CHAPTER II
THE BLOW
The name that signed the telegram was that of Mrs. Doran's lawyer andman of business. It was that also of Max Doran's old-time chum, GrantReeves, Edwin Reeves' son. And when Max stepped out of the limited inthe Grand Central Station of New York, among the first faces he saw werethose of the two Reeveses, who had come to meet him. He shook hands withboth, warmly and gratefully with Grant. He had never been able really tolike his friend's father. But it was to him he turned with the question:"How is she?"
The elder, tall, thin, clean-shaven, with carrot-red hair turning gray,had prominent red eyebrows over pale, intelligent eyes that winkedoften, owing to some weakness of the lids, which had lost most of theirlashes. This disfigurement he concealed as well as he could with rimless_pince-nez_, which some people said were not necessary as an aid toeyesight. They were an aid to vanity, however; and the care Edwin Reevesbestowed on his clothes suggested that he was a vain as well as a cleverman.
The son was a young and notably good-looking copy of his father, whosepartner in business he had lately become. They were singularly alikeexcept in colouring, for Grant was brown-haired and brown-eyed, withplenty of curled-back lashes which gave him an alert look.
Both men started forward at the sight of Max, Grant striding ahead ofEdwin and grasping Max's hand, "I _had_ to come, old chap," he said,with a pleasant though slightly affected accent meant to be English. "Iwanted just to shake hands and tell you how I felt."
"Thank you, Grant," said Max. "Is she--is there hope?"
"Oh, there's always hope, you know; isn't there, governor?"
Grant Reeves appealed to his father, who had joined them. "Who can tell?She's wonderful."
Edwin Reeves took the hand Max held out, and then did nothing with it,in the aloof, impersonal way that had always irritated Max, and made himwant to fling away the unresponsive fingers. Now, however, for the firsttime in his life he did not notice. He was lost in his desire for andfear of the verdict.
"It would only be cruel to raise his hopes," the father answered theson. "The doctors (there are four) say it's a miracle she's kept alivetill now. Sheer will-power. She's living to see you."
Max was dumb, his throat constricted. And then, there was nothing tosay. Something deep down in him--something he could not bear tohear--was asking why she should suddenly _care_ so much? She had nevercared before, never really cared, though in his intense admiration ofher, almost amounting to worship, he had fought to make himself believethat she did love him as other mothers loved their sons. Yet his heartknew the truth: that she had become more and more indifferent as hegrew up from a small boy into a young man. Since he went to West Pointthey had spent very little time together, though they were always onaffectionate terms. She had never spoken a disagreeable word to him,never given him a cross look. Only--there had been nothing of the motherabout her. She had treated him like a nice visiting boy who must beentertained, even fascinated, and then gently got rid of when he beganto be a bore. In his first term at West Point she had sailed for Europe,and stopped there for two years. When he was graduated she had goneagain, and stayed another year. They had met only once since he had beenstationed at Fort Ellsworth: last Christmas, when he had run on to NewYork and surprised her. She had been in great beauty, looking not a dayover thirty. And now--Max could not make it seem true. But, at least,she wanted him. Max clutched at the thought with passion, and scarcelyheard Grant saying that he must hurry on to the office; he had come onlyfor a word and a handshake: it was better that the governor alone shouldgo with dear old Max to the house.
Mrs. Doran's town automobile was waiting with a solemn chauffeur andfootman who bent their eyes reverently, not to look the stricken youngsoldier in the face. Max had a sick thrill as he saw the smart bluemonster, with its row of glittering glass eyes; it had been hisChristmas present to his mother by request. When the telegram told himbriefly that she had been hurt in a motor accident, he had thought withagony that it might have been in the car he had given. He was thankfulthat it had not been so. That would have seemed too horrible--as if hehad killed her. Now he would hear how it had really happened. Everynerve was tense as if he were awaiting an operation without anesthetics.
