CHAPTER XVIII
JACK TELLS THE STORY
In the moment of silence which followed that sentence you could hear thefire snap and the tick of the clock on the mantel. I saw the men's facesheld in expressions of amazement so intense they looked likecaricatures. I saw Mrs. Whitehall try to say something, then with arustle and a broken cry crumple up in a chair, her face hidden,stuttering, choked sounds coming from behind her hands.
That broke the tension. Like a piece of machinery momentarily out ofgear, the group adjusted itself and snapped back into action. All butme--I stood as I had been standing when Mrs. Whitehall spoke thosewords. My outward vision saw their moving figures, their backs as theycrowded round her, a hand that held a glass to her lips, her face benttoward the glass, ashen and haggard. I saw but realized nothing. For amoment I was on another plane of existence, seemed to be shot up intoit. I don't tell it right--a fellow who doesn't know how to write can'texplain a feeling like that. You've got to fill it in out of yourimagination. A man who's been in hell gets suddenly out--that's the bestway I can describe it.
I didn't get back to my moorings, come down from the clouds to the solidground, till the scene by the table was over. Mrs. Whitehall was sittingup, a little color in her cheeks, mistress of herself again. They'devidently said something to lull her fears about Carol for thedistraction of her mood was gone. It wasn't till I saw the narrowedinterest of George's eyes, the hungry expectation of O'Mally's watchingface, that I remembered they were still on the scent of a murder inwhich Barker's daughter was as much involved as Barker's fiancee. _That_brought _me_ back to the moment and its meaning like an electric shock.
I made a stride forward, to get closer, to hear them, for they were atthe table again, waiting on the words of Mrs. Whitehall. The firstsentence that struck my ear aptly matched her pitiful appearance:
"Gentlemen, I'm broken. I've been through too much."
The chief answered very gently:
"Having said what you have, would it not be wisdom to tell useverything? We pledge ourselves to secrecy."
She nodded, a gesture of weary acquiescence.
"Oh, yes. I don't mind telling--it _was_ to be told; but," she droppedher eyes to her hands clasped in her lap. In that position her likenessto Carol, as she had sat there a few weeks before, was singularlystriking. "I'll have to go back a good many years, before my child wasborn, before the world had heard of Johnston Barker."
"Wherever you want, Mrs. Whitehall," the chief murmured. "We're entirelyat your service."
She drew a deep breath and without raising her eyes said:
"I was married to Johnston Barker twenty-eight years ago in Idaho. Hewas a miner then and I was a school teacher, nineteen years old, anorphan with no near relations. I was not strong and had gone to the FarWest for my health. Under the unaccustomed work I broke down, developinga weakness of the lungs, and casual friends, the parents of a pupil,took me with them to a distant mining camp for the drier air. There Imet Johnston and we became engaged.
"In those days in such remote places there were no churches or clergymenand contract marriages were recognized. I did not believe in them, wouldnot at first consent to such a ceremony, but a great strike taking placein a distant camp, he prevailed upon me to marry him by contract, thefriends with whom I was living acting as witnesses.
"The place to which he took me was wild and inaccessible, connecting bytrails with other camps and by a long stage journey with a distantrailway station. We lived there for a month--happy as I have never beensince. Then a woman, a snake in the garden, finding out how I hadmarried hinted to me that such contracts were illegal. I don't know whyshe did it--I've often wondered--but there _are_ people in the world whotake a pleasure in spoiling the joy of others.
"I didn't tell Johnston but resolved when an opportunity came to standup with him before an ordained minister. It came sooner than I hoped.Not six weeks after we were man and wife a 'missioner' made a tourthrough the mining camps of that part of the state. He would not come toours--we were too small and distant--so I begged my husband to go tohim, tell him our case and bring him back. It would have been better forus both to have gone, but I was sick--too young and ignorant to know thecause of my illness--and Johnston, who seemed willing to do anything Iwanted, agreed.
"We calculated that the trip--on horseback, over half-cut mountaintrails--would take three or four days there and back. At the end of thefifth day he had not returned and I was in a fever of anxiety. Thenagain that woman came to me with her poisoned words: I was not a legalwife; could he, knowing this, have taken the opportunity to desert me?God pity her for the deadly harm she did. Sick, alone, inexperienced,eaten into by horrible doubts, I waited till two weeks had passed. ThenI was sure that he had done as she said--left me.
"I won't go over that--the past is past. I took what money I had andmade my way to the railway. From there by slow stages, for by this timeI was ill in mind and body, I got as far as St. Louis, where, my moneygone, unable to work, I wrote to an uncle of my mother's, a doctor, whomI had never seen but of whom she had often spoken to me.
