Glasgow Ellen Anderson Gholson
The Ancient Law
CHAPTER III
Alice's Marriage
IT was after ten o'clock when he returned to Botetourt, and he found upon reaching home that Lydia had already gone to bed, though a bottle of cough syrup, placed conspicuously upon his bureau, bore mute witness to the continuance of her solicitude. After so marked a consideration it seemed to him only decent that he should swallow a portion of the liquid; and he was in the act of filling the tablespoon she had left, when a ring at the door caused him to start until the medicine spilled from his hand. A moment later the ring was repeated more violently, and as he was aware that the servants had already left the house, he threw on his coat, and lighting a candle, went hurriedly out into the hall and down the dark staircase. The sound of a hand beating on the panels of the door quickened his steps almost into a run, and he was hardly surprised, when he had withdrawn the bolts, to find Alice's face looking at him from the darkness outside. She was pale and thin, he saw at the first glance, and there was an angry look in her eyes, which appeared unnaturally large in their violent circles.
"I thought you would never open to me, papa," she said fretfully as she crossed the threshold. "Oh, I am so glad to see you again! Feel how cold my hands are, I am half frozen."
Taking her into his arms, he kissed her face passionately as it rested for an instant against his shoulder.
"Are you alone, Alice? Where is your husband?"
Without answering, she raised her head, shivering slightly, and then turning away, entered the library where a log fire was smouldering to ashes. As he threw on more wood, she came over to the hearth, and stretched out her hands to the warmth with a nervous gesture. Then the flame shot up and he saw that her beauty had gained rather than lost by the change in her features. She appeared taller, slenderer, more distinguished, and the vivid black and white of her colouring was intensified by the perfect simplicity of the light cloth gown and dark furs she wore.
"Oh, he's at home," she answered, breaking the long silence. "I mean he's in the house in Henry Street, but we had a quarrel an hour after we got back, so I put on my hat again and came away. I'm not going back – not unless he makes it bearable for me to live with him. He's such – such a brute that it's as much as one can do to put up with it, and it's been killing me by inches for the last months. I meant to write you about it, but somehow I couldn't, and yet I knew that I couldn't write at all without letting you see it. Oh, he's unbearable!" she exclaimed, with a tremor of disgust. "You will never know – you will never be able to imagine all that I've been through!"
"But is he unkind to you, Alice? Is he cruel?"
She bared her arm with a superb disdainful gesture, and he saw three rapidly discolouring bruises on her delicate flesh. The sight filled him with loathing rather than anger, and he caught her to him almost fiercely as if he would hold her not only against Geoffrey Heath, but against herself.
"You shall not go back to him," he said, "I will not permit it!"
"The worst part is," she went on vehemently, as if he had not spoken, "that it is about money – money – always money. He has millions, his lawyers told me so, and yet he makes me give an account to him of every penny that I spend. I married him because I thought I should be rich and free, but he's been hardly better than a miser since the day of the wedding. He wants me to dress like a dowdy, for all his wealth, and I can't buy a ring that he doesn't raise a terrible fuss. I hate him more and more every day I live, but it makes no difference to him as long as he has me around to look at whenever he pleases. I have to pay him back for every dollar that he gives me, and if I keep away from him and get cross, he holds back my allowance. Oh, it's a dog's life!" she exclaimed wildly, "and it is killing me!"
"You shan't bear it, Alice. As long as I'm alive you are safe with me."
"For a time I could endure it because of the travelling and the strange countries," she resumed, ignoring the tenderness in his voice, "but Geoffrey was so frightfully jealous that if I so much as spoke to a man, he immediately flew into a rage. He even made me leave the opera one night in Paris because a Russian Grand Duke in the next box looked at me so hard."
Throwing herself into a chair, she let her furs slip from her shoulders, and sat staring moodily into the fire. "I've sworn a hundred times that I'd leave him," she said, "and yet I've never done it until to-night."
While she talked on feverishly, he untied her veil, which she had tossed back, and taking off her hat, pressed her gently against the cushions he had placed in her chair.
"You look so tired, darling, you must rest," he said.
"Rest! You may as well tell me to sleep!" she exclaimed. Then her tone altered abruptly, and for the first time, she seemed able to penetrate beyond her own selfish absorption. "Oh, you poor papa, how very old you look!" she said.