There were not many blocks to go from the Grand Central to the FifthAvenue home of the Dorans, an old house which had been remodelled andmade magnificent by Max's father to receive his bride. In less than tenminutes the blue automobile had slipped through all the traffic andreached its destination; but many questions can be asked and answered ineight minutes. Between the moment of starting, and the moment when Max'sone hastily packed suitcase was being carried up to the door, he hadheard the whole story. The fated car had been a friend's car. There hadbeen a collision. The two automobiles had turned over. For half an hourshe had lain crushed under the weight of the motor before she could begot out. Her back was broken, and she had been horribly burnt. Even ifshe could have lived--which was impossible--she would have beenshockingly disfigured. Edwin Reeves had been with her once, for a fewminutes: she had wanted to speak to him about certain things, matters ofbusiness, and the doctors, who never left her, had stopped giving heropiates on purpose. From the first she had said that she must be keptalive till Max could come, and that no matter what she had to suffer hermind must be clear for a talk with him. After that, nothing mattered.She wanted to die and be out of her misery. When Mr. Reeves had beentaken into her room her face had been covered with a white veil, and Maxmust prepare himself to be received in the same way. It was better thathe should know this beforehand and be spared a shock.
Never to see that beautiful face again in this world! Max felt like onedead and galvanized as he walked into the house and was received by adoctor--some great specialist whose name he had heard, but whom he hadnever chanced to meet. Not once did his thoughts rush back to BillieBrookton, and the night when he had meant to put on her finger the bluediamond in the platinum ring. Billie was in another world, a world amillion miles away, as following the doctor Max walked softly into hismother's room.
There he had once more that insistent feeling of unreality. The gay roomwith its shell-pink melting into yellow and orange looked so unsuited toany condition but joy that it was impossible to believe tragedy hadstalked in uninvited. Even with the morning light shut out by the drawnyellow curtains, and the electricity turned on in the flower orgauze-shaded lamps, it looked a place dedicated to the joy of life andbeauty. But when, with a physical effort, Max turned his eyes to thebed, copied from one where Marie Antoinette had slept, he saw that whichseemed to throw a pall of crape over the fantastic golden harmonies. Afigure lay there, very straight, very flat and long under the coverletpulled high over the breast. Even the hands were hidden: and over theface was spread a white veil of chiffon, folded double, so that no gleamof eye, no feature could even be guessed at.
Until that moment, Max had kept his self-control. But at sight of thatpiteous form, and remembering the radiant face framed with great bunchesof red-gold hair, which he had kissed good-bye, in this very bed notthree months ago, the dam which had held back the flood of anguishbroke. It was as if his heart had turned to water. Tears sprang from hiseyes, and the strength went out of his knees. It was all he could do notto fall at the side of the bed and to sob out his mother's name, tellingher that he would give his life a hundred times for hers if that couldbe, or that he would go out of the world with her rather than she shouldgo alone. But something came to his help and kept him outwardly calmsave for a slight choking in the throat as he said softly, standing bythe bedside, "Dearest, I am here."
"At last," came a faint murmur from under the double veil.
Max thought, with a sharp stab of pain, that he would not haverecognized the voice if he had not known that it was his mother's. Itsounded like the voice of a little, frail, very old woman; whereas RoseDoran had been a creature of glorious physique, looking and feeling atleast fifteen years younger than her age.
"I started the minute I had the tel
egram," Max said, wanting to makesure that she realized his love, his frantic haste to reach her. "It hasseemed a hundred years! Darling, if I could bear this for you. If----"
"Please, don't," the little whining voice under the veil fretfully cuthim short. "I can't see very well. Has the doctor gone out?"
"Yes, dearest. We're alone."
"I'm glad. There isn't much time, and I've got a story to tell you. Iought to call it a confession."
That swept Max's forced calmness away. "A confession from you to me!" hecried out, horrified. "Never! Darling One, whatever it is I don't wantto hear it--I don't need to hear it, I know---- Rest. Be at peace. Justlet us love each other."
"You don't know what you are talking about." The veiled voice grewshrill. "You only do harm trying to stop me. You'll kill me if you do."
"Forgive me, dear." Max controlled himself again. "I'll not say anotherword. I----"
"Then don't--don't! I want to go on--to the end. I'd rather you satdown. I can see you standing there. It's like a black shadow between meand the light, accusing--no, don't speak! It needn't accuse. Youwouldn't have had the life you've had, if--but I mustn't begin likethat. Where are you now? Are you near enough to hear all I say? I can'traise my voice."
