A Strange Message
I guessed in a breath who she was, and my heart went out to her in
instant pity. Yet a second glance told me that it was not the shadow of
this recent sorrow which lay across her face. Time alone could grave
those lines of calm endurance, could give to the eyes that look of quiet
resignation, to the mouth that curve of patient suffering; and only a
deep spiritual faith could preserve and heighten the sweetness and
gentleness of a countenance so marked.
"This is Mr. Lester, Mrs. Lawrence," said our junior, quickly, and
placed a chair for her. "We've asked Mr. Lester to help us," he added.
She closed the door behind her and came forward as we rose,
acknowledging the introduction with the faintest of bows.
"Thank you," she said. "Lucy told me you had returned, Mr. Royce," she
went on, a little tremulously, "and I was anxious to know if you had any
news."
"Not yet. Mr. Curtiss was just telling Mr. Lester----"
"Yes," she interrupted, "I saw how he was suffering and I wished to
spare him, if I could."
"My dear Mrs. Lawrence," broke in Curtiss, "you must think only of
sparing yourself."
"Still," I suggested, "it's possible that Mrs. Lawrence can help us a
great deal, if she will."
She was holding herself admirably in hand, and I thought her in much
less danger of breaking down than Curtiss himself. Perhaps the old
sorrow had taught her how to bear the new one.
"I shall be glad to help you all I can," she said, and smiled a faint
encouragement.
It seemed brutal to question her at such a time, but I saw it must be
done and I nerved myself to do it.
"Mrs. Lawrence," I began, "has any possible explanation of your
daughter's flight occurred to you?"
"No," she answered quickly, and with an emphasis that rather startled
me. "It seems to me utterly unexplainable. Even yet, I can scarcely
believe it!"
"She left no message for you?"
"Not a word; she simply disappeared."
"And you had no warning?"
"Warning?" she repeated, facing around upon me. "No!"
"Nor suspected that there was anything amiss?"
"Not for an instant."
"Since there _was_ something amiss, why did your daughter not confide in
you?"
"I have asked myself the same question. I am utterly unable to answer
it."
"She was in the habit of coming to you with her troubles?"
"Always. There was the most perfect confidence between us."
"And yet she concealed this?"
"She did not conceal it!" she protested. "She could not have concealed
it from my eyes, even had she wished to. There was nothing to conceal.
There was absolutely nothing wrong the last time I saw her."
"And that was?"
"Only a few minutes before she disappeared."
"Will you tell me just what happened?" I suggested, as gently as I
could. "Every detail you can remember."
She sat for a moment with compressed lips, steadying herself.
"There's very little to tell," she began. "She was quite her usual self
this morning, so far as I could see, and very happy. Two or three of her
girl friends came in to see her for a moment, to talk over the final
arrangements, and she was giving some directions about the decorations
when Mr. Curtiss called. After he had gone, she made a last trip through
the house to see that all was right, and then started upstairs to dress.
Half an hour later, she came to my room in her wedding-gown to ask how
she looked, and I had never seen her looking more beautiful. Only
perfect happiness can give such beauty to a woman. I remember thinking
what a joy it was to me that she had found a man whom she could love as
she loved----"
A half-stifled, choking sob from Curtiss interrupted her. She turned and
stretched out her hand to him, with a gesture of infinite affection.
"I finished dressing," she continued, "and then went to Marcia's room,
but she wasn't there. Her maid said she'd been called downstairs for a
moment. I came down, and found that the decorator had wanted her opinion
of the final touches. She had left him, to go upstairs again, as he
supposed. It was then nearly half-past eleven, and the bridesmaids began
to arrive. I supposed Marcia was in the grounds somewhere, and sent two
of the servants to look for her and to tell her it was time to start for
the church. They came back saying she was not to be found. Then I began
to be alarmed, thinking that she had perhaps been taken suddenly ill,
and we searched the house and grounds systematically, but found no trace
of her. At last, it seemed just possible that she had gone on to the
church, and the bridesmaids hurried into the carriages and drove
away--but she wasn't there--only Burr waiting for her----"
She stopped with a sudden tremulousness.
"Thank you," I said. "There's one question I must ask, Mrs. Lawrence,
before I can go to work intelligently. You will pardon it. Had your
daughter ever had any attachment previous to this one?"
I saw Curtiss glance at her quickly. That solution of the problem had
occurred to him, then, too!
"Not the shadow of one," answered Mrs. Lawrence instantly, and perhaps
it was only my fancy that the accent of sincerity was a trifle forced.
