A Maid and Her Money/Chapter 9

Three of the interminable days had dragged themselves out, relieved by frequent letters from Jerry, and others, no more frequent, but infinitely longer, from Marie Louise. Never in all her life had her strange, upright, childish characters been so much seen.

For Mrs. Orvice, too, these days were rather dreary. Jerry had told her just before his departure that the day of the wedding was now definitely fixed, and she was employing herself in going over the list of her relations and friends to whom some notice of the occasion must be sent.

The last person in the world whom she expected to see was her future daughter-in-law, and she was very much surprised to hear, on the very morning of the day Jerry was to return, that Miss Carman was down-stairs, and would be glad to see her.

She went down and found the girl standing in the drawing-room, red-eyed and pale. Mrs. Orvice, supposing at first that these symptoms of grief were occasioned merely by Jerry’s absence, felt herself unable to sympathize with emotions quite so violent. But the girl’s first words dispelled this idea.

“I want you to tell Jerry when he comes back that our engagement is over. I can’t ever see him again.”

“Oh, what has he done?” cried Mrs. Orvice, with the natural pessimism of mothers.

“Done? Jerry? Nothing but be too good.” Marie Louise began to cry with the utmost frankness.

“Then why do you want to break your engagement?”

“I mustn't tell you; at least, not unless you will promise not to tell him.”

“My dear, you’ve got to tell him yourself. You can hardly expect he will be content with no reason at all.” Mrs. Orvice spoke kindly enough, but her thought was: “This is what comes of mixing one’s self up with this sort of person.”

“I shall tell him something, of course. If only I had time to think what it should be,” returned the girl, twisting her hands together.

“And what is the truth? That you don’t love him?”

It was not necessary to answer; an eloquent, tearful look dismissed the suggestion as preposterous.

“Are you afraid he doesn’t love you?”

“Yes, I am, but that isn’t it. I knew that all along, only I could have gone on pretending I didn’t, if only” Her voice failed. She turned and leaned her head on the mantelpiece, and sobbed. “I’ve lost all my money.”

There was a short, painful silence, broken only by Marie Louise’s sobs, until Mrs. Orvice said gallantly:

“But, my dear, you don’t think that that will make any real difference to Jerry?”

“It will make all the difference in the world,” the girl answered. “I don’t mean he won't still say he is determined to marry me. He will say so, but I can’t let him. I won't let him, no matter what any one says. Just think how awful it would be to him to have me and be poor. If he loved me”

“My dear child,” said Mrs. Orvice, really touched by the depth of her grief, “of course he loves you.”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t, and you don’t think it, and you never did,” returned Marie Louise, wiping her eyes courageously. “Every one saw it; I saw it, too, only I wouldn’t admit it.”

“He would never have asked you to marry him, if he had not loved you.”

“He didn’t. I asked him.”

This for an instant seemed almost unanswerable, and Mrs. Orvice did not attempt to answer. Strangely enough, now that she had her heart’s desire, now that Jerry might be free by the action of Marie Louise herself, Mrs. Orvice’s only terror was that he might accept his freedom, and brand himself in her eyes and the eyes of the world. And yet, she could put his case so plausibly; could say that this girl, accustomed to luxury, could not be happy as a poor man’s wife, the cause of such a tragedy as Jerry’s having to work for his living. She felt an agonized desire that her son should do the right thing, and a terrible conviction that he was going to do the wrong one.

She found comfort in reiterating, with the utmost apparent faith, that Jerry would never allow his engagement to be broken for any such reason as this.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Marie Louise, with the greatest fierceness. “I’m going away at midnight, and I won’t even see him. Oh, I know what you are thinking—that every one will say he threw me over when I lost my money. But, surely, we can think of something that will do. What are we for but that? I can’t think of anything, unless I ran off and married the coachman, and he’s married already,” she added, with a faint attempt at hilarity.

Mrs. Orvice drew the girl down beside her on the sofa. “You are taking this too hard,” she said. “There is only one thing for you to do. You must see Jerry and tell him everything. He has a right to be heard, you know.”

“Now, how silly that is,” cried Marie Louise, utterly unconscious of being uncivil. “Don’t you know what he'll say?—that, of course, I am to marry him just the same. And what am I in Jerry’s hands? Pulp,” she ended, her tears bursting out afresh.

Mrs. Orvice tried a new method of attack.

“I don’t think you are quite fair to Jerry,” she said.

“Oh, how can you say so? How cruel of you! Why am I doing this? For my own happiness? Well, I suppose it is, in a way, for I shouldn’t be happy, knowing he had spoiled his whole life for me.” She rose. “I’m going now. You can do anything you like, except tell Jerry, only nothing will ever change me.”

The first thing Mrs. Orvice did, when the girl had gone, was to fly to the telephone and communicate with Prixley Peale.

Peale was inclined to be a little scornful of her for having asked no questions as to the loss of the fortune. Money, he observed dryly, did not disappear overnight without a cause. What had happened? Mrs. Orvice did not know, and Peale agreed to go and see the girl later in the afternoon.

For the rest of the day, Mrs. Orvice had nothing to do but to wait for Jerry’s return, and pray that he might not yield to the temptation of thus having his bonds loosened.

