IV
THE footman threw open the library doors and with an impassive countenance followed his master into the room. It was an apartment which a Medici prince might have envied—the walls lined with precious volumes and every piece of furniture a treasure of art which of itself would have been a glory to any household.
Brian Monkhouse glanced about him with a satisfaction that was akin to a keen physical relief, and sat down at the massive writing-table beneath the shaded electric lamp. The footman arranged his letters in front of him, once losing his impassivity enough to throw a quick scrutiny at the ugly, resolute face under the light.
“You've had a rough time, sir,” he said, with an unprofessional impulsiveness. “You look bad.”
Monkhouse started, and glanced up with a cynical smile.
“Yes, it's been touch and go. But don't bother to pretend you're worried, my good fellow. You could have got a better place any day—and one vastly more respectable.”
The man held his ground, though his face showed no expression.
“I've been with you for fifteen years, and I was in the family before that, sir.”
“Well, I'm no great credit to you, am I? What am I in the kitchen—Blackguard Brian, eh?”
“Not whilst I'm there, sir.”
“No?” Monkhouse broke into a short laugh. “It's good to have a champion somewhere, anyhow. My best thanks. There, you're a first-rate fellow, Andrews, but don't get sentimental over me. I'm not accustomed to it. How have things been?”
“As usual, sir.”
“Miss Margaret—?”
“As usual, sir—only—” He hesitated and then added hurriedly: “You ought to see her, sir, a picture. There isn't such another in all England. Red-gold hair, sir, and gray eyes—”
He stopped. The hand lying on the table had clenched itself into an ugly, ominous-looking fist.
“That will do, Andrews. You can go. In ten minutes a lady is calling on me—a Miss East. Show her in here. At seven I am expecting a Mr. Haig. At half past you can order round the car. I shall be out late. That is all.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man retired quietly, and as the door closed Monkhouse threw back his square head as though trying to throw off some paralyzing burden. Then he sat forward with his face buried in his hands; He did not move again, and his frozen quiet made him seem part of the room's massive serenity, but as, ten minutes later, the door was thrown open, his hands dropped swiftly from his face and he appeared to be reading.
“Miss East, sir.”
Monkhouse rose to his feet as the door closed. He saw her standing on the threshold; a poorly-clad figure that, in spite of its poverty, retained an unequaled grace and power of bearing. In the half-lights its outline seemed shadowy—gray against gray—but the white face stood out with a curious clarity.
“Won't you sit down, Miss East?”
She came forward at once and accepted the carved oak chair to which he motioned her. Their eyes met over the table.
“Your man seemed to expect me,” she said.
“I expected you,” he returned, in the same brief tones.
“Were you so sure that I should accept your invitation?”
He shifted his position, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
“I thought you would come.”
“And your offer—do you expect me to accept that, too?”
“Will you not?” She made no answer, and he went on deliberately: “This is scarcely the language that a man employs towards the woman who saved his life—as you saved mine. But I fancy profuse thanks would be out of place. You did not exactly save me for my sake, did you?”
He looked up at her, and her gaze never flinched.
“How could it have been? I know nothing of you, Mr. Monkhouse.”
“Come. You know something. You know what people call me and think of me. I'm a pariah on the outskirts of decent society—a millionaire whose ill-gotten gains so stink to Heaven that even politicians won't touch him and his brother cuts him in the street—a man who has at least one woman's broken life on his record—”
“Don't!” The cry broke from her involuntarily as though she had unexpectedly been hurt, and he made a rough gesture of apology.
“I'm sorry. I ought, perhaps, not to mention these ugly facts to you. But you are not a child and I wished to assure you that I did not misunderstand your action. You were not inspired by the belief that in saving me you were benefiting humanity, and yet you undoubtedly risked your life.”
“I can explain that much,” she interrupted quickly. “Sometimes the motives that impel us are hidden from ourselves, but this I do understand. My own life had been saved that night. But for one man's heroism and self-sacrifice I should have been trampled underfoot in the panic—and afterward he bought my place in the boat at the cost of his own safety. I do not know whether he escaped or went down with the ship, but the chances are I shall never be able to thank him and—” She hesitated, her brows contracted with pain, and he nodded gravely, his head supported on his hand, his eyes gazing sightlessly on the papers in front of him.
