ON HER TRACK
Hanson, having traveled day and night, reached Washington city on the
morning of April 15th.
Naturally inferring that Amos Merritt, her late guardian, and her
counsel, would be the most likely to know Roma’s present abode, Hanson
only took time to engage a room at an East End hotel, change his clothes
and eat his breakfast, before he threw himself into a hack and drove to
the old lawyer’s office.
On entering, and inquiring of the clerk in the anteroom, he was told
that Mr. Merritt was in his private office, and alone.
Declining the clerk’s offer to take in his card, Hanson went and turned
the knob of the communicating door and entered the rear room.
Mr. Merritt was sitting in his leather armchair, before his desk, not
waiting, but leaning back and reading the morning paper. It was still
early, and he had not settled to the day’s work.
He looked up on hearing the unannounced entrance of the visitor,
probably taking him to be one of the clerks, coming on official
business, as they frequently did.
On recognizing Hanson he started, flushed purple with indignation, and
then, without laying aside his paper or rising from his chair, he
demanded:
“To what cause, sir, may I attribute the insult of this intrusion?”
Hanson possessed much cool self-control, and more dignity than he had
any moral right to show.
He took a chair, and seated himself, without leave, and with quiet
insolence, and replied:
“I have come to inquire for my wife. Where is she?”
“Your—wife, fellow? What wife? How should I know anything about your
wife? I was not even aware that you had set up a wife. May I ask what
misguided woman was idiot enough to marry you? Accept my
congratulations,” said the lawyer dryly.
“You know very well, sir, that I allude to your former ward. Miss Roma
Fronde, who became my wife on the fifteenth of last November,” Hanson
said with cool insolence.
“Or, rather, whom you sought to marry, without her knowledge or consent,
by the basest fraud that ever was practiced upon human being. That
fraudulent marriage ceremony was set aside by the courts as illegal,
therefore null and void,” Mr. Merritt explained.
“That was a pity, for the lady’s sake, even more than for mine, when it
is remembered that she went with me as my bride to the Isle of Storms,”
Hanson said.
“She went to her own house, sir. To the house of which she was the
heiress and the mistress. You stole into that house without her
knowledge or consent, like a sneak thief at midnight. You afterward
broke into her room like a murderous burglar. She had you at her mercy.
Your life was in her hands, at her disposal. You had forfeited your life
to her by every human law. Yet she did not take it. She spared you for
the Lord’s sake. Without hurting you she escaped. She saved herself.”
“Who will believe that?” scornfully inquired Hanson. “Really, Mr.
Merritt, if the court has decided that the rites by which Roma Fronde
and myself were united were informal, illegal, I think their decision is
very compromising to the lady, who lived with me as my wife for——”
“Get out of my office, you low beast, before I pitch you out of the
window!” exclaimed the lawyer, starting to his feet, and growing purple
in the face. “Go!” Hanson went.
He had no wish for a personal encounter with the stalwart old lawyer,
even if it had not been possible to end in breaking his own neck out of
a three-story window.
He next drove to the West End Hotel, where Roma and her friends had been
in the habit of stopping while in Washington. Here he wisely inquired
for the lady by her maiden name, knowing full well that she had never
acknowledged his.
“Miss Fronde?” repeated the office clerk. “Yes, sir, she was here with
the Grays, last November. Mr. Gray was appointed consul to Delicome, and
sailed for Liverpool about the twenty-second of the month, I think.”
“Did Miss Fronde accompany them?”
“No, sir. She went to the new apartment house on the Mount Pleasant
Road—the Wesleyan Flats. She was there for some time, I know. She may be
there yet,” added the clerk.
“Thank you for the information,” said Hanson, and he left the hotel,
re-entered his hack, and gave the order:
“To the Wesleyan Flats.”
Twenty minutes’ drive brought him to the building.
He got out and entered the hall, the door of which stood open.
“Can you tell me whether Miss Fronde is staying here at present?” he
inquired of our friend Tom, who was on duty there as hall porter.
“She dun lef’ mo’ ’an a week ago,” answered the boy.
