Rodrigo sat on the edge of a chair in the living room of Henry
Dorning's house at Greenwich. Near him, his frail body sunk deeply
in the cushions of a large chair especially comfortably upholstered
for his benefit, rested Henry Dorning. The attitude of both was one
of nervous expectancy. Had you, however, been unacquainted
personally with the two men and been told that one of them was a
semi-invalid, you might have been excused for choosing Rodrigo as the
ailing one. His lean face had grown thinner and his eyes were
dark-ringed from the ordeal he was passing through. His clothing
showed little trace of his usual sartorial fastidiousness. He
fidgeted in his chair, and when he attempted to light a cigarette the
match was held so unsteadily that the tobacco with difficulty caught
fire. Henry Dorning, on the other hand, though affected very deeply
by the plight of his son, maintained a surface calm that belied the
turmoil within him.
Indeed, Henry Dorning was at somewhat of a loss to understand the
extreme havoc which the disappearance of Elise had wrought in Rodrigo
Torriani. He knew that the friendship between John and Rodrigo was
so close that the catastrophe which had befallen his son would be
shared by his son's friend. But, after all, Rodrigo was a man of the
world, of considerable experience in emotional crises. Why had
another's tragedy now broken him up so savagely that he seemed upon
the verge of a breakdown? Had not more vital matters been pressing,
Henry Dorning would have liked to discover the answer to this
question.
As for John Dorning, his mad search for his missing wife had, in the
physical sense, terminated for the time being. It had now been two
weeks since the fatal fire in the Van Clair. The wild rushing about
and pursuit of false clews, the almost total loss of sleep and food
had caused John's frail body and almost his strong mind, to snap
definitely that morning. For days Rodrigo had been warning him,
urging him to abandon the search temporarily, tried with everything
in his power, except the uttering of the truth about Elise, to
prevent John from becoming a second victim. That morning John had
collapsed in Rodrigo's arms and lain in the latter's apartment
unconscious. Rodrigo had summoned a doctor and revived his friend.
On the physician's advice, he had brought the stricken man at top
speed in his car to Henry Dorning's home in Greenwich.
[Illustration: "DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT I THINK OF YOU?" MARY
ASKED SOFTLY.]
John had slumped, apparently more dead than alive, in the seat beside
Rodrigo throughout that rapid ride. John's father and sister Alice,
apprised in advance by telephone, had been awaiting their arrival.
The tortured man, at last too weak to protest further, had been put
to bed and the Dorning's family physician summoned.
The latter was now up with the sick man, as was Alice Pritchard.
Henry Dorning and Rodrigo were at present waiting for the report upon
John's condition.
"Hotchkiss is a long time about his examination," Henry Dorning said
finally, breaking a long silence. He had been observing Rodrigo
narrowly, and he thought perhaps occupying the Italian's mind with
conversation might allay some of Rodrigo's evident nervousness.
Otherwise he feared Dr. Hotchkiss might have another patient on his
hands when he came downstairs.
Rodrigo nodded shortly.
"It is a blessing, in a way, that John has given out at last," Mr.
Dorning went on seriously. "This break was bound to come. I could
not stop his frantic search. Neither could you, I suppose. Now he
will be kept quiet and will have a chance to recover." He was silent
a moment, and then he asked suddenly, "Rodrigo, do you think Elise
will ever be found?"
Rodrigo turned his tired eyes quickly to his questioner. "Why--I
don't know," he faltered. "But I don't believe--she will."
"Nor do I," said Henry Dorning. "I think she ran away from my boy,
and, in doing so, met with a fatal accident somewhere, probably in a
motor car. That is my own theory, but of course I have nothing on
which to base it. It is merely intuition."
"But she and John were so happy together, loved each other so dearly.
Why should she run--"
"Nonsense," the elder Dorning said shortly. "John loved her with all
his heart. But I have thought from the first that she had no
especial regard for him. I diagnosed her at once as a selfish,
frivolous woman. She married John for his money, after carefully
sizing the situation up and deciding that I probably would not live
very long. Oh, I know that is a brutal way of talking about a woman
who is probably dead now. But I cannot help it. I always distrusted
her and feared for what she would do to John. A number of her
actions confirmed my first suspicions. I was never one to interfere
in the private affairs of my children--both Alice and John will tell
you that. But I could not help but notice how, for example, Elise
would disappear the moment John had left on a business trip and not
come back to Greenwich until a few hours before his return. And the
type of people she brought into his house--riff-raff is the only word
for them.
