"THIS ENDS IT, THEN?"
There was nothing to be learned at the telegraph office. As near as
could be remembered a boy had brought the message, paid for it and
vanished. Only one discovery amounted to anything. The original dispatch
was produced and proved to be in Daisy's handwriting. Roseleaf attested
to this, and he knew the characters too well to be mistaken.
It was not advisable, in Mr. Weil's opinion, to go to the police, after
the receipt of this word from the missing girl. It would only add to the
notoriety of the family in case the press got hold of the news. But he
did think it wise to go to see Isaac Leveson and find a man named Hazen,
whose reputation as a detective was great. He could rely on the absolute
silence of both of them. The ride to Isaac's was consequently made next,
and by good fortune Hazen happened to be in. He listened gravely to the
situation as it was outlined by Mr. Weil, but expressed his opinion that
nothing would be gained by doing anything before the next day.
"That telegram is genuine," he said. "It follows that, unless she is
detained forcibly, she will be at home to-morrow. The writing in this
message is not like that of a person under threats, like one compelled
to send a false statement. Your best way is to wait till she comes home,
providing it is not later than she indicates, and hear her story.
Perhaps it will explain the mystery. If she declines to do this, I will
undertake to probe it to the bottom, if you wish."
Mr. Roseleaf took no part in this discussion. He was becoming convinced
that Archie Weil was innocent of any complicity in this affair, but he
was still disinclined to talk much.
"Where shall we go now?" he asked, when they came out of the restaurant.
"To the Hoffman House?" said Weil, interrogatively. "I believe with
Hazen that we can do nothing to-night."
Very well, to the Hoffman House they would go. But they had not been in
Weil's room five minutes when a boy came up with a telephonic message
from Mr. Fern, stating that Daisy was safe at Midlands.
"Let us return without delay," said Weil, enthusiastically. "We should
not lose a moment in removing this terrible cloud! Come, Shirley, we can
catch the six o'clock train if we hasten."
Mechanically the younger man followed his companion through the hall,
down the elevator and into a carriage at the door. Forty minutes later
they alighted from the train at Midlands and were soon in the familiar
parlor at Mr. Fern's. A servant who had admitted them, stated that Miss
Daisy had been home about two hours but that she was now lying down. He
would inquire whether she would receive the visitors.
What seemed an interminable time followed before the appearance of Mr.
Fern and his daughter. When at last they came in together, leaning on
each other, they were two as forlorn objects as one can imagine. The
sight of his sweetheart's woe-begone face smote Roseleaf like a blow. He
regretted to the bottom of his heart the cruel things he had thought and
said of her.
"Daisy!" he exclaimed, stepping forward. "Daisy--my--"
He could get no further, for Mr. Fern, with a majestic motion of his
hand, waved him back. The presence of the intended bridegroom was
evidently not agreeable to the old gentleman.
"Sit down," said Mr. Fern, in a quavering voice, addressing himself
wholly to Weil. "I telephoned _to you_ that my daughter had returned,
for I knew _you_ would be anxious." He bore with special stress on the
word "you." "I--I did not know that you intended to bring--any other
person."
The allusion to Roseleaf was so direct, that he could not help
attempting some kind of a reply.
"Who could be more anxious than I?" he asked, in a tone that was very
sweet and tender; in vivid contrast, the old man thought, to his manner
of the preceding evening. "No one has a greater interest to learn where
she has been these long, desolate hours."
Mr. Fern abandoned his intention not to recognize the fact that Roseleaf
was present, and turned upon him with a fierce glare in his sunken eyes.
"What right have _you_ to ask questions?" he demanded, pressing the
trembling form of his daughter to his own. "You were the first to doubt
her--even her innocence--this lamb that would have given her life for
you only yesterday! She has returned to _me_, and henceforth she is
_mine_! You could not have her though you came on your knees! You wish
to know where she has been! Well, you never _will_! She will not tell
you! It is her own affair. I am speaking for _her_ when I say that we
desire no more of your visits to this house; we are through with you,
thank God!"
It would be hard to tell which of the two men who listened to this was
the more surprised. Mr. Weil felt his heart sink as well as did
Roseleaf. Daisy clung to her father, without raising her eyes, and there
was nothing to indicate that she disputed his assertions.
