XXXVIII
WHO IS STEPHEN?
As Roger stood looking down at Beverley she opened her eyes.
"Stephen is dead!" she muttered. "Stephen--is dead."
"Who is Stephen?" Roger asked shortly.
"Oh, Roger!" she appealed to him, breaking into sobs. "My poor Stephen!I shall never see him again. All my sacrifices--in vain!"
"Who is Stephen?" Roger repeated.
She held up her arms, without answering his questions. "Roger--comfortme!" she wept.
And for all his life, no matter how many years he may live, Roger Sandswill be glad that he did not hold back from Beverley then. Withoutanother word he clasped her tightly, while she cried against his cheek.Both had forgotten that there were guests, that this was the "big night"which all the newspapers were talking about; that already dinner waslate, and people wondering; that the "ball" was to begin at ten-thirty,and that the Russian dancers who were to open it, as the great"surprise," would soon be in the house.
When Beverley had sobbed until exhaustion came, she spoke, in a tinyvoice, like that of a tired little girl: "Because Stephen is--safe, Ican tell you everything now. Will you listen, Roger, until the end,whether you can forgive me or no?"
"Yes," Roger answered. "But just this before you begin! I love you somuch, Beverley, that if there's something to forgive it's forgivenalready."
"Stephen was my brother," she said, "the one person who belonged to meafter father died. Mother I don't remember. She came of a high Russianfamily who were sent to Siberia as political prisoners. She was onlysixteen, and father saved her by making her his wife. I was named 'Olga'after her. But for that dreadful journey from Albuquerque I had to havesome name that wouldn't give me away when my ticket was bought. Stephenand I were called Bevan, because father used that name for his businessin Russia, but his own name was Beverley. For travelling that day I was'Miss B. White.' Once I'd told you I was Beverley, I had always to beBeverley for you.
"Stephen--or Stephan, his Russian name--and I, were born in Russia,where father superintended an immense tract of oil wells for Mr. Heron.When my father was killed in an explosion (I was fourteen and Stephentwelve) Mr. Heron felt it his duty to look after our future. He had justmarried at that time. You must know Mrs. Heron well enough to understandthat she wouldn't like to have two half-grown-up children thrust uponher. Why, she used to be jealous even of her husband's first wife, anIrish girl, who died years and years ago, in Ireland! It seems Mr. Heronhadn't told her about his old love story. She came across a picture ofhim taken with the girl, and some letters from people Mr. Heron hademployed to search for his wife, whom he had quarrelled with and left. Iwas staying at their house when Dolores discovered the photograph andletters. She rushed into the room where I was with Mr. Heron. He had toseize her hands to keep her from tearing the picture in pieces; and heheld them while he told her his sad story. He'd been visiting Ireland,it seemed, years before, and met a girl, very poor but very lovely, andmarried her when they'd known each other a few weeks. It seemed the girlhad been engaged to someone else; and that someone took a cruel revengeon Heron. By a plot which he confessed afterward when it was too late,he made it appear that the girl had been his mistress. The evidence wasso strong Heron could hardly help believing, so he came back to Americaand tried to forget. Years after the other man, dying of typhoid,confessed to a priest that he had lied, and forged letters. The priestwrote to Heron. But the poor, deserted girl was dead, and all that Heroncould learn when he dashed back to Ireland to find her was that a babygirl had been born a few months after he left his wife. He tried foryears to trace the child, but could not. And it was only after he'dgiven up all hope that he married Dolores Moreno. I think Mr. Heron felttender over us children because of his lost little one. After leaving usin Russia at school for a while, and a year in England, to learn thelanguage better than we knew it, another year in France and another inItaly (in families whom he paid to educate and take care of us) he musthave had a longing to see what we were like. He and Dolores, his wife,came abroad, and brought us back to America with them, much againstDolores' will, I know. I was nearly eighteen, and I realized the firstminute we met that Dolores was going to hate me. We went straight to ahouse near Albuquerque, which belongs to Mrs. Heron. Her brother Louisalways lived there. He was an invalid, you know; about a year youngerthan Dolores; something wrong with his heart, and almost ahunchback--but oh, what a handsome face! When he took a violent fancy tome her one thought was to get me out of his way. Louis had money of hisown. He was rich, and I suppose Dolores was afraid I might try to marryhim, as I hadn't a penny. It was bad enough for her that Mr. Heronshould have a tenderness for me, because of his lost child; but thatLouis should love me was more than she could stand. I was sent to aboarding-school, and when I was twenty I began to teach. Dolores didn'tlike Stephen, either. She grudged every penny her husband spent for us.
