X
Then,” said Philip shortly, “if I understand you aright, you wish me to discontinue my visits?”
Mr. Gerard was rather taken aback by the directness with which Philip put it. To be sure that was what it amounted to, but—“You see, you keep other men at a distance: you take up most of the leisure she has to devote to society. I don't mean to be hard. I trust you appreciate the delicacy of my position—the peculiarity of it. I want to be fair to you and at the same time just to Barbara. It occurs to me that I can only accomplish this by having you——” He was very much mixed—very red and very miserable.
The cause of all his annoyance stood before him—cool and collected, but it was the calm of desperation.
The comfort of knowing this was, however, denied to Mr. Gerard. He took up the tangled thread of his discourse. “My dear boy, you must know I don't want to seem hard”—getting a fresh start—“I don't want to interfere with your happiness, but where my daughter is concerned I must be just. I can't be remiss in my duty there. Now I leave it to you—to your sense of fairness. You know what I think—do what you consider right.”
“I suppose you can not understand just how I got rid of my money,” Philip said grimly.
“I confess I can't,” Mr. Gerard replied nervously. “Your admission has been a great surprise to me. It was only a month or so ago that you had quite a large sum saved and now you inform me it's all gone, and you don't tell me where.”
“I can not, Mr. Gerard.”
“Of course—of course. That is your business. I appreciate that—I ask for no explanation—and I do like your frankness in coming to me at once,” but there was small favor in the glance he bestowed upon Philip. “If it's gone—why——-” he came to a stop again.
“It is gone. Every penny of it.” Philip said relentlessly.
“It's very unusual, very.”
“And you had rather I slow up on my visits?”
“I leave it entirely with you, as I said before. I don't understand and I am not satisfied. I—really it may be as well for you to keep away. But do whatever you think proper.”
“You put it to me in such shape that there is just one thing I can do, and that is keep away and stay away.”
“My dear boy, I——”
Philip cut him short by turning on his heel. “You have no objection to my calling this afternoon?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. It's right that you should.”
“Thank you,” said Philip, and took himself off, leaving Mr. Gerard puffing and agitated in the door of his office.
Philip was glad that he had carried off the honors of the interview where calmness and dispassion were involved, but he knew that the triumph was a small one, and that Mr. Gerard's turn would come later, when he himself could but compress his lips and suffer.
He was thinking of this and bitter revolt was in his heart when he presented himself to Barbara. His face told plainly what he felt. Indeed, it was so apparent that she silently followed him into the parlor.
He threw his hat down upon a chair and stood in the center of the room looking at her, wondering how it would be possible to exist, deprived of her companionship.
“What is it, Philip? Why don't you tell me?” she at last found courage to ask.
“It's what I have known would happen all along. Your father——”
“What has my father done?” she interrupted him.
“He has told me I must stop coming here.”
Barbara's eyes blazed. Her diminutive figure was drawn wrathfully up to its fullest height. “Has he dared to do that—has he dared!”
“I felt in honor bound to tell him I had been compelled to spend my savings. He said—he was very kind—that a continuation of my attentions would compromise you, and since my future was very uncertain——”
“My life is mine—it belongs to me!” she interposed. “And if I choose to give it to you, it's mine to give. I know what I need better than he does.”
“I wish I could have told him how the money went. He evidently attributes my poverty to wild and reckless extravagance. I could see it completely finished me off in his estimation. I wish I could have told—but I couldn't. I can't even tell you.”
“It's nobody's affair but your own, and if we are satisfied I don't see what it is to him.”
“Just the same, Barbara, he has made it his affair. He is your father, and it is his privilege.” Her little foot tapped the floor angrily. His submission offended her.
“It's all right, Barbara.”
“It's not all right,” she burst out. “Is it all right that our happiness should be wrecked?”
“I don't say that. I refer to his requesting me to cease coming here. He evidently regards me as not the proper sort of person.”
“What are you going to do?”
“There is but one thing I can do.”
“And that?”
“Respect his wishes.”
“If you do, what is going to become of me?”
