The Broken Gate Part 19

As he sat he was a not unpleasing figure of middle-aged success. His gray hair was swept back smoothly from his temples; his red cheeks, fresh reaped, bore the tinge of health. The large white hand before him on the gla.s.s-topped table betokened prosperity and success in every faint and fat-hid line.

Judge Henderson now was absorbed in the contemplation of a bit of paper which lay in his hand. It was a message from the telephone company, and it came from Slattery, county prosecutor. Something in it was of disturbing nature. Judge Henderson's brow was furrowed, his face was troubled. He seemed, thus alone and not stimulated by an audience, years older than he had been but now.

He had been looking at this bit of paper for some time so intently that now he did not hear his hall door open--did not see one who paused there and then came, lightfooted, swiftly, across the s.p.a.ce, to catch him and blindfold him as he sat. He heard the rustle of her skirts, and knew at once the deep counterfeit of her voice.

"Who is it?" she demanded, her hand over his eyes.

"Anne!" he exclaimed, catching at her hand. "You are here--when did you come?"

She went round and kissed him. "Just now," said she, "on the train from the city. You were not expecting me?"

"No, not at all."

"Well, here I am, Nunkie,"--she sometimes called her guardian by this pet name, although really they were not akin--"I'm finished and turned out complete--I'm done my college work now and ready for what we graduates call the Battle of Life. Do you think I'll do?"

She drew back and made him a pretty curtsey, spreading out her skirts.

Indeed, she was very fair to look upon and he smiled at her admiringly.

"You are beautiful, Anne," said he. "You are very beautiful--you are fine."

"Do I please you in every way?" said she.

"Perfectly, my dear. You cannot do otherwise."

She looked at him demurely. "I'm not so sure," said she. "Wait until you have heard all I have to tell you."

"What's wrong? Are you in debt?"

"Worse than that, Nunkie dear--I'm engaged!"

Now indeed he looked at her with sudden consternation in his face.

"What's that? You haven't told me anything of the sort."

"I never knew it until just now--at the station." She came now and sat down upon the arm of his chair. "It just happened yesterday--and today."

She put up a finger to her lips and rubbed them, fearing that he might see there the flame of the kiss they but now had borne.

"Who is the young man--if you are really in earnest about all this?

Where did you meet him? Whoever he is, you've hardly done your duty by me. I'm your guardian--I stand _in loco parentis_ for you. When did all this happen?"

"Yesterday, on the train. I didn't expect it myself. But I promised.

He's promised me. We were going to tell you about it at once."

She was the very picture of happy and contented young womanhood as she spoke. Not so happy was the man whom she addressed.

"I can't guess at all whom you mean," said he. "Is he anybody--is he a man of station--has he any business--has he any means? How old is he--who is he?"

"I can't answer so many questions all at once, Nunkie," said she. "But I'm going to be very happy, I know that. Perhaps you can answer some of the questions for yourself--perhaps you know him. Well, it's Dieudonne Lane!--he's in town right now--a schoolmate of mine for four years.

Surely, I know all about him."

Judge Henderson swiftly turned and looked at her steadily, cold consternation on his face. "Anne!" he exclaimed. "That can't be! It's absurd."

"Oh, I expected that," said she easily. "That's because he hasn't any money. I knew that. As for his family--he told me long ago that he was an orphan, that his father died when he was very young, and left only enough for his education, and that he would have to make his own way.

Very well, some men have had to do that--you have had to yourself, Nunkie, isn't it true? And Don was born here in this very town----"

He put out his hand over hers as it lay upon the table-top. "Anne!" said he. "My child! You're but a child--an impulsive, foolish child. What have you done? You have not pledged your word--to _him_?"

"Oh, yes, I have. I'm promised--my promise is given. More----"

"It's folly and worse than folly. It can't be--I won't have it--you hear me?" He broke out savagely now.

"I heard you--yes, but I'll jolly well not pay too much attention to you, even when you roar at me that way. As I understand it, I'm of age.

I've been studying for four years to get ready to be able to know my own mind--and I do! My own heart also. And I know what's due me."

Her voice was low and very sweet, but the man who heard her winced at its cutting calm.

"You would marry a man like that, of no family, of no place, of no name?"

"Yes, I've just said that. I know all about it. We'll have to start at the bottom; and I ask you, didn't you start that way?"

"That's an entirely different proposition, my dear girl," said her guardian. "Times were different then. You are an heiress--you are a woman of family and place--and you don't have to go back to the old days--you don't need to ruin your own life through such terrible beginnings.

"But now, do you know who this young man's people are?" He asked this last after a considerable pause, during which his ward sat silent, looking at him steadily.

"Oh, yes. He told me he is an orphan--his father's dead long ago. And his mother----"

"You know his mother?"

"Yes, a milliner--I believe. But a good woman."

"Ah!"

She still looked at him, smiling. "I am 'advanced,' you see, Nunkie! In college we studied things. I don't care for the social rank--I want to marry a _man_. I love Don. I love--well, that kind of man. I'm so happy!"

She squeezed him tight in a sudden warm embrace. "I love all the world, I believe, Nunkie--even you, and you are an old bear, as everybody knows! And I thank you for all those papers in the long envelopes--with the lines and the crosses on them, and the pencil mark 'Sign here'--powers of attorney and receipts, and bonds and shares and mortgages and certificates--all that sort of thing. Am I very rich, Nunkie?"

"Not very, as heiresses go these days," said he. "You're worth maybe four or five hundred thousand dollars, not very much. But that's not the question. That's not really everything there is at stake in this--although I'm well enough satisfied that's all this young man cares for."

"Thank you!" said she proudly. "I had not known that."

"A good many things you have not known, my dear. Now listen here. Do you know what this marriage would mean to me? I want to be United States Senator from this state--and everything bids fair to see my ambition gratified. But politics is a ticklish game."

"Well, what on earth has that to do with me and Don?"

"It has everything to do! I'm _not_ 'advanced,' I'm old fashioned enough to know that social rank does count in my business at least. In politics every little thing counts; so I tell you, for every reason in the world you must dismiss this young man from your thoughts. You are quixotic, I know--you are stubborn, like your mother--a good woman, but stubborn."

He was arguing with her, but Anne could not read his face, although she sought to do so--there seemed some veil hiding his real thoughts. And his face was troubled. She thought he had aged very much.