His train was due at four, and about half-past a hansom drove up to the door. She had been expecting him for some fifteen minutes, and in that time she had become desperately nervous, so that her voice shook as she asked without too great interest:

“Had you a pleasant time?”

“Very. Those are wonderful men, and going on the finest trip-”

“Wasn't your train a little late?”

“No, just on time, but I stopped to see Marie Louise on my way; only,” he laughed, “she was out. Isn’t that a blow to a man who supposes himself impatiently awaited? I shall go back as soon as I’ve brushed myself up a little.”

Mrs. Orvice felt that the moment had come. “Jerry,” she said portentously, “she was not out.”

“Not out? Why, what do you mean?”

“She came here this morning. The poor girl is in great distress. She will not see you. She wishes to break off her engagement. She has lost her fortune.”

“Lost her fortune!” said Jerry. “Why, that is the deuce and all, isn’t it?”

He stood a moment with contracted brows, and then said: “Poor child!” with such heartfelt pity that Mrs. Orvice felt he must be commiserating with her for the loss of more than fortune.

She said: “Jerry, I have never seen a more heart-breaking sight. Her self-sacrifice in breaking off the engagement is incredibly painful. Of course, I told her that nothing would induce you to let her go.”

She had meant to speak with an inspiring confidence in his high conduct, but most unfortunately, as she looked at his unmoved demeanor, her last sentence had the rising inflection of a question. To her own rage she heard the sound of an appeal to his better nature in her voice.

He turned toward her coldly. “You told her that?”

“Yes. You must marry her, Jerry.”

“But why? You yourself don’t think I care for her. You don't think her well-adapted to me. You hate her connections. If she hasn’t money, what advantage has she?”

“None at all,” answered his mother, rising, and laying her hand on his arm. “I have no idea that there is any happiness in the future for you. You are paying a very high penalty for having originally done a dishonorable thing, but I am determined that you shall pay it, Jerry. I don’t tell you to think what the world will say; I try not to care so much about that. But think how you would feel all the rest of your life, knowing that this girl who loves you”

“Oh, my God!” said Jerry, tearing himself roughly out of her grasp.

The next instant she heard the front door bang and the hansom clatter away.

At this, for the first time, Mrs. Orvice broke down. Roughness from Jerry was so extraordinary that it was almost unbearable. The thought uppermost in her mind, was, after all, what would the world say.

She had had a glimpse of what the universal verdict would be, for even Prixley, over the telephone, had grown cold when she even hinted at the possibility of the engagement’s being broken. She did not know that she had conveyed the impression that she had grounds for this fear. But her own terror that Jerry would prove unworthy had so shown forth, that Peale felt, no doubt, she was trying to conceal her knowledge of her son’s perfidy.

The result was that Peale was consumed with a fever of rage and contempt, which he himself could hardly account for. He tried his best to reach a more judicial frame of mind before he presented himself at the Carmans’.

The house was in great confusion; trunks were standing about, half-packed, and the footman who answered the door seemed quite uncertain whether or not Miss Carman were at home.

Peale insisted on sending up his card, and he was presently ushered up to the library, which was on the second floor.

He had meant to begin the interview on a strictly legal basis; to question her minutely about the facts of the case, to advise her as to her counsel, to offer himself to go to her father’s mine; but the sight of her pallor, the sound of her voice, altered by much weeping, made such a course of conduct almost impossible.

She held out both hands to him. “Oh, I’m so glad you came,” she said. “I did want a friend so much, and you are the only one I have. No one else understands. Mrs. Orvice never liked me, and mommer always knew Jerry didn’t really care.”

At this proof of Jerry’s desertion, Peale felt his pity for the girl rising to dangerous heights. He held her hands tightly, while she went on:

“I can’t ask their advice, and I do want help. What can I do so that people won't say he threw me over as soon as I was poor?”

“It will be difficult to prevent,” said Peale dryly.

“I know, but I must prevent it.” And then, wishing to take away the too tragic note she had been striking, she repeated her mild little joke about the coachman. “I might run off with my coachman, but he’s married.”

“Well, I’m not married,” said Peale; “run off with me.”

“Oh, how kind you are!” cried the girl, pressing his hands. “Dear me, how it would have flattered me once to know that you would ever say such a thing to me! Thank you so much, but I can’t. I shall never marry. I couldn’t marry any one but Jerry.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” answered Peale, “because he isn’t worth it.” Then, seeing how unpleasant any such suggestion was to her, he added: “No one is. I’m sure I’m not, but I wish you would take me. I am far too old for you, and I have very little to offer you, but you could make me very happy.”

A gentle voice at the door said: “Sorry to interfere with you, Prixley, but she belongs to me.”

Marie Louise stared at Jerry in astonishment.

“I told them not to let you in,” she said.

“My dear, it seems I have as much influence with your servants as you have.”

“I told that man of mine I’d dismiss him if he allowed you to get up-stairs.”

“And I told him I’d knock him down if he didn’t. Fortunately, he did not call my bluff.”

“I don’t want to see you,” said Marie Louise, “so please go away.”

