pause. Then, with a swift, characteristic flinging back of his head, he
thrust them from him in a flash.
"What a fool I am!" he muttered angrily. "I swore I'd never doubt her
again, and I won't."
A second later he reached the entrance, and firmly pressed the electric
button.
*CHAPTER XXIX.*
*LAWRENCE PLEADS.*
Almost on the instant of Lawrence's ringing the bell, the door was swung
open by a footman in rich, quiet livery, who stood aside while Barry
entered, and, having closed the door, led the way down the paneled hall.
"Is Miss Rives at home?" Lawrence asked briefly.
"This way, if you please," said the footman noncommittally, indicating a
tiny elevator hidden behind hangings of rich damask.
The car ascended noiselessly, and Lawrence stepped out into a wide hall,
the walls of which were lined with tapestries, while underfoot were
heavy Persian rugs, laid upon some sort of matting which made them thick
and soft as velvet. The footman took Barry's card, and, crossing
noiselessly to a doorway, drew aside the hangings.
"Will you wait in the drawing-room, sir?" he murmured.
The room which Barry entered was long and lofty, and almost oppressive
in its wealth of furnishings. The richly carved mantel of mellow Caen
marble looked as if it might have been transported entire from some
French chateau. The walls were hung with tapestries, while here and
there a wonderful painting gave relief with its gorgeous coloring and
the richness of its carved frame. The chairs, tables, cabinets, and
other pieces of furniture which filled the great room were antiques of
rare beauty and value; while scattered everywhere were carved ivories,
miniatures, exquisite old silver, and wonderful porcelain in such
bewildering array that Barry decided it would take weeks properly to
examine and appreciate each separate piece.
The room was filled with flowers in great bowls and vases, and the air
was heavy with their fragrance. Lawrence was wondering whether his
roses were among the masses of lilies and violets, when the soft swish
of trailing garments brought him hurriedly to his feet just as the
velvet hangings were parted and Shirley Rives stood on the threshold.
"It was very nice of you to come, Mr. Lawrence," she said as he sprang
forward to greet her; "and your roses are charming."
"It's you who are nice to receive me at such an hour," Barry returned
quickly. "I know I should have restrained my impatience until this
afternoon, but your letter only came last night--it was sent first to
the St. Athol--and I simply couldn't wait." He hesitated, looking down
into her eyes, and a slow flush crept into his face. "You see," he went
on bravely, "I was at Sherry's myself on Tuesday night."
For a second she stared at him in astonishment. "At the dance?" she
exclaimed. "Why, I never----"
"Of course you didn't," Lawrence returned swiftly. "I came away very
soon."
"But you saw me?"
Her tone was perplexed, and a tiny, puzzled wrinkle had leaped into her
smooth, low forehead. Then, as Barry nodded, a sudden gleam of
comprehension flashed into her dark eyes.
"You saw me!" she exclaimed, in an odd voice. "And my letter never
reached you until last night! What must you have thought? But come;
let's sit down and talk comfortably."
She moved gracefully across the room to a great carved chair near one of
the windows. Lawrence drew up another chair and sat down. For a second
or two neither of them spoke; then the girl bent forward a little, her
chin resting on one hand.
"Well," she questioned, "tell me what you thought?"
The flush had deepened in his face, and his muscular, well-shaped
fingers were lacing and interlacing, an unconscious key to the
perturbation of his mind. Now that he had seen her again, his folly at
having doubted her seemed more utterly absurd and idiotic than ever. He
hated desperately to tell her the truth, yet he knew he must. The
sooner it was over the better.
"I was a fool!" he said brusquely. "I thought you had been making sport
of me. I thought you had made up that whole story for a lark. I
realized long before your letter came that such a thing was impossible;
but at the dance I was simply stunned. I had just come from the house
on Forty-eighth Street, where they told me you had never been there.
Your friend, Miss Barton, said she had not seen you in months, and,
after what you----"
The girl started slightly. "Of course!" she murmured. "I forgot all
about Sally. But surely Mrs. Weston must have----"
"She was away. I didn't see her. The maid said you weren't there, and
certainly hadn't been there overnight. Miss Barton knew nothing
whatever about you. It looked as if the earth had opened and swallowed
you up, so you can imagine my feelings when I caught sight of you at the
dance. When I left you the night before, you hadn't a friend in the
city but this stenographer, or a cent----"
"You forget the ten dollars," she murmured demurely, her long lashes
sweeping her cheeks as she played with a jeweled chain hanging from her
neck.