Taking his head in her arms, she pressed it to her bosom and cried softly for a minute. "It's all my fault – everything is my fault, but I can't help it. I'm made that way." Then pushing him from her suddenly, she sprang to her feet and began walking up and down in her restless excited manner.
"Let me get you a glass of wine, Alice," he said, "you are trembling all over."
She shook her head. "It isn't that – it isn't that. It's the awful – awful money. If it wasn't for the money I could go on. Oh, I wish I'd never spent a single dollar! I wish I'd always gone in rags!"
Again he forced her back into her chair and again, after a minute of quiet, she rose to her feet and broke into hysterical sobs.
"All that I have is yours, Alice, you know that," he said in the effort to soothe her, "and, besides, your own property is hardly less than two hundred thousand."
"But Uncle Richard won't give it to me," she returned angrily. "I wrote and begged him on my knees and he still refused to let me have a penny more than my regular income. It's all tied up, he says, in investments, and that until I am twenty-one it must remain in his hands."
With a frantic movement, she reached for her muff, and drew from it a handful of crumpled papers, which she held out to him. "Geoffrey found these to-night and they brought on the quarrel," she said. "Yesterday he gave me this bracelet and he seems to think I could live on it for a month!" She stretched out her arm, as she spoke, and showed him a glittering circle of diamonds immediately below the blue finger marks. "There's a sable coat still that he doesn't know a thing of," she finished with a moan.
Bending under the lamp, he glanced hurriedly over the papers she had given him, and then rose to his feet still holding them in his hand.
"These alone come to twenty thousand dollars, Alice," he said with a gentle sternness.
"And there are others, too," she cried, making no effort to control her convulsive sobs. "There are others which I didn't dare even to let him see."
For a moment he let her weep without seeking to arrest her tears.
"Are you sure this will be a lesson to you?" he asked at last. "Will you be careful – very careful from this time?"
"Oh, I'll never spend a penny again. I'll stay in Botetourt forever," she promised desperately, eager to retrieve the immediate instant by the pledge of a more or less uncertain future.
"Then we must help you," he said. "Among us all – Uncle Richard, your mother and I – it will surely be possible."
Pacified at once by his assurance, she sat down again and dried her eyes in her muff.
"It seems a thousand years since I went away," she observed, glancing about her for the first time. "Nothing is changed and yet everything appears to be different."
"And are you different also?" he asked.
"Oh, I'm older and I've seen a great deal more," she responded, with a laugh which came almost as a shock to him after her recent tears, "but I still want to go everywhere and have everything just as I used to."
"But I thought you were determined to stay in Botetourt for the future?" he suggested.
"Well, so I am, I suppose," she returned dismally, "there's nothing else for me to do, is there?"
"Nothing that I see."
"Then I may as well make up my mind to be miserable forever. It's so frightfully gloomy in this old house, isn't it? How is mamma?"
"She's just as you left her, neither very well nor very sick."
"So it's exactly what it always was, I suppose, and will drive me to distraction in a few weeks. Is Dick away?"
"He's at college, and he's doing finely."
"Of course he is – that's why he's such a bore."
"Let Dick alone, Alice, and tell me about yourself. So you went to Europe immediately after I saw you in Washington?"
"Two days later. I was dreadfully seasick, and Geoffrey was as disagreeable as he could be, and made all kinds of horrid jokes about me."
"You went straight to Paris, didn't you?"
"As soon as we landed, but Geoffrey made me come away in three weeks because he said I spent so much money." Her face clouded again at the recollection of her embarrassments. "Oh, we had awful scenes, but I hadn't even a wedding dress, you know, and French dressmakers are so frightfully expensive. One of them charged me five thousand dollars for a gown – but he told me that it was really cheap, because he'd sold one to another American the day before for twelve thousand. I don't know who her husband is," she added wistfully, "but I wish I were married to him."