“Where has she gone?”
“Dun know. Down de country somewhurse. She writ it on a keerd an’ guv
me, but mammy’s got it, an’ I’s forgot.”
“Can I see the landlord?”
“I dun know nuffin ’bout no lan’lor. Yo’ kin see Missis B’own, I yeckon.
She ’ten’s to eberyfing.”
“Then take my card to Mrs. Brown,” Hanson said, handing over the slip of
pasteboard.
The boy disappeared within the elevator, which was about to rise to the
upper regions.
Hanson walked up and down the hall for about five minutes, at the end of
which time Tom reappeared with a message to the effect that Mrs. Brown
would see the visitor.
Hanson followed the boy to the elevator, which rose to the top floor of
the house, on which Mrs. Brown’s “sky parlor” was located. It was a
plainly furnished room, with a Kidderminster carpet, horsehair chairs
and sofa, and windows overlooking the whole city, the Potomac and
Anacostia rivers, and the wooded hills of Maryland and Virginia.
Mrs. Brown, the same stout, compact woman of medium height, with fresh
complexion, black eyes and black hair, clothed in a dark woolen suit, as
I have before described her, rose from her chair and came forward with
outstretched hand to meet the visitor, saying:
“I am very glad to see any friend of Miss Fronde. She endeared herself
very much to us all during the four months she remained with us.”
“She was here four months, then?”
“Yes, sir. Sit down, pray.”
Hanson took a seat and Mrs. Brown resumed her own.
“Miss Fronde was the bosom friend of my sister, and something nearer and
dearer still to myself,” said Hanson, with an air of claiming the lady
as his betrothed. He dared not go further than that then, for he could
not know how much or how little this Mrs. Brown might know of Roma’s
position.
“Oh, indeed, sir!” exclaimed the janitress. “I am delighted to hear it.
But how is it that we never saw you here all winter?”
“I have just returned from a long sea voyage, a voyage of many months.”
“Ah! And to think Miss Fronde never mentioned your name to me! But then
some young ladies are so reserved,” said Mrs. Brown meditatively.
“Yes, and she among the most reserved. I expected to find her in
Washington, but it appears that she has left the city. Can you tell me
where she has gone?”
“Certainly, sir. She has gone to her own country seat in
Maryland—Hobgoblin House, I think they call it. But I will tell you who
can give you exact information—Lawyer Merritt.”
“Humph! He was a great friend of Miss Fronde, I believe?”
“Oh, yes, sir; a very great friend indeed.”
“And a frequent visitor?”
“Oh, yes, sir; of course. He had been her guardian and trustee, and he
managed all her business for her. But, of course, sir, if you are
engaged to the young lady, you know more about these matters than I do,”
Mrs. Brown added.
“Yes, I did know, but I have been away so long. Many changes may take
place in five months,” Hanson said, very gravely.
Mrs. Brown broke into a merry little laugh, exclaiming:
“Oh! I see just how it is with you. You are jealous of Miss Fronde’s old
guardian. Why, sir, you might as well be jealous of her
great-grandfather, if she had one.”
Hanson took no notice of this innocent raillery, but inquired:
“Did Miss Fronde go alone to Goblin Hall?”
“No, sir.”
“Who went with her?” demanded Hanson, turning hot and cold at the
thought of Harcourt as her possible companion.
“Not Mr. Merritt, certainly,” slyly replied the janitress.
“Who, then? Who, then?” eagerly demanded Hanson.
“A much younger and more attractive companion, of whom the young lady is
excessively fond,” Mrs. Brown replied, smiling mischievously.
“Who was he?” demanded Hanson, rising from his chair in excitement.
“Who said ‘he’? I didn’t. There was no ‘he’ in the case. What are you
thinking of, sir?”
“Who went with Miss Fronde to Goblin Hall?”
“A little girl; her adopted child.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Hanson, dropping back on his seat in a state of
collapse.
“Who did you think had gone with her, sir?” merrily inquired the
janitress.
“I did not know what to think. So she has adopted a child, has she?”
“Oh, yes, sir; a bright, quaint, interesting little girl of about five
years of age.”
