Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I suppose your husband let you guess that there was trouble, so that you made the offer spontaneously, and then he accepted it.”

  “Well — yes — no — almost.”

  Still she hesitated, standing by the writing-table, and idly turning over the papers.

  “I saw that he was worried and harassed and that something was wearing upon him, and I did so want to help him! I thought it might — no I will not say that.”

  “But it will not help matters to throw good money after bad,” answered Brett thoughtfully. “Believe me, there is no more chance of saving this money you mean to give him, than all the other millions that have gone through his hands — gone heaven knows where.”

  “Millions?”

  There was surprise in her tone.

  “I am afraid so,” answered Brett, as though he had no reason in making any correction in his estimate.

  “You must tell me all you can, all you know,” said Marion, turning to him again.

  “That would be a long affair,” said Brett, “though I know a great deal about it. But I do not know all, though the situation is simple enough and bad enough. In spite of the large earnings of the Company, the finances are in a rotten state and it is said that there are large sums not accounted for. An inquiry has been going on for some time, and was, I believe, closed last night, but the result will not be known until this afternoon.”

  “What sort of an inquiry?” asked Mrs. Darche, anxiously.

  “The regular examination of the books and of all the details which have gone through the hands of your father-in-law and your husband.”

  “My father-in-law! Do you mean to say that they are trying to implicate the old gentleman too?”

  Marion’s face expressed the utmost concern.

  “As president of the Company, he cannot fail to be implicated.”

  “But he is no more responsible for what he does than a child!” cried Mrs. Darche, in a tone of protestation.

  “I know that, but he is nominally at the head of the administration. That is all you need know. The rest is merely a mass of figures with an account of tricks and manipulations which you could not understand.”

  “And what would happen if — if—”

  She leaned towards him unconsciously, watching his lips to catch the answer.

  “I suppose that if the inquiry goes against them, legal steps will be taken,” said Brett.

  “Legal steps? What legal steps?”

  Brett hesitated, asking himself whether he should be justified in telling her what he expected as well as what he knew.

  “Well—” he continued at last, “you know in such cases the injured parties appeal to the law. But it is of no use to talk about that until you know the result of the inquiry.”

  “Do you mean, do you really mean that John may be arrested?” asked Mrs. Darche, turning pale.

  “At any moment.”

  Brett answered in a low voice. Almost as soon as he had spoken he left her side and crossed the room as though not wishing to be a witness to the effect the news must have upon her. Before his back was turned she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. A long pause followed. Marion was the first to speak.

  “Mr. Brett—” she said, and stopped.

  “Yes.” He came back to her side at once.

  “Can you not help me?” she asked earnestly.

  “How can I?”

  “Is there nothing, nothing that can be done?”

  “The whole matter is already beyond my power, or yours, or any one’s.”

  Marion looked steadily at him for several seconds and then turned her face away, leaning against the mantelpiece.

  “I am sure something can be done.”

  “No, nothing can be done.”

  He did not move, and spoke in a tone of the utmost decision.

  “That is not true,” said Marion turning upon him suddenly. “Money can help him, and we are wasting time. Do not lose a moment! Take all I have in the world and turn it into money and take it to him. Go! Do not lose a moment! Go! Why do you wait? Why do you look at me so?”

  “It would not be a drop in the bucket,” answered Brett, still not moving.

  “All I have!”

  “All you have.”

  “That is impossible,” cried Mrs. Darche, incredulously. “I am not enormously rich, but it is something. It is between four and five hundred thousand dollars. Is it not? I have heard you say so.”

  “Something like that,” assented Brett, as though the statement did not alter the case.

  Mrs. Darche came close to him, laid her hand upon his arm and gently pushed him, as though urging him to leave her.

  “Go! I say,” she cried. “Take it. Do as I tell you. There may be time yet. It may save them.”

  But Brett did not move.

  “It is utterly useless,” he said stolidly. “It is merely throwing money out of the window. Millions could not stop the inquiry now, nor prevent the law from taking its course if it is appealed to.”

  “You will not do it?” asked Marion with something almost like a menace in her voice.

  “No, I will not,” said Brett, more warmly. “I will not let you ruin yourself for nothing.”

  “Are you really my friend?”

  She drew back a little and looked at him earnestly.

  “Your friend? Yes — and more — more than that, far more than you can dream of.”

  “Will you refuse, do you refuse, to do this for me?”

  “Yes, I refuse.”

  “Then I will do it for myself,” she said with a change of tone as though she had suddenly come to a decision. “I will let my husband do it for me. You cannot refuse to give me what is mine, what you have in your keeping.”

  But Brett drew back and folded his arms.

  “I can refuse and I do refuse,” he said.

  “But you cannot! You have no right.”

  Her voice was almost breaking.

  “That makes no difference,” Brett answered firmly. “I have the power. I refuse to give you anything. You can bring an action against me for robbing you, and you will win your case, but by that time it will be too late. You may borrow money on your mere name, but your securities and title-deeds are in my safe, and there they shall stay.”

