It seemed perfectly natural to be awakened in the morning by Mrs.
Enderby’s hand on her shoulder, and to look up into Mrs. Enderby’s
flashing black eyes. Lexy had gone to sleep dominated by the thought
of that masterful woman. She vaguely remembered having dreamed of her,
and when she opened her eyes—there she was.
“Get up!” said Mrs. Enderby in a low voice. “Go into Caroline’s room.
When Annie comes with the breakfast tray, take it from her at the
door. I have told her that Caroline is ill with a headache. You
understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Enderby,” answered Lexy.
She sprang out of bed and began to dress, filled with an unreasoning
sense of haste. It wasn’t a dream, then—it was true. Caroline had
gone, and there was something Lexy must do for her. She could not have
explained what this something was, but it oppressed and worried her.
She could not rid herself of the feeling that she was not being loyal
to Caroline.
“And yet,” she thought, “I had to tell Mrs. Enderby she wasn’t there.
I suppose I ought to have told her about that telephone call, too, but
I hate to do it! I know Caroline wouldn’t like me to; and what good
can it do, anyhow? Whoever it was, he didn’t know where she was. It
was the queerest thing—a man asking, ‘ For God’s sake, where’s Miss
Enderby?’ when she wasn’t here! No, Mrs. Enderby is wrong. Caroline
hasn’t just gone away of her own accord. She’s not that sort of girl.
Something has happened!”
Lexy finished dressing and went into Caroline’s room. In the gay April
sunshine, that dainty room seemed almost unbearably forlorn.
She went over to the window and looked down into the street. People
were passing by, and taxis, and private cars—all the ordinary, casual,
cheerful daily life at which Caroline Enderby had so often looked out,
like a poor enchanted princess in a tower. A wave of pity and
affection rose in Lexy’s heart.
“Oh, poor Caroline!” she said to herself. “Such a dull, miserable
life! I do wish—”
There was a knock at the door, and she hurried across the room to open
it. The parlor maid stood there with a tray. Lexy took it from her
with a pleasant “good morning,” and closed the door again. Caroline’s
breakfast! There was something disturbing in the sight of that
carefully prepared tray, ready for the girl who was not there.
The door opened—without a preliminary knock, this time—and Mrs.
Enderby came in. She turned the key behind her, and, without a word,
went over to the bed and pulled off the covers. Then she went into the
adjoining bathroom and started the water running in the tub. This
done, she sat down at the table and began to eat the breakfast on the
tray.
Lexy stood watching all this with indignation and a sort of horror.
“All she cares about is keeping up appearances,” the girl thought.
“The only thing that worries her is that some one might find out. She
doesn’t know where poor Caroline is—and she can sit down and eat! I’m
comparatively a stranger, and even I—”
Lexy was an honest soul, however. The fragrance of coffee and rolls
reached her, and she admitted in her heart that she, too, could eat,
if she had a chance.
Mrs. Enderby was not going to give her a chance just yet. She finished
her meal and rose.
“Now!” she said. “Just what is gone from here? We shall look.”
So they looked, in the wardrobe, in the drawers, even in the orderly
desk. Very little was gone.
“And now,” said Mrs. Enderby, “you lent her—how much money, Miss
Moran?”
“I never lent her a penny in my life,” replied Lexy.
Mrs. Enderby’s tone aroused a spirit of obstinate defiance in her.
Those flashing black eyes were fixed upon her with an expression which
did not please Lexy, and Lexy looked back with an expression which did
not please Mrs. Enderby.
“So you will not tell me what you know!” said Mrs. Enderby, with a
chilly smile.
It was on the tip of Lexy’s tongue to say, with considerable warmth,
that she _had_ told all she knew; but the memory of the telephone call
checked her.
“If I tell her about that,” she thought, “she’ll just say, ‘Ah, I
thought so!’ And she’ll be surer than ever that Caroline has eloped
with a fortune hunter, and she won’t make any effort to find her.
No—I’m not going to tell her until she gets really frightened.” Aloud
she said: “I’ll do anything in the world that I can do, Mrs. Enderby,
to help you find Caroline.”
“It is not necessary,” said Mrs. Enderby. “I shall have her letter.”
There was another tap at the door. Mrs. Enderby closed the door
leading into the bathroom, and then called:
“Come in!”
The parlor maid entered.
