THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUD
“DURLEY, fill up Miss Beatrice’s champagne glass. I insist, my dear,”
as Beatrice protested. “Your health needs such a tonic, and it can do
you no harm. I promised your father that I would take good care of you,
so you must prepare to do exactly as I say,” and Mrs. Macallister shook
a warning finger at her guest.
Peggy had called for Beatrice that afternoon and carried her home in
the Macallisters’ landaulet. And already their tender but unobtrusive
sympathy, and the cheery atmosphere of the house had had a beneficial
effect on her over-wrought nerves.
Intuitively, Mrs. Macallister knew that Beatrice was silently grieving
her heart out, too proud to complain even to those dear friends, as
each day added its burden to those which her sensitive woman’s soul
was bearing so bravely. As her handsome dark eyes, filled with unshed
tears, encountered Mrs. Macallister’s piercing ones, that astute dame,
deeply touched by their wistful appeal, then and there registered a vow
to do everything within her power to help her. “There’s some man in the
case,” thought she, watching Beatrice covertly. “And what on earth ails
Peggy? She hasn’t been herself since the night I found her in a dead
faint.”
All through dinner Peggy had eaten nothing. She sat, pale and
preoccupied, making bread balls and leaving her grandmother to
entertain Beatrice. The hat-pin was weighing heavily on Peggy’s mind,
taking away both appetite and sleep. She was trying to screw up her
courage to ask Beatrice to explain its presence in her box, but each
time she looked at her friend’s sad face her heart misgave her.
What--what if she couldn’t explain? Peggy sighed drearily.
“For goodness’ sake, Peggy,” exclaimed Mrs. Macallister thoroughly
exasperated. “You are very depressing to-night. What is the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing,” she hastily declared, suddenly waking up to the
fact that she had not taken any part in the conversation for some time.
“I was thinking of a story Mr. Sinclair told me this morning when I
was in the bank about Mrs. Wheeler. He said his bookkeeper sent word
to Mrs. Wheeler that she had overdrawn her bank account. She promptly
wrote a note to him saying she was so sorry the mistake had happened,
and she enclosed her check on them to cover the overdraw!”
“Poor Mrs. Wheeler,” said Beatrice, as they rose from the table and
strolled into the library. “I wonder what Washington would do without
her, her blunders are so numerous?”
“Their name is legion,” agreed Mrs. Macallister, helping herself to
coffee. “Is that the door bell, Hurley?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I think it is probably Dick Tillinghast,” exclaimed Beatrice rising
in her agitation. “I took the liberty of asking him to call here, Mrs.
Macallister. I hope you won’t mind, but I--I--” she broke off. “It was
imperative that I see him at once.”
“My dear, of course not. I am always glad to see Dick,” answered Mrs.
Macallister, concealing her surprise. Could it be that he was the man
in the case! Why, good gracious, _she_ had other plans for him. “Ask
Mr. Tillinghast to come in here, Hurley.” Her usually tranquil tones
were so emphatic that the well-trained servant positively jumped as he
hastened out of the room.
Mrs. Macallister looked at the two girls very sharply. Surely she had
not been mistaken? Dick had seemed to have only ears and eyes for
Peggy; and yet--Beatrice’s very evident excitement; Peggy’s open-eyed
wonder. “Oh, these men!” thought Mrs. Macallister, disgustedly, “you
can’t tell by the looks of a toad how far he’ll jump. If that young man
has played fast and loose with my Peggy, I’ll--” And in growing anger
she waited. The silence was unbroken by the two girls. They could hear
the front door opened, and Hurley’s raised voice; then steps sounded
down the hall and stopped when they reached the library. Hurley threw
open the door and announced:
“Mr. Gordon.”
Too astounded to move, Peggy and her grandmother sat gazing at the
young officer, thinking they saw an apparition. As he crossed the
threshold, one wild scream of agony burst from Beatrice, and she swayed
forward a dead weight into his arms.
“Beatrice--Beatrice--my darling--my dear, dear wife!” he cried,
distractedly. Then, seeing no answering gleam of recognition in her
dazed eyes, he turned appealingly to Mrs. Macallister. “Merciful God!
have I killed her?”
“Nonsense!” cried Mrs. Macallister, her active mind instantly grasping
the significance of the situation. “Joy never kills. Quick, Hurley,” to
the butler who was standing by with mouth agape, “some champagne.” And,
as he darted out of the room to obey her order, she bade Gordon lift
the limp form on to the wide lounge.
