CHAPTER XXVI
The Return
It was not until we were back at the office again that either Mr. Royceor myself ventured a comment upon this extraordinary story. Even then,we found very little to say. Nothing could be done to divert the blow;nothing even to lessen its severity. Burr Curtiss and Marcia Lawrencemust endure their fate with such courage as they could; must forget; atleast, must strive to soften love into affection. How would they regardeach other, I wondered? Would the mere fact of revealed relationshipalter their old feeling, or would love survive to torture them? They hadin common no brotherly-and-sisterly instincts or experiences; they wereunchanged; they were still maid and lover, as they had always been.
The days passed, and in the stress of work at the office, the memory ofBurr Curtiss and his fortunes gradually became less vivid, until I beganto hope that, in time, it might really cease to worry me. But onemorning, Mr. Royce looked up from his paper, his eyes shining.
"The _Umbria_ reached Liverpool this morning," he said, in a voice notwholly steady. "It's all over by this time. I wonder how they bore it?"
"Bravely, I've no doubt," I answered, but I trembled at thought of it.How had she summoned courage to tell him?
"He'll come home, I think," added Mr. Royce, pursuing his own thoughts."They could hardly stay abroad together; their relationship, of course,will always remain a secret----"
The office boy entered and laid a little envelope at his elbow. He toreit open quickly and read its contents at a glance.
"It's a cable from Curtiss," he said, and passed it over to me.
"_Oceanic_ delayed engine break-down," I read. "Reached Liverpool five hours after _Umbria_. Missed Marcia but searching for her. Cable care Hotel Adelphi."
Mr. Royce sat for a moment drumming nervously upon his chair-arm.
"He hasn't any chance of finding her in a place like that," he said, atlast. "Most probably she's gone on to London."
"Or to some place on the continent. There must be many places whereshe'd feel at home."
"What would we better do? Shall we write out the story and mail it toCurtiss? He'll get it in a week."
"He won't stay at Liverpool a week," I objected. "The letter might goastray, and be opened by some one who had no right to read it."
"We might cable a mere outline."
I thought it over; but somehow my point of view had changed. Now that Iknew the story, it seemed to me that it was Marcia Lawrence's right todecide what step should be taken next. Once she had recovered herself-poise, she would see what course was best, and I was certain thatshe would be brave enough, strong enough, to follow it unshrinking tothe end.
"Let us wait," I said. "A little delay can do no harm; just as haste cando no good."
"Yes; I believe that's best," agreed our junior. "Nothing we can do willhelp them. They must work out the problem for themselves."
"Besides," I added, "I've a feeling that Miss Lawrence will herselfdecide to meet it squarely. She'll realise that Curtiss has a right toknow the story. I believe that she'll soon come home again, ready toface him and tell him everything. She'll see that it's cowardly to stayaway. Then there's her mother--she'll think of her--of her misery andloneliness. She won't leave her to live by herself in that great, gloomyhouse. We're safe in leaving the future in her hands."
But in the days that followed, I came to doubt more and more whetherthis policy was the best one. Had I not been thinking too much of MissLawrence, and too little of our client? Perhaps if he knew the secret,he would no longer wish to pursue her; he might prefer to wait, to givetime opportunity to heal the first rawness of the wound. Indeed, it wasconceivable that love might change to loathing. In that case, it werebetter to have the crisis over with at once; to apply the knife beforethe sore had a chance to harden or grow deeper. Such heroic action mighteffect a cure. But I kept these doubts to myself; there was no usedisturbing our junior with them. I could see how he was suffering on hisfriend's behalf. I could guess his fear that some dreadful tragedy wouldmark the end.
The days passed, and we heard no more from
Curtiss, not a word to tell us how the search had progressed. Godfreycame in to see me once or twice, but he had nothing new to tell; and ofcourse I had nothing to tell him. At last, he expressed the opinion thatwe should never solve the mystery; and as the public had forgotten itlong since, he decided to waste no more time upon it.
Another visitor I had one afternoon, when Dr. Schuyler's card wasbrought in to me. I ordered him shown in at once, and as I shook handswith him, I noted that he seemed greyer and older than when I had seenhim last.
"Yes," he said, with a smile, interpreting my glance; "it's this troublewhich has been weighing upon me. I've tried to shake it off, but Ican't."
"Sit down," I said. "I'm glad to see you. And I wouldn't allow theaffair to worry me, if I were you."
"That's easy enough to say," he retorted, with a little shake of thehead. "But remember, Mr. Lester, Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter were twoof my dearest friends. And this tragedy has wrecked their lives. Isthere any news?"
"None at all, except that Curtiss missed the _Umbria_ at Liverpool, andhas not been able to find Miss Lawrence."
"Perhaps that was best."
"I'm inclined to think so myself," I agreed.
"There's one thing, though," he added suddenly. "Curtiss has no reasonto be ashamed of his birth."
I looked at him with quick interest.
"Then you've discovered----"
"Yes; the minister who married Mary Jarvis and Boyd Endicott. I couldn'trest after you showed me that picture--after I knew that Mary Jarvis hadhad a child. I felt that I must find out--for her sake, as well as formy own. And so I set systematically to work. It was really notdifficult, for there were not more than six or eight places where theceremony could possibly have been performed. I took them one afteranother, and soon found the right one--you see, I had the date,approximately. Her story was true in every detail. They had driven toClearwater, about five miles north of Plainfield, a little village oftwo or three hundred inhabitants. The minister who married them is stillliving. He showed me the record, and he remembered the affairdistinctly. The night was a very bad one, and he had been aroused fromsleep by a loud knocking at the door. He had gone down, thinking that itwas some neighbour come to summon him to the bedside of some one takensuddenly ill, and was surprised to find a handsome young fellow standingon the doorstep. He explained his errand in a few words, and ten minuteslater, the thing was done. The minister's wife was the only witness. Thebride was very frightened and more than once seemed about to faint, butmanaged to pull through, and was driven away with her husband a fewminutes after the ceremony has been performed."
