That Affair at Elizabeth Part 38

"I'm going to see her," he said. "You're coming, too. We'll get to the bottom of this, for Curtiss's sake. Either we'll prove it a mistake, or we'll prove beyond doubt that it's true."

Neither of us spoke during that long drive uptown. We were too depressed, too anxious. Nor did we speak as we mounted the steps of the old-fas.h.i.+oned brownstone and rang the bell. We were admitted. We were shown into a room on the second floor, after some delay, where, in a great padded chair, an old, old woman sat, thin and wrinkled, but with eyes preternaturally bright.

"Mrs. Heminway," Mr. Royce began directly, "we're representing Mr. Burr Curtiss. We feel that some explanation is due him of the sudden flight, three days ago, of Marcia Lawrence, whom he was to marry; and we believe that you're the one best fitted to tell us the whole story."

She did not answer for a moment, but sat peering up at us, plucking at the arms of her chair with nervous, skinny hands.

"Of course he has a right to know!" she cried, in a high, thin voice, like the note of a flute. "I thought the girl would tell him."

"But since she hasn't," said our junior, "I hope you will. I know it won't be a pleasant task--"

She stopped him with a quick, claw-like gesture.

"I have never shrunk from any duty," she said, "however unpleasant. Sit down, gentlemen. I will tell you the story."

I am sure there was no evil in either of them-Boyd Endicott or Mary Jarvis. They were rather another Mildred and Mertoun, caught in the grip of circ.u.mstance and whirled asunder, by one of those ironical tricks which fate sometimes loves to play. For, on the night of the elopement, while Boyd Endicott, leaving Princeton on the eve of his Christmas vacation, was waiting for his bride at Trenton, with every preparation made to whirl her away to a new home in the West, she was speeding away from him toward New York. She had taken the train at Fanwood and was to change at Elizabeth. There, half dazed by the noise, bewildered by the storm which was raging, tremulous with fright, confused in the tangle of tracks, she had taken the wrong train.

Boyd Endicott waited through the night, with what agony of doubt one can guess; then, when morning dawned, believing Mary Jarvis faithless-believing she loved her father more than him-hot-blooded and impetuous, he had boarded a train and journeyed alone into the West, where they had planned to build up a new home together. He was never to know the true story of that night, for there in the West, two days later, his life had been crushed out.

Meanwhile, almost paralysed with fear, the girl arrived at New York. She was ill, benumbed, chilled with the cold; darkness was coming on; she knew not where to turn, and finally, in an agony of desperation, she sought the home of Mrs. Heminway. The cause of her illness could not be long concealed; she a.s.serted that she was married, that she had been Boyd Endicott's wife for nearly a year; but her father did not believe her. For she had no marriage lines, she did not even know the name of the minister before whom their vows had been uttered-she could tell only of a long drive through the das.h.i.+ng rain one night when her father had been detained in town; of a hasty ceremony; of the drive home again. It was an incoherent story, at the best, and she told it in a half-delirium which made it more incoherent still. Her father was nearly mad with rage; in his first white wrath, he was for sending her forth into the streets. But his sister reasoned with him-there was no need of a public disgrace; she would take the child, the sight of it should never offend him, nor should his daughter know aught concerning it. Doubtless they would have made some effort to verify her story, but the news of Boyd Endicott's death rendered that unnecessary. For their plan was laid.

So the child was born-a boy-and the mother lay for days and weeks hovering between life and death. When she came again to consciousness, they told her that the child was dead-had never lived, indeed. They told her, too-no doubt with a kind of fierce exulting-how Boyd Endicott had met his end-a fit punishment from the hand of G.o.d! The past was buried with him. It must be as though it had never been.

Mary Jarvis acquiesced. Life, it seemed, held nothing more for her. The future, no less than the past, was to her a dark and lifeless thing. She would have welcomed death, but it did not come. She grew slowly better, and at last she was able to go with her father to Scotland, for a long visit among his people there, while he hastened home for his revenge-his pound of flesh. Whatever fault she had been guilty of, she expiated by taking, without love-for she knew that love would never come into her life again-the husband of her father's choosing. And seemingly she had never suspected that her child was living; certainly she never dreamed that her instinctive tenderness for her daughter's lover was that of a mother for her son.