"Men like him make us realize there is a God to inspire, a Heaven toreward. He came at once, took me to his home in Indiana, and nursed meback to health. He was a father to me, more than a father to the child Ihad. No one knew me there--no one but he ever heard my story. I took anew name, from a distant branch of his family, and passed as a widow.When my little girl was old enough to understand I told her her fatherhad died before she was born.
"We lived there for twenty-four years. Before the end of that time thename of Johnston Barker rose into prominence. My uncle hated it--wouldnot allow it mentioned in his presence. When he died three years ago, heleft us all he had--fifty thousand dollars, a great fortune to us. ThenCarol, who had chafed at the narrow life of a small town, persuaded meto come to New York. I had no fear of meeting Barker, our paths wouldnever cross, and to please her was my life.
"She is not like me, fearful and timid, but full of daring and ambition.When the farm we bought in New Jersey suddenly increased in value andthe land scheme was suggested, she wanted to try it. At first it wasn'tpossible as we hadn't enough money. It was not until she met Mr. Harlandat a friend's house in Azalea, that the plan became feasible for he wastaken with the idea at once. After visiting the farm a few times, andtalking it over with her, he offered to come in as a silent partner,putting up the capital.
"The move to town alarmed me. There, in business, she might run acrossthe man who was her father--and this is exactly what happened. You'veseen my daughter--you know what she is. Looking at me now you may notrealize that she is extraordinarily like what I was when Johnston Barkermarried me.
"He saw her first in the elevator at the Black Eagle Building. Menalways noticed her--she was used to it--but that night she told melaughing of the old man who had stared at her in the elevator, staredand stared and couldn't take his eyes off. My heart warned me, and whenI heard her description I knew who he was and why he stared.
"After that there was no peace for me. I had a haunting terror that hewould find out who she was and might try to claim her. This increasedwhen she told me of his visit to her office to buy the lot--an excuse Iunderstood--and his questions about her former home. Then I tried toquiet myself with the assurances that he could not possibly guess--hehad never heard the name of Whitehall in connection with me, he hadnever known a child was expected.
"But a night came when I was put with my back against the wall. Shereturned from work, gay and excited, saying Mr. Barker had been in theoffice that afternoon and asked her if he might call and meet hermother. The terrible agitation that threw me into betrayed me. Icouldn't evade her eyes or her questions, and I told her. She washorrified, stunned. I can't tell you what she said--I can only make youunderstand her feelings by saying she loved me as few daughters lovetheir mothers.
"After that--ah, it was horrible! She tried to cancel the sale, buthe--of course, he was angry and puzzled by the change i
n her, could makenothing out of it, and finally insisted on knowing what had happened.There was no escape for her and taking him into the private office theyhad an interview in which he forced the truth from her.
"Johnston Barker's life has been full of great things, triumphs andconquests. But I think that hour in the Azalea Woods Estates office musthave been the crowning one of his career. To hear that Carol, mywonderful Carol, was his child! He had had no suspicion of it untilthen. He told her he had been interested by her strange likeness to me,had thought she might be some distant connection, who could give himnews of his lost wife.
"For--here is the bitter part of it--he _had_ come back. In that longmountain journey an accident, a fall from his horse, had injured him. Hehad been found unconscious by a party of miners who had taken him totheir camp and cared for him. For two weeks he lay at death's door, noone knowing who he was, or understanding the wanderings of his delirium.When he returned I was gone--lost like a raindrop in the ocean. He wastoo poor to hire the aid that might have found me then. He went back tohis work, moved to other camps, struggled and thrived. In time the storyof his marriage was forgotten. Those who remembered it set it down as anillegal connection, a familiar incident in the miner's roving life.
"Years later, when he grew rich he hunted for me, but it was too late.Then he turned his whole attention to business, flung himself into it.The making of money filled his life, became his life till he saw thegirl in the elevator, who so strikingly resembled the woman he had lovedin his youth.
"This was what he told Carol and this she believed. She was convinced ofthe truth of every word and tried to convince me. But I was full ofsuspicions. Having found himself the father of such a girl might he notgo to any lengths to gain her love and confidence? His life was empty,he was lonely, Carol would have been the consolation and pride of hisold age. Gentlemen--" she looked at the listening faces--"can you blameme? A youth blasted, years of brooding bitterness--might not that make awoman incredulous and slow to trust again?
"When she saw the way I took it she went about the business of provingit. Through a lawyer she learned that contract marriages at that time inthat state were valid. I _had_ been Johnston Barker's wife and she waslegitimate. But I hung back. Many things moved me. He wanted toacknowledge us, take us to live with him and I shrank from all thatpublicity and clamor. Also--I am telling everything--I think I wasjealous of him, fearful that he might take from me some of the lovewhich had made my life possible.