The clergyman's face was glowing with satisfaction.
"It was a great thing to me," he added, "to be able to prove that MaryJarvis had told her father the truth."
"It seems strange," I said, "that he never made any attempt to verifyit."
"Ah, but he did," broke in Dr. Schuyler quickly. "He did verify it. Atleast it could have been no one else in my opinion, from the descriptiongiven me by the minister at Clearwater. He was there and saw the recordonly a few days after that Christmas Eve on which his daughter attemptedto run away."
"He never told his sister," I said, and told him of Mrs. Heminway'sstory.
"It was like him," said my companion, after a moment's thought, "to keepit to himself. Perhaps he feared his sister would feel some tendernessfor the child if she knew there was no shame attached to it. Butwhatever his motive, I am glad that I know the truth."
"And I," I said. "It will be easier to tell Curtiss--if he must betold."
"And Marcia."
"I don't believe she ever doubted."
"Perhaps not; but it will be good for her to know."
"Yes," I agreed, and fell a moment silent. How would the story end?
"Poor children!" said my companion, and rose with a little sigh. "Theymust bear the burden w
ith what strength they have. God send it besufficient! I must bid you good-bye, Mr. Lester. I feel better, now thatyou know the truth. I want every one who knows the story to know thispart of it."
"They shall," I promised.
"And if there is any way that I can help----"
"You don't need to assure me of that," I interrupted. "I shall call uponyou without an instant's hesitation."
"Thank you," and he wrung my hand and was gone.
How would the story end? I asked myself the question again, as I sankback into my seat. And I could find no answer to it.
But the end was nearer than I had thought.
* * * * *
It was near closing time one afternoon, and we were finishing up someodds and ends of work, when the door opened, and in came Burr Curtiss.We were on our feet in an instant--Mr. Royce and I--and had him by thehands. He was greatly changed--older and thinner, with an increasedlankness of jaw; but he had regained his equilibrium. He was no longerdazed by the blow fate had dealt him. The firm-set lips told that he hadtaught himself how to face the world and his own future.
We sat down after the first greetings, and then there was a littlepause. I was uncertain how to begin; I had a horror of opening oldwounds which I saw that Mr. Royce acutely shared.
"Well, I'm back," Curtiss began, seeing our hesitation and no doubtunderstanding it. "I soon found out that I'd undertaken a hopelesstask."
"Then you didn't find her?" asked Mr. Royce.
"No," answered the other evenly. "I completely lost track of her aftershe left Liverpool. I was able to trace her to the station, and to findthat she'd taken train for London, and that was all. So I decided thatthe wisest thing for me to do was to come home. My boat got in an hourago--and I came straight here for news."
Our junior nodded.
"Yes--I think you did right to come back. But I haven't any news--atleast, I believe that she herself would wish to tell you----"
Curtiss started sharp around.
"Then you know?" he asked. "You know why she left me?"
Mr. Royce paused an instant, then chose the better way.
"Yes," he said. "Lester hit upon it, and we proved he was right."
Curtiss was out of his chair now; but he held himself well in hand.
"And you'll tell me?"
"It was nothing that reflects on either of you. It was something neitherof you could help nor do anything to alter."
"So it's bad news!" and his face turned suddenly livid.
"Sit down, Curtiss," said our junior imploringly. "It's hard enough, atbest--I--can't tell you at all if you take it that way."
Curtiss glanced at him again, then sat down.
"Now tell me," he said quietly, but I saw how his hands were trembling.
"I don't wonder she fled," began Mr. Royce, shrinking from the plunge."She couldn't face the world----"
"But me," cried Curtiss; "she could have faced me!"
"You least of all."
"Tell me," whispered Curtiss. "Let me judge of that."
There was no resisting him--it was his right to know--so our junior toldthe story, as briefly as might be.
He bore it better than I had hoped. After a time, he was able to talk ofit quite calmly, to ask a question or two, to tell us something of hisown boyhood, and of the people who reared him.
"I never suspected," he concluded, "that John Curtiss and his wifeweren't really my grandparents. They told me my father and mother weredead, and they certainly treated me as a child of their own. They had noother children, and doubtless by the time I came of age to askquestions, regarded me as wholly theirs. Mrs. Curtiss died when I wassixteen, her husband three years later, just as I was ready to entercollege; and I found that he'd made me his sole heir, and that I wasworth some thirty thousand dollars. I went on to college, as they'dwished me to. And now," he added, "what shall I do? Shall I go toElizabeth and see Mrs. Lawrence----"
It was plain that he could not think of her as his mother. She had neverbeen his mother. He had never known her as such; she had played no partin his childhood. I knew that one of the questions I had asked myselfwas answered: the mere revelation of kinship had made no difference inhis feeling for Marcia Lawrence. He loved her yet; he had that battlestill to fight. And she--was it the same with her? What a hideous ironyof fate!
"Mrs. Lawrence knew nothing of the story," I pointed out. "She may knownothing of it, even yet. She doesn't suspect that her child lived. Ithink her daughter means that she should never know, if it can be keptfrom her."
"Then she shall never know from me," he said, and took a deep breath. "Isuppose that I'd better wait. Marcia can decide what's best to do. I--Idon't think I quite realise what it all means," and he passed his handbefore his eyes. "The best thing for me is to go to work. That'll giveme something else to think about."
"That's right," I said. "Thinking about this won't do any good--nothingwill."
"No," he agreed, his lips bloodless. "I begin to see that--tounderstand----"
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."