Part 12 (2/2)
He did not rise from his chair, but indicated a rude seat in the corner by the chimney and waited until his unwilling guest had taken it. Alban judged that his own altered appearance and his absence from Union Street must be the cause of his displeasure. He could guess no other reason.
”Do you love my daughter, Alban Kennedy?”
”You know that I do, Paul. Have we not always been good friends? I came to tell you about a piece of great good fortune which has happened to me and to find out why Lois had not written to me. You see for yourself that there is a great change in me. One of the richest men in London considers that I have a claim, to some of his money--through some distant relative, it appears--and I am living at his house almost as his own son.”
”Is that why you forget your old friends so quickly?”
”I have never forgotten them. I wrote to Lois twice.”
”Did you speak of marriage in your letters?”
The lad's face flushed crimson. He knew that he could not tell Paul Boriskoff the truth.
”I did not speak of marriage--why should I?” he exclaimed; ”it was never your wish that we should speak of it until Lois is twenty-one. She will not be that for more than three years--why do you ask me the question to-night?”
”Because you have learned to love another woman.”
A dead silence fell in the room. The old man continued to tap gently upon the coil of tube, rapidly a.s.suming a fantastic shape under the masterly touch of a trained hand. A candle flickered by him upon a crazy table where stood a crust of bread and a lump of coa.r.s.e cheese. Not boastfully had he told Richard Gessner that he would accept nothing for himself. He was even poorer than he had been six weeks ago when he discovered that his old enemy was alive.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”You love another woman, Alban Kennedy, and you have wished to forget my daughter.”]
”You love another woman, Alban Kennedy, and you have wished to forget my daughter. Do not say that it is not the truth, for I read it upon your face. You should be ashamed to come here unless you can deny it. Fortune has been kind to you, but how have you rewarded those for whom she has nothing? I say that you have forgotten them--been ashamed of them as they have now the right to be ashamed of you.”
He put his hammer down and looked the lad straight in the face. Upon Alban's part there was an intense desire to confess everything and to tell his old friend of all those distressing doubts and perplexities which had so hara.s.sed him since he went to Hampstead. If he could have done so, much would have been spared him in the time to come. But he found it impossible to open his heart to an alien,--nor did he believe Paul Boriskoff capable of appreciating the emotions which now tortured him.
”I have never been ashamed of any of my friends,” he exclaimed hotly; ”you know that it is not true, Paul Boriskoff. Where are the letters which I wrote to Lois? Why has she not answered them? If I had been ashamed, would they have been written? Cannot you understand that all which has happened to me has been very distracting. I have seen a new life--a new world, and it is not as our world. Perhaps there is no more happiness in it than in these courts and alleys where we have suffered so much. I cannot tell you truly. It is all too new to me and naturally I feel incapable of judging it. When I came to you to-night it was to speak of our old friends.h.i.+p. Should I have done so if I had forgotten?”
Old Paul heard him with patience, but his anger none the less remained.
The s.h.a.ggy eyebrows were at rest now, but the eyes were never turned from Alban's face.
”You are in love with Anna Gessner,” he said quietly; ”why do you not tell Lois so?”
”I cannot tell her so--it would not be true. She will always be the same little Lois to me, and when she is twenty-one I will marry her.”
”Ha--when she is twenty-one. That seems a long time off to one who is your age. You will marry her, you say--a promise to keep her quiet while you make love to this fine lady who befools you. No, Alban Kennedy, I shall not let Lois imagine any such thing; I shall tell her the truth.
She will choose another husband--that is my wish and she will obey it.”
”You are doing me a great injustice, Paul Boriskoff. I do not love Anna--perhaps for a moment I thought that I did, but I know now that I was deceiving myself. She is not one who is worthy of being loved. I believed her very different when first I went to Hampstead.”
”Tell me no such thing. I am an old man and I know men's hearts. What shall my daughter and her rags be to you now that you have fine clothes upon your back? You are as the others--you have knelt down at the shrine of money and there you wors.h.i.+p. This woman in her fine clothes--she is your idol. All your past is forgotten immediately you see her. A great gulf is set between you and us. Think not that I do not know, for there are those who bring me the story every day. You wors.h.i.+p Anna Gessner, but you live in a fool's paradise, for the father will forbid you to marry her. I say it and I know. Be honest and speak to my daughter as I have spoken to you to-night.”
He raised his hammer as though he would resume his work, and Alban began to perceive how hopeless an argument would be with him while in such a mood. Not deficient in courage, the lad could not well defend himself from so direct an attack, and he had the honesty to admit as much.
”I shall tell Lois the truth,” he said: ”she will then judge me and say whether you are right or wrong. I came here to-night to see if I could help you both. You know, Paul Boriskoff, how much I wish to do so. While I have money, it is yours also. Have not Lois and I always been as your children? You cannot forbid me to act as a son should, just because I have come into my inheritance. Let me find you a better home and take you away from this dismal place. Then I shall be doing right to wors.h.i.+p money. Will you not let me do so? There is nothing in life half so good as helping those we love--I am sure of it already, and it is only five weeks since I came into my inheritance. Give me the right and let me still call you father.”
Old Paul was much affected, but he would not let the lad see as much.
Avoiding the question discreetly but not unkindly, he muttered, ”No, no, I need no help. I am an old man and what happens to me does not matter.”
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