by Jack Steele
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE RICHES OF THE WORLD
Dorothy was waiting to see him. She was still excited, still anxiousconcerning himself. She had quite forgotten his words about the willin her worry lest the blow on his head had proved more serious than hadat first appeared.
He met her quietly in a large, common parlor--the duplicate of athousand such rooms in New York--and was thoroughly determined to curbthe impetuous surging of his feelings. She was wearing a bunch of hiscarnations, and had never seemed more beautiful in all her wondrousmoods of beauty.
Just to have sat where he could look upon her all he wished, withoutrestraint or conventions, would almost have satisfied his soul. Butshe gave him her hand with a grace so compelling, and her eyes askedtheir question so tenderly--a question only of his welfare--that riotwas loosed in his veins once more and love surged over him in billows.
"I was afraid you might not come," she said. "I have never been moreworried or afraid. Such a terrible moment--all of it--and thatcreature striking you down! If you hadn't come I'd have been so sureyou were very badly hurt. I'd have felt so guilty for all I've done tojeopardize your life in my petty affairs."
"It's all right. I was ashamed for going out so easily," saidGarrison, turning away in self-defense and seating himself in a chair."He struck me so suddenly I had no time to guard. But that part isn'tworth another thought."
"I thought it the _only_ part worth anything," said Dorothy in herhonesty. "It came upon me suddenly that nothing I was after was worththe risks you've been assuming in my behalf. And they may not beended. I wish they were. I wish it were all at an end! But Foster isinnocent. If you knew how glad I am of that you would feel a littlerepaid."
"I feel thoroughly repaid and gratified," said Garrison. "I have toldyou before that I am glad you came into my existence with yourneed--your case. I have no regret over anything that has happened--tomyself. It has been life to me--life! And I take a certain pride infeeling that when you come to dismiss me, at the end, I shall not havebeen an absolute disappointment."
She looked at him in a new alarm. He had purposely spoken somewhatbluntly of his impending dismissal. She had come to a realizing sensethat she could never dismiss him from her life--that to have him near,to know he was well--to love him, in a word--had become the one motiveof her life.
Nevertheless she was helpless. And he was treating the matter as ifher fate were sealed to that of Fairfax indissolubly. What littletimid hopes she might have entertained of gaining her freedom, sometime in the future, and saving herself, soul and body, for him--allthis he had somewhat dimmed by this reference to going from her ken.
"But I--I haven't said anything about dismissing--anyone," shefaltered. "I hadn't thought----" She left her sentence incomplete.
"I know," said Jerold. "There has been so much to think about, thesubject may have been neglected. As a matter of fact, however, I amalready out of it, supplanted by your genuine husband. We can nolonger maintain the pretense.
"The moment Mr. Fairfax and Theodore chance to meet, our bit oftheatricalism goes to pieces. We would scarcely dare to face a court,in a will probation, with Fairfax on the scene. So, I say, I ampractically eliminated already."
The one thing that remained in her mind at the end of his speech wasnot in the least the main concern. She looked at him with pain in hereyes.
"Has it been nothing but a bit of theatricalism, after all?"
He dared not permit himself to answer from his heart. He kept up hisshow of amusement, or indifference to sentiment.
"We have played theatric roles to a small but carefully selectedaudience," he said. "I for a fee, and you--for needful ends. We mightas well be frank, as we were the day it all began."
It was the way of a woman to be hurt. She felt there was something ofa sting in what he said. She knew she had halted his impassioneddeclaration of love--but only because of the right. She had heard it,despite her protest--and had treasured it since, and echoed it over inher heart repeatedly.
She wished him to say it all again--all of it and more--but--not justyet. She wanted him to let her know that he loved her more thananything else in the world, but not by spoken words of passion.
"I am sorry if I've seemed so--so heartless in it all," she said. "Ihadn't the slightest intention of--of permitting you to----"
"I know," he interrupted, certain he knew what she meant. "I haven'taccused anyone. It was all my own fault. We'll drop it, if you wish."
"You haven't let me finish," she insisted. "I started to say that Ihad no intention of making you feel like--like nothing more than anagent--toward me--I mean, I had no intention of appearing to you like aselfish, heartless woman, willing to sacrifice the sweetest--thevarious things of life to gain my ends. I want you to believe thatI--I'd rather you wouldn't call it all just mere theatrics."
Garrison gripped his chair, to restrain the impulse to rise and takeher in his arms. He could almost have groaned, for the love in hisheart must lie there, dumb and all but hopeless.
"Dorothy," he said when he felt his mastery complete, "I have alreadymade it hard enough for myself by committing a folly against which yougave me ample warning. I am trying now to redeem myself and merit yourtrust and regard."
Her eyes met his in a long, love-revealing look--a look that couldbridge all the gulfs of time and the vast abyss of space itself--andwords would have been but a jar. Whatever the outcome, after this,nothing could rob them of the deep, supernal joy that flashed therebetween them for a moment.
Even when her lashes fell, at last, the silence was maintained.
After a time Garrison spoke again, returning to earth and theunfinished labor before him.
"I must go," he said, consulting his watch. "I hope to catch a trainfor Branchville in order to be there early in the morning."
"On our--this business?" she inquired.
He felt it quite impossible to raise her hopes--or perhaps herfears--by announcing he felt he should find John Hardy's latest will.Moreover, he had undergone a wakeful man's distrust of the "dream" hehad experienced after falling at the hands of Wicks. He resorted to aharmless deceit, which, after all, was not entirely deceitful.
"Mr. Fairfax left for Branchville--he said to spring a surprise," heimparted. "I thought it would do no harm to be on hand and prepare forhis moves, as far as possible."
He had risen. Dorothy did likewise. A slight suggestion of palenessoverspread her face, followed at once by a faint, soft flush of color.
"I hope you will try to avoid him--avoid anything that might bedangerous," she faltered. "I feel already I shall never be able toforgive myself for the dangers into which I have sent you."
"This is the surest way to avoid any possible dangers," he assured her."And, by the way, there is no particular reason now why you shouldlonger remain away from Ninety-third Street. The newspaper men havedone their worst, and the Robinsons will be entirely disarmed by thevarious events that have happened--unless Theodore should happen tospring a new surprise, and in any event you might be far morecomfortable."
"Perhaps I will return--some time to-morrow," she said. "I'll see."
Garrison went to the door and she walked at his side.
He merely said: "Good-night--and Heaven bless you, Dorothy."
She answered: "Good-night, Jerold," and gave him her hand.
He held it for a moment--the riches of the world. And when he had gonethey felt they had divided, equally, a happiness too great forterrestrial measurement.