"I'm sitting down, close by the bed. I can hear the least whisper," Maxassured her. He sat with his head bowed, his hands gripping the arms ofthe chair. This seemed unbearable, to spend the last minutes of her lifehearing some confession! It was not right, from a mother to a son. Buthe must yield.
"I don't know how long I can stand it--the pain, I mean," she moaned."So I can't try and break things gently to you, for fear--I have to stopin the midst. I'm not your mother, Max, and Jack wasn't your father. Buthe thought he was. He never knew. And he loved you. I didn't. I nevercould. You see--I _did_ know. You must have wondered sometimes. I sawyou wondered; I suppose you never guessed, even though I always told youto call me Rose, or anything you liked, except mother?"
She was waiting for him to answer; and he did answer, though it was asif she had thrown him over a precipice, and he were hanging by somebranch which would let him crash down in an instant to the bottom of anunknown abyss.
"No, I never guessed." Queer how quiet, how utterly expressionless hisvoice was! He heard it in faraway surprise.
"I used to be afraid at first that Jack would guess, you were so unlikeeither of us, so dark, so--so _Latin_. But he said you were a throw-backto his Celtic ancestors. There were French and Irish ones hundreds ofyears ago, you know. He never suspected. Everything happened just as Ihoped it would--just as I wanted it to. But I didn't realize how Ishould feel about it if I were going to die. The minute I came to myselfafter--the accident, it rushed over me. Not the very first thought. Thatwas about myself. I wanted to know if my looks were gone. When they hadto say yes, I was glad--thankful--I could die. I'd have poisoned orstarved myself rather than live on. But no need of that. I think I couldlet myself slip away any minute now. I'm just--holding on. For somethingtold me--I have a feeling that Jack himself came, and has been here eversince, knowing all I had done and willing me to tell the truth. Istruggled a little against it, for why shouldn't you go on being happy?Nothing was _your_ fault. But it was borne in on me that I must give youthe chance to choose for yourself, and--_another_. That's why Jack hascome, perhaps. She is his daughter."
"There was a girl, our child. But--you can't understand unless I tellyou the story. I shall have strength. I feel I shall now--to getthrough with it. Perhaps Jack will help. He was the one human being Iever loved better than myself. That was real love! What I did was partlyfor his sake, I'm honestly sure of that. He wouldn't have let me do it.But it made him happy, not knowing----
"You've been told over and over how you were born in France, when Jackand I had the Chateau de la Tour, on the Loire. That was true--the onetrue thing. But you weren't born in the chateau. It wasn't for nothingthat you learned French almost as easily as you breathed--and Latin,too. I suppose things like that are in people's blood. You are French.If I had left you where you were, you would have grown up MaximeDelatour. Delatour was your real father's name; he came originally ofthe de la Tours, but his branch of the family had gone down, somehow.Even the name was spelled differently, in the common way. But they livedin the same neighbourhood--that is how it all came about."
She paused, and gave a sigh like a faint moan. But Max was silent. Hecould spare her nothing. She must go on to the end--if the end weredeath. For there was somebody else, somewhere, who had to be put in hisplace--the place he had thought was his.
"It was really because I loved Jack--too much," the veiled woman stillfretfully excused herself. "I should have been nobody, except for mylooks. He married me for my looks, because I was strong and tall andfine, as a girl should be. He thought I could give him a splendid heir.You know how things are arranged in this family. The property goes fromfather to son, or a daughter, if there's no son. But they all pray forsons. The Dorans want to carry on the name they're so proud of--just asyou have been proud! The wife of a Doran's important only if she'sbeautiful, or if she has a son. I wanted to be important for bothreasons. Oh, how I wanted it!
"Jack took me to England for our honeymoon, and then to France. Wehadn't been in Paris long before I knew I was going to have a child.Jack was so happy! He was sure it would be a boy--the most gorgeous boyever born. How I remember the day I told him, and he said that! But allthe time I had the presentiment it would be a girl. I felt guilty,miserable, when Jack talked about the baby.... The doctors said it wouldbe safer for me not to have a sea voyage, so we decided to stop inFrance till after the child came. We stayed in Paris at first, and Jackand I used to go to the Louvre to see beautiful pictures andstatues--for the 'sake of the boy.'