The wildness of her extravagance depressed him even more than her excessive despair had done; and he wondered if the vagueness of her ideas of wealth was due to the utter lack in her of the imagination which foresees results? She had lived since her girlhood in a quiet Virginia town, her surroundings had been comparatively simple, and she had never been thrown, until her marriage, amid the corrupting influences of great wealth, yet, in spite of these things, she had squandered a fortune as carelessly as a child might have strewed pebbles upon the beach. Her regret at last had come not through realisation of her fault, but in the face of the immediate punishment which threatened her.
"So he got you out of Paris? Well, I'm glad of that," he remarked.
"He was perfectly brutal about it, I wish you could have heard him. Then we went down into Italy and did nothing for months but look at old pictures – at least I did, he wouldn't come – and float around in a gondola until I almost died from the monotony. It was only after I found a lace shop, where they had the most beautiful things, that he would take me away, and then he insisted upon going to some little place up in the Alps because he said he didn't suppose I could possibly pack the mountains into my trunks. Oh, those dreadful mountains! They were so glaring I could never go out of doors until the afternoon, and Geoffrey would go off climbing or shooting and leave me alone in a horrid little hotel where there was nobody but a one-eyed German army officer, and a woman missionary who was bracing herself for South Africa. She wore a knitted jersey all day and a collar which looked as if it would cut her head off if she ever forgot herself and bent her neck." Her laughter, the delicious, irresponsible laughter of a child, rippled out: "She asked me one day if our blacks wore draperies? The ones in South Africa didn't, and it made it very embarrassing sometimes, she said, to missionary to them. Oh, you can't imagine what I suffered from her, and Geoffrey was so horrid about it, and insisted that she was just the sort of companion that I needed. So one day when he happened to be in the writing-room where she was, I locked the door on the outside and threw the key down into the gorge. There wasn't any locksmith nearer than twenty miles, and when they sent for him he was away. Oh, it was simply too funny for words! Geoffrey on the inside was trying to break the heavy lock and the proprietor on the outside was protesting that he mustn't, and all the time we could hear the missionary begging everybody please to be patient. She said if it were required of her she was quite prepared to stay locked up all night, but Geoffrey wasn't, so he swung himself down by the branches of a tree which grew near the window."
All her old fascination had come back to her with her change of mood, and he forgot to listen to her words while he watched the merriment sparkle in her deep blue eyes. It was a part of his destiny that he should submit to her spell, as, he supposed, even Geoffrey submitted at times.
He was about to make some vague comment upon her story, when her face changed abruptly into an affected gravity, and turning his head, he saw that Lydia had come noiselessly into the room, and was advancing to meet her daughter with outstretched arms.
"Why, Alice, my child, what a beautiful surprise! When did you come?"
As Alice started forward to her embrace, Ordway noticed that there was an almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles of her body.
"Only a few minutes ago," she replied, with the characteristic disregard of time which seemed, in some way, to belong to her inability to consider figures, "and, oh, I am so glad to be back! You are just as lovely as ever."
"Well, you are lovelier," said Lydia, kissing her, and adding a moment afterward, as the result of her quick, woman's glance, "what a charming gown!"
Alice shrugged her shoulders, with a foreign gesture which she had picked up. "Oh, you must see some of my others," she replied, "I wish that my trunks would come, but I forgot they were all sent to the other house, and I haven't even a nightgown. Will you lend me a nightgown, mamma? I have some of the loveliest you ever saw which were embroidered for me by the nuns in a French convent."
"So, you'll spend the night?" said Lydia, "I'm so glad, dear, and I'll go up and see if your bed has sheets on it."
"Oh, it's not only for the night," returned Alice, defiantly, "I've come back for good. I've left Geoffrey, haven't I, papa?"
"I hope so, darling," answered Ordway, coming for the first time over to where they stood.
"Left Geoffrey?" repeated Lydia. "Do you mean you've separated?"
"I mean I'm never going back again – that I detest him – that I'd rather die – that I'll kill myself before I'll do it."
Lydia received her violence with the usual resigned sweetness that she presented to an impending crisis.
"But, my dear, my dear, a divorce is a horrible thing!" she wailed.
"Well, it isn't half so horrible as Geoffrey," retorted Alice.
Ordway, who had turned away again as Lydia spoke, came forward at the girl's angry words, and caught the hand that she had stretched out as if to push her mother from her.
"Let's be humbly grateful that we've got her back," he said, smiling, "while we prepare her bed."