“And leave you to listen to these dangerous proposals of Prixley’s? I think not. Prixley, I’ve been brought up to think it isn’t honorable to make love to your friend’s fiancée.”

Though aware that Jerry was not serious in his attack, Peale felt his position did need explanation.

“I had imagined,” he said, “that you had withdrawn.”

“I think I was the only person whose testimony you should have taken on that point.”

“Won't you please go, Jerry?” said Marie Louise.

“No, but perhaps Prixley will.”

“I don’t want him to go,” the girl replied hastily. “He has been so kind. If anything could console me, I’m sure it would be such a compliment as having a gentleman like Mr. Peale ask me to marry him.”

Jerry laughed. “It’s a form of consolation you will have to do away with in the future, you know.”

“I am not going to marry you,” she retorted, with the greatest firmness.

“Oh, yes, you are,” said Jerry. “Isn't she, Peale?”

“I hope she is,” answered Peale seriously. “I should very, very strongly advise her to.”

“There, my dear, you can't go against the opinion of your counsel.”

Peale rose to go. “I came to talk law,” he said, “but I’ve let myself follow other issues.” He smiled. “I shall be at the club for the rest of the afternoon, Jerry, if you want to discuss the legal aspect of the thing.”

“He’s advising me to sue you for breach of promise,” said Jerry, gravely turning to Marie Louise. “Oh, these lawyers!”

Peale did not think it necessary to notice this frivolity. He said to the girl: “Of course, I haven't any of the facts, but perhaps we shall be able to save something out of the wreck. It’s worth trying.”

“Oh, no, we can’t,” she answered. “You don’t understand. My father never owned the mine, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all gone.”

Peale did not look altogether convinced, but he took his departure in silence.

When he was gone, Jerry sank on the sofa beside Marie Louise, and observed:

“And so you are starting for Stonehurst on the midnight train?”

Marie Louise broke out at this. “Really, that is too much. Did that man tell you? I told him particularly not to.”

“It was the first thing he said, after telling me that you were not at home.”

“Our engagement is broken, Jerry. I won't marry you.”

“You think it your duty to look out for some one who can support you in greater luxury?”

“Oh, Jerry, how can you?”

“No one would blame you, dear. Prudence is an excellent quality.”

“You know it isn’t that.”

“Is it that you don’t love me?”

“You oughtn’t to ask, but of course I do.”

“Then, by a process of exclusion, we seem to have arrived at the answer that you think my motives were mercenary, and so you are trying to let me down easily.”

She faced him with great solemnity. “You know that isn’t true. I asked you to marry me, and you felt sorry for me because I loved you so. Every one knew it; my mother, and your mother. I tried to pretend that you were hesitating because I was too rich, but I knew that you didn’t really care.”

There was a short silence—that is, a silence, as far as words go, and then Jerry said gently:

“Marie Louise, I love you.”

“No, no, you mustn't”

“I love you. Believe me, I know the real thing when I feel it. Don’t ask me when I began to love you, or why I was going to the Amazon. I don't know. I only know that I love you, and I can’t do without you, and I am going to have the experience which other men tell you is so delightful. I am going to work to support a wife.”

Perhaps she was not so very difficult to persuade as she had intended to be. She had not allowed this solution to enter her head, so that now Jerry’s obvious sincerity found no organized resistance.

When, much later, Jerry found Peale at the club, it appeared that he sought him, not to ask him to take legal steps to recover Marie Louise’s fortune, but to inquire whether or not the secretaryship to Mr. McManus was still open.

Within a week he entered upon his duties, pursuing them with none the less zest because he seemed to regard them as a game designed for his entertainment.

Early in April he asked for a week’s holiday, in order to be married, and was not a little perturbed when the great McManus, who had already begun to yield to the charm of his secretary, presented him with a thousand-dollar check as a wedding-present.

Jerry was only restrained from returning it by Peale.

“Why the devil should the man give me a wedding-present?” he asked.

“Because he’s your boss,” Prixley answered firmly. “You had better make up your mind whether you are his employee or an independent gentleman.”

Jerry said no more.

The wedding was a very small one, and, though Mrs. Orvice and Miss Lee shed some quiet tears, it was on the whole an excessively cheerful occasion.

Exactly a week after, Jerry was back at work, earning the modest two hundred a month, which formed so large a part of his income.

Within this income they actually did contrive to exist for almost two years. At the end of that time, Prixley succeeded in unearthing a great fraud. The claimant, Thomas, was found to be purely hypothetical, existing only in the imagination of the rascally Mr. Mullins, who had concocted a clever plot to possess the whole of the vast estate himself. Through Prixley’s untiring efforts, the rapacious attorney was sent to prison, and a large portion of Marie Louise’s fortune was restored to her.

Some of Jerry’s friends were disappointed that as soon as this was accomplished he gave instant notice to Mr. McManus, and soon pretermitted his labors.

“If I had gone on six months longer,” he was in the habit of explaining, “I should never have been able to take up the life of leisure again; and what a calamity that would have been! But I see that there is something in this other thing. Those fellows who work aren't such fools, after all. There’s something it it. There’s something in it.