<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XIII</h2>
<p>Against the stupor of Stuart Farquaharson's brain, as he sat in the
small stateroom of the P. and O. steamer, beat the fear of what he might
read.</p>
<p>Subconsciously his senses recorded small and actual things as the vessel
lurched through a heavy sea: the monotonous rat-tat of the brass
door-hook against the woodwork, and the alternating scraps of sky and
water as the circle of his port hole rose and fell across the line of
the horizon.</p>
<p>He was thinking of the letter that had come to Cairo—and lain there so
long unopened, but he was spared a knowledge of the suspense with which
Conscience had awaited an answer.</p>
<p>She had written it early in the fall and had mailed it endorsed "please
forward" in the care of his New York publishers, so that it had played
tag with him, never catching him, over the length of Europe and, after
that, had zig-zagged along the cities of the Levant and the fringes of
Africa.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the man to whom it was addressed was wandering from the upper
Nile to Victoria Nyanza and beyond—where mail routes run out and end.
Acknowledging in her thoughts, from the first frost on Cape Cod to the
middle of winter, that temporizing only spelled weakness, Conscience had
none the less temporized. She said to herself: "Nothing he wrote <i>now</i>
would alter matters." Still with a somewhat leaky logic she added: "But
I'll give him a month to answer before I fix the date." When the month
had passed without result she granted herself other continuances, facing
alike, with a gentle obduracy, the pleas<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></SPAN></span> of her elderly lover and the
importunities of a father who threatened to murder himself with the
self-inflicted tortures of impatience.</p>
<p>At length she capitulated to the combined forces of entreaty, cajolery
and insistence. The fight was lost.</p>
<p>Through the preparations for that wedding she went without even the
simulation of joy or glamour. At least she would be honest of attitude,
but days which filled the house with wedding guests brought to her
manner a transformation. Her decision was made and if she was to do the
thing at all she meant to do it gallantly and with at least the outward
seeming of full confidence. She meant to betray to these visitors no
lurking misery of spirit; no note of struggle; no vestige of doubt. The
eyes which burned apprehensive and terror-stricken, throughout the
darkness of interminable nights, were none the less serene and regally
assured by day. The groom, too, seemed rejuvenated by such a spirit as
sometimes brings to autumn a summer quality more ardent than summer's
own. At the end of his <i>fiancée's</i> doubtings, he fatuously told himself,
had come conviction. She knew at last how much stauncher a thing was his
own dependable strength and ripened manhood than the frothy charm of a
half-fledged gallant who had crumpled under the test.</p>
<p>Among the guests who for several days filled both the manse and
Tollman's house, were two who were not entirely beguiled by Conscience's
gracious and buoyant demeanor. One pair of these observant eyes was
violet blue and full of starry freshness. Intimate letters from
Conscience, in the old days, had invested Stuart Farquaharson with a
romantic guise for their possessor and Eben Tollman scarcely measured up
to that standard.</p>
<p>The other pair of eyes was neither young nor feminine, but elderly and
penetrating. Though Doctor Ebbett's temples were whitely frosted, he and
Eben <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></SPAN></span>Tollman had been classmates at Harvard. Now he was to be best man
at his friend's belated marriage. The work in which he had made his name
distinguished had to do with the human brain—its vagaries as well as
its normalities—and his thought was enough in advance of the general to
be frequently misunderstood and sometimes a target for lay ridicule.</p>
<p>On the evening after his arrival he sat in Eben Tollman's study with two
other men who were also classmates. Tollman himself was still at the
manse, and his guests were beguiling themselves with cigars which he had
furnished, and whiskey which he had not—and upon which he would have
frowned.</p>
<p>Over his glass Carton, the corporation lawyer, irrelevantly suggested:</p>
<p>"Eben seems a boy again. It makes us chaps whose children are almost
grown, feel relegated to an elder generation."</p>
<p>"Miss Williams," observed Henry Standing, "has a pretty wit and a
prettier face. I wanted to say to her: 'Now, my dear child, if I were
twenty years younger—' and then I caught myself up short. I chanced to
