“No,” I said, “that is your right. But surely you have no desire” — my voice was raised almost to appeal — “to persecute the innocent? And you must know — since you know her — you must feel that Miss Markton is not guilty.”
For a minute there was silence, while the bank official gazed through the window, lost in thought. Then he turned to me with a gesture of decision.
“Mr. Moorfield,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The proceeding is a little irregular, but that is our own affair. I know — who does not — that you are one of the most conscientious men at the New York bar. I know what your word is worth.
“I know that you would never have taken Miss Markton’s case if you had not been absolutely assured of her innocence. You know her story, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“Well,” he spoke slowly and distinctly, “if you will stake your reputation on Miss Markton’s innocence; if you will give me your word that the evidence you have has persuaded you of it, she will be absolutely freed from any further annoyance and from the slightest suspicion.”
“But—” I began.
“I know,” he interrupted, “that you will be assuming a certain responsibility. But so will I. The point is — that we are both desirous that this girl should be freed from anxiety and trouble. I am merely asking you to do your part.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment.
There rose before me the vision of Lillian Markton as I had seen her the evening before, happy and grateful at my assurance of success — her eyes, tender and appealing and trustful, lifted to mine — to me a most perfect picture of innocence and purity. What harm could there possibly be in staking my reputation, even my honor, on what every throb of my heart, every pulsation of my brain proclaimed as an undeniable fact?
Still, as I walked out of the bank and down the street a few minutes later with the words of my pledge to the president ringing in my ears, I felt a vague uneasiness that would not be reasoned away. I had placed myself in a most peculiar position — I could only trust to the future to justify it.
As for my motives, they were indefinable. I merely felt that I had been pushed on by some irresistible power that had left me helpless and weak before it; and I was weighed down by a sickening sense of impending disaster.
That evening, as Lillian Markton pressed my hand with tender gratitude, I felt my fears disappear as though by magic. With her at my side, cheerful and lighthearted at the news I had imparted to her, my doubts and misgivings of the morning seemed absurd.
At noon of that day, she told me, the espionage of her movements had ceased; and, she added, “I really didn’t know how horrible it had been until it was over! Oh! how good it is to feel that there is someone who... who—”
“Well?” I said hopefully. “Who what?”
“Who is a friend,” she said, laughing at my eagerness. “Only you aren’t much of one or you wouldn’t be running off to a business engagement just when I want to talk to you. But there! You know how grateful I am!”
I walked on air and rode on the wings of the angels as I went downtown that night.
The following evening — for the first time — I dined with her at her home. During the day I had made an important decision — to me. I had decided to ask Miss Markton to be my wife. I could no longer conceal from myself the fact that I loved her — indeed, I no longer had any desire to conceal it.
It may be asked why I hesitated at all. I put that question to myself impatiently — and I could find no answer.
No answer — that is, in reason. But always there was in my heart that strange foreboding of evil — something inexplicable that tried to restrain me in spite of myself. I ignored it.
A dozen times that evening I tried to declare my love — to ask Lillian Markton to marry me — but the words somehow refused to come. In fact, I believe it takes a great coward to propose marriage — no man could possibly have the courage.
Miss Markton’s mood may have had something to do with it. All her gaiety and cheerfulness of the evening before were gone; but when I attempted to rally her she declared that it was merely a reaction from the strain of the past week, and that all she needed was rest. At my earnest expression of sympathy she rose and crossed slowly to where I sat, resting her arm on the back of my chair.
When I looked up at her I was surprised to find that her eyes were wet with tears.
“Mr. Moorfield—” she said, hesitating, her voice strangely tender. Then, after a long minute of silence, “But no — not tonight,” she continued, as though to herself.
She let her hand fall to my shoulder, then hastily drew it away and returned to her own chair.
“If there is anything I can do,” I began uncertainly.
“No,” she said hurriedly, “there is nothing.”
For several minutes we sat in silence. When she spoke again it was to make what I then considered a rather strange request.
“I wish,” she said, “to see that picture again — the one on your desk. I wonder — may I call on you tomorrow morning?”
“Certainly,” I said; “but it seems — if you wish, I can bring the picture to you instead.”
“No,” she answered; “if you don’t mind I would prefer to see it — to come to your office. Of course, I know that what I am saying sounds queer, but tomorrow you will understand. You don’t mind, do you?” she smiled.
For another hour we sat, talking trivialities, and by the time I rose to go Miss Markton was almost cheerful. She accompanied me to the door and stood looking down at me as I descended the stairs, and as I paused at the bottom I heard a faint, tender “Good night.”
I have heard it many times since — in my dreams.
The next morning I arrived at the office early, after a bad night. I was in anything but a pleasant mood, and I am afraid I made things rather uncomfortable for one or two callers and for James and the stenographer, who seemed relieved when I dismissed them for the day, saying that I expected someone with whom I wished to be alone.
It was an hour later when the door opened to admit Miss Markton.
“You see,” I smiled as I ushered her into the inner office, “I have cleared the way for you. Here is your chair. It was just ten days ago today that you first sat in it. Things have changed since then, haven’t they?”
“Yes,” said Miss Markton slowly, “things have changed. No,” as I took a seat on the window ledge, “sit here — in your own chair. I want to talk to you — that way.”
I did as she requested, and drew my chair up in front of the desk, close to hers, while she sat regarding me intently, even wistfully.
Then, as she turned and looked at the picture in front of her, her eyes hardened, and when she spoke it was in a cold, lifeless voice that was new to me.
During what followed she did not look at me once, but gazed steadily at the picture.
“Do you know,” she said, “what that picture has done to you — to us? I want you to promise me,” she went on before I could speak, “that you will hear me through in silence. That whatever I do or say you will say nothing — till I have finished. Will you promise?”
“But surely—” I began, bewildered.
“No. You must promise.”
It was my professional training, I suppose, that led me to nod my head gravely and listen calmly as she continued.
A lawyer grows accustomed to the unusual.
“I have seen that picture in my dreams,” she went on. “It has haunted me night and day. I could see your surprise when I asked about it every time I saw you. I knew it was dangerous, but I couldn’t help it. Somehow I enjoyed it — I suppose just as a child likes to play with fire. But before I go on—”