CHAPTER IV
The Power of the Blood
WHEN he came out into the hall the next morning, Lydia met him, in her dressing-gown, on her way from Alice's room.
"How is she?" he asked eagerly. "Did she sleep?"
"No, she was very restless, so I stayed with her. She went home a quarter of an hour ago."
"Went home? Do you mean she's gone back to that brute?"
A servant's step sounded upon the staircase, and with her unfailing instinct for propriety, she drew back into his room and lowered her voice.
"She said that she was too uncomfortable without her clothes and her maid, but I think she had definitely made up her mind to return to him."
"But when did she change? You heard her say last night that she would rather kill herself."
"Oh, you know Alice," she responded a little wearily; and for the first time it occurred to him that the exact knowledge of Alice might belong, after all, not to himself, but to her.
"You think, then," he asked, "that she meant none of her violent protestations of last night?"
"I am sure that she meant them while she uttered them – not a minute afterward. She can't help being dramatic any more than she can help being beautiful."
"Are you positive that you said nothing to bring about her decision? Did you influence her in any way?"
"I did nothing more than tell her that she must make her choice once for all – that she must either go back to Geoffrey Heath and keep up some kind of appearances, or publicly separate herself from him. I let her see quite plainly that a state of continual quarrels was impossible and indecent."
Her point of view was so entirely sensible that he found himself hopelessly overpowered by its unassailable logic.
"So she has decided to stick to him for better or for worse, then?"
"For the present at all events. She realised fully, I think, how much she would be obliged to sacrifice by returning home?"
"Sacrifice? Good God, what?" he demanded.
"Oh, well, you see, Geoffrey lives in a fashion that is rather grand for Botetourt. He travels a great deal, and he makes her gorgeous presents when he is in a good humour. She seemed to feel that if we could only settle these bills for her, she would be able to bring about a satisfactory adjustment. I was surprised to find how quietly she took it all this morning. She had forgotten entirely, I believe, the scene she made downstairs last night."
This was his old Alice, he reflected in baffled silence, and apparently he would never attain to the critical judgment of her. Well, in any case, he was able to do justice to Lydia's admirable detachment.
"I suppose I may have a talk with Heath anyway?" he said at last.
"She particularly begs you not to, and I feel strongly that she is right."
"Does she expect me to sit quietly by and see it go on forever? Why, there were bruises on her arm that he had made with his fingers."
Lydia paled as she always did when one of the brutal facts of life was thrust on her notice.
"Oh, she doesn't think that will happen again. It appears that she had lost her temper and tried her best to infuriate him. He is still very much in love with her at times, and she hopes that by a little diplomacy she may be able to arrange matters between them."
"Diplomacy with that insufferable cad! Pshaw!"
Lydia sighed, not in exasperation, but with the martyr's forbearance.
"It is really a crisis in Alice's life," she said, "and we must treat it with seriousness."
"I was never more serious in my life. I'm melancholy. I'm abject."
"Last night she told me that Geoffrey threatened to go West and get a divorce, and this frightened her."
"But I thought it was the very thing she wanted," he urged in bewilderment. "Hadn't she left him last night for good and all?"
"She might leave him, but she could not give up his money. It is impossible, I suppose, for you to realise her complete dependence upon wealth – the absurdity of her ideas about the value of money. Why, her income of five thousand which Uncle Richard allows her would not last her a month."
"I realised a little of this when I glanced over those bills she gave me."
"Of course we shall pay those ourselves, but what is twenty thousand dollars to her, when Geoffrey seems to have paid out a hundred thousand already. He began, I can see, by being very generous, but she confessed to me this morning that other bills were still to come in which she would not dare to let him see. I told her that she must try to meet these out of her income, and that we would reduce our living expenses as much as possible in order to pay those she gave you."
"I shall ask Uncle Richard to advance this out of my personal property," he said.
"But he will not do it. You know how scrupulous he is about all such matters, and he told me the other day that your father's will had clearly stated that the money was not to be touched unless he should deem it for your interest to turn it over to you."
