CHAPTER III
A STRANGE BETROTHAL
When dinner was served at seven that Saturday evening, the banker andhis daughter faced each other in silence across the table. There wasno wife and mother in this money-king's family, for she had passed outof life when Patricia came into the world. This, perhaps, may accountfor the close intimacy that had always existed in the relations offather and daughter, between whom there had never been any break orshadow, until this particular Saturday afternoon.
"Old Steve," iron-faced, heavy jawed, and steady of eye, wore hisWall-street mask at this particular dinner; and he wore it as grimlyas ever he did when encountering a financial storm or a threatenedpanic. He felt that he had more to conceal, just now, than anyfinancial problem could ever compel him to face. He was no longer"dad." Patricia had practically omitted the use of even the lessendearing term of father; but whether intentionally or not, even theshrewd old banker could not determine. For years, he had forgottenthat he had a heart, save when he and his daughter were alonetogether. The money whirlpool of the financial section of the city hadmade him colder of aspect, harder in nature, and less considerate ofthe feelings of others. It had never even remotely occurred to himthat there could be any rupture between himself and Patricia, or thata yawning gulf, like this one was, could separate them.
But now there was one, and he recognized its breadth and its depth. Heknew that he could not cross it to her, and that it would never bebridged, save by Patricia herself. He had offended her beyondforgiveness, almost. He had not entirely realized that Patricia'snature and characteristics were so like his own, save only where theywere feminine instead of masculine, that she would now adopt thecourse he would have pursued under circumstances which might, by astretch of the imagination, be called parallel.
Patricia's face was almost as mask-like as her father's, save that hergreat, dark eyes were stormy in their depths, and would have suggestedto one who had sailed the Southern seas the brooding and far awayapproach of a monsoon. Her olive-tinted skin had in it a suggestion ofpallor; but only a suggestion. When she spoke at all it was to John,the butler who served them; and then it was always in her accustomedlow, evenly modulated tone. Not perceptibly different to the butlerwere her tone and manner, and yet even the servant, wise in hisgeneration, sensed the unsettled condition of things, and moved aboutlike a phantom; perhaps also he was a trifle more assiduous than usualin his efforts at perfect service.
Patricia ate sparingly, but bravely. There was nothing of theshrinking or pouting, or even of the petulant, in her character. Herfather ate nothing at all. He dawdled with his soup, turned his fishover and sent it away, and sniffed contemptuously at everything elsethat was placed before him. He made his dinner of coffee and cognac,and seemed to be greatly interested while he burned the latter overthree dominoes of sugar.
When the moment came to leave the table, there had been no wordexchanged between them; but then, with an effort, the banker assumedhis brightest and most kindly tone; and he asked, cheerily:
"Well, what have you on for to-night, my dear?"
"Nothing at all," she replied, indifferently, as if the question heldno interest for her--as, indeed, it did not, for the moment; but shefollowed him from the dining-room into the library, as was theirusual custom whenever they had dined alone. Now, as they entered it,the banker, with an assumption of high spirits he did not feel,remarked:
"If you don't object to a Saturday-night opera, Garden is singing'Salome' at the Manhattan to-night, and I should like to hear it. Willyou go, with your old dad?"
"No, thank you," she replied, indifferently. "I shall remain at home."
She was standing at the table, turning the leaves of a magazine, andher father glanced keenly at her across the intervening space, whilehe lighted a cigar. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, and a sighwhich could not have been seen or heard, and which only he himselfknew to have existed, he crossed the floor. As he was passing from theroom, he said, as indifferently as she had spoken:
"Then, I suppose, I will have to take it in, alone."
"You might ask Roderick to go with you," she threw at him, as hepassed into the hallway; but Langdon pretended not to hear, for hecalled back at her:
"I'll get Beatrice, I think, and ask her to play daughter for me; eh?"
Patricia made no comment upon this suggestion; but having awaited,where she was, the sound of the closing outer door, she slowly crossedthe room.
The drop-light at her favorite chair was adjusted, and she began thereading of a new book which someone had placed on the table beside it.She read on and on, apparently with interest, but really withoutknowing at all what she did read, until more than an hour had passed;and then a card was brought to her.
She glanced at it, although she believed she knew perfectly well whatname it bore, before she did so. Her lips tightened for an instant,and she frowned ever so little. But she said to the footman:
"You may bring Mr. Duncan here, James."