"That didn't count," he retorted.
"Not in the way you mean, perhaps," she supplemented. "And so you went
from Mrs. Weston's to the dance, and saw me there?"
"N-not directly. It was too early, and I was troubled and worried to
know what had become of you. I drove around a little, and walked
through the square----"
Her lids suddenly lifted, and she looked oddly at him.
"Madison Square?" she questioned swiftly.
He nodded. "Yes. I--er--just wanted to walk a little where it was
quiet and I could think. Then I joined my friends, and drove with them
to Sherry's. I hadn't been there half an hour before I saw you."
"I suppose it did seem a trifle odd," she remarked, glancing out of the
window.
"Odd doesn't quite express it. There you were in a wonderful gown with
pearls and things, and talking to three or four men at once as if you'd
known them all your life. Of course, I couldn't believe my senses at
first; and when at last I was sure, I--well, it was all so bewildering
and impossible that I couldn't seem to stay there."
"You mean you couldn't stay because you thought I'd been deceiving you?"
she said quietly.
"There didn't seem to be any other explanation," he pleaded. "Next day
I came to my senses, and knew that there must be some other reason. Of
what it could be I hadn't the most remote conception; but I knew that
you weren't the sort to make believe to that extent; and it was a big
relief, I can tell you."
He hesitated a second, and bent forward slightly, his forehead wrinkled
and his eyes fixed intently on her lovely face.
"Please forgive me," he begged, "and admit that there were extenuating
circumstances."
*CHAPTER XXX.*
*THE TANGLED WEB.*
The girl's lids had drooped again, hiding the expression in her eyes,
while the rest of her face told Barry nothing. He was just beginning to
wonder whether she was very angry, when suddenly she threw back her
head, and her lips parted in a peal of low laughter.
"Of course there were!" she exclaimed. "How absurd you are to take it so
seriously, Mr. Lawrence! If I'd been in your place, I should have hated
a girl I thought had played me such a trick. I think you're very nice,
indeed, not to have thought worse things about me than you did, and I
really haven't anything to forgive."
"You're sure of that?" he asked eagerly, his face glowing.
"Perfectly! And now that's over," she went on briskly, "don't you want
to hear my fairy tale?"
"You bet I do!" he asserted, with more force than elegance. "I've been
eaten up with curiosity ever since your letter came. It sounded as
wildly impossible as an Arabian Night."
She laughed. "It was--it is yet. I'm really not quite certain that it
isn't all a wonderfully vivid dream; though, as I wrote you, the clothes
do seem awfully convincing. You know, a person never by any chance
dreams the sort of dresses one would like to have. They're always
utterly impossible."
She clasped one knee with both hands in a boyish way, and fixed her
dancing eyes upon his face.
"I was a little frightened when I said good-by that night," she began.
"So many horrid things had happened that I wasn't even sure of Mrs.
Weston, or Sally, or anything. I rang the bell, and the door was opened
so suddenly that I jumped."
"I wondered at the time how any one could get up from the basement so
quickly," Lawrence commented interestedly.
"You waited?" she questioned. "That was good of you. Well, Mrs. Weston
was already in the hall with a lady who seemed on the point of going
out. I didn't pay much attention to her except to notice that she was
beautifully gowned and had quantities of wonderful jewels. You see, I
wanted to find out whether Sally was still in the house, so I turned
directly to Mrs. Weston, and started to ask her. I'd spoken scarcely
half a dozen words before the other woman caught me by the arm and drew
me over to the light. If she hadn't stared at me so strangely, I
suppose I'd have wondered what in the world she was doing in such a
place; for her pearls were really extraordinary, and the house--well,
you know there was nothing especially high class about it. But she just
stared and stared in the oddest way imaginable; then suddenly she cried
out: 'Who are you, child?'
"The queer way she snapped out the words--it reminded me of bullets shot
out of a gun--almost took my breath away; but I managed to tell her my
name. It was fortunate she still held my arm; otherwise I'm sure I
should have collapsed in sheer astonishment.
