THE MISSION OF A LETTER
All through the remainder of the play he sat as one stunned, scarcely
removing his eyes from the glittering stage, yet seeing nothing there
excepting her. He could not later have recalled a single scene.
Between the acts he conversed rationally enough with those about him,
congratulating her people upon the brilliant success of the evening,
and warmly commending the work of the Star. Yet this was all
mechanical, automatic, his mind scarcely realizing its own action.
She never glanced in that direction again; during all the four acts not
once did she permit her eyes to rest upon their box. The others may
not have noticed the omission, but he did, his interpretation of the
action becoming a pain. It served to strengthen the resolve which was
taking possession of him. He noticed, also, that she played
feverishly, vehemently, not with that quiet restraint, that promise of
reserve power, always so noticeable in the old days. It caused him to
realize that she was working upon her nerves, holding herself up to the
strain by the sheer strength of will. The papers the next day
commented upon this, hinting at nervousness, at exhilaration consequent
upon so notable a greeting. But Winston knew the cause better--he knew
the spectre which had so suddenly risen before her, turning her white
and frightened at the very moment of supreme triumph. There, in front
of them all, under the full glare of the lights, herself the very focus
of thousands of eyes, she had been compelled to fight down her heart,
and win a victory greater than that of the actress. In that instant
she had conquered herself, had trodden, smiling and confident, over the
awakened memories of the past.
After the curtain had fallen--fallen and lifted, again and again, to
permit of her standing in the glare, smiling happily, and kissing her
hands toward the enthusiastic multitude--he passed out with the others,
still partially dazed, his mind remaining undecided, irresolute. With
the cool night air fanning his cheeks as their car rolled southward,
clearer consciousness came back, bringing with it firmer resolve. She
had not wanted him; in all those years there had not come from her a
single word. Now, on this night of her triumph, in the midst of family
rejoicing, he had no part. It had all been a mistake, a most unhappy
mistake, yet he would do now everything in his power to remedy it. His
further presence should not be allowed to detract from her happiness,
should not continue to embarrass her. The past between them was dead;
undoubtedly she wished it dead. Very well, then, he would help her to
bury it, now and forever. Not through any neglect on his part should
that past ever again rise up to haunt her in the hour of success. She
had discovered her ideal, she had attained to the height of her
ambition. She should be left to enjoy the victory undisturbed. Within
the hotel rotunda, under the multicolored lights, he halted Craig,
hurrying forward to a conference with the steward.
"I am awfully sorry, old man," he explained apologetically, "but the
fact is, I do not feel well enough to remain down here to the spread.
Nothing serious, you know--indigestion or something like that. I 'll
run up to my room and lie down for a while; if I feel better I may
wander in later."
Craig looked concerned.
"Thought you were mighty white about the gills all the evening,
Ned--the lobster salad, likely. I hate letting you go, awfully; upon
my word, I do. I wanted Lizzie to meet you; she 's always heard me
singing your praises, and your not being there will prove quite a
disappointment to her. But Lord! if you 're sick, why, of course,
there's no help for it. Come down later, if you can, and I 'll run up
there as soon as I can break away from the bunch. Sure you don't need
the house physician?"
"Perfectly sure; all I require is rest and a bit of sleep. Been
working too hard, and am dead tired."