Patricia did not rise from her chair when her caller entered thelibrary. Duncan moved toward her eagerly, but meeting her eyes, whichshe raised quite calmly to his as he crossed the floor, he paused, andremained at about midway of the distance.
"Good evening, Patricia," he said. "I'm awfully glad to have found youat home. I was afraid you might go out before I could get here."
"I expected you," she told him, without returning his salute. "I havebeen expecting you for an hour. In fact, I have been waiting for you."
"That is very pleasant news, indeed, Patricia." Duncan was startledby it, however. He had not expected it, and he did not quite like thetone in which Patricia uttered it.
"I am glad you take it so," she returned. "It was not pleasant for meto wait for you, and it is not distinctly agreeable to me to receiveyou. But I believed that you would think it necessary to call, inorder to make some effort at explaining the occurrences of thisafternoon. Let me tell you, before you begin, that there exists nonecessity for any sort of explanation. My father has fulfilled thatduty quite fully, and I listened to him, throughout. He has exoneratedyou--"
Duncan took a hasty step toward her, but stopped again, even moreabruptly than before, repelled by the cold barrier that the expressionof her dark eyes built up between them. Whatever it was that he had inmind to say remained unspoken. He turned away and sought a chairopposite her, ten feet away, utterly repelled, for although these twohad grown to manhood and womanhood together, she had always had thepower to lift a sudden barrier between them. Though he believed heknew every mood and characteristic of this proud young woman, justnow, for the first time within his recollection, there was astrangeness about her that he could not fathom. Long habit had madehim almost as much at home in this house, as in his own. He had been,ever since he could remember, considered and treated like a member ofthe family. And so, now, before seating himself, he sought to puthimself more at ease by indulging in a liberty which had always beenaccorded to him. He selected a cigar from Stephen Langdon's box, andlighted it. Then, remembering that conditions were changed, he threwit down with an angry gesture, upon a receptacle for ashes that was onthe table. Patricia watched all these proceedings, unmoved.
"Patsy!" he exclaimed, abruptly, making use of an expression of theirchildhood; and he would have continued with rapid speech, had she notmade a quick gesture of aversion that interrupted him. Then, she said,quietly:
"I would prefer, if you don't mind, that you should henceforth use myfull name in addressing me."
"Patricia, you have just told me that your father has exonerated me;and if that is so, why do you receive me in just this manner? I needexoneration, all right; and I deserve it, too, for honestly, dear, Inever thought of offending you. I thought, until the last moment, thatyou would take it all as a huge joke. It never occurred to me thatyou would be so deeply wounded. I should never have agreed to thecrazy compact that your father and I made together, if I had realizedthe seriousness of it."
"No," she replied, quietly
. "You should not have agreed to it. It wasthe mistake of your life, and, perhaps, of mine."
"You know how I love you, dear," he began, half-starting from hischair. But the expression of her eyes, without the slightest motionotherwise, made him pause again, without completing what he hadstarted to say.
"It is best that we should be quite frank with each other," she said,calmly. "That is why I waited so patiently for you, to-night. Pleasedo not interrupt me; let me say what I have in mind to say to you."
"I would like it much better if you would hit me over the head withone of those bronze ornaments, as you would have done ten or twelveyears ago; or if you would fly into one of your tempers just as youused to do, Patricia. I would like anything better than this coldcalmness. It makes me shudder; it freezes me; it fills me withapprehension. I love you so, dear! and I have loved you all my life.You know it; I don't need to tell you! And if I have made a mistake,surely you can find it in your heart to forgive, because of my greatlove? No, I will not stop," he ejaculated, when she made a gesture ofimpatience. "I will finish what I have to say, even braving your angerto do so. I would like to make you angry just now, Patricia. I woulddelight to see you in one of those tantrums of fury that you used tohave when you and I were children together. Do you remember that Ibear a scar now, inflicted by a tennis-racket in your hand, when youwere ten years old? I think more of that scar than of any otherpossession I have, for even you cannot take it away from me. I loveyou with all the manhood there is in me, and I can't remember a timewhen I did not; and I have thought that I knew, all these years, thatyou loved me; I believe it now, even though the scorn in your eyesdenies it. You may have convinced yourself that you do not, but youare working from a wrong hypothesis. I know why you have put me off,time and again, when I have besought you to name our wedding-day. Ithas been because you were not quite ready. Isn't that true, dear? Youhave not denied me because you did not love me; you have put me offonly because you were not ready to become a wife. But you have lovedme; I am sure of that. You have never said that you would not be mywife; and in fact you have often shown me that some day you would be;you have only declined to say when. I have come to you to-night,Patricia, to tell you that I will wait, on and on, counting only yourown pleasure in the matter, until you are willing to appoint the time,if only you will say that you forgive me for the apparently despicablepart I have played in the tragedy of this afternoon."
