CHAPTER XXV
The Revelation
Neither Mr. Royce nor myself was quite equal to the routine work of theoffice next morning. We had solved the mystery, indeed; but so far frombringing us relief, the solution had brought us a terrible unrest. MissLawrence had chosen her words well when she had said that the marriagewas "quite, quite impossible." Yet who could have guessed a reason sodark, so terrifying, so unanswerable! Small wonder that she had fled,that her first thought had been to put the ocean between herself and herlover. How could she meet him, how look him in the eyes, with thatsecret weighing upon her? How would she face him when she found himawaiting her at Liverpool? I shuddered at thought of that meeting. Weshould have held Curtiss back; we should have known that it was no idlewhim, no empty fear which had driven her over-sea.
Resolutely I tried to put such thoughts behind me, and to apply myselfto the mass of work which had accumulated during my three days' absence.Was it only three days? It seemed weeks, months, since that moment whenI opened the telegram from Mr. Royce which summoned me to Elizabeth.
But they would not be frowned down, for there were many questions stillunanswered. What had been Lucy Kingdon's connection with the mystery?Above all, why had Mrs. Lawrence permitted the courtship to go on?Perhaps she had not known--only at the last moment, after her daughter'sdisappearance, had she suspected. No doubt, it was that suddenrevelation, confirmed, perhaps, by Lucy Kingdon, coming to her after shehad left us in the library, which had struck her white and tremulous,which had urged her to tell me that the search must cease. Yet, eventhen, she had spoken as though the marriage might be arranged, as thoughit were not impossible! She had said that Curtiss himself should choose!What had she meant by that? Was there some depth which we had not yettouched, some turn to the tragedy which we did not suspect? Had wereally found the solution, after all?
My mind flew back to the Kingdon women, with a sort of fascination. Whathad Harriet Kingdon meant by that wild outburst of hers?
"There are others," she had said, "who have waived their rights and torntheir hearts and withered in silence----"
What had she meant by that? What secret was it had torn her heart? Werethe words merely a meaningless outburst, an incoherent cry, the resultof a mind disordered? I could not bring myself to think so, but cudgelmy brain as I might, I could read no meaning into them. Yet it was forher that Mrs. Lawrence had sent at that supreme moment when I revealedto her the secret of the letter; it was of her she had spoken when shecried, "I thought it was that woman!" Harriet Kingdon had known thesecret, then, and had kept silence.
Then, suddenly, it burst upon me what a hideous thing it was that shehad done by keeping silent. It was the letter, arriving at that lastdesperate moment, which had snatched Marcia Lawrence and Burr Curtissfrom the horrible pit which yawned before them. The writing of thatletter was not an act of enmity, but of mercy. Harriet Kingdon had stoodby and uttered no word of warning--I shuddered at the utter fiendishnessof it! But who had written the letter? Then, in a flash, I knew!
"What is it, Lester?" demanded Mr. Royce, wheeling suddenly around. Isuppose some exclamation must have burst from me, though I was notconscious of uttering any sound. "What is it? I can guess what you'rethinking of--I can't think of anything else."
"I believe," I answered, "that I know who it was wrote that letter toMiss Lawrence."
"You do!" he cried. "Who was it?"
"Wait!" I said, and closed my eyes and pressed my hands tight against mytemples in the effort at recollection. "It was Mrs. Lawrence's aunt--herfather's sister. It was to her house she came when she ran away. It wasthere, no doubt, that the child was born."
"And who is she?" asked our junior. "Where does she live?"
I made another desperate effort of memory. At last I had it.
"Her name is Heminway," I said. "I don't know her address, except thatit's somewhere in New York. She was married to a banker."
"Oh, I knew him--Martin Heminway," and Mr. Royce jerked down a directoryand ran feverishly through its pages. "Here it is--East Fifty-fourthStreet."
He closed the book with a bang and took down his hat.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'm going to see her," he said. "You're coming, too. We'll get to thebottom of this, for Curtiss's sake. Either we'll prove it a mistake, orwe'll prove beyond doubt that it's true."
Neither of us spoke during that long drive uptown. We were toodepressed, too anxious. Nor did we speak as we mounted the steps of theold-fashioned brownstone and rang the bell. We were admitted. We wereshown into a room on the second floor, after some delay, where, in agreat padded chair, an old, old woman sat, thin and wrinkled, but witheyes preternaturally bright.
"Mrs. Heminway," Mr. Royce began directly, "we're representing Mr. BurrCurtiss. We feel that some explanation is due him of the sudden flight,three days ago, of Marcia Lawrence, whom he was to marry; and we believethat you're the one best fitted to tell us the whole story."
She did not answer for a moment, but sat peering up at us, plucking atthe arms of her chair with nervous, skinny hands.
"Of course he has a right to know!" she cried, in a high, thin voice,like the note of a flute. "I thought the girl would tell him."
"But since she hasn't," said our junior, "I hope you will. I know itwon't be a pleasant task----"
She stopped him with a quick, claw-like gesture.
"I have never shrunk from any duty," she said, "however unpleasant. Sitdown, gentlemen. I will tell you the story."
* * * * *
I am sure there was no evil in either of them--Boyd Endicott or MaryJarvis. They were rather another Mildred and Mertoun, caught in the gripof circumstance and whirled asunder, by one of those ironical trickswhich fate sometimes loves to play. For, on the night of the elopement,while Boyd Endicott, leaving Princeton on the eve of his Christmasvacation, was waiting for his bride at Trenton, with every preparationmade to whirl her away to a new home in the West, she was speeding awayfrom him toward New York. She had taken the train at Fanwood and was tochange at Elizabeth. There, half dazed by the noise, bewildered by thestorm which was raging, tremulous with fright, confused in the tangle oftracks, she had taken the wrong train.
