CHAPTER XIX
Late Calls
IT was Lottie who opened the door after Miss Gosling had rung three times.
“What do you want?” she stammered.
“I wish to see your mother. Even if she has gone to bed, you must tell her I am here.”
“Mother went out about ten minutes ago; she is on her way to Elm House.”
Miss Gosling sought the support of the doorpost.
“How long was Mrs. Lismore at home?” the visitor at last inquired.
“I couldn't say—about half an hour?”
“Suppose you let me come in for a few minutes,” said Miss Gosling. “I have told the driver to wait.”
“But you can't see Father,” returned the girl, “He's ill, He has had a powder, and now he's sleeping, thank goodness.”
“It is you I wish to speak to.”
Reluctantly Lottie drew back the door. She conducted the other to the drawing-room. A glare of electrics showed neglect everywhere.
“Weren't you glad to see your mother to-night?” the spinster asked, seating herself.
“Of course! I didn't know what to do with Father.”
“How could you leave her, as you did to-day, alone at Atlantic City?”
“How do you know of that?”
“It was I who brought her from there. It seemed to me she was needed here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Lismore, your father is on the brink of ruin.”
“Oh! And he owes me nearly five thousand dollars—all I have in the world!”
“Indeed! What about your five thousand in my niece's safe?”
Lottie gasped. “What business—”
“Hush! I saw you drop the letter out of the library window. Don't make a fuss! You are safe so long as you do your duty to your mother. I want no promises. I simply advise you to be truer to your mother than you have been to your friend. And by the way, you had better reclaim that packet from my niece's charge. Do so by letter, for I should be sorry to think of your entering her house again.” Then, Miss Gosling rose. Apparently she was without pity.
“I brought a letter for your mother,” she said, “but frankly, I dare not leave it with you. I hope I may catch her at Elm House. But I leave you a message from myself for your father, in case he awakens before her return. It is this: for his wife's sake, he shall have mercy. That is all I have to say.”
And with that, Miss Gosling departed.
AT Elm House Miss Gosling missed Mrs. Lismore a second time. That unhappy lady, on arriving at her home, had found her husband's state of mind so dreadful that, with neither rest nor nourishment to sustain her, she had hurried off to beg from Joan March a word that might possibly soothe him.
When she rang the bell of Elm House, Joan was in the library with Grant and Fairthorn. While they talked, they heard the distant sound of hammering.
“That cement must be awful stuff,” Grant was saying, not for the first time. “Isn't it a bit cruel to let the beggar do all the hard labor?”
It was then that Joan, the servants having retired, excused herself and went, wondering and not a little anxious, to the front door. The interview which followed in the drawing-room was painful but brief. Joan spared the woman all she could, telling her the trouble was already known to her, and how Miss Gosling had gone with a message of comfort.
“There is only one condition,” said Joan, gently but by no means weakly. “The money must be settled on you; Mr. Lismore simply must submit to being dependent on you; and you must learn to manage the money yourself. And he must give up his speculation in town.”
“Oh, I think he will be glad to hide himself far away from the city now! You know we were happy in the few years before we came to New York.”
“Before he knew Mr. Stormont?”
“You blame him? Perhaps—I don't know. I never have had anything but consideration and respect from Mr. Stormont, Ah, well, Griselda says my chance has come. I pray I may be able to use it. But before I go I must tell you one thing! It's about Douglas Grant. I was very fond of Douglas,—you know, all my own boys went away,—but I did him a terribly injury. You remember how he abruptly disappeared, two years ago, even beyond my reach. He and my husband were in the same department of Mr. Cran's business. One afternoon my husband came home early, and I thought he was going to be very ill. And then I caught him just in time—laudanum, you know. And he confessed to me. Oh, I can't tell you all—but the thing would be discovered next day—and it was either Harold or Douglas Grant who could have done it.”
“What are you telling me?” said Joan in a harsh whisper.
Mrs. Lismore drooped, but went on: “Without delay I sent for Douglas. I knew his warm heart and generous disposition, and I told him everything. He was dreadfully shocked and very sorry for me. He declared he would do anything for me who had treated him like a son, but when I suggested the great sacrifice—”
“How could you?”
“—he hesitated. I pointed out that he was young, with the world before him, while my husband was getting old and the disgrace would kill him. Douglas offered me everything except his honor. I implored, I wept—in vain. And at last, Joan, I, who might have been his mother, went down on my knees before him..... He gave in!”
“Oh!” cried the girl. She got up. She-was afraid of being brutal to the woman who had already suffered so much.
Mrs. Lismore rose also. “It was wicked of me,” she said in a low voice. “You would not have done it, my dear; yet some day you will understand better why I did it. I had to tell you, because you and Douglas were—friends. I will go now.”
Without further words Joan saw her to the door.
As she stood alone in the hall Grant came from the library, and said:
“We were wondering about you. The hammering has ceased.”