“Yes, we know,” Mr. Jackson broke in. “You cannot bridle the curiosity

of servants. We know that he loves another woman than your young

mistress with all her advantages. You may speak plainly.”

“Oh, but it hurts!” she moaned. Then, as if no break had occurred,

“When I found that he was not the man I thought him--that nothing I

could do would ever make good the dream of years, I hated myself and

what I had done and above all my treatment of you, Mr. Quenton. I did

not succeed in the wrong I planned,--something happened--God knows

what--to upset all that, but the feeling was there and I am sorry; and

now that I have said so, may I not go? I have heard that you are kind;

that none of us knew how kind; let me go--”

She paused, her lips half closed, every sense on the alert. She was no

longer looking at me but straight ahead of her though the danger was

approaching from the rear. A door behind her was opening. I could see

the face of the man who entered and felt my own heart sink. Next moment

he was at her side, his finger pressing on her shoulder.

“Let us hear your answer to the question which Mr. Jackson has just put

to you. Was your visit to Mr. Bartholomew’s room before or after you

heard the setting down of the medicine glass on the shelf?”

“Before.”

She spoke like one in a dream. She seemed to know who her interlocutor

was though she did not turn to look at him.

“You lied when you said that you saw this gentleman here hurrying down

the hall immediately after you had heard some one carefully shutting

the door next to the medicine cabinet?”

“Yes, I lied.”

Still like one in a dream.

“Did you see him or his shadow pass down the hall at any time that

night?”

“No.”

“Why these stories then? Why these lies?”

She was silent.

“Was it not Edgar Bartholomew you heard or saw at that door; and did

you not know it was he?”

Again silence; but now a horrified one.

“Are you sure that he did not come in at that door you heard shut?

That the only mistake made that night was that the dose was not strong

enough--that your patient did not die in time for the will in this

gentleman’s favor to be abstracted and destroyed, leaving the other one

as the final expression of Mr. Bartholomew’s wishes and testamentary

intentions? You need not answer. It is a law of this country that no

one can be compelled to incriminate himself. But that is how it looks

to us, Mrs. Starr. That is how it looks.”

With this he lifted his finger; and the breath held back in all our

throats broke from us in a simultaneous gasp. She only did not move,

but sat gazing as before, cheek and brow and even lips growing whiter

and whiter till we all shrank back appalled. As the silence grew longer

and heavier and more threatening I covered my face with my hands. I

could not look and listen too. A vision of Edgar in his most buoyant

mood, with laughter in his eye and winsome _bonhomie_ in every feature

flashed before me and passed. I could hardly bear it. Then I heard her

voice, thin, toneless, and ringing like a wire which has been struck:

“Edgar is innocent. He never entered the room. No one entered it. That

was another lie. I alone mixed the dose. I thought he would die at once

and let me do what you said. It came to me as I sat there waiting for

the morning--the morning I did not feel myself strong enough to face.”

LV

We believed her. I, because it lifted a great load from my heart;

Lawyer Jackson and the Inspector because of their long experience with

criminal humanity. Misery has its own voice! So has conscience; and

conscience, despite the strain she had put upon it during these last

few evil days was yet alive within her.

Notwithstanding this, the Inspector would not let the moment pass

without a warning.

“Mrs. Starr,” said he, “it is my duty to tell you that you will be

making a great mistake in taking upon yourself the full burden of this

crime if you are simply its accessory before or after. The real culprit

cannot escape by any such means as that, and you will neither help him

or yourself by taking such a stand.”

The dullness which had crept into her eyes, the loose set of her lips,

the dejection, with every purpose gone, which showed in the collapse of

her hitherto firmly held body offered the best proof which had yet been

given that she had not exaggerated her position. Even her voice had

changed; all its ringing quality was gone; it sounded dead, utterly,

without passion, almost without feeling:

“I did it myself when I was alone with--with my patient and this--this

is why. If I must tell all, I will tell all, though the shame of it

will kill me. When I got back from Mr. Edgar’s room, I took another

look at Mr. Bartholomew. He was still sleeping and as much of his face

as I could see for the little shawl, was calmer than before and his

breath even more regular. I should have been happy, but I was not, and

stood looking at him, asking myself again and again what he had been

doing while I was below and if I were right in thinking that he had not

looked into the envelopes. If he had and had changed the wills back

where should we be? Mr. Edgar would lose his inheritance and all my

wicked work would go for nothing. I could not bear the thought. If only

I dared open that little drawer, and have a peep at those documents. I

had not the least suspicion that one of them had been withdrawn from

its envelope. The full one was on top and I was so nervous handling

them under his eye that the emptiness of the under one had escaped me.

So I had not that to worry about, only the uncertainty as to which was

in the marked envelope--the envelope he had held over the fire and drew

back saying that Orpha must do what he could not.

“I knew that if he should wake and detect me fumbling under his pillow

for his key that I should fall at his bedside in shame and terror;

yet I was putting out my hand, when he moved and turned his head,

disarranging the shawl, and I saw projecting from under the pillow not

the key but his eye-glasses and started back and let the curtain fall

and sank into the chair I always had near, overcome by a certainty

which took away all my strength just when I needed it for fresh thought.

“For there was no mistaking now what he had been doing in my absence.

He could not read without his glasses, though he could see other things

quite well. He had risen to get them--for I remembered only too clearly

that they had been lying on his desk when I left the room. I can see

them now, just where they lay close against the inkstand; and having

got them, and being on his feet, he had locked the doors so that he

would not be interrupted while he satisfied himself that the will he

had resolved to destroy was in the marked envelope. That he had done

more than this--taken the will he wished kept and carried it out of the

room, was not within the mind of a poor woman like me to conceive. I

was in a bad enough case as it was. He knew in which envelope was the

will which would give Edgar his inheritance and I did not. Should I

go and consult Edgar as to what we should do now? No; whatever was to

be done should be done by me alone; he should not be dragged into it.

That is how I felt. But what to do? I did not know. For an hour I sat

there, the curtain drawn between us, listening to his breathing. And I

thought it all out. I would do just what you said here a little moment

ago. Open the drawer and take out the will I hated and burn it to ashes

in the fireplace, leaving only the one which would make everything

right. But to be free to do this he--must--first--die. I loved Edgar;

I was willing to do anything for him but meet his uncle’s accusing

eye. That would take bravery I did not possess. So I rose at last,

very determined now my mind was made up, and moving quietly around the

foot of the bed, crept stealthily to the medicine cabinet, and lifting

out the phial I wanted, set it on a lower shelf and then returning for

the glass of soothing mixture already prepared, dropped into it what I

thought was a heavy dose, and putting back the medicine phial, carried

the glass to the bedside where I put it on a chair close to his hand;

for he had turned over again by this time and lay with his face toward

the windows.

“The light from the fire added to that of the lamp on the other side

of the bed made the room bright enough for me to do all this; but

when I got back and had seated myself again, the lamp-light seemed an

offense and I put it out. The glow from the fire was enough! He could

see to reach the glass--and I waited--waited--till I heard a sigh--then

a movement--then a quietly whispered _Wealthy?_--and then, a slight

tinkle as though the button at his wrist had touched the glass--and

_then_--

“Oh, God! will I ever forget it? Or how I waited and waited for what

must follow, watching the shadows gather on the ceiling, and creep

slowly down the walls till they settled upon my head and about the bed

where I still heard him moving and muttering now and then words which

had no meaning. Why moving? Why muttering? I had expected silence long

before this. And why such a chill and so heavy a darkness? Then I

realized that the fire he so loved was out for the first time since his

illness,--the fire that was to destroy the will I had not yet touched

or even sought out, and I rose to rebuild it, when he suddenly cried

out, ‘Light!’ and shaken by the tone, subdued in one instant to my old

obedient self, I turned on the lamp and pulled back the curtain.

“He was looking at me, not unkindly, but in the imperious way of one

who knows he has but to speak to have his least wish carried out.

“He was ill. I was to rouse the house--bring the bowl--the candles--no

waiting,--I knew what I was to do; he had told me the night before.

“And I did each and every thing just as he commanded. Alive to seeming

failure, to possible despair, I went about my task, hoping against hope

that all would yet go right; that Fate would step in and make my sin of

some avail at this terrible crisis. Though the hands I wrung together

in my misery as I ran through the hall were like ice to the touch,

I was all on fire within. Now there is no more fire left here”--her

hand falling heavy on her breast--“than on the stones of the desolated

hearth;--only ashes! ashes!”

The Inspector moved, and was about to speak, but ceased as her voice

rose again in that same awful monotone.

“I loved my Mr. Edgar then.” She spoke as though years had intervened

instead of a few flitting days. “I used to think that in return for one

of his gay smiles I would put my hands under his feet. But to-day, I do

not seem to care enough for him to be glad that he is not guilty. If he

were, and had to face what I have to face--shame, when I have always

prided myself on my good-name--isolation, when to help others has been

my life--death, when--” She paused at that, her head falling forward,

her eyes opening into a wide stare, as though she saw for the first

time the abyss into which she was sinking,--“I should not now be so

lonely.”

The Inspector drew back, Mr. Jackson turned away his head. I could not

move feature or limb. I was beholding for the first time the awakening

of a lost soul to the horror of its own sin.

“I don’t know why it is,” she went on, still in that toneless voice

more moving than any wail or even shriek. “It did not seem such a

dreadful thing to do that night. It was but hastening his death by a

few days, possibly by only a few hours. But now--now--” Suddenly to

our amazement she was on her feet, her eyes roaming from one face to

the other of us three, all signs of apathy gone, passion restored to

her heart, feeling restored to her voice, as she cried out: “Will Miss

Orpha have to know? I wish I could see her before she knows. I wish--I

wish--”

It was my turn now. Leaping to her side, I held her while the sobs came

in agony from her breast, shaking her and distorting her features till

in mercy I pulled down her veil and seated her again in her chair.

As I withdrew my arm she managed to press my hand. And I heard very

faintly from behind that veil:

“I am glad something happened to give you what you wanted.”

LVI

I thought I had only to go now, and leave her to the Inspector who I

felt would deal with her as mercifully as he could. But Mr. Jackson

shook his head as I was about to depart, and stepping up to the

Inspector said a few earnest words to him after which the former sat

down at his desk and wrote a few lines which he put in the official’s

hands. Then he drew me apart.

“Wait,” he said; “we may want your signature.”

It was a written confession which the Inspector took upon himself to

ask her to sign.

She was sitting back in her chair, very quiet now, her veil down, her

figure immovable. The slow heaving of her chest bespoke life and that

was all. The Inspector bent down as he reached her and after a minute’s

scrutiny of her veiled features said to her not unkindly:

“It will save you much mental suffering if you will sign these words

which I first ask you to listen to. Are you ready to hear them?”

She nodded, her hands which were clasped about a little bag she was

carrying, twitching convulsively.

“Water, first,” she begged, turning up her eyes till they rested on his

face.

He made me a motion, but did not stir from where he stood before her.

Instead, he directed his full glance at her hands, and unclasping

them gently from the bag she was clutching, opened them out and took

away the bag which he laid aside. Then he raised her veil, and handed

her the glass which I had brought and watched her while she drank. A

few drops seemed to suffice to reinvigorate her, and giving back the

glass, she waited for him to read.

The words were mercifully few but they told the full story. As she

listened, she sank back into her old pose, only that her hands missing

the little bag clutched the arms of the chair in which she sat, and

seemed to grow rigid there. But they loosed their grasp readily enough

as the Inspector brought a pad and a pen and laying the pad in her lap

with the words she had listened to plainly before her, handed her the

pen and asked her to sign them.

She roused herself to do this, and when he would draw her veil again

she put up her hand in protest, after which she wrote somehow, almost

without seeing what she did, the three words which formed her name.

Then she sank back again and as he carried away the pad, and, laying

the signed confession on the desk for Mr. Jackson and myself to affix

our signatures to it as witnesses, she clutched again the arms of her

chair and so sat as before, without further word or seeming interest in

what was being done.