“Yes? And then—?”
“When I saw you in the water I felt that it was my only chance to pay my debt—to do as I had been done by. You didn't count.”
“Or rather, my personality added to the value of your sacrifice,” he suggested grimly. He got up, and began to pace restlessly about the room, his hands behind his back his chin buried on his chest. “But that doesn't change my position, Miss East. When I heard from the nurse at the hospital that you had lest everything you possessed, I made up my mind what was to be done. I asked you to come here, to take charge of my household, to be a companion to my—daughter. There is nothing generous in my proposal, which is for our mutual advantage—I shall have done my duty in two directions—and you will have attained at least a means to an end.”
“I don't understand you,” she interrupted, quickly.
“Surely—a home here, ample means and opportunities to follow up whatever other ambitions you may have.” He had come to a standstill by the great open fireplace so that she could no longer see him without turning her head.
“The one objection—myself—need not weigh with you. You will be with my daughter—and I have not seen my daughter for fifteen years.” He waited a moment. “Does that surprise you?” he asked.
“A little—perhaps.”
“Ah, I see you are not well informed. I am sorry. It will have to be explained; but, in the meantime, do you accept my proposal?”
She did not answer for a moment. She turned to look at him and became suddenly aware that whilst he stood in the shadow he was studying her face with the burning intensity of a man who is tracing every feature in the effort to engrave it on his memory. She sprang to her feet.
“Mr. Monkhouse—”
It was a full minute before her exclamation of protest seemed to reach his consciousness. Then his brows relaxed and something like a smile passed over his ugly features.
“Forgive me. I had almost forgotten, it is so many years since a woman sat and talked to me and—” he broke off with a shrug of the shoulders. “Anyhow, it is for the first and last time. Let us get back to business. Do you consent?”
The vivid color had died out of her face. She no longer met his eyes.
“Mr. Monkhouse I asked you once not to forget that you wished to know me, and now I ask you to remember another thing. If I come on your terms I want you to remember that I warned you. I am not your friend. As much as one can dislike a man whom one does not know personally I dislike you. Do you still want me in your household?”
“Yes,” he answered directly, “I am not afraid. I have long since ceased to be afraid of anything—”
His voice died into a silence and to the woman watching him it seemed as though his boast had conjured up a terrible refutation which for the moment bereft him of all self-control. Instinctively his hand had flown out in search of support and finding none dropped heavily to his side. The mask of grim power and ruthlessness had fallen, and behind it was a revelation of such physical suffering that involuntarily Ray East turned, following the direction of his eyes and saw—what he saw—a girl standing in the open doorway. The newcomer's glance met hers for an instant in a flash of interrogation and then reverted to the man. It was she who spoke first, and in the intense quiet her voice sounded low and tremulous with fear.
“Father—I want to speak to you—may I?”
Brian Monkhouse came back slowly into the circle of light. He had regained his physical self-mastery, but his manner was one of sternly repressed agitation and, not looking at the intruder, he turned to Ray East with a halting appeal that in him was curious and disturbing.
“Miss East—I have told you enough to make you understand that for a moment or two—I want to be alone—with my daughter. If you would go into the next room and wait—it will not be for long.”
She assented, but her eyes were fixed on the girl and even at the door she turned and looked back with the hardness gone out of her face. Monkhouse held the curtains aside for her to pass.
“You will know how things stand now,” he said.
The curtains fell behind her. He came back again and stood by the table opposite the trembling girl, who watched him in tense agitation. But still he avoided looking at her. He took up a ruler and played idly with it in his great hands.
“What do you want?” he asked at last.
If he had looked at her he would have seen that she was fighting for words. Her hands clasped and unclasped themselves and all that she had thought and prayed during the long hours of indecision trembled on her lips, and spoke in the passionate young eyes.