"'I knew it!' she exclaimed, in that extraordinary choppy manner. 'I
knew it the minute I set eyes on you. I'm your aunt.'"
"Your aunt!" gasped Barry.
"Yes, my aunt. Fancy! Whenever I think of it now I laugh. It was
really screamingly funny, you know, to be told by a perfect stranger,
who looks rather like a drum major, that she's an aunt you have never
heard of. I didn't laugh then, though. I thought she was crazy, and
was wondering how in the world I should get away from her, when all at
once I remembered that mother did have a sister very much older than
herself who had lived abroad almost all her life. She was eccentric to
begin with, and married unhappily; and finally, when mother was engaged,
she was terribly opposed to it; and the result was a quarrel which kept
them apart all the rest of their lives. All this went through my mind
like a flash; and I was so taken back that I could only stammer:
'You're--not--Aunt Beverly?'
"'Of course I am!' she snapped back. 'What other aunts have you got,
I'd like to know?'
"And then she began to ask me questions as fast as she could talk. She
wanted to know what I was doing in New York, why I was wearing such
dreadful clothes, how I dared be out on the streets alone at such an
hour, and a dozen other things. I suppose you'll think I'm hateful, Mr.
Lawrence, but all at once I felt perfectly furious that she should have
all those wonderful diamonds and pearls and lovely clothes, and probably
quantities of money, while I hadn't even a coat to wear. And so I told
her everything she wanted to know, without mincing matters in the least;
and for once she had nothing to say.
"She dropped the gold bag she was carrying; and, though she was quick
enough in bending over for it, she was a long time straightening up
again; and, when at last she did speak, there was something in her voice
which hadn't been there before.
"'Come, my dear,' she said quietly. 'It's time we were starting home.'
"The things which happened after that were much more like a dream than
any real dream I ever had. She called Mrs. Weston Janet when she said
good night; and, when we went out, there was a private brougham waiting
in the street, exactly as if it had been conjured up by a magic wand.
There was no carriage in sight when we came through the street, was
there?"
Barry shook his head. "No, but one passed me near Eighth Avenue," he
answered, struck by a sudden recollection.
"Really? That must have been it, then. Well, we came here, and I've
been in this miraculous walking dream ever since. At breakfast next
morning, Aunt Beverly announced, in that gruff way of hers, that she
intended to adopt me. She said she was a sour old woman who for years
had tried to be happy by spending her money on herself alone. She
hadn't been happy, so now she was going to see if making other people
happy would be any different. It seems that Mrs. Weston was an old
friend whose husband died leaving her nothing but debts; and Aunt
Beverly's visit there last night was to do something for her. That's
all, I think. Of course, there are surprises every minute, for Aunt
Beverly is incredibly wealthy, and seems to delight in making my eyes
pop out. There doesn't seem to be anything one can wish for that she
doesn't conjure up in a minute or two."
She paused, her deep, wonderful eyes fixed intently on Barry's face.
"Isn't it amazing?" she queried. "Have you ever known anything quite so
strange in all your life?"
"Never!" agreed Lawrence. "It's simply corking! And I can't tell you,
Miss Rives, how glad I am. Beside your experiences, my little strike of
luck shrinks into nothingness."
"But yours was the first," the girl replied, with an odd earnestness.
"Yours was the turn of destiny's wheel which started all the other
mechanism into motion. But for you, I should be--well, I don't know
where." She made an expressive gesture with her hands. "I shudder
whenever I think of it."
"You mustn't think of it, then," said Barry. "The future holds too many
pleasant things for you to waste time upon the past."
"Controlling one's thoughts is not so easy as you seem to imagine,"
Shirley retorted, glancing out of the window toward the snowy stretch of
park across the avenue. "Besides, I am not at all sure that I wish to
forget the past--at least, all of it."
Barry felt the blood rising into his face. What did she mean by that, or
did she mean anything? His hands closed tightly over the arms of the
carved chair, and, by a great effort, he restrained the impulse to
speak.
"Aunt Beverly is really splendid, and I'm becoming fonder of her every
day," the girl went on, turning back. "At first I was a little afraid
of her, until I found out that her brusque, snappy manner was only an
affectation to hide what she really thinks and feels. I want you to
know her, for I'm sure you'll like each other. You'll stay to luncheon,
won't you?"