"When the Salon opened we went there, and I saw a painting every one wastalking about--by a new artist. It was called 'Bella Donna,' just awoman's head and shoulders. Max, _she was like me_! But she washorrible, wicked--somehow deformed, though you couldn't see how. Youonly felt it. And besides being like me, she was like a lynx. There wasone in the Zoo in London, with just her expression. Jack and I saw ittogether, and he laughed, and said now he knew who my first ancestresswas. He didn't say anything about my looking like 'Bella Donna,' but Iknew he must have thought it. He got me away from the picture as soon ashe could, but I couldn't forget. The lynx-face, with the yellow eyesand red hair like mine, haunted me. I began to dream of my child beingborn like that--a girl, deformed in the horrid, mysterious way that youcould only feel. I could never go to sleep again on a night after thedream. I suppose I looked pale; and he worried, and the doctors advisedthe country. We had some friends who'd just come back from the Loire,and they told us about a wonderful chateau there that was to be rentedfurnished. It belonged to an old family named de la Tour, who had losttheir money. They had a romantic, tragic sort of history that interestedus, especially Jack, so we went to see the place. There were vineyardsbadly cultivated, and a forest, and some shooting, too; and we took itfor a few months. But we hadn't been there many weeks when a telegramcame to Jack from Edwin Reeves. Edwin acted for him even then. It wasimportant, on account of some business, for Jack to go home. He wouldhave answered that it was impossible, but I said, why not go? I wassafe, and he could be back in a month or five weeks. I had old AnneWickham with me, and she'd been my nurse when I was a little girl, youknow, and my maid afterward, till she died. You can remember her."
Max could. As a very tiny boy he had been almost afraid of old AnneWickham, because his nurse was afraid of her: also because she hadglared at him critically, mercilessly, with her great eyes in darkhollows, never smiling kindly, as other people did, but seeming tosearch for some fault in him. Now, suddenly, he understood this gloomyriddle of his childhood.
Rose Doran, beneath her veil, did not wait for any answer, or wish forone. She hurried on, only stopping now and then to sigh out herrestlessness and pain, making Max bite his lip and quiver as if underthe lash.
"We had a Paris doc
tor engaged, and a trained nurse," she said. "Theywere to come weeks before I expected my baby. I don't know how much Jackwas to pay for the doctor--thousands of dollars; and Jack thought to beback in a month before, at latest. But one day I caught my foot goingdownstairs, and fell. We had to send for the village doctor in a hurry,and Anne had to remember all she knew about nursing. The child was aseven months' baby--a girl. And she had a face like mine, and like'Bella Donna,' and like a lynx. There was just that look of deformity Ihad dreamed--mysterious and dreadful. I hated the creature. I couldn'tfeel she was mine and Jack's. She was like some changeling in an oldwitch tale. I couldn't bear it! I knew that I'd rather die than haveJack see that wicked elf after all his hopes. I told the doctor so. Ithreatened to kill myself. I don't know if I meant it. But he thought Idid. He was a young man. I frightened him. While he was trying tocomfort me an idea flashed into my head. It seemed to shoot in, like anarrow. I begged the doctor to find me a boy baby whose mother would takethe girl and a lot of money. I said I would give him ten thousanddollars for himself, too, if he could manage it secretly, so no one buthe and Anne Wickham and I need ever know. At first he kept exclaiming,and wouldn't listen. But I cried, and partly by working on his feelingsand partly with the bribe that was a fortune to such a man, I persuadedhim. Anne helped. She would have done anything for me. And she knew theDorans. She knew Jack could never feel the same to me, as the mother ofthat impish girl.