“You may take away the tray,” her mistress said graciously. “Miss
Enderby has finished.”
Again a feeling that was almost horror came over Lexy. There was the
bed Caroline had slept in, there was the breakfast Caroline had eaten,
there was Caroline’s bath running—and Caroline wasn’t there! Lexy
wanted to get out of that room and away from Mrs. Enderby.
“Do you mind if I go down and get my own breakfast now?” she asked,
when the parlor maid had gone out with the tray.
“But certainly not!” Mrs. Enderby blandly consented. “We shall go down
together.”
She turned off the water in the bath, and, following Lexy out of the
room, locked the door on the outside. The girl dropped behind her as
they descended the stairs, and studied the stout, dignified figure
before her with indignant interest.
“A mother!” she thought. “A mother, behaving like this! How long is
she going to wait for her letter, I wonder? Well, if she won’t do
anything, then, by jiminy, I will!”
A fresh example of Mrs. Enderby’s remarkable strength of mind awaited
them. Mr. Enderby was already seated at the table in the dining room.
As his wife entered, he rose, with his invariable politeness, and one
glance at his ruddy, cheerful face convinced Lexy that he knew nothing
of what had happened.
“Caroline has a headache,” Mrs. Enderby explained. “It will be better
for her to rest for a little.”
“Ah! Too bad!” said he. “Don’t think she gets out in the air enough.
Er—good morning, Miss Moran!”
Lexy almost forgot to answer him, so intent was she upon watching Mrs.
Enderby open her letters. There must, she thought, be some change in
that calm, pale face when she didn’t find a letter from Caroline,
there must be something to break this inhuman tranquillity.
But nothing broke it. Mr. Enderby ate his breakfast, and his wife
chatted affably with him while she glanced over her mail. The sunshine
poured into the room, gleaming on silver and linen, and on the
cheerful young parlor maid moving quietly about her duties. It was a
morning just like other mornings; and, in spite of herself, Lexy’s
feeling of dread and oppression began to lighten. Mr. Enderby was so
thoroughly unperturbed, Mrs. Enderby was so serene and majestic, the
house was so bright and pleasant in the spring morning, that it was
hard to believe that anything could be really amiss.
“But I don’t care!” she thought sturdily. “_I_ know there is!”
Mr. Enderby finished his breakfast and rose, and, as usual, his wife
accompanied him to the front door. Alone in the dining room, Lexy made
haste to finish her own meal. Just as she pushed back her chair, Mrs.
Enderby returned.
“I shall ring, Annie,” she told the parlor maid, and the girl
disappeared. Then she turned to Lexy. “The letter has come,” she said.
Lexy stared at her with such an expression of amazement and dismay
that Mrs. Enderby smiled.
“You are very young,” she said. “You wish always for the dramatic.
When you have lived as long as I, you will see that such things do not
happen.”
She spoke kindly, and Lexy saw in her dark eyes a look of weariness
and pain.
“No, my child,” she went on. “In this life it is always the same
things that happen again and again. At twenty, one breaks the heart
for a man; at forty, one breaks the heart for one’s child. There is
only that—and money. Love and money—nothing else!”
Lexy felt extraordinarily sorry for Mrs. Enderby; but even yet she
couldn’t quite believe that Caroline could have done such a thing.
“But do you mean that she’s really—that she’s—” she began.
“See, then!” said Mrs. Enderby. “Here is the letter!”
Lexy took it from her, and read:
Chere Maman:
I only beg you and papa to forgive me for what I have
done; but I knew that if I told you, you would not have
let me go. When you get this
I shall be married. To-morrow I shall write again, to tell
you where I am, and to beg you to let me bring my husband
to you.
Oh, please, dear, dear mother and father, forgive me!
Your loving, loving daughter,
Caroline.
“You see!” said Mrs. Enderby. “It is as I told you.”
There were tears in Lexy’s eyes as she put the letter back into the
envelope.
“It doesn’t seem a bit like Caroline, though,” she remarked.
Mrs. Enderby smiled again, faintly, and held out her hand for the
letter. Lexy returned it to her, with an almost mechanical glance at
the postmark—“Wyngate, Connecticut.”
All her defiance had vanished. She was obliged to admit now that Mrs.
Enderby was wise, and that she herself was—
“A little fool!” said Lexy candidly to herself.