Should I go now without a word to her, without asking if she had any

message to send to Edgar or to Orpha? While I was hesitating, whether

or not to address her, I saw the Inspector start and laying his hand

on Mr. Jackson’s arm point to her silent figure. A coldness, icy and

penetrating struck my heart. I saw them hurriedly advance, I saw the

Inspector for the second time slowly lift her veil, give one look and

drop it again. And I saw nothing more for a minute, then as my senses

cleared, I met the eyes of the two men fixed on me and not on her, and

summoning up my strength I said:

“It is better so.”

They did not answer, but in each man’s eye I saw that had they spoken

it would have been in repetition of my words:

“It is better so.”

LVII

My first duty, now as ever, was to Orpha. Before rumor reached her

she must know, and from no other lips than mine, what had happened.

Then,--I did not get much beyond that _then_, for mortal foresight is

of all things most untrustworthy, and I had fought too long with facts

to wish to renew my battle with delusive fancies.

To shut out every imagining which might get the better of my good

sense, I forced myself to recall the foolish reasoning in which I

had indulged when the possibility of Uncle having been the victim

of Edgar’s cupidity was obsessing my brain. How I had attributed to

him acts of which he had been entirely guiltless. How in order to

explain our uncle’s death by poison I had imagined him going to the

sick room upon seeing Wealthy leave it, and winning the old gentleman

to his mind, had carried off the will whose existence threatened his

rights, and burned it, with our uncle’s consent, in his own room. All

this, while uncle was really behind locked doors making his painful

journey down between the walls of his house, in order to place in safe

keeping,--possibly from his own vacillation,--the will which endowed

myself with what had previously been meant for Edgar alone.

That I had thus allowed my imagination to run so far away from facts

was another lesson of the danger we incur in trusting to fanciful

reasoning where our own interests are involved; and that I should have

carried my futile deductions further, even to the point of supposing

that after the question of poisoning was mooted he had taken Orpha

and Wealthy upstairs in order to confuse his former finger-prints with

fresh ones of his own and theirs, brought me a humiliation in my own

eyes now that I knew the truth, which possibly was the best preparation

I could have for the interview which now lay before me.

That I was not yet out of the woods,--that I was still open to the

attack of vituperative tongues I knew full well; but that could not

be helped. What I wanted was to square myself with my own conscience

before I faced Orpha and turned another leaf in our heavy book of

troubles.

LVIII

Haines, for all his decorum, showed an anxious face when he opened the

door to me. It changed, however, to one of satisfaction as he saw who

had come.

“Oh, sir!” he cried, as I stepped in, “where is Wealthy? Mr. Edgar has

been asking for her this half hour. The girl is no good and he will

have none of the rest of us in his room.”

“I will go to him. Is Miss Bartholomew in?”

“Yes, sir; he won’t see her either.”

“Haines, I have something serious to say to Miss Bartholomew. You may

tell her that I should be very glad to have a few words with her. But

first I must quiet him; and while I am in the third story, whether it

be for a few minutes or half an hour, I rely on you to see that Miss

Bartholomew receives no callers and no message from any one. If the

phone rings, choke it off. Cut the wire if necessary. I am in earnest,

Haines. Will you do as I ask?”

“I will, sir.”

I could see how anxious he was to know what all this meant, but he did

not ask and I should not have told him if he had. It was for Edgar

first, and then for Orpha to hear what I had to relate.

LIX

When I entered Edgar’s room he was sitting propped up in bed, a woeful

figure. He had just flung a book at the poor mute who had vainly tried

to find for him the thing he wanted. When he saw me he whitened and

slid down half out of sight under the bed-clothes.

“Where is Wealthy?” he shouted out. “I want her and nobody else.” But

before I could answer, he spoke again and this time with a show of his

old-time lightness. “Not but what it is good of you to come and see a

poor devil like me.”

“Edgar,” I said, advancing straight to his bedside and sitting down

on its edge, “I have come, not only to see what can be done for you

to-day, but to ask if you will let me stay by you till you are well

enough and strong enough to kick me out.”

“But where is Wealthy?” he cried, with a note of alarm in his voice.

“She went out for an hour. She should be back. I--I must have Wealthy,

glum as she is.”

Should I shock him with the truth? Would it prove to be too much for

him in his present feverish state? For a moment I feared so, then as I

noticed the restlessness which made his every member quiver, I decided

that he would be less physically disturbed by a full knowledge of

Wealthy’s guilt and the events of the last hour, than by a prolonged

impatience at her absence and the vexation which any attempt at

deception would occasion him.

“Won’t I possibly do for a substitute?” I smiled. “Wealthy cannot come.

She will not come any more, Edgar. Though you may not have known it

she was a great sufferer--a great sinner--a curse to this house during

the last few weeks. It was she--”

“Ah!”

He had me by the arm. He had half raised himself again so that his

eyes, hot with fever and the horror of this revelation burned close

upon mine. His lips shook; his whole body trembled, but he understood

me. I did not need to complete my unfinished sentence.

“You must take it calmly,” I urged. “Think what this uncertainty has

done to the family. It has almost destroyed us in the eyes of the

world. Now we can hold up our heads again; now _you_ can hold up your

head again. It should comfort you.”

“You don’t know,” he muttered, turning his head away. Then quickly,

violently, “I can never get away from the shame of it. She did it for

me. I know that she did it for me and people will think--”

“No,” I said, “they will not think. She exonerates you completely.

Edgar, I have to tell this news to Orpha. She must not hear it first

from one of the servants or from some newspaper man. Let me go down

to her. I will come back, but not to weary you, or allow you to weary

yourself with talk. When you are better we will have it all out. What

you have to do now is to get well, and I am going to help you.”

I started to rise but he drew me back again.

“There is something I must confess to you before you undertake that. I

have not been fair--”

I took him by both hands.

“Let us forget that. It has come between us long enough. It must not do

so any longer.”

“You know--”

“I had to listen to Wealthy’s story.”

Letting go of his hands, I again tried to rise; but for the second time

he drew me back.

“You are going to tell Orpha. Are you going to tell Lucy, too?”

“Miss Colfax is not in the house; she left this noon for New York.”

He stiffened where he lay. I was glad I had let go of his hands. I

could affect more easily a nonchalant manner. “She has an aunt there, I

believe. Is there anything you want before I go down?”

Oh, the hunger in his stare! “Nothing now, nothing but to get well. You

have promised to help me and you shall.” Then as I crossed to the door,

“Where have they put her? Wealthy, I mean. I ought to do something.”

“No, Edgar, she is being cared for. She confessed, you know, and they

will not be too harsh with her. I will tell you another time all that

I have failed to say to-day. For two days we will not speak her name.

After that you may ask me anything you will.”

With that I closed the door behind me. The greater trial was to come.

LX

So I thought, but the first view I had of Orpha’s face reassured me.

Haines had successfully carried out the rôle I had assigned him and she

was still ignorant of what had occurred to change the aspect of all our

lives. Her expression was not uncheerful, only a little wistful; and we

were alone, which made the interview both easier and harder.

“How is Edgar?”

Those were her first words.

“Better. I left him in a much calmer mood. He has been worrying about

Wealthy. Have you been worrying, too?”

“Not worrying. I think she has been a long time gone, but she was very

tired and needed a change and the air.”

“Orpha, how much faith do you put in this woman who has been so useful

here?”

“Why, all there is in the world. She has never failed us. What do you

mean?”

“You have found her good as well as useful?”

“Always. She has seemed more like a friend than a housekeeper. Why do

you ask? Why are we discussing her when there are so many other things

we ought to talk about?”

“Because this nurse of Edgar concerns us more than any one else in

the world to-day. Because through her we nearly came to grief and now

through her we are to see the light again. Will you try to understand

me? Without further words, understand me?”

I could see the knowledge coming, growing, flaming in her face.

“Wealthy!” she cried. “Wealthy! Not any one nearer and dearer! I could

never bring myself to believe that it was. But not to know! I could not

have borne it much longer.”

And I had to sit there, with her dear hand so near and not touch it. To

explain, counsel and console, with that old adjuration from lips whose

dictates still remained authoritative over me, not to pass the line

from cousinship to lover till he had taken off the ban or was dead. He

was dead, but the ban had not yet been removed, for there were some

things I must be sure of before love could triumph; one of which I was

resolved to settle before I left Orpha’s presence.

So when we had said all there was to say of the day’s tragedy and what

was to be expected from it, I spoke to her of the odd little key which

had opened the way to the hidden stairway and asked her if she had it

about her as I greatly desired to see it again.

“I am wearing it for a little while,” she answered and drawing the

chain from her neck she laid both that and the key in my hand.

I studied the latter closely before putting the inquiry:

“Is this the key you found in the earth of the flower-pot, Orpha?”

“Yes, Quenton.”

“Is it the one you gave to the police when they came the next day?”

“Of course. It was still on the chain. But I took it off when I gave it

to them. They had only the key.”

“Did you know that while they were working with that key here, another

one--the one which finally found lodgment in the slit in the molding

upstairs was traveling up from New York in Edgar’s pocket?”

Oh, the joy of seeing her eyes open wide in innocent amazement! She

had had nothing to do with that trick! I was convinced of it before;

but now I was certain.

“But how can that be? This key opens the way to the secret staircase. I

know because I have tried it. How could there be another?”

“If Wealthy were still living I think she could tell you. At some time

when you were not looking, she slipped the one key off and slipped on

the other. She was used to making exchanges and her idea was to give

him a chance to try the key, and, if possible, find the will unknown

to you or the police. She had a friend in New York to whom she sent

the key and a letter enclosing one for Edgar; and had not Providence

intervened and given them both into my hands--”

Orpha had shaken her head in protest more than once while I was

speaking but now she looked so piteously eager that I stopped.

“Am I not right?” I asked.

“No, no. Wealthy never knew anything about the key till the police came

to try it. I told nobody but--”

The change in her countenance was so sudden and so marked that I turned

quickly about, thinking that some one had entered the room. But it was

not that; it was something quite different--something which called up

more than one emotion--something which both lifted her head and caused

it to droop again as if pride were battling with humiliation in her

dismayed heart.

“Won’t you finish, Orpha?” I begged. “You said that you had told only

one person about it and that this person was not Wealthy. Who, then,

was it?”

“Lucy,” she breathed, bringing her hands, which had been lying supine

in her lap, sharply together in a passionate clutch.

“Lucy! Ah!”

“She was with me the night I dropped the flower pot and picked up

the chain and key from the scattered dirt. I had brought the pot

from Father’s room the morning he died, for the flower in it was

just opening and it seemed to speak of him. But I did not like the

place where I had put it and was carrying it to another shelf, when

it slipped from my hands. If I had left it in Father’s room the key

might have been found long before; for I noticed on first watering

it that the soil on top gave evidences of having been lately stirred

up--something which made no impression on me, but which might have made

a decisive one on the Inspector. Who do you think hid the key there?

Father?”

“I wish I knew, Orpha; there are several things we do not know and

never may now Wealthy is gone. But Miss Colfax? Tell me what passed

between you when you talked about the key?”

It was a subject Orpha would have liked to avoid; which she would have

avoided if I had not been insistent. Why? Had she begun to suspect the

truth which made it hard for her to discuss her friend? Had some echo

from the cry which for days had filled the spaces of the overhead rooms

drifted down to her through the agency of some gossiping servant? It

was likely; it was more than likely; it was true. I saw it in the proud

detached air with which she waited for me to urge her into speech.

And I did urge her. It would not do at a moment when the shadows

surrounding the past were so visibly clearing to allow one cloud to

remain which might be dissipated by mutual confidence. So, gently, but

persistently, I begged her to tell me the whole story that I might know

just what pitfalls remained in our path.

