A MYSTERY SOLVED.
MISS HOWARD was leaving the hospital when she met the doctor
in charge, who invited her to his private parlor, as he wished
to consult her in regard to her protégé Neddy Carter.
"I suppose you are acquainted with Mr. Regy,' he said. "He knew your
wishes about the boy."
"I know him well by report," she answered, "but I have never seen
him."
"Indeed! He is certainly the most eccentric individual I ever met.
Benevolent and tender-hearted to an extreme, he seems to me like a
man who has learned to mistrust humanity so generally that he hides
every evidence of weakness as carefully as though it were a crime.
Why, the good deeds that man does almost defy belief."
"I can easily credit your statement, doctor. In my visits to my poor
friends, I am constantly hearing of him. I have known of his paying
rent for a widow who had a sick daughter, month after month, and at
the same time providing her with medicines and food. Yet he would
talk to her about her untidyness till he made her cry; and then he
would go away grumbling that all he could say did no good."
"I heard some facts concerning his eccentricities from a gentleman
who owns the place next his in the country," continued the doctor,
"which, if they had not come to me from the best authority I would
not credit; but my friend vouches for the facts.
"Near them lives a woman whose husband was killed on the railroad.
She has two young children, is pleasing in appearance, but wanting
in force. They had always lived in comfort, on the wages her husband
earned. When he was killed, she seemed crushed with grief.
The neighbors made up a purse for her, and Mr. Regy, who had given
generously, was requested to carry it to her. He learned that she
owned her small cottage, to which a barn was attached, but had no
money. He found she had no idea of earning her own living, but when
he proposed that the children be sent to the asylum, and she go out
to work in a mill or family, she cried herself into hysterics,
calling him a cruel, hard-hearted brute for proposing it, wished he
would go away and never come again.
"This is all my friend learned from Mr. Regy, who denounced her
as ungrateful, unnatural as a mother, a pest to society.
Her neighbors supposed, of course, he gave her up; but he never did,
for a day. He went and berated her till he quite roused her into
action; and finally she said she had been brought up on a farm,
and knew how to make butter and cheese.
"'What good will that do you?' he asked her, with a sneer. 'Where
are your cows, to make butter from?'"
"It was some time before she learned what a true friend he was;
but two excellent milkers found their way to her barn, and, in time,
pans and a churn. Then she complained that she was sure she never
could sell her butter and pot-cheese and cried a whole day at the
scolding he gave her. To make a long story short, he sold all her
butter and cheese for her at the highest price, taking the basket
on his own arm, and carrying it to the houses of the regular
customers. A lady on Forty-Second Street told my friend that he
brought butter there regularly every week for more than a year.
She supposed it was from his own farm; and she has a pile of his
receipts signed M. Regy. Once she remonstrated in person with him
for his high prices, when he flew into such a rage that she never
dared approach the subject again."
"Very, very strange," remarked Marion. "I have a friend who is
extremely odd and uncouth in manner, but is always doing kindnesses
for the poor. His name is Lambert. In many respects your description
of Mr. Regy would answer for both."
"Do you refer to Mr. M. R. Lambert, a rich old bachelor? Why, I
always thought him the most sarcastic, sour, crusty, old man in my
acquaintance."
"Only in manner, doctor. He possesses the milk of human kindness in
an uncommon degree. He is a second Mr. Regy. I am confident that any
sum of money I would consent to ask him for in behalf of my protégés
would not be refused; and all the time he would be grumbling that it
was good money thrown away on a thankless class of vagrants."
"What is Mr. Lambert's full address," inquired the doctor, rising in
an excited manner.
"M. R. Lambert are his initials. I have scores of his cards."
"Regy is, I believe, his middle name, and he uses it for a nom de
plume. It can scarcely be credited that there would be two so similar
in their eccentricities. I am almost sure of it."
"Then he must disguise himself: Mr. Lambert's hair is short, and only
beginning to turn gray."
"A gray wig is easy to procure. What can be his motive?"
"It is difficult to conceive, Doctor. I have sometimes imagined that
Mr. Lambert had a motive in so constantly visiting the poorer
classes; but it is only a suspicion. I feel sure, if it were true,
it would do honor to the kindness of the man. I told him the story
of Neddy Carter's injury. He entered into it with great interest,-
said he would get him a place in a printing-office and was almost
angry that any one else had thought of purchasing artificial legs for
the boy."