"The doctor knew about a young woman who had just had a child--a boy.He'd helped bring it into the world a night or two before. She was thewife of a private soldier who'd been ordered off to Algeria somewhere.They'd been married secretly. If she had money she would have followedhim. But they were very poor. The man was mixed up with the romance ofthe de la Tours; he belonged to the branch of the family that had gonedown. They were called Delatour, but every one knew their history. Thedoctor thought the girl would do anything for the money I'd offer--andto get to Algeria. He managed the whole thing for me, and certified thatmy child was a boy. He even went to Paris and sold my pearls and adiamond tiara and necklace, and lots of other things, worth ever so manythousands more than I'd promised to pay him and Madame Delatour. Yousee, I hadn't any great sums of money by me, so I was forced to sellthings. And afterward I had to pretend that my jewels were stolen from atrain while we were in the dining-car; otherwise Jack would havewondered why I never wore them. I was thankful the night you werebrought to me. I hadn't any remorse then, about sending the other babyaway. I told you she didn't seem mine. She seemed hardly human. But Iwas frightened because you were so dark. You had quantities of blackhair. I didn't even try to love you. Only I felt you were very valuable.So did Anne. And when Jack came hurrying back to me on the doctor'stelegram, he was pleased with you. He called you in joke his 'littleFrenchman.' He didn't dream it was all truth! And he didn't mind yourbeing called Max. You'd already been baptized Maxime, after the soldier;and his wife made just that one condition: that the name should be kept.
"I told Jack I'd always loved the name of Max, so he loved it, too; andthough you had other names given to you--the ones we plannedbeforehand--nothing fitted the 'little Frenchman' so well as Max. That'sall the story. At first Anne and I used to be afraid of blackmail,either from the Delatour woman (who went off at once, before she wasreally strong enough to travel) or from the doctor, who hurried her awayas much for his sake as for hers, lest it should be found out by someneighbour that her boy had been changed for a girl. Luckily for us,though, people avoided her. They didn't believe she was really married.But the doctor said she was. And he turned out to be honest. He nevertried to get more money out of me. Neither did the woman. His name wasPaul Lefebre, and the village was Latour. I've never heard anything fromthem or about them since Jack and I and you and Anne left the Chateau dela Tour, when you were six weeks old. I didn't wish to hear. I wanted toforget, as if it had all been a bad dream. Only Anne's eyes wouldn't letme. They seemed to know too much. I couldn't help being glad when shewas dead, though she'd been so faithful. But when Jack died in thatdreadful, sudden way, then for the first time I felt remorse--horribleremorse, for a while.... I thought he was taken from me by God as apunishment--the one human being I'd ever loved dearly! And I gotinsomnia, because his spirit seemed to be near, looking at me, knowingeverything. But the feeling passed. I suppose I'm not deep enough tofeel anything for long. I lived down the remorse. And it was fortunatefor me I had a child; otherwise all but a little money would have goneto the Reynold Dorans. You've been good to me, Max, and I've liked youvery well. I've tried not to think about the past. But when I did think,I said to myself that you had nothing to complain of. What a differentlife it would have been for you, with your own people. And even as itis, you needn't give up anything unless you choose. If Jack were aliveI'd never have told, even dying. But he's gone, and I shall be--soon. Sofar as I'm concerned I don't care which way you choose: whether youwrite to Doctor Lefebre or not. Only for the sake of the name--Jack'sname--don't let there be a scandal if you decide to try and find thegirl. Maybe you can't find her. She may be dead. Then it needn't goagainst your conscience to let things stay as they are. The ReynoldDorans have heaps of money."
"That isn't the question exactly," said Max. "Whatever happens, Ihaven't the right--but never mind.... I don't want to trouble you, Godknows. I can see partly how you must have felt about the baby, and aboutfath--I mean, about the whole thing. It isn't for me to blame--I--thankyou for telling me. Somehow I must manage--to make things straight,without injuring fath--without injuring the name." His voice broke alittle. John Doran had died under an operation when Max was ten, but hehad adored his father, and still adored his memory. There had been greatlove between the big, quiet sportsman and the mercurial, hot-headed,enthusiastic little boy whom Jack Doran had spoiled and called "Frenchy"for a pet name. After more than fourteen years, he could hear the kindvoice now, clearly as ever. "Hullo, Frenchy! how are things with youto-day?" used to be the morning greeting.
How were things with him to-day?...
Max had heard the story with a stolidity which seemed to himselfextraordinary; for excepting the shiver of physical pain which shook himat each sigh of suffering from under the veil, he had felt nothing,absolutely nothing, until the voice of dead Jack Doran seemed to call tohim out of darkness.