"Mr. Heron used his influence, and got Stephen work in Los Angeles as areporter on a newspaper, when he was only eighteen. He was tall andhandsome, and could pass for two years older at least. I was veryunhappy at this time, for I'd begun to worry about Stephen. I was surehe was keeping some secret from me. But I found out nothing till thecrash came. Oh, Roger, it was horrible. He'd fallen under the influenceof those anarchists--those dynamiters, who had been terrorizing allAmerica for years. They'd persuaded him that they were noble reformers.Poor Stephen was a useful tool. He never did any of the dynamiting withhis own hands, but he used to make bombs, and carry them from place toplace, and take letters it wasn't thought safe to send through the post.It was the blowing-up of the _Times_ buildings in Los Angeles and allthose innocent men being killed that sickened him, he confessedafterward, when at last he opened his heart to me. But he was too deepin to free himself. It's now two years ago that the break happened, andall our life collapsed--Stephen's and mine.
"Some of the old lot he'd worked with were left--men who had managed tokeep clear and never be suspected when William Burns, the detective, wasfighting the Macnamaras and their gang. Only one or two who'd been undersuspicion wriggled out from Burns' clutches. A man named Carl Schmelzerwas the cleverest. He went abroad, and was supposed to die in Germany.But he didn't die. By that time they were engaged in new enterprises, asthe old ones were too risky; but they always pretended to be working forLabour against Capital. John Heron was their target two years ago. Thewar cry was that he was the master, a tyrant, a plutocrat, ruthlesslycrushing the weak. The Comrades knew our history--Stephen's andmine--and they tried to inflame Stephen against Mr. Heron because he'dfailed to do for us what our father's services and death merited. Butthey made a big mistake when they ordered my brother to dynamite arailway bridge, just as a train with Heron's private car was due to passover it. He refused, and threatened to warn Heron unless they abandonedall their schemes against him. That gave the gang a fearful fright. Theythought their one chance of safety was to suppress Stephen. A friend ofhis who lived at Home Colony warned him that there was a plot to killhim. He came straight to me and told me the whole story. Neither of ushad much hope. We thought the Comrades were sure to get him in the end.Then a wonderful thing happened. The train Stephen took, after his visitto me, was wrecked. Everybody in the car with Stephen was killed excepthimself. An idea came to Stephen. He put a silver cigarette-case withhis name on it into the pocket of a man burnt past recognition--a man ofabout his own size. Then he crept away and hid for many days. When hehoped it might be fairly safe, he wrote to me, knowing I mourned for himas dead. He asked if I'd risk going with him to Russia to begin a newlife there under another name. Of course I said 'Yes.'
"I left the school, and some jewellery I had kept us going for a whiletill there was a ship we could take for Japan, and so get back toRussia. We'd have to sail from San Francisco, so presently we went toOakland, travelling at night by local trains. We hoped in that way weshould not be seen by any one we knew.
"Whether someone did see us or not, I can't tell. Anyhow, from the dayStephen
left me to buy our cabins on the ship I've never seen him again.He was kidnapped by the gang; and then began my martyrdom. They gave mea week of suspense. Then I got a letter. It told me that Stephen hadbeen caught and would be punished by death for his treachery unless I'dagree to buy his life. I was warned that if I went to the police, itwould be known to them, and Stephen instantly killed. If I consented tobargain I must put a 'personal' in a San Francisco paper, saying'Steve's sister says yes'; in that case an appointment would be madewith a man who would tell me what to do to save Stephen.
"Of course, I obeyed. Next day the same paper told 'Steve's Sister'where to go for instructions, and at what time. I think the man who metme must have been Schmelzer himself, just back from Europe. He had theauthoritative manner Stephen had spoken of, and a great deal of gesture.He didn't give himself any name then, but afterward I knew him asCheffinsky. To save my brother I had only to get a bundle of paperswhich were in the possession of John Heron. They were at Albuquerque inMrs. Heron's house. Heron kept them there because he believed no onewould suspect; but a spy the 'Comrades' had hired to act as a gardenerthere overheard a conversation, and knew the hiding-place. Unfortunatelyhe couldn't put his hand on the papers without killing a man to get atthem. For me, it would be simple, because Louis Moreno was in love withme. Louis had charge of the papers, and would let me see them if Itreated him the right way. How Cheffinsky found out about Louis and me Inever heard; perhaps from Stephen. I was given a day to think the matterover. Then there was to be another meeting in the same place. When Iwent to the rendezvous for the second time--it was in a park--I hadn'tmade up my mind. But, oh, Roger, the wretch showed me a snapshot ofStephen in a room, with a rope round his neck, standing on tiptoe. Therope was fastened to a ring in the ceiling, where a chandelier had been.If Stephen had dropped from fatigue he would have choked to death. 'Sixhours a day of this medicine,' Cheffinsky said, 'till you've handed usthe papers we want.'
