OLD FRIENDS.
The carriage stopped in front of a large, gaudy-looking house, and
Doctor Conway ran up the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened
by a pert-looking servant. Conway inquired if Miss Allan lived there.
“Yes,” the servant said shortly, “she did.”
“Was she in?” inquired Conway next.
To which the servant answered as shortly as before:
“Yes. What name?”
And, being informed that it was Conway, she disappeared, leaving that
gentleman in the hall. She soon returned, however, and, ushering him
into the parlor, she requested him to take a seat, and disappeared for
good.
Conway had not long to wait before the door opened and Lettie stood
before him.
She had evidently taken considerable pains to enhance her personal
appearance. She was dressed with great taste and care, though with
great simplicity; but her close-fitting black silk dress showed her
grand figure to its best advantage. She had soft white lace around her
neck, and in her magnificent black hair there nestled a scarlet flower.
Perhaps it was the excitement of this meeting that lent an additional
color to her cheeks and unusual brightness to her eyes. She had never
looked better, and she knew it. Perhaps she had intended to create a
comparison between herself and the woman he loved.
“Lettie? Is this Lettie?” cried Conway, in amazement. “Why, how you
have changed!”
There is a love for the beautiful implanted in our breasts, and there
was nothing disloyal to his love in Conway’s admiration of this girl’s
beauty.
He would have felt as great admiration for a glorious statue. But
Lettie did not think of this; she forgot to judge his love by her own,
and his evident pleasure at the sight of her caused her heart to beat
tremulously with hope.
She gave him both hands.
“Yes,” she said, “this is Lettie; have you forgotten her already?”
“No; I had not forgotten you,” replied Conway, as he placed a chair
for her. “But I did not expect to find you so changed. You are very
beautiful.”
Lettie flushed and palpitated with pleasure.
“I am glad you find me so,” she said softly.
“Your beauty surprised me for a moment,” said Conway, with gentle
gravity. “Your aunt will be glad to know that you are looking so well.
And now,” he said abruptly, almost sternly, “tell me about this man.”
Lettie bit her lips, and her face paled a little.
“Yes,” she said sadly. “I forgot you came for that.”
Conway walked once across the room with his hands clasped behind him.
“I suppose you will think me very ungrateful, Lettie,” he said, as
he stopped in front of her, “but I have suffered intensely. You know
how long I have loved Norine, and how patient I have been. Well,” he
said, with something of a gasp in his voice, “we were to be married
Christmas, and this came so suddenly.” He stopped and walked across the
room again, evidently struggling to master himself. “You may love some
day, Lettie,” he broke off abruptly, “and then you will understand my
misery.”
“I will love some day,” thought the girl bitterly. “Have I not loved
and suffered long enough?” But her heart was touched by his anguish,
and she put out her hand to him in pure womanly sympathy. “I do
understand,” she said softly, “and I pity you so much.”
Conway grasped her hand, and then let it fall. This sympathy was harder
to bear, after all his misery, than a blow would have been.
“Tell me,” he said huskily, “tell me all you know about this.”
And then Lettie told him all she knew, commencing with what she had
gathered from Coleman about Elwell’s first coming to Chicago, and then
went on and told him plainly and simply the whole story up to the time
she had left Elwell’s house--told it with her heart sinking.
“Surely he will understand,” she thought, as she told him of her
interview with Peter. “Surely he will understand and hate me.” But he
did not; he only listened intently, and put the points together as she
laid them before him.
“You say he is divorced?” he said, when she had done.
“Yes,” replied Lettie. “He has a divorce, but I think it is fraudulent.
I think that is the power Coleman holds over him.” She bowed her head
for a moment, and then lifted her eyes. “They were kind to me in their
way,” she said, “and it seems terrible that I should bring this trouble
upon them. I want you to promise me that you will spare Mr. Morain all
you can.”
Conway promised earnestly.
“They are not to blame,” he said, “and they will thank you for what you
have done. You are really protecting them; but if you wish, I need not
mention your name at all.”
“I wish you would not to them,” replied Lettie sadly. “But you will
have to to Coleman. Now listen,” she said earnestly; “I know this man,
and I know how little he cares for anybody but himself. You go directly
to him and tell him that I have told you everything. He has always
thought I knew more than I did. Tell him you know how that divorce was
obtained, and threaten him unless he helps you. He is a coward,” she
added scornfully, “and you can frighten him if you try.”
Conway nodded.
“I think I understand it all,” he said sternly, “and I will know how to
deal with him.”
“They have plenty of money,” cautioned Lettie, “and they may fight.”
“Money will do them no good,” replied Conway grimly. “They have not
wealth enough to protect him.”
He arose, and buttoned his coat, as if to leave.
“You have plenty of time,” protested Lettie wistfully. “You cannot
start until half after four. Won’t you stay and tell me about auntie
and the old home?”
Conway resumed his seat at once.
“I will be glad to tell you all I can,” he said kindly; “but I am
afraid my news will be old to you. I am sorry I did not see your aunt
before I left. I might have brought you a message from her.”
“Is she well?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Conway, “she is well--but I am afraid not very
happy. She longs for you, Lettie, and expects you to return. Will you?
Can you?”
“Yes, I hope so,” replied the girl meaningly. “I long to go back
to her; but I cannot yet. You do not understand; but I cannot go
back--yet.”
She led him to talk about himself; she was hungry for the sound of
his voice. And yet she sat in front of him, calm and self-possessed,
seemingly interested in all he said; but nothing more.
They sat thus for some time, and Conway told her about the old home,
and about all of her old friends. At last he arose to go.