"That is a very pretty speech you have just made. It sounds well, andis quite characteristic," she replied to him, calmly. "I shall be asfrank with you in my reply."
"Well?" he said, and waited. Her tone and manner startled him. Therewas a suggestion of finality in her attitude that was alarming. Shecontinued, speaking almost gently:
"I have believed in your love for me, as sincerely as I have believedin my father's love for me; and I think now that you were more to methan I realized. But, Roderick, have you ever watched a woodman in theforest chopping down a tree? And have you ever seen that tree fall,when its natural prop was stolen away by the sharp edge of the axe? Itmay have taken that tree a hundred, or a thousand years to grow; butwhen it crashes down, it is gone forever. A little, puny man has goneinto the forest with an axe upon his shoulder, and has ruthlesslyattacked one of God's greatest creations, a gorgeously abundant tree.He had no thought of what he was doing, of what he was destroying. Hisonly thought was of a purpose he had in view; and it was somehownecessary to destroy that tree in order to accomplish the purpose. Thething that nature created, which had required years to bring toperfection; the thing that God made beautiful was, in a few minutes,shorn of its splendor by this little, ruthless creature, who went intothe forest with the axe on his shoulder. That is what you have done towhatever love I may have felt for you, Roderick Duncan. It liesprostrate now, and it has borne down with it, all the lesser verdure,all the little trees and bushes and vines that grew about it, and hasleft only a bare spot--and the wounded stump. You were the woodmanwith the axe."
"My God, Patricia!" he cried out, appalled by the agony of his loss.He understood, suddenly, that this proud young woman would haveforgiven downright disloyalty more readily than such hurt to herpride.
She continued as if he had not spoken:
"My father informed me, this afternoon, as you are aware, of certainfinancial straits in which he has suddenly become involved. I knowenough about the methods and habits of 'the street,' to realize howimpossible it was for him to betray his condition to certain forcesand powers that are exerted there, lest, despite what he could do, heshould lose the great influence he now has over all the immense wealthof this country. While he was telling me about his condition, Inaturally thought of you; and I wondered why he had not gone to youinstantly; or, if you knew of the circumstance, I wondered the more,why you had not as instantly gone to him, and offered the assistancehe needed. Then, little by little by little, the plot which you twohad concocted together, was unveiled to me."
"But, Patricia, dear, won't you--?"
"Let me finish, please. I have not quite done so, as yet."
"Well, dear?"
"I have agreed to the terms that were adjusted between you and myfather, respecting the loan of a certain sum of money by you to him.Of course, you may repudiate those terms if you please, and it is amatter of indifference to me whether you do so, or not. You may loanthe money to my father without accepting me as the collateral for it;that also is a matter of indifference to me. But I wish to tell you,and I wish you thoroughly to understand, that, unless you carry outthe terms of this compact precisely as it was agreed upon between youand my father, with the added stipulations which I have requested Mr.Melvin to draw for me, I will never under any circumstances be yourwife, or receive you again. That, I think, concludes this interview. Ishall be ready Monday morning, at ten o'clock, to fulfill my part ofthe agreement. You and Stephen Langdon may do as you please. And now,please, bid me good-night--I prefer to be alone."
Duncan started from his chair and took two steps toward her, where hepaused. His face was pale, but his finely chiseled features were setin firm lines; and his tall, athletic figure, was drawn to its fullheight, as he replied, with slow emphasis:
"In that case, Patricia, we shall carry out the compact as agreedupon, and I shall conform to whatever stipulations you have made," hesaid. "Good-night."
He turned and went swiftly from the room. He seized his coat and hatbefore James, the footman, could assist him, and he went out at thefront door, with more bitterness and more anger in his soul than heremembered ever to have felt before against any man or woman. Butjust now the bitterness and the anger were directed chiefly againsthimself.
