WHEREIN EDITH CARR WAGES A BATTLE, AND HART HENDERSON STANDS GUARD
Many people looked, a few followed, when Edith Carr slowly came down
the main street of Mackinac, pausing here and there to note the glow of
colour in one small booth after another, overflowing with gay curios.
That street of packed white sand, winding with the curves of the shore,
outlined with brilliant shops, and thronged with laughing, bare-headed
people in outing costumes was a picturesque and fascinating sight.
Thousands annually made long journeys and paid exorbitant prices to
take part in that pageant.
As Edith Carr passed, she was the most distinguished figure of the old
street. Her clinging black gown was sufficiently elaborate for a dinner
dress. On her head was a large, wide, drooping-brimmed black hat, with
immense floating black plumes, while on the brim, and among the laces
on her breast glowed velvety, deep red roses. Some way these made up
for the lack of colour in her cheeks and lips, and while her eyes
seemed unnaturally bright, to a close observer they appeared weary.
Despite the effort she made to move lightly she was very tired, and
dragged her heavy feet with an effort.
She turned at the little street leading to the dock, and went to meet
the big lake steamer ploughing up the Straits from Chicago. Past the
landing place, on to the very end of the pier she went, then sat down,
leaned against a dock support and closed her tired eyes. When the
steamer came very close she languidly watched the people lining the
railing. Instantly she marked one lean anxious face turned toward hers,
and with a throb of pity she lifted a hand and waved to Hart Henderson.
He was the first man to leave the boat, coming to her instantly. She
spread her trailing skirts and motioned him to sit beside her. Silently
they looked across the softly lapping water. At last she forced herself
to speak to him.
“Did you have a successful trip?”
“I accomplished my purpose.”
“You didn’t lose any time getting back.”
“I never do when I am coming to you.”
“Do you want to go to the cottage for anything?”
“No.”
“Then let us sit here and wait until the Petoskey steamer comes in. I
like to watch the boats. Sometimes I study the faces, if I am not too
tired.”
“Have you seen any new types to-day?”
She shook her head. “This has not been an easy day, Hart.”
“And it’s going to be worse,” said Henderson bitterly. “There’s no use
putting it off. Edith, I saw some one to-day.”
“You should have seen thousands,” she said lightly.
“I did. But of them all, only one will be of interest to you.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Where?”
“Lake Shore private hospital.”
“An accident?”
“No. Nervous and physical breakdown.”
“Phil said he was going back to the Limberlost.”
“He went. He was there three weeks, but the strain broke him. He has an
old letter in his hands that he has handled until it is ragged. He held
it up to me and said: ‘You can see for yourself that she says she will
be well and happy, but we can’t know until we see her again, and that
may never be. She may have gone too near that place her father went
down, some of that Limberlost gang may have found her in the forest,
she may lie dead in some city morgue this instant, waiting for me to
find her body.’”
“Hart! For pity sake stop!”
“I can’t,” cried Henderson desperately. “I am forced to tell you. They
are fighting brain fever. He did go back to the swamp and he prowled it
night and day. The days down there are hot now, and the nights wet with
dew and cold. He paid no attention and forgot his food. A fever started
and his uncle brought him home. They’ve never had a word from her, or
found a trace of her. Mrs. Comstock thought she had gone to O’Mores’ at
Great Rapids, so when Phil broke down she telegraphed there. They had
been gone all summer, so her mother is as anxious as Phil.”
“The O’Mores are here,” said Edith. “I haven’t seen any of them,
because I haven’t gone out much in the few days since we came, but this
is their summer home.”
“Edith, they say at the hospital that it will take careful nursing to
save Phil. He is surrounded by stacks of maps and railroad guides. He
is trying to frame up a plan to set the entire detective agency of the
country to work. He says he will stay there just two days longer. The
doctors say he will kill himself when he goes. He is a sick man, Edith.
His hands are burning and shaky and his breath was hot against my
face.”
“Why are you telling me?” It was a cry of acute anguish.
“He thinks you know where she is.”
“I do not! I haven’t an idea! I never dreamed she would go away when
she had him in her hand! I should not have done it!”
“He said it was something you said to her that made her go.”
“That may be, but it doesn’t prove that I know where she went.”
