JACK TELLS THE STORY
In the moment of silence which followed that sentence you could hear the
fire snap and the tick of the clock on the mantel. I saw the men’s faces
held in expressions of amazement so intense they looked like
caricatures. I saw Mrs. Whitehall try to say something, then with a
rustle and a broken cry crumple up in a chair, her face hidden,
stuttering, choked sounds coming from behind her hands.
That broke the tension. Like a piece of machinery momentarily out of
gear, the group adjusted itself and snapped back into action. All but
me—I stood as I had been standing when Mrs. Whitehall spoke those words.
My outward vision saw their moving figures, their backs as they crowded
round her, a hand that held a glass to her lips, her face bent toward
the glass, ashen and haggard. I saw but realized nothing. For a moment I
was on another plane of existence, seemed to be shot up into it. I don’t
tell it right—a fellow who doesn’t know how to write can’t explain a
feeling like that. You’ve got to fill it in out of your imagination. A
man who’s been in hell gets suddenly out—that’s the best way I can
describe it.
I didn’t get back to my moorings, come down from the clouds to the solid
ground, till the scene by the table was over. Mrs. Whitehall was sitting
up, a little color in her cheeks, mistress of herself again. They’d
evidently said something to lull her fears about Carol for the
distraction of her mood was gone. It wasn’t till I saw the narrowed
interest of George’s eyes, the hungry expectation of O’Mally’s watching
face, that I remembered they were still on the scent of a murder in
which Barker’s daughter was as much involved as Barker’s fiancée. _That_
brought _me_ back to the moment and its meaning like an electric shock.
I made a stride forward, to get closer, to hear them, for they were at
the table again, waiting on the words of Mrs. Whitehall. The first
sentence that struck my ear aptly matched her pitiful appearance:
"Gentlemen, I’m broken. I’ve been through too much."
The chief answered very gently:
"Having said what you have, would it not be wisdom to tell us
everything? We pledge ourselves to secrecy."
She nodded, a gesture of weary acquiescence.
"Oh, yes. I don’t mind telling—it _was_ to be told; but," she dropped
her eyes to her hands clasped in her lap. In that position her likeness
to Carol, as she had sat there a few weeks before, was singularly
striking. "I’ll have to go back a good many years, before my child was
born, before the world had heard of Johnston Barker."
"Wherever you want, Mrs. Whitehall," the chief murmured. "We’re entirely
at your service."
She drew a deep breath and without raising her eyes said:
"I was married to Johnston Barker twenty-eight years ago in Idaho. He
was a miner then and I was a school teacher, nineteen years old, an
orphan with no near relations. I was not strong and had gone to the Far
West for my health. Under the unaccustomed work I broke down, developing
a weakness of the lungs, and casual friends, the parents of a pupil,
took me with them to a distant mining camp for the drier air. There I
met Johnston and we became engaged.
"In those days in such remote places there were no churches or clergymen
and contract marriages were recognized. I did not believe in them, would
not at first consent to such a ceremony, but a great strike taking place
in a distant camp, he prevailed upon me to marry him by contract, the
friends with whom I was living acting as witnesses.
"The place to which he took me was wild and inaccessible, connecting by
trails with other camps and by a long stage journey with a distant
railway station. We lived there for a month—happy as I have never been
since. Then a woman, a snake in the garden, finding out how I had
married hinted to me that such contracts were illegal. I don’t know why
she did it—I’ve often wondered—but there _are_ people in the world who
take a pleasure in spoiling the joy of others.
"I didn’t tell Johnston but resolved when an opportunity came to stand
up with him before an ordained minister. It came sooner than I hoped.
Not six weeks after we were man and wife a ’missioner’ made a tour
through the mining camps of that part of the state. He would not come to
ours—we were too small and distant—so I begged my husband to go to him,
tell him our case and bring him back. It would have been better for us
both to have gone, but I was sick—too young and ignorant to know the
cause of my illness—and Johnston, who seemed willing to do anything I
wanted, agreed.
"We calculated that the trip—on horseback, over half-cut mountain
trails—would take three or four days there and back. At the end of the
fifth day he had not returned and I was in a fever of anxiety. Then
again that woman came to me with her poisoned words: I was not a legal
wife; could he, knowing this, have taken the opportunity to desert me?
God pity her for the deadly harm she did. Sick, alone, inexperienced,
eaten into by horrible doubts, I waited till two weeks had passed. Then
I was sure that he had done as she said—left me.
"I won’t go over that—the past is past. I took what money I had and made
my way to the railway. From there by slow stages, for by this time I was
ill in mind and body, I got as far as St. Louis, where, my money gone,
unable to work, I wrote to an uncle of my mother’s, a doctor, whom I had
never seen but of whom she had often spoken to me.
