MARY LOUISE TOUCHES BOTTOM
Circumstantial evidence was all against the Spokane. While nobody could
say for certain that she had committed the unpardonable sin of going
to the bottom, she could not prove an alibi. One day she had been
sending out signals of distress by wireless and the next day, when a
philanthropic vessel had endeavored to find her in the vicinity from
which the appeals had come, there was not a trace of her. Others had
joined in the search to no avail. She was finally given up for lost and
the search was abandoned. Then and only then, did Dorfield awake to the
fact that the popular Danny Dexter had been on the Spokane.
“Poor Mary Louise!” was heard on every side, and then often was added,
“Well, thank goodness, she has plenty of money!”
It is strange how many persons seem to feel that plenty of money will
soften any blow. Josie’s voice was the only one raised in complaint
that Mary Louise would have been better off were she not so well off,
but then even Elizabeth had to admit that Josie was a wee bit peculiar
about worldly things. In spite of the fact that the astute Josie was
practical and businesslike, she had an unworldly philosophy worthy of
Diogenes. Like that old gentleman, she would have been perfectly happy
with no habitation but a tub but she would have put the tub to more
practical use than the ancient worthy is reported to have done.
The time had come for Irene to break the sad news to Mary Louise
concerning her dear Danny. It took every bit of character the lame girl
possessed to screw her courage up to the point of breaching the subject.
“It wouldn’t be so hard if I didn’t love her so much,” she said to
herself, and then added, “but it is because I do love her so much that
I am chosen to be the one to do it.”
Like all difficult things it was not so hard to do when once she
had started. Dr. Coles had telephoned her that morning that he felt
it was hardly fair to keep Mary Louise in ignorance any longer; and
the evening before Bob Dulaney had come to tell her that all hope of
the Spokane was given up, and that the storm on the Pacific in that
particular region had raged so fiercely for several days that it was
considered by those experienced in such matters utterly absurd to fancy
for an instant that men in open boats could have escaped drowning.
Bob Dulaney was grief-stricken. He had been hoping against all reason
that Danny had escaped.
“I just can’t believe it! Old Danny Dexter! Why, ‘Irene for all time,’
Danny was the livest person I ever knew--so alive that I simply can’t
think of him as dead.”
“Irene for all time” was a name Bob had for Irene--just a little joke
of their own brought about when he was introduced to her by Danny. He
usually called her by that funny little title.
“Well, let’s not think of him as dead. Lots of dead persons are more
alive than live ones, and lots of live ones are deader than dead ones.
Why shouldn’t we just think and speak of Danny as alive? I think it
will be a beautiful way to remember him.”
“Oh, ‘Irene for all time,’ you are a comfort to a fellow! I wish I
could help you when you have to break it to poor little Mary Louise.
It is hard on you to be the one but then it is a compliment too.
Everybody turns to you when something difficult must be done.”
Irene smiled. It was pleasant to be approved of and liked by this
clean, clever young man. Perhaps his kind approval was one thing that
made the difficult task a little easier than she had dreamed possible.
Mary Louise was going over her grandfather’s clothes and his personal
effects. Irene found her in a small cozy room down stairs, the room
where Grandpa Jim had loved to sit and smoke and see his intimate
friends. It was the same room where Mary Louise’s wedding presents had
been when Felix Markle and his confederate had so cleverly packed them
all off. Mary Louise had had all of her grandfather’s things brought
to this room and she was busily engaged in going over piles of wearing
apparel with a view to giving away the things to persons who might need
them.
“I know Grandpa Jim would hate to see good warm clothes go to waste,
but it is hard to part with some of these things that bring him back so
plainly.” She held up a broadcloth coat that seemed to have retained
the shape of the beloved old gentleman.
“To whom will you give them, Mary Louise?” asked Irene.
“I can’t bear to give them to anyone who would look ridiculous in
them. Uncle Eben, of course, wants everything, but he is so short and
bow-legged and Grandpa Jim was over six feet. I am giving him some of
the things, but I can’t contemplate Uncle Eben in a frock coat that
would almost touch the ground. There is a nice old gentleman who lives
around the corner, old Mr. Curtiss. He hasn’t been here very long and
he doesn’t know many persons, but Grandpa Jim struck up an acquaintance
with him and liked to talk of old times with him. He is from South
Carolina and has seen better days--not that he ever mentions it, but
one just surmises he has. He is as poor as poor can be now.”
