An Unpardonable Liar by Gilbert Parker
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Gilbert Parker >> An Unpardonable Liar
For a moment she trembled violently and ran her fingers through her golden
hair distractedly, but she partly regained her composure, came forward and
told the servant to show him into the room. She was a woman of instant
determination. She drew the curtains closer, so that the room would be
almost dark to one entering from the sunlight. Then she stood with her
back to the light of the window. He saw a figure standing in the shadow,
came forward and bowed, not at first looking closely at the face.
"I have come from your husband," he said. "My name is Mark Telford"--
"Yes, I know," she interrupted.
He started, came a little nearer and looked curiously at her. "Ida--Ida
Royal!" he exclaimed. "Are you--you--John Gladney's wife?"
"He is my husband."
Telford folded his arms, and, though pale and haggard, held himself
firmly. "I could not have wished this for my worst enemy," he said at last
"Gladney and I have been more than brothers."
"In return for having"--
"Hush!" he interrupted. "Do you think anything you may say can make me
feel worse than I do? I tell you we have lain under the same blankets
month in, month out, and he saved my life."
"What is the message you bring?" she asked.
"He begs you to live with him again, you and your child. The property he
settled on you for your lifetime he will settle on your child. Until this
past few days he was himself poor. To-day he is rich--money got honestly,
as you may guess."
"And if I am not willing to be reconciled?"
"There was no condition."
"Do you know all the circumstances? Did he tell you?"
"No, he did not tell me. He said that he left you suddenly for a reason,
and when he wished to return you would not have him. That was all. He
never spoke but kindly of you."
"He was a good man."
"He is a good man."
"I will tell you why he left me. He learned, no matter how, that I had not
been married, as I said I had."
She looked up, as if expecting him to speak. He said nothing, but stood
with eyes fixed on the floor.
"I admitted, too, that I kept alive the memory of a man who had played an
evil part in my life; that I believed I cared for him still, more than for
my husband."
"Ida, for God's sake, you do not mean"--
"Yes, I meant you then. But when he went away, when he proved himself so
noble, I changed. I learned to hate the memory of the other man. But he
came back too soon. I said things madly--things I did not mean. He went
again. And then afterward I knew that I loved him."
"I am glad of that, upon my soul!" said Telford, letting go a long breath.
She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness. "A few days ago I had
determined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a man
who had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was in
America. I came here to see him and my daughter."
"Who is the man?"
"Mr. George Hagar."
A strange light shot from Telford's eyes. "Hagar is a fortunate man," he
said. Then dreamily: "You have a daughter. I wish to God that--that ours
had lived."
"You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead."
"I do not think that I cared then. Besides"--
"Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you," she
said with low scorn. "I have seen her in London. I am glad--glad that she
hates you. I know she does," she added. "She would never forgive you. She
was too good for you, and you ruined her life."
He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. "You are right.
I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me."
"You have seen her?" She eyed him sharply.
"Yes, to-day." His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph of
her daughter. He glanced at it keenly. A look of singular excitement
sprang to his eyes. "That is your daughter?"
She inclined her head.
"How old is she?" He picked up the photograph and held it, scrutinizing
it.
"She is seventeen," was the reply in a cold voice.
He turned a worn face from the picture to the woman. "She is my child.
You lied to me."
"It made no difference to you then. Why should it make any difference now?
Why should you take it so tragically?"
"I do not know, but now"--His head moved, his lips trembled.
"But now she is the daughter of John Gladney's wife. She is loved and
cared for by people who are better, infinitely better, than her father and
mother were or could be. She believes her father is dead. And he is dead!"
"My child! My child!" he whispered brokenly over the photograph. "You will
tell her that her father is not dead. You"--
She interrupted. "Where is that philosophy which you preached to me, Mark
Telford, when you said you were going to marry another woman and told me
that we must part? Your child has no father. You shall not tell her. You
will go away and never speak to her. Think of the situation. Spare her, if
you do not spare me or your friend John Gladney."
He sat down in a chair, his clinched hands resting on his knees. He did
not speak. She could see his shoulder shaking a little, and presently a
tear dropped on his cheek.
But she did not stir. She was thinking of her child. "Had you not better
go?" she said at last. "My daughter may come at any moment."
He rose and stood before her. "I had it all, and I have lost it all," he
said. "Good-bye." He did not offer his hand.
"Good-bye. Where are you going?"
"Far enough away to forget," he replied in a shaking voice. He picked up
the photograph, moved his hand over it softly as though he were caressing
the girl herself, lifted it to his lips, put it down, and then silently
left the room, not looking back.