"I promised to go to Albuquerque and get them. What the papers were Iwasn't told. Afterward I heard more about them--from Louis himself. Theday of the second meeting in the park I was given directions what to do,but they were changed in a hurry. The Comrades got warning to 'clearout' and go East as quick as they could. A telegram reached me only afew hours before I was to start for Albuquerque. It said, 'Delayjourney. Writing,' and a letter came the same night to the quiet littleboarding-house where I stayed. My brother had been taken East, where Ishould meet him when I handed over the papers. I was told what train totake to Albuquerque, and what train to leave in: the Santa Fe Limited. Iwas to find reservations on board for 'Miss B. White.' At Chicago I wasto get out of the train and find a man waiting for me. You know allabout that, and what happened. There was money in the letter ofinstructions, enough to see me through to Chicago, otherwise I couldn'thave started. What I had was almost all gone. Oh, I can hardly bear tothink of that day, and what I went through--before I met _you_."
"Don't think of it--don't go on if you'd rather not," Roger begged.
But Beverley wished to go on.
"There was one thing the Comrades hadn't calculated upon," she said,"and that was that the Herons would be at Albuquerque. When the plan wasmade the Herons were at Los Angeles, and expecting to stay there. Youmust have been with them--just after the great case was decided in JohnHeron's favour--thanks to you! But Louis had been seized with one of hisheart attacks--he had angina pectoris--and had wired for his sister.Dolores didn't wish to travel without her husband, so both decided togo. As for Justin O'Reilly, it was at Albuquerque I first saw him. Itcame out that he was taking a short holiday in California, and I heardtalk about his visiting some place where he and his father had lived. Ihad the impression of his being a California man. Mr. Heron had helpedO'Reilly to get into Congress. They weren't intimate, though I believethey're distantly related, but Mr. Heron wanted to see him before hewent East, and wired for O'Reilly to meet them at Albuquerque. When Iarrived, expecting to find only Louis in the house, they were all there.
"It was a shock and a blow to me to see the Herons. I'd meant to lie,and tell Louis I'd come to him because I'd changed my mind, and likedhim better than I thought. But to account for my sudden appearance,uninvited, to Dolores, who hated me, was another matter.
"She and her husband supposed I was living quietly at school, mourningfor my dead brother. I had to make up a story quickly. I said that I'dlost my position, and hoped they would put me up at Albuquerque until Icould get another. They couldn't turn me out that night. And Louis wasfairly well again by that time. He was very glad to see me. I made themost of his welcome--for Stephen's sake. You see, I _had_ to succeed! Iwrote a note, and slipped it into Louis' hand. In it I hinted that I hadsomething very particular to say to him. He must go to his own rooms assoon as he could--he had a whole suite to himself which he could shutoff from the rest of the house. It was on the ground floor. I said Iwould go to him there.
"Now comes the most terrible part of my story. Roger, you may hate mewhen you've heard the rest! I went to Louis' room. He let me in. I toldhim that I had changed my mind. I would marry him if he wanted me to,but only on one condition. I said I'd heard from friends of Stephen'sthat Mr. Heron was keeping documents which concerned our dead father;that they were with other private papers, in the Albuquerque house, andin Louis' charge. If he would give the whole bundle to me to look over,and choose what I wished to take away, I'd be his wife whenever hewanted me.
"He tried to seize me in his arms, but I threatened to go away at onceunless he kept quiet, and did as I told him. There was a packet ofpapers, he admitted, but he vowed to me that they were only businesspapers. They were compromising to John Heron, and would do him immenseharm--worse than ever, now that he'd just come successfully through thecourts--if they passed into enemy hands. I insisted that there must besomething about my father. There could be no mistake, and unless Louiswould let me look, I'd never marry him. He still objected, arguing thatall the things were in one envelope, sealed with three seals, which mustnot be broken, or his sister and her husband would never forgive him.
"He went to his desk--we were in his sitting-room--and showed me asecret drawer between two other drawers. He took out an envelope--you'veseen it. 'I'll try to cut off the seals with a sharp knife,' he said,'and I can stick them on again. While he spoke, he began looking for theknife he wanted, and I snatched at the envelope. But his fingers closeddown on it. He laughed in my face. 'So that's your game!' he said. 'I'mnot so soft as you thought!' But I struggled with him. I was strong; hewas an invalid. He'd just been ill. When he realized that I was morethan his match, his face looked like a devil's. I shall never forget it.'You'll pay for this!' he screamed at the top of his voice--an awfulscream--'Help! murder!'