"I should be delighted," Barry returned impulsively, then bit his lips
as he remembered. "But, unfortunately, I've an engagement," he went on
after that momentary pause. "I hope you'll let me call soon again,
though, when she is at home. I haven't heard what the rest of her name
is yet."
"How stupid of me! She's Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding. Her husband has been
dead about ten years, I believe, and this house and----"
But Lawrence heard no more. At the mention of that name, the smile
seemed to freeze upon his lips, and something like a red-hot iron seared
through his brain.
Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding! The eccentric widow of the traction magnate, who
was said to be one of the five wealthiest women in New York! This
accounted for the imposing house crammed with priceless works of art.
This accounted for that sudden taking home of her niece and loading the
girl with costly clothes and more costly jewels. It was more than
likely that she would carry out her plan of adopting Shirley; it was
just the sort of thing she would delight in doing. But stranger than
anything else was the incredible fact that the girl should be ignorant
of a name which was famous in New York.
With a tremendous effort Lawrence managed to pull himself together and
nod understandingly as Miss Rives finished.
"That's very interesting," he said inanely. "But--er--had you never
heard anything about this aunt before you saw her?"
"Almost nothing," she confessed. "She quarreled with father, you know,
and he wouldn't allow her name to be mentioned in his presence. I
suppose it got to be a sort of habit about the place; and, by the time I
was old enough to take notice, the others had stopped talking about her,
even when they were alone."
With a brain which seemed heavy and dead, Barry tried to carry on his
part of the conversation naturally and lightly; but presently the effort
became more than flesh and blood could stand, and he rose to take his
leave.
"You'll come soon when Aunt Beverly is here?" Shirley questioned as she
held out her hand. "I want very much to have you meet her."
Barry's fingers closed around hers, and he smiled naturally, heroically.
"Of course," he returned quickly. "I should be delighted to come any
time you want me. You can call me at the St. Albans, and, if I'm not
there, leave your number with the clerk, and I'll get your message when
I come in."
"That's splendid," she said. "I'll call very soon. Good-by, and thank
you for the flowers."
With head high, Lawrence stepped through the doorway and let the velvet
hangings fall into place behind him. But in the tapestry-lined hall he
stumbled blindly, then, spurred by the presence of the footman, pulled
himself together, and entered the elevator.
When at last he had donned his things and issued forth into the street,
he turned instinctively southward without the slightest idea where he
was going, and without a single backward glance at the upper window
where a graceful, girlish form stood half revealed against a background
of old rose damask.
His face was set and rather pale; his gray eyes showed dumbly a little
of the despair which filled his soul at the presence of this tremendous,
insurmountable barrier which had suddenly reared itself between him and
the girl--he loved.
*CHAPTER XXXI.*
*DESPAIR.*
As Barry walked down the avenue, aimless and unseeing, he thought of
many things; but the one which loomed up biggest was the colossal
fortune controlled by Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding. It seemed to hang over him
like some awful monster, hovering in the air ready to fall and crush
him. It filled Lawrence with despair. He disliked the woman he had
never seen because of her money, because she was Shirley's aunt, and,
lastly and most intensely, because she had taken it upon herself to cast
the mantle of her wealth and position around the girl she had neglected
and ignored for so many years.
Barry realized perfectly the selfishness of this point of view; but he
could not help it. If only Mrs. Wilmerding had kept out of it things
would have come right somehow. At least, there would have been left him
the feeling that he and Shirley Rives were on equal terms. He would
still have had the delight of knowing that there were many things he
could do to help the girl, instead of having her transported to a plane
so infinitely above him, and so inaccessible.
Bitterly he contrasted the untold millions belonging to this new-found
relative of hers with his own miserable pittance. His very name was
tarnished, though through no fault of his; and it would be utterly
impossible for him ever to harbor again the thoughts and hopes which had
possessed him during the early part of his call.
Barry's abstraction was so great that he quite failed to notice the taxi
which moved slowly out of a side street and trailed along the avenue
about half a block behind. He walked straight on until, at length,
happening to glance up, the looming front of the St. Regis reminded him
of the terms of his bargain; and he promptly entered, though he did not
feel at all like eating.
He had scarcely disappeared before the taxi drew up beside the curb, and
a slim, dark fellow, immaculately dressed, stepped out. He paused by
the open door, talking in an undertone with a man who remained inside; a
man with broad, thick shoulders, a round, full face, and a Vandyke beard
slightly tinged with gray.