"Yes, Rodrigo--I may be a terrible old ogre for saying so--but I am
glad that woman has gone. I do not, of course, wish her dead. I am
afraid, however, that is what has happened. Otherwise she would
certainly have communicated with John in some way by this time. You
will remember that I had Warren ask you once what you knew of Elise.
He said that you told him nothing. I am not going to question you,
Rodrigo--now. But I will say that I believe you knew what sort of
woman she really was and that you were afraid to tell John, because
he was so infatuated with her that it would hurt him. I respect you
for that and think you did wisely. I also respect you for trying to
protect her when Warren questioned you. Any gentleman would have
done the same, and I was foolish and a little caddish for having the
question asked. However----"
But Rodrigo was never to know into what deep waters Henry Dorning's
line of thought might have led them, for at that moment Dr. Hotchkiss
appeared on the stairs and both men turned expectantly. The doctor
was a splendid figure of a man, tall, gray and distinguished looking.
He was a personal friend of Henry Dorning's as well as his medical
advisor. His face now bore a grave expression that confirmed the
fears of the patient's two best male friends.
Dr. Hotchkiss approached Rodrigo, who had risen and taken a step or
two forward in his anxiety, and the still seated Henry Dorning, whose
condition made it imperative that he walk only when necessary. The
doctor said quietly, "There is no use in minimizing things. John is
in a very serious condition. He is physically and mentally
exhausted. I have telephoned for a nurse. It is too big a job for
Alice, willing as she is. I don't want either of you to disturb
John. I don't want anybody to go near him, except the nurse, until
further instructions from me. To speak frankly, any kind of a shock
now would bring on--well, something I don't want to contemplate. It
will be a long hard pull, I can tell you, to bring him around. And I
want you both--and Alice too--to cooperate with me by assuring John
absolute quiet during the next weeks and months."
The two listeners nodded. There was a faint feeling of relief in
their minds that Dr. Hotchkiss had not pronounced matters hopeless
and had even implied that with good fortune and care John might come
through satisfactorily.
When the medical man had left, Rodrigo prepared to follow him. He
shook hands with Henry Dorning and received the latter's promise to
inform him at once if there was any decided change in John's
condition.
"As for continuing the search for Elise--you may use your own
judgment about that," said Henry Dorning. "I suppose John would wish
it pursued with the same zeal. But I leave it to you."
"Very well," Rodrigo replied softly. "I will use--my own judgment."
He drove back to New York at a snail's pace, the speed of his car in
harmony with his thoughts of the long, dreary months of remorse ahead
of him.
The next day Rodrigo tried hard to submerge himself in the numerous
details of business that made up his work and John's with Dorning and
Son. It was the only way now that he could stand by his stricken
friend. Mary Drake was his able lieutenant--a silent, rather
impersonal sort of lieutenant, to be sure, but he could expect
nothing different now, he grimly told himself.
An alarming week followed at the Dorning home in Greenwich. For two
or three days John's condition was very bad. There were periods in
which he alternately raved in hysteric delirium and then sank into a
coma, recognizing nobody and sustained by a scarcely detectable
heart-beat. In his periods of delirium he called loudly upon Elise,
upon Rodrigo, upon the mother who had died in his childhood, while
the nurse, Alice Pritchard, and Doctor Hotchkiss labored with
physical strength and opiates to quiet him. In that week, Rodrigo
lived through a hundred hells, calling on the telephone every few
hours to receive bulletins that sank his heart anew each time.
At the end of the week he learned from the doctor that John's
physical condition had taken a slight turn for the better. Mentally,
however, he was very bad. Dr. Hotchkiss indicated his fears that,
unless the strain were in some way removed, his young patient's mind
might go.
In disposing of the increased business worries placed upon his
shoulders by the absence of John, Rodrigo found unexpectedly
efficient assistance in the person of Max Rosner. For Rodrigo had
taken a practical means of making good John's promise that something
would be done for Rosner, after the dramatic encounter in which
Rodrigo had saved his friend from the leaden danger in Rosner's
revolver. John had advanced the little man a loan and placed his ill
wife in the hospital. Rodrigo had suggested a way for the harassed
little man to repay the money and regain his self-respect. John's
responsibilities in Dorning and Son had always been too heavy.
Rodrigo suggested the installation of Rosner as John's assistant,
pointing out that while the ex-employee was no executive, he knew the
business and would doubtless prove very acceptable in a subordinate
capacity.