With Peggy’s assistance, he chafed her cold hands, and watched with
anxious eyes while Mrs. Macallister forced Beatrice to swallow some
foaming champagne. The stimulant had instant effect, a little color
crept up into the wan cheeks, and she made a feeble attempt to sit up,
all the time keeping her eyes fixed on Gordon as if she feared he would
vanish from her sight.
“Donald--Donald--is it you?” she gasped, the pent-up longing of days
finding voice at last. Then, as recollection gradually returned to her,
her features were distorted with agony. “Don--Don--how could you?”
“Hush, my darling, you are wrong, wrong--I am innocent!” Her eyes
distended with dawning hope as she glanced from one anxious face to the
other.
“Here, take another glass of this,” insisted Mrs. Macallister, who
firmly believed that a sip in time often saved many ills. “You will
need all your strength, for I judge there are many things which will
have to be explained to-night.”
“You are right, Madam,” exclaimed Gordon. “And the one to begin is
right behind you.”
Mrs. Macallister wheeled around with such energy that she knocked a
cherished vase off the center table, to find Dick Tillinghast just
within the door.
“Mercy on us, Dick,” she said, divided between vexation over the
fate of the vase, and anxiety to hear what extraordinary events had
transpired. “Come in and tell us at once what has happened.”
Dick took the chair Peggy pushed toward him, and reading the agonized
question in Beatrice’s pleading eyes, he said briefly:
“The real murderer, Count de Smirnoff, has confessed.”
A cry of surprise broke from Mrs. Macallister and Peggy, but Beatrice’s
feelings were too deep for words. She bowed her face in her hands, and
only Gordon caught the fervid whisper: “God, I thank Thee,” while hot
scalding tears trickled through her fingers. Regardless of the others’
presence, he threw himself on his knees beside her.
“My best beloved, can you ever forgive me for doubting you; I, who am
most unworthy--”
Beatrice raised a radiant face. “Hush!” she said. “Do not let me hear
you say such a thing again. I, too, am greatly to blame.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Dick. “Neither of you have any cause for
self-reproach. You were simply the victims of circumstances. But it
strikes me that you two have played at cross-purposes long enough.
If it isn’t too painful,” addressing Beatrice, “would you mind
straightening out some of the kinks in the rope?”
“Gladly,” she answered. “Where shall I begin?”
“Suppose you start with the marriage ceremony,” suggested Dick, smiling
covertly.
“What!” exclaimed Beatrice, astonished. “You know of our marriage?”
“Yes. As it happened, my brother performed the ceremony.”
Gordon’s amazement was evident. “I never connected him with you; but go
on, dearest--” and he touched her hand lovingly.
“Last November I went to visit my aunt, Mrs John Dundas, my mother’s
sister, in Philadelphia. At that time I was very unhappy at home.
Alfred Clark wanted me to marry him, and Mrs. Trevor encouraged his
suit. Mr. Clark,” coloring vividly, “did not behave well. If I wanted
to live in peace and tranquillity I had to be nice to him. Every time
he thought I slighted or neglected him, he would complain to her, and
between them they would hatch up all sorts of stories to tell Father.
He believed my stepmother’s lies, and often bitterly reproached me for
making disagreeable scenes. If Mrs. Trevor stopped tormenting me, Mr.
Clark always egged her on to more deviltry. They were not always good
friends, though, and I hoped one of their numerous quarrels would lead
to his dismissal. But I think he must have had some hold over her, for
she apparently feared to break with him altogether.”
“He had,” interrupted Dick. “I have just seen Clark. Under Chief
Connor’s severe examination, he has made a complete confession. It
seems--” Dick hesitated for words. It was not a pleasant tale he had
to tell; he would have to expurgate it as best he could. “It seems
that Mrs. Trevor, while living in Naples, had a desperate affair with
Giovanni Savelli. In about a year he found she was unfaithful to him. I
suspect Clark was the other man in question, but he wouldn’t admit it.
Anyway, Giovanni threatened to kill her when he turned her out in the
streets; he was so violent in his anger that, in desperate fear, she
fled the city at night.
“Some time after her marriage to your father, Clark came to Washington,
and through her influence secured his secretaryship. To terrorize Mrs.
Trevor, he told her that Giovanni was planning to revenge himself on
her, and that if she did not do exactly as he, Clark, wished, he would
inform Giovanni of her whereabouts.
“Now comes his devilish ingenuity. While in Naples, both Clark and Mrs.
Trevor joined the Camorra. Clark, desiring at last to get Mrs. Trevor
out of his way as he feared she would speak of his disreputable past in
one of her violent rages, sent word to Giovanni six weeks ago that she
was betraying secrets of the Camorra to the Italian Embassy here. To
further involve her, he himself sent information to the Ambassador in
Mrs. Trevor’s name. The Camorra leaders promptly investigated Clark’s
charges, found they were apparently true, and decreed her death.”
