The Promise Page 5

  CHAPTER IV

  LOVE OR HATE

  Thus a week passed, in the course of which the heart of the girl wastorn by conflicting emotions. Love clashed with hate and self-pity withself-reproach. Was it true--what he had said? Had she administered thefinal kick to a man who was down--who, loving her--and deep down in herheart she knew that he did love her--had come to her in the extremityof his need for a word of encouragement?

  Now that he was gone she realized how much he had meant to her. How, inspite of his reckless disregard of life's serious side, she loved him.Try as she would she could not forget the look of deep hurt that dulledhis eyes at her words.

  Had she not been justified? Had he not needed just that to bring him toa realization of his responsibilities? Had she not, at the sacrifice ofher own love, spurred and strengthened his purpose to make good? Or,had she, by raising a barrier between them, removed his one incentiveto great effort?

  Over and over the girl pondered these things. One moment her heartcried out for his return, and the next she reiterated her undying hatefor the man in whose power it was so sorely to wound her with a word.

  And so she sat one evening before an open fire in the library which hadbeen the scene of their parting. Mechanically she turned the pages of anovel, but her mind was elsewhere, and her eyes lingered upon thedetails of the room.

  "He stood there," she mused, "and I here--and then--those awful words.And, oh! the look in his eyes that day as the portieres closed betweenus--and he was gone. Where?"

  Somehow the idea obsessed her that he had gone to sea. She pictured himbig and strong and brave, battling before the mast on some wallowing,storm-hectored trading ship outbound, bearing him away into themelting-pot of strange world-ways.

  Would he come clean through the moil, winning honor and his place amongmen? And thus would he some day return--to _her_? Or would the seaclaim him for her own, roughen him, and buffet him about through thelong years among queer Far Eastern hell-ports where, jostling shoulderto shoulder with brutish men and the women who do not care, he woulddrink deep and laugh loud among the flesh-pots of society's discards?

  The uncertainty was terrible to the girl, and she forced her thoughtsinto the one channel in which there was a ray of comfort.

  "At least," she murmured, "he has ceased to be a menace to Charlie."

  "Mr. Hiram Carmody, miss."

  The old manservant who had been with the Mantons always, stood framedin the inverted V of the parted portieres.

  Ethel started. Why had he called? During the lifetime of her father theelder Carmody had been a frequent visitor in the Manton home.

  Was it about Bill? Was he sick? Had there been an accident, and was hehurt--possibly dead? There was an icy grip at her heart, though hervoice was quite firm as she replied:

  "I will see Mr. Carmody at once, Craddon."

  As the man silently withdrew from the doorway a new thought came toher.

  Could it be that Bill was still in New York? That his going away hadbeen an empty threat? And was he now trying to bring about areconciliation through the medium of his father? How she could despisehim for that!

  Her lips thinned, and there was a hint of formality in her greeting asshe offered her hand to the tall, gray-haired man who advanced towardher.

  "Well, well! Miss Ethel," he began, "all alone with a book and a cozyfire. That is what I call solid comfort." He crossed the room andextended his hands to the blaze.

  "It is a long time since you have called, Mr. Carmody."

  "Yes. We old fellows rarely drift outside the groove of our fixed orbit.One by one we drop out, and as each one passes beyond it shortens theorbit of the others. The circle is always contracting--never expanding.The last one of us will be found in his dotage never venturing beyondthe circle of his own fireside until he, too, shall answer the call."

  The voice held a note of sadness which touched the girl deeply, and shesuddenly noted that the fine patrician face had aged.

  "You should not speak of being old," she said gently. "Why, you arecalled the Wizard of Wall Street."

  "A man is only as old as he feels. Until recently I have consideredmyself a young man. But of late I feel that I am losing my grip."

  "Isn't that a dangerous admission? If it should become known on theStreet----"

  "Ha!"--the heavy gray eyebrows met with a ferocity which belied thesmile that curved the thin lips--"if it were but whispered upon theStreet the wolves would be at my throat before morning. But they wouldhave a fight on their hands! However, all that is beside the purpose. Isuppose you are wondering why I called?"

  The girl was momentarily at a loss for a reply. "Why, I--You know youare always welcome here."

