Part 34 (1/2)

”I suppose because, as you say, he's too proud. But there's something else too, something deeper, I think.”

”And what's that, pray?”

”Well, I don't know how to describe it, but it's more than mere pride and perversity. I think it's a kind of return to type. He began life as a workman, and he's gone back to it. It's his way of showing the world he doesn't care what it does to him.”

”And what's that but pride?”

”Perhaps so,” said Arthur wearily. ”I've long ago given up judging my father. I only know that I never thought so well of him as I do now.”

”Well done!” cried Mrs. Bundy. ”That's what I think too.”

”Well, I can't see it,” said Bundy. ”Tell me again how he's living.”

”He's taken a small house at Tottenham, almost a cottage. Grimes gives him two pounds a week. He works from six in the morning till six at night. Next week I'm going to live with him.”

”Yes, that's the worst part of it!” cried Bundy. ”Your life is to be sacrificed too. With your splendid education you ought to be making a figure in the world. At all events you ought to be back upon your ranch, if that's the kind of life you mean to live. You must know that.”

”Yes, I know it. But I can't go back as long as father lives. I have to make amends to him for past unkindness. And, remember, he has no one left but me.”

”What about Helen?” said Mrs. Bundy.

”That's one of the things I came over to tell you about. I have a letter from her. You had better read it.”

The letter was dated from Paris, and read as follows:

”DEAR ARTHUR:

”I hear that you are back in London, so you know all about the _mess_ father has made of his affairs. You were lucky to be out of it, for it was a dreadful disgrace. I thought I should have _died_ of shame.

Just, too, when he was going to be knighted, for that's come out since, you know. He must have known all about it--I mean the disgrace--long before it came. And yet he never told me one word, but let me think things were all right, and was always talking to me about the house he meant to build, and the place in society I was to have. I can see now that it was all lies, and I will never forgive him. I suppose you will say I ought to sympathise with him, and all that kind of _rot_: you always did pretend to be so mighty good. Well, I don't, and I won't forgive him. And I dare say you'll say I ought to have stayed with him, and all that kind of thing. A pretty idea! As if I could have put my head out of doors, with everybody talking about us, and father's name in all the papers. I did go out once, and the Collinson girls, _proud, conceited things_, cut me dead, though I went to school with them. I wasn't going to stand that, so, after mother's funeral, I went away to one of my _true_ friends in Paris. I didn't tell her what had happened, you may be sure. And she doesn't read the English papers, _thank G.o.d_. Her name is Adele Siedmyer. She went to school with me, and her father is rich. She gave me a good time, I can tell you, and not a word said. The Siedmyers live in a beautiful house, much better than that _old_ Eagle House, which I always detested. Well, now, I've something to tell you, which is quite _important_. There was a nice old gentleman who used to come to dinner at the Siedmyers', and I soon saw that he was very fond of me. They told me he was seventy, but he doesn't look more than _fifty_, for these Frenchmen know how to dress and keep young, which Englishmen never do. He told me all about his life--he'd been twice married, but his wives had treated him _abominably_--and I felt very sorry for him. I forgot to say he's something in the Stock Exchange--the Bourse, they call it here--and the Siedmyers thought no end of him. Well, I dare say you'll guess the rest. He asked me to marry him. I thought he put it so _cleverly_; he said it was the _entente cordiale_. I laughed at first, and then I cried a good deal; for it seemed hard that I should have to marry an old man, even if he is only fifty and a _good figure_. But what was a poor girl to do? Adele and the Siedmyers persuaded me, and really it did seem to me quite _providential_, just in the midst of this disgrace; and it's not as though he didn't love me, for he's perfectly _infatuated_ over me. I know you'll sneer, you always were good at that. But I don't care. There's one thing I _always_ made my mind up to--it was that I wouldn't be poor. And, as I said, it did really seem quite _providential_, just when I couldn't hope to marry well in England, because of father's _wickedness_, that M. Simon--that's his name--should fall in love with me. I was dreadfully afraid at first that he'd ask awkward questions about father, but he never did, though he must have known _something_. Of course I didn't tell him--not likely. So the upshot of it is that we were married last week. So now you know. I thought I ought to tell you, and you can tell father, if you like. You needn't expect me _ever_ to come to London again--horrid, hateful city! If you like to come over to Paris some time, of course I'll see you; but I won't see father! I draw the line at that. And I am sure he won't expect it after all the _cruel_ wrong he's done me. I should think he would be too _ashamed_. If you can find any of my little knick-nacks in my drawers I wish you would pack them up and send them over. But I dare say they're gone--very likely the servants took them; and it doesn't _really_ matter, for I've everything I need. Thank G.o.d, I shall not be poor now, in spite of father's _wickedness_.

”Your sister, ”HELEN.

”P.S.--We are living at the Hotel Continental, _for the present_. If you were only sensible I would say come over, and meet Adele Siedmyer.

She will have lots of money when her father dies. But I suppose you prefer _digging_ like a labourer in that _nasty_ Canada. There's no accounting for tastes, is there?”

Arthur, who, of course, was familiar with the letter, turned his face away while Mrs. Bundy read it, for he was heartily ashamed of it. Its complete selfishness and shallowness, its spite, its rancour, its hard worldliness, above all, its nauseous pietism, had filled him with disgust. He was surprised therefore when Mrs. Bundy put it down, with the exclamation, ”Poor child!”

”Why do you say that?” he cried. ”A letter like that puts its writer beyond pity.”

”Ah, Arthur! I see you've not yet got out of the bad habit of judging people harshly. My laddie, don't let your heart grow hard against your sister, even though she is to blame. I'm not saying that that isn't a bad letter, and it comes from a hard, cruel heart. But I mind Helen as a little girl, as sweet and bright a child as you might meet in a day's march. It wasn't her fault that she was shallow; that's the way she was made. Yes, she was shallow, and only meant to sail in shallow waters, and when the deep waters overtook her, she was frightened to death. That's the letter of a poor, terrified girl who doesn't know what she's saying.”

”I didn't think of it like that.”

”No; it wasn't to be supposed you could. It isn't a boy that understands the heart of a poor, terrified girl.”

”But it's the meanness of it--no word about my father but cruel accusation.”

”Yes, it's mean; fear makes weak people mean.”

”That's right,” interjected Bundy. ”I've seen a man, when thoroughly frightened, pour out all the black things in his heart, without the least idea of what a cad he looked to other people.”