The Return
It was not until we were back at the office again that either Mr. Royce
or myself ventured a comment upon this extraordinary story. Even then,
we found very little to say. Nothing could be done to divert the blow;
nothing even to lessen its severity. Burr Curtiss and Marcia Lawrence
must endure their fate with such courage as they could; must forget; at
least, must strive to soften love into affection. How would they regard
each other, I wondered? Would the mere fact of revealed relationship
alter their old feeling, or would love survive to torture them? They had
in common no brotherly-and-sisterly instincts or experiences; they were
unchanged; they were still maid and lover, as they had always been.
The days passed, and in the stress of work at the office, the memory of
Burr Curtiss and his fortunes gradually became less vivid, until I began
to hope that, in time, it might really cease to worry me. But one
morning, Mr. Royce looked up from his paper, his eyes shining.
"The _Umbria_ reached Liverpool this morning," he said, in a voice not
wholly steady. "It's all over by this time. I wonder how they bore it?"
"Bravely, I've no doubt," I answered, but I trembled at thought of it.
How had she summoned courage to tell him?
"He'll come home, I think," added Mr. Royce, pursuing his own thoughts.
"They could hardly stay abroad together; their relationship, of course,
will always remain a secret----"
The office boy entered and laid a little envelope at his elbow. He tore
it open quickly and read its contents at a glance.
"It's a cable from Curtiss," he said, and passed it over to me.
"_Oceanic_ delayed engine break-down," I read. "Reached
Liverpool five hours after _Umbria_. Missed Marcia but
searching for her. Cable care Hotel Adelphi."
Mr. Royce sat for a moment drumming nervously upon his chair-arm.
"He hasn't any chance of finding her in a place like that," he said, at
last. "Most probably she's gone on to London."
"Or to some place on the continent. There must be many places where
she'd feel at home."
"What would we better do? Shall we write out the story and mail it to
Curtiss? He'll get it in a week."
"He won't stay at Liverpool a week," I objected. "The letter might go
astray, and be opened by some one who had no right to read it."
"We might cable a mere outline."
I thought it over; but somehow my point of view had changed. Now that I
knew the story, it seemed to me that it was Marcia Lawrence's right to
decide what step should be taken next. Once she had recovered her
self-poise, she would see what course was best, and I was certain that
she would be brave enough, strong enough, to follow it unshrinking to
the end.
"Let us wait," I said. "A little delay can do no harm; just as haste can
do no good."
"Yes; I believe that's best," agreed our junior. "Nothing we can do will
help them. They must work out the problem for themselves."
"Besides," I added, "I've a feeling that Miss Lawrence will herself
decide to meet it squarely. She'll realise that Curtiss has a right to
know the story. I believe that she'll soon come home again, ready to
face him and tell him everything. She'll see that it's cowardly to stay
away. Then there's her mother--she'll think of her--of her misery and
loneliness. She won't leave her to live by herself in that great, gloomy
house. We're safe in leaving the future in her hands."
But in the days that followed, I came to doubt more and more whether
this policy was the best one. Had I not been thinking too much of Miss
Lawrence, and too little of our client? Perhaps if he knew the secret,
he would no longer wish to pursue her; he might prefer to wait, to give
time opportunity to heal the first rawness of the wound. Indeed, it was
conceivable that love might change to loathing. In that case, it were
better to have the crisis over with at once; to apply the knife before
the sore had a chance to harden or grow deeper. Such heroic action might
effect a cure. But I kept these doubts to myself; there was no use
disturbing our junior with them. I could see how he was suffering on his
friend's behalf. I could guess his fear that some dreadful tragedy would
mark the end.
The days passed, and we heard no more from
Curtiss, not a word to tell us how the search had progressed. Godfrey
came in to see me once or twice, but he had nothing new to tell; and of
course I had nothing to tell him. At last, he expressed the opinion that
we should never solve the mystery; and as the public had forgotten it
long since, he decided to waste no more time upon it.