"Men like him make us realize there is a God to inspire, a Heaven to
reward. He came at once, took me to his home in Indiana, and nursed me
back to health. He was a father to me, more than a father to the child I
had. No one knew me there—no one but he ever heard my story. I took a
new name, from a distant branch of his family, and passed as a widow.
When my little girl was old enough to understand I told her her father
had died before she was born.
"We lived there for twenty-four years. Before the end of that time the
name of Johnston Barker rose into prominence. My uncle hated it—would
not allow it mentioned in his presence. When he died three years ago, he
left us all he had—fifty thousand dollars, a great fortune to us. Then
Carol, who had chafed at the narrow life of a small town, persuaded me
to come to New York. I had no fear of meeting Barker, our paths would
never cross, and to please her was my life.
"She is not like me, fearful and timid, but full of daring and ambition.
When the farm we bought in New Jersey suddenly increased in value and
the land scheme was suggested, she wanted to try it. At first it wasn’t
possible as we hadn’t enough money. It was not until she met Mr. Harland
at a friend’s house in Azalea, that the plan became feasible for he was
taken with the idea at once. After visiting the farm a few times, and
talking it over with her, he offered to come in as a silent partner,
putting up the capital.
"The move to town alarmed me. There, in business, she might run across
the man who was her father—and this is exactly what happened. You’ve
seen my daughter—you know what she is. Looking at me now you may not
realize that she is extraordinarily like what I was when Johnston Barker
married me.
"He saw her first in the elevator at the Black Eagle Building. Men
always noticed her—she was used to it—but that night she told me
laughing of the old man who had stared at her in the elevator, stared
and stared and couldn’t take his eyes off. My heart warned me, and when
I heard her description I knew who he was and why he stared.
"After that there was no peace for me. I had a haunting terror that he
would find out who she was and might try to claim her. This increased
when she told me of his visit to her office to buy the lot—an excuse I
understood—and his questions about her former home. Then I tried to
quiet myself with the assurances that he could not possibly guess—he had
never heard the name of Whitehall in connection with me, he had never
known a child was expected.
"But a night came when I was put with my back against the wall. She
returned from work, gay and excited, saying Mr. Barker had been in the
office that afternoon and asked her if he might call and meet her
mother. The terrible agitation that threw me into betrayed me. I
couldn’t evade her eyes or her questions, and I told her. She was
horrified, stunned. I can’t tell you what she said—I can only make you
understand her feelings by saying she loved me as few daughters love
their mothers.
"After that—ah, it was horrible! She tried to cancel the sale, but he—of
course, he was angry and puzzled by the change in her, could make
nothing out of it, and finally insisted on knowing what had happened.
There was no escape for her and taking him into the private office they
had an interview in which he forced the truth from her.
"Johnston Barker’s life has been full of great things, triumphs and
conquests. But I think that hour in the Azalea Woods Estates office must
have been the crowning one of his career. To hear that Carol, my
wonderful Carol, was his child! He had had no suspicion of it until
then. He told her he had been interested by her strange likeness to me,
had thought she might be some distant connection, who could give him
news of his lost wife.
"For—here is the bitter part of it—he _had_ come back. In that long
mountain journey an accident, a fall from his horse, had injured him. He
had been found unconscious by a party of miners who had taken him to
their camp and cared for him. For two weeks he lay at death’s door, no
one knowing who he was, or understanding the wanderings of his delirium.
When he returned I was gone—lost like a raindrop in the ocean. He was
too poor to hire the aid that might have found me then. He went back to
his work, moved to other camps, struggled and thrived. In time the story
of his marriage was forgotten. Those who remembered it set it down as an
illegal connection, a familiar incident in the miner’s roving life.
"Years later, when he grew rich he hunted for me, but it was too late.
Then he turned his whole attention to business, flung himself into it.
The making of money filled his life, became his life till he saw the
girl in the elevator, who so strikingly resembled the woman he had loved
in his youth.
"This was what he told Carol and this she believed. She was convinced of
the truth of every word and tried to convince me. But I was full of
suspicions. Having found himself the father of such a girl might he not
go to any lengths to gain her love and confidence? His life was empty,
he was lonely, Carol would have been the consolation and pride of his
old age. Gentlemen—" she looked at the listening faces—"can you blame
me? A youth blasted, years of brooding bitterness—might not that make a
woman incredulous and slow to trust again?
"When she saw the way I took it she went about the business of proving
it. Through a lawyer she learned that contract marriages at that time in
that state were valid. I _had_ been Johnston Barker’s wife and she was
legitimate. But I hung back. Many things moved me. He wanted to
acknowledge us, take us to live with him and I shrank from all that
publicity and clamor. Also—I am telling everything—I think I was jealous
of him, fearful that he might take from me some of the love which had
made my life possible.
