A great gush of blood ended the speech. He fell back on the pillow.
I felt as if some invisible artery had broken in me as well; as if the vital fluid had escaped, leaving only a shell. With a steady hand I closed my father’s staring eyes. Blind instinct must have told me that collapse was not far away, and that I must move now or be beyond the capability of movement. I rose; like a sleepwalker I passed his lordship, who was still standing, his hands raised as if to ward off a blow. His face, shining with perspiration, looked like a mask of yellowed wax. I was able to reach my own room, and my bed, before unconsciousness claimed me.
IV
I passed the next few days in the same trancelike state. I don’t think I would have moved at all if the housemaid had not told me what to do. Her name was Bessie; she was a good-natured, rather stupid girl, and I attributed her care for me to genuine kindness. “You must eat something. Miss Fran; see the nice soup cook has made for you.” “No, Miss Fran, you must not wear that dress, it is not respectful to your poor papa to wear colors. Here is a new black frock his lordship ordered for you.”
His lordship was often mentioned. He had ordered the funeral arrangements and selected the coffin. He paid the bills, too. although I did not think of that; it never occurred to me to wonder how the house was being run. But he did not come near me until the day after the funeral.
There is some purpose to the rituals of death. They allow a vent for grief, so that it does not turn inward. The services were short and simple, the mourners few—besides me, there were only the servants and his lordship. Father was buried in the little cemetery of the nearby church, St. Margaret’s. It was a beautiful spring day. I stood in tearless calm by the grave, his lordship beside me, but when the first clods struck hollow on the coffin. I felt an echoing blow in my heart. I wept that night, for the first time, while Bessie comforted me in her clumsy way.
Later that night, after she had tiptoed out under the false impression that I slept, I lay staring into the darkness. I wished that the comfortable stupor of those early days had not left me, for the thoughts that now pressed in were not pleasant. I was alone. What was to become of me? For the first time I thought about money. Not proper, perhaps, for a newly bereaved daughter; but I was discovering a hard inner core of practicality which I had not had to draw upon until then.
It brings a wry smile to my lips now to recall that I thought of his lordship as my best hope. Had he not promised to be of assistance to me? Had he not carried out the sorrowful duties attendant upon death with tactful care? And was he not, by his own claim, my father’s friend? So young, so foolish was I that I even interpreted Father’s dying speech as an appeal to a trusted comrade. I was glad, therefore, on the following evening, when his lordship was announced.
I was sitting in the parlor; the last gentle light of sunset was fading in the west. I had asked Bessie to bring my embroidery, but I was not making much progress with it. Painful thoughts would intrude.
I rose to greet him, putting my work down on the table, and despite my feelings of gratitude I did not care for the way his narrow gray eyes moved over me. I was wearing my only black dress, the one he had ordered for me; I was suddenly conscious of the way it clung to the contours of bosom and waist.
“Your lordship.” I made him a curtsy. “I am glad you have come; I wanted to thank you—”
“There is no need for that.” He advanced a few steps into the room and then turned to Bessie, who as lingering by the door. “The room is abominably dark,” he said curtly. “Bring more candles.”
When she had obeyed, he seemed to be more at ease.
“There, that is better. You may go now.”
Inexperienced as I was, I knew he should not have been giving orders to my servant in my presence. But it would not have been gracious to say so, after all he had done. Yet, when the door had closed after Bessie, I had a panicky feeling of abandonment. I told myself I was behaving foolishly. …But his look was so odd! He kept turning his head, searching the shadowy corners. I started to sit down and then, though I could not have said why, I decided to remain standing.
“You have been so kind,” I said, while he continued to inspect the room like a tyrant afraid of assassins. “I am glad to have the opportunity to thank—”
“Your father was my friend.” He interrupted again. The word “thank” seemed to vex him. “Yes, my dearest friend. I feel his loss.”
“So do I,” I said softly.
“As his friend…” He hesitated for a moment and then seemed to take courage. “After all,” he said loudly, “what other choice is there? I am doing the chit a kindness.”
I felt as if he were not addressing me, but some invisible third person. It was not a comfortable feeling.
“Your lordship,” I said distinctly.
He looked squarely at me, and a light came to his narrow eyes.
“A kindness,” he repeated. “Yes; it would be a crime to let such beauty fade, in a factory or on the streets. Someone will enjoy it, she is too young, too naive…Why not I? I have the best right. I’ll protect her. I’ll crown that golden hair with rubies, though it is like a crown itself…”
He began advancing toward me. His face was horrible, flushed and swollen; his tongue darted in and out like that of a serpent, moistening his lips. I backed away. He stopped and his eyes narrowed cunningly.