Her command of the business situation amazed him, until he remembered her long conversations with Richard Ordway, whose interests were confined within strictly professional limits. His fatal mistake in the past, he saw now, was that he had approached her, not as a fellow mortal, but as a divinity; for the farther he receded from the attitude of worship, the more was he able to appreciate the quality of her practical virtues. In spite of her poetic exterior, it was in the rosy glow of romance that she showed now as barest of attractions. The bottle of cough syrup on his bureau still testified to her ability to sympathise in all cases where the imagination was not required to lend its healing insight.
"But surely it is to my interest to save Alice," he said after a pause.
"I think he will feel that it must be done by the family, by us all," she answered, "he has always had so keen a sense of honour in little things."
An hour later, when he broached the subject to Richard in his office, he found that Lydia was right, as usual, in her prediction; and with a flash of ironic humour, he pictured her as enthroned above his destiny, like a fourth fate who spun the unyielding thread of common sense.
"Of course the debt must be paid if it is a condition of Alice's reconciliation with her husband," said the old man, "but I shall certainly not sacrifice your securities in order to do it. Such an act would be directly against the terms of your father's will."
There was no further concession to be had from him, so Daniel turned to his work, half in disappointment, half in admiration of his uncle's loyalty to the written word.
When he went home to luncheon Lydia told him that she had seen Alice, who had appeared seriously disturbed, though she had shown her, with evident enjoyment, a number of exquisite Paris gowns. "She had a sable coat, also, in her closet, which could not have cost less, I should have supposed, than forty thousand dollars – the kind of coat that a Russian Grand Duchess might have worn – but when I spoke of it, she grew very much depressed and changed the subject. Did you talk to Uncle Richard? And was I right?"
"You're always right," he admitted despondently, "but do you think, then, that I'd better not see Alice to-day?"
"Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until to-morrow. Geoffrey is in a very difficult humour, she says, more brutally indifferent to her than he has been since her marriage."
"Isn't that all the more reason she ought to have her family about her?"
"She says not. It's easier to deal with him, she feels, alone – and any way Uncle Richard will call there this afternoon."
"Oh, Uncle Richard!" he groaned, as he went out.
In the evening there was no news beyond a reassuring visit from Richard Ordway, who stopped by, for ten minutes, on his way from an interview with Geoffrey Heath. "To tell the truth I found him less obstinate than I had expected," he said, "and there's no doubt, I fear, that he has some show of justice upon his side. He has agreed now to make Alice a very liberal allowance from the first of April, provided she will promise to make no more bills, and to live until then within her own income. He told me that he was obliged to retrench for the next six months in order to meet his obligations without touching his investments. It seems that he had bought very largely on margin, and the shrinkages in stocks has forced him to pay out a great deal of money recently."
"I knew you would manage it, Uncle, I relied on you absolutely," said Lydia, sweetly.
"I did only my duty, my child," he responded, as he held out his hand.
The one good result of the anxiety of the last twenty-four hours – the fact that it had brought Lydia and himself into a kind of human connection – had departed, Daniel observed, when he sat down to dinner, separated from her by six yellow candle shades and a bowl of gorgeous chrysanthemums. After a casual comment upon the soup, and the pleasant reminder that Dick would be home for Thanksgiving, the old uncomfortable silence fell between them. She had just remarked that the roast was a little overdone, and he had agreed with her from sheer politeness, when a sharp ring at the bell sent the old Negro butler hurrying out into the hall. An instant later there was a sound of rapid footsteps, and Alice, wearing a long coat, which slipped from her bare shoulders as she entered, came rapidly forward and threw herself into Ordway's arms, with an uncontrollable burst of tears.
"My child, my child, what is it?" he questioned, while Lydia, rising from the table with a disturbed face, but an unruffled manner, remarked to the butler that he need not serve the dessert.
"Come into the library, Alice, it is quieter there," she said, putting her arm about her daughter, with an authoritative pressure.
"O, papa, I will never see him again! You must tell him that. I shall never see him again," she cried, regardless alike of Lydia's entreaties and the restraining presence of the butler. "Go to him to-night and tell him that I will never – never go back."
"I'll tell him, Alice, and I'll do it with a great deal of pleasure," he answered soothingly, as he led her into the library and closed the door.
"But you must go at once. I want him to know it at once."
"I'll go this very hour – I'll go this very minute, if you honestly mean it."
"Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow, Alice?" suggested Lydia. "Then you will have time to quiet down and to see things rationally."
"I don't want to quiet down," sobbed Alice, angrily, "I want him to know now – this very instant – that he has gone too far – that I will not stand it. He told me a minute ago – the beast! – that he'd like to see the man who would be fool enough to keep me – that if I went he'd find a handsomer woman within a week!"
"Well, I'll see him, darling," said Ordway. "Sit here with your mother, and have a good cry and talk things over."
As he spoke he opened the door and went out into the hall, where he got into his overcoat.
"Remember last night and don't say too much, Daniel," urged Lydia in a warning whisper, coming after him, "she is quite hysterical now and does not realise what she is saying."
"Oh, I'll remember," he returned, and a minute later, he closed the front door behind him.
On his way to the Heath house in Henry Street, he planned dispassionately his part in the coming interview, and he resolved that he would state Alice's position with as little show of feeling as it was possible for him to express. He would tell Heath candidly that, with his consent, Alice should never return to him, but he would say this in a perfectly quiet and inoffensive manner. If there was to be a scene, he concluded calmly, it should be made entirely by Geoffrey. Then, as he went on, he said to himself, that he had grown tired and old, and that he lacked now the decision which should carry one triumphantly over a step like this. Even his anger against Alice's husband had given way to a dragging weariness, which seemed to hold him back as he ascended the brown-stone steps and laid his hand on the door bell. When the door was opened, and he followed the servant through the long hall, ornamented by marble statues, to the smoking-room at the end, he was conscious again of that sense of utter incapacity which had been bred in him by his life in Botetourt.
Geoffrey, after a full dinner, was lounging, with a cigar and a decanter of brandy, over a wood fire, and as his visitor entered he rose from his chair with a lazy shake of his whole person.
"I don't believe I've ever met you before, Mr. Ordway," he remarked, as he held out his hand, "though I've known you by sight for several years. Won't you sit down?" With a single gesture he motioned to a chair and indicated the cigars and the brandy on a little table at his right hand.
At his first glance Ordway had observed that he had been in a rage or drinking heavily – probably both; and he was seized by a sudden terror at the thought that Alice had been so lately at the mercy of this large red and black male animal. Yet, in spite of the disgust with which the man inspired him, he was forced to admit that as far as a mere physical specimen went, he had rarely seen his equal. His body was superbly built, and but for his sullen and brutal expression, his face would have been remarkable for its masculine beauty.
"No, I won't sit down, thank you," replied Ordway, after a short pause. "What I have to say can be said better standing, I think."
"Then fire away!" returned Geoffrey, with a coarse laugh. "It's about Alice, I suppose, and it's most likely some darn rot she's sent you with."
"It's probably less rot than you imagine. I have taken it upon myself to forbid her returning to you. Your treatment of her has made it impossible that she should remain in your house."
"Well, I've treated her a damned sight better than she deserved," rejoined Geoffrey, scowling, while his face, inflamed by the brandy he had drunk, burned to a dull red; "it isn't her fault, I can tell you, that she hasn't put me into the poorhouse in six months."
"I admit that she has been very extravagant, and so does she."
"Extravagant? So that is what you call it, is it? Well, she spent more in three weeks in Paris than my father did in his whole lifetime. I paid out a hundred thousand for her, and even then I could hardly get her away. But I won't pay the bills any longer, I've told her that. They may go into court about it and get their money however they can."
"In the future there will be no question of that."
"You think so, do you? Now I'll bet you whatever you please that she's back here in this house again before the week is up. She knows on which side her bread is buttered, and she won't stay in that dull old place, not for all you're worth."
"She shall never return to you with my consent."
"Did she wait for that to marry me?" demanded Geoffrey, laughing uproariously at his wit, "though I can tell you now, that it makes precious little difference to me whether she comes or stays."
"She shall never do it," said Ordway, losing his temper. Then as he uttered the words, he remembered Lydia's warning and added more quietly, "she shall never do it if I can help it."
"It makes precious little difference to me," repeated Geoffrey, "but she'll be a blamed fool if she doesn't, and for all her foolishness, she isn't so big a fool as you think her."