"I knew she saw him often, and that she heard from him by letter. All
through the end of December and the early part of January she urged and
pleaded with me. And finally I gave in—I had to, I couldn’t stand
between her and what he could give her—and the day came when I consented
to see him. That day was the fifteenth of January."
George cleared his throat and O’Mally stirred uneasily in his chair. The
old man rumbled an encouraging "fifteenth of January," and she went on:
"She left in the morning greatly excited, telling me she would phone him
that she had good news and would bring him home with her that evening.
She was radiant with joy and hope when I kissed her good-bye. When she
returned that night—long after her usual time—all that hope and joy were
dashed to the ground.
"As you know, she did see him that afternoon and told him of my consent.
He appeared overjoyed and said he would come, but first must go to Mr.
Harland’s offices on the floor above to talk over a matter of great
importance. This, he said, would probably occupy half to three-quarters
of an hour, after which he would return to her. As they wished to avoid
all possibility of gossip through her clerks or the people in the
building, they decided not to meet in her offices, but in the church
which is next door. From there they would take a cab and come to me.
"The appointment was for a quarter-past six. Carol was ahead of time and
waited for him over an hour, then came home, shattered, broken, almost
unable to speak—for, as you know, he never came."
She paused, her face tragic with the memory of that last, unexpected
blow. No one spoke, and looking round at them, she threw out her hands
with a gesture of pleading appeal:
"What could I think? Was it unnatural for me to disbelieve him again?
Hasn’t all that’s come out shown he was what I’d already found him—false
to his word and his trust?"
"Does your daughter think that, too?" asked the chief.
"No. She believes in him, even now, with him in hiding and branded as a
traitor. But that’s Carol—always ready to trust where her heart is. She
says it’s all right, that he’ll come back and clear himself, but I can
see how she’s suffering, how she’s struggling to keep her hopes alive."
I burst out—wild horses couldn’t have kept me quiet any longer. Reaching
a long arm across the table, without any consciousness that I was doing
it, I laid my hand on Mrs. Whitehall’s:
"How did she get out of the building that night?"
She looked surprised, and strangely enough embarrassed.
"Why—why—" she stammered, and then suddenly, "you seem to know so much
here—do you know anything about Mr. Harland and Carol?"
"Something," said the chief guardedly.
"Everything," I shot out, not caring for her, or him, or the case, or
anything but the answer to my question.
"Then I don’t mind telling you, though Carol wouldn’t like it." She
glanced tentatively at me. "Did you know he was in love with her?"
"All about it. Yes. Go on—"
"She went down by the stairs, all those flights, to avoid him. I guessed
the way he felt about her. I knew it soon after the business was started
and told her but she only laughed at me. That afternoon, when he came to
her office, she saw I was right. Not that he said anything definite, but
by his manner, the questions he asked her. He was wrought up and
desperate, I suppose, and let her see that he was jealous of Mr. Barker,
demanding the truth, whether she loved him, whether she intended
marrying him. She was angry, but seeing that he had lost control of
himself, told him that her feeling for Mr. Barker was that of a daughter
to a father and never would be anything else. That seemed to quiet him
and he went away.
"When she was leaving her offices she heard foot-steps on the floor
above and looking up saw him through the balustrade walking to the stair
head. She at once thought he was coming to see her and not wanting any
more conversation with him, stole out and down the hall to the side
corridor, where the service stairs are. Her intention was to pick up the
elevator on the floor below, but on second thoughts she gave this up and
walked the whole way. Finding her gone he would probably take the
elevator himself and they might meet in the car or the entrance hall. Of
course we know now she was all wrong. It was not to see her he was
coming down, it was to make up his mind to die."
My actions must have surprised them. For without a word to Mrs.
Whitehall I jumped up and left the room—I couldn’t trust myself to
speak, I had to be alone. In my own office I shut the door and stood
looking with eyes that saw nothing out of the window, over the roofs to
where the waters of the bay glittered in the sun. Have you ever felt a
relief so great it made you shaky? Probably not—but wait till you’re in
the position I was. The room rocked, the distance was a golden blue as I
whispered with lips that were stiff and dry:
"Thank God! Oh, thank God! Oh, thank God!"
I don’t know how long a time passed—maybe an hour, maybe five
minutes—when the door opened and George’s head was thrust in:
"What are you doing shut in here? Get a move on—we want you. The
telephone returns have come."
I followed him back. Mrs. Whitehall was not there—the chief and O’Mally
had their heads together over a slip of paper.
"Here you, Jack," said the old man turning sharply on me. "You’ve got to
go out tonight with O’Mally. They’re in Quebec."
He handed me the slip of paper. On it was one memorandum. The night
before at 12.05 New York, Lenox 1360 had called up Quebec, St. Foy 584.