remember that Eben <i>isn't</i> twenty years younger himself."</p>
<p>Carton nodded thoughtfully. "I can't help feeling that a thing like that
is always a bit chancy. Eben was a sober-sided kid in his cradle and the
girl is all fire and bloom. Fortunately it doesn't seem to have occurred
to her that there's any disparity." He paused, then demanded: "Ebbett,
you're a psychologist. What do you think?"</p>
<p>Dr. Ebbett took his cigar from his lips and studied it with
deliberation. When he spoke his words were laconic.</p>
<p>"I think it's as dangerous as hell."</p>
<p>"But a young wife will rejuvenate him and keep him young, won't she?"</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"It's rarely been done before," retorted the doctor drily. "Moreover,
it's not a question of making him young again. A man of our friend's
type is born old."</p>
<p>"Oh, come now," protested Carton. "What's the matter with his type?"</p>
<p>Dr. Ebbett paused, listening to the blizzard's shrieking outside, then
he replied evenly:</p>
<p>"He's too intensely a New Englander. The somber and narrow man represses
one-half of his being and straightway sets up a Mr. Hyde in ambush to
make war on his Dr. Jekyl. Our lunatic asylums are full of patients
whose repressions have driven them mad. The whole Puritan code is a
religion of repression—and it's viciously dangerous."</p>
<p>Dr. Ebbett paused and sent a cloud of cigar smoke outward. His voice
abandoned the lecture-room professionalism into which it had fallen.</p>
<p>"But, as you say, that is all academic. Perhaps the bride has youth and
humor enough to leaven the whole lump."</p>
<p>Much less abstruse were the thoughts of Eleanor Kent: she of the violet
eyes, as she listened to Mary Barrascale's eulogy of Eben Tollman on the
day before the wedding. Eleanor could not forget moments which had
seemingly escaped Mary's observation: moments when Conscience, believing
herself unnoticed, allowed a look of fright to come to her eyes and a
line to circle her lips.</p>
<p>"When you told me in your letter that he was so much older than you,"
declared Mary, her enthusiasm bubbling as the three engaged themselves
over the last details of packing, "I simply couldn't bear it,—but he
isn't old at all. He's simply charming, and he has <i>such</i> a rare
distinction of manner. I feel as if I were talking to a Prime Minister
whenever we have a chat."</p>
<p>"Thank you, dear," said Conscience, quietly, and the<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></SPAN></span> happy serenity of
her eyes seemed genuine—except to Eleanor.</p>
<p>"Of course, at one time," Mary rushed on, "we all thought that you had
decided to marry Mr. Farquaharson—and he sounded well worth while from
what you told us. It only shows what an easy thing it is to make
mistakes. How did you find out yourself, dear?"</p>
<p>Eleanor Kent thought she saw Conscience wince and close her eyes for an
instant as though in a paroxysm of pain, but her question came gravely:
"How did I find out what?"</p>
<p>"Why, that he was the sort of man that—well, that his mixing up in that
Holbury scandal indicated."</p>
<p>The girl who was to be married rose from the trunk over which she had
been bending and averted her face, but her voice was evenly calm as she
answered:</p>
<p>"I fancy the reports we had of that were exaggerated."</p>
<p>A sudden fire snapped in the violet eyes of Eleanor Kent and her cheeks
burned under a rosy gust of anger.</p>
<p>"Mary," she announced with spirit, "Mr. Farquaharson was a friend of
Conscience's and I have no doubt he still is. I don't think either of us
knows anything about him that gives us the right to criticize him. Have
you read his book?"</p>
<p>"Why, no. Of course, I didn't mean to say anything—"</p>
<p>"Well, I advise you to read that book." Stuart's champion tossed her
head with the positiveness of conviction. "It's not the kind of novel
that a rake could write. It's straight and clean minded, and if what a
man chooses to write, indicates what he thinks, he's that sort himself."</p>
<p>At this defense from an unexpected quarter, a light of gratitude kindled
in the face of the bride-to-be.</p>
<p>When the day set for the wedding had worn to dusk,<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></SPAN></span> Conscience escaped
from the guests and made her way slowly to her unlighted room. Her knees
were weak and she told herself that this was the natural stage-fright of
the altar—but she knew that it was more than that.</p>
<p>As she reached for matches the sound of voices beyond the door arrested
her, and the challenge of her own name held her attention.</p>