He went to his rooms and sat writing for a long time steadily. He did not
seem excited or nervous. Once or twice he got up and walked back and
forth, his eyes bent on the floor. He was making calculations regarding
the company he had floated in London and certain other matters. When he
had finished writing, three letters lay sealed and stamped upon the
table. One was addressed to John Gladney, one to the Hudson Bay company
and one to a solicitor in London. There was another unsealed. This he put
in his pocket. He took the other letters up, went downstairs and posted
them. Then he asked the hall porter to order a horse for riding--the best
mount in the stables--to be ready at the door in an hour. He again went to
his room, put on a riding suit, came down and walked out across the
esplanade and into the street where Hagar's rooms were. They were lighted.
He went to the hall door, opened it quietly and entered the hall. He
tapped at the door of Hagar's sitting room. As he did so a servant came
out, and, in reply to a question, said that Mr. Hagar had gone to the
Tempe hotel and would be back directly. He went in and sat down. The
curtains were drawn back between the two rooms. He saw the easels, with
their backs to the archway. He rose, went in and looked at the sketches in
the dim light.
He started, flushed, and his lips drew back over his teeth with an
animallike fierceness, but immediately he was composed again. He got two
candles, brought them and set them on a stand between the easels. Then he
sat down and studied the paintings attentively. He laughed once with a dry
recklessness. "This tells her story admirably. He is equal to his subject.
To be hung in the academy. Well, well!"
He heard the outer door open, then immediately Hagar entered the room and
came forward to where he sat. The artist was astonished, and for the
instant embarrassed. Telford rose. "I took the liberty of waiting for you,
and, seeing the pictures, was interested."
Hagar bowed coldly. He waved his hand toward the pictures. "I hope you
find them truthful."
"I find them, as I said, interesting. They will make a sensation. And is
there anything more necessary? You are a lucky man, and you have the
ability to take advantage of it. Yes, I greatly admire your ability. I can
do that, at least, though we are enemies, I suppose."
His words were utterly without offense. A melancholy smile played on his
lips. Again Hagar bowed, but did not speak.
Telford went on. "We are enemies, and yet I have done you no harm. You
have injured me, have insulted me, and yet I do not resent it, which is
strange, as my friends in a wilder country would tell you."
Hagar was impressed, affected. "How have I injured you? By painting
these?"
"The injury is this: I loved a woman and wronged her, but not beyond
reparation. Years passed. I saw her and loved her still. She might still
have loved me, but another man came in. It was you. That was one injury.
Then"--He took up a candle and held it to the sketch of the discovery.
"This is perfect in its art and chivalry. It glorifies the girl. That is
right." He held the candle above the second sketch. "This," he said, "is
admirable as art and fiction. But it is fiction. I have no hope that you
will change it. I think you would make a mistake to do so. You could not
have the situation, if the truth were painted. Your audience will not have
the villain as the injured man."
"Were you the injured man?"
Telford put the candle in Hagar's hand. Then he quickly took off his coat,
waistcoat and collar and threw back his shirt from his neck behind.
"The bullet wound I received on that occasion was in the back," he said.
"The other man tried to play the assassin. Here is the scar. He posed as
the avenger, the hero, and the gentleman. I was called the coward and the
vagabond! He married the girl."
He started to put on his waistcoat again. Hagar caught his arm and held
it. The clasp was emotional and friendly. "Will you stand so for a
moment?" he said. "Just so, that I may"--
"That you may paint in the truth? No. You are talking as the man. As an
artist you were wise to stick to your first conception. It had the heat of
inspiration. But I think you can paint me better than you have done, in
these sketches. Come, I will give you a sitting. Get your brushes. No, no,
I'll sit for nothing else than for these scenes as you have painted them.
Don't miss your chance for fame."
Without a word Hagar went to work and sketched into the second sketch
Telford's face as it now was in the candlelight--worn, strong, and with
those watchful eyes sunk deep under the powerful brows. The artist in him
became greater than the man. He painted in a cruel, sinister expression
also. At last he paused. His hand trembled. "I can paint no more," he
said.
Telford looked at the sketch with a cold smile. "Yes, that's right," he
said. "You've painted in a good bit of the devil too. You owe me something
for this. I have helped you to a picture and have given you a sitting.
There is no reason why you should paint the truth to the world. But I ask
you this: When you know that her husband is dead and she becomes your
wife, tell her the truth about that, will you? How the scoundrel tried to
kill me--from behind. I'd like to be cleared of cowardice some time. You
can afford to do it. She loves you. You will have everything, I
nothing--nothing at all."
There was a note so thrilling, a golden timbre to the voice, an
indescribable melancholy so affecting that Hagar grasped the other's hand
and said, "So help me God, I will!"
"All right."
He prepared to go. At the door Hagar said to him, "Shall I see you again?"
"Probably in the morning. Good-night."
Telford went back to the hotel and found the horse he had ordered at the
door. He got up at once. People looked at him curiously, it was peculiar
to see a man riding at night for pleasure, and, of course, it could be for
no other purpose. "When will you be back, sir?" said the groom.