Boyd Endicott waited through the night, with what agony of doubt one canguess; then, when morning dawned, believing Mary Jarvisfaithless--believing she loved her father more than him--hot-blooded andimpetuous, he had boarded a train and journeyed alone into the West,where they had planned to build up a new home together. He was never toknow the true story of that night, for there in the West, two dayslater, his life had been crushed out.
Meanwhile, almost paralysed with fear, the girl arrived at New York. Shewas ill, benumbed, chilled with the cold; darkness was coming on; sheknew not where to turn, and finally, in an agony of desperation, shesought the home of Mrs. Heminway. The cause of her illness could not belong concealed; she asserted that she was married, that she had beenBoyd Endicott's wife for nearly a year; but her father did not believeher. For she had no marriage lines, she did not even know the name ofthe minister before whom their vows had been uttered--she could tellonly of a long drive through the dashing rain one night when her fatherhad been detained in town; of a hasty ceremony; of the drive home again.It was an incoherent story, at the best, and she told it in ahalf-delirium which made it more incoherent still. Her father was nearlymad with rage; in his first white wrath, he was for sending her forthinto the streets. But his sister reasoned with him--there was no need ofa public disgrace; she would take the child, the sight of it shouldnever offend him, nor should his daughter know aught concerning it.Doubtless they would have made some effort to verify her story, but thenews of Boyd Endicott's death rendered that unnecessary. For their planwas laid.
So the child was born--a boy--and the mother lay for days and weekshovering between life and death. When she came again to consciousness,they told her that the child was dead--had never lived, indeed. Theytold her, too-
-no doubt with a kind of fierce exulting--how BoydEndicott had met his end--a fit punishment from the hand of God! Thepast was buried with him. It must be as though it had never been.
Mary Jarvis acquiesced. Life, it seemed, held nothing more for her. Thefuture, no less than the past, was to her a dark and lifeless thing. Shewould have welcomed death, but it did not come. She grew slowly better,and at last she was able to go with her father to Scotland, for a longvisit among his people there, while he hastened home for hisrevenge--his pound of flesh. Whatever fault she had been guilty of, sheexpiated by taking, without love--for she knew that love would nevercome into her life again--the husband of her father's choosing. Andseemingly she had never suspected that her child was living; certainlyshe never dreamed that her instinctive tenderness for her daughter'slover was that of a mother for her son.
So the years passed, and cast a veil about this sorrow; not concealingit, but rendering it less sharp, less poignant. To her daughter nowhisper of this secret ever came until that terrible moment when sheopened the letter marked "Important--read at once." The blow, of course,must have fallen--it was right that it should fall--but oh! how it mighthave been tempered. Here is what she read, in that half-darkened librarywhither she had fled for refuge:
"MARCIA LAWRENCE:--I suppose that you have never heard of me, yet I am your mother's only living relative, her father's sister. There are painful memories, perhaps, which have caused her to wish to forget me, and it is not to claim relationship or ask for love or sympathy that I write this letter, but to fulfil a sacred duty. A Merciful Providence turned my eyes, this morning, to an article in the _Tribune_, describing your approaching marriage, of which I have hitherto been kept in ignorance. From the name, age, and circumstances given concerning the bridegroom's life, I am certain he is your brother, your mother's son, born in sin in this house thirty-one years ago. So are the iniquities of the parents visited upon the children. Ex. 34:7; 20:5. See also Le. 20:10; I. Cor. 6:13; Ro. 6:23. I thank God that He has enabled me to prevent this last iniquity. If any doubt remains to you, ask your mother for the story, or come to me and I will tell it you.
"MARGARET HEMINWAY."
One can guess how this horrible letter palsied her; how this firstface-to-face encounter with the world's sin and misery tortured andsickened her. But she shook the weakness off--they would be seeking herin a moment; she must flee, must hide herself, until she had time tothink, to adjust herself to this new, corroding fact which had come intoher life. So she sought the Kingdon cottage, the nearest, mostconvenient refuge, and there had written that hasty, despairing note andentrusted it to Lucy Kingdon, who had brought her a gown to replace thatmockery of satin. She had remained there, hidden, during the longafternoon, secure in the knowledge that these women, whose devotion toher had a peculiar intensity which she had not quite understood, wouldnot betray her.
Then, as soon as darkness fell, she had come to New York and sought Mrs.Heminway. She must be quite certain; she must know the whole truth. Andthat old, old woman, with all the grimness of her creed, told her thestory bluntly and cruelly, as she told it to us. The child had not died,but had been placed with the family of the manager of her husband'sestate on Long Island, who himself did not know its history; who had, inthe end, adopted it and given it his name. There could be no mistaking.
I have called her merciless, for she seemed to glory in another'sanguish, counting it fit retribution and a punishment from the Lord. YetI trembled to think how more merciless she might have been had shewithheld the truth!
And when she had heard the story, Marcia Lawrence could no longer doubt.But one great load was lifted from her, for she knew in her inmost heartthat the story of that wild night drive was true--she knew that hermother had been guilty of no sin. There was a sweet comfort in thethought which made her burden less, though it did not alter the problemwhich she herself must face. She had been stabbed to the heart, and thewound was bleeding still. She had gone forth from the house white withagony; she wanted time to rest, to think, to grow accustomed to theworld again. She had a battle to fight; and, hastily purchasing suchclothing as she needed, she had taken the first boat for England, whereshe hoped to hide herself until the tumult in her heart subsided, andshe had gathered courage to face the world and her lover.