Henderson looked across the water and suffered keenly. At last he
turned to Edith and laid a firm, strong hand over hers.
“Edith,” he said, “do you realize how serious this is?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Do you want as fine a fellow as Philip driven any further? If he
leaves that hospital now, and goes out to the exposure and anxiety of a
search for her, there will be a tragedy that no after regrets can
avert. Edith, what did you say to Miss Comstock that made her run away
from Phil?”
The girl turned her face from him and sat still, but the man gripping
her hands and waiting in agony could see that she was shaken by the
jolting of the heart in her breast.
“Edith, what did you say?”
“What difference can it make?”
“It might furnish some clue to her action.”
“It could not possibly.”
“Phil thinks so. He has thought so until his brain is worn enough to
give way. Tell me, Edith!”
“I told her Phil was mine! That if he were away from her an hour and
back in my presence, he would be to me as he always has been.”
“Edith, did you believe that?”
“I would have staked my life, my soul on it!”
“Do you believe it now?”
There was no answer. Henderson took her other hand and holding both of
them firmly he said softly: “Don’t mind me, dear. I don’t count! I’m
just old Hart! You can tell me anything. Do you still believe that?”
The beautiful head barely moved in negation. Henderson gathered both
her hands in one of his and stretched an arm across her shoulders to
the post to support her. She dragged her hands from him and twisted
them together.
“Oh, Hart!” she cried. “It isn’t fair! There is a limit! I have
suffered my share. Can’t you see? Can’t you understand?”
“Yes,” he panted. “Yes, my girl! Tell me just this one thing yet, and
I’ll cheerfully kill any one who annoys you further. Tell me, Edith!”
Then she lifted her big, dull, pain-filled eyes to his and cried: “No!
I do not believe it now! I know it is not true! I killed his love for
me. It is dead and gone forever. Nothing will revive it! Nothing in all
this world. And that is not all. I did not know how to touch the depths
of his nature. I never developed in him those things he was made to
enjoy. He admired me. He was proud to be with me. He thought, and I
thought, that he worshipped me; but I know now that he never did care
for me as he cares for her. Never! I can see it! I planned to lead
society, to make his home a place sought for my beauty and popularity.
She plans to advance his political ambitions, to make him comfortable
physically, to stimulate his intellect, to bear him a brood of
red-faced children. He likes her and her plans as he never did me and
mine. Oh, my soul! Now, are you satisfied?”
She dropped back against his arm exhausted. Henderson held her and
learned what suffering truly means. He fanned her with his hat, rubbed
her cold hands and murmured broken, incoherent things. By and by slow
tears slipped from under her closed lids, but when she opened them her
eyes were dull and hard.
“What a rag one is when the last secret of the soul is torn out and
laid bare!” she cried.
Henderson thrust his handkerchief into her fingers and whispered,
“Edith, the boat has been creeping up. It’s very close. Maybe some of
our crowd are on it. Hadn’t we better slip away from here before it
lands?”
“If I can walk,” she said. “Oh, I am so dead tired, Hart!
“Yes, dear,” said Henderson soothingly. “Just try to pass the landing
before the boat anchors. If I only dared carry you!”
They struggled through the waiting masses, but directly opposite the
landing there was a backward movement in the happy, laughing crowd, the
gang-plank came down with a slam, and people began hurrying from the
boat. Crowded against the fish house on the dock, Henderson could only
advance a few steps at a time. He was straining every nerve to protect
and assist Edith. He saw no one he recognized near them, so he slipped
his arm across her back to help support her. He felt her stiffen
against him and catch her breath. At the same instant, the clearest,
sweetest male voice he ever had heard called: “Be careful there, little
men!”
Henderson sent a swift glance toward the boat. Terence O’More had
stepped from the gang-plank, leading a little daughter, so like him, it
was comical. There followed a picture not easy to describe. The Angel
in the full flower of her beauty, richly dressed, a laugh on her cameo
face, the setting sun glinting on her gold hair, escorted by her eldest
son, who held her hand tightly and carefully watched her steps. Next
came Elnora, dressed with equal richness, a trifle taller and
slenderer, almost the same type of colouring, but with different eyes
and hair, facial lines and expression. She was led by the second O’More
boy who convulsed the crowd by saying: “Tareful, Elnora! Don’t ’oo be
’teppin’ in de water!”