So the years pa.s.sed, and cast a veil about this sorrow; not concealing it, but rendering it less sharp, less poignant. To her daughter no whisper of this secret ever came until that terrible moment when she opened the letter marked "Important-read at once." The blow, of course, must have fallen-it was right that it should fall-but oh! how it might have been tempered. Here is what she read, in that half-darkened library whither she had fled for refuge:

"Marcia Lawrence:-I suppose that you have never heard of me, yet I am your mother's only living relative, her father's sister. There are painful memories, perhaps, which have caused her to wish to forget me, and it is not to claim relations.h.i.+p or ask for love or sympathy that I write this letter, but to fulfil a sacred duty. A Merciful Providence turned my eyes, this morning, to an article in the Tribune, describing your approaching marriage, of which I have hitherto been kept in ignorance. From the name, age, and circ.u.mstances given concerning the bridegroom's life, I am certain he is your brother, your mother's son, born in sin in this house thirty-one years ago. So are the iniquities of the parents visited upon the children. Ex. 34:7; 20:5. See also Le. 20:10; I. Cor. 6:13; Ro. 6:23. I thank G.o.d that He has enabled me to prevent this last iniquity. If any doubt remains to you, ask your mother for the story, or come to me and I will tell it you.

"Margaret Heminway."

One can guess how this horrible letter palsied her; how this first face-to-face encounter with the world's sin and misery tortured and sickened her. But she shook the weakness off-they would be seeking her in a moment; she must flee, must hide herself, until she had time to think, to adjust herself to this new, corroding fact which had come into her life. So she sought the Kingdon cottage, the nearest, most convenient refuge, and there had written that hasty, despairing note and entrusted it to Lucy Kingdon, who had brought her a gown to replace that mockery of satin. She had remained there, hidden, during the long afternoon, secure in the knowledge that these women, whose devotion to her had a peculiar intensity which she had not quite understood, would not betray her.

Then, as soon as darkness fell, she had come to New York and sought Mrs. Heminway. She must be quite certain; she must know the whole truth. And that old, old woman, with all the grimness of her creed, told her the story bluntly and cruelly, as she told it to us. The child had not died, but had been placed with the family of the manager of her husband's estate on Long Island, who himself did not know its history; who had, in the end, adopted it and given it his name. There could be no mistaking.

I have called her merciless, for she seemed to glory in another's anguish, counting it fit retribution and a punishment from the Lord. Yet I trembled to think how more merciless she might have been had she withheld the truth!

And when she had heard the story, Marcia Lawrence could no longer doubt. But one great load was lifted from her, for she knew in her inmost heart that the story of that wild night drive was true-she knew that her mother had been guilty of no sin. There was a sweet comfort in the thought which made her burden less, though it did not alter the problem which she herself must face. She had been stabbed to the heart, and the wound was bleeding still. She had gone forth from the house white with agony; she wanted time to rest, to think, to grow accustomed to the world again. She had a battle to fight; and, hastily purchasing such clothing as she needed, she had taken the first boat for England, where she hoped to hide herself until the tumult in her heart subsided, and she had gathered courage to face the world and her lover.

CHAPTER XXVI

The Return

It was not until we were back at the office again that either Mr. Royce or myself ventured a comment upon this extraordinary story. Even then, we found very little to say. Nothing could be done to divert the blow; nothing even to lessen its severity. Burr Curtiss and Marcia Lawrence must endure their fate with such courage as they could; must forget; at least, must strive to soften love into affection. How would they regard each other, I wondered? Would the mere fact of revealed relations.h.i.+p alter their old feeling, or would love survive to torture them? They had in common no brotherly-and-sisterly instincts or experiences; they were unchanged; they were still maid and lover, as they had always been.