All was over between her and Roseleaf! Nothing could bring them together
again! And she did not mean to divulge the cause of her remaining away a
day and a night--that day and night that had been expected to precede
and succeed her marriage.
Shirley rose slowly. He bent his eyes earnestly on the father and
daughter, and his voice was firm.
"When one is dismissed, there is nothing for him but to go. I regret
sincerely what I said last night, when the horror of this thing came
suddenly upon me. I love you, Daisy, and I know by what you have told me
so often that you love me. Are the foolish utterances of a distracted
man to separate us forever? Conceive the agony I was in when at the very
moment I was to start for my wedding I heard that my bride could not be
found! If I had not adored you passionately would I have been on the
verge of madness, saying and doing things without reason and excuse? I
am ordered to leave you, my sweetheart, and if you do not bid me stay I
can only obey the mandate. But I love you more at this moment than ever.
All I ask to know is why you made this flight. If your answer is
satisfactory there will be nothing on my part to prevent our marriage."
Archie Weil wished that he could have led this young man aside for just
a moment, to show him that this was no time to make demands or exact
conditions. He had no doubt that Daisy would explain everything, a
little later. All that was wanted now was a revocation of the dismissal
that Mr. Fern had pronounced. But he could not control the stormy ocean
upon which they rode.
"You seem singularly obtuse," came the shaking voice of the old
gentleman. "It is not for _you_ to dictate terms. We want to see you no
more. Is not that clear enough?"
It certainly did not seem to be. Roseleaf lingered, wondering if these
were really to be the last phrases he would hear in that house--in that
very room where he had expected to hear the words that would make this
sweet girl his for life.
"Daisy," he said, addressing himself once more to the silent figure, "I
cannot believe you have so soon learned to hate me!"
She looked up at the solemn face and then dropped her eyes again.
"You will tell me where you were?" he pleaded. "It is my right to
know."
She looked up again, with a wild horror in her features.
"Oh, I _cannot_!" she cried. "I _never_ can tell you. I never _can_!"
This statement shocked more than one person in that room. Up to this
moment Mr. Fern had only understood, from the disjointed expressions of
his daughter when she entered the house, that she did not wish to be
questioned at that time. She had also explained to him that she had sent
the telegram to make the coast clear of all except her parent, as she
did not wish to meet others on her first arrival. When he had urged the
duty of informing Mr. Weil she had acquiesced, not dreaming that Mr.
Roseleaf would be in his company.
And now the old man felt that there was more in the answer she had given
than he had suspected--something very like a confession of wrong. Mr.
Weil felt this also, though he could not believe Daisy meant anything
very heinous, and Shirley Roseleaf had a dagger in his breast as he
reflected what interpretation might be given to her words.
"You _cannot_!" he repeated, ignoring the position in which he stood,
and the presence of the others. "_You must!_"
Mr. Weil made haste to allay the storm that he saw was still rising.
"Let us be considerate," he said. "Miss Fern is not well. She is tired
and nervous. To-morrow, when she has rested, she will be only too glad
to tell us the history of her strange disappearance."
Mr. Fern looked uneasily from his daughter to the gentlemen and back
again. He loved her dearly, and in this new danger that seemed to
threaten her--danger perhaps even to her reputation--he wanted more than
ever to shield her from all harm. Whatever had happened she was his
child. She should not be baited and badgered by any one. But Daisy did
not give him time to speak in her defense. She answered Mr. Weil almost
as soon as the question left his lips.
"It cannot be. Not to-morrow, nor at any other time, can I tell you--or
any person--anything. You must never ask me. It would merely give me
pain, and heaven knows I shall suffer enough without it. Let me say a
little more, for this is the last time I shall ever speak of these
things. To you, Mr. Weil, I want to give my warmest thanks. You have
been a true friend to me and mine. I do not mean to seem ungrateful, but
I can tell you no more. And as for you, Shirley," she turned with set
eyes to the novelist, "you know what we were to each other. It is all
ended now. Even if you had expressed no disbelief in me when you heard I
had disappeared, it would be just the same. I hold no hard feelings
against you, whatever my father may say. It is simply good-by. I shall
not remain here much longer. Do not let this make you unhappy any longer
than you can help. Now, you must excuse me, for my strength is gone."
