The Pace That Kills: A Chronicle

"I had thought the incident to which you refer was forgotten," he murmured, penitently enough.

"Forgotten? Do you suppose Thorold forgets? Do you suppose any man could forget a thing like that – a sister's death, a mother's insanity? No, you did not think it was forgotten. What you thought was this: you thought that my nephew would hesitate to speak; and indeed even to me for ten years he has kept silent. But now – there, you need not fear a criminal charge. It was that you feared once, I understand, and it was on that account you went abroad. At this date, of course, no proof is possible; and, even were it otherwise, a charge would not be brought. Linen of that kind is better washed at home."

"Mr. Dunellen, if you could know! It is the regret of my life."

"That I can believe; but I believe also that our natures never vary. We may mould and shape them to our uses, but beneath the surface they remain unchanged. I say this parenthetically. In regard to this incident there are in one particular certain excuses you might allege – youth for instance, inexperience, common attraction, love even. If you did, I could enter into them. I have been young myself, and I have no wish to imply that through the temptations of youth I passed unscathed. The man who asserts he has reminds me of the horseman who declares he has never been thrown. Nor because your victim happened to be my niece am I actuated by retrospective indignation. I am too old for that; and, moreover, the incident is too stale. No: my reason for forbidding my daughter to receive you, as I have done, is this: the man that can seduce a girl, and then, to conceal the effect, permit her to be butchered by a quack, especially when he could have protected her by marriage – that man, Mr. Mistrial, I tell you very plainly, is a scoundrel, and being a scoundrel will never be anything else." And as Honest Paul made this assertion he stood up and nodded affirmatively at his guest.

"You are very hard, Mr. Dunellen."

"I may be, but so is justice."

"If I could tell you all. It was so sudden, so unpremeditated even, at the first idea of a possibility of a catastrophe I lost my head."

"It was your honor you lost."

"Yes, and for years I have tried to recover it."

"That I am glad to learn, and I hope you have succeeded; but – "

"And will you not aid me?"

"In my sight you can never appear an honest man."

At this reproach, Roland, who had sat like Abjection, one hand supporting his head, his eyes lowered and his body bent, sprang to his feet.

"There are several forms of honesty," he exclaimed, "and frankness I believe is counted among them. That you evidently possess. Let me emulate you in it. I intend that your daughter shall be my wife. If you don't care to come to the wedding your presence can be dispensed with." And without any show of anger, but with an inclination of the head that was insolent in its deference, he picked up his hat and left the room.

Presently he found himself in the street. "Who is ever as stupid as a wise man?" he queried, and laughed a little to himself – "unless" – and he fell to wondering whether Dunellen could have told his daughter all. On the corner a cab was loitering; he hailed and entered it. A little later he was ringing at the door of Honest Paul's abode.

Yes, Miss Dunellen was at home. And as the servant drew the portière to the drawing-room aside, Roland was visited by that emotion the gambler knows who waits the turning of a card. Another second, and the expression of the girl's face would tell him what the future held. The drawing-room, however, happened to be untenanted, and as he paced its spacious splendors he still wondered was she or was she not informed. In a corner was a landscape signed Courbet – a green ravine shut down by bluest sky. The coloring was so true, it jarred. In another was a statue – a cloaked and hooded figure of Death supporting a naked girl. As he contemplated it, he heard the tinkle of the portière rings. It was she, he knew; he turned, and at once his heart gave an exultant throb; in her eyes was an invitation; he put his arms about her, and for a moment held her so.

She does not know, he told himself, and to her he murmured, "I have come to say good-bye."

"Wait, Roland." She led him to a seat. "Wait; I spoke to father last night; he has some objection – "

"I told you I was poor – "

"It is that, I suppose; he did not say – "

"He will never consent, unless – "

"There, Roland. I know him best." She closed her eyes, and as he gazed at her it seemed to him she had done so to shut some memory out. "It is money with him always; you do not know – " And between her parted lips she drew a breath he heard. "Last night he told me I must never see you again. Hitherto his will has ruled: it is my turn to-day."

With this there came a splendor to her he had never marked before; she looked defiant, and resolute as well. There was strength in her face, and beauty too.

"He is unjust," she added. "It was my duty to tell him, and there my duty ends. I am not a school-girl. I know my mind; better, perhaps, than he knows his own. I have obeyed him always. It is easy to obey, but now I will act for myself."

"He will never give his consent," Roland repeated.

"He may keep it, then."

Within her something seemed to rankle; and as Roland, mindful of the slightest change in her expression, detected this, he wondered what it could portend.

"Sweetheart," he ventured, "I have these two arms; they are all in all for you."

At this Justine awoke at once. "If I did not know it – feel it; if I were not sure of it, do you think I would speak to you as I do? No, Roland. I have something of my own; when we are married, believe me, his consent will come at once."

"It is not his consent I want – you know that; it is yours."

"You have it, Roland; I gave it you among the pines."

"Where is your hat, then? Let us go."

He caught her to him again, then suffered her to leave the room. And as the portière which he had drawn that she might pass fell back into its former folds, for a moment he stood perplexed. Somewhere a screw was loose, he could have sworn. But where? Could it be that Honest Paul was supporting a separate establishment? or did Justine think he wished to mate her to some plutocrat of his choice? The first supposition was manifestly absurd; the second troubled him so little that he turned and occupied himself with the naked girl swooning in the arms of Death.

"I am ready, Roland." It was Justine, bonneted and veiled, buttoning her glove.

"I have a cab," he answered, and followed her to the door.

VII

When Roland and Justine re-entered the drawing-room that afternoon they found Mr. Dunellen there. With him was Guy Thorold.

During the infant days of photography family groups were so much in vogue that anyone with an old album in reach can find them there in plenty. They are faded, no doubt; the cut of the garments is absurd; even the faces seem to have that antique look which is peculiar to the miniatures of people dead and departed: yet the impression they convey is admirably exalting. That gentleman in the wonderful coat must have been magnificent in every sphere of life: his mere pose, his attitude, is convincing as a memoir. And that lady in the camel's-hair shawl – how bewitchingly lovable she surely was! There is her daughter, who might be her niece, so prettily does she seem inclined to behave; and there is the son, a trifle effaced perhaps, yet with the makings of a man manifest even in that effacement. Oh, good people! let us hope you were really as amiable as you look: the picture is all we have of you; even your names are forgot; and truly it were discomforting to have the impression you convey disturbed in its slightest suggestion. We love you best as you are; we prefer you so. I, for one, will have none of that cynicism which hints that had a snap camera caught you unprepared the charm would disappear.

Yet now, in the present instance, as Mr. Dunellen and his nephew stood facing Roland and Justine, a photographer who had happened there could have taken a family group which would in no manner have resembled those which our albums hold.

"I told you last night," Mr. Dunellen was shrieking, "that I forbade you to see that man."

And Justine, raising her veil, answered, "He was not my husband then."

"Husband!" The old man stared at his daughter, his face distorted and livid with rage. "If you – "

But whatever threat he may have intended to make, Thorold interrupted.

"He is married already," he cried; "he is no more your husband than I."

At this announcement Mr. Dunellen let an arm he had outstretched fall to his side; he turned to Thorold, and Justine looked wonderingly in Roland's face.

"What does he mean?" she asked.

Roland shrugged his shoulders, "God knows," he answered. "He must be screwed."

"You are married," Thorold called out. "You needn't attempt to deny it here."

"I don't in the least: this lady has just done me the honor to become my wife."

"But you have another – you told me so yourself."