Читать книгу Tracked to Doom - James Edward Muddock - Страница 7

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RAYMOND also went to Mr. Glindon's assistance, but the merchant, with what appeared to be a supreme effort, recovered himself, and said, in a voice that painfully told of mental suffering—

"Forgive me for this exhibition of weakness. The fact is, I—I feel almost as if my heart was torn in two. But there, a man must face the foe, and should die with defiance on his lips. You ask me, Raymond, to give my consent to your marrying Muriel. You say you are essential to each other's happiness. That is the dream of love, but will you still think the same thing when you are man and wife?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Raymond and Muriel, in chorus.

"All lovers say that. But supposing, Raymond—supposing that, when this dear girl has become your wife, some great disgrace were to fall upon her name—a disgrace that should cause the world to point at her, and scoff at her, and shun her as a leper—would you still cling to her, still love her?"

Raymond, who had taken a seat in a chair in obedience to a sign from Glindon, rose up at this as if with some sudden impulse of uncontrollable energy, and exclaimed, as he threw his arm round Muriel's waist—"Ay would I, or may God forget me!"

"You are a noble fellow," answered Mr. Glindon, "for I believe that you are sincere, and, with a man like you, honour is above price, and impregnable against the assaults of scorn and uncharitableness. Come here, Muriel." His daughter went to him, and he took her hand. "You ask me to give you this woman for your wife," he continued, still addressing Raymond. "If I do so it will be with a firm confidence that I am giving her into the keeping of a man who will cling to her, who will cherish her, who will honour her. But you have told me that you are dependent upon your father, and you expect, and have a right to expect, that I shall dower her well. You think, as all think who know me, that I have wealth, and, having but one child, my wealth will descend to her. I have wealth. I can count my wealth by tens of thousands; and yet, Raymond Penoyre, I tell you solemnly and before God that, if you marry Muriel, you will marry a pauper."

Raymond visibly started as this was said, and he looked puzzled no less than distressed. Muriel threw her arms round her father's neck as she exclaimed—

"Papa, papa, what do you mean? Why do you talk in riddles like this?"

He disengaged her arms, and answered—

"I thought my language was plain. I tell him that, if he marries you, he will marry a pauper. I mean that you will be a penniless bride; that I, your rich father, can give you nothing—"

"But papa—"

"Hear me out. You have been brought up in luxury, nurtured in the lap of ease, and affluence has surrounded you. But you must leave all this for your husband's sake; and what think you people will say? The tongue of scandal, the tongue of envy and malice, the tongue of idle gossip, will ring in the air, and your happiness will be blighted, your peace of mind poisoned."

"Mr. Glindon," said Raymond gravely, taking a step nearer to where Muriel stood looking scared and bewildered, and speaking as a man may speak whose resolution is as firm as rock—"Mr. Glindon, I must believe that you are talking in all seriousness, and with a full sense of the responsibility of your utterances. But again I ask you to give me your daughter for wife, and I will take her, and honour, cherish, and cling to her, though she passes from your house without a second gown to wear. Scandal may wag its tongue and slander spit its venom, but it will affect me not; it will never cool my love."

Mr. Glindon seized and grasped the hand of Raymond and wrung it. But for some moments he could say nothing; emotion choked him. He seemed to be wrestling with some great shadowy feeling that crushed his manhood and weakened him. At last he spoke; but his voice was shattered, as it were; its resonance had gone; it was hollow and tremulous—

"If you have both weighed the consequences of the step you wish to take, and thoroughly realise what I have told you, I oppose no obstacle. I know that what I have said is pregnant with mystery, but let it be so; seek not to solve it, for I can give you no solution. My lips are sealed. Not for my own sake, God knows, but for this fair child's sake."

He laid his trembling hand on his daughter's head, and she sank sobbing on his breast.

"Let this painful scene close," he added, struggling to conceal his feelings. "You now know what lies before you. But be not precipitate. Do nothing rashly. Dwell upon what I have said, and in a month's time, Raymond, tell me if you are still of the same mind; and I must charge you, as a matter of honour, to let your parents know. Now go, leave me; I would be alone. But one last word, Raymond Penoyre. God has made no honester woman than my daughter. She is gifted with a fine nature and a heart so sensitive that it would shiver to atoms were it subjected to neglect, deceit, or cruelty. Honour this gift of God, therefore, as you honour your own soul."

"I will," was Raymond's only answer. But no man ever uttered "I will" as he uttered it who did not mean what he said.

Muriel wanted to speak, but her father again expressed a desire to be alone, and they left him. Then the will-force that had upheld him during the ordeal no longer exerted itself, and, with a sob, he sank into his chair, and covering his face with his hands, he wept. The tears of a man fall not lightly, and it must have been a strangely powerful emotion that could move him to such an outward expression of grief.

Presently he grew calmer, but he still sat there, and his careworn face wore a pitiable look of abstraction. He sat staring into space, his cheek resting on his hand.

Prom this room a double door of plate-glass opened into a splendid conservatory that was filled with palms and exotic plants. At the end farthest from the room a door gave access to the garden, and another door opened into a passage that communicated with the back part of the premises.

Now, had Mr. Glindon not been so absorbed he might have noticed, if he had turned towards the conservatory a pair of dark, glittering eyes that seemed to be watching him. They were the eyes of a woman—a woman with a swarthy, sinister face; and as she stood there, half concealed by the great overhanging leaf of an African palm, she was suggestive of some fierce wild jungle animal on the alert for prey. Perhaps it would have been a mere fanciful imagination that would have thought this.