The days pa.s.sed, and in the stress of work at the office, the memory of Burr Curtiss and his fortunes gradually became less vivid, until I began to hope that, in time, it might really cease to worry me. But one morning, Mr. Royce looked up from his paper, his eyes s.h.i.+ning.

"The Umbria reached Liverpool this morning," he said, in a voice not wholly steady. "It's all over by this time. I wonder how they bore it?"

"Bravely, I've no doubt," I answered, but I trembled at thought of it. How had she summoned courage to tell him?

"He'll come home, I think," added Mr. Royce, pursuing his own thoughts. "They could hardly stay abroad together; their relations.h.i.+p, of course, will always remain a secret--"

The office boy entered and laid a little envelope at his elbow. He tore it open quickly and read its contents at a glance.

"It's a cable from Curtiss," he said, and pa.s.sed it over to me.

"Oceanic delayed engine break-down," I read. "Reached Liverpool five hours after Umbria. Missed Marcia but searching for her. Cable care Hotel Adelphi."

Mr. Royce sat for a moment drumming nervously upon his chair-arm.

"He hasn't any chance of finding her in a place like that," he said, at last. "Most probably she's gone on to London."

"Or to some place on the continent. There must be many places where she'd feel at home."

"What would we better do? Shall we write out the story and mail it to Curtiss? He'll get it in a week."

"He won't stay at Liverpool a week," I objected. "The letter might go astray, and be opened by some one who had no right to read it."

"We might cable a mere outline."

I thought it over; but somehow my point of view had changed. Now that I knew the story, it seemed to me that it was Marcia Lawrence's right to decide what step should be taken next. Once she had recovered her self-poise, she would see what course was best, and I was certain that she would be brave enough, strong enough, to follow it unshrinking to the end.

"Let us wait," I said. "A little delay can do no harm; just as haste can do no good."

"Yes; I believe that's best," agreed our junior. "Nothing we can do will help them. They must work out the problem for themselves."

"Besides," I added, "I've a feeling that Miss Lawrence will herself decide to meet it squarely. She'll realise that Curtiss has a right to know the story. I believe that she'll soon come home again, ready to face him and tell him everything. She'll see that it's cowardly to stay away. Then there's her mother-she'll think of her-of her misery and loneliness. She won't leave her to live by herself in that great, gloomy house. We're safe in leaving the future in her hands."

But in the days that followed, I came to doubt more and more whether this policy was the best one. Had I not been thinking too much of Miss Lawrence, and too little of our client? Perhaps if he knew the secret, he would no longer wish to pursue her; he might prefer to wait, to give time opportunity to heal the first rawness of the wound. Indeed, it was conceivable that love might change to loathing. In that case, it were better to have the crisis over with at once; to apply the knife before the sore had a chance to harden or grow deeper. Such heroic action might effect a cure. But I kept these doubts to myself; there was no use disturbing our junior with them. I could see how he was suffering on his friend's behalf. I could guess his fear that some dreadful tragedy would mark the end.

The days pa.s.sed, and we heard no more from

Curtiss, not a word to tell us how the search had progressed. G.o.dfrey came in to see me once or twice, but he had nothing new to tell; and of course I had nothing to tell him. At last, he expressed the opinion that we should never solve the mystery; and as the public had forgotten it long since, he decided to waste no more time upon it.

Another visitor I had one afternoon, when Dr. Schuyler's card was brought in to me. I ordered him shown in at once, and as I shook hands with him, I noted that he seemed greyer and older than when I had seen him last.

"Yes," he said, with a smile, interpreting my glance; "it's this trouble which has been weighing upon me. I've tried to shake it off, but I can't."

"Sit down," I said. "I'm glad to see you. And I wouldn't allow the affair to worry me, if I were you."

"That's easy enough to say," he retorted, with a little shake of the head. "But remember, Mr. Lester, Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter were two of my dearest friends. And this tragedy has wrecked their lives. Is there any news?"

"None at all, except that Curtiss missed the Umbria at Liverpool, and has not been able to find Miss Lawrence."

"Perhaps that was best."

"I'm inclined to think so myself," I agreed.