During the time Rosner was winning back his health and mental
balance, his duties had been light. In the weeks just before Elise's
disappearance, he had gradually been given larger responsibilities
and had been executing them surprisingly well. Now, with John gone,
he stepped manfully into the breach and performed yeoman service in
enabling Rodrigo to carry on. Henry Madison was his usual capable
self in managing the retail sales force; however, without the aid of
Rosner, Rodrigo frequently told himself that the buying and important
outside contract work of the concern, the part of the business on
which the reputation of Dorning and Son rested, would have gone to
pieces.
Moreover, Rodrigo discovered in Rosner, whom he had hitherto regarded
with some distaste, personal qualities and a sympathy that made him
really like the frail middle-aged man and established a bond between
them.
It started in the second week of John's illness when Rosner, who
fairly worshipped Rodrigo now for the kindness he had done him, said
timidly at the end of a business conference, "How is John this
morning?"
"Improving a little, as rapidly as anybody could expect."
Rosner continued hesitantly, "You're not looking at all well
yourself, Count Torriani. You're worrying too much about John. It's
time you thought about yourself a little. If you don't--well, you
may be where he is."
"Would to God that I were!" Rodrigo cried with a suddenness and
vehemence that startled Rosner. In the next instant he was angry at
himself for losing control, for his manifestation of the jumpy state
of his nerves. He continued more calmly, "Thanks for your sympathy,
Rosner, but don't worry about me. I'm all right."
"If you wanted to go away a while, for a rest--I could manage, I
think, after a fashion," Rosner offered.
"Thanks. I know you could. You're doing wonderful work--you and
Miss Drake and all the rest of the people. But I'll stick around
until John gets back in harness. Then I'm going away for a long
rest, abroad probably."
After Rosner had gone, Rodrigo realized that their little
conversation had been a relief, even his explosive demonstration of
his nervous condition. The only other person in the establishment
with whom he discussed John's illness was Mary Drake, and to her he
merely communicated briefly the latest news from Greenwich daily, in
answer to her question. There was no mention of their former
relations to each other, merely a question and answer about some one
in whom both felt a deep concern. Beyond this and the daily contacts
into which the routine of the business brought them, Rodrigo and Mary
were now to all intents and purposes just an employer and a trusted
employee. Of the frequent anxious and sympathetic glances which Mary
cast at him when he chanced to be facing away from her, Rodrigo, of
course, knew nothing.
It was December, when his illness had run along for nearly two
months, that John Dorning showed a definite improvement and return to
normal. One morning Rodrigo received word by telephone that John was
to leave two days later for southern California, in charge of his
sister and his nurse, and would like to see Rodrigo before he
departed. The doctor had declared that a change of scene would help
the patient as soon as he was in condition to travel. It was thought
that John was now strong enough, and the plans had been made for an
indefinite stay in the region of San Diego.
Rodrigo drove up to Greenwich that afternoon. Alice Pritchard
ushered him into John's room, near a window at which his friend was
seated, looking moodily out upon the snow-clad lawn. Though he was
prepared to see a change in John's appearance, Rodrigo was shocked in
spite of himself at the actuality. The face of the man in the chair
was white and gaunt. His blond hair was streaked with gray. He
looked at least ten years older than he had on the day Rodrigo had
seen him last. And as, aware of visitors, he turned, Rodrigo saw
that his eyes looked sunken and lack-lustre.
Rodrigo managed a smile as he advanced with hand outstretched. A
semblance of a smile appeared on John's wan face also, and he said in
a low voice, "This is good, old man."
"It is, indeed," Rodrigo said heartily. "I'm glad to see you looking
better."
"Yes, I am feeling better. I want to thank you for sticking by me
through it all, Rodrigo. They've told me of the constant interest
you've shown and the fine work you're doing at the shop. I'm sorry
to have to impose upon you any longer--but they tell me I must go
away for a time. I don't know that it will do any good." His weak
voice fell away, and his head bowed a little.
"Oh, it's bound to," Rodrigo cut in cheerfully. "New faces, new
scenes. You'll come back a new man, ready to pitch in like a
whirlwind."
But John had hardly listened to him. Alice had left the room, as the
patient discovered when he looked cautiously around. At once he
caught Rodrigo's sleeve with his thin fingers and looked at him so
pathetically that the latter wanted to turn his head away. John
asked, "Have you learned anything at all about Elise, Rodrigo?" And
when Rodrigo shook his head slowly, John's hand and head fell and he
whispered, "Nothing--in all these months? It's unbelievable--it's
maddening."