"Just what I wished to tell you from Mr. Regy. They are one and the
same. Mr. Regy I shall continue to call him. See, here is the address
he gave me."
"M. REGY, P.O. BOX 1009."
On her way home, Marion's thoughts were absorbed in trying to solve
the motives which could govern such a man as Mr. Lambert, and induce
him to figure in so many different characters; for the more she
reflected the more she felt assured that he and Mr. Regy were the
same. It might be that some early disappointment had thus twisted and
gnarled a naturally lovely character. It might be that some one
he had once loved and trusted had betrayed his confidence, and thus
rendered him suspicious of all mankind. She resolved to watch him
closely, and to endeavor to lighten his burden, whatever it might be.
Approaching her own door, she perceived a carriage standing there.
With her thoughts still on the discovery she had made, she ran up the
steps and encountered Eugene Cheriton struggling in the arms of
James, who had been told to take him back to his mother in the
parlor.
The boy readily yielded to her wish, and went upstairs with her,
where she was both surprised and pleased to find not only
Mrs. Cheriton but Mrs. Douglass awaiting her arrival.
The latter lady seemed to have taken out a new lease of life, since
her return to the city. She acknowledged that she liked New York,
and should leave it with reluctance.
"I hope you do not intend to leave it," urged Marion.
The lady glanced anxiously at her daughter before she answered.
"Necessity may compel us to do so."
Mrs. Cheriton's countenance had no reflection of her mother's
anxiety. She sat as usual, with her handsome head thrown a little
back, her large, black eyes lustrous as ever, her lips wreathed
in the same set smile; but there seemed no soul in her face.
She appeared to have wrapped herself in a veil, which, in Marion's
presence, had never been lifted for one instant.
Eugene, beautiful and restless as ever, ran here and there
unrestrained, demanding the reason for this or that, preventing
so effectually any attempt at conversation that Marion, who wished
for an opportunity to talk with Mrs. Douglass, at last persuaded her
to remain for the day, insisting that she herself had no engagements
which would interfere with the pleasure of such a visit.
"While you are taking your siesta," she urged, "I can go to my
pupils; and then we will have quiet chat, or drive in the park,
as you prefer."
"This is just the opportunity I have long desired," remarked Mrs.
Douglass, as after an hour's rest she had partaken of a nice lunch,
and was seated in Marion's most comfortable chair. "I want to tell
you some facts in my early life which will account for my being here
in America."
"I shall feel honored by your confidence," returned Marion, gazing
with affection into the still beautiful face, so like and yet unlike
her daughter's. "Let me bring my crocheting, and we can be as cosey
as we please."
"I told Mr. Angus some things about our history. He may have repeated
them to you."
"Not a word, dear lady," bending over her work to conceal the rosy
hue which colored her cheeks at the mention of his name.
"I told him, that, although Juliette and myself are living alone,
we are neither of us widows,—at least we are not knowingly such,—
but let me go back to early days.
"My father was an Englishman, and in his thirty-first year was sent
to Spain as minister from the court of England. He was stationed at
Madrid, where he met my mother, daughter of a nobleman in that city.
The liking between them was mutual, and ended in marriage after an
acquaintance of a few months. I have heard it said that seldom had
a couple so distinguished for beauty, and every charm which makes
life desirable, been witnessed in our proud old city.
"A year after their marriage a son was born, who was named Henreich,
for my maternal grandfather. Three years later I appeared on the
scene. As no other children followed, and we were the only
grandchildren on the mother's side, you can easily imagine that our
wishes, whims, and caprices ruled the entire household.
"Henreich, beautiful, bold, wilful, and unrestrained, became at last
a terror to both parents and servants. To me only was he loving and
gentle; but even when in a fury of rage, he would yield to my
entreaties and tears. I need not say that he was my idol. I loved him
as sister never loved brother before. What I suffered when, unable
longer to endure the anxieties and terror which his bold daring
continually occasioned my parents, he was sent to England to be
educated, I have no words to describe.