LXI

Thus entreated, she no longer hesitated, though I noticed she stammered

every time when obliged to speak the name of the woman who had shared

with her--so much more than shared with her--Edgar’s affection.

“The flower-pot lay broken on the floor and I was surveying with the

utmost surprise the key which I had picked up from the mold lying all

about on the rug, when Lucy came in to say good night. When she saw

what I held in my hand, she showed surprise also, but failed to make

any remark,--which was like--Lucy.

“But I could not keep still. I had to talk if only to express my wonder

and obtain a little sisterly advice. But she was in no hurry to give

it, and not till I reminded her how lonely I was for all my host of

so-called friends, and had convinced her by showing the chain, that

this was the very key my father had worn about his neck and for which

we had all been looking, did she show any real interest.

“‘And if it were?’ she asked. To which I answered eagerly, ‘Then,

perhaps, we have in our hands the clew to where the will itself lies

hidden.’ This roused her, for a spot of red came out on her cheek which

had been an even white before; and glad to have received the least sign

that she recognized the importance of my dilemma, I pressed her to tell

me what I should do with this key now that I had found it.

“Even then she was slow to speak. She began one sentence, then broke

it off and began another, ending up at last by entreating me to let

her consider the subject before offering advice. You will acknowledge

that it was a difficult problem for two ignorant girls like ourselves

to solve, so I felt willing to wait; though I could not but wonder

at her showing all at once so much emotion over what concerned me so

much and herself so little--our cold Lucy always so proper, always so

perfectly the mistress of herself whatever the occasion. Never had I

seen her look as she was looking then nor observed in her before that

slow moving of the eye till it met mine askance; nor heard her speak as

she did when she finally asked:

“‘Who do you want to have it?’”

Orpha shot me a sudden glance as she repeated this question of Lucy’s,

but did not wait for any comment, rather hastened to say:

“I am telling you just what she said and just how she looked because

it means something to me now. Then it simply aroused my curiosity. Nor

did I dream what was in her mind, when upon my protesting that it was

not a question of what I wanted, but of what it was right for me to do,

she responded by asking if I needed to be told that. The right thing,

of course, for me to do was to call up the police and get from them the

advice I needed.

“But, Quenton, I have a great dread of the police; they know too much

and too little. So I shook my head, and seeing that Lucy was anxious to

examine the key more closely, I put it in her hands and watched her as

she ran her fingers over it remarking as she called my attention to it

that she had never seen one quite so thin before--that she could almost

bend it. Then in a quick low tone altogether unlike her own, added, as

she handed it back that we had somebody’s fate in our hands, whose, she

would not say. But this much was certain, mine was indissolubly linked

with it. And when I shuddered at the way she spoke, she threw her arms

about my neck and begged me to believe that she was sorry for me.

“This gave me courage to ask,”--and here Orpha’s lip took a sarcastic

curve more expressive of self-disdain than of any scorn she may have

felt for her confidant--“whether she thought Dr. Hunter would be

willing to act as my advisor; that I did not like Mr. Dunn and never

had, and now that my two cousins were away I could think of no one but

him.

“But she rejected the idea at once--almost with anger, saying that it

was a family matter and that he was not one of the family yet. That we

must wait; come to no decision to-night, unless I was willing to try

what we two could do with the key. Perhaps we might find the lock it

fitted somewhere in my father’s room.

“But I refused, remembering that some member of the police is always

in or near the grounds ready to remark any unusual lighting up of the

third story windows. She did not seem sorry and, begging me to put the

whole matter out of my mind till the next day, stood by while I dropped

the chain and key into one of my bureau drawers, and then kissing me,

went smilingly away.

“Quenton, I thought her manner strange,--at once too hurried and too

affectionate to seem quite real--but I never thought of doubting her or

of--of--Tell me if you know what I find it so difficult to say. Have

the servants--”

“Yes, Orpha, I know through them what I have long known from other

sources.” And waited with a chill at my heart to see how she took this

acknowledgment.

Gratefully. Almost with a smile. She was so lovely that never was a man

harder put to it to restrain his ardor than I was at that moment. But

my purpose held. It had to; the time was not yet.

“I am glad,” fell softly from her lips; then she hurried on. “How could

I doubt her or doubt him? We have been a thousand times together--all

three, and never had I seen--or felt--Perhaps it is only he, not she.

Listen, for I’m not through. Something happened in the night, or I

dreamed it. I do not really know which. From what you say, I think it

happened. I didn’t then, but I do now.”

“Go on; I am listening, Orpha.”

“I was very troubled. I slept, but only fitfully. My mind would

be quite blank, then a sudden sharp realization would come of my

being awake and seeing my room and the things in it with unusual

distinctness. The moon would account for this, the curtains being drawn

from one of the western windows, allowing a broad beam of unclouded

light to pour into the room and lie in one large square on the floor. I

once half rose to shut it out, but forgot myself and fell asleep again.

When I woke the next time things were not so distinct, rather they were

hazy as if seen through a veil. But I recognized what I saw; it was my

own image I was staring at, standing with my hand held out, the key in

my open palm with the chain falling away from it. Dazed, wondering if

I were in a dream or in another world--it was all so strange and so

unreal,--I was lost in the mystery of it till slowly the realization

came that I was standing before my mirror, and that I was really

holding in my hand the chain and key which I had taken from my bureau

drawer. What is the matter, Quenton? Why did you start like that?”

“Never mind now. I will tell you some other time.”

She looked as if she hated to lose the present explanation; but, with a

little smile charming in its naïveté, she went bravely on:

“As I took this quite in, I started to move away, afraid of my image,

afraid of my own self, for I had never done anything like this before.

And what seems very strange to me, I don’t remember the walk back to my

bed; and yet I was in my bed when the next full consciousness came, and

there was daylight in the room and everything appeared natural again

and felt natural, with the one exception of my arm, which was sore, and

when I came to look at it, it was bruised, as if it had been clutched

strongly above the elbow. Yet I had no remembrance of falling or of

hitting myself. I spoke to Lucy about it later, and about the image in

the glass, too, which I took to be a dream because--”

“Because what, Orpha?”

“Because the chain and key were just where I had put them the night

before,--the same chain and what I supposed to be the same key or I

would never have said so when Lucy asked me about it.”

“Orpha, Miss Colfax has a streak of subtlety in her nature. I think

you know that now, so there is no harm in my saying so. She was in the

room when you laid by that key. She was watching you. It was she who

helped you into your bed. She had a key of her own not unlike the one

belonging to your father. She went for this and while you slept put it

on the chain you may have dropped in crossing the floor or which she

may have taken from your unresisting hand. And it was she who carefully

restored it to the place it had occupied in the bureau drawer, ready

to hand, in case the police should want it the next day. The other

one--the real one, she mailed to Edgar. Did you ever hear her speak of

a New York lawyer by the name of Miller?”

“Oh, yes; he is her aunt’s husband. It is to them she has gone. She is

to be married in their house. They live in Newark.”

I own that I was a little startled by this information. In handing

me the key and his letter two days before in Thirty-fifth Street he

had taken me for Edgar. This he could not have done had he ever met

him. Could it be that they were strangers? To settle the question, I

ventured to remark:

“Edgar goes everywhere. Do you suppose he ever visited the Millers?”

“Oh, no. Lucy has not been there herself in years.”

“Then you do not think they are acquainted with him?”

“I have no reason to. They have never met Dr. Hunter. Why should they

have met Edgar?”

Her cheek was aglow; she seemed to misunderstand my reason for these

questions; so I hastened to explain myself by relating the episode

which had had such an effect on all our lives. This once made clear I

was preparing to consult with her about my plans for Edgar, when she

cast a swift glance towards the door, the portières of which were drawn

wide, and observing nobody in the court, said with the slightest hint

of trouble in her voice:

“There is something else I ought to speak about. You remember that you

advised me to make use of my first opportunity to visit the little

stairway hidden these many years from everybody but my father? I did

so, as I have already told you, and in that box, from which the will

was drawn I found, doubled up and crushed into the bottom of it,

_this_.”

Thrusting her hand into a large silken bag which lay at her side on the

divan on which she was seated, she drew out a crumpled document which I

took from her with some misgiving.

“The first will of all,” I exclaimed on opening it. “The one he was

told by his lawyer to destroy, and did not.”

“But it is of no use now,” she protested. “It--it--”

“Take it,” I broke in almost harshly. The sight of it had affected me

far beyond what it should have done. “Put it away--keep it--till I have

time to--”

“To do what?” she asked, eyeing me with some wonder as she put the

document back in the bag.

“To think out my whole duty,” I smiled, recovering myself and waving

the subject aside.

“But,” she suggested timidly but earnestly as well, “won’t it

complicate matters? Mr. Dunn bade Father to destroy it.” And her eye

stole towards the fireplace where some small logs were burning.

“He would not tell us to do so now,” I protested. “You must keep it

religiously, as we hope to keep our honor. Don’t you see that, cousin

mine?”

“Yes,” came with pride now. But from what that pride sprung it would

take more than man to tell.

And then I spoke of Edgar and won her glad consent to my intention of

taking care of him as long as he would suffer it or need me. After

which, she left me with the understanding that I would summon all the

remaining members of the household and tell them from my personal

knowledge what they would soon be learning, possibly with less

accuracy, from the city newspapers.

LXII

Night again in this house of many mysteries. Late night. Quiet had

succeeded intense excitement; darkness, the flashing here and there of

many lights. Orpha had retired; even Edgar was asleep. I alone kept

watch.

To these others peace of a certain nature had come amid all the

distraction; but not to me. For me the final and most desperate

struggle of all was on,--that conflict with self which I had foreseen

with something like fear when I opened the old document so lately found

by Orpha, and beheld Edgar’s name once more in its place as chief

beneficiary.

Till then, my course had seemed plain enough. But with this previous

will still in existence, signed and attested to and openly recognized

as it had been for many years as the exact expression of my uncle’s

wishes, confusion had come again and with it the return of old doubts

which I had thought exorcized forever.

Had the assault been a feeble one--had these doubts been mere shadows

cast by a discarded past, I might not have quailed at their onslaught

so readily. But their strength was of the present and bore down upon me

with a malignancy which made all their former attacks seem puerile and

inconsequent.

For the events of the day previous to Orpha’s production of the old

will had shown to my satisfaction that I might yet look for happiness

whether my claim would be allowed or disallowed by the surrogate.

If allowed, it left me free to do my duty by Edgar, now relieved

forever in my eyes of all complicity in our uncle’s tragic death. If

disallowed, it left Orpha free, as heiress and mistress of her own

fortunes, to follow her inclination and formulate her future as her

heart and reason dictated.

But now, with this former will still in existence, the question was

whether I could find the strength to carry out the plan which my better

nature prompted, when the alternative would be the restoration of Edgar

to his old position with all the obligations it involved.

This was a matter not to be settled without a struggle. I must fight

it out, and as I have said, alone. No one could help me; no one could

advise me. Only myself could know myself and what was demanded of me by

my own nature. No other being knew what had passed between Uncle and

myself in those hours when it was given me to learn his heart’s secrets

and the strength of the wish which had dominated his later life. Had

Wealthy not spoken--had she not cleared Edgar from all complicity in

Uncle’s premature death,--had I possessed a doubt or even the shadow

of one, that in this she had spoken the whole unvarnished truth, there

would have been no question as to my duty in the present emergency and

I should have been sleeping, at this midnight hour just as Edgar was,

or at the most, keeping a nurse’s watch over him, but no vigil such as

I was holding now.

He was guilty of deception--guilty of taking an unfair advantage of me

at a critical point in my life. He did not rightly love Orpha, and was

lacking in many qualities desirable in one destined to fill a large

place in civic life. But these were peccadilloes in comparison to what

we had feared; and remembering his good points and the graces which

embellished him, and the absolute certainty which I could not but feel

that in time, with Lucy married and irrevocably removed from him, he

would come to appreciate Orpha, I felt bound to ask myself whether I

was justified in taking from him every incentive towards the higher

life which our uncle had foreseen for him when he planned his future--a

future which, I must always remember, my coming and my coming only had

disturbed.

