AN IMPERFECT VISION.
Ivan Strobel had been a lodger in Mrs. White's house for more than two
years. During the greater part of that period he had been the only
lodger, and from the beginning his relations with his landlady had
been more as if he were a friend of the family than merely a tenant.
His evenings were not infrequently spent in Mrs. White's sitting-room,
where his strongly domestic nature found some comfort in reading aloud
to the old lady and her daughter, or in playing cards, or in telling
them stories of European life. Sometimes his friends would call, and
find him there instead of in his own room, and more than once he had
been the target for good-humored chaffing relative to his supposed
fondness for the landlady's daughter.
On such occasions Strobel laughed lightly, as if it were out of the
question that anybody should seriously harbor a supposition that he was
in love with Lizzie. That was in the comparatively early days of his
residence there; and one afternoon, about a year before his eventful
wedding morning, Ralph Harmon and Paul Palovna called together and
found him in his own quarters, serving Russian tea to Mrs. White and
her daughter. He was evidently delighted to see his friends, and he
promptly set glasses of the fragrant, hot beverage before them. Mrs.
White was enthusiastic in her praise of the tea, as well she might be,
for Russians are past-masters in the art of tea-brewing, and Ivan was
one of the most skillful; and she slyly intimated that the woman who
would have the first place in his future household would do well to
place him in charge of the kitchen.
Ivan smiled and blushed as if pleased at the allusion, and while his
friends commended the idea with noisy laughter, Miss Lizzie sat silent,
sipping her tea with downcast eyes. Shortly afterward the ladies
withdrew, and Palovna immediately began to tease Strobel about Lizzie.
"On my word, Ivan," he cried, "you begin very badly. If you show her
what a fine hand you have for kitchen-work, you'll never have any time
to yourself after you're married. It's a fine thing to serve tea to
your friends when you're a bachelor, but fancy a man setting the kettle
to boil for his wife! Great Scott! what a picture!"
Both visitors laughed heartily, but Strobel, with a grave smile, held
up one hand deprecatingly.
"I don't mind your raillery in the least," he said, "but it does
injustice to the young lady who is the innocent subject of it rather
than myself. I'm glad you came in as you did, for I have something to
tell you, and, in fact, it was to tell Mrs. White and Lizzie the same
thing that I invited them to take tea with me. I am engaged to Miss
Hilman."
"I'm mighty glad to hear it, and I congratulate you," exclaimed Ralph,
jumping up and grasping Ivan by the hand.
"And I, too," said Paul, not less sincerely; "pardon my joking. I
hadn't suspected that the wind blew from that direction. When is it to
be?"
Then Strobel told them about his plans, and from that day until this
minute, when Paul stood by the weeping landlady, with her daughter's
incoherent letter in his hand, he had never associated Ivan and
Lizzie in any other way than as ordinary friends. When, earlier in
the afternoon, Mrs. White had said something that seemed to suggest
the possibility that they had gone away together, Paul's indignation
had been aroused, and it was with an effort that he had mastered his
tongue, which fairly burned to deny such an outrageous assumption. He
had dismissed the thought later, with the conviction that Mrs. White
could not have realized the true significance of her words.
Now, utterly at a loss to account for his friends' absence, he was
compelled to face any suggestion that arose and make the best of it.
"There is at least some comfort in this, Mrs. White," he said,
unsteadily; "you know that your daughter is alive, and she says she may
write to you. She would not have written this had she meant to hide
herself completely from you."
The mother's anguish was not to be tempered with this argument. The
poignant fact remained that her daughter had gone away, deserted her
home, and neglected deliberately to take her mother into her confidence.
"How could she?" moaned Mrs. White; "why, oh, why has she done this?"
Paul had hard questions to ask, hard for him as well as for her.
"Mrs. White," he said, "you have shown me Lizzie's letter; will you let
me help you if I can?"
"Yes, yes!" she answered eagerly, raising her tearful eyes. The very
proffer of sympathy and assistance helped to restore her to some degree
of composure, and she opened the door to the sitting-room. "I forgot
where we were," she said apologetically; "please come in and sit down."
