ELITHE’S INTERVIEW WITH CLARICE.
Nearly all that day Elithe stayed in bed, sometimes burning with fever,
but oftener shivering with cold, which the ginger tea had not
counteracted. She had experienced two great shocks in quick succession
and was bodily and mentally unstrung. She saw Paul Ralston fire the
fatal shot which had killed Jack Percy. No questioning or
cross-questioning from her aunt could leave a doubt in her mind. She saw
it and was filled with dread of what her having seen it might mean for
her. Second to this, and nearly as great in its effect upon her, was the
knowledge that Mr. Pennington was Jack Percy, in whom she knew there was
much that was good, notwithstanding the ill that was spoken of him in
Oak City.
In the dining room below Miss Hansford sat like a sentinel keeping
people from going up to see Elithe and answering the questions put to
her in the most non-committal manner. They kept coming all the morning
and a part of the afternoon, bringing the news from time to time of what
was being done at the Percy cottage. Paul was there with Clarice, who
had refused to see any one and sat in a dark room crying all the time.
There were to be short services at the house early the next day, and
then the body was to be taken to Washington and buried at Beechwood, the
old Percy homestead, which still belonged to the family. Mrs. Percy was
nearly as bad as Clarice, and had a doctor in attendance.
To all this and more Miss Hansford listened, evincing no particular
interest until the last bulletin was brought her to the effect that the
bullet had been extracted and that they were still hunting for the
revolver which the ball fitted, but could not find it.
“Some think now that it wasn’t suicide, if the jury did so decide.
There’s queer things being talked which I don’t believe,” one caller
said, with a meaning look at Miss Hansford, who knew that the train was
fired which would certainly overtake Paul and crush him.
She was a woman of strong nerve, but this news unmanned her and she sat
motionless in her chair, making no comment, and when her informer was
gone, locking the door to keep out others who might come spying upon her
misery. Would the man who found the revolver keep silent? She did not
think so. He would tell. The weapon would be traced to its hiding place,
and with its initials, “P. R.,” bear deadly evidence against her boy.
She called him that many times, wondering what she ought to do and why
he did not speak. And so the day wore on, and, late in the afternoon,
Elithe, who had slept for two hours or more, insisted upon dressing
herself and coming down to tea with her aunt. It was taken in the
kitchen, with the shades down and the door bolted. Several times there
had been knocks, which were not answered, but as they were finishing
their supper there came one so loud and oft repeated that the door was
opened tremblingly by Miss Hansford, who half expected to be met by an
officer come to demand the revolver and perhaps to arrest her for
complicity in the matter. It was a boy from the Percy cottage with a
note from Clarice to Elithe.
“Miss E. Hansford,” it read: “There are some things relating to my
poor brother which you alone can tell me. Will you come to me this
evening? We leave to-morrow for Washington, and I must see you before
I go. Hastily,—
“CLARICE PERCY.”
“Oh, I can’t go! What does she want?” Elithe said as she read the note
aloud.
“Wants to know all about Jack. Natural enough. I thought ’twould come.
You’ll have to stand it. I’ll go with you,” Miss Hansford replied, and,
going to the boy waiting upon the doorstep, she bade him tell Miss Percy
that Miss Hansford would call upon her between eight and nine. “It’ll be
dark then. It’s raining now, thank the Lord,” she said to Elithe, whose
chill increased at the thought of meeting Clarice and talking with her
of Jack.
“What shall I say to her?” she asked her aunt.
“Tell her how you found him at the mines, and what kindness did for him.
It’s my opinion he would not be lying as he is now if they had treated
him decent.”
She was beginning to espouse Jack’s cause, and encouraged Elithe and
kept her up until the clock struck eight, when, under the cover of
darkness and rain and umbrellas, they started for the Percy Cottage.
Clarice had spent a wretched day, stunned by the calamity which had
overtaken her,—grieving for her brother’s tragic death,—wishing she had
treated him better while living, and regretting the grand spectacle in
which she was to have been the central figure and which must now be
given up. The invitations and orders must be countermanded,—her bridal
trousseau exchanged for crape, which she detested, and the wedding march
turned into a funeral dirge. It was hard, and Paul tried in vain to
console her, telling her there was still a bright future in store for
them. Clarice would not be consoled, and with her head on Paul’s
shoulder and his arm around her, sat blaming Providence for having dealt
so harshly with her, when Elithe was announced.
“Show her in,” she said, without removing herself from Paul’s encircling
arm.
