II

The appointed time was at the November dusk, hurried forward nearly an hour by the falling panoply of smoke driven westward over the Park by the wet east wind.  And the rector was conducted, with due ceremony, to the office upstairs which he had never again expected to enter, where that other memorable interview had taken place.  The curtains were drawn.  And if the green-shaded lamp—­the only light in the room—­had been arranged by a master of dramatic effect, it could not have better served the setting.

In spite of Alison’s letter, Holder was unprepared for the ravages a few days had made in the face of Eldon Parr.  Not that he appeared older:  the impression was less natural, more sinister.  The skin had drawn sharply over the cheek-bones, and strangely the eyes both contradicted and harmonized with the transformation of the features.  These, too, had changed.  They were not dead and lustreless, but gleamed out of the shadowy caverns into which they had sunk, unyielding, indomitable in torment,—­eyes of a spirit rebellious in the fumes . . . .

This spirit somehow produced the sensation of its being separated from the body, for the movement of the hand, inviting Holder to seat himself, seemed almost automatic.

“I understand,” said Eldon Parr, “that you wish to marry my daughter.”

“It is true that I am to marry Alison,” Holder answered, “and that I intended, later on, to come to inform you of the fact.”

He did not mention the death of Preston.  Condolences, under the circumstances, were utterly out of the question.

“How do you propose to support her?” the banker demanded.

“She is of age, and independent of you.  You will pardon me if I reply that this is a matter between ourselves,” Holder said.

“I had made up my mind that the day she married you I would not only disinherit her, but refuse absolutely, to have anything to do with her.”

“If you cannot perceive what she perceives, that you have already by your own life cut her off from you absolutely and that seeing her will not mend matters while you remain relentless, nothing I can say will convince you.”  Holder did not speak rebukingly.  The utter uselessness of it was never more apparent.  The man was condemned beyond all present reprieve, at least.

“She left me,” exclaimed Eldon Parr, bitterly.

“She left you, to save herself.”

“We need not discuss that.”

“I am far from wishing to discuss it,” Holder replied.

“I do not know why you have asked me to come here, Mr. Parr.  It is clear that your attitude has not changed since our last conversation.  I tried to make it plain to you why the church could not accept your money.  Your own daughter, cannot accept it.”

“There was a time,” retorted the banker, “when you did not refuse to accept it.”

“Yes,” Holder replied, “that is true.”  It came to him vividly then that it had been Alison herself who had cast the enlightening gleam which revealed his inconsistency.  But he did not defend himself.