For a moment, he stood on the bottom step at the entrance to themansion, undecided as to which way he should go or what he should do.Then, he turned about and again rang the bell at Stephen Langdon'sdoor; and the instant it was opened, he brushed savagely past theastonished James, and made his way to the library, unannounced. Hepushed the door ajar noiselessly, without intending to do so, andhalted on the threshold, amazed by what he saw there. He had not meantto intrude in that silent fashion upon the privacy and grief of thewoman he loved, and as soon as he could master his emotions, hestepped quickly backward into the hall, re-closing the door as softlyas he had opened it. Patricia had given way at last. She had thrownherself upon the couch, and with her face buried among the pillows,she was sobbing as if her heart would break. His first impulse, whenhe discovered her so, was to rush to her side, to take her in hisarms, and to tell her over and over again of his love. But he knewinstinctively that Patricia would bitterly resent such an effort onhis part, that he would again offend her sense of pride if she shouldknow that he had found her in tears.
Outside the door, when he had closed it, he hesitated for a time;finally he wrote rapidly on the back of one of his cards, as follows:
"There will be little time on Monday morning to inspect the papers youmentioned. I shall be glad if you will direct Mr. Melvin to submit themto me at my rooms,
between five and six o'clock to-morrow afternoon.
R. D."
He gave this written message to James, instructing him not todeliver it until Miss Langdon summoned him to her, or she shouldleave the library. Then, he asked the footman:
"Do you happen to know where Mr. Langdon has gone, to-night, James?"
"To the opera, sir," replied the footman.
"Alone?"
"Quite so, sir, I believe."
Duncan walked the distance, which was considerable, from the Langdonmansion to the Opera House, where he went directly to StephenLangdon's box, believing that he would find the banker to be it'ssolitary occupant, and there were reasons why he greatly desired aprivate conference with Patricia's father. He entered the box withoutannouncement and came to a sudden pause when he discovered that thebanker was not alone. Beside him, with her white arm resting upon therail at the front of the box, was seated a young woman whom Duncanknew well; and she happened to be the one person in New York who camenearest to being on terms of intimacy with Patricia. For Miss Langdonwas one who had never permitted herself to be intimate with anybody.Others might be intimate with her, as Beatrice Brunswick had been, butthat close and personal relation which so often exists between twoyoung women, and which is so beautiful in its character, was somethingPatricia Langdon had never permitted herself to know. She was not evenaware that this was so. The condition arose from no lack of sympathyfor others, and from no want of affection for her friends; it was acharacteristic reserve of manner and method, inherited from herfather, which had been cultivated by and through her association withhim, all her life long.
While Roderick Duncan halted for an instant, to consider whether, ornot, he should proceed with his original design, and while he stillstood there, holding the curtains apart and appearing much as if hewere a stealthy observer of the scene before him, the young womanturned her head and discovered him. She smiled brightly and uttered anexclamation of pleasure as she started to her feet and approached himwith out-stretched hand. One could have seen that the pleasure shemanifested, was very real. It was at once evident that she likedDuncan.
"How good of you to come, and how fortunate!" she said, when he tookher hand and raised it to his lips, just as the banker turned about inhis chair, and with a grim smile also made Duncan welcome.
"Hello," he said. "Glad you came! I have been wondering all theevening where you were. Had an idea you would show up somewhere. Sitdown and keep still until this act is finished, for I don't want tolose it. After that, we'll chat a little. There are things I wish todiscuss with you, Roderick."
Roderick Duncan was in a mood that was strange to him. It affected himto recklessness, though he could not have told why it was so, or inwhat form of recklessness he might indulge. The discovery he had madewhen he returned to the library and found Patricia in tears, was stillhaving its effects upon him, for he did not understand the cause forthose tears. He knew only that he had made her cry, that herabandonment of grief was due to his acts, and her father's. By astrange paradox, he pitied himself as deeply as he did the woman heloved. He felt that he had been forced into a second false positionby so readily accepting the terms Patricia had insisted upon for theirbetrothal. She had told him plainly that if she ever became his wifeat all, the fact could be accomplished only in the manner shedictated; that if he repudiated it, he would not even be received ather home. Impulsively, he had accepted her dictum, and now, at the endof his long and solitary walk to the opera-house, he realized that thechange from frying-pan to fire was a simile true as to his presentcondition. Practically, the end so long sought had been attained. Ineffect, he and Patricia were betrothed--but such a betrothal! For themoment, he regretted his ready acquiescence to Patricia's terms. Hebelieved that it would be better to lose her entirely than to take herunder such conditions.