I have not said it, but from the night when, lying on my bed I saw my

uncle at my side and felt his trembling arms pressing on my breast

and heard him in the belief that it was at Edgar’s bedside he knelt,

sobbing in my ear, “I cannot do it. I have tried to and the struggle is

killing me,” I had earnestly vowed and, with every intention of keeping

my vow, that I would let no ambition of my own, no love of luxury or

power, no craving for Orpha’s affection, nothing which savored entirely

of self should stand in the way of Edgar’s fortunes so long as I

believed him worthy of my consideration. This may explain my sense of

duty towards Orpha and also the high-strung condition of my nerves from

the day tragedy entered our home and with it the deep felt fear that he

did not merit that consideration.

I was aware what Mr. Jackson would say to all this--what any lawyer

would say who had me for a client. They would find reason enough for me

to let things take their natural course.

But would that exonerate me from acting the part of a true man as I had

come to conceive it?

Would my days and nights be happier and my sleep more healthful if with

a great fortune in hand, and blessed with a wife I adored, I had to

contemplate the lesser fortunes of him who was the darling of the man

from whom I had received these favors?

I shuddered at the mere thought of such a future. Always would his

image rise in shadowy perspective before me. It would sit with me at

meals, brood at my desk, and haunt every room in this house which had

been his home from childhood while it had been mine for the space only

of a few months. Together, we had fathomed its secret. Together, we had

trod its strangely concealed stairway. The sense of an unseen presence

which had shaken the hearts of many in traversing its halls was no

longer a mystery; but the by-ways in life which the harassed soul

must tread have their own hidden glooms and their own unexpectedness;

and the echoes of steps we hear but cannot see, linger long in the

consciousness and do not always end with the years. Should I brave

them? Dare I brave them when something deep within me protested with an

insistent, inexorable disclaimer?

The conflict waxed so keen and seemed destined to be so prolonged--for

self is a wily adversary and difficult to conquer--that I grew

impatient and the air heavy with the oppression of the darkness in

which I sat. I was in Edgar’s den and comfortable enough; but such

subjects as occupied me in this midnight hour call for light, space

and utmost freedom of movement if they would be viewed aright and

settled sensibly. Edgar was sleeping quietly; why not visit Uncle’s

old room and do what he once told me to do when under the stress of an

overwhelming temptation--sit within view of Orpha’s portrait and test

my wishes by its wordless message.

But when I had entered the great room and, still in solitude though

not in darkness, pulled the curtain from before that breathing canvas,

the sight of features so dear bursting thus suddenly upon me made me

forget my errand--forget everything but love. But gradually as I gazed,

the purity of those features and the searching power they possessed

regained its influence over me and I knew that if I would be true to

her and true to myself,--above all, if I would be true to my uncle and

the purpose of his life, I should give Edgar his chance.

For, in these long hours of self-analysis, I had discovered that deep

in the inmost recesses of my mind there existed a doubt, vitiating

every hope as it rose, whether we were right in assuming that the will

we had come upon at the bottom of the walled-in stairway was the one

he meant us to find and abide by. The box in which it was thrust held

a former testament of his manifestly discarded. What proof had we that

in thus associating the two he had not meant to discard both. None

whatever. We could not even tell whether he knew or did not know which

will he was handling. The right will was in the right envelope when

we found it, he must therefore have changed them back, but whether in

full knowledge of what he was doing, or in the confusion of a mind

greatly perturbed by the struggle Wealthy had witnessed in him at the

fireside, who could now decide. The intention with which this mortally

sick man, with no longer prospect of life before him than the two weeks

promised him by the doctor, forced himself to fit a delicate key into

an imperceptible lock and step by step, without assistance, descend a

stairway but little wider than his tread, into depths damp with the

chill of years for the purpose of secreting there a will contradictory

to the one he had left in the room above, could never now be known.

We could but guess at it, I in my way, and Edgar in his, and the

determining power--by which I mean the surrogate’s court--in its.

And because intention is all and guessing would never satisfy me, I

vowed again that night, with my eyes fixed on Orpha’s as they shone

upon me from her portrait, that come weal, or come woe,

_Edgar should have his chance._

LXIII

The next day I took up my abode in Edgar’s room, not to leave him

again till he was strong enough to face the importunities of friends

and the general talk of the public. The doctor, warned by Orpha of my

intention, fell into it readily enough after a short conversation we

had together, and a week went by without Edgar hearing of Wealthy’s

death or the inevitable inquest which had followed it. Then there came

a day when I told him the whole story; and after the first agitation

caused by this news had passed, I perceived with strengthening hope

that the physical crisis had passed and that with a little more care he

would soon be well and able to listen to what I had to say to him about

the future.

Till then we both studiously avoided every topic connected with the

present. This, strange as it may appear, was at his request. He wanted

to get well. He was bent upon getting well and that as quickly as

it was in his power to do so. Whether this desire, which was almost

violent in its nature, sprang from his wish to begin proceedings

against me in the surrogate’s court or from a secret purpose to

have one last word with Lucy Colfax before her speedily approaching

marriage, the result was an unswerving control over himself and a

steady increase in health.

Miss Colfax was in Newark where the ceremony was to take place. The

cards were just out and in my anxiety to know what was really seething

in his mind--for his detached air and effort from time to time at

gayety of manner and speech had not deceived me--I asked the doctor if

it would be safe for me to introduce into my conversation with Edgar

any topic which would be sure to irritate, if not deeply distress him.

“Do you consider it really necessary to broach any such topic at this

time?”

“I certainly do, Doctor; circumstances demand it.”

“Then go ahead. I think your judgment can be depended upon to know at

what moment to stop.”

I was not long in taking advantage of this permission. As soon as the

doctor was gone, I drew from my pocket the cards which had come in the

morning’s mail and handed them to Edgar, with just the friendly display

of interest which it would be natural for me to show if conditions had

been what they seemed to be rather than what they were.

I heard the paper crunch under the violent clutch which his fingers

gave it but I did not look at him, though the silence seemed long

before he spoke. When he did, there was irony in his tone which poorly

masked the suffering underlying it.

“Lucy will make a man like Dr. Hunter a model wife,” was what he

finally remarked; but the deliberate way in which he tore up the cards

and threw the fragments away--possibly to hide the marks of his passion

upon them--troubled me and caused me to listen eagerly as he went on to

remark: “I have never liked Dr. Hunter. We could never hit it off. Talk

about a crooked stick! She with all her lovers! What date is it? The

seventeenth? We must send her a present!”

I sat aghast; his tone was indescribable. I felt that the time had come

to change the subject.

“Edgar,” said I, “the doctor has assured me that so far as symptoms

go your condition is satisfactory. That all you need now is rest of

mind; and that I propose to give you if I can. You remember how when we

two were at the bottom of that stairway with the unopened will between

us that I declared to you that I would abide by the expression of our

uncle’s wishes when once they were made plain to me? My mind has not

changed in that regard. If you can prove to me that his last intention

was to recur--”

“You know I cannot do that,” he broke in petulantly, “why talk?”

“Because I cannot prove that he did not so intend any more than you can

prove that he did.”

I felt a ghostly hand on my arm jerking me back. I thought of Mr.

Jackson and of how it would be like him to do this if he were standing

by and heard me. But I shook off this imagined clutch, just as I would

have withdrawn my arm from his had he been there; and went quietly on

as Edgar’s troubled eyes rose to mine.

“I am not going to weary you by again offering you my friendship. I

have done that once and my mind does not easily change. But I here

swear that if you choose to contest the will now in the hands of the

surrogate, I will not offer any defense, once I am positively assured

that Orpha’s welfare will not suffer. The man who marries the daughter

of Edgar Quenton Bartholomew must have no dark secret in his life.

Tell me--we are both young, both fortunate enough, or shall I say

unfortunate enough, to have had very much our own way in life up to the

difficult present--what was the cause of your first rupture with Uncle?

It is not as a father confessor I ask you this, but as a man who cannot

rightfully regulate his own conduct till he has a full knowledge of

yours.”

With starting eyes he rose before me, slowly and by jerks as though his

resisting muscles had to be coerced to their task. But once at his

full height, he suddenly sank back into his chair with a loud shout of

laughter.

“You should have been a lawyer,” he scoffed. “You put your finger

instinctively on the weakest spot in the defense.” Then as I waited, he

continued in a different tone and with a softer aspect: “It won’t do,

Quenton. If you are going to base your action on Orpha’s many deserts

and my appreciation of them, you had better save yourself the trouble.

I”--his head fell and he had to summon up courage to proceed--“I love

her as my childhood’s playmate, and I admire her as a fine girl who

will make a still finer woman, but--”

I put up my hand. “You need not say it, Edgar. I will spare you that

much. I know--we all know where your preference lies. You shouted it

out in your sickness. But that is something which time will take care

of if--”

“There is no if; and time! That is what is eating me up; making me the

wretch you have found me. It is not the fortune that Uncle left which

I so much want,” he hurried on as his impulsive nature fully asserted

itself. “Not for myself I mean, but for its influence on her. She is

a queen and has a queen’s right to all that this world can give of

splendor and of power. But Orpha has her rights, too; Lucy can never

be mistress here. I see that as well as you do and so thanking you for

your goodness, for you have been good to me, let us call it all off. I

am not penniless. I can go my own way; you will soon be rid of me.”

Why couldn’t I find a word? Now was the time to speak, but my lips were

dumb; my thoughts at a standstill. He, on the contrary, was burning

to talk--to free himself from the bitterness of months by a frank

outpouring of the hopes and defeats of his openly buoyant but secretly

dissatisfied young life.

“You asked me what came between Uncle and myself on that wretched night

of the ball,” he hurried on. “I have a notion to tell you. Since you

know about Lucy--” His tongue tripped on the word but he shook his

head and began volubly again. “I am not a fellow given to much thought

unless it is about art or books or music, so I was deep in love before

I knew it. She had come back from school--But I cannot go into that.

You have seen her, and perhaps can understand my infatuation. I had

supposed myself happy in the prospects always held out to me. But a

few days of companionship with her convinced me that there was but one

road to happiness for me and that was closed against me. That was when

I should have played the man--told Uncle, and persuaded him to leave

his fortune directly to Orpha. Instead of which, I let Uncle dream his

dreams while Lucy and I met here and there, outwardly just friends, but

inwardly--Well, I won’t make a fool of myself by talking about it. Had

Orpha been older and more discerning, things might have been different;

but she was a child, happy in the pleasures of the day and her father’s

affection. When he, eager to see his plans matured, proposed a ball

and the announcement of our engagement at this ball, she consented

joyfully, more because she was in love with the ball than with me. But

to Lucy and me it was quite another matter. We woke to the realities

of life and saw no way of opposing them. For me to be designated as my

uncle’s heir and marry Orpha had been the expectation of us all for

years. Besides, there is no use in my concealing from you who know me

so well, I saw no life ahead of me without fortune. I was accustomed to

it and it was my natural heritage; nor would Lucy have married a poor

man; it was not in her; there are some things one can never accept.

“I am speaking of affairs as they were that week when Lucy and I

virtually parted. Before it was over she had engaged herself to Dr.

Hunter, in order, as she said, to save ourselves from further folly.

This marked the end of my youth and of something good in me which has

never come back. I blamed nobody but I began to think for myself and

plan for myself with little thought of others, unless it was for Lucy.

If only something would happen to prevent that announcement! Then it

might be possible for me to divert matters in a way to secure for me

the desires I cherished. How little I dreamed what would happen, and

that within a short half hour!

“I have asked the doctor and he says that he thinks Uncle’s health

had begun to wane before that day. That is a comfort to me; but there

are times when I wish I had died before I did what I did that night.

