On Saturday afternoon several telephone messages were sent to Esther
Maitland at O’Malley’s flat. They came from Ferguson, from Grasslands,
and the Whitney office. In the two latter cases they were conciliatory
and apologetic and asked that Miss Maitland would see the senders and
explain the circumstances that had so strangely involved her in the
case.
To both her employers and the Whitneys Miss Maitland returned an evasive
answer. She would be happy to do as they asked, but would have to let a
few more days pass before she would be free to speak. Meantime she would
remain with Mrs. O’Malley, who had offered to keep her, and who had
treated her with the utmost kindness and consideration. One request she
made—this to the Whitneys—she would like Chapman Price to be advised of
her whereabouts. It would be necessary for her to communicate with him
before she would be able to explain her share in the mystery.
Ferguson’s message had been an importunate demand to let him come to
her. She refused, said she would see no one until she was at liberty to
clear herself, which would not be for some days yet. Her voice showed a
tremulous urgency, a note of pleading, new to his ears and infinitely
sweet. But he could not break down her resolution; she begged him to do
as she asked, not to seek her out, not to demand any explanations until
she was ready to give them. The one favor she granted him was that when
the time was up and she could break her silence, he could come for her.
This did not happen until Wednesday. That morning she ’phoned to them
all that she could now see them and tell them what they wanted to hear.
A meeting was arranged at the Whitney office for three that afternoon
and Ferguson went to fetch her.
They met in Mrs. O’Malley’s front parlor, considerately vacated and with
the folding doors closed against intrusion. Without greeting Ferguson
took her hands and held them, looking down into her face. She was
beaming, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shy. She began to say something
about being at last able to vindicate herself, but he cut her off:
"Before you go into that, I want to say something to you."
"No, that’s not fair; I must speak first and you must let me. It’s my
privilege."
"With the others maybe, but not with me. What I have to say has to be
said _before_ I hear. Esther, do you know what it is?"
She was silent, her head drooping, her hands growing cold in his grasp.
He went on, very quietly and simply:
"It’s that I ask you to be my wife. And I must ask it before the
clearing or vindicating or any rubbish of that sort. I don’t know what
_you’ll_ say to it and I don’t want any answer now. That’s at your own
good time and your own good pleasure. It’s just that I wanted you to see
how I stand and have stood since that night when we walked through the
woods together. Come along now—it’s nearly three, and we mustn’t keep
them waiting."
It was a very different Esther who sat in Wilbur Whitney’s private
office, facing those who had once been her accusers. She gave no
evidence of rancor, greeted them with a frank friendliness, smiled with
a radiance they set down to the rebound from long tension and strain.
Suzanne, her jealous fires burned out, could acknowledge now that she
was handsome; Mr. Janney wondered at her look of breeding. "A fine
girl," old Whitney thought, as he studied her through his glasses,
"spirited and high-mettled as a racer."
"It’s a long story," she said, "and for you to understand it I’ll have
to go back to a time when none of you had ever heard of me. And before I
begin, I want to say to Mrs. Janney," she turned to the older woman
eagerly earnest, "if I had understood people better, if I hadn’t been
hardened and made suspicious by the struggle I’d had, I would have
trusted you and told you more, and all this misery would have been
averted. So, in a way it was my fault, and being such I’ve suffered for
it.
"I have a half-sister, Florence Jackson, nine years younger than I am;
that would make her eighteen. When my stepfather died, ten years ago, he
left us penniless and I had to start in at once to make our bread. I
boarded Florry out with friends and found a position as a school
teacher. That was only for a year or two; soon I advanced into the
secretarial work which was less fatiguing and better paying. In the
first place I got, Florry was living near me and on Sundays she used to
come and see me. My employer didn’t like it—did not want a strange child
about the house and told me so without mincing words. I was angry—I was
hot-tempered and sensitive in those days and I made a vow to keep my
life to myself, be nothing to my employers but a machine who rendered
certain services for a certain wage. When I came to you, Mrs. Janney, I
should have seen that I was with some one who was big-hearted and
generous, but I had been molded and the mold had set in a hard and
bitter shape.
"Earning more money I was able to put Florry in good schools. It was my
intention to give her a fine education, and equip her for the task of
earning her living. She was quick and clever, but willful and hard to
control. I suppose it was because she had had no home influences, no
place that belonged to her. She had to spend her vacations
anywhere—sometimes at the school, sometimes with classmates. It was a
miserable life for a child.
"She was always pretty—when she was little people used to stop on the
streets to look at her—and as she grew older she grew prettier. She was
charming, too, there was something about her very willfulness that was
captivating. The combination worried me; if she had had more balance,
been more reasonable, it wouldn’t have mattered. But she was the kind
who is always full of wild enthusiasms, going off at a tangent about
this, that and the other. Not a promising temperament for a girl who has
to support herself.