"It could scarcely be expected that a high-spirited lad, accustomed
to have his own way, would yield at once to authority; at least
Henreich did not, and soon fell into such disgrace that he was
expelled from the school. My uncle, to whose care he had been
committed, wrote, resigning the charge. He reproached my father
in the most unmeasured terms for neglecting to restrain the boy's
temper, which had led him in an ungovernable fit of fury to attempt
the life of one of his teachers, after which he fled, and nothing
could be heard from him. Father went to England at once. I never knew
what occurred there, but when he came home he said Henreich was dead
to us, and forbade that his name ever be mentioned.
"You will see later why I dwell so long on these sad events.
I mourned over my brother, and, not being allowed to speak of him,
I brooded over his troubles until at last I forgot that he had been
to blame for them. I even came to regard him as a hero, who had been
unjustly treated.
"All the fond pride which would have been cherished for both of us
was now lavished on me. I scarcely had a wish but it was gratified.
With the exception of my trouble at the separation from my brother,
I scarcely knew the meaning of the word, till in my fourteenth year
I accompanied my parents to England, and they left me to finish my
education.
"I was now in the same country where Henreich had been, but I never,
except on one occasion, heard his name mentioned. I asked my uncle
Douglass if he knew where my brother was, and was answered, with a
terrible frown,—
"'No, I do not. He may be dead, for all I care.'
"I never inquired again.
"I was in England two years, and returned to Spain 'finished,' as my
graduation from school with high honors was called. It was then
I entered on a course of gayety, such as I had never even imagined.
Though very young, my hand was asked frequently in marriage; but my
heart was never touched till one evening, at a gay assembly, I met
a young American, with whom I danced nearly all night. Only the third
time we met he told me he loved me, and asked me to be his wife.
I confessed that I returned his affection, and sent him to my father.
"But now, for the first time in my life, I met opposition. My father
and mother, foolishly fond and proud of their only child, considered
it quite beneath me to marry an untitled foreigner. They talked as
though royalty itself might be honored by an alliance with me.
This opposition naturally fixed my determination to marry the man
of my choice, notwithstanding all obstacles. I instantly invested him
with the whole catalogue of virtues and when, added to these, sadness
on his part proved his undying attachment, I made a martyr of him,—
a martyr dying for my love.
"Under these circumstances I gave my parents no rest. My lover
offered letters to prove that he was worthy; and at length, worn out
by my entreaties and my evident loss of bloom, father did secretly
write to a friend in London, requesting him to ascertain from
Mr. Post, banker in that city, in regard to his position and
prospects.
"This it was easy to do through correspondents from the London
Banking House, and the result was so satisfactory, both as to
character and wealth, that my friend was allowed to renew his visits,
which speedily terminated in my betrothal. I have often thought
since, that, had my parents allowed the acquaintance to proceed at
first without opposition, all would have ended differently; for as
the intimacy advanced, even before our marriage, I discovered certain
traits which greatly annoyed me.
"I had been accustomed to the expression of admiration, and enjoyed
it; but I was faithful and true to my lover. He considered the looks
and tones of flattery an insult both to me and to him. He constantly
urged our immediate union; but to this my parents would not consent,
except on one condition. Until I was twenty-one, my home must be with
them. On my eighteenth birthday, with the reluctant consent of all my
relatives, I became a wife. For a month or two I was very happy.
I found my husband intelligent, with a cultivated mind, and a kind
heart. We were alone in a villa belonging to my grandfather, and
proved so sufficient for mutual happiness that I returned home with
great regret. Oh, that we had never returned!"
Marion had been so absorbed in the recital that she had failed
to notice the increasing pallor of the narrator. Struck with the
intense sadness of the last tone, she started to find her visitor
sinking back in her chair, her lips blanched, her hands trembling.
Throwing aside her work, she ran to her chamber for cologne,
with which she bathed the forehead and hands of the lady, then rang
for James to bring her a cup of fresh coffee.
She insisted that Mrs. Douglass should rest before she continued her
interesting story; but the lady, with a sigh, urged,—
"I may never have so favorable an opportunity to finish. My sad tale
is nearly ended, and I shall be greatly relieved when I have told my
only American friend my folly and my punishment; so resume your work,
and let me end the recital as briefly as possible."