“What a fiend!” ejaculated Mrs. Macallister, horrified.
“He will have plenty of time to repent in one of our penitentiaries,”
said Dick, dryly. “Won’t you continue your story, Miss Beatrice?”
“Right after my arrival in Philadelphia, I met Don at a hop at the
League Island Navy Yard, where he was stationed. On Christmas day
we became engaged--” Gordon caught her hand in his and kissed it
passionately.
“I was very, very happy. On the 29th of December I received a long
letter from Father saying Mr. Clark had asked formally for my hand in
marriage, and that, after due consideration, he had given his consent.
Then he enumerated the advantages of the match. Through the whole
letter I could perceive my stepmother’s fine Italian hand. I knew the
great influence she had over him, and while he said he would never
force me to take anyone I disliked; still, he hoped, and so forth.
“The letter frightened me, Mrs. Macallister; and so when Don, after
reading it, suggested that we marry secretly and at once, I agreed.
We told my aunt, and she, also knowing that Father always sided with
Mrs. Trevor, said that it would probably come to an elopement sooner
or later. Therefore, liking and trusting Don as she did, she consented
to arrange the affair for us. I returned to Washington with my aunt
immediately after the ceremony, and Don came down the following day to
report for duty at the White House.
“Ah, Don!” she broke off, turning towards him, “you should not have
asked me to postpone the announcement of our marriage on the flimsy
excuse that you found on your arrival only unmarried officers were to
be the President’s aides. You should have given me your full confidence
then.”
“I was wrong,” admitted Gordon gravely. “But you do not know the
tangle I found myself in. Go on, dearest.”
“I was cruelly hurt,” said Beatrice, slowly; “though I tried to
convince myself that everything you did was for the best. And so things
drifted until the evening of the third.” She stopped and drew a long
breath.
“As I came downstairs dressed for the Bachelors’ that night, I was
surprised when Mrs. Trevor called me into the library. While outwardly
civil, we usually saw as little of each other as possible. She asked me
if it was true that I had definitely refused Mr. Clark, and when I said
it was, she flew into a terrible rage. When her anger had spent itself,
she begged and implored me to change my mind and marry him, saying that
I would bitterly rue the day if I did not.
“I laughed the idea to scorn; and told her I was pledged to another,
better man. ‘His name?’ she asked. ‘Donald Gordon,’ I replied. Without
a word she leaned over and took out several notes from the drawer of
her secretary, saying: ‘I am afraid your chevalier--_sans_ _peur et
sans reproche_--is but human. Here is a letter from him to me; read it.’
“Startled, my eyes fell on the handwriting I knew so well, and I read
the first few lines--words of endearment and love were written there,
Donald--” A fierce exclamation broke from him, and he started to
interrupt. “Wait,” she said. “Your turn will come later. To go back:
for a moment the room swam round me, and the black demons of jealousy
and despair conquered. Remember, I thought I already had cause to doubt
you. Mrs. Trevor’s beauty had proved irresistible to others; why not
to you? But I was determined not to give in; so I told her I did not
believe her, and she laughed, oh, a laugh of pure deviltry. At least,
it seemed so to me. She handed me another note from you, which said
that you would be there that night, and would rap on the door for her
to admit you.
“It was damning evidence, and my hope and faith crumbled away. In a few
passionate words I renounced you; and then, tearing off your signet
ring, which I always carried concealed since our wedding, I gave it to
her and bade her return it to you.
“As I started to leave the room, she said: ‘I will stop urging your
marriage to Alfred Clark on one condition.’
“‘And that is?’ I asked.
“‘That you give me your mother’s pearls.’
“For a moment I stared at my stepmother, thinking she had taken leave
of her senses. My dear mother’s rope of pearls! They are worth about
twenty thousand dollars. Grandfather Trowbridge had collected them from
all parts of the world, and their great value lay in their wonderful
match. Therefore, I thought my ears had played me false, and I asked
unbelievingly: ‘And your price?’ ‘You know it,’ she answered. By that
time I was wrought up beyond endurance, and cried out: ‘You devil, get
out of my way, or I may forget myself and strike you!’ That is the part
overheard by Wilkins--” her voice trailed off in a sob.
Dick broke the pause that followed. “Clark also told me that Mrs.
Trevor was trying to raise a large sum of money, hoping to buy his
silence,” he said. “She must have realized that she was nearly at the
end of her resources.”
“‘Whoso diggeth a Pit shall fall therein,’” quoted Mrs. Macallister,
softly.