“Why I know him! Bob Dulaney introduced me one day when we were sitting
in the park. Bob says he has a small job on his newspaper. They send
him out to interview a certain type of politician and, besides that,
he writes the obituaries and, being well up on who’s who, he keeps a
little ahead on special articles about great persons who are likely to
die soon or suddenly.”
“I think he would be a very suitable person to wear Grandpa Jim’s
things. He is tall and dignified and the poor dear is so very shabby.
Do you think it would hurt his feelings?” asked Mary Louise, tenderly
patting the broadcloth coat.
“I don’t think it could at all. He’d feel honored, I believe, because
giving things like this is not like charity. Let me help you bundle
them up.”
Together the two girls worked, Irene folding and wrapping the things as
Mary Louise sorted them.
“All of this pile goes to the Salvation Army; these things to Uncle
Eben and these to Mr. Curtiss. I want Uncle Peter Conant to have his
silver-headed cane. His fur-lined overcoat I have saved for Danny.”
Finally, the clothes were all neatly wrapped and tied up, each with a
label written in Irene’s clear legible handwriting. It was difficult
for Irene to write evenly with her hand trembling with emotion at the
thought of the ordeal ahead of her. She felt it would be best to wait
for her friend to get the business in hand finished before she had
anything more to bear, and so she waited until the last string was
tied, the last bundle labeled, and Uncle Eben had come and carried them
all off to be delivered at his convenience, before she broached the
subject uppermost in her heart.
“Mary Louise, I have something to tell you,” she began.
“Yes, darling, I know you have.”
“Oh, you do?”
“I have known it all morning, ever since you came in the room. I am
ready to hear now. What is it, Irene?”
For a moment Irene could not speak. She shut her eyes and prayed for
strength. If Mary Louise could be so calm, it was not for her to break
down.
“Has it--has it something to do with--with Danny?” For a moment Mary
Louise grasped a chair for support. Her breath came in gasps. Then she
gathered her forces, stiffened up and smiled wanly. “I’ve felt it all
along. What is it? You can tell me dear--I have touched bottom, as it
were, in misery and unhappiness and I can bear anything.”
“The Spokane is reported missing,” said Irene softly.
“Missing,” Mary Louise half whispered. “Tell me more.”
“She was sending out wireless calls for help--”
“Ah! It was then that Danny sent me the message. He must have known and
tried to get a word to me before--before.”
“Yes, dear!”
“And wasn’t it wonderful that it reached me? And wasn’t it like Danny
to do it? He knows--knew--wireless telegraphy, you remember, Irene? He
learned it in his service overseas.”
“Yes, dear!”
Mary Louise spoke softly:
“What else do they know?” Her eyes were dry and strangely brilliant.
“Nothing but that various vessels went to the assistance of the Spokane
but could find no trace of her and a great storm, a hurricane, had been
raging for some time during and after the Spokane’s wireless messages
were received and it is feared--it is believed--it is known by persons
who have had experience in such things that lifeboats could not have
weathered such a storm. It is thought that all on board were--were
lost.”
“Nobody can tell though, for sure!” there was a ring of hope in the
poor girl’s voice.
“No darling, not for sure, but we are all of us afraid there is
absolutely no chance for Danny to have been saved. Even Bob Dulaney has
given up hope--and you know Bob would keep on hoping against hope. He
came last night to tell me I should tell you. Dr. Coles telephoned this
morning that it was hardly fair to keep you in ignorance any longer.”
“You are all of you very good to me. My words sound cold but I don’t
mean them to. I know how hard this has been for you, my dear. It was
just like you to take such a hard task on yourself. I--I do thank you,
Irene.”
Never a tear, scarcely a falter in the clear voice! It was more tragic
to have Mary Louise take the news that way than it would have been had
she broken down and wept.
“You mustn’t feel too sorry for me, Irene. Tell the girls they mustn’t
either. I can bear this trouble. Somehow I feel that I am not the one
who has to bear it. I have been very happy with both Grandpa Jim and
Danny and, now that they are gone, I can remember the happy times and
be thankful for them. But oh, Irene, the dreary, dreary years to come!”
She leaned back in her chair, for a moment she closed her eyes and her
mouth looked weary and drawn.