  Marion looked at him one moment longer and then sank back into her seat.

  “You are cruel and unkind,” she said in broken tones. “Oh, what shall I do?”

  Brett hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do, and not finding anything especial to say. It is generally the privilege of man to be the bearer of whatever bad news is in store for woman, but as yet no hard and fast rule of conduct has been laid down for the unfortunate messenger’s action under the circumstances. Being at a loss for words with which to console the woman he loved for the pain he had unwillingly given her, Brett sat down opposite her and tried to take her hand. She drew it away hastily.

  “No, go away,” she said almost under her breath. “Leave me alone. I thought you were my friend.”

  “Indeed I am,” protested Brett in a soothing tone.

  “Indeed you are not.”

  Marion sat up suddenly and drew back to her end of the sofa.

  “Do you call this friendship?” she asked almost bitterly. “To refuse to help me at such a moment. Do you not see how I am suffering? Do you not see what is at stake? My husband’s reputation, his father’s name, good name, life perhaps — the shock of a disgrace would kill him — and for me, everything! And you sit there and refuse to lift a finger to help me — oh, it is too much! Indeed it is more than I can bear!”

  “Of course you cannot understand it all now,” said Brett, very much distressed. “You cannot see that I am right, but you will see it soon, too soon. You cannot save him. Why should you ruin yourself?”

  “Why?”

  “Is there some other reason,” asked Brett, quickly. “Something that I do not know?”

  “All the reasons,” she exclaimed
passionately, “all the reasons there ever were.”

  “Do you love him still?” asked Brett, scarcely knowing what he was saying.

  Marion drew still further back from him and spoke in an altered tone.

  “Mr. Brett, you have no right to ask me such a question.”

  “No right? I? No, perhaps I have no right. But I take the right whether it is mine or not. Because I love you still, as I have always loved you, because there is nothing in heaven or earth I would not do for you, because if you asked me for all I possessed at this moment, you should have it, to do what you like with it — though you shall have nothing of what is yours — because, to save you the least pain, I would take John Darche’s place and go to prison and be called a rascal and a thief before all the world, for your sake, for your dear sake, Marion. I love you. You know that I love you. Right or wrong — but it is right and not wrong! There is not a man in the world who would do for any woman the least of the things I would do for you.”

  Again he tried to take her hand, though she resisted and snatched it from him after a little struggle.

  “Leave me! leave me!” she cried despairingly. “Let me go!”

  “Not until you know, not until you understand that every word I say means ten thousand times more than it ever meant to any one, not until you know that I love you through and through with every part of me, with every thought and action of my life. Look at me! Look into my eyes! Do you not see it there, the truth, the devotion? No? Is it so long since I loved you and you said — you thought — you believed for one little day that you loved me? Can you not remember it? Can you not remember even the sound of the words? They were so sweet to hear! They are so very sweet as they come back now — with all they mean now — but could not mean then!”

  “Harry!”

  She could not resist pronouncing his name that once.

  “I knew it! You loved me then. You love me now. What is the use of fighting against it, when we love each other so? Marion! Love! Ah God! At last!”

  “Go!”

  With a quick movement she sprang to her feet and stood back from him.

  “Marion!”

  But in a moment it was past. With a gesture she kept him at arm’s length.

  “Is that your friendship?” she asked reproachfully.

  “No, it is love,” he answered almost roughly. “There is no friendship in it.”

  “And you talk of helping me!” she cried. “And at such a time as this, when I am weak, unstrung, you force it all upon me, and drag out what I have hidden so long. No, no! You do not love me. Go!”

  “Not love you!” Again he tried to get near her. “God in heaven! Do not hurt me so!”

  “No,” she answered, still thrusting him back. “If you loved me you would help me, you would respect me, you would honour me, you would not try to drag me down.”

  “Drag you down! Ah, Marion!”

  He spoke very unsteadily, then turning his face from her he leaned upon the mantelpiece and watched the fire. A long pause followed. After awhile he looked up again and their eyes met.

  “Harry!” said Mrs. Darche quietly.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Come and sit beside me on that chair.”

  Brett obeyed.

  “We must forget this morning,” said Marion in her natural tone of voice. “We must say to ourselves that all this has never happened and we must believe it. Will you?”

  “You ask too much,” answered Brett looking away. “I cannot forget that I have said it — at last, after all these years.”

  “You must forget it. You must — must — for my sake.”

  “For your sake?” Still he looked away from her.

  “Yes, for my sake,” she repeated. “If you cannot forget, I can never look any one in the face again. Look at me, please,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm. “Look into my eyes and tell me that you will not remember.”

  “For your sake I will try not to remember,” he said slowly. “But I cannot promise yet,” he added with sudden passion. “Oh no!”

  “You will do your best. I know you will,” said Marion, in a tone that was meant to express conviction. “Now go. And remember that I have forgotten.”

  “You are very kind,” Brett answered with more humility than she had expected. “You are very good to me. I was mad for a moment. Forgive me. Try to forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, for I remember nothing,” said Marion with a faint smile.