He sank down within the great arm-chair in the silence of his own room,
not even taking trouble to turn on the lights; mechanically lit a
cigar, and sat staring out of the window. Before him the black,
threatening cloud-shadows hung over the dark water of the lake; far
below resounded the ceaseless clatter of hoofs along the fashionable
avenue. He neither saw nor heard. Over and over again he reviewed the
past, bringing back to memory each word and glance which had ever,
passed between them. He was again with the "Heart of the World"
strollers, he was struggling with Burke in the depths of the mine, he
was passing through that day and night of misfortune on the ridge
overlooking Echo Canyon, he was riding for life--her life--across the
trackless desert. It all came before him in unnatural vividness,
seemingly as though each separate scene had been painted across that
black sky without. Then he perceived the great playhouse he had just
left, the glorious glitter of lights, the reverberation of applause,
the cheering mob of men and women, and her--her bowing and smiling at
them, her dark eyes dancing with happiness and ignoring him utterly,
her whole body trembling to the intoxication of success. Oh, it was
all over; even if there had been no gulf of death between them, it was
all over. She had deliberately chosen to forget, under the inspiration
of her art she had forgotten. It had usurped her thought, her
ambition, her every energy. She had won her way through the throng,
yet the very struggle of such winning had sufficed to crowd him out
from memory had left the past as barren as was the desert amid the
dreariness of which they had parted. He set his teeth hard, striking
his clenched fist against the cushioned arm of the chair. Then he sat
silent, his cigar extinguished. Once he glanced at his watch, but
already the hour was too late for any hope of catching the west-bound
train, and he dropped it back in his pocket, and sat motionless.
Suddenly some one rapped upon the outside door. It would be Craig,
probably, and he called out a regretful "Come in." A bell-boy stood
there, his buttoned-up figure silhouetted against the lights in the
hall.
"Lady in Parlor D asked me to hand you this, sir," the boy said.
He accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what it
could all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and looked
at it. A single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint that
he was compelled to bend closer to decipher: "_If you are waiting my
word, I send it._"
He caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staring
down at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, his
breath grown rapid. At first the words were almost meaningless; then
the blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door.
There he paused, his hand already upon the knob. What use? What use?
Why should he seek her, even although she bade him come? She might no
longer care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mere
incident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such an
interview could only prove continual torture. But no! The thought
wronged her; such an action would not be possible to Beth Norvell. If
she despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously.
He would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaited
him below. With tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, and
walked to the elevator.
She stood waiting him alone, slightly within the parlor door, her
cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile. With a
single glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyes
clear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome.
For an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers of
confidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands.
"You gave me a terrible scare to-night," she said, endeavoring to speak
lightly, "and then, to make matters worse, you ran away. It was not
like you to do that."
"I could not bring myself to mar the further happiness of your night,"
he explained, feeling the words choke in his throat as he uttered them.
"My being present at the Opera House was all a mistake; I did not dream
it was you until too late. But the supper was another thing."
She looked intently at him, her expression clearly denoting surprise.
"I really cannot believe you to be as indifferent as you strive to
appear," she said at last, her breath quickening. "One does not forget
entirely in three short years, and I--I caught that one glimpse of you
in the box. It was that--that look upon your face which gave me
courage to send my card to your room." She paused, dropping her eyes
to the carpet, her fingers nervously playing with the trimming of her
waist. "It may, perhaps, sound strange, yet in spite of my exhibit of
feeling at first discovering your presence, I had faith all day that
you would come."
"Is it possible you mean that you wished me there?"
"Quite possible; only it would have been ever so much better had I
known before. It actually seemed when I saw your face to-night as if
God had brought you--it was like a miracle. Do you know why? Because,
for the first time in three years, I can welcome you with all my heart."
"Beth, Beth," utterly forgetting everything but the mystery of her
words, his gray eyes darkening from eagerness, "what is it you mean?
For God's sake tell me! These years have been centuries; through them
all I have been waiting your word."
She drew in her breath sharply, reaching out one hand to grasp the back
of a chair.
"It--it could not be spoken," she said, her voice faltering. "Not
until to-day was it possible for me to break the silence."
"And now--to-day?"
She smiled suddenly up at him, her eyes filled with promise.
"God has been good," she whispered, drawing from within the lace of her
waist a crumpled envelope,--"oh, so good, even when I doubted Him.
See, I have kept this hidden there every moment since it first came,
even on the stage in my changes of costume. I dared not part with it
for a single instant--it was far too precious." She sank back upon the
chair, holding out toward him the paper. "Read that yourself, if my
tears have not made the lines illegible."
He took it from her, his hands trembling, and drew forth the enclosure,
a single sheet of rough yellow paper. Once he paused, glancing toward
where she sat, her face buried in her arms across the chair-back. Then
he smoothed out the wrinkles, and read slowly, studying over each
pencil-written, ill-spelled word, every crease and stain leaving an
impression upon his brain:
"SAN JUAN, COL., DEC. 12, 1904.