“Whose child was it? How came Miss Fronde to adopt it?”
“It was the child of a poor, friendless and destitute young widow, who
died of consumption here about two weeks ago. Oh, I must tell you all
about that poor woman and her child, and what an angel of mercy Miss
Fronde was to them.”
Hanson assented, not because he was in the very least degree interested
in the objects of Roma’s benevolence, but because in hearing them he
should hear more of her.
“They occupied a room in the rear of this upper floor—one of the
cheapest rooms in the building. There are no registers up as high as
this. You see, sir. I have an open grate.”
“Well, it is pleasanter,” said Hanson.
“Yes, sir, but in those little rooms there were no such things; only
little iron stoves, that mostly smoked, being so near the roof. Even for
this poor room she could scarcely pay the rent, and only managed to do
it by half starving herself, living on bread and tea. Fancy a young
woman in consumption living in such a way as that!”
“Very sad,” said Hanson.
“I really do not know what would have become of her if Miss Fronde had
not found her out. She took her out of that cold, smoky room, and
brought her downstairs to her own luxurious apartments, and made her
comfortable there. Miss Fronde had the finest suit of rooms in the
building. And then she came to me to see if she could engage commodious
rooms for the sick woman and child; but it was in the thick of the
season, and there was not a vacant bed, not to say room, in the whole
house; and I told her so, and advised her to send the young woman to the
Providence Hospital and the child to the orphan asylum. And what do you
think she answered me?”
“I am sure I don’t know. Something quixotic, no doubt.”
“She said—that angel did—‘The dying mother and her child are devotedly
attached to each other. It would be cruel to separate them now, and it
would probably hasten the death of the young woman. Besides, they both
cling to me, as to their only friend, in a manner that is very
pathetic.’”
“The instinct of self-preservation,” said Hanson curtly.
“And then,” continued the janitress, “she asked me: ‘Mrs. Brown, do you
think that you would send your own sister to a hospital, under such
circumstances, if you had the means of taking care of her at home?’ I
was forced to confess that I would not. Then she said: ‘No more will I
send this poor sister woman away from me while I have, as I certainly
now have, the means of taking care of her at home, even though it is but
a temporary home.’ And then what do you think that angel of yours did,
sir?”
“Something equally quixotic, I suppose.”
“She gave up her own elegant parlor to the invalid and the child. She
supplied them with every possible comfort and luxury. She engaged the
best medical attendance the city could supply, and she nursed the woman
herself, both night and day; and not only nursed her, but read to her,
talked to her, and entertained and amused her. I do believe she would
have taken her to Florida to try to save her life if she had been able
to travel. She was all in all to that young woman as long as the poor
thing lived.”
“What detained Miss Fronde so long here?”
“That young woman did. Miss Fronde meant to have gone to the country in
December, but the poor, sick creature was not able to travel, so the
young lady stayed here with her. The woman got so much better in her
new, luxurious quarters, with the skillful medical treatment and the
tender nursing and cheerful companionship, that Miss Fronde began to
talk about taking her to the country as soon as the spring should open,
if she should then be able to travel. And I know that the poor widow
looked forward to going there as to going to Paradise. I don’t think,
however, that there are many young beauties and heiresses spending a
winter in Washington who would have given up all society for the sake of
nursing a poor, consumptive fellow creature.”
“It was very extravagant benevolence,” said Hanson.
“So I told her. ‘Miss Fronde,’ I said, ‘if you mean to do for every
forlorn human being all that you are doing for this mother and child,
you will have your hands full, and need the fortune of Vanderbilt ten
times told.’”
“What did she say to that?” inquired Hanson.
“Oh, sir, she looked at me with such a grave, sweet smile, and said:
“‘But I am not required to “do” for all the “forlorn.” The poor are
freely distributed around and about the rich throughout the world. Every
one who has the power to relieve is responsible for the suffering that
comes under his notice. Just at present I am only required to take care
of these two poor, helpless creatures. I do not find them a grievous
burden, I assure you. The Lord has not demanded of me more than I can
well perform.’”