People surged around them, purposely closing them in.
“What lovely women! Who are they? It’s the O’Mores. The lightest one is
his wife. Is that her sister? No, it is his! They say he has a title in
England.”
Whispers ran fast and audible. As the crowd pressed around the party an
opening was left beside the fish sheds. Edith ran down the dock.
Henderson sprang after her, catching her arm and assisting her to the
street.
“Up the shore! This way!” she panted. “Every one will go to dinner the
first thing they do.”
They left the street and started around the beach, but Edith was
breathless from running, while the yielding sand made difficult
walking.
“Help me!” she cried, clinging to Henderson. He put his arm around her,
almost carrying her from sight into a little cove walled by high rocks
at the back, while there was a clean floor of white sand, and logs
washed from the lake for seats. He found one of these with a back rest,
and hurrying down to the water he soaked his handkerchief and carried
it to her. She passed it across her lips, over her eyes, and then
pressed the palms of her hands upon it. Henderson removed the heavy
hat, fanned her with his, and wet the handkerchief again.
“Hart, what makes you?” she said wearily. “My mother doesn’t care. She
says this is good for me. Do you think this is good for me, Hart?”
“Edith, you know I would give my life if I could save you this,” he
said, and could not speak further.
She leaned against him, closed her eyes and lay silent so long the man
fell into panic.
“Edith, you are not unconscious?” he whispered, touching her.
“No, just resting. Please don’t leave me.”
He held her carefully, gently fanning her. She was suffering almost
more than either of them could endure.
“I wish you had your boat,” she said at last. “I want to sail with the
wind in my face.”
“There is no wind. I can bring my motor around in a few minutes.”
“Then get it.”
“Lie on the sand. I can ’phone from the first booth. It won’t take but
a little while.”
Edith lay on the white sand, and Henderson covered her face with her
hat. Then he ran to the nearest booth and talked imperatively.
Presently he was back bringing a hot drink that was stimulating.
Shortly the motor ran close to the beach and stopped. Henderson’s
servant brought a row-boat ashore and took them to the launch. It was
filled with cushions and wraps. Henderson made a couch and soon, warmly
covered, Edith sped out over the water in search of peace.
Hour after hour the boat ran up and down the shore. The moon arose and
the night air grew very chilly. Henderson put on an overcoat and piled
more covers on Edith.
“You must take me home,” she said at last. “The folks will be uneasy.”
He was compelled to take her to the cottage with the battle still
raging. He went back early the next morning, but already she had
wandered out over the island. Instinctively Henderson felt that the
shore would attract her. There was something in the tumult of rough
little Huron’s waves that called to him. It was there he found her,
crouching so close the water the foam was dampening her skirts.
“May I stay?” he asked.
“I have been hoping you would come,” she answered. “It’s bad enough
when you are here, but it is a little easier than bearing it alone.”
“Thank God for that!” said Henderson sitting beside her. “Shall I talk
to you?”
She shook her head. So they sat by the hour. At last she spoke: “Of
course, you know there is something I have got to do, Hart!”
“You have not!” cried Henderson, violently. “That’s all nonsense! Give
me just one word of permission. That is all that is required of you.”
“‘Required?’ You grant, then, that there is something ‘required?’”
“One word. Nothing more.”
“Did you ever know one word could be so big, so black, so desperately
bitter? Oh, Hart!”
“No.”
“But you know it now, Hart!”
“Yes.”
“And still you say that it is ‘required?’”
Henderson suffered unspeakably. At last he said: “If you had seen and
heard him, Edith, you, too, would feel that it is ‘required.’
Remember——”
“No! No! No!” she cried. “Don’t ask me to remember even the least of my
pride and folly. Let me forget!”
She sat silent for a long time.
“Will you go with me?” she whispered.
“Of course.”
At last she arose.
“I might as well give up and have it over,” she faltered.
That was the first time in her life that Edith Carr ever had proposed
to give up anything she wanted.
“Help me, Hart!”
Henderson started around the beach assisting her all he could. Finally
he stopped.
“Edith, there is no sense in this! You are too tired to go. You know
you can trust me. You wait in any of these lovely places and send me.
You will be safe, and I’ll run. One word is all that is necessary.”
“But I’ve got to say that word myself, Hart!”