Philip put his hand to his aching head. That was more than he could tell. He had thought of it, too. His personal pain and anxiety gave him no concern. He had become accustomed to it, but it would be so hard for her. She had not his training in disappointment. What could he do?
“What will become of me?” she repeated, with tears in her eyes.
“As soon as I have the money it will be as it was before. The separation will be but temporary—unless you forget me.”
“I shall never forget you. I love you.”
“Then as soon as I succeed even partially, I shall come back to you. I shall work so hard, it shan't be for long. I will succeed.” And he set his teeth. “I know I shall and it will be no ordinary success when it does come. You have faith in me?”
“Yes! yes! but that's so far off! Think of the time we have already waited.”
“I know, dear, but I am making every effort. I know, too, that despite all his efforts a man may fail—absolutely—and through no fault of his own. He may get down and never rise, though he struggle ever so hard. There is a savage remorseless quality to life, a cruel indifference to work and worth. This risk we are compelled to take. In any business or profession it would be the same. It does not apply alone to one who thinks he can write——”
He was striding back and forth across the room. “Yet I can't bring myself to believe that I am to be one of the failures, all I want is time—time! I know I can do so much. You must have faith in me, Barbara!”
“It has been so long,” she said sadly, going to his side and clasping both her hands about his arm, “and I am afraid. I don't quite know of what—but I am afraid.”
“Can't you be brave just a little longer—just a little longer?”
“I try to be—I really do, but——”
“But what?”
“I am afraid he wants me to marry Mr. Shel-den. He does not say so, but I know.” And she began to cry again, clinging to Philip the while. “I know it! I know it! and unless you save me I shall be forced into it. I can't stand black looks and constant coercion. I shall yield. I know I shall, and my whole life will be ruined.”
“So that's it, is it?” Philip's voice was hoarse and dry. “So that's it? That's what it signifies? He wants to get me out of the road, does he?” And after a brief pause: “Do you like him in the least, Barbara?”
“I hate him.”
“He has money and all that sort of thing.”
“It's nothing to me. I can only care for you.”
“Has your father made any positive statement of his preference, Barbara?”
She shook her head. “Of course he does not speak of it, but I know.”
“Well, I'll go in for work harder than ever, dear—we need not despair, for we are sure of each other.”
“But—but—if I don't see you——”
“Can't you keep your love alive and not see me?”
“I suppose so, but you are so different from me. You don't feel the same.”
“I feel with my whole soul, Barbara. Can I do more?”
“It breaks my heart to think I am not to see you.” She glanced up into his face. “Not to see you at all—why how shall I manage to endure it?” Her eyes grew wide, filled with a pathetic grief that made him desperate. “And now scarcely a day passes, that I do not catch a glimpse of you.”
“It can't be for long, Barbara.”
“It may be forever.” This was said in a stifled voice.
“It's not as if I were going away—not as if I were to leave the town. We shall see each other constantly.”
“It's worse than if you were going away. It's a great deal worse. Then I could make up my mind to it and could, I suppose, bear it somehow.”
“Dear,” he spoke softly, “dearest, please look up. I want to talk to you. Can't you listen to me? Please, dear, it's not so bad. It might be worse.”
“It's bad enough!” without lifting her head from where it rested upon his arm. “It couldn't be worse. I couldn't suffer more.”
“Can't you be hopeful? Can't you try?”
“I do try.”
“It is coming nearer all the while. I am making money—I shall make more. Don't you believe in my ability?”
“It's not that. I am confident of the future, but the present is so horrible, with all manner of doubt. Do you,” looking up and letting her glance meet his for a moment, “do you honestly think it will ever be as we hope?”
“Yes. It can not be otherwise. It only means patience—only a little waiting.”
“Tell me what papa said.”
“He asked me to stop coming here until such time as I am in a position to be accepted formally as your intended husband.”
“And when will that be?” shaking her head.
“It can't be so very far off and it comes closer with every day. If I could only give you some of my hope—if I only could!”
“You do—but—”
“I do, but it fails in its mission.”
“Tell me what he said.”
“It all amounted to this. I must forego the pleasure of seeing you, except very infrequently.”
