That Affair at Elizabeth by Burton Egbert Stevenson (book club suggestions TXT) 📕

"Tell me," whispered Curtiss. "Let me judge of that."

There was no resisting him—it was his right to know—so our junior told the story, as briefly as might be.

He bore it better than I had hoped. After a time, he was able to talk of it quite calmly, to ask a question or two, to tell us something of his own boyhood, and of the people who reared him.

"I never suspected," he concluded, "that John Curtiss and his wife weren't really my grandparents. They told me my father and mother were dead, and they certainly treated me as a child of their own. They had no other children, and doubtless by the time I came of age to ask questions, regarded me as wholly theirs. Mrs. Curtiss died when I was sixteen, her husband three years later, just as I was ready to enter college; and I found that he'd made me his sole heir, and that I was worth some thirty thousand dollars. I went on to college, as they'd wished me to. And now," he added, "what shall I do? Shall I go to Elizabeth and see Mrs. Lawrence——"

It was plain that he could not think of her as his mother. She had never been his mother. He had never known her as such; she had played no part in his childhood. I knew that one of the questions I had asked myself was answered: the mere revelation of kinship had made no difference in his feeling for Marcia Lawrence. He loved her yet; he had that battle still to fight. And she—was it the same with her? What a hideous irony of fate!

"Mrs. Lawrence knew nothing of the story," I pointed out. "She may know nothing of it, even yet. She doesn't suspect that her child lived. I think her daughter means that she should never know, if it can be kept from her."

"Then she shall never know from me," he said, and took a deep breath. "I suppose that I'd better wait. Marcia can decide what's best to do. I—I don't think I quite realise what it all means," and he passed his hand before his eyes. "The best thing for me is to go to work. That'll give me something else to think about."

"That's right," I said. "Thinking about this won't do any good—nothing will."

"No," he agreed, his lips bloodless. "I begin to see that—to understand——"

The door opened, and the office boy came in.

"Telegram, Mr. Lester," he said, and gave it to me.

It was:

"Our Elizabeth correspondent wires Miss Lawrence home noon to-day.

"Godfrey."

For a moment I hesitated. Was it best to tell him? But a glance at his drawn face decided me.

"The search is over," I said. "Miss Lawrence is home again," and I handed him the message.

He read it at a glance, then started to his feet.

"Will you come with me, Mr. Lester?" he asked. "I know I've given you a lot of trouble, but this will be the last, I think."

"You haven't given me a bit of trouble," I protested. "I'll be glad to come."

"Thank you," he said simply, and held out his hand to Royce.

"You think it best to go?" the latter asked.

"Best? Oh, I'm not thinking of that! I'm going to her—I've got to see her! I can't wait! I——"

He wrung our junior's hand without finishing the sentence; too overwrought, indeed, to finish it—and strode from the room.

Mr. Royce held me back for a rapid word of warning.

"I'm glad you're going," he said. "He'll need some one. There's no telling what'll happen. Good luck!"

When we were in the train, with the lights of Jersey City flying past us, I took occasion to examine Curtiss again. He was lying back in the seat with his eyes closed, and the posture made his face seem even lanker and grimmer than it had at first appeared. I saw that I must keep my wits about me. When he awoke to a full realisation of the trick fate had played him, he might, in his desperation——

"But you said Mrs. Lawrence told you she knew why Marcia had run away."

The voice fairly made me jump, it came so suddenly, so unexpectedly.

"She did," I answered, turning to find his dark eyes open and strangely bright. "But of course she was mistaken. She fancied it was something else, or she wouldn't have said what she did."

"What did she say? You've told me, but I've forgotten."

"She said that the marriage wasn't impossible—that the choice should be left to you."

He pondered this a moment, then his lips curved into an ironical smile.

"No doubt another family secret!" he said. "One would think we were in Corsica or Sicily! Well, we'll try to bear it. By the way, who's this fellow Godfrey, who sent you that message?"

"He's a newspaper-man, a friend of mine—a mighty clever fellow."

His face grew grimmer still.

"More food for the yellow press," he said, with a harsh laugh. "They certainly owe us a vote of thanks."

He was in a dangerous mood. I saw his face harden and darken as he gazed out through the window. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then they closed again, compressed and bloodless, and he settled back in his seat as though he had taken a final resolution. I shuddered as I tried to guess what it was. I could imagine but one end for a drama so hideous as this.

And then, as I lay back in the seat, gazing at him, a sudden ray of light flashed across my brain. That contour of the face—that poise of the head—where had I seen them? Where but in the portrait of Ruth Endicott which hung upon the wall of the Kingdon cottage! Since he resembled his father, he would, of course, resemble her. Another link in the chain, I told myself; and trembled to think how strong it was.

Nothing about the house had changed. As we drove up to the door, I saw that the blinds were still drawn, as they had been at the time of my first visit, and no ray of light came through them. It seemed a house of death, and a little shiver ran through me as Curtiss rang the bell.