  "Yes, yes. But, as you must have surmised, I called with a definiteobject in view. A matter that concerns you and--er, my son."

  The girl turned a shade paler.

  "I do not understand," she replied.

  "Nor do I. I have come to you at the risk of being thought a meddlingold fool! But the fact is, I have several times lately heard your namementioned in connection with William's, and recently there came into mypossession this packet of letters addressed to my son in a femininehand and bearing the Manton crest."

  The girl's face flushed as she took the proffered packet and waited forhim to continue.

  "Fred Manton was my best friend," went on the old man, "and I won't seeharm come to his daughter, if I can prevent it. You two may be justfriends; you may be engaged--or married, for all I know. My son neverdeemed it worth while to take me into his confidence. In either case, Iam here--and I will have my say. I shall put myself in the place ofyour father and speak as, I believe, he would have spoken. I may seemharsh and bitter toward my own son, but remember, Miss Ethel, I havehad vastly more experience in the ways of the world than you have--andI know whereof I speak.

  "Slight as is the difference between your ages, you are but aninexperienced girl, as the world knows experience, and William is aman--and a man, I am sorry to say, who is no fit associate for a womanlike you."

  Surprised and perplexed the girl felt her anger rise against this man.Instinctively she rallied to Bill's defense:

  "He is not bad at heart!" she said resentfully.

  "What worse can you say?" returned Carmody with a harsh laugh. "Of allexpressions coined to damn a man with faint praise, there is only onemore effective: 'He means well.'"

  Ethel was thoroughly angry now. She drew herself up, and her blue eyesdarkened as she faced him.

  "That is not so!" she cried. "Bill is _not_ bad at heart! And he _does_mean well! Whose fault is it that he has grown up reckless and wild?Who is to blame? What chance has he had? What have you done for him?Filled his pockets with money and packed him off to school. Filled hispockets with money and sent him to college. Filled his pockets withmoney and shipped him abroad.

  "Then, without consulting his taste or desire, you peremptorily thrusthim into a business which he loathes--on an office boy's salary and anallowance out of all proportion to his requirements.

  "You say he has never taken you into his confidence. Have you everinvited that confidence? Have you ever sought his companionship--evenhis acquaintance?"

  The man was astonished at her vehemence. Uncomfortably he found himselfforced to the defensive.

  "He had his chance. I placed him in the bank that he might learn thebusiness as I learned it. If he had had the right stuff in him he wouldhave made good. As it was, he attended to his duties in the mostperfunctory and superficial manner. He showed not the slightestinterest in the business. In fact, his position could have been ablyfilled by the veriest gutter-snipe. And _he_ is the man who one day, inall probability, would have come into control of the Carmody millions!And he would have scattered them in a riot of dissipation the lengthand breadth of Broadway.

  "But I have forestalled him. He is foot-loose--gone, God knows where,to follow the fortune of adventure, perhaps, at the ends of the earth.For in him, transmitted in some unaccountable mann
er through the bloodof the gentlest, sweetest little woman who ever warmed a heart, is therestless spirit of the roistering, fighting McKims."

  "Is it the boy's fault that he is a McKim?" returned the girl a littlesharply. "Who chose his mother? Of all men you should be the last tospeak disparagingly of a McKim. Turn the pages of history and you willfind written large in the story of the upbuilding of nations the nameof McKim. Carmody gold is the cabala of Carmody suzerainty. But theMcKim name has been carved deep in the annals of nations by sheer forceof the personalities behind blades of naked steel.

  "Even now the crying world-need for men--big men--is as great as in thedays when the fighting McKims deserted their hearthstones to answer thecall of the falchion's clash or the cannon's roar. And some day youwill realize this--when your bank messenger makes good!"

  The old man regarded her with a look of admiration.

  "You love him!" he said quietly.

  The girl started. Her eyes flashed and the play of the firelight gavean added touch of crimson to her cheeks.

  "I do not love him! I--I _hate him!_" Her voice faltered, and the mansaw that she was very near to tears.

  "A strange hate, this, Miss Ethel. A strange and a most dangerous hatefor a girl to hold against a man who is a _thief_."