Paul complied, and, still with the letter in his hand, began: "I shall
have to ask questions that would be impertinent if you had not said
that I might try to help you. Do you--was Lizzie engaged?"
"Oh, no!" replied Mrs. White, with a little gasp; "what made you think
so?"
"I don't think so, and what I really tried to ask was whether she were
in love with anybody?"
Mrs. White looked doubtfully at him. Her eyes were dry now, and she
toyed nervously with her apron.
"My daughter didn't tell me she was going away," she answered slowly
after a minute; "if she wouldn't tell me that, how should you expect
that she would speak to me of her love--if she did love anybody?"
Paul was somewhat nettled at this apparent effort to juggle with his
question. The situation seemed to him too serious to admit of anything
but the most complete frankness.
"I don't ask how you know, or why you don't, Mrs. White," he said as
gently as he could; "I simply asked for a statement of fact."
The landlady looked down at the floor, evidently trying to frame an
answer. Paul would have dropped the matter right there, disgusted at
her reticence if not her indirection, had he not been determined to
learn everything possible that might throw light upon the fate of his
friends. So he began on another tack.
"Weren't you invited to Strobel's wedding, Mrs. White?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied promptly, not suspecting the ultimate aim of the
question; "both of us received invitations."
"Why didn't you go?"
"Lizzie didn't want to go. She said weddings always made her feel
solemn, and I didn't want to go without her."
"Wasn't there a deeper reason, Mrs. White, for your daughter's
reluctance to go to Ivan Strobel's wedding?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Palovna," said the landlady, glancing
at him and averting her eyes.
Paul wanted to tell her that she was trying to dodge him, but he
controlled himself and said:
"I mean that in my opinion your daughter was hopelessly in love with
Ivan."
This statement did not provoke the storm that Paul had expected. Mrs.
White's reserve had prepared him for an outburst of denials, indignant
tears and the like, but the old lady sat very still, her hands clasped
upon her lap, and after a little silence she spoke dreamily:
"Lizzie never told me, but I guessed as much long ago, poor, dear girl!"
Paul's heart sank as he felt his fears growing to conviction that the
flight of Lizzie White was closely connected with the disappearance of
Ivan Strobel. He was not disloyal to his friend even in his thoughts;
he kept insisting to himself that Ivan was not the man to play all
his friends double, but even as he rebelled against this possible
explanation of the matter, reason interposed its stern voice to say
that if, after all, Strobel had discovered that he loved Lizzie and not
Clara, this was the probable course he would take to avoid facing the
comments and criticisms of his friends; and although he repelled the
explanation with all his will, he nevertheless felt a dreadful sense of
doubt.
"Mrs. White," he said gravely, "have you any reason to think that
Strobel and your daughter went away together?"
The landlady started as if she had been shot.
"Of course not!" she cried; "how could you think such a thing? Why
should you insult my poor child----" and she broke down and sobbed
bitterly.
Palovna was miserable. He saw that he had utterly misinterpreted
Mrs. White's reluctance in answering his questions; that, far from
suspecting that Lizzie's departure might be an elopement with Ivan, she
had instinctively tried to guard her daughter's secret.
"I am exceedingly sorry that I have hurt you," said Paul, contritely,
"I don't think, cannot think that they have gone together; but, you
see, I am in such a maze of anxiety about Strobel, everything is so
strange and uncertain, that I--I hardly knew what I said."
He paused, and Mrs. White, still sobbing, uttered some words of which
the only one he understood was "cruel," and he promptly accepted it as
applied to himself.
"I can only repeat that I am sorry," he said. "Here is your letter. I
fear I can be of no help to you unless you want me to take some message
for you."
"No--you cannot do anything now--I know you didn't mean it. Please come
again to-morrow--when I can think--please, Mr. Palovna."
So Paul left the house, wondering whether Mrs. White felt any unhappier
than himself.