"A year ago I got her into a first class school near Chicago—I had met
the principal, who had been very kind and taken her at a greatly reduced
rate. It was to be her last year; in June she would graduate and with
her education finished, I felt sure I could get her a position in New
York where I could help her and watch over her. During the winter—last
winter—her letters made me uneasy. She was discontented, tired of study,
wanted to be out in the world doing something. I was prepared for a
struggle with her, but not for what happened.
"One day—it was in March—I had a letter from her saying she had run away
from school, was in New York and was looking for a job. I was angry and
bitterly disappointed, also I was frightened—Florry in New York without
a cent, with no one to be with her, with no home or companion. I went to
the address she gave me and found her in the hall bedroom of a third
rate boarding house—a woman on the train had told her of it—full of high
spirits and a sort of childish joy at being free. She did not understand
my disappointment, laughed at my fears. I lost my temper, said more than
I ought—and—well, we had a quarrel, the first real one we ever had.
"That night I couldn’t sleep, blaming myself, knowing that whatever she
did it was my duty to stand by her. The next day I went to the place and
found she’d gone, leaving no address. For three days I heard nothing
from her and was on the verge of going to you, Mrs. Janney, and
imploring your aid and advice, when a letter came. She was all right,
she had found paying employment, she was independent at last. In my
first spare hour I went to her and found her in another boarding house,
a cheap, shabby place, but decent. A good many working women lived
there, the better paid shop girls and heads of departments. It was
through one of these, a fitter, at Camille’s, that she had got work.
With her beauty it had been easy—she had been employed as a model at
Camille’s."
"Camille’s!" the word came on a startled note from Suzanne. Esther
turned to her:
"Yes, Mrs. Price, and you saw her there—you ordered a dress from a model
that Florry wore."
"The girl with the reddish hair—the tall girl?"
"Yes, that was Florry. She told me afterward how she walked up and down
in front of you."
"But—" Suzanne’s voice showed an incredulous wonder, "she was beautiful;
they were all talking about her."
"I said she was—I was not exaggerating. She was satisfied with her work,
liked it, I think she would have liked anything that was novel and took
her away from the grind of study. _I_ didn’t like it, but at least it
wasn’t the stage, and I set about trying to find something better. That
was the situation till April and then—" She paused, her eyes dropped to
the floor. The color suddenly rose in her face and raising them she shot
a look at Ferguson. He answered it with a slight, almost imperceptible
nod and smiled in open encouragement. She took a deep breath and
addressed Mrs. Janney:
"What I have to tell now isn’t pleasant for me to say or for you to
hear, but I have to tell it for all the subsequent events grew from it.
Mr. Price had been to Camille’s that first time with his wife."
There was a slight stir in the listening company, a sudden focusing of
intent eyes on the girl, a waiting expectancy in the grave faces. She
saw it and answered it:
"Yes, he saw Florry. He went again—Mrs. Price was buying several
dresses. After that second visit he waited one night at the side door
used for employees and spoke to her. I can’t condone what she did, but I
can say in extenuation that she was very young, very inexperienced, that
she knew who Mr. Price was, and that she had never in her life met a man
of his attractions.
"She didn’t hide it from me, was frank and outspoken about the meeting
and his subsequent attentions. For he saw her often after that, took her
for walks on Sunday, sent her theater tickets and books. I was filled
with anxiety, besought of her to give it up, but she wouldn’t, she
couldn’t. Before I went to Grasslands I realized a situation was
developing that made me sick with apprehension. She was in love, madly
in love. I couldn’t reason with her, I couldn’t make her listen to me;
she was blind and deaf to anything but him and what he said.
"I went to Mr. Price and implored him to leave her alone. I had to catch
him as I could—in the halls, at odd moments in the library, for he hated
the scenes I made and tried to avoid me. He assured me that he meant no
harm, that her position was hard and he was sorry for her. I threatened
to tell Mrs. Janney, and he said I could if I wanted, that he would soon
be done with them all and didn’t care. I saw then that he too, like
Florry, was growing indifferent to everything but the hours when they
were together—that _he_ was in love.
"That was the situation when I went to Grasslands. It was much worse
there—I couldn’t see her often, I was in ignorance of how things were
going with her, for her letters told me little. It was unbearable, and I
went into town whenever I could; all the extra holidays were asked for
so that I could go into the city and see how Florry was getting on. On
one of these visits she told me something that, at the time, I paid
little attention to, setting it down as one of her passing fancies; she
was interested in the working girls’ unions. At Camille’s and in the
boarding house she had fallen in with a group of girls of Socialistic
beliefs and, through them, had met their organizers and backers. She was
much more deeply involved than I guessed. Her fearlessness, her ardor
for anything new and exciting, making her a valuable addition to their
ranks. It carried her far, to the edge of tragedy."