“I don't know,” she said at last. “But you're my father, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Then it seemed right that I should come to you. I knew you didn't want it—I can see how terrible it has been to you—and I don't understand—”
“Why couldn't you have accepted the fact?”
“I have done so for years. But now I'm grown up—and it's different—” She hesitated, and then added haltingly: “I'm so alone.”
“Alone—?” he echoed heavily.
“There's no one who cares—no one in this house. There are servants—and friends who wonder and I say things I don't understand—and I couldn't bear it any longer. When I heard that you had been in danger I realized how foolish it all was and that it couldn't go on. After all, we belong to each other,—we ought to help each other—”
“Good God—!” He stopped short, turning into a laugh a sound that had been more like a groan of angry pain. “Hasn't it occurred to you that if we could have helped each other I shouldn't have kept you away from me as I have done?”
“I know—I've said I don't understand. But I thought that there must be some explanation and that if I only saw you, you would tell me—”
“Well—?”
“You won't even look at me!” she exclaimed passionately. “Can't you bear to—what is it? Do you hate me?”
He lifted his eyes to her face, his own features contracted with an inexpressible pain and impatience. Then for an instant they softened.
“Yes—you are very beautiful,” he said inconsequently.
“But you haven't answered. Do you hate me?” As he was still silent, she stretched out an uncertain hand and laid it on his arm: “Father—I don't see why you should. I've never done anything to hurt you. You've never even seen me—”
“You remind me of someone,” he broke in hoarsely.
“Someone—you hated?”
“No—no—”
“Or who wronged you?”
He turned on her with a gesture of restrained violence.
“No—no, I tell you, child—for God's sake leave me alone. Can't you see that I'm at the end of my tether? I've been very ill. You are driving me—”
“Or someone whom you wronged?” she persisted relentlessly.
“I—?”
“My mother—”
They stood rigidly still, staring at each other. Until then she had been groping blindly through a maze of torturing speculation, guided by a subconscious memory of a hundred trivial incidents—a hint dropped there—a word here—a curious glance, an exchange of significant gestures—and now she had stumbled upon the truth. She saw it in his face—in his clenched hands, and the conviction struck her dumb and motionless. She could only stare at him till he raised his hands as though in defence of a physical attack.
“You would have done better to have kept away,” he said. “You have brought about something that I have tried to prevent—for both our sakes. But you have had your will in spite of me.”
“Will you tell me the truth?” she asked, scarcely above her breath. “I am old enough now—and I must know.”
“Very well. I wronged your mother. And she hated me so much—she would not even bear my name. That is all.”
“And I—?”
He made no answer. He walked across to the mantelpiece and stood there with his back turned to her. He seemed to be waiting, but she did not speak, and when at length he glanced around he saw that she had dropped down by the table and lay there with her face buried in her arms, Instantly he came back to her side and bent over her. But he did not touch her.
“Don't!” he said quietly. “Please don't—you mustn't think of it or of me or of anything again. Forget—and take what life offers you. It's the only way. As for me—you will understand. I can't be anything to you. You remind me of what I want to forget. I am a man wracked by remorse—a bad fellow with a conscience—as God makes men sometimes.” He went to the door and pulled back the curtains,
“Miss East—please! I dare say you have heard—you could not have very well done otherwise, and I wished you to hear, though I did not wish you to be present. You know something about the circumstances—will you befriend my daughter?”
She came back into the room, and instantly her eyes sought the huddled figure by the table. Then they turned to Brian Monkhouse with tears of bitterness and scorn in their depths.
“I did hear,” she said. “I knew that you meant me to. And if your daughter will accept my friendship I will be to her something at least of what she has lost. I promise you.”
He drew a deep breath.
“Thank you. That is what I wished. Now go—please—both of you—anywhere—to the ends of the earth—only leave me alone—I have borne enough—”
The deepening note of uncontrollable exasperation died suddenly out of his voice. He drew himself together, facing the door which Andrews had thrown open, and before he could speak Gilbert Haig had entered and stood midway between them, looking from his host to the two women with a smile of ambiguous questioning on his pale face.