Daisy had been much longer saying these things than the reader will be
in perusing them. They had come in gasps, as from one in severe pain,
and there were pauses of many seconds. When she had finished she rose,
and leaning heavily on the feeble old man who escorted her, walked
slowly out of the room.
"Well, this ends it, then," said Roseleaf, gloomily, following the fair
figure with heavy eyes.
"No, Shirley, it does not; it _shall_ not!" replied Weil. "There is some
dreadful mistake here, and a little time will clear it away. Have
patience."
The novelist gazed at the speaker with a strange look.
"I have treated you like a brute," he said, slowly. "And I have treated
Mr. Fern just as badly. My punishment is well deserved. But how can this
puzzle of her absence be accounted for! Of course she would have had to
satisfy me on that point before I could have married her."
The listener turned giddily toward a window.
"And yet you talk of love!" he said, recovering. "If that girl had done
me the honor she did you I would not have _asked_ her such a question--I
would have refused to _listen_ if it gave her the slightest pain to
tell."
"I wonder she did not love you instead of me--for she did love me once,"
was the sober reply. "You would be a thousand times better, more
suitable, than I."
There was no reply to this, but the two men walked slowly out of the
house and to the station, where they took the next train for the city.
On the way they talked little, and at the Grand Central Depot they
separated.
Lawrence Gouger, who had in some strange way learned the news of Miss
Fern's return, was awaiting Roseleaf in his rooms.
"Well, I hear the missing one is found," he said, as the novelist came
in.
"Yes. She is with her father. But the peculiar thing is that she closes
her lips absolutely about her absence. She not only refuses to speak
now, but announces that her refusal is final."
Mr. Gouger hesitated what card to play.
"When does the marriage take place?" he asked, finally.
"With me? Never. I have been thrown over. Unless she had explained I
could not have married her, any way; could I?"
The critic said he did not know. It would certainly have been awkward.
"And what is your theory?" he added. "Do you still lay anything to
Weil?"
"No. I am completely nonplussed. But, never mind. It is over."
Roseleaf stretched himself, and yawned.
"Do you know, Gouger, I almost doubt if I have really been in love at
all. I feel a queer sense of relief at being out of it, though there is
a dull pain, too, that isn't exactly comfortable. I told Archie coming
in that she should have married _him_. Upon my soul I wish she would.
She's an awful nice little thing, and he has a heart that is genuine
enough for her. Well, it's odd, anyway."
Astonishment was written on the face of the other gentleman as he heard
these statements.
"You have at least gained one point," he said, impressively. "You have
done the best part of the greatest novel that ever was written. Sit down
as soon as you can and finish it, and we shall see your name so high up
on the temple of fame that no contemporary of this generation can reach
it."
"So high the letters will be indistinguishable, I fear," responded
Roseleaf, with a laugh. "Where do you think I can get the heartiest
supper in New York? I am positively starved. I don't believe I've eaten
a thing since yesterday. If you can help me any to clear the board, let
us go together."
This invitation was accepted, and Roseleaf began making a more
particular toilet, taking great pains with the set of his cravat and
spending at least ten minutes extra on his hair when he had finished
shaving himself. He never had allowed a barber to touch his face.
"You won't lose any time on the novel, will you?" asked Gouger,
anxiously, while these preparations were in progress. "You must take
hold of it while the events are fresh in your mind."
"All right. I'll begin again to-morrow morning, and stick to the work
till it's done. Where shall we go to supper? I'll tell you--Isaac
Leveson's."
The critic could not conceal his surprise at the overturn that had taken
place so suddenly in the young man's conduct. He stared at him with a
look that approached consternation.
"You want to go there!" he exclaimed, unable to control himself. "You
wish to dine with some pretty girl, eh?"
Roseleaf started violently.
"No, no! Not--yet!" he answered. "We can get a supper room without that
appendix. I wish to be among men as mean as myself. I want to dine in a
house full of people who would cut a woman's throat--or break her
heart--and sleep soundly when they had done it!"