She turned to Mr. Janney:
"Do you remember, Mr. Janney, one morning early in July, how I read you
an account of a strike riot among the shirtwaist makers when one of the
girls stabbed a policeman with a hatpin?"
The old man nodded:
"Yes, vaguely. I have a dim memory of arguing about it with you."
"That was the time. Well, that girl was Florry. She lost her head
completely, stabbed the man, and in the tumult that followed, managed to
get away through the hall of a tenement house. She was hidden by friends
of hers, Russian socialists called Rychlovsky. I have met them; they
seem decent, kindly people, and they certainly were very good to her.
When I read you the article I had no more idea that the girl was Florry
than you had. It was not until the next morning that I received a letter
from her, telling me what she had done and where she was.
"She wrote two letters, one to me and one to Mr. Price. He had told her
that he would spend his week-ends with the Hartleys at Cedar Brook and
she sent his there. Mine was delivered on the morning of July the
seventh but he did not get his until the same evening when he came to
Cedar Brook from the city. Each of us acted as promptly as we could, but
he went to her before I did, going in that night in his car.
"It seems incredible that he should have done what he did, dared to take
such a risk. But when he found her cooped up in the rear room of a
tenement, lonely and frightened, he prevailed on her to go out with him
in his motor. He took her for a drive far up the Hudson, not returning
until after midnight. The Rychlovskys, who had missed her and were in a
state of alarm, were furious. When I went there the next day they were
vociferous in their desire to be rid of her, saying she would land them
all in jail. I was her sister; it was up to me, I must find another lair
for her.
"I had heard of the house in Gayle Street from two girls, art students,
who had once lived there. It was the only place I could think of; and
when I found that the top floor was vacant, I realized that she could be
hidden in one of the rooms and no one suspect it was occupied. I engaged
it and paid the rent, telling the janitor the story of a friend coming
from the West. Then I took the key back to Florry. The Rychlovskys,
pacified by the thought that she would be out of their house, undertook
to furnish her with food. They made her promise that she would keep to
the room, light no gas at night, make no noise, and stay away from the
window. Florry was by this time thoroughly cowed and agreed to
everything. It was through their adroitness that the room passed as
vacant. They visited her in the evening, a time when many people came
and went in the house, bringing in her food and carrying away what was
left in newspapers. They had two extra keys made, one for me, one for
Mr. Price. I brought her money, Mr. Price books and magazines. He saw
her oftener than I did, and gave me news of her. This I asked him to do
by letter. I had once met him by Little Fresh Pond, and another time he
had telephoned. I was afraid of repeating the meeting at the pond—we had
both come upon Miss Rogers and Bébita on the way out—and I dreaded being
overheard at the ’phone.
"All went well for two weeks, though we were terribly frightened, for
the policeman developed blood-poisoning, and for some time hung between
life and death. Then the Rychlovskys suggested a plan that seemed to me
the only way out of our dangers and difficulties. A friend of theirs, a
woman doctor, was one of a hospital unit sailing from Montreal to
France. This woman, allied with them in their Socialistic activities,
agreed to get Florry into her group as a hospital attendant, take her to
France and look after her. It struck us all as feasible and as lacking
in danger as any plan for her removal could be. The doctor was a woman
of high character who told the Rychlovskys she would keep Florry near
her as the unit was shorthanded and needed all the workers it could get.
The one person who showed no enthusiasm was Florry herself. I knew
perfectly what was the matter—she did not want to leave Chapman Price.
He tried to persuade her, was as worried and anxious as I was. The
situation between them had cleared to a definite understanding—when his
wife had obtained her divorce he would go to France and marry Florry
there.
"And now I come to the day of the kidnaping, that dreadful,
unforgettable day!
"The morning before—Thursday—I had seen her and found her in a state of
nervous indecision, weeping and miserable. I knew I was to be in town
with Mrs. Price the next day and told her if I could get time I would
come to her. Mrs. Price had told me how we were to divide the errands
and I realized, if I could finish mine earlier than she expected, I
would have a chance of seeing Florry. I had just been paid my salary and
that, with some money I had saved, I brought with me. My intention was
to give all this to Florry and implore her to go with the hospital unit,
which was scheduled to leave Montreal early the following week.
"Things worked out as I had hoped. The commissions took less time than
Mrs. Price had calculated and I found that I would be able to spend a
few minutes with Florry. In case Bébita should mention the excursion
downtown, I ordered the driver to drop me at a bookbindery on the corner
of Gale Street. I could easily explain our stop there by saying that I
had left a book to be bound.