You have asked to know it and you shall, for I am reckless enough now

to care little about what any one thinks of me. I had come upon Uncle

rather unexpectedly, as, dressed for the ball, he sat at his desk which

was then as you know in the little room off his where we afterwards

slept. He was looking over his will--he said so--the one which had

been drawn up long before and which had been brought to the house that

day by Mr. Dunn. As I met his eye he smiled, and tapping the document

which he had hurriedly folded, remarked cheerfully, ‘This will see you

well looked after,’ and put it back in one of the drawers. With some

affectionate remark I told him my errand--I forget what it was now--and

left him just as he rose from his desk. But the thought which came to

me as he did this went with me down the stairs. I wanted to see that

will. I wanted to know just how much it bound me to Orpha--Don’t look

at me like that. I was in love, I tell you, and the thought which had

come to me was this; _he had not locked the drawer_.

“Uncle was happy as a king as he joined us below that night. He looked

at Orpha in her new dress as if he had never seen her before, and the

word or two he uttered in my ear before the guests came made my heart

burn but did not disturb my purpose. When I could--when most of the

guests were assembled and the dance well under way--I stole through the

dining-room into the rear and so up the back stairs to Uncle’s study.

No one was on that floor; all the servants were below, even Wealthy. I

found everything as we had left it; the drawer still unlocked, and the

will inside.

“I took it out--yes, I did that--and I read it greedily. Its provisions

were most generous so far as I was concerned. I was given almost

everything after some legacies and public bequests had been made;

but it was not this which excited me; it was that no conditions were

attached to my inheriting this great fortune. Orpha’s name was not even

mentioned in connection with it. I should be free--

“My thoughts had got thus far--dishonorable as they may appear--when I

felt a sudden chill so quick and violent that the paper rattled in my

hands; and looking up I beheld Uncle standing in the doorway with his

eyes fixed upon me in a way no man’s eyes had ever been before; his,

least of all. He had remembered that he had not locked up his desk and

had come back to do so and found me reading his will.

“Quenton, I could have fallen at his feet in my shame and humiliation,

for I loved him. I swear to you now that I loved him and do now

above every one in the world but--but Lucy. But he was not used to

such demonstrations, so I simply rose and folding up the paper laid

it between us on the desk, not looking at him again. I felt like a

culprit. I do yet when I think of it, and I declare to you that bad

as I am, when, as sometimes happens I awake in the night fresh from

a dream of orchestral music and the tread of dancing feet, I find

my forehead damp and my hands trembling. That sound was all I heard

between the time I laid down the will and the moment when he finally

spoke:

“‘So eager, Edgar?’

“I was eager or had been, but not for what he thought. But how could I

say so? How could I tell _him_ the motive which had driven me to unfold

a personal document he had never shown me? I who can talk by the hour

had not a word to say. He saw it and observed very coldly:

“‘A curiosity which defies honor and the trust of one who has never

failed you has its root in some secret but overpowering desire. What is

that desire, Edgar? Love of money or love of Orpha?’

“A piercing thrust before which any man would quail. I could not say

‘Love of Orpha,’ that was too despicable; nor could I tell the truth

for that would lose me all; so after a moment of silent agony, I

faltered:

“‘I--I’m afraid I rate too high the advantages of great wealth. I am

ashamed--’

“He would not let me finish.

“‘Haven’t you every advantage now? Has anything ever been denied you?

Must you have all in a heap? Must I die to satisfy your cupidity? I

would not believe it of you, boy, if you had not yourself said it. I

can hardly believe it now, but--’

“At that he stumbled and I sprang to steady him. But he would not let

me touch him.

“‘Go down,’ he said. ‘You have guests. I may forget this, in time, but

not at once. And heed me in this. No announcement of any engagement

between you and Orpha! We will substitute for that the one between Lucy

and Dr. Hunter. That will satisfy the crowd and please the two lovers.

See to it. I shall not go down again.’

“I tried to protest, but the calamity I had brought upon myself

robbed me of all initiative and I could only stammer useless if not

meaningless words which he soon cut short.

“‘Your guests are waiting,’ came again from his lips as he bent

forward, but not with his usual precision, and took up the will.

“And I had to go. When halfway down the stairs I heard him lock the

door of his room. It gave me a turn, but I did not know then how deeply

he had been stricken--that before another hour he would be really ill.

I had my own ordeal to face; you know what it was. My degeneration

began from that hour. Quenton, it is not over. I--” He flung his hands

over his face; when he dropped them I saw a different man--one whom I

hardly understood.

“You see,” he now quietly remarked, “I am no fit husband for Orpha.”

And after that he would listen to nothing on this or any other serious

topic.

LXIV

Two flights of stairs and two only, separated Edgar’s rooms from the

library in which I hoped to find Orpha. But as I went down them step

by step they seemed at one moment to be too many for my impatience and

at another too few for a wise decision as to what I should say when I

reached her. As so frequently before my heart and my head were opposed.

I dared not yield to the instincts of the former without giving

ear to the monitions of the latter. Edgar had renounced his claim,

ungraciously, doubtless, but yet to all appearance sincerely enough.

But he was a man of moods, guided almost entirely by impulses, and

to-morrow, under a fresh stress of feeling, his mood might change, with

unpleasant if not disastrous results. True, I might raise a barrier

to any decided change of front on his part by revealing to Orpha

what had occurred and securing her consent to our future union. But

the indelicacy of any such haste was not in accord with the reverent

feelings with which I regarded her; and how far I would have allowed

myself to go had I found her in one of the rooms below, I cannot say,

for she was not in any of them nor was she in the house, as Haines

hastened to tell me when I rang for him.

The respite was a fortunate one perhaps; at least, I have always

thought so; and accepting it with as much equanimity as such a

disappointment would admit of, I decided to seek an interview with Mr.

Jackson before I made another move. He was occupied when I entered his

office, but we ultimately had our interview and it lasted long enough

for considerable time to have elapsed before I turned again towards

home. When I did, it was with the memory of only a few consecutive

sentences of all he had uttered. These were the sentences:

“You will get your inheritance. You will be master of Quenton Court and

of a great deal besides. But what I am working for and am very anxious

to see, is your entrance upon this large estate with the sympathy

of your fellow-citizens. Therefore, I caution restraint till Edgar

recovers his full health and has had time to show his hand. I will give

him two weeks. With his head-long nature that should be sufficient. You

can afford to wait.”

Yes, I could afford to wait with such a prospect before me; and I had

made up my mind to do so by the time I had rung the bell on my return.

But that and all other considerations were driven from my mind when I

saw a renewal of the old anxiety in Haines’ manner as he opened the

door to admit me.

“Oh, sir!” was his eager cry as I stepped in. “We don’t know how it

happened or how he was ever able to get away; but Mr. Edgar is gone.

When I went to his room a little while ago to see if he wanted anything

I found it in disorder and this--this note, for you, sir.”

I took it from his hand; looked at it stupidly, feeling afraid to open

it. Like a stray whiff of wind soaring up from some icy gulf, I heard

again those final words of his, “You will soon be rid of me.” I felt

the paper flutter in my hand; my fingers were refusing to hold it.

“Take it, and open it,” I said to Haines.

He did so, and when he had drawn out the card it held and I had caught

a glimpse of the few words it contained, my fear became a premonition;

and, seizing it, I carried it into the library.

Once there and free to be myself; to suffer and be unobserved, I looked

down at those words and read:

Do not seek me and do not worry about me. I have money and I have

strength. When I can face the world again with a laugh you shall see

me. This I will do in two weeks or never.

LXV

Two weeks! What did he mean by two weeks? Mr. Jackson had made use of

the same expression. What did he mean? Then it came to me what Edgar

meant, not what Mr. Jackson had. Lucy Colfax was to be married in two

weeks. If he could face the world after that with a smile--

Ah, Edgar, my more than brother! Weak, faulty, but winsome even when

most disturbing,--if any one could face a future bereft of all that

gives it charm, you can. But the limit may have been reached. Who

knows? It was for me to follow him, search him out and see.

“Haines,” I called.

He came with a rush.

“Has Miss Bartholomew returned?”

“No, sir, not yet. She and Mrs. Ferris are out for a long ride.”

“When she does come back, give her this note.” And I scribbled a few

lines. “And now, Haines, answer me. Mr. Edgar could not have left on

foot. Who drove him away?”

“Sammy.”

He mentioned a boy who helped in the garage.

“In what car?”

“The Stutz. Mr. Edgar must have come down the rear stairs, carrying

his own bag, and slipped out at the side without any one seeing him.

Bliss is out with Miss Orpha and Mrs. Ferris and so he could have every

chance with Sammy, who is overfond of small change, sir.”

“Has Sammy shown up since? Is the car in the garage?”

“No, sir.”

“Haines, don’t give me away. Understand that this is to be taken

quietly. Mr. Edgar told me that he was going to leave, but he did not

say when. If he had, I would have seen that he went more comfortably.

The doctor made his last call this morning and gave him permission to

try the air, and he is doing so. We don’t know when he will return;

possibly in two weeks. He said something to that effect. This is what

you are to say to the other servants and to every inquirer. But,

Haines, to Clarke--You know where Clarke is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you reach him by telephone?”

“Easily, sir.”

“Then telephone him at once. Go to my room to do it. Say that I have

need of his services, that Mr. Edgar, who is just off a sick bed,

has left the house to go we don’t know where, and that he and I must

find him. Bid him provide for a possible trip out of town, though I

hope that a few hours will suffice to locate Mr. Bartholomew. Add

that before coming here he is to make a few careful inquiries at the

stations and wherever he thinks my cousin would be apt to go on a

sudden impulse. That when he has done so he is to call you up. Above

all, impress upon him that he is to give rise to no alarm.”

“I will, sir. You may rely upon me.” And as though to give proof of his

sincerity, Haines started with great alacrity upstairs.

I was not long in following him. When I reached my room I found that he

had got into communication with Clarke and been assured that all orders

received by him from me would be obeyed as if they had come from his

old master.

This relieved me immensely. Confident that he would perform the task

I had given him with much better results than I could and at the same

time rouse very much less suspicion, I busied myself with preparations

for my own departure in case I should be summoned away in haste,

thankful for any work which would keep me from dwelling too closely

on what I had come to regard with increasing apprehension. When I had

reached the end, I just sat still and waited; and this was the hardest

of all. Fortunately, the time was short. At six o’clock precisely my

phone rang. Haines had received a message from Clarke and took this way

of communicating it to me.

No signs of the Stutz at either station, but Clarke had found a man who

had seen it going out Main Street and another who had encountered it

heading for Morrison. What should he do next?

I answered without hesitation. “Tell him to get a fast car and follow.

After dinner, I will get another somewhere down street and take the

same road. If I go before dinner, questions will be asked which it will

be difficult for me to answer. Let me find a message awaiting me at

Five Oaks.”

Five Oaks was a small club-house on the road to Morrison.

LXVI

When at a suitable time after dinner I took my leave of Orpha, it was

with the understanding that I might not return that night, but that she

would surely hear from me in the morning. I had not confided to her

all my fears, but possibly she suspected them, for her parting glance

haunted me all the way to the club-house I have mentioned.

Arriving there without incident, I was about to send in the man acting

as my chauffeur to make inquiries when a small auto coming from the

rear of the house suddenly shot past us down the driveway and headed

towards Houston.

Though its lights were blinding I knew it at a glance; it was Edgar’s

yellow Stutz. He was either in it and consequently on his way back

home, or he was through with the car and I should find him inside the

club-house.

Knowing him well enough to be sure that I could do nothing worse than

to show myself to him at this time, I reverted to my first idea and

sent in the chauffeur to reconnoiter and also see if any message had

been left for James E. Budd--the name under which I thought it best to

disguise my own.

He came back presently with a sealed note left for me by Clarke. It

conveyed the simple information that Edgar had picked up another car

and another chauffeur and had gone straight on to Morrison. I was to

follow and on reaching the outskirts of the town to give four short

toots with the horn to which he would respond.

