perhaps_. But thehouse was mortgaged to its full value, Ellis held the mortgages, and theinterest was long overdue. The furniture was pledged. Monday, owningnothing but the clothes on his back, he would be turned into the street.Judith had failed him; everything had failed him. Life, so pleasant,had played him false at last; there was no outlook any more. Slowly,without spirit, consumed with self-pity, he took pen and paper and beganto write. How little there was to say! The letter was finished all toosoon.
In the parlour the two girls sat and spoke together. "How brave offather!" Beth said.
Judith answered, "I never saw him less like himself."
"He is a new man," Beth explained.
"He is setting us an example. We mustwork, and be a credit to him."
Judith's energy returned. She would work, she said. The typewriter washer own; it was paid for. She would apply herself to master it. Werethey still rich, even then she would go to work. She must occupyherself, and forget. And as for Beth, before long Jim would come andclaim her.
Then Judith remembered Mather's note, and the trouble deepened. If Jimhad gone wrong, how would Beth, innocent Beth, bear that? She stole aglance at her sister. Beth was listening.
"Father, is that you?" she called.
The Colonel's voice answered from the hall. "I just came down forsomething." They heard him go up-stairs again.
"He came down very quietly," said Beth. "I heard him in the backparlour. Poor father! He is very brave."
Then both sat silent, thinking. "We have good blood," said Judith atlast with a tremor of pride in her voice. "We will show we are notafraid of what may happen."
"Yes," Beth answered. "--Hush, what was that?"
"I heard nothing," Judith said.
Beth's eyes grew larger as she sat rigid. "It was a groan," shewhispered. "Listen!"
Then they both heard it, unmistakable, coming from the floor above. Theystarted up, but stood in fear, questioning each other with their eyes.Again it came, but feebler, like a deep sigh.
"Father!" cried Judith, and hastened to the stairs. Up they hurried;they were breathless when they reached the study door. There theyhalted, transfixed.
The Colonel had finished his letter; it lay on the desk by his side. Hereclined in the easy-chair as if asleep, but from his breast stood outthe handle of the Japanese knife.