"I do not know." He slipped a coin into the groom's hand. "Sit up for me.
The beast is a good one?"
"The best we have. Been a hunter, sir."
Telford nodded, stroked the horse's neck and started. He rode down toward
the gate. He saw Mildred Margrave coming toward him.
"Oh, Mr. Telford!" she said. "You forsook us to-day, which was unkind.
Mamma says--she has seen you, she tells me--that you are a friend of my
stepfather, Mr. Gladney. That's nice, for I like you ever so much, you
know." She raised her warm, intelligent eyes to his. "I've felt since you
came yesterday that I'd seen you before, but mamma says that's impossible.
You don't remember me?"
"I didn't remember you," he said.
"I wish I were going for a ride, too, in the moonlight. I mean mamma and I
and you. You ride as well as you drive, of course."
"I wish you were going with me," he replied.--He suddenly reached down his
hand. "Good-night" Her hand was swallowed in his firm clasp for a moment
"God bless you, dear!" he added, then raised his hat quickly and was gone.
"I must have reminded him of some one," the girl said to herself. "He
said, 'God bless you, dear!'"
About that time Mrs. Detlor received a telegram from the doctor of a
London hospital. It ran:
Your husband here. Was badly injured in a channel collision last
night. Wishes to see you.
There was a train leaving for London a half hour later. She made ready
hastily, inclosed the telegram in an envelope addressed to George Hagar,
and, when she was starting, sent it over to his rooms. When he received
it, he caught up a time table, saw that a train would leave in a few
minutes, ran out, but could not get a cab quickly, and arrived at the
station only to see the train drawing away. "Perhaps it is better so," he
said, "for her sake."
That night the solitary roads about Herridon were traveled by a solitary
horseman, riding hard. Mark Telford's first ambition when a child was to
ride a horse. As a man he liked horses almost better than men. The cool,
stirring rush of wind on his face as he rode was the keenest of delights.
He was enjoying the ride with an iron kind of humor, for there was in his
thoughts a picture. "The sequel's sequel for Hagar's brush to-morrow," he
said as he paused on the top of a hill to which he had come from the
highroad and looked round upon the verdant valleys almost spectrally quiet
in the moonlight. He got off his horse and took out a revolver. It clicked
in his hand.
"No," he said, putting it up again, "not here. It would be too damned
rough on the horse, after riding so hard, to leave him out all night."
He mounted again. He saw before him a fine stretch of moor at an easy
ascent. He pushed the horse on, taking a hedge or two as he went. The
animal came over the highest point of the hill at full speed. Its blood
was up, like its master's. The hill below this point suddenly ended in a
quarry. Neither horse nor man knew it until the yielding air cried over
their heads like water over a drowning man as they fell to the rocky bed
far beneath.
An hour after Telford became conscious. The horse was breathing painfully
and groaning beside him. With his unbroken arm he felt for his revolver.
It took him a long time.
"Poor beast!" he said, and pushed the hand out toward the horse's head.
In an instant the animal was dead.
He then drew the revolver to his own temple, but paused. "No, it wasn't to
be," he said. "I'm a dead man anyway," and fell back.
Day was breaking when the agony ceased. He felt the gray damp light on his
eyes, though he could not see He half raised his head. "God--bless--you,
dear!" he said. And that ended it.
He was found by the workers at the quarry. In Herridon to this day--it all
happened years ago--they speak of the Hudson Bay company's man who made
that terrible leap, and, broken all to pieces himself, had heart enough to
put his horse out of misery. The story went about so quickly, and so much
interest was excited because the Hudson Bay company sent an officer down
to bury him, and the new formed Aurora company was represented by two or
three titled directors, that Mark Telford's body was followed to its grave
by hundreds of people. It was never known to the public that he had
contemplated suicide. Only John Gladney and the Hudson Bay company knew
that for certain.
The will, found in his pocket, left everything he owned to Mildred
Margrave--that is, his interest in the Aurora mines of Lake Superior,
which pays a gallant dividend. The girl did not understand why this was,
but supposed it was because he was a friend of John Gladney, her
stepfather, and perhaps (but this she never said) because she reminded
him of some one. Both she and John Gladney when they are in England go
once a year to Herridon, and they are constantly sending flowers there.
Alpheus Richmond showed respect for him by wearing a silk sash under his
waistcoat, and Baron by purchasing shares in the Aurora company.
When Mark Telford lay dead, George Hagar tried to take from his finger the
ring which carried the tale of his life and death inside it, but the hand
was clinched so that it could not be opened. Two years afterward, when he
had won his fame through two pictures called "The Discovery" and "The
Sequel," he told his newly married wife of this. And he also cleared Mark
Telford's name of cowardice in her sight, for which she was grateful.
It is possible that John Gladney and George Hagar understood Mark Telford
better than the woman who once loved him. At least they think so.