There was a long delay; a delay that tortured me: for a dark vision danced before me—the vision of a girl lying dead beneath the windows of the library, with a portrait pressed close against her heart. So vivid was it that I could not shake it off, and I nearly cried aloud as a light was switched on the hall, and the door suddenly opened. I looked up expectantly—but it was not Lucy Kingdon; it was a servant whose face I did not remember. She took our cards and showed us into the room which, when I had seen it last, was gay with flowers. Then she left us. Not until she had gone did I remember that Lucy Kingdon was still fighting a battle with death.

As moment followed moment, I found myself unconsciously gripping my hands tighter and tighter about the arms of my chair. There seemed to be about the house an atmosphere of terror. I could guess what agony of suspense Curtiss was enduring and I saw him wipe the perspiration from his forehead once or twice with a hand anything but steady. Perhaps she would not come. Perhaps she was not yet brave enough. Or perhaps she could not come——

There was a step at the door; a woman entered——

It was Mrs. Lawrence. She came forward with a smile of welcome. One glance at her face told me that she did not yet suspect—that her daughter had kept the secret.

"I knew you'd come," she said.

"Then she is here?" asked Curtiss, gripping his hands behind him, devouring her face with his eyes; feeling, perhaps, for the first time, some instinct of sonship stirring within him.

"Yes, she's here," answered Mrs. Lawrence, still smiling at him. "She came only a few hours ago and is very tired—too tired to talk, even to me. She doesn't feel strong enough to come down to see you now."

What power was it drew my eyes to the tapestry at the inner door? I saw it swing aside, almost imperceptibly; I caught the glimpse of a face, white as marble, whose eyes dwelt upon Curtiss with a look of love, of longing, that turned me a little giddy. She loved him yet! God pity them both!

"But she told me," Mrs. Lawrence was saying, "that if you'll come to-morrow morning, she'll see you. Oh, I can see how she's suffered! Too much, I think! And you've suffered, too," she added, and her eyes questioned his.

"Yes," he said. "I've suffered too."

"Thank God it's past! You see, I don't doubt you. I know that when you hear the story——"

"I have heard it," Curtiss interrupted grimly, and I saw a spasm of pain convulse the face at the door.

But Mrs. Lawrence was looking up at him, her eyes alight.

"And it will make no difference!" she cried. "It can make no difference—for you love her—I know it—I can see it—you love her just as you always did!"

"Yes," said Curtiss hoarsely. "God help me, I love her just as I always did!"

"Then you can't give her up—you won't—that would be cruel—would kill her, I think—for it's no fault of hers——"

"Give her up!" echoed Curtiss, seized suddenly with a terrible trembling. "No, I'll never give her up!"

"I knew it," she said triumphantly. "I knew I'd not misjudged you. And there need be no scandal. No one need ever know!"

What was she saying? What infamy was she proposing? But not with the joy-illumined face! Ah, she did not understand, and we should have to tell her!

"It was wrong, I know," she went on, more calmly. "But when the mother died, he wanted to take the child to rear it as his own—I had not given him any—and since—since—there was a sorrow in my own life, I could understand and forgive. It was a kind of penance—an atonement—and I welcomed it. Besides, he was not wholly to blame, for she—but I'll speak no ill of her. And I grew to love the child for her own sake—I grew to forget that she was not really mine——"

Curtiss was clutching blindly at a chair, his face ghastly, his eyes staring.

"I—I don't think I quite understand," he faltered, "You—you're speaking of Marcia?"

"Of Marcia, certainly. But you said you knew the story."

She was looking at him intently, her face suddenly pale.

"Was it something else?" she asked. "Something else? Was it the letter? Tell me!"

"No, no," he protested, and stopped, unable to go on.

"I don't think he heard it quite correctly, Mrs. Lawrence," I said, seeing that he needed saving. "Do I understand you to say Miss Lawrence isn't your daughter?"

"She's Ruth Endicott's daughter. She was housekeeper here and she—she—But no matter. No one knew except her cousins, the Kingdons. It was Harriet who took her away—to Florida—and she died there. They promised to keep the secret—it was to their interest—we did everything we could for them—I was kinder to them than they deserved. But I loved the child—I had none of my own—I wanted to protect my husband's memory—Where was the sin in——"

"Where is she?" demanded Curtiss hoarsely, but with a great light in his eyes. "Where is she?"

"Then you don't mind? You won't——"

"Mind!" cried Curtiss. "Mind! Where is she?"

The curtains at the door were swept aside, and a woman appeared between them—a woman regal, with glowing eyes, with smiling, tremulous lips——

Fool that I had been not to guess—not to see! It was the Endicott strain, first and last—dark, passionate, virile—and I had shut my eyes to it!

I saw him turn toward her, his face aflame with joy——

Then the hot tears blinded me, and I groped my way from the room, from the house, out into the silent night; and I looked up at the quiet stars, with Pippa's song singing in my heart——