“So you are still of the same mind?” inquired Mrs. Enderby.
“More so, if anything,” Lexy answered seriously.
It was after breakfast the next morning. Mr. Enderby had gone to his
office, and Mrs. Enderby and Lexy were alone in the dining room. There
was an odd sort of friendliness between them. Lexy felt no constraint
in asking questions.
“There isn’t any letter this morning, is there, Mrs. Enderby?”
“There is not.”
“Then I suppose you’re going to tell Mr. Enderby?”
“This evening.”
“And then?”
“Then I shall be guided by his advice,” Mrs. Enderby replied blandly.
Lexy could have smiled at this. She knew how likely Mrs. Enderby was
to be guided by her husband; but she kept the smile and the thought to
herself.
“I don’t want to interfere with your plans—” she began.
“I have no plans.”
“I mean, if you’re going to take steps to find her—”
“My child,” said Mrs. Enderby, “it is clear that you wish to amuse
yourself with a grand mystery. I tell you there is no mystery, but you
do not believe me. I ask you to say nothing of this matter, but you
refuse. So I say to you now—go your own way, proceed with your
mystery. I do not think you can hurt me very much.”
Lexy flushed.
“I don’t want to hurt any one,” she declared stiffly. “I just want to
help your daughter.”
“Proceed, then!” said Mrs. Enderby.
Lexy rose.
“Then I’ll say good-by, Mrs. Enderby,” she said. “My trunk’s packed.
I’ll send for it this afternoon.”
“And where are you going in such a hurry?”
“I’m going to Wyngate,” said Lexy.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Enderby. “It is a pretty place, is it not?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.”
“Pardon me—you saw it yesterday. It is a small village through which
we passed on the way to Miss Craigie’s house.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Now that you do know, perhaps you will spare yourself the trouble of
going there,” said Mrs. Enderby. “I assure you you will not find
Caroline there. I myself made certain inquiries. No such person has
arrived in Wyngate.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“But I observe by your face that you are not convinced,” Mrs. Enderby
went on. “‘This Mrs. Enderby, she is a stupid old creature,’ you think
to yourself. ‘I shall go there myself, and I shall discover that which
she could not.’”
Lexy reddened again.
“I don’t mean it that way,” she said. “It’s only that we look at this
from different points of view, and I feel—I feel that I’ve got to go.”
“Very well!” said Mrs. Enderby, and she, too, rose. “You will please
to come to my room with me. There is part of your salary to be paid to
you.”
Lexy followed her, still flushed, and very reluctant. She wished she
could afford to refuse that money.
“But I’ve earned it,” she thought; “and goodness knows I’ll need it!”
Mrs. Enderby sat down at her desk and took out her check book. While
she wrote, Lexy looked out of the window.
“The amount due to you, including to-day, is thirty-two dollars,” said
Mrs. Enderby. “Here is a check for it.”
“Thank you,” said Lexy.
“One minute more! Here, my child, is another check.”
Lexy stared at it, amazed. It was for one hundred dollars.
“But, Mrs. Enderby, I can’t—”
“You will please take it and say nothing more. I give you this because
I shall give you no reference. I shall answer no inquiries about you.
You understand?”
“But I don’t want—”
Mrs. Enderby pushed back her chair, and rose. She crossed the room to
Lexy, put both hands on the girl’s shoulders, and then did something
far more astonishing than the gift of the check. She kissed Lexy on
the forehead.
“Good-by, and God bless you, little honest one!” she said, with a
smile. “I think we shall not see each other again, but I shall
sometimes remember you. Go, now, and bear in mind that you can always
trust Miss Craigie. She is an imbecile, but she can be trusted.
_Adieu!_”
Lexy’s eyes filled with tears.
“_Au revoir!_” she said stoutly; and then, with one of her sudden
impulses, she put both arms around Mrs. Enderby’s neck and returned
her kiss vigorously. “I’m sorry!” she said. “I’m awfully sorry!”
This was their parting. Lexy was thankful that it had been like this,
very glad that she could leave the house in good will and kindliness.
It strengthened her beyond measure. She wanted to help Caroline, and
she wanted to help Mrs. Enderby, too.
“And I will!” she thought. “I know that I’m right and she’s wrong!
She’s rather terrible, too. Sometimes I think she’d almost rather not
find out the truth, if it was going to make what she calls a scandal.
She will have it that Caroline’s gone away of her own free will, to
get married; and if it’s anything else, she doesn’t want to know. She
_is_ hard, but there’s something rather fine about her.”
There was no one in the hall when Lexy left, and this was a relief,
for she supposed that Mrs. Enderby had told the servants, or would
tell them, that Miss Moran had been discharged.
She went out and closed the door behind her. A fine, thin rain was
falling—nothing to daunt a healthy young creature like Lexy; yet she
wished that the sun had been shining. She wished that she hadn’t had
to leave the house in the rain, under a gray sky. Somehow it made her
only too well aware that she was homeless now, and alone.
As was her habit when depressed, she set off to walk briskly; and by
the time she reached the Grand Central her cheeks were glowing and her
heart considerably less heavy. She learned that she had nearly three
hours to wait for the next train to Wyngate; so she bought her ticket,
checked her bag, and went out again.
In a near-by department store she bought a little chamois pocket. Then
she went to the bank, cashed both her checks, and, putting the bills
into her pocket, hung it around her neck inside her blouse. It was
very comfortable to have so much money.
Then, only as a forlorn hope, she rang up the offices of J. J. Eames &
Son, on State Street.
“I don’t suppose they keep track of their passengers,” she thought;
“but it can’t do any harm.”
So, when she got the connection, she asked politely:
“Could you possibly tell me where Mr. Charles Houseman has gone?”
“Certainly!” answered an equally polite voice at the other end of the
wire. “Just a moment, please! You mean Mr. Houseman, second officer on
the Mazell?”
“I don’t know,” said Lexy, surprised. “Has he blue eyes?”
There was an instant’s silence. Then the voice spoke again, a little
unsteadily.
“I—I believe so.”
“He’s laughing at me!” thought Lexy indignantly, and her voice became
severely dignified.
“Can you tell me where the—the Mazell has gone?”
“Lisbon and Gibraltar. We expect her back in about five weeks.”
“Thank you!” said Lexy. “And that’s that!” she added, to herself. “So
he’s a sailor! I rather like sailors. Well, anyhow, he’s gone.” She
sighed. “Carry on!” she said.
She went into a tea room on Forty-Second Street and ordered herself a
very good lunch.
“Much better than I can afford,” she thought. “Goodness knows what’s
going to happen to me! Here I am, without visible means of support. I
suppose I’m an idiot. Lots of people would say so. They’d say I ought
to be looking for a new job this instant; but I don’t care! I’m not
going back on Caroline. Mrs. Enderby won’t do anything, and Mr.
Houseman’s gone away, and there’s nobody but me. Perhaps I can’t do
very much, but, by jiminy, I’m going to try!”
There was still an hour to spare, and she passed it in a fashion she
had often scornfully denounced. She went shopping—without buying. She
wandered through a great department store, looking at all sorts of
things. Some of them she wanted, but she resolutely told herself that
she was better off without them.
Then, at the proper time, she went back to the Grand Central,
recovered her bag, bought herself two or three magazines and a bar of
chocolate, and boarded the train. For all that she tried to be so cool
and sensible, she could not help feeling a queer little thrill of
excitement. Her quest had begun, and she could not in any way foresee
the end.