“Is it good-by you are saying to me? Is it? Is it?”
“I fear it is. You must forgive me, but I have to show some little pride, and there is but one course open to me. It's not choice, but necessity that influences me in my decision.”
“Does he want to make me hate him! I shall.” She gave way utterly to her emotions and Philip did the best he could to soothe her as she stood within the protecting circle of his arms.
“I have exhausted my patience. I am tired—tired. How do I know it will ever come. It has been years already,” she said at last.
“It is no more doubtful than anything else would be. I am putting forth all my energy.”
“I am tired. I am tired.”
“I have this to reproach myself with. I thought in the beginning success would come sooner. I have kept on and on, and now I am as far from it as ever. It has been four years, Barbara, four years. I am so sorry, dear, so sorry.”
“If you go I shall never see you again. Something will happen. I shall be driven into something dreadful. I shall be at papa's mercy, and I haven't any strength of character. He can do what he likes when you are gone, and I shall give in. I always do.”
Her whole attitude was one of weak complaint. It was fast forcing Philip to the verge of madness. As if she divined what his thoughts were, she said: “You don't respect me. You think I don't amount to anything.”
“I love you!” he said gravely. “And now I must go.”
“You are not going!—not yet!—not yet!”
“I shall write you every day when I don't happen to see you, so you will know how I get on.”
“Yes! yes! but are you going?”
“I must go sometime and it's better over with. We shall write each other and we shall meet quite often at various places. I shall go where I know you will be.”
She was crying violently.
“You must not leave me! You must not, Philip!”
But he moved slowly to the door.
“I can't tell you how hard I shall work. Just be brave and good as you have been from the start and it will come out all right.”
“I can't wait forever—and I need you now.”
“You will have to, dearest.”
“Doesn't it make you furious?”
“What, Barbara?”
“Furious, that he can interfere with us. It's our life—our love. We only ask to be left alone. Oh—I can't bear it!”
“I'm afraid we must bear it for a while. We won't be altogether separated—we will see each other now and then!”
“No! no! what will such meetings be—with people about—people who will stare at us with silly senseless curiosity!”
“Good-by for the present, dear—for to-day.”
“No—no!”
“We shall meet often. Try to think of that.”
“I am not brave and I invariably give in. He knows it. I shall have no peace if you go like this. Promise me you will come back!”
“I can not, Barbara.”
“Then the blame for whatever follows falls on you. You go willingly.”
“You are unjust.”
“You go willingly,” she insisted. “You desert me. You leave me for him to torture into doing what he wants! Is it nothing to you?”
“I love you,” he answered simply.
“And if we drift apart?”
“I don't know what you mean. How can we drift apart?”
“People do.”
“Are we like them?”
“Are we?”
“I thought we were not,” he said.
“Why should you think that?” she answered. “I don't know. Perhaps we are the same as the rest. Perhaps I only imagine the difference.”
“You are going?” she said in alarm as he moved toward the door.
“Yes, Barbara.”
But Barbara threw herself down into a chair and commenced to cry afresh. This drew Philip back to her side in an instant.
“Won't you say good-by, Barbara, just for the present? Won't you say good-by, dear?” He sought to remove the hand she held before her face.
She gave him no answer and he turned from her, at first irresolute and then with more decision, for his mind was made up. After all, her sense of resentment would lighten her grief for the moment. It would be easier to bear because of it.
He stepped into the hall, the door closed, and Barbara heard his footsteps growing fainter. He was gone!
Curled up in the easy chair she sobbed out her sorrow and anger, for it was a mingling of both. At last she raised her head and looked about. She was still sobbing brokenly.
Suddenly she sat erect. It was growing late. She remembered that her father was to bring Mr. Shelden home with him to tea.
“I hate him!” she thought. “I hate everybody, but I shall have to see him and be agreeable, and I suppose I look like a perfect fright with my eyes all red. Of course while he is here, I shall have to pretend that I am enjoying myself, and my head hurts and I am miserable. I want Philip, and no one else!”
In proof of which she commenced to weep.
And so for an hour or more she lay curled up in the chair, a doleful little heap.