Another visitor I had one afternoon, when Dr. Schuyler's card was
brought in to me. I ordered him shown in at once, and as I shook hands
with him, I noted that he seemed greyer and older than when I had seen
him last.
"Yes," he said, with a smile, interpreting my glance; "it's this trouble
which has been weighing upon me. I've tried to shake it off, but I
can't."
"Sit down," I said. "I'm glad to see you. And I wouldn't allow the
affair to worry me, if I were you."
"That's easy enough to say," he retorted, with a little shake of the
head. "But remember, Mr. Lester, Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter were two
of my dearest friends. And this tragedy has wrecked their lives. Is
there any news?"
"None at all, except that Curtiss missed the _Umbria_ at Liverpool, and
has not been able to find Miss Lawrence."
"Perhaps that was best."
"I'm inclined to think so myself," I agreed.
"There's one thing, though," he added suddenly. "Curtiss has no reason
to be ashamed of his birth."
I looked at him with quick interest.
"Then you've discovered----"
"Yes; the minister who married Mary Jarvis and Boyd Endicott. I couldn't
rest after you showed me that picture--after I knew that Mary Jarvis had
had a child. I felt that I must find out--for her sake, as well as for
my own. And so I set systematically to work. It was really not
difficult, for there were not more than six or eight places where the
ceremony could possibly have been performed. I took them one after
another, and soon found the right one--you see, I had the date,
approximately. Her story was true in every detail. They had driven to
Clearwater, about five miles north of Plainfield, a little village of
two or three hundred inhabitants. The minister who married them is still
living. He showed me the record, and he remembered the affair
distinctly. The night was a very bad one, and he had been aroused from
sleep by a loud knocking at the door. He had gone down, thinking that it
was some neighbour come to summon him to the bedside of some one taken
suddenly ill, and was surprised to find a handsome young fellow standing
on the doorstep. He explained his errand in a few words, and ten minutes
later, the thing was done. The minister's wife was the only witness. The
bride was very frightened and more than once seemed about to faint, but
managed to pull through, and was driven away with her husband a few
minutes after the ceremony has been performed."
The clergyman's face was glowing with satisfaction.
"It was a great thing to me," he added, "to be able to prove that Mary
Jarvis had told her father the truth."
"It seems strange," I said, "that he never made any attempt to verify
it."
"Ah, but he did," broke in Dr. Schuyler quickly. "He did verify it. At
least it could have been no one else in my opinion, from the description
given me by the minister at Clearwater. He was there and saw the record
only a few days after that Christmas Eve on which his daughter attempted
to run away."
"He never told his sister," I said, and told him of Mrs. Heminway's
story.
"It was like him," said my companion, after a moment's thought, "to keep
it to himself. Perhaps he feared his sister would feel some tenderness
for the child if she knew there was no shame attached to it. But
whatever his motive, I am glad that I know the truth."
"And I," I said. "It will be easier to tell Curtiss--if he must be
told."
"And Marcia."
"I don't believe she ever doubted."
"Perhaps not; but it will be good for her to know."
"Yes," I agreed, and fell a moment silent. How would the story end?
"Poor children!" said my companion, and rose with a little sigh. "They
must bear the burden with what strength they have. God send it be
sufficient! I must bid you good-bye, Mr. Lester. I feel better, now that
you know the truth. I want every one who knows the story to know this
part of it."
"They shall," I promised.
"And if there is any way that I can help----"
"You don't need to assure me of that," I interrupted. "I shall call upon
you without an instant's hesitation."
"Thank you," and he wrung my hand and was gone.
How would the story end? I asked myself the question again, as I sank
back into my seat. And I could find no answer to it.
But the end was nearer than I had thought.
* * * * *
It was near closing time one afternoon, and we were finishing up some
odds and ends of work, when the door opened, and in came Burr Curtiss.
