So far in this narrative I have kept from the reader nothing but an old
experience of which I was now to make use. This experience involved Mrs.
Ocumpaugh, and was the cause of the confidence which I had felt from the
first in my ability to carry this search through to a successful
termination. I believed that in some secret but as yet undiscovered way,
it offered a key to this tragedy. And I still believed this, little as I
had hitherto accomplished and blind as the way continued to look before
me.
Nevertheless, it was with anything but a cheerful heart that I advanced
that morning through the shrubbery toward the Ocumpaugh mansion.
I dreaded the interview I had determined to seek. I was young, far too
young, to grapple with the difficulties it involved; yet I saw no way of
avoiding it, or of saving either Mrs. Ocumpaugh or myself from the
suffering it involved.
Mrs. Carew had advised that I should first see the girl called Celia.
But Mrs. Carew knew nothing of the real situation. I did not wish to see
any girl. I felt that no such intermediary would answer in a case like
this. Nor did I choose to trust Miss Porter. Yet to Miss Porter alone
could I appeal.
The sight of a doctor's gig standing at the side door gave me my first
shock. Mrs. Ocumpaugh was ill, then, really ill. Yet if I came to make
her better? I stood irresolute till I saw the doctor come out; then I
walked boldly up and asked for Miss Porter.
Just what Mrs. Carew had advised me not to do.
Miss Porter came. She recognized me, but only to express her sorrow that
Mrs. Ocumpaugh was totally unfit to see any one to-day.
"Not if he brings news?"
"News?"
"I have news, but of a delicate nature. I should like the privilege of
imparting the same to Mrs. Ocumpaugh herself."
"Impossible."
"Excuse me, if I urge it."
"She can not see you. The doctor who has just gone says that at all
hazards she must be kept quiet to-day. Won't Mr. Atwater do? Is it--is
it good news?"
"That, Mrs. Ocumpaugh alone can say."
"See Mr. Atwater; I will call him."
"I have nothing to say to _him_."
"But--"
"Let me advise you. Leave it to Mrs. Ocumpaugh. Take this paper up to
her--it is only a sketch--and inform her that the person who drew it has
something of importance to say either to her or to Mr. Atwater, and let
her decide which it shall be. You may, if you wish, mention my name."
"I do not understand."
"You hold my credentials," I said and smiled.
She glanced at the paper I had placed in her hand. It was a folded one,
fastened something like an envelope.
"I can not conceive,--" she began.