<p>"She's <i>perfectly</i> lovely," declared Mary Barrascale, whose speech ran
to superlatives, "and she's <i>radiantly</i> happy, too. To think that she's
being married and we're still in college."</p>
<p>Conscience straightened where she stood near the window. She raised her
palms to her temples and stepped back unsteadily until she could lean
against the wall. Before her eyes rose a vision of the college
campus—another of the care-free dormitory, then the picture dissolved
into another and she found herself trembling. Memory was playing tricks
and very softly a voice seemed to whisper in her ear, as it had actually
whispered long ago in response to these same regrets, "Does it hurt as
much as that, dearest?"</p>
<p>She became vaguely conscious of Eleanor's voice again, low pitched and
tense.</p>
<p>"I should think, Mary, you would see the truth. You chatter about how
happy she is—and she's almost going mad before your eyes. It's
ghastly—positively ghastly."</p>
<p>"What in heaven's name do you mean?" Mary's question broke from her in
amazement.</p>
<p>"I mean that anyone who wasn't deliberately trying to be deceived ought
to see what all this radiant happiness is worth. She's sick with doubt
and misgiving. If you ask me I believe it's because she still loves
Stuart Farquaharson—and besides I don't believe he was ever given a
fair chance." The girl halted and then broke into silent tears. "She's
letting them make a <span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></SPAN></span>sacrifice of her—and I'm utterly ill with the
thought of it."</p>
<p>Conscience leaning weakly against the wall, let both hands drop
nervelessly at her sides. "I don't believe ... he was ever given a fair
chance." Her lips shaped the words she had just heard in a soundless
echo.</p>
<p>Was that true? she asked herself, accusingly, and her brain was too
confused for a just answer. An avalanche of new doubts rushed down upon
her, crushing her reason. She saw in this ceremony a horrible travesty
from which she must escape at all costs.... But how? She had no longer
the strength to repudiate boldly her settled decision. Her courage was
at ebb and she was caught in the grip of unreasoning panic. She would
abandon everything and everybody ... she would slip away ... she would
be true to herself first and then try afresh to be true to others. In
short she was for the time distracted.</p>
<p>She slipped over noiselessly and closed her door. She selected a small
traveling bag from the other pieces of luggage packed for her wedding
trip.</p>
<p>Then, overcome by sheer emotional exhaustion, she threw herself on her
bed where she sobbed quietly in the flickering of the candles. It was so
that the bridesmaids found her when they came in their capacity of tire
maidens to remind her that she must soon begin dressing for the
ceremony.</p>
<p>At once Eleanor had her arms about her friend, while Mary stood by
gasping and ineffectual.</p>
<p>Slowly Conscience raised her face and looked miserably from one to the
other. Her voice was dead and colorless.</p>
<p>"I heard what you said, Eleanor," she declared. "It's all true.... I
can't go through with it."</p>
<p>"But it's too late now, dear!" began Mary Barrascale's horrified voice
which Miss Kent silenced with a glance of contempt.</p>
<p>"Thank God, it's <i>not</i> too late—yet," she said<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></SPAN></span> calmly. "It's never too
late while it's still <i>now</i>. But the bag, dear—what was that?"</p>
<p>Conscience rose and stood unsteadily with a trace of panic lingering in
her eyes. She spoke faintly.</p>
<p>"I guess I was quite mad.... I had the impulse to—to run away."</p>
<p>"You can't do that, you know." Eleanor Kent was one of those diminutive
and very feminine persons, who in moments of crisis can none the less
assume command with the quiet assurance of an admiral on his bridge.</p>
<p>"You have still a perfectly good right to change your mind, but it
mustn't be just on impulse. We're going to leave you now for thirty
minutes. When the time is up I'll be back and if you want to begin
dressing—all right." She paused a moment and then with a defiant
stiffening of her slender figure she announced crisply. "And if you
<i>don't</i> want to, I'll go downstairs and tell them that you've decided
not to be married."</p>
<p>"What will they think of you?" Mary Barrascale had reached a condition
from which her contributions to the talk emerged in appalled gasps.</p>
<p>Eleanor wheeled on her. "They can think what they jolly well like," she
announced with a fine abandon of recklessness.</p>
<p>Feeling like watchers beside a jury-room door, the two bridesmaids kept
vigil, harboring contrary hopes.</p>