It was written in haste. He was evidently close behind Edgar, but

I had no means of knowing the capacity of his car nor at what speed

we could go ourselves. However, all that I had to do was to proceed,

remembering the signal which I was to use whenever we sighted anything

ahead.

It was a lonely road, and I wondered why Edgar had chosen it. A

monotonous stretch of low fences with empty fields beyond, broken here

and there by a poorly wooded swamp or a solitary farmhouse, all looking

dreary enough in the faint light of a half-veiled gibbous moon.

A few cars passed us, but there was but little life on the road, and

I found myself starting sharply when suddenly the quick whistle of an

unseen train shrilled through the stagnant air. It seemed so near, yet

I could get no glimpse of it or even of its trailing smoke.

I felt like speaking--asking some question--but I did not. It was a

curious experience--this something which made me hold my peace.

My chauffeur whom I had chosen from five others I saw lounging about

the garage was a taciturn being. I was rather glad of it, for any talk

save that of the most serious character seemed out of keeping with

these moments of dread--a dread as formless as many of the objects we

passed and as chill as the mist now rising from meadow and wood in a

white cloud which soon would envelop the whole landscape as in a shroud.

To relieve my feelings, I ordered him to sound the four short blasts

agreed upon as a signal. To my surprise they were answered, but by

three only. There was a car coming and presently it dashed by us, but

it was not Clarke’s.

“Keep it up,” I ordered. “This mist will soon be a fog.” My chauffeur

did so,--at intervals of course--now catching a reply but oftener not,

until from far ahead of us, through the curtain of fog shutting off the

road in front, there came in response the four clear precise blasts

for which my ears were astretch.

“There are my friends,” I declared. “Go slowly.”

At which we crawled warily along till out of the white gloom a red

spark broke mistily upon our view, and guided us to where a long low

racing machine stood before a house, the outlines of which were so

vague I could not determine its exact character.

Next minute Clarke was by my side.

“I shall have to ask you to get out here,” he said, with a sidelong

glance at my chauffeur. “And as the business you have come to settle

may take quite a little while, it would be better for the car to swing

in beside mine, so as to be a little way off the road.”

“Very good,” I answered, joining him immediately and seeing at the same

time that the house was a species of tavern, illy-lit, but open to the

public.

“What does it mean?” I questioned anxiously as he led me aside, not

towards the tavern’s entrance, but rather to the right of it.

“I don’t know, sir. He is not inside. He drove up here about ten

minutes ago, dismissed the car which brought him from the club-house,

went in,--which was about the time I appeared upon the scene--and came

out again with a man carrying a lantern. As I was then on my feet and

about where we are standing now, I got one quick look at him as he

passed through the doorway. I didn’t like his looks, sir; he must be

feeling very ill. And I didn’t like the way he carried himself as he

went about the turn you see there at the rear of the building. And I

wanted to follow, though of course he is safe enough with the man he is

with; but just then I heard your signal and ran to answer. That is all

I have to tell you. But where is he going in such a mist? Shall I run

in and ask?”

“Do,” I said; and waited impatiently enough for his reappearance which

was delayed quite unaccountably, I thought. But then minutes seem hours

in such a crisis.

When he did come, he, too, had a lantern.

“Let us follow,” said he, not waiting to give me any explanations. And

keeping as closely to him as I could lest we should lose each other in

the fog, I stumbled along a path worn in the stubbly grass, not knowing

where I was going and unable to see anything to right or left or even

in front but the dancing, hazy glow of the swinging lantern.

Suddenly that glow was completely extinguished; but before I could

speak Clarke had me by the arm.

“Step aside,” he whispered. “The man is coming back; he has left Mr.

Edgar to go on alone.”

And then I heard a hollow sound as of steps on an echoing board.

“That must be a bridge Mr. Edgar is crossing,” whispered Clarke. “But

see! he is doing it without light. The man has the lantern.”

“Where is your lantern?” I asked.

“Under my coat.”

We held our breath. The man came slowly on, picking his way and

mumbling to himself rather cheerfully than otherwise. I was on the

point of accosting him when Clarke stopped me and, as soon as the man

had gone by, drew me back into the path, whispering:

“The steps on the bridge have stopped. Let us hurry.”

Next minute he had plucked out his lantern from under his coat and we

were pressing on, led now by the sound of rushing water.

“It’s growing lighter. The fog is lifting,” came from Clarke as I felt

the boards of the bridge under my feet.

Next minute he had the lantern again under his coat, but for all that,

I found, after a few more steps, that I could see a little way ahead.

Was that Edgar leaning against one of the supports of the bridge?

I caught at Clarke’s hand.

“Shall we go forward?” I asked.

His fingers closed spasmodically on mine, and as suddenly loosened.

“Let me,” he breathed, rather than whispered, and started to run, but

almost instantly stopped and broke into a merry whistle. I thought I

heard a sigh from that hardly discerned figure in front; but that was

impossible. What did happen was a sudden starting back from the brink

over which he had been leaning and the sound of two pairs of feet

crossing the bridge to the other side.

Clarke’s happy thought had worked. One dangerous moment was passed. How

soon would another confront us?

I was on and over that bridge almost as soon as they. And then I began

to see quite clearly where we were. The lights of a small flagging

station winked at me through the rapidly dissolving mist, and I

remembered having often gone by it on the express. Now it assumed an

importance beyond all measurement, for the thunder of an approaching

train was in the air and Edgar poised on the brink of the platform was

gazing down the track as a few minutes before he had gazed down at the

swirling waters under the bridge.

Ah, this was worse! Should I shout aloud his name? entreat him to

listen, rush upon him with outstretched arms? There was not time even

for decision--the train was near--upon us--slackening. _It was going to

stop._ As he took this in I distinctly heard him draw a heavy breath.

Then as the big lumbering train came to a standstill, he turned, bag

still in his hand, and detecting me standing not a dozen steps behind

him, uttered the short laugh I had come to know so well and with a

bow of surpassing grace which yet had its suggestion of ironic humor,

leaped aboard the train and was gone before I could recover from my

terror and confusion.

But it was not so with Clarke. As the last car went whizzing by I

caught sight of him on the rear platform and caught his shout:

“Home, sir, and wait for news!”

All was not lost, then. But that station with the brawling stream

beyond, and the square and ugly tavern overlooking it all, have a

terror for me which it will take years for me to overcome.

LXVII

I did not tell Orpha of this episode, then or ever. Why burden her

young heart with griefs and fears? I merely informed her when I met her

the next morning at breakfast that having seen Edgar take a late train

for New York my anxieties were quelled and I had returned to tell her

so before starting out again for the city on an errand of my own.

When I came to say good-by, as I did after receiving a telegram from

Clarke--of which I will say more later--I told her not to be anxious

or to worry while I was away; that being in New York, I should be able

to keep a watch over Edgar and see that he was well looked after if

by any chance he fell ill again; and the smile I received in return,

though infinitely sad, had such confidence in it that I would not

have exchanged it for the gayest one I had seen on her lips on that

memorable night of the ball.

The telegram I have mentioned was none too encouraging. It had been

sent from New York and ran thus:

Trouble. Man I want has escaped me. Hope to pick him up soon. Wait for

second telegram.

C.

It was two hours before the second one came. It was to the point as

witness:

Sick. Safe in a small hospital in the Bronx. Will await trains at the

Grand Central Station till you come.

C.

This sent me off in great haste without another interview with Orpha.

On reaching the station in New York I found Clarke waiting for me

according to promise. His story was short but graphic. He had had no

difficulty on the train. He had been able to keep his eye on Edgar

without being seen by him; but some excitement occurring at the short

stop made at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street--a pickpocket run down

or something of that kind--he had leaned from his window to look out

and in that instant Edgar had stepped from the train and disappeared in

the crowd.

He had tried to follow but was checked in doing so by the quick

starting up of the train. But he had a talk with the conductor, who

informed him that the man to whom he probably referred had shown

decided symptoms of illness, and that he himself had advised him to

leave the train and be driven to a hospital, being really afraid that

he would break out in delirium if he stayed. This was a guide to Clarke

and next morning by going the rounds of upper New York hospitals he

had found him. He had been registered under his own name and might be

seen if it was imperative to identify him, but at present he was in a

delirious condition and it would be better for him not to be disturbed.

Thankful that it was not worse, but nevertheless sufficiently alarmed,

a relapse being frequently more serious than the original attack, I

called a taxi and we rode at once to the hospital. Good news awaited

us. Edgar had shown some favorable symptoms in the last hour and if

kept quiet, might escape the worst consequence of a journey for which

he had not had the necessary strength. The only thing which puzzled

the doctors was his desire to write. He asked for paper and pen

continually; but when they were brought to him he produced nothing but

a scrawl. But he would have this put in an envelope and sealed. But he

failed to address it, saying that he would do that after he had a nap.

But though he had his nap he did not on waking recur to the subject,

though his first look was at the table where the so-called letter had

been laid. It was there now and there they had decided to let it lie,

since his eyes seldom left it and if they did, returned immediately to

it again as if his whole life were bound up in that wordless scrawl.

This was pitiful news to me, but I could do nothing to save the

situation but wait, leaving it to the discretion of the doctors to say

when an interview with my cousin would be safe. I did not hesitate to

tell them that my presence would cause him renewed excitement, and

they, knowing well enough who we were, took in the situation without

too much explanation. They succeeded in startling me, however, with the

statement that it would probably be two weeks before I could hope to

see him.

Two weeks again! Why always two weeks?

There was no help for it. All I could do was to settle down nearby

and wait for the passing of those two weeks as we await the falling

of a blow whose force we have no means of measuring. Short notes

passed between Orpha and myself, but they were all about Edgar, whose

condition was sensibly improving, but hardly so rapidly as we had

hoped. Clarke had been given access to him; and as Clarke had wisely

forborne from mentioning my name in the matter, simply explaining his

own presence there by the accounts which had appeared in the papers of

his former young master’s illness, he was greeted so warmly that he

almost gave way under it. Thereafter, he spent much time at Edgar’s

bedside, reporting to me at night the few words which had passed

between them. For, Edgar, so loquacious in health, had little to say

in convalescence; but lay brooding with a wild light coming and going

in his eyes, which now as before were turned on that table where the

unaddressed letter still lay.

For whom was that indecipherable scrawl meant? We knew; for Lucy.

LXVIII

I think that it was on the tenth day of my long wait,--I know that it

was just two before Miss Colfax’s wedding--that Clarke came in looking

a trifle out of sorts and said that he had done something which I

might not approve of. He had mailed the letter which Edgar had finally

addressed to Miss Colfax. A few words in explanation, and I perceived

that he could hardly have helped it; Edgar was so appealing and so

entirely unconvinced by what the nurse said concerning the incoherence

of its contents. “I know what I have written,” he kept saying; and made

Clarke swear that he would put it in the first box he saw on leaving

the hospital.

“What harm can it do?” Clark anxiously inquired. “It may perplex and

trouble Miss Colfax; but we can explain later; can we not, sir?”

I thought of the haughty self-contained Lucy, with a manner so cold and

a heart so aflame, receiving this jumble of words amid the preparation

for her marriage,--perhaps when her bridal veil was being tried on, or

a present displayed,--and had nothing to say. Explanations would not

ease the anguish of that secretly distracted heart.

“Shall we do anything about it, sir? I know where Miss Colfax lives.”

“No, we can do nothing. A matter of that sort is better left alone.”

But I was secretly very uneasy until Clarke came in from the hospital

the following day with the glad story that Edgar had improved so much

since the sending of this letter that he had been allowed to take an

airing in the afternoon. “And to-morrow I am to go early and accompany

him to a jeweler’s shop where he proposes to buy a present for the

bride-to-be. He seemed quite cheerful about it, and the doctors have

given their consent. He looks like another man, Mr. Bartholomew. You

will find that when this wedding is over he will be very much like his

old self.”

