At nine o'clock that evening, when a reprieve came, Hodder went out.
Anxiety on the score of Kate Marcy, as well as a desire to see Mr.
Bentley and tell him of the conversation with the bishop, directed his
steps toward Dalton Street. And Hodder had, indeed, an intention of
confiding to his friend, as one eminently entitled to it, the news of
his engagement to Alison Parr.
Nothing, however, had been heard of Kate. She was not in Dalton Street,
Mr. Bentley feared. The search of Gratz, the cabinet-maker, had been
fruitless. And Sally Grover had even gone to see the woman in the
hospital, whom Kate had befriended, in the hope of getting a possible
clew. They sat close together before the fire in Mr. Bentley's
comfortable library, debating upon the possibility of other methods of
procedure, when a carriage was heard rattling over the pitted asphalt
without. As it pulled up at the curb, a silence fell between them. The
door-bell rang.
Holder found himself sitting erect, rigidly attentive, listening to the
muffled sound of a woman's voice in the entry. A few moments later came
a knock at the library door, and Sam entered. The old darky was plainly
frightened.
"It's Miss Kate, Marse Ho'ace, who you bin tryin' to fin'," he stammered.
Holder sprang to his feet and made his way rapidly around the table,
where he stood confronting the woman in the doorway. There she was,
perceptibly swaying, as though the floor under her were rocked by an
earthquake. Her handsome face was white as chalk, her pupils widened in
terror. It was curious, at such an instant, that he should have taken
in her costume,--yet it was part of the mystery. She wore a new,
close-fitting, patently expensive suit of dark blue cloth and a small
hat, which were literally transforming in their effect, demanding a
palpable initial effort of identification.
He seized her by the arm.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "He--he's out there--in the carriage."
She leaned heavily against the doorpost, shivering . . . . Holder saw
Sally Grover coming down the stairs.
"Take her," he said, and went out of the front door, which Sam had left
open. Mr. Bentley was behind him.
The driver had descended from the box and was peering into the darkness
of the vehicle when he heard them, and turned. At sight of the tall
clergyman, an expression of relief came into his face.
"I don't like the looks of this, sir," he said. "I thought he was pretty
bad when I went to fetch him--"
Holder pushed past him and looked into the carriage. Leaning back,
motionless, in the corner of the seat was the figure of a man. For a
terrible moment of premonition, of enlightenment, the rector gazed at it.
"They sent for me from a family hotel in Ayers Street," the driver was
explaining. Mr. Bentley's voice interrupted him.
"He must be brought in, at once. Do you know where Dr. Latimer's office
is, on Tower Street?" he asked the man. "Go there, and bring this
doctor back with you as quickly as possible. If he is not in, get
another, physician."
Between them, the driver and Holder got the burden out of the carriage
and up the steps. The light from the hallway confirmed the rector's
fear.
"It's Preston Parr," he said.
The next moment was too dreadful for surprise, but never had the sense of
tragedy so pierced the innermost depths of Holder's being as now, when
Horace Bentley's calmness seemed to have forsaken him; and as he gazed
down upon the features on the pillow, he wept . . . . Holder turned
away. Whatever memories those features evoked, memories of a past that
still throbbed with life these were too sacred for intrusion. The years
of exile, of uncomplaining service to others in this sordid street and
over the wide city had not yet sufficed to allay the pain, to heal the
wound of youth. Nay, loyalty had kept it fresh--a loyalty that was the
handmaid of faith. . .
The rector softly left the room, only to be confronted with another
harrowing scene in the library, where a frantic woman was struggling in
Sally Grover's grasp. He went to her assistance. . . Words of
comfort, of entreaty were of no avail,--Kate Marcy did not seem to hear
them. Hers, in contrast to that other, was the unmeaning grief, the
overwhelming sense of injustice of the child; and with her regained
physical strength the two had all they could do to restrain her.
"I will go to him," she sobbed, between her paroxysms, "you've got no
right to keep me--he's mine . . . he came back to me--he's all I ever
had . . . ."
So intent were they that they did not notice Mr. Bentley standing beside
them until they heard his voice.
"What she says is true," he told them. "Her place is in there. Let her
go."
Kate Marcy raised her head at the words, and looked at him a strange,
half-comprehending, half-credulous gaze. They released her, helped her
towards the bedroom, and closed the door gently behind her. . . The
three sat in silence until the carriage was heard returning, and the
doctor entered.
The examination was brief, and two words, laconically spoken, sufficed
for an explanation--apoplexy, alcohol. The prostrate, quivering woman
was left where they had found her.
Dr. Latimer was a friend of Mr. Bentley's, and betrayed no surprise at a
situation which otherwise might have astonished him. It was only when he
learned the dead man's name, and his parentage, that he looked up quickly
from his note book.
"The matter can be arranged without a scandal," he said, after an
instant. "Can you tell me something of the circumstances?"
It was Hodder who answered.
"Preston Parr had been in love with this woman, and separated from her.
She was under Mr. Bentley's care when he found her again, I infer, by
accident. From what the driver says, they were together in a hotel in
Ayers Street, and he died after he had been put in a carriage. In her
terror, she was bringing him to Mr. Bentley."
The doctor nodded.
"Poor woman!" he said unexpectedly. "Will you be good enough to let Mr:
Parr know that I will see him at his house, to-night?" he added, as he
took his departure.