But one thing is certain, whether she meant ill or whether she meant well, she was there clandestinely, because that conservatory was almost sacred to Mr. Glindon and his daughter. It was one of the few things in which he seemed to take an absolute interest, and the magnificent plants it contained were tended by Muriel with the most loving regard and care. Of the servants, no one but the head-gardener was ever allowed to enter the place, and he always had to go to Muriel for the key.

The three doors were opened by one key. Muriel kept possession of this, and her father had a duplicate. Therefore, it was obvious that the dark woman had no business there, and, being there, she was as obviously watching him. But he was all- unconscious of the fact as he sat brooding over his grief.

Presently there was a gentle tap at the door of the room, but he did not hear it. It was repeated, but still he was deaf. Then the door opened. Muriel Glindon glided in, and fell on her knees at her father's feet; and at that instant the watching woman in the conservatory quickly withdrew, until she was hidden from sight amongst the palms. And, as the only light in the conservatory was that which reached it from the gas burning in the library, there was not much fear of her being discovered, unless some one entered the place; but, even then, she could have concealed herself amongst the thick foliage and escaped observation.

Mr. Glindon was aroused from his semi-unconscious condition by the presence of his daughter.

"Muriel, my child," he said, "what are you doing here?"

"Oh papa," she murmured, "I am so concerned—so unhappy about you! For long and long your sad and sorrowful face has troubled me; and I have felt sure that you have something on your mind that you are concealing—some terrible and corroding secret that is wearing your life away. Whenever I have spoken to you in the past on the subject, you have turned the matter off; but what has taken place to-night is a revelation, and confirms my worst fears. I am your daughter—your loving and dutiful daughter. Confide in me; make me your confidante. Who can be better fitted to give you consolation than I am? And, if you wish it, much as I love Raymond, I will not leave you. I will not be his wife—"

"No, no, my darling; no, no. You must make no such sacrifice on my account," her father said quickly.

"But, papa, do let me comfort you! Do tell me what your sorrow is! Remember, I am not a child now, but a matured woman. Let me share your burden with you, for it breaks my heart to see you so unhappy—to know that your life is so darkened."

"Muriel, my beloved girl, I cannot tell you," Mr. Glindon faltered, speaking with difficulty, as if he had some constriction of the throat. "While I live, it is better that you should remain in ignorance. Perhaps I am a moral coward, but I cannot help it. Bear with me as I am. I am an old and broken man—older far than my years, and the dark shadow of the coming end lies heavy upon me. Before you is life; and though I feel sometimes as if I could not pray for myself, I pray for you, and I ask God, and plead to Him as only a broken-hearted father can, that He will bless you, and give you that peace of heart and contentment of mind that is beyond price.

"Raymond Penoyre is a good fellow, and a man of honour.

"I am glad, therefore, that you have brought your wooing to a climax, and that he has asked you to be his wife. And since he agrees to take you as a penniless bride, my mind is so far relieved, while the day that sees you his wife will be for me a relatively happy one. Gossips will be busy for a time, but you will live the gossip down. I have been able to make some small provision for your aunt, and she will have the wherewithal to live in a plain and secluded way until, in the fulness of time, her years are complete. As for Raymond, I have no fear for him. He will make his way. He has a head on his shoulders, and he is not the man to grovel in the dust when there is honest work to be done. But there, there! you must not fret like that"—she was sobbing bitterly, with her head pressed to his breast. "Come, my child, be brave! It has relieved my mind considerably to be able to speak to you as I have done. Henceforth we shall understand each other better. And see—"

As he said this he raised her gently, and rose himself, drawing her arm through his and walking to a large, handsome escritoire. Here he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one, and opened the flap of the escritoire. Touching a secret spring, he caused a panel inside to slide back, revealing a drawer. This he opened with another key, and took from it a small, almost square packet, done up in white paper. It was tied round with a piece of narrow blue ribbon, the ribbon being sealed with, wax to the paper in several places and stamped with his signet.

"Read that," he said, pointing to something written on the outside of the packet; and as he held it so that the light fell upon the paper, she read aloud as follows:—

"On my death this packet is only to be opened by my daughter Muriel, when and where she likes. Under no circumstances and on no conditions is any other hand but hers to break the seal. And in the event of circumstances, at present unforeseen, arising which would prevent her exercising this right, the packet is to be committed to the flames and utterly destroyed. Any one failing to comply with this solemn injunction will be guilty of a crime that Heaven itself will punish.

"Ivan Peter Glindon."

"What is the paper, papa?" Muriel asked between her sobs.

"The story of my early life and the secret of my sorrow," he answered, with a deep sigh. "It is well perhaps, that you should know what is here written for it will explain much that is mysterious; but it can only be when I am dead. When I am dead," he repeated slowly and with lingering emphasis. "And now go to your bed, for the hour is late; and when I have smoked my usual cigarette I too will retire."

Muriel's heart was too full, her brain too confused with a dozen conflicting thoughts, for her to ask an questions or pursue the conversation further, so she tenderly embraced her father and left him.

For some moments he stood with the packet in his hand, but at last restored it to its receptacle, then locked the escritoire.

To this little scene there had been a witness all unknown to Muriel and her father.

That witness was the dark woman in the conservatory, who had waited and watched!