“You have greatly befriended me in this, Lettie,” he said at parting,
“and I would like to be able to do something for you in return. Is
there anything I can do to express my gratitude?”
“No,” she said quietly, “there is nothing you can do. I would like to
have you write to me and tell me about it. That is all.”
She put out her hand, and he took it; and in his gratitude for her
services, put it to his lips.
“I hope you will always be happy,” he said; “and I am sure you will,
for you deserve it.”
She looked at her hand after he had gone, as if it were something
strange, and then she kissed it passionately. And going to the table,
she laid her face down where his hand had rested, and wept long but
softly; and she was purified by her tears. She caressed her hand again
and again, and even kissed the poor, insensible table because _he_ had
touched it. For such is the love of womenkind--when they love.
After leaving Lettie, Conway hurried to the office of a prominent
lawyer, whose name he had obtained at the hotel, and asked his advice.
The lawyer listened patiently.
“You can do nothing without your friend’s authority,” he said at last.
“You had better telegraph for him at once. There is no doubt but the
divorce is fraudulent; but there is no proof that this Coleman procured
it fraudulently. That is, that he was a party to the fraud. Yet I think
the young lady is right, and would counsel you to follow her advice.
You can do no harm by it, and will at least find out how matters stand.”
Leaving him, Conway hurried to telegraph Jim, and then went on board
the boat that was to bear him across the great lake. He had neither
eaten nor slept, and the strain was beginning to tell upon him.
“This will not do,” he thought, as he felt himself beginning to get
weak. “I must take care of myself;” and he forced himself to eat a
hearty supper, and then retired to his stateroom, where he was soon in
that deep, dreamless sleep that only comes from mental and physical
exhaustion.
The day was just beginning to dawn when he left the boat at the city of
sand and sawdust. There was a porter there from the hotel, and to him
Conway resigned his satchel, and followed him to the hotel.
It was too early to do anything yet, even to breakfast.
“I must at least wait until they get up,” thought Conway; so, after
registering before a very sleepy-looking clerk, he started out to see
as much of the place as the dim morning light would let him.
He was standing in front of the door, not yet decided which way to go,
when he was run into with the force of a battering-ram.
“Why don’t you look where you are going?” he cried angrily, as he
regained his balance.
The stranger, who had started off after mumbling a word of apology,
came quickly back.
“Conway, is that you?” he cried.
“Yes, it’s Conway; but who are you?” replied the doctor, not having
recovered his temper.
“Conway, thank God!” said Jim; for it was he. “But how did you know
that we were here?”
Conway was speechless. He grasped his friend by the shoulder and turned
him around, and then gripping him by the arm, marched him into the
lighted hotel.
“How did you know we were here?” again cried Jim, in joyful
astonishment. “This is a godsend, Lester!”
“I did not know you were here,” returned Conway. “I had no idea of it.
Is Norine with you?”
“Yes,” said the other gloomily, “she is upstairs.”
“Then she knows?”
“Yes; curse him!” replied Jim bitterly. “She knows.”
“Tell me about it,” said Conway, regaining in a measure his calmness.
“How did you hear of it?”
“We did not hear of it,” returned Jim. “It was an accident all
through;” and sitting down by his friend’s side, Jim told him of all
the circumstances that had led to this strange meeting. “He was gone
before I got there or knew anything about it,” said Jim meekly, as if
he were to blame. “But I will find him to-day;” and the young man got
up and paced excitedly up and down the office.
Conway was in deep thought.
“This Coleman is the one we must see first,” he said. “I think I can
fix matters with him.”
“A lawyer?” spluttered Jim, in great disgust. “What do we want of a
lawyer now?”
And then Conway in turn told his story, and they understood how it was
that they had missed each other.
“You see,” he added in conclusion, “it is better to understand the
matter thoroughly before we act, and this lawyer may prove more
useful than we think. Don’t be afraid,” he said, noting his friend’s
impatience, “he will not get away from us this time.”
As soon as possible, Norine was notified of her lover’s arrival, and
desired to see him at once.
Together they went sadly to her room, expecting to find her prostrate;
but in this they were mistaken. Norine was very pale, but calm and
self-possessed.
“I am sorry for you, dear,” she said to her lover, when he entered. “I
wish I might have spared you this.”
Conway, for a moment, was speechless. He gathered Norine in his arms
with a passion that was not to be repressed.
“You forget,” she said, gently extricating herself from his passionate
embrace; “you forget”--with a little quaver in her voice--“I am not
what I thought.”
“You are just what I have always thought,” replied Conway consolingly.
“You are an angel.”
“Oh, how can I tell?” cried Norine brokenly. “My God! If she is his
wife, what am I?”
“She is not his wife,” said her lover. “She is nothing to him in the
eyes of the law.”
“Oh, how can you tell?” she cried in anguish. “What do you really know?”
Conway hastened to reassure her.
“I know it all,” he said; and then he explained to her his trip to
Chicago, and his interview with Lettie. “We will see this lawyer at
once,” he said, “and then we will see Clinton.”
“You will do him no harm?” pleaded Norine, laying her hand upon his
arm as they were going out. “You will remember that he is my husband?”
Conway winced.
“I shall not kill him,” he said roughly.
As soon as they left the room, Norine began to prepare herself hastily
for going out. Her breakfast was sent up to her room; but she only
swallowed a cup of coffee, and then leaving word for her brother that
he was to await her return, she glided softly through the hall, and
left the house by the ladies’ entrance.
“I shall find him,” she thought. “I will find him myself, and then I
shall know.”