“Then write it, and let me carry it. The message is not going to prove
who went to the office and sent it.”
“That is quite true,” she said, dropping wearily, but she made no
movement to take the pen and paper he offered.
“Hart, you write it,” she said at last.
Henderson turned away his face. He gripped the pen, while his breath
sucked between his dry teeth.
“Certainly!” he said when he could speak. “Mackinac, August 27, 1908.
Philip Ammon, Lake Shore Hospital, Chicago.” He paused with suspended
pen and glanced at Edith. Her white lips were working, but no sound
came. “Miss Comstock is with the Terence O’Mores, on Mackinac Island,”
prompted Henderson.
Edith nodded.
“Signed, Henderson,” continued the big man.
Edith shook her head.
“Say, ‘She is well and happy,’ and sign, Edith Carr!” she panted.
“Not on your life!” flashed Henderson.
“For the love of mercy, Hart, don’t make this any harder! It is the
least I can do, and it takes every ounce of strength in me to do it.”
“Will you wait for me here?” he asked.
She nodded, and, pulling his hat lower over his eyes, Henderson ran
around the shore. In less than an hour he was back. He helped her a
little farther to where the Devil’s Kitchen lay cut into the rocks; it
furnished places to rest, and cool water. Before long his man came with
the boat. From it they spread blankets on the sand for her, and made
chafing-dish tea. She tried to refuse it, but the fragrance overcame
her for she drank ravenously. Then Henderson cooked several dishes and
spread an appetizing lunch. She was young, strong, and almost famished
for food. She was forced to eat. That made her feel much better. Then
Henderson helped her into the boat and ran it through shady coves of
the shore, where there were refreshing breezes. When she fell asleep
the girl did not know, but the man did. Sadly in need of rest himself,
he ran that boat for five hours through quiet bays, away from noisy
parties, and where the shade was cool and deep. When she awoke he took
her home, and as they went she knew that she had been mistaken. She
would not die. Her heart was not even broken. She had suffered
horribly; she would suffer more; but eventually the pain must wear out.
Into her head crept a few lines of an old opera:
“Hearts do not break, they sting and ache,
For old love’s sake, but do not die,
As witnesseth the living I.”
That evening they were sailing down the Straits before a stiff breeze
and Henderson was busy with the tiller when she said to him: “Hart, I
want you to do something more for me.”
“You have only to tell me,” he said.
“Have I only to tell you, Hart?” she asked softly.
“Haven’t you learned that yet, Edith?”
“I want you to go away.”
“Very well,” he said quietly, but his face whitened visibly.
“You say that as if you had been expecting it.”
“I have. I knew from the beginning that when this was over you would
dislike me for having seen you suffer. I have grown my Gethsemane in a
full realization of what was coming, but I could not leave you, Edith,
so long as it seemed to me that I was serving you. Does it make any
difference to you where I go?”
“I want you where you will be loved, and good care taken of you.”
“Thank you!” said Henderson, smiling grimly. “Have you any idea where
such a spot might be found?”
“It should be with your sister at Los Angeles. She always has seemed
very fond of you.”
“That is quite true,” said Henderson, his eyes brightening a little. “I
will go to her. When shall I start?”
“At once.”
Henderson began to tack for the landing, but his hands shook until he
scarcely could manage the boat. Edith Carr sat watching him
indifferently, but her heart was throbbing painfully. “Why is there so
much suffering in the world?” she kept whispering to herself. Inside
her door Henderson took her by the shoulders almost roughly.
“For how long is this, Edith, and how are you going to say good-bye to
me?”
She raised tired, pain-filled eyes to his.
“I don’t know for how long it is,” she said. “It seems now as if it had
been a slow eternity. I wish to my soul that God would be merciful to
me and make something ‘snap’ in my heart, as there did in Phil’s, that
would give me rest. I don’t know for how long, but I’m perfectly
shameless with you, Hart. If peace ever comes and I want you, I won’t
wait for you to find it out yourself, I’ll cable, Marconigraph,
anything. As for how I say good-bye; any way you please, I don’t care
in the least what happens to me.”
Henderson studied her intently.
“In that case, we will shake hands,” he said. “Good-bye, Edith. Don’t
forget that every hour I am thinking of you and hoping all good things
will come to you soon.”