He turned into Pemberton Square, and went as far as the door to police
headquarters, halted abruptly and turned away. He could not be the one
to fasten a suspicion of such a character upon his missing friend. If
it were true that he had eloped, that ugly fact would be established
soon enough without his giving any hints to the police detectives who
were assigned to hunt for Ivan.
The doctor had ordered Clara Hilman to bed, and under the first
prostration of the blow she had willingly obeyed; but as evening came
on and her mind cleared, she felt stronger, and at supper time she
arose and dressed. She did not go down to the dining-room, and Louise
brought delicacies to her chamber. She wished that Ralph and Paul
would return, for she felt that she could talk with them now, and she
longed intensely for any word, however insignificant, concerning her
lover's movements. Louise sat with her, making well-intended efforts
to distract her attention from the subject that was so terribly
engrossing, and offering the comfort of hopeful assurances when it was
evident that Clara could think of nothing else.
The fact was that Louise disturbed Clara. Her thoughts were fixed
in their own channel, and so obstinately clung there that it grew
wearisome to attend to the interruptions that Louise was constantly
making. So Clara said at last:
"I think, dear, if you will forgive me, I would like to be alone a
little while. I will call if I want anything."
"To be sure, Clara," responded Louise, rising at once and putting her
arms affectionately around her cousin; "I will go to my own room, and
will come the minute you need me. Shall I get you anything to read?"
"No, I cannot do anything but think, and I must think. Don't be
alarmed. I am not going to let myself become ill."
There was a faint, sweet smile upon her sad lips as she spoke, and,
left to herself, she sat leaning slightly forward, her chin upon one
hand, the other clinched upon her lap, gazing intently at the wall
which she saw not. In its place was the carriage in front of Mrs.
White's house, and as she watched it she saw the house door open and
Ivan, her Ivan, come forth. She saw him turn to say good-by to the
kind-hearted landlady, saw the happy smile upon his face, saw him enter
the carriage, saw it start slowly away.
This much of her lover's wedding journey was as clearly before her as
if it were now occurring, and she were at a window in the house across
the way from Mrs. White's in Ashburton Place. Her nerves strained to
their utmost tension, she tried to follow the carriage. She could see
that it turned into Somerset Street, but when it seemed to be at Beacon
she could not tell which way it went. That it was still moving was
apparent, but there was a confusion of vehicles and persons, streets
and buildings, there was a pause--somewhere--was Ivan getting out? Was
that he taking another carriage? Oh! why was not Paul here to tell her
just what happened at this point, wherever it was? Why had she not
heard his report when he was there to make it?
Suddenly the confusion gave way, and the familiar wall was before her,
but still she saw it not. Now she was listening. Did she hear her
lover's name? Was it spoken in anger? It must be! it must be! They
were speaking of him; who were they? In this house? where else if she
heard it? Could it be that she had heard nothing? To her ear there was
no tangible sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Clara
arose and crossed the room, staggering with weakness, and placed her
hand upon the door. One instant she waited as if in doubt, and then she
opened it very softly. Yes! there were voices below; they were in the
library; that was her uncle speaking. Had she a right to listen? She
stole to the head of the stairs and looked down. The library door was
closed. The voice was an unintelligible murmur, nothing more.
Down the stairs she crept and came to the library door.
"Are you money-mad?" It was her uncle who spoke. "Don't you know that
it hasn't come, that such a thing can't be effected in a moment?"
"And I tell you, Mat Pembroke," said a harsh voice, "that you've
got----"
The voice suddenly stopped, and the speaker, the infirm old man who
had arrived late at the church while the wedding party was waiting in
the vestibule, half rose from his big chair and pointed with a bony,
trembling hand over Mr. Pembroke's shoulder.
Mr. Pembroke turned about and saw Clara Hilman with wide-open eyes and
pale face standing just within the doorway.
"Forgive me, uncle," she said in a voice scarce above a whisper; "I
thought you were speaking of Ivan, and I--I came down to say that I am
going to find him."
She swayed slightly as she finished, and Mr. Pembroke ran forward and
took her in his arms.