The meeting with Beatrice Brunswick and her sincere welcome warmedhim, and he found a ready sympathy in her eyes and manner for hiscondition of mind. He wanted company and he wanted sympathy; chiefly,he had wished to discuss the present situation of affairs with oldSteve; but now, since his arrival at the box, he decided that it wouldbe a splendid opportunity to talk the matter over with BeatriceBrunswick. She had always shown him great consideration. He hadregarded her as Patricia's dearest friend, and had ultimately placedher in that relationship to himself, for she was one of those rareyoung women whom men class as "good fellows." And Beatrice was as goodas she was beautiful. Her merry laugh and quick wit always acted uponDuncan like a tonic. Just now, he was especially glad to find herthere, and he showed it.
Beatrice Brunswick was unmistakably red-headed. Referring to her hairin cold-blooded terms, no other hue could have described it. It waslike that old-fashioned kind of red copper, after it has been hammeredinto sheets, in the manner in which it was treated before less arduousmethods were invented. It was remarkable hair, too--there was such awealth of it! It had always impressed Duncan with the idea that eachindividual hair was in business for itself, refusing utterly to staywhere it was put. A young woman's crowning glory, always, thishappened to be particularly true in the case of Miss Brunswick, for,although her features and her figure and her graceful motions leftnothing to be desired, it was her wonderful hair, emphasized by thesaucy poise of her head, that became her crowning glory, indeed.Duncan took a seat near to her, so that she was between him and thebanker; and presently Beatrice inclined her head toward him, andwhispered:
"What's the matter, Roderick? You look like a banquet of the Skull andBones, which my brother described to me once, when he was at Yale."
"I'll tell you about it later," was the response; and Duncan shut hisjaws, and bent his attention grimly upon the stage.
"Why not now?" She asked.
"There isn't time; and besides--"
"Have you been quarreling with our Juno? Have you two been scrapping?"She whispered, smiling bewitchingly, and bending still nearer to him.Miss Brunswick was sometimes given to the milder uses of slang.
Duncan nodded, without replying in words. He kept his eyes directlytoward the stage. But Miss Brunswick was insistent.
"Is Patricia on her high horse to-night?" she asked, with a lightlaugh.
Duncan replied to her with another nod, and a wry smile.
"She wants to look out about that high horse of hers, Roderick, orsometime it will hit the top rail and give her a fall that she won'tget over for a while. What our beautiful Juno needs most is what Iused to get oftenest when I was about three years old. Perhaps you canguess what it was; if you can't, I won't tell you."
"I expect you were a regular little devil then, weren't you?" heasked, endeavoring to assume a cheerfulness he was far fromexperiencing at that moment.
"I expect I was; and the strange part of it is that there are lots andlots of people who insist that I have never got over it. But I canread you like a book. You and Mr. Langdon and Patricia have beenhaving no end of a row. He might just as well have told me that muchwhen he came after me and insisted that I should accompany him to theopera to-night. He said that Patricia wouldn't, and he wanted me totake her place. I wish you would tell me all about it." Then, with aslight toss of her head, Beatrice added: "I suppose Patricia hasrefused you again?"
"No. She has accepted me, this time," was the blunt reply.
Beatrice stared straight in front of her for a moment, and there was asuggestion of gathering pallor in her face. Then, she drew backward,away from her companion, and her blue eyes widened. If there was ashock to her in the knowledge she had just received, she accepted itwith a very clever little laugh which she always had ready at hand.
"So," she said, "that is what makes you so glum, is it? Really, youare a most amazing person. I had supposed that when Patricia acceptedyou, finally, and set the day--"
"The day hasn't been set. It may be a week, a month, or a year hence,for all I know." This was said harshly, and while Duncan's eyes werefixed steadily upon Mary Garden, on the stage.
&
nbsp; "How intensely interesting!" Beatrice exclaimed, under her breath. "Ishall insist upon your taking us to supper after the opera, andtelling me all about it."
The loud bars of music which announce the finale of an act and theentrance of the chorus precluded the possibility of furtherconversation just then; and as soon as the curtain was down and theapplause had ceased, Stephen Langdon left his chair and reached forhis coat and hat. Then, he addressed the two young people who were hiscompanions in the box.
"If you two youngsters care to see this out, I'll leave you here,together," he said. "I have just remembered something I should haveattended to, to-night. I must see Melvin, my lawyer. You won't mind,Beatrice, will you, if I leave you in Roderick's care? Possibly, I'llreturn before the show is out."
Before either of them could answer, Langdon had passed out into theaisle, and hurried away, leaving Duncan and Miss Brunswick alonetogether in the box. If Roderick Duncan had really desired anopportunity to confide his troubles to Beatrice, it was afforded himthen; but now that it was at hand, he felt suddenly uncertain aboutthe wisdom of such a proceeding.