"I knew she saw him often, and that she heard from him by letter. Allthrough the end of December and the early part of January she urged andpleaded with me. And finally I gave in--I had to, I couldn't standbetween her and what he could give her--and the day came when Iconsented to see him. That day was the fifteenth of January."
George cleared his throat and O'Mally stirred uneasily in his chair. Theold man rumbled an encouraging "fifteenth of January," and she went on:
"She left in the morning greatly excited, telling me she would phone himthat she had good news and would bring him home with her that evening.She was radiant with joy and hope when I kissed her good-bye. When shereturned that night--long after her usual time--all that hope and joywere dashed to the ground.
"As you know, she did see him that afternoon and told him of my consent.He appeared overjoyed and said he would come, but first must go to Mr.Harland's offices on the floor above to talk over a matter of greatimportance. This, he said, would probably occupy half to three-quartersof an hour, after which he would return to her. As they wished to avoidall possibility of gossip through her clerks or the people in thebuilding, they decided not to meet in her offices, but in the churchwhich is next door. From there they would take a cab and come to me.
"The appointment was for a quarter-past six. Carol was ahead of time andwaited for him over an hour, then came home, shattered, broken, almostunable to speak--for, as you know, he never came."
She paused, her face tragic with the memory of that last, unexpectedblow. No one spoke, and looking round at them, she threw out her handswith a gesture of pleading appeal:
"What could I think? Was it unnatural for me to disbelieve him again?Hasn't all that's come out shown he was what I'd already foundhim--false to his word and his trust?"
"Does your daughter think that, too?" asked the chief.
"No. She believes in him, even now, with him in hiding and branded as atraitor. But that's Carol--always ready to trust where her heart is. Shesays it's all right, that he'll come back and clear himself, but I cansee how she's suffering, how she's struggling to keep her hopes alive."
I burst out--wild horses couldn't have kept me quiet any longer.Reaching a long arm across the table, without any consciousness that Iwas doing it, I laid my hand on Mrs. Whitehall's:
"How did she get out of the building that night?"
She looked surprised, and strangely enough embarrassed.
"Why--why--" she stammered, and then suddenly, "you seem to know so muchhere--do you know anything about Mr. Harland and Carol?"
"Something," said the chief guardedly.
"Everything," I shot out, not caring for her, or him, or the case, oranything but the answer to my question.
"Then I don't mind telling you, though Carol wouldn't like it." Sheglanced tentatively at me. "Did you know he was in love with her?"
"All about it. Yes. Go on--"
"She went down by the stairs, all those flights, to avoid him. I guessedthe way he felt about her. I knew it soon after the business was startedand told her but she only laughed at me. That afternoon, when he came toher office, she saw I was right. Not that he said anything definite, butby his manner, the questions he asked her. He was wrought up anddesperate, I suppose, and let her see that he was jealous of Mr. Barker,demanding the truth, whether she loved him, whether she intendedmarrying him. She was angry, but seeing that he had lost control ofhimself, told him that her feeling for Mr. Barker was that of a daughterto a father and never would be anything else. That seemed to quiet himand he went away.
"When she was leaving her offices she heard foot-steps on the floorabove and looking up saw him through the balustrade walking to the stairhead. She at once thought he was coming to see her and not wanting anymore conversation with him, stole out and down the hall to the sidecorridor, where the service stairs are. Her intention was to pick up theelevator on the floor below, but on second thoughts she gave this up andwalked the whole way. Finding her gone he would probably take theelevator himself and they might meet in the car or the entrance hall. Ofcourse we know now she was all wrong. It was not to see her he wascoming down, it was to make up his mind to die."
My actions must have surprised them. For without a word to Mrs.Whitehall I jumped up and left the room--I couldn't trust myself tospeak, I had to be alone. In my own office I shut the door and stoodlooking with eyes that saw nothing out of the window, over the roofs towhere the waters of the bay glittered in the sun. Have you ever felt arelief so great it made you shaky? Probably not--but wait till you're inthe position I was. The room rocked, the distance was a golden blue as Iwhispered with lips that were stiff and dry:
"Thank God! Oh, thank God! Oh, thank God!"
I don't know how long a time passed--maybe an hour, maybe fiveminutes--when the door opened and George's head was thrust in:
"What are you doing shut in here? Get a move on--we want you. Thetelephone returns have come."
I followed him back. Mrs. Whitehall was not there--the chief and O'Mallyhad their heads together over a slip of paper.
"Here you, Jack," said the old man turning sharply on me. "You've got togo out tonight with O'Mally. They're in Quebec."
He handed me the slip of paper. On it was one memorandum. The nightbefore at 12.05 New York, Lenox 1360 had called up Quebec, St. Foy 584.