<p>Left alone in her room, the girl stood for a while gazing about her as
if her wild eyes were seeking for some secret panel that might open in
the walls and give her escape. She must think! There was little enough
time at best to bring order out of this panic-ridden confusion of her
thoughts. But her mind was like a stream in freshet. It could only race
and swirl along one channel, and that was the spillway of memories.</p>
<p>Stuart Farquaharson the boy; Stuart the man, coming to her at Chatham;
Stuart standing self-governed as her father scourged him with abuse;
Stuart the<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></SPAN></span> lover; all those semblances passed before her until her
world seemed peopled with them, and her old love grew clamorous in
resurrection—and insurrection.</p>
<p>In a little while she would be—unless she halted here—holding up her
hand for Eben's ring, and at the thought a sickness swept over her. It
was impossible. Instead of victory it was, after all, an abject and
hideous surrender. She could not face it and all that must come after
it.</p>
<p>Then she heard a feeble rap on her door. At the threshold stood the
wheelchair to which her father was confined like a slave chained to his
seat in the galley. She caught a brief impression of a pair of eyes
beyond him: the eyes of Eleanor Kent, full of the message of strength;
eyes that seemed to be saying, "Stand firm. Be sure!" But nearer at hand
was the face with skin drawn like parchment over its bony angles, deeply
lined with suffering, and crowned with a great shock of snowy hair.</p>
<p>The features, though, were only details of setting for the spirit of the
keen eyes that had always burned with an eagle fierceness and an
unyielding aggressiveness. Now they were different, and as the guests
who had brought the chair and its occupant up the stairs and into the
room withdrew in silent respect, the daughter's gaze was held by them
with a mesmeric force.</p>
<p>It was a face transfigured; a face in which the hardness of fight had
died into the serenity of peace.</p>
<p>Angles and wrinkles had become only lines of emphasis for this new
tranquillity of the eyes; eyes that might have seen a vision of divine
accolade and were at peace.</p>
<p>"My daughter," he said, as soon as they were alone together, and his
voice held the music of a benediction, "you are standing at the
threshold of your life—and I am near the end of mine, but for the first
time in<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></SPAN></span> many years, I am content and all my sorrows are paid for."</p>
<p>"Father!" she exclaimed brokenly, but he went on.</p>
<p>"I can now go, knowing that your life is secure on the rock of a stable
marriage: all your dangers over. You are making of my poor life a
success after all—and its end is a thing of peace. Eben is not as young
as you, but his heart is great and his character sincere. In the shadow
of his strength you will 'be secure and at peace beside still waters'
and I can leave you without fear. In his blood is the steadfastness of
Plymouth Rock—ay, and the Rock of Ages and the honor of our
forefathers."</p>
<p>The old man broke off, and raised his thin hand to his lean face with a
gesture of appealing physical weakness. His enthusiasm had tired him and
now a smile came to his lips of unaccustomed sweetness and tenderness.
When he spoke again it was in a different tone.</p>
<p>"But you know all that. My life has been one of stress, and you've not
known a mother. What I came to tell you, my dear, is that I realize you
may have missed that tenderness, and that whatever I may have seemed, I
have always felt it."</p>
<p>She was kneeling by his chair now with her hands gently stroking his
white mane.</p>
<p>"I know, Dad," she declared, and he reached up and took her fingers
between his two palms.</p>
<p>"You are making me happy, my daughter, unspeakably happy," he said. "And
I, who have long been old, feel young again. The Bible tells us that
marriage means leaving father and mother and cleaving only to the
one—but thank God, Eben insists that I shall spend my remaining days
with you both, and I am very happy."</p>
<p>At last he was rolled out again, leaving behind him a memory of that
exalted peace of countenance, and<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></SPAN></span> with a stifled groan the bride-to-be
turned back to her room—her period of reflection almost consumed.</p>
<p>"It would kill him!" she moaned. "It would be murder. And that look!
That happiness! I guess that will have to be my compensation."</p>
<hr />
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></SPAN></span></p>
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