And again I said nothing; but I took a much less optimistic view of my

cousin’s apparent cheerfulness.

“He sent me away early. He says that he is going to rest every minute

till I come for him in one of Jones’ fine motor cars.”

“It’s a late hour for sending presents,” I remarked. “Three hours

before the ceremony.”

“I am to bring him back to the hospital and then take the car and

deliver it.”

“Very well, Clarke; only watch him and don’t be surprised if you find

us on the road behind you. There is something in all this I don’t

understand.”

LXIX

But when on the following morning I actually found myself riding in

the wake of these two and saw Edgar alight with almost a jaunty air

before one of the smallest, but most fashionable jeweler shops on the

Avenue, I could not but ask myself if my fears had any such foundation

as I had supposed. He really did look almost cheerful and walked with a

perfectly assured air into the shop.

But he went alone; and when quite some little time had elapsed and he

did not reappear, I was ready to brave anything to be sure that all was

right. So taking advantage of a little break in the traffic, I ordered

my chauffeur to draw up beside the auto waiting at the curb; and when

we got abreast of it, I leaned out and asked Clarke, who hastily

lowered his window, why he had not gone in with Mr. Bartholomew.

“Because he would not let me. He wanted to feel free to take his own

time. He told me that it would take him at least half an hour to choose

the article he wanted. He has been gone now just twenty-seven minutes.”

“Can you see the whole length of the shop from where you sit?”

“No, sir. There are several people in front--”

“Get out and go in at once. Don’t you see that this shop is next to the

corner? That it may have a side entrance--”

He was out of the car before I had finished and in three minutes came

running back.

“You are right, sir. He did not buy a thing. There is no sign of him

in the shop or in the street. I deserve--”

“We won’t talk. Pay your chauffeur and dismiss him. Then get in with

me, and we will drive as fast as the law allows to that house in Newark

where he said the present was to go. If we do not find him there we may

as well give up all hope; we shall never see him again.”

LXX

It was a wild ride. If he had been fortunate enough to secure a taxi

within a few minutes after reaching the street, he must have had at

least twenty minutes the start of us. But the point was not to overtake

him, but to come upon him at Mr. Miller’s before any mischief could

take place. I was an invited guest, though probably not expected; and

it being a house-wedding, I felt sure of being received even if I was

not in a garb suited to the occasion.

There were delays made up by a few miles of speeding along the country

roads, and when we finally struck the street in which Mr. Miller lived,

it lacked just one hour of noon.

What should we do? It was too soon to present ourselves. The few autos

standing about were business ones, with a single exception. Pointing

this out to Clarke, I bade him get busy and find out if this car were a

local or a New York one.

He came back very soon to the spot where we had drawn up to say that it

belonged to some relative of the bride; and satisfied from this and the

quiet aspect of the house itself that nothing of a disturbing character

had yet occurred, I advised Clarke to hang about and learn what he

could, while I waited for the appearance of Edgar whom we had probably

outridden in crossing the marshes.

We had a place on the opposite side of the street, from which I could

see the windows of Mr. Miller’s house. I took note of every automobile

which drove up before me, but I took note also of those windows and

once got a glimpse in one of the upper ones of a veiled head and a

white face turned eagerly towards the street.

She was expecting him. Nothing else would account for so haggard a look

on a face so young; and with a thought of Orpha and how I would rather

die than see her in the grip of such despair, I nerved myself for what

might come, without a hope that any weal could follow such a struggle

of unknown forces as apparently threatened us.

The house in which my whole interest was centered at this moment was of

somewhat pretentious size, built of brick painted brown and set back

far enough from the sidewalk to allow for a square of turf, in the

center of which rose a fountain dry as the grass surrounding it. From

what conjunction of ideas that fountain with its image of a somewhat

battered Cupid got in my way and inflicted itself upon my thoughts,

I cannot say. I was watching for Edgar’s appearance, but I saw this

fountain; and now when the memory of that day comes back, first and

foremost before anything else rises a picture of that desolate basin

and its almost headless Cupid. I was trying to escape this obsession

when I saw him. He had alighted by that time and was halfway up the

walk, but I entered the door almost at his heels.

He was stepping quickly, but I was close behind and was looking for

an opportunity to speak to him when he took a course through the

half-filled hall which led him into a portion of the house where it

would have been presumptuous in me to follow.

We had been asked to go upstairs, but with a shake of the head and

the air of one at home, he had pressed straight on to the rear and so

out of my sight. There was nothing left for me to do but to mount the

stairs in front which I did very unwillingly.

However, once at the top and while still in the shadow of a screen

of palms running across this end of the hall, I heard his voice from

behind these palms asking for Miss Colfax. He had come up a rear

staircase.

By this time there were others in the hall besides myself making for

the dressing-rooms opening back and front, and I saw many heads turn,

but nobody stop. The hour for the ceremony was approaching.

What to do? The question was soon answered for me. Edgar had stepped

from behind the palms and was rapidly going front in the direction of

the third story staircase. She was above, as I knew, and any colloquy

between them must be stopped if my presence would prevent it.

Following in his wake, but not resorting to the leaps and bounds by

which he reached the top of the stairs in a twinkling, I did not see

the rush of the white-clad figure which fell into his arms with a moan

which was more eloquent of joy than despair. But I was in time to hear

him gasp out in wild excitement:

“I am here. I have come for you. You shall never marry any one but me.

Sickness has held me back--hospital--delirium. I cannot live without

you. I will not. Lucy, Lucy, take off that veil. We do not need veils,

or wedding guests or orchestra or luncheon. We only need each other.

Do you consent? Will you take me weakened by illness, deprived of my

inheritance but true to you when the full realization came.”

And listening for her answer I heard just a sigh. But that sigh was

eloquent and it had barely left her lips when I heard a rush from below

and, noting who it was, I slipped quickly up to Edgar and touching him

on the arm, said quietly but very firmly:

“Dr. Hunter.”

They started apart and Edgar, drawing back, cried under his breath:

“You here!”

“Would you wish it otherwise?” I asked; and stepped aside as Dr.

Hunter, pale to the lips, but very dignified and very stern, advanced

from the top of the stairs followed by a lady and gentleman who, as I

afterwards learned, were Lucy’s aunt and uncle. There was a silence;

which, repeated as it was below stairs, held the house in a hush for

one breathless moment. Then I took the lead, and, pointing to an open

door in front, I addressed the outraged bridegroom with all the respect

I felt for him.

“Pardon me, Dr. Hunter. As the cousin and friend of Edgar Bartholomew,

allow me to urge that we say what we have to say behind closed doors.

The house is rapidly filling. Everything said in this hall can be heard

below. Let us disappoint the curiosity of Mrs. Miller’s guests. Miss

Colfax, will you lead the way?”

With a quick gesture she turned, and moving with the poise of a queen,

entered the room from which I had seen her looking down into the

street, followed by the rest of us in absolute silence. I came last and

it was I who closed the door. When I turned, Dr. Hunter and Edgar were

confronting each other in the middle of the room. Lucy was standing

by herself, an image of beauty but cold to the eye as the marble she

suggested. Mr. and Mrs. Miller stood aghast, speechless, and a little

frightened. I hastened to put in a word.

“Edgar left a hospital bed to be here this morning. Have a little care,

Dr. Hunter. His case has been a serious one.”

The doctor’s lips took a sarcastic curve.

“I have a physician’s eye,” was his sole return. Then without a word to

Edgar, he stepped up to Lucy. “Will you take my arm?” he asked. “The

clergyman who is to marry us is waiting.”

The image moved, but, oh, so slightly. “I cannot,” she replied. “It

would be an outrage to you. All my heart goes out to the man behind

you. It always has. He was not free--not really free--and I thought to

help him do his duty by marrying you. But I cannot--I cannot.” And now

all the fire in that woman’s soul flamed forth in one wild outburst as

she cried aloud in undisguised passion, “I cannot so demean you, and I

cannot so discourage Edgar. Free me, or--or I shall go mad.” Then she

became quiet again, the old habit of self-restraint returned, the image

resumed its calm, only her eyes steady and burning with the inner flame

she sought to hide, held his with an undeviating demand.

He bowed before it, wincing a little as she lifted her arms and with

a slow, deft movement, took the veil from her head and as slowly and

deftly began to fold it up. I see her now as she did this and the

fascination which held those two men in check--the one in a passion

of rejoicing, the other in the agitation of seeing, for the first

time, doubtless, in his placid courtship, the real woman beneath the

simulated one who had accepted his attentions but refused him her love.

When she had finished and laid the veil aside, she had the grace to

thank him for his forbearance.

But this he could not stand.

“It is for me to thank you,” said he. “It were better if more brides

thought twice before bringing a loveless heart to their husband’s

hearthstone.” And always dignified; always a man to admire, he turned

towards the door.

Mr. Miller sought to stop him--to hold him back until the guests had

been dismissed and the way prepared for him to depart, unseen and

uncommiserated. But he would have none of that.

“I have been honest in my wish to make your niece happy and I need not

fear the looks of any one. I will go alone. Take care of the sick man

there. I have known great joy kill as effectually as great pain.”

Lucy’s head fell. Edgar started and reached out his hand. But the door

was quickly opened and as quickly shut behind the doctor’s retreating

form.

A sob from Lucy; an instant of quiet awe; then life came rushing back

upon us with all its requirements and its promise of halcyon days to

the two who had found their souls in the action and reaction of a few

months of desperate trial and ceaselessly shifting circumstances.

And what of myself, as, with peace made with the Millers and

arrangements entered into whereby Edgar was to remain with them till

his health was restored, I rode back to New York and then--

Home! As the bee flies, _home_!

LXXI

When I entered C---- in the late afternoon I was met by a very

different reception from any which had ever been accorded me before.

It began at the station. News travels fast, especially when it concerns

people already in the public eye, and in every face I saw, and in

every handshake offered me, I read the welcome due to the change in my

circumstances made by Edgar’s choice of a wife. The Edgar whom they

had held in preference above all others was a delightful fellow, a

companion in a thousand and of a nature rich and romantic enough to

give up fortune and great prestige for love; but he was no longer the

Edgar of Quenton Court, and they meant me to realize it.

And I did. But there was one whose judgment I sought--whose judgment

I awaited--whom I must see and understand before I could return these

amenities with all the grace which they demanded. There was nothing for

me in this open and unabashed homage, rendered after weeks of dislike

and suspicion, if the welcome I should not fail to receive from Orpha’s

courtesy should be shot through with the sorrow of a loss too great for

any love of mine to offset.

So I hastened and came to Quenton Court, and entering there found the

court ablaze with color and every servant which the house contained

drawn up in order to receive me. It was English, but then by birth I

am an Englishman and the tribute pleased me. For their faces were no

longer darkened by distrust and some even were brightened by liking;

and were I to remain master here--

But that was yet to be determined; and when they saw with what an

eager glance I searched the gallery for the coming of their youthful

mistress, they filed quickly away till I was left alone with the

leaping water and the rainbow hues and the countless memories of joy

and terror with which the place was teeming.

Orpha had a favorite collie which from the first had shown a preference

for my company that was sometimes embarrassing but oftener pleasing,

since it gave me an opportunity to whisper many secrets in his ear. As

I stood there with my eyes on the gallery, he came running to me with

so many evidences of affection that I was fain to take it as an omen

that all would be well with me when she who held him dear would greet

me in her turn.

When would she come? The music of the falling drops plashing in their

basin behind me was sweet, but I longed for the tones of her voice.

Why did she linger? Dare I guess, when at last I heard her footfall in

the gallery above, and caught the glimpse of her figure, first in one

opening of its lattice work and then in another as she advanced towards

the stairs which were all that now separated us, unless it were the

sorrow whose ravages in her tender breast she might seek to hide, and

might succeed in hiding from every eye but mine?