  “Good-bye, then.” He turned to go.

  “Good-bye,” she answered quite naturally.

  “Now come back, please,” she said, when he had almost reached the door. “You are Mr. Brett now, and I am Mrs. Darche. I am in great trouble and you are my friend, and you must help me as well as you can.”

  “In any way I can,” he answered, coming back to her. “But I will help only you, I will not help any one else.”

  “Not even old Mr. Darche?”

  “Yes, I do not mean to except him.”

  “That is right. And we must act quickly. We must decide what is to be done. We have,” she hesitated, “we have lost time — at any moment it may be too late.”

  “It is too late now,” Brett answered in a sudden change of tone, as Stubbs the butler suddenly entered the room.

  “Please madam,” said Stubbs, who was pale and evidently very much disturbed, “there are some strange gentlemen to see Mr. John Darche, and when I told them that he was out, they said they would see old Mr. Darche, and I said that old Mr. Darche was ill and could see no one, and they said they must see him; and they are coming upstairs without leave, and here they are, madam, and I cannot keep them out!”

  CHAPTER VII.

  BAIL WAS REFUSED, and John Darche remained in prison during the weeks that intervened between his arrest and his trial. He was charged with making use of large sums, the property of the Company, for which he was unable to account, with fraudulently tampering with the books and with attempting to issue certificates of stock to a very large amount, bearing forged signatures.

  The house in Lexington Avenue was very gloomy and silent. Simon Darche, who was of course in ignorance of what had taken place, had caught cold and was confined to his bed. It was said that he was breaking down at last, and that his heart was affected. Dolly Maylands came daily and spent long hours with her friend, but not even her bright face could bring light into the house. Russell Vanbrugh and Harry Brett also came almost every day. Vanbrugh had undertaken Darche’s defence, out of friendship for Marion, and it was natural that he should come. As for Brett, he could not stay away, and as Mrs. Darche seemed to have forgiven and forgotten his passionate outbreak and did not bid him discontinue his visits, he saw no reason for doing so on any other ground.

  He was, on the whole, a very loyal-hearted man, and was very much ashamed of having seemed to take advantage of Marion’s distress, to speak as he had spoken. But he was neither over-sensitive nor in any way morbid. Seeing that she intended to forgive him, he did not distress himself with self-accusations nor doubt that her forgiveness was sincere and complete. Besides, her present distress was so great that he felt instinctively her total forgetfulness of smaller matters, and even went so far as to believe himself forgotten. Meanwhile he watched every opportunity of helping Marion, and would have been ready at a moment’s notice to do anything whatever which could have alleviated her suffering in the slightest degree. Nevertheless, he congratulated himself that he was not a criminal lawyer, like Vanbrugh, and that it had not fallen to his share to defend John Darche, thief swindler, and forger. He would have done that, and more also, as Vanbrugh was doing, for Marion’s sake, no doubt, but he was very glad that it could not be asked of him. It was bad enough that he should be put into the witness-box to state on his oath such facts as he could remember to Darche’s advantage, and to be cross-examined and re-examined, and forced through the endless phases of torture to which witnesses are usually subjected. He was able, at least, to establi
sh the fact that not the smallest sum had ever, so far as he knew, passed from the hands of John Darche to his wife’s credit. On being asked why, as Mrs. Darche’s man of business, he had not invested any of her money in the Company, he replied that his father had managed the estate before him, and that his father’s prejudices and his own were wholly in favour of investment in real estate, bonds of long-established railways and first mortgages, and that Mrs. Darche had left her affairs entirely in his hands.

  Marion herself gave her evidence bravely and truthfully, doing her best to speak to her husband’s advantage. Her appearance and manner excited universal sympathy, to use the language of the reports of the case, but what she said did not tend in any way to exculpate John Darche. On the contrary, society learned for the first time from her lips that she had led a most unhappy life. She suffered acutely under the cross-examination. Being excessively truthful, she gave her answers without the slightest distortion of fact, while doing her best to pass over altogether any statement which could injure her husband’s defence. As often happens, what she omitted to say told most heavily against him, while the little she was forced to admit concerning his father’s condition amply corroborated the medical opinion of the latter’s state, and proved beyond a doubt that he had been during more than a year a mere instrument in his son’s hands. He, at least, was wholly innocent, and would be suffered to spend his few remaining years in the dreams of a peaceful dotage.

  The court, to use the current phrase, showed Marion every consideration. That is, she was tacitly admitted from the first to have had no connection whatever with the crime of which her husband was accused. To the last, she intended to be present when the judge summed up the case, in order to help John to the end by seeming to believe in his innocence. On that very day, however, Simon Darche was so far recovered as to be able to leave his room for the first time, and her presence at his side seemed absolutely necessary. It was most important that all knowledge of what was happening should be kept from him. He was quite capable of leaving the house if left to himself, and he would certainly not have submitted to any suggestion to the contrary offered by Stubbs.