"I have been Marcia's companion and confidante all her life, and I am
sure that no man ever distinctly interested her until she met Mr.
Curtiss."
"But she no doubt interested many men," I suggested.
"Yes, but never with intention."
"That only makes the case more desperate sometimes."
"I don't believe there were any desperate cases. You will remember," she
added, "that we lived much abroad, and so had few intimate
acquaintances. Besides, Marcia was--well--extremely patriotic. She often
said that she would marry only an American--and an American who lived at
home and was proud of his country. One doesn't meet many of that kind in
Europe."
"No," I agreed. Whatever my doubts might be, it was clearly impossible
at present to proceed any further along that line of inquiry.
And what other line lay open? It seemed to me that I had come to an
impasse--a closed way--which barred further progress.
I sat silent a moment, pondering the problem. Perhaps Mrs. Lawrence held
the key to it, and I turned to look at her. She was seemingly sunk in
reverie, and her lips moved from time to time, as though she were
repeating to herself some fragmentary words. She seemed more
self-possessed in the presence of this catastrophe than one would have
expected. Perhaps she knew where her daughter was; perhaps Miss Lawrence
had not really fled. There was nothing to show that she had left the
house. It seemed impossible that a woman clad as she had been could have
fled, in broad day, without attracting some one's notice. But whether
she had fled or not, I reflected, the mystery remained the same.
Certainly, she had not appeared at the altar to keep her promise to Burr
Curtiss.
"Mrs. Lawrence," I asked, "what reason have you to believe that your
daughter left the house?"
She started from her reverie, and sat staring at me as though scarce
understanding.
"Why," she said at last, "what else could she have done? She has
disappeared----"
"You're sure she isn't concealed somewhere about the place?"
"Concealed?" and she paled a little under my eyes. "Oh, no; that's
impossible! We've searched everywhere!"
"And you think she went of her own free will?"
"She could scarcely have been abducted," she retorted. "Marcia is a
strong girl, and a single scream would have alarmed the house."
"That's true," I agreed. "Your room is near hers?"
"Just across the hall."
The wish flashed into my brain to look through the house; perhaps I
should be able to arrange it.
"There's no pit or hole or trap or anything of that sort into which she
could have fallen?"
"Oh, no; nothing of the sort."
"Nor closet nor chest into which she could have accidentally locked
herself?" I went on, remembering the fate of the bride in the old song.
"No; besides, we've looked in them all. We've searched everywhere--every
corner. She's not in the house--I'm quite sure of that."
"And yet you say she loved Mr. Curtiss?"
"Loved him devotedly."
"Then what possible reason could she have for deserting him? Why should
she----"
A knock at the door interrupted me. Mrs. Lawrence, who was sitting
nearest it, rose quickly and opened it. I caught a glimpse, in the
semi-darkness of the hall, of a woman in a maid's cap and apron. She
gave her mistress a letter, whispering, as she did so, a swift sentence
in her ear.
I heard Mrs. Lawrence's low exclamation of surprise, as she held the
letter up to the light and read the superscription. Then she turned
swiftly toward us, her face pale with emotion.
"It's a note!" she cried. "A note from Marcia! It will explain!" and she
handed the envelope to Curtiss.
"A note?" he stammered. "Addressed to me?"
"In Marcia's writing. Read it. It will explain," she repeated.
He took it with trembling hand, went to the window, and tore it open. I
saw his lips quivering as he read it; I saw the white intensity with
which Mrs. Lawrence watched his face; I was conscious, too, of another
presence in the room, and I glanced around to see that the maid stood
leaning forward in the open doorway, her eyes sparkling with eagerness,
her mouth working, her hands clasping and unclasping convulsively. There
was something sinister in her dark, expressive face, in her
attitude--something almost of exulting, of triumph----
Curtiss crushed the letter in his hand with a quick movement of despair,
and turned to us distraught, flushed, astounded.
"It tells nothing," he faltered; "nothing. It--it--I can't believe it!
Read it, Mr. Lester," and he held the sheet of paper toward me.
There were only a few lines upon it:--
"Dearest: I cannot be your wife--how shall I tell you? It is
quite, quite impossible. Oh, believe me, sweetheart, nothing
but the certainty of that could keep me from you. I am fleeing;
I cannot see you, cannot speak to you; there can be no
explanation; only I shall love you always! Is it wrong to write
that now, I wonder? Please do not attempt to follow me, to seek
me out; that will only mean sorrow for us both--sorrow and
shame. Perhaps some day, when the wound heals--will it ever
heal?--I can tell you, can bear to see you. But oh, not now!
"MARCIA LAWRENCE."