"Deer Miss: I see your name agin in a Denver paper what Bill brought
out frum town ternight, an read thar that you wus goin ter play a piece
in Chicago. I aint seen yer name in ther papers afore fer a long time.
So I thot I 'd write yer a line, cause Bill thinks yer never got it
straight bout ther way Biff Farnham died. He ses thet you an Mister
Winston hes got ther whol affair all mixed up, an that maybe it's a
keepin ther two of yer sorter sore on each other. Now, I dont wanter
butt in none in yer affairs, an then agin it aint overly plisent fer me
to make a clean breast ov it this way on paper. Not that I 'm afeard,
er nothin, only it dont just look nice. No more do I want enything
whut I did ter be makin you fokes a heep o trouble. That aint my
style. I reckon I must a bin plum crazy whin I did it, fer I wus
mighty nigh that fer six months after--et least Bill ses so. But it
wus me all right whut killed Farnham. It wan't no murder es I see it,
tho I was huntin him all right, fer he saw me furst, an hed his gun
out, when I let drive. Enyhow, he got whut wus comin ter him, an I
aint got no regrets. We're a doin all right out yere now, me an
Bill--ther claim is payin big, but I never aint got over thinkin bout
Mercedes. I shore loved her, an I do yit. You was awful good to her,
an I reckon she 'd sorter want me to tell you jist how it wus. Hopin
this will clar up som ov them troubles between you an Mister Winston, I
am Yours with respects,
"WILLIAM BROWN."
Winston stood there in silence, yet holding the paper in his hand.
Almost timidly she glanced up at him across the back of the chair.
"And you have never suspected who I was until to-night?"
"No, never; I had always thought of Bob's sister as a mere child."
She arose to her feet, taking a single step toward him.
"I can only ask you to forgive me," she pleaded anxiously, her eyes
uplifted. "That is all I can ask. I ought to be ashamed, I am
ashamed, that I could ever have believed it possible for you to commit
such a deed. It seems incredible now that I have so believed. Yet how
could I escape such conviction? I heard the voices, the shot, and then
a man rushed past me through the darkness. Some rash impulse, a desire
to aid, sent me hastily forward. Scarcely had I bent over the dead
body, when some one came toward me from the very direction in which
that man had fled. I supposed he was coming back to make sure of his
work, and--and--it was you. Oh, I did not want to believe, but I had
to believe. You acted so strangely toward me, I accepted that as a
sign of guilt; it was a horror unspeakable."
"You thought--you actually thought I did that?" he asked, hardly
trusting his own ears.
"What else could I think? What else could I think?"
This new conception stunned him, left him staring at her, utterly
unable to control his speech. Should he tell her? Should he confess
his own equally mad mistake? the reason why all these years had passed
without his seeking her? It would be useless; it would only add to her
pain, her sense of wounded pride. Silence now would be mercy.
"Beth," he said, controlling his voice with an effort, "let us think of
all this as passed away forever. Let us not talk about it, let us not
think about it any more. You have reached the height which you set out
to gain; or, possibly you have not yet fully attained to your ideal,
yet you have travelled far toward it. Has it satisfied? Has it filled
the void in your life?"
She returned his questioning look frankly.
"Do you remember what I once said in a cabin out in Colorado?"
"I think so; yet, to avoid mistake, repeat it now."
"I told you I would give up gladly all ambition, all dreams of worldly
success, just to be alone with the man I loved, and bring him
happiness. To-night, as then, that is all I wish--everything."
A moment neither moved nor spoke.
"Beth," he whispered, as though half afraid even yet to put the
question, "am I all you wish--everything?"
"Yes, everything--only you must wait, Ned. I belong still to the
public, and must play out my engagement. After that it shall be home,
and you."
They stood there facing each other, the soft light from the shaded
globes overhead sparkling in her dark hair, her cheeks flushed, her
eyes smiling at him through a mist of tears. Unresisted, he drew her
to him.