She was to have been his wife the next Thursday, and was quite willing
that Elithe, of whom she had been jealous, should be witness to her
ownership of him.
“Shall both come in?” the maid inquired.
“Both? Whom do you mean?” Clarice asked, and the maid replied: “The
elder Miss Hansford is here, and wishes to see you with her niece.”
“Yes, let her come,” Paul said, moving a little as if he would rather
Clarice should sit upright in the presence of visitors.
She took the hint and sat up, but kept her place close to him, with her
hand on his, and plunged at once into her motive for sending for Elithe.
“You knew my brother,” she began. “I want you to tell me all about your
acquaintance with him, but first about this ring. It was not on his
finger when he died. It was there when they brought him home. You must
have put it there. Why? Didn’t you care for my brother?”
She was asking questions such as Elithe had not expected, and for a
moment she shook like a leaf, and turned so white that Paul feared she
was going to faint. Clarice had the ring upon her own finger, turning it
round and round as she talked, and the indelicacy and bad taste of
appropriating it to herself so soon struck Elithe forcibly and disarmed
her of all fear of Clarice.
“She’s a fool,” Miss Hansford thought, but she said to her niece: “Tell
her all you know, if she wants to hear it.”
“Yes, tell me,” Clarice rejoined.
Thus abjured, Elithe began: “I put the ring on his finger. It was never
on mine. I did not know he had given it to me until it was too late to
return it. I could never wear it. I only cared for your brother as a
friend,—never could have cared for him otherwise.”
Clarice looked puzzled, and said: “That’s queer. Tell me how you came by
it and where you first saw him. I know something from his letter to you
which I found in his valise. Here it is.”
She held Jack’s letter towards Elithe, who took it from her, and with a
voice and manner which would not have shamed her aunt, said, slowly:
“_You_ read a letter directed to _me_?”
Her face flushed and her eyes blazed with indignation and surprise.
“I beg your pardon,” Clarice replied, more abashed than she had ever
thought it possible for herself to be before a girl like Elithe. “It was
not directed. It was in his bag with his present for me, bought in
Chicago, and which I did not deserve. It touched me very closely. Poor
Jack.”
There were tears in her eyes as she continued: “There was no address on
the letter, and, seeing my name so often I read it. My brother loved
you. Did you return it?”
Before Elithe could reply her aunt interposed: “You have no right to ask
such personal questions. It is none of your business whether she loved
your brother or not. But I will answer for her. She did _not_, and never
could. That he cared for her is evident. Poor fellow. I never liked him
much. I think better of him now in the light of what my niece has told
me and what she will tell you.”
She turned to Elithe, who began at the miners’ camp and the night spent
with Jack, dwelling at some length upon what he said in his delirium of
Mignon. At this point Clarice put both hands to her face and the tears
trickled through her fingers, while Elithe went on with her narrative of
Jack’s life in Samona, his efforts to reform and the pledge which he
drew up himself and carried in his pocket.
“He spoke of that in his letter, and said he tore it up after what
happened in Chicago,” Clarice said, interrupting her.
Elithe bowed and went on to tell of his intimacy in her father’s family,
his interest in her, and his giving her the ring when he left the car in
Helena. She did not speak of his note; that was not necessary. She only
added: “I never saw him again; never knew he was not Mr. Pennington till
he was dying. You think he was bad. Everybody thinks so. In some
respects he was, but he was trying to do better; he _was_ doing better.
He was susceptible to good influences and kind treatment, and tried to
come up to one’s standard of him. Treat him like a dog, and he was a
dog; treat him like a man, and he was a man. He was respected in Samona
and among the miners. There will be mourning in Deep Gulch when they
hear he is dead, and in Samona, too. Why he fell the last time and came
here in the condition he did I do not know. Some influence he could not
withstand was brought to bear upon him.”
Elithe had not read Jack’s letter, but Clarice had. She knew what had
caused Jack’s downfall, and Elithe’s words were like sharp lashes to her
conscience. Paul, too, knew, but kept silent and admired Elithe for her
defense of Jack. Clarice had read to him a part of Jack’s letter, and
the message to him had removed all his animosity and sense of injury.
Jack was the friend of his boyhood, and he would have given much to
bring him to life again. Clarice was also greatly softened, partly
because of her money refunded and the present bought for her. This
appealed to her baser nature, while something told her she had in one
sense been her brother’s keeper and failed. Elithe’s words struck home,
and she sobbed aloud as she listened.
“Thank you for telling me what you have,” she said. “It makes me think
better of my brother. I wish I had done differently.” Then, removing the
ring from her finger and offering it to Elithe, she continued: “Take it,
please. It is yours. He gave it to you. He would like you to have it.”