We were on our feet in an instant--Mr. Royce and I--and had him by the
hands. He was greatly changed--older and thinner, with an increased
lankness of jaw; but he had regained his equilibrium. He was no longer
dazed by the blow fate had dealt him. The firm-set lips told that he had
taught himself how to face the world and his own future.
We sat down after the first greetings, and then there was a little
pause. I was uncertain how to begin; I had a horror of opening old
wounds which I saw that Mr. Royce acutely shared.
"Well, I'm back," Curtiss began, seeing our hesitation and no doubt
understanding it. "I soon found out that I'd undertaken a hopeless
task."
"Then you didn't find her?" asked Mr. Royce.
"No," answered the other evenly. "I completely lost track of her after
she left Liverpool. I was able to trace her to the station, and to find
that she'd taken train for London, and that was all. So I decided that
the wisest thing for me to do was to come home. My boat got in an hour
ago--and I came straight here for news."
Our junior nodded.
"Yes--I think you did right to come back. But I haven't any news--at
least, I believe that she herself would wish to tell you----"
Curtiss started sharp around.
"Then you know?" he asked. "You know why she left me?"
Mr. Royce paused an instant, then chose the better way.
"Yes," he said. "Lester hit upon it, and we proved he was right."
Curtiss was out of his chair now; but he held himself well in hand.
"And you'll tell me?"
"It was nothing that reflects on either of you. It was something neither
of you could help nor do anything to alter."
"So it's bad news!" and his face turned suddenly livid.
"Sit down, Curtiss," said our junior imploringly. "It's hard enough, at
best--I--can't tell you at all if you take it that way."
Curtiss glanced at him again, then sat down.
"Now tell me," he said quietly, but I saw how his hands were trembling.
"I don't wonder she fled," began Mr. Royce, shrinking from the plunge.
"She couldn't face the world----"
"But me," cried Curtiss; "she could have faced me!"
"You least of all."
"Tell me," whispered Curtiss. "Let me judge of that."
There was no resisting him--it was his right to know--so our junior told
the story, as briefly as might be.
He bore it better than I had hoped. After a time, he was able to talk of
it quite calmly, to ask a question or two, to tell us something of his
own boyhood, and of the people who reared him.
"I never suspected," he concluded, "that John Curtiss and his wife
weren't really my grandparents. They told me my father and mother were
dead, and they certainly treated me as a child of their own. They had no
other children, and doubtless by the time I came of age to ask
questions, regarded me as wholly theirs. Mrs. Curtiss died when I was
sixteen, her husband three years later, just as I was ready to enter
college; and I found that he'd made me his sole heir, and that I was
worth some thirty thousand dollars. I went on to college, as they'd
wished me to. And now," he added, "what shall I do? Shall I go to
Elizabeth and see Mrs. Lawrence----"
It was plain that he could not think of her as his mother. She had never
been his mother. He had never known her as such; she had played no part
in his childhood. I knew that one of the questions I had asked myself
was answered: the mere revelation of kinship had made no difference in
his feeling for Marcia Lawrence. He loved her yet; he had that battle
still to fight. And she--was it the same with her? What a hideous irony
of fate!
"Mrs. Lawrence knew nothing of the story," I pointed out. "She may know
nothing of it, even yet. She doesn't suspect that her child lived. I
think her daughter means that she should never know, if it can be kept
from her."
"Then she shall never know from me," he said, and took a deep breath. "I
suppose that I'd better wait. Marcia can decide what's best to do. I--I
don't think I quite realise what it all means," and he passed his hand
before his eyes. "The best thing for me is to go to work. That'll give
me something else to think about."
"That's right," I said. "Thinking about this won't do any good--nothing
will."
"No," he agreed, his lips bloodless. "I begin to see that--to
understand----"
The door opened, and the office boy came in.
"Telegram, Mr. Lester," he said, and gave it to me.
It was:
"Our Elizabeth correspondent wires Miss Lawrence home noon
to-day.
"GODFREY."