"When I reached the room I found her in a state of hysterical terror—she
said the house was watched. Peeping out through the coarse lace curtains
that veiled the window, she had several times noticed a man lounging
about the corner. At first she had thought nothing of him, but the day
before he had reappeared, and stayed about the block most of the
afternoon covertly watching the entrance and the upper floor. I was
nearly as frightened as she was—the thing was only too probable. There
was no difficulty in getting her to go with the hospital ship. She had
only stayed on in the hope of seeing me and having me tell her what to
do.
"I gave her the money and told her to wait until nightfall and then slip
out and go to the Rychlovskys. They had promised to help her in any way
they could, and with Bébita waiting in the cab, I couldn’t go with her.
It was a simply hideous position to have to leave her that way. But it
was all I could think of—it came so unexpectedly I was stunned by it.
"When I reached the bookbindery the taxi was gone! Can you imagine what
I felt? I told the truth when I said my first thought was that Bébita
might have played a joke on me. I _did_ think that, for my mind,
confused and crowded with deadly fears, could not take in a new
catastrophe. Then, when I saw Mrs. Price and realized that the child had
mysteriously disappeared, while with _me_, while in _my_ charge—I—well,
I hope I’ll never have to live over moments like those again. I had to
keep one fact before my mind—to be quiet, to be cool, not to do or say
anything that might betray Florry. If I’d known what you suspected, I
couldn’t have done it. But, of course, I hadn’t any idea then you
thought I was implicated.
"Florry had told me she would communicate with Mr. Price and he would
give me word of her. The telephone message that Miss Rogers tapped was
that word; all I received. It relieved me immensely, I began to feel the
dreadful strain relaxing, I began to think we were on the high road to
safety. And then came that day here in the office. Shall I ever forget
it!"
She turned to Mrs. Janney:
"If I had had the least idea of what was going to be done here, I would
have tried to get to you and have thrown myself on your mercy. But I was
completely unsuspecting and unprepared, and with Mr. Whitney as the
judge, representing the law, I did not dare to tell the truth, I _had_
to lie.
"As you saw, I lied as well as I could, puzzled at first, not knowing
what you were getting at, to what point it was all leading. Then, when
you caught me with the tapped message, I saw—I guessed how circumstances
had woven a net about me. I realized there was nothing to be done but
let you believe it, let you do what you wanted with me. You couldn’t
_make_ me speak, and if I could stay silent till Florry was in Europe,
hidden, lost in the chaos of a country at war, it would be all right."
She swept their faces with a glance, half pleading, half triumphant.
"She is there now—this morning Mr. Price had a cable from her. I have
told this to Mr. Whitney as well as the rest because I have thought—shut
up in O’Malley’s flat I had much time for thinking things out straight
and clear—that after my explanation, no one would want, no one would
dare, to bring that unfortunate girl back here to face a criminal
charge. She has had her lesson, she will never forget it, the man she
wounded is back on the force as good as ever. No human being with a
conscience and a heart—" she looked at Whitney—"and you have both—could
want to make her pay more bitterly than she has. She is safe, under
intelligent supervision. She can work, be useful, where her youth and
strength and enthusiasm are needed. I did not trust you before, Mr.
Whitney, but I do now and I know that my trust is not misplaced."
A murmur, a concerted sound of agreement, came from her listeners.
Whitney, pushing his chair back from the desk, said gravely:
"You can rest assured, Miss Maitland, that the matter will die here with
us to-day. As you say, your sister has had her punishment. She will stay
in France of course?"
"Yes, make her home there, I think. When Mr. Price is free he is to go
over and marry her. He intends to sell his business out and offer his
services to the French government."
There was a moment of silence, then Mrs. Janney spoke, clearing her
throat, her face flushed with feeling:
"As you’ve said, Miss Maitland, none of this would have happened if
you’d seen fit to come to me. But it’s no use going over that now—we’ve
all made mistakes and we’re all sorry. What we—the Janneys—want to do is
to be fair, to be just, and now—if it is not too late—to make amends.
The only way you can show your willingness to forget and forgive, is to
come back at once to Grasslands and take things up where you left them."
The girl for a moment did not answer, her face reddening with a sudden
embarrassment. Mrs. Janney saw the blush, read it as reluctance and
exclaimed:
"Oh, Miss Maitland, don’t say you refuse. It’s as if you wouldn’t take
my hand held out in apology, in friendship."
"No, no"—Esther was obviously distressed—"don’t think that, Mrs. Janney,
it’s not that. It’s that I can’t—I’ve—I’ve made another engagement—I’m
going to marry Mr. Ferguson."