"He wasn't my father," came the stabbing reminder; but the love whichhad been could never be taken away. "I must do what you would want me todo," Max answered the call. In his heart he knew what that thing was. Hemust give everything up. He ought to look for the girl and for his ownparents, if they lived. The daughter of John Doran must have what washers.
As he thought this, Rose spoke again, more slowly now, since the storywas told, and there was no longer any haste. "Remember, nobody knows yetbut you and me, Max," she said. "Not even Edwin Reeves. All he knows isthat I had something to say to you. If he tried to guess what it was, hemust have guessed something very different from this. Why not find outwhere _she_ is, if you can, and somehow contrive to give her money orsend it anonymously--enough to make her rich; and let the rest go as itis? I told you just now that I didn't care much either way, and I don't,for myself, because I shall be out of it all, and because I know youloved Jack too well not to be careful for his sake, what you do. But Icare more for your sake than I thought I cared at first. You're soquiet, I know I've struck you hard. Almost--I wish I hadn't told."
"I don't," answered Max with an effort. "And you mustn't. It was theonly thing."
And yet, even as he spoke, he was conscious of wishing that she had nottold. Some women, having done what she had done for the love of a manand for their own vanity, would have gone out of the world insilence--still for the love of the man, and for their own vanity. Vanityhad been the ruling passion of Rose Doran's life. Max had realized itbefore. Yet something in the end had been stronger than vanity, and hadbeaten it down. He wondered dimly what the thing was. Perhaps fear, lestsoon, on the other side of the dark valley, she should have to meetreproach i
n the only eyes she had ever loved. And she needed help incrossing--Jack Doran's help. Maybe this was her way of reaching out forit. She had told the truth; and she seemed to think that was enough. Sheadvised Max to leave things as they were, after all. And he was temptedto obey.
No longer was he stunned by the blow that had fallen. He felt the painof it now, and faced the future consequences. He stood to loseeverything: his career, for Max had his vanity, too; and without theDoran name and the Doran money he could not remain in the army.
If he resolved to hand over all that was his to the girl, he must goaway, must leave the country.
He would have to think of some scheme by which the girl could get herrights, and the world could be left in ignorance of Rose Doran's fraud.To accomplish this, he must sacrifice himself utterly. He must disappearand be forgotten by his friends--a penniless man, without a country. AndBillie Brookton would be lost to him.
Strange, this was his first conscious thought of her since he hadstepped out of the train, almost his first since leaving her at FortEllsworth. He was half shocked at his forgetfulness of such a jewel, sonearly his, the jewel so many other men wanted. He wanted her, too,desperately, now that the clouds had parted for an instant to remind himof the bright world where she lived--the world of his past.
"You're so deadly still!" Rose murmured. "Are you thinking hard thingsof me?"
"No, never that," Max said.
"How are you going to decide? Shall you take my advice, keep your placein this world, and give her money, if you find her? And most likely younever can. It's such a long time ago." Rose's voice dragged. It was verysmall and weak, very tired.
"It's your advice for me to do that?" Max asked, almost incredulously."And yet--she's your own child, _his_ child."
"Not the child of our souls. You'll see what I mean, if you ever seeher. Think it over--a few minutes, and then tell me. I feel--somehow Ishould like to know, before going. Wake me--in ten minutes. I think Icould sleep--till then. Such a rest, since I told you! No pain."
"Oughtn't I to call the doctor?" Max half rose from his chair by thebedside.
"No, no. I want nothing--except to sleep--for ten minutes. Can youdecide--in ten minutes?"
"Yes."
"You promise to wake me then?"
"Yes," Max said again.
For ten minutes there was silence in the room, save for a little soundof crackling wood in the open fire that Rose had always loved.
Max had decided, and the time had come to keep his promise. He mustspeak, to wake the sleeper. But he did not know what to call her. Shesaid that she had never loved him as a son. She must always have feltirritated when he dared to address her as "Dearest"--he, the littleFrench _bourgeois_. She would hate it now.
"Rose!" he whispered. Then a little louder, "Rose!"
She did not answer.
He would not have to tell her his decision. But perhaps she knew.
A Soldier of the Legion Page 3