“Wouldn’t you like rubies, sweetheart? Emeralds, if you prefer; by God, you are worth it, you’ll be a sensation if I choose to display you instead of keeping you all to myself. And pretty clothes, my love; gowns of satin and silk instead of that ugly black; fine lace around those pretty white shoulders…”
With one of those quick, serpentine movements, so unexpected from a man of his bulk, he darted forward and caught me in his arms.
No man had ever held me in that way before. His gross, flabby body against mine sickened me. Although he was not heavily muscled, he was so much bigger than I that my frantic struggles were of no avail. I tried to scream. Only a faint cry came from my straining throat, and he laughed aloud and pressed me closer to him.
“Don’t waste your breath calling for Bessie, sweetheart. She’s too busy counting the gold I have given her. It is my money that has paid her wages all along—or didn’t you know that?”
I stopped struggling for a moment as the sense of his words penetrated my mind. His head struck, as a snake’s might; I turned my own head to avoid his lips and felt them hot and wet against my neck. He continued to mumble, between kisses, saying horrible things, things that hurt even more than the pressure of his arms.
“Paid her wages—and everything else, the food that went into your pretty little mouth, my love…How do you think Allen got his money, my darling? I gave him everything, the ungrateful—” I don’t remember the word; it was one I had never heard. He went on, gasping, “Ungrateful. Ran away; stole…You owe me for that, little love, you must pay your father’s debts. Doing you a favor. Kindness on my part. Haven’t had a woman for…Almost a new experience, an interesting change…You’re like him, you know. Except for that golden crown of hair…”
The dreadful, mumbling monologue went on and on. Understanding only a small part of what he meant, I felt my senses falter. Coward that I was, I almost welcomed the merciful anesthesia of unconsciousness, but when his clawing hand closed on the collar of my dress and ripped it down over my shoulders, the cool air struck my bare flesh like a dash of ice water. I revived; I struggled again, and tried again to scream. The sound was muffled by his lordship’s mouth closing over mine. His touched filled me with such loathing that I summoned up enough strength to bite him. He swore, but he freed my mouth long enough to enable me to give one last despairing cry.
I do not believe that miracles occur in this modern age, at least not to unworthy persons like myself. What happened was not a miracle, it was surprising only in its timing. But there was one strange thing; I cannot account for it even now. The cry that came to my lips, the name I called upon, was not Bessie’s, nor that of my father, so recently gone from me.
“Mother!” I screamed.
I had one glimpse of his lordship’s face looming over me, filling all my vision like a devil’s mask; I closed my eyes, knowing that I was lost, praying for unconsciousness. Then suddenly I felt myself falling. I tried to scream again but there wasn’t a scream left in me; I could only gasp for breath, and give an undignified grunt as I landed on the carpet in a sitting position. Momentarily I expected to feel Lord Shelton’s arms grasping me again. When nothing happened, I dared to open my eyes.
I will never forget my first sight of him. Under the circumstances any man would have looked like an avenging hero to me—Saint George, Apollo, Perseus rolled into one. And he was so handsome! Tall and broad-shouldered, his hair a mass of clustering gold ringlets, his features strong… He appeared larger than life as he towered over me. His face was set in a scowl and his strong brown hands held Lord Shelton by the throat. He shook him as a terrier might shake a rat; and then, with a gesture of magnificent contempt, he flung the limp body away. His lordship struck a chair, which collapsed under his weight and let him roll ignominiously to the floor amid the broken splinters.
Then my rescuer turned to me. He dropped to one knee. His eyes were blue; they blazed like pools of deep water with sunlight in their depths. My hands flew to my breast in an effort to gather the rags of my dress around me. At once the young man turned his eyes away.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, in a deep, reverberant baritone. “If he has harmed you, I will kill him.”
I was hurt, certainly; his lordship’s fingers had left aching spots that would be bruises in a few hours, and his nails had raked my shoulders. But I knew what my rescuer meant. I had acquired worldly wisdom quickly and painfully.
“No,” I croaked. “No. you mustn’t kill him, he didn’t…You will only get into trouble.”
“Bah,” said my hero vigorously. “Who cares for that? This cretino, this vandal has dared to touch you…Do you allow—may I have the honor to carry you to your room? Then I will return to deal with this creature.”
He had the most beautiful hands. Long-fingered and slender, yet utterly masculine in their sinewy strength, they hesitated, giving me time to withdraw, or protest. I did neither. As he gathered me gently into his arms I let my head fall against his broad chest. He rose effortlessly to his feet. Then he turned to his lordship, who was crawling toward the door.