Rodrigo hastened to soothe him, to change the subject. A few moments
later Alice returned with the nurse, and Rodrigo deduced that it was
time that he left. The two men shook hands and, with an encouraging
caution to come back strong and healthy, Rodrigo was out of the room.
During the remainder of the winter, the word from California was of
John's constant improvement. He was living almost in the open air
and doing little besides eat and sleep. In February he started
writing short notes to Rodrigo in his own hand. By the first of
March, the notes had grown longer and had lost both their
unsteadiness of chirography and the perfunctory air of being written
by a man too tired mentally to use his imagination.
John was taking an interest in life again. He took to commenting
upon the beauty of the natural scenery about him and upon the
desecration being wrought upon Nature by some of the architectural
monstrosities of the region. He told in subsequent letters of having
lunch with mutual business friends of theirs, of a trip to Catalina
Island. He even made some inquiries about certain projects he had
left unfinished upon the occasion of his abrupt leave-taking from
Dorning and Son and urged Rodrigo to tell him in detail of his
business problems of the hour. This last, to Rodrigo, was the most
encouraging sign of all.
Early in April, John Dorning returned to Greenwich. Rodrigo spent
the week-end there and rejoiced to see his friend looking so changed
for the better. Though he was still thin and fragile-looking, there
was color in his cheeks and life in his eyes. And whatever his mood
might be when alone, in the presence of his family and of Rodrigo,
John was now nearly his old self. He had, right at the start of
Rodrigo's visit, made an effort to prove this by meeting his friend
at the station in the Dorning sedan and driving him to the house. In
answer to Rodrigo's joyous greeting and eager questioning, he
replied, "Yes, I'm in quite good shape now. In fact, Dr. Hotchkiss
is so pleased with me that he says I may come in a couple of days
next week for an hour or so each day and kind of get in touch with
things at the shop. And I'll be glad to do it, I can tell you."
Though Rodrigo sensed somehow that the thought of the missing Elise
still occupied the back of John Dorning's mind, to the exclusion of
everything else, her name was not mentioned at all throughout the
week-end.
Sunday morning, Rodrigo rode horseback with John, a pastime which Dr.
Hotchkiss had recommended and which had led to the purchase of two
excellent saddle-horses and their installation in the long empty
Dorning barn. The bridle-path led them quite close to the Millbank
development, where stood the vacant home of John and Elise. Rodrigo
did not, of course, allude to this and even glanced anxiously at John
as they passed the place.
"I am going over to my old house next week sometime and take out the
stuff I left there," John said calmly, though Rodrigo wondered if
there was not suppressed emotion behind those quiet words. "I have
put the place on the market and intend to dispose of it." John was
frowning and his lips were clenched tightly.
Rodrigo did not answer him, but soon afterward prodded his horse into
a gallop. John followed him, and they finished their journey at a
very rapid pace. Rodrigo left for New York that evening, very much
pleased with his friend's condition. Some of the heavy load was
lifted off the young Italian's mind at last. Though he had not
permitted himself to think about it during all the long months of
that sad winter and early spring, he was utterly worn out in body and
mind. On the rare occasions when he relaxed the grim guard upon his
mind and was weak enough to pity himself, it seemed to him that soon
he must, must get away.
No returning hero ever received a more sincere welcome from his
associates than did John Dorning when he walked into the shop on
Wednesday of the week following. The whole staff abruptly dropped
what they were doing and clustered around him. Hands were
outstretched and grasped. In many eyes there were tears. John,
smiling happily, was very close to crying himself. He thanked them
all collectively for carrying on in his absence, with special mention
of Rodrigo, Henry Madison, Rosner and Mary Drake. The last named
dabbed at her eyes furtively and stole a proud glance at Rodrigo,
which he did not catch.
John remained scarcely half an hour, spending the time in a short
conference with the four who composed the executive staff of the
business. On Friday, however, he came in again, this time with a
tentative sketch suggestion for the murals Dorning and Son were to
submit for a new art theatre building to be erected in New York.
After this his appearance became steadily more frequent and for
longer intervals.
Two weeks later, he said, at the end of the first full day he had
spent at the shop. "Monday I intend to resume my place here in
earnest, Rodrigo. I'm feeling well now, and I'm perfectly capable of
putting on the harness. In fact, the harder I work, the better I
feel. But you've been working too hard, Rodrigo. You're looking
tired and seedy. I really believe I appear healthier than you do.