For perhaps a minute they conversed in low tones. Then the door was
slammed, and the taxi whirled on down the avenue, while the slim, dapper
individual made his way promptly into the St. Regis, languidly surveyed
the dining room from the doorway, and presently took his seat at a table
just back of Lawrence.
The latter finished a very simple luncheon without so much as turning
round, then made his way to the telephone operator. There was some
delay in getting Hamersley's office; but, when the connection was made
at last, he stepped into the booth, quite oblivious to the fact that the
tall, dark fellow occupied the next one.
As Barry had half expected, Jock was out, so he left word for the Yale
man to meet him at the Knickerbocker at five if he possibly could, and
sauntered out of the hotel.
Listlessly he turned downtown, wondering what under the sun men of
leisure did with their time. Somehow, the glamour which had enveloped
him for the past few days was beginning to wear away. Once more he was
desperately tired of doing nothing but lunch and dine and evade
detectives. He wondered pettishly whether the man in black had been
captured yet and taken back to his asylum, for it seemed impossible that
any sane person could have acted in such an extraordinary manner. There
were the detectives, to be sure; but perhaps they were all of a piece
with the rest of the bewildering jumble. There seemed to be no reason
or sense to what anybody did. They were probably all mad.
Lawrence was, in short, at odds with himself and the world. He would
have given a lot to come face to face with some one he could sail into
and pummel with all his might. It would be such a relief now to run
into that smart Alec who had decoyed him to the house on Twenty-fourth
Street last night.
Happily the mood did not long continue. An hour's brisk, almost
feverish, walking brought with it a more sane outlook on life. When
Barry strayed into a cafe on Times Square about half past three, more
for lack of any other method of passing the time than from any real
desire for refreshment, he had quite recovered his poise.
He was making for a little table in the corner, when suddenly a hand
clutched his coat and a vaguely familiar voice sounded in his ear.
"I say, Oscar, sit down here, unless you're too bally proud to be seen
with me."
It was the Englishman who had puzzled him so at the dance at Sherry's,
and for an instant Barry frowned. Then, struck by a sudden impulse, he
smiled and dropped down in a chair opposite the other. The fellow
didn't look like a bad sort, and he was sorely enough in need of
diversion.
"Why should I be ashamed to be seen with you?" he asked lightly. "Where
did you ever get that idea?"
The tall man's blue eyes widened. "Where'd I get it?" he echoed, in
surprise. "Why, at that blooming dance, to be sure. You wouldn't speak
to me then, old chap."
Lawrence tapped the bell.
"I beg your pardon, then," he said. "I was worried, and not really
myself. What'll you have?"
When the waiter had taken their orders and departed, the Englishman
screwed his monocle into his eye and sat regarding his companion for a
minute in silence.
"Jolly glad of that," he said solemnly, at length. "Didn't seem like you
to throw an old friend down. I couldn't understand it. Sure you
weren't thinking of the bally rotten way I was forced to leave
Cambridge, old chap?"
"Positive," Lawrence returned promptly. "I'd forgotten all about it."
He hesitated an instant, and then went on at random: "Of course, that
wasn't your fault, you know."
"Should say not!" The Englishman's tone was indignant; and Barry
suddenly had a suspicion that, if the fellow had not taken too much
already, the limit was not far off. While his enunciation was perfect,
there was an expression about his eyes which was unmistakable.
"Should say not!" the other repeated. "You know jolly well John Brandon
would never disgrace the old name. A plot against me--a beastly plot;
that's what it was!"
He took a long drink, and sat staring oddly at Lawrence.
"Say, Oscar," he burst out abruptly, "you must have been in the States a
bally while, by Jove!"
"I have," Barry smiled. "How did you guess it?"
"You talk just like these blooming Yankees; 'pon my soul, you do! I've
been listening for that bit of an accent you used to have, old chap; and
I give you my word, it's gone--you've lost it. Funny thing; eh, what?"
For a second Barry sat silent, his interest thoroughly aroused. Was it
possible that he was on the point of finding the key to the enigma which
had so puzzled him.
"Accent!" he repeated the next moment. "Did my accent used to be so
bad?"
Brandon laughed.