“How long did this state of things continue?”
“I told you, sir, that the young woman died about two weeks ago. She was
buried at Oak Hill Cemetery. Miss Fronde paid all the funeral expenses
and adopted the orphan. I have often heard that childless people often
love their adopted children as well or better than if they had been born
their own. I do think this was the case with Miss Fronde. Young as she
was, she took to this little five-year-old orphan as if she had been the
widow, and it was her own and only child. Yes, sir, it is wonderful to
see. Her heart is just wrapped up in that mite. I really do think it
would grieve her to death if she were to lose it. I did wonder at it;
but I said to myself it is because she is alone in the world—not knowing
anything about her engagement to you, sir, you must recollect.”
“When did Miss Fronde leave here for Goblin Hall?”
“Nearly two weeks ago, sir; a few days after the funeral.”
“Taking the child with her?”
“Yes, sir. I told you so.”
“And no one else?”
“No, sir. I told you that also.”
“Had Miss Fronde any visitors while here?”
“No, sir.”
“No gentlemen visitors?”
“Now, there you are again! You men are so awfully jealous! No, sir, she
had no gentlemen visitors, unless you call her old guardian, who came on
business, and the old doctor who attended the sick woman, visitors, and
both of them were over sixty years old.”
“Did you ever hear Miss Fronde speak of a young gentleman friend of
hers, of the name of Harcourt?”
“No, sir, never; nor of no one else—not even of yourself, sir. Miss
Fronde, good and kind as she was, was very reserved—very much so,
indeed, sir.”
“Well, Mrs. Brown,” said Hanson, rising, “I am very much indebted to you
for all this information. Now I will ask you but one more question, and
then bid you good-morning. Do you think that Miss Fronde intends to keep
that child with her at Goblin Hall?”
“Yes, indeed; I don’t only think it, I know it. She said so. I hope you
will make no objections, sir. It would break her heart to part with that
child now, though, of course, after she marries, and has children of her
own, she will not be so much wrapped up in it.”
“Probably not. Well, good-morning. I am off to Goblin Hall by this
evening’s express train. Have you any message for Miss Fronde?”
“Please give her my best love and respects, and ask her, if she should
visit Washington city on her bridal tour, to be sure to come to stay at
this house.”
“I will. Good-morning.”
Hanson left the room and went down with the elevator to the ground
floor, where he entered the restaurant, took a seat at a table, and
ordered a lunch.
While he leisurely discussed his oysters and ale he thought over all
that he had heard, and formed his plans upon the information.
Harcourt had not reappeared upon the scene of Roma’s life. So much was
certain. She was alone at Goblin Hall, comforting her lonely heart with
the love of her adopted child—some miserable little waif, offspring of
some unknown woman, picked up in an apartment house. He did not even
know the name of the child or the woman. He could not remember whether
the janitress had ever mentioned those names, nor was he sufficiently
interested in Roma’s protégées to try to recollect.
Yet, my reader, if Mrs. Brown had chanced to call that mother or child
by name Hanson would have been so thunderstruck that he would not have
forgotten the circumstances, for, as the personal advertisements say, he
would have heard “something to his advantage.”
However, this much he knew—that his rival was out of the way, departed
for parts unknown; that the Grays were all in Europe; that Roma was at
Goblin Hall, unprotected, except by her own strong self, and alone but
for the presence of her pet child and her own servants.
And he determined to go down to see her there, to try to reconcile her
to himself; and in the event of her obstinate refusal, to warn her that
he should make an appeal to have the decision of the court that set
aside their marriage ceremony as illegal reversed in his favor, on the
ground of his compulsory absence from the trial. And this appeal he
would make in any case. If she should still be obstinate in her
determination to repudiate him he would find means to wring her heart so
cruelly that she should be compelled to yield to him.
With this resolution he finished his lunch, paid his bill, went back to
his hotel, packed up again, and sent off his luggage by express to
Goeberlin.
Later he ate dinner, settled with the office clerk, and started for the
six-thirty express train to Goeberlin. He caught it, and was soon flying
westward on his evil errand.