Don't I, Mary?" The scene was John's office. Mary had just come in
to take away the signed letters. She looked around and smiled at his
question, flashing a glance at Rodrigo but not committing herself to
an answer. "Mary has been a big help to me in getting back into the
swim," John smiled. "And I intend to lean upon her more than ever."
He looked so affectionately at the grave girl that Rodrigo glanced
from one to the other and experienced a sudden flash of foreboding.
John and Mary--now that Elise was gone--John's need of someone to
lean upon--the realization, to him, of Mary's worth----
But Rodrigo dismissed it from his mind with an effort. He simply
would not think of it. The ache of loving Mary was still too raw in
his own heart.
"Why don't you take a long vacation, Rodrigo?" John was saying. "Go
abroad, to Italy, or something. You certainly deserve it. We'll
carry on here."
And another portion of the heavy load on Rodrigo's mind lifted. He
felt like sighing audibly with relief. At last he could put into
effect the plan that had been forming in his brain ever since that
awful morning. John was well now, reasonably happy, as happy as he
perhaps ever would be again. The burden of keeping the faith by
carrying on his business for him had been taken from Rodrigo's
shoulders. The guilt in Rodrigo's soul could never be taken away, of
course. But at least he could gain some surcease by going away from
this man whom he could never again look in the eye with a clear
conscience, never again see without feeling how he had betrayed him.
He would go away, and stay away. When his heart cried, "But
Mary?--You love Mary. You cannot give her up," he tried to stifle
that cry, and resolved, just the same, to go.
He voiced this resolution to John. "I do need a vacation, John. I'm
glad you suggested it. If you can get along without me, I think I
shall book passage to Italy. My house over there is vacant, you
know, and I want to see about selling it, for one thing. And I
should like to see some of my old friends. And the Bay of Naples,
and all the old places. It will do me good. And perhaps I can pick
up some treasures over there at bargain prices. I'll keep that in
mind too."
Rodrigo sailed four weeks later on a Saturday. John bade him
good-bye at the close of the day's work on the afternoon previous,
for John was under the doctor's orders to take two full days'
vacation each week-end.
"When will you be back, Rodrigo?" John asked.
And Rodrigo had hesitated and finally answered, "I--can't tell."
"Well, take your time--but I'll be awfully eager to see you again.
I'll miss you like the dickens," John said rather wistfully.
Rodrigo, his baggage already aboard, arrived early at the steamer
that Saturday. In the midst of the passengers waving and calling to
the swarms of friends standing in the doorways of the pier-sheds, he
stood alone on the deck, looking ashore. He was probably the only
one there to whom someone was not wishing bon voyage, he told himself
rather grimly. Then suddenly he saw Mary Drake and she had finally
managed to thrust her slim way through the gesticulating groups on
shore and was searching the deck of the ship with her eyes.
Rodrigo turned abruptly and hurried down the gangplank. He pushed to
her side.
"This is good of you, Mary," he said to her.
She started, turned, smiled, and said seriously, "I came down to ask
you to reconsider not coming back."
"How do you know I am not coming back?" he echoed the seriousness in
her voice.
"You told me once that you were going away and not return. I guessed
you were only waiting until John was firmly on his feet. He is there
now. And you are sailing away."
"Would you like me to come back--for yourself, Mary?" he asked
hopefully.
"I am not to be considered," she answered almost coldly, though there
was a little catch in her throat. "You should come back for the sake
of your own soul. To run away and stay away is cowardice. You will
spend the rest of your life hating yourself." She lifted her face to
his appealingly. "Oh, Rodrigo, can't you see that the only right way
is to tell John the truth, even now? He can stand it now. And you
will save yourself. You are not happy. You will never be happy as
long as this terrible thing is in your heart."
"Is that question of telling John always to stand between us, Mary?
Do I have to wreck John's life all over again in order to make you
love me?" He asked almost bitterly.
She did not reply. The whistle of the great vessel beside them
shrieked mightily amid the hiss of escaping steam.
"Good-bye, Mary," he said brokenly, taking her hand. He hesitated,
lifted it to his lips, and, without another glance at her, half ran
to the gangplank, which had already been lifted a foot off the dock.
So he did not see the tears that streamed down her face, and what was
written behind the tears as she lifted her eyes and realized he was
gone.