No, I would guess at nothing. I would wait; but my heart leaped high,

and when she had passed the curve marking the turn of the great

staircase, I bounded forward and so had the sweetest vision that ever

comes to love--the descent, from tread to tread of the lady of one’s

heart into the arms which have yearned for her in hope and in doubt for

many weary days.

For I knew before she reached me that she loved me. It was in her garb

of white, filmy and virginal, in her eager, yet timid step, in the glow

of youth--of joyous expectation which gave radiance to her beauty and

warmth to my own breast. But I said not a word nor did I move from my

position at the foot of the stairs till she reached the last step but

one and paused; then I uttered her name.

Had I uttered it before? Had she ever heard it before? Surely not as

at that moment. For her eyes, as she slowly lifted them to mine, had a

look of wonder in them which grew as I went on to say:

“Before I speak a word of all that has been burning in my heart since

first I saw you from the gallery above us, I want you to know that I

consider all the splendor surrounding us as yours, both by right of

birth and the love of your father. I am ready to sign it all over--what

we see and what we do not see--if you desire to possess it in freedom,

or think you would be happier with a mate of your own choosing. I love

you. There! I have said it, Orpha--but I love you so well that I would

rather lose all that goes with your hand than be a drag upon your life,

meant as you are for peace and joy and an unhampered existence. Do you

believe that?”

“Yes, I believe that. But--” Oh, the delicious naïveté of her smile,

bringing every dimple into play and lighting up into radiance the

gravity of her gaze, “why should you think that I might want to be free

to live in this great house alone? For me, that would be desolation.”

“Desolation because you would be alone or because--” even now I hardly

dared to say it--“because it would be life without reality--without

love? Orpha, I must know;--know beyond the shadow of a doubt. I cannot

take the great gift bequeathed me by your father, unless with it

receive the greatest gift of all--your undivided heart. You are young

and very lovely--a treasure which many men will crave. I should never

be satisfied for you to be merely content. I want you to know the

thrill--the ecstasy of love--such love as I feel for you--”

I could not go on. The pressure of all the past was upon me. The story

of the days and nights when in rapture and in tragedy she was my chief

thought, my one unfailing inspiration to hold to the right and to dare

misapprehension and the calumny of those who saw in me an interloper

here without conscience or mercy, passed in one wild phantasmagoria

through my mind, rendering me speechless.

With that fine intuition of hers--or perhaps, because she had shared

alike my pains and my infinite horrors--she respected my silence till

the time came for words and then she spoke but one:

“Quenton!”

Had she ever spoken it before? Or had I ever heard it as it fell at

this moment from her lips? Never. It linked us two together. It gave

the nay to all my doubts. I felt sure now, sure; and yet such is the

hunger of a lover’s heart that I wanted her assurance in words. Would

she grant me that?

Yes; but it came very softly and with a delicate aloofness at first

which gave me the keenest delight.

“When you spoke of the first time you saw me and said it was from the

gallery above us, you spoke as if life had begun for you that night.

Did you never think that possibly it might have begun for me also?

That content had revealed itself as content, not love? That I was

happy that what we had expected to take place that night did not take

place--that--that--”

Here her aloofness all vanished and her soul looked through her eyes.

We were very near, but the collie was leaping about us, and the place

was large and the gorgeousness of it all overpowering; so I contented

myself with laying my hand softly on hers where it pressed against the

edge of the final pillar supporting the lattice work.

“Let us go into the library,” I whispered.

But she led me elsewhere. Quieting the dog, she drew me away into a

narrow hall, the purpose of which I had never understood till I had

learned the secret of the hidden stairway and how this hall denoted the

space which the lower end of the inn’s outside stairway had formerly

occupied. Pausing, she gave me an earnest look, then, speaking very

softly:

“It was here--on the steps which once united the ground with those

still remaining above, that my father and my mother pledged themselves

to each other in a love that has survived death. Shall we--”

She said no more: I had her in my arms and life had begun for us in

very truth.

LXXII

Lovers have much to say when the barriers which have separated them

are once down, and I will not hazard a guess at the hour when after a

moment of delicious silence I ventured to remark:

“We have talked much about ourselves and our future. Shall we not talk

a little now about Edgar?”

“Oh, yes; tell me the whole story. I’ve only heard that he arrived in

time to prevent the marriage. That Dr. Hunter generously released her

from all obligation to him and that she and Edgar will be united very

soon.”

I was glad to comply. Glad to throw light into that darksome corner

none of us had ever penetrated, our Lucy’s heart. When I had finished,

we sat a moment in awe of the passionate tale, then I said:

“We must do something for Edgar. He will have no wedding, but he must

have a wedding present.”

“Let it be much.”

“It shall be much.”

“But not too much. Edgar is reckless with money and even queens in

these days sometimes come to grief. Shall we not put by a fund for the

time when we see the sparkle leaving his eye and anxiety making Lucy’s

pale cheeks still more pallid?”

“You shall do just as you wish, Orpha.”

“No; just as Father would wish.”

Ah! my beloved one!

LXXIII

I have one more memory of that night. As I was leaving--for I was

resolved to remain at my hotel until our marriage, which, for many

reasons, was to be an immediate one without preparation and with but

little ceremony,--I asked my love why in the months of her father’s

illness, and during the time when perplexities of various kinds were in

all our hearts, she never allowed herself to remain alone with me or to

go where I went even with her father’s permission.

And her answer, given with a smile and a blush was this:

“I did not dare.”

She did not dare! My conscientious darling.

And _I_ had not dared. But my fears were not her fears. I had feared to

be presumptuous; of building up a fairyland out of dreams; of yielding

to my imagination rather than to my good sense. And yet, deep down

in some inner consciousness, a faint insidious hope had whispered to

itself that if I showed myself worthy, perhaps--perhaps--

And now _perhaps_ had become reality, and all doubt and mistrust a

vanished dream.

But though I had walked in clouded ways and had not known my Orpha’s

heart, there had been one in the household who had. I learned it that

night from a few words uttered by Clarke on my return to the hotel.

I was not surprised to find him waiting for me in the lobby; we had

come into such close contact during the strenuous days that had just

passed, that it would have seemed unnatural not to have found him

there. But what did astonish me was to see the wistful look with which

he contemplated me as I signified to him my wish for him to follow me

upstairs. But once together in my room, I understood, and letting the

full joyousness of my heart to appear, I smilingly said:

“You may congratulate me, Clarke. My good fortune is complete.”

And this is what he uttered in response, greatly to my surprise and

possibly to his own:

“I thought it would all come right, sir.”

But it was not till he was on the point of leaving me for the night

that I learned his full mind.

His hand was on the knob of the door and he was about to turn it, when

he suddenly loosened his hold and came back.

“Excuse me, sir, but I shan’t feel quite right till I tell you all the

truth about myself. Did you, when things looked a little dark after the

terrible news the doctors gave us, get a queer looking sort of note

hidden in your box of cigars?”

“Yes, I did, Clarke; and I don’t know yet who took that much compassion

on me?”

“It was I, Mr. Bartholomew.” (Never had he called me that before. I

wonder if it came with a long dreaded effort.) “But it was not from

compassion for you, sir--more’s the pity; but because I knew my young

lady’s heart and felt willing to help her that much in her great

trouble.”

“You knew--”

“Not by any words, sir; but by a look I saw on her face one day as she

stood in the window watching you motor away. You were to be gone a week

and she could not stand the thought of it. I hope you will pardon me

for speaking so plainly. I have always felt the highest regard for Miss

Bartholomew.”

Oh, the pictures that came back! Pictures I had not seen at the time

but which now would never leave me.

Perhaps he saw my emotion; perhaps he only realized it, but an instant

of silence passed before he quietly added:

“A man thinks he’s honest till he comes to the point of trial. When

they asked me if I wrote anything to anybody about that key, I said No,

for I didn’t _write_ anything as you must know who read the printed

letters I pasted in such crooked lines on a slip of paper.”

I smiled; it was easy to smile that night.

“You know where the key was found. How do you think it got there?”

“In the flower-pot? Of course, I can’t say for certain, but this is how

I’ve figured it out. On the morning he died, you found him, as you must

remember, in the same flannel robe which he had worn while sitting up.

This was because he would not allow me as he had always done before

to remove it. That robe was buttoned close to his neck when we left

him, but it was not so buttoned in the morning, and we know why. He

had wanted to use the key he wore strung on a chain about his neck,

and that key hung under his pajama jacket. To get it he had first to

unfasten his dressing-gown and then his pajama jacket, or if he did not

want to go to that trouble, to simply pull it up into his hand by means

of the chain which held it. He probably did the latter, being naturally

impatient with buttons and such like and letting it fall within reach,

went about the business he had planned.

“So far excitement had kept him up, but when, after an act which would

have tired a well man, he came back into his room--Well! that was

different. He could draw into place the shelves which had hidden the

secret stairway, and he could put out the light in his closet; for all

this had to be done if he did not want to give away his secret. And

he could manage, though not without difficulty, I’m sure, to reach

and unlock his two doors; but that done, the little job of unbuttoning

his jacket, throwing the chain over his head and rearranging his whole

clothing so that the key would be invisible to his nurse when she came

in, was just a little too much. But the key had to be hidden, and

hidden quickly and easily, and he being, as there is every reason to

believe on the further side of the bed where he had gone to unlock the

upper door, he was at this time of failing strength within a foot of

the potted plant standing in the window, and this gave him his idea.

“Gathering up the chain and key in his hand, he made use of the latter

to push aside the soil in the pot sufficiently to make a hole large

enough to hold anything so thin and slight as that chain and key. A

flick given by his fingers to the loose mold and they were covered.

That’s how I’ve reasoned it out; and if it is not all true some of it

is for his slippers were found lying on that side of the bed, instead

of under the stand by the closet where I had placed them on taking them

off. What do you think, sir? Doesn’t that answer your question?”

“Yes, Clarke, as well as it ever will be answered. Have you given this

explanation to Miss Bartholomew, or to any one else in fact?”

“No, sir. I’m not quick to talk and I should not have said as much to

you if you had not asked me. For after all it is only my thoughts, sir.

We shall never know all that passed through the mind of your uncle

during those last three hours.”

* * * * *

It was after our return from a very short wedding journey, during which

we had seen Edgar married to Lucy, that one evening when life seemed

very sweet to us, Orpha put into my hands a sheet of discolored paper,

folded letter-wise, saying softly:

“My last secret, Quenton. That is an old, old letter written by my

father and found by me at the same time I found the early will in the

old box at the foot of the hidden stairway. It was lying underneath the

will and would have escaped my notice if the box had not fallen from

its peg while I was pulling at the crumpled-up document in my effort to

get it out. It is a treasure and the time has come for you to share it

with me. Read it, Quenton.”

And this is what I read:

Some day, my darling child, you will find this letter. When you do,

you will wonder why in building this house, I took such pains to

retain within its walls a portion of the old iron stairway belonging

to the ancient inn against which I chose to rear this structure.

I am going to tell you. You are a child now, thirteen last Tuesday. I

hope you will be a woman when you read these lines, and a fine one, as

just and as generous-hearted as your mother. You will understand me

better so, especially if that great alchemist, Love, has wrought his

miracle in your heart.

For Love is my theme, dear child, the love I felt for your mother.

The stairway down which you have stepped in such amazement was

our trysting place in those days. At its base was the spot where

we pledged our young love. She lived within with her father and

mother, but there were moments when she could steal out under the

stars,--moments so blessed to me, a thoughtless lad, that their

influence is with me yet though the grave has her sweet body, and

Immortal Love her soul.

You will be like her. You will be to Edgar what your mother has been

to me. When you are that--when a woman is a guiding star to her

husband--she may face the ills of life without fear, for the blessing

of Heaven is upon her.

As is that of your father,

EDGAR QUENTON BARTHOLOMEW.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Spelling and grammar have been left as originally printed.