Paul drew a breath of suspense, and Miss Hansford straightened her
shoulders as they waited for Elithe’s reply.
“No,” she said, “I never wore it; never can wear it. I only cared for
him as a friend. If it is mine I give it to you.”
Miss Hansford’s shoulders dropped and Paul breathed more freely.
“Thanks. I’ll accept it for Jack’s sake,” Clarice said.
She was very gracious now, and as Elithe arose to go said to her: “Come
and see Jack. He looks so peaceful and happy, as if he were asleep.”
“I can’t,” Elithe gasped, but Clarice insisted and led the way into the
room where Jack lay in his coffin ready for the early boat.
On his handsome face there was a look as if death had kindly washed it
clean from every mark of dissipation and left upon it the beauty and
innocence of childhood. Elithe was crying,—so was Clarice, and Miss
Hansford’s eyes were wet with tears. Paul alone was calm.
“Poor Jack. We were always friends until the last, when he was not
responsible for what he did,” he said, laying his hand on the forehead
of the dead.
“D-don’t,” Miss Hansford stammered, thinking of the old tradition as to
what would happen if the slayer touched the corpse of the slain.
Paul had touched Jack, and nothing had happened. The white forehead
showed just as white in the lamp light, and around the mouth there was
the same smile which had settled there when the dying lips whispered,
“Elithe.” The old tradition had not worked. Paul was not afraid of Jack,
and he astonished Miss Hansford still more by saying: “Perhaps you know
they extracted the bullet.”
She nodded, and he continued: “They have not found the revolver.
Strange, too, as it must have fallen near him. I remember the one he
used to have. It was very small, and expensive. Some one may have picked
it up and is keeping it for its value, or it was trampled into the sand
by the many feet which have visited the place from curiosity.”
Miss Hansford was horrified at his coolness and duplicity, while Elithe
looked at him with eyes full of pain and surprise. “I saw him; I saw
him,” she thought, while her aunt was thinking of the revolver at the
bottom of her chest, with “P. R.” upon it. On the piazza, as they were
saying good-night, Clarice threw her arms around Elithe’s neck and
kissed her, as she said: “I shall never forget what you were to my
brother, or your kindness to him. Will you come to the funeral to-morrow
morning and sit with us?”
“No,—no. Don’t ask me to do that. There is no reason why I should,”
Elithe cried, putting up her hands in deprecation.
Clarice was making altogether too much of her relations with Jack, and
once out upon the avenue she almost ran to get away from the house and
its atmosphere.
“Oh, auntie,” she said, “it is all so dreadful, and Mr. Ralston does not
mean to explain. What shall we do if he is suspected?”
“Hold our tongues and trust to the Lord,” was Miss Hansford’s answer,
and that night, long after Paul was asleep, she was kneeling in her room
and sobbing. “My boy, my boy, will the good Father, who knows how it
happened, make him speak out and clear himself?”
Elithe, too, was awake and sitting by her window, which faced the woods.
On her return from the Percy Cottage she had read Jack’s letter, in
which he told her who he was,—what he had been,—why he had taken another
name,—and of his love for her,—when it began,—how it had grown,—and how
for her sake he had tried to be a man. He told her of his mortification
at the slight Clarice put upon him,—of his resolution to attend her
wedding, more to see her again than to be a guest where he was not
wanted. Of his downfall in Chicago, where he tore up his pledge,—his
experience on the boat and what he heard of himself,—his taking the
brandy which made him worse,—his determination to leave without seeing
any one. This was written in the Beach House, where he spent the night.
The encounter with Paul in the morning he described in the P. S.,
telling how it happened, saying he was sorry,—saying he was a brute, and
had sunk so low that now he had no hope, no star to guide him,—nothing
to remember of a journey from which he had hoped so much but her face as
he saw it in church that morning and the sound of her voice, which he
could never forget.
Over this letter Elithe’s tears fell so fast that the words were blurred
and blotted almost past the possibility of deciphering them. Miss
Hansford did not ask what was in the letter, but Elithe read her parts
of it calculated to exculpate Jack from intentional wrong doing, and the
two sore-hearted women wept together until the clock struck twelve. Then
they separated, each going to her own room, where, in an agony of grief
and fear, Miss Hansford prayed for her boy, while Elithe sat by the
window from which she had talked with Paul, and asked herself again and
again: “Could I be mistaken?”
The answer was always the same: “I saw him; I saw him.”