"Overhead was what they called the living room. I knew he would beheard; people would come. I wrenched the envelope from him, and ran forthe window. I dared not go to the door; I should meet someone and becaught. Louis grabbed my dress, shouting 'murder!' Then I seemed to gomad. I gave him a push, and he fell over a chair, and lay quite still. Irushed to the door, locked it, and took the key, to make a few minutes'delay. Then I jumped out of the window (I told you Louis' rooms were onthe ground floor) and ran very fast. I won't stop now to tell you theadventures I had before I managed to dash into the Albuquerque railwaystation, at the last minute, after the train was in. Once in the trainwhen I didn't see Louis, or Mr. Heron's secretary, or any one I expectedto follow me, I began to hope that some other trail had been followed.It would have seemed more likely that I'd go back west, where I hadfriends, than travel east where I was a stranger. You promised to standby me. Then you met Justin O'Reilly. I didn't dream Louis was dead. Itwas a week later, when you and I were married, that I saw in a newspaperabout the beautiful Mrs. John Heron losing her brother suddenly, fromheart disease. A date was mentioned: the night I took the envelope. Oh,Roger, I felt that I was guilty of his death. Even to save Stephen Icould not have killed him. Do you think me a murderess? If you do, justlet me go f
rom your arms, and I shall understand. You needn't tell me inwords."
Roger held her closer. "No, my darling," he said, "you're not amurderess. You didn't kill Louis Moreno. He couldn't have lived manyweeks. The doctor had warned John Heron. I love you more than ever forwhat you've gone through. It's you who should hate me for my crueltyand--and my beastly suspicion. But there were some things that tried merather hard. Why didn't you tell me this story long ago? Surely youcould have trusted me to keep your secret?"
"Yes, I could have trusted you, even though it was Stephen's secret morethan mine. But I had taken a double oath not to tell! First, I'dpromised Stephen himself when he came back from the dead, never to giveany hint of the truth. Later, when he was kidnapped, I was obliged toswear another oath, on the memory of our dead parents, and my love formy brother, that I wouldn't betray Cheffinsky and his comrades. Now it'sdifferent. They have betrayed me. Stephen is dead. Such a girl as CloRiley wouldn't have sent this message unless she knew for certain. Hemust have died just before that dreadful Sunday when all ourunhappiness--yours and mine--began, Roger. To keep their hold over me,those men would have done all they could to save him till they had thepapers they wanted to use, and ruin John Heron. Soon after you broughtme to New York they found out about our marriage, and put 'personals' inthe newspapers headed like those others in California: 'Steve's Sister.'They knew, of course, that their man, who should have met me in Chicago,had been prevented from coming--imprisoned on a charge which they calleda 'frame-up' but I believe he must have picked someone's pocket and beenarrested in the railway station. They still had power over me, althoughI was your wife, but I had power over them, too, because I'd got thepapers they wanted. I answered the messages, and refused to give up whatI had unless my brother fetched it. I hoped that would bring him. But heonly wrote--a short letter. He said that he was safe for the time being,and was treated kindly. He would come when he could. Meanwhile, I 'mustkeep the papers and the secret'--and wait. I felt relieved after that! Idared to let myself be happy. Then, that Sunday, when Clo and I went outin the motor, a man was waiting for me in the street. He made meunderstand that he came from Stephen. His name was Peterson. He said theComrades had changed their minds. They wouldn't let Stephen come to me.I must send the papers that night or my brother would die. When I askedthe reason for the change, Peterson pretended not to know. Now, Iunderstand at last. Stephen was dead already. Cheffinsky and the othershad at last lost their hold over me and dared not wait longer. I sentthe envelope to Peterson by Clo, to the Westmorland Hotel. Yes, the manwho was murdered! That has been another horror for me. It was when I wastaking the envelope to Clo, in the car, that I broke the rope of pearls,and dared not even stop to pick them up! I hoped that Stephen wassaved--thanks to Clo--but, Roger, it was not the same envelope you tookcare of for me in the train. It had been changed. Inside, when Petersonopened it before Clo, he found only blank paper--writing paper of theSanta Fe Limited train. Clo puzzled the mystery out, and explained whatmight have happened when you and I left the train in Chicago--what musthave happened. A clever trick of Justin O'Reilly's, working for theHerons."
"Justin O'Reilly! Damn him!" Roger broke out; but Beverley covered hislips with her hand.
"No. He wasn't to blame. He must have thought me a monster ofingratitude and treachery to the Herons. The moment they saw the secretdrawer open they would all have guessed that I'd stolen the sealedenvelope. It was the only thing kept there. If John Heron told O'Reillywhat the contents were, he must have supposed I meant to make money byblackmailing. The reason the Herons were silent and left me alone, wasthat O'Reilly had managed to have you robbed of the envelope, atChicago, where it was changed for another--another just like it, givenhim by Dolores, with her seal and gold wax. So they were safe. O'Reillykept the right envelope, and it was safer with him than at Albuquerque.But they could never be sure whether you were in the affair with me ornot. So, I have lost you the Herons' friendship."
"As if I cared!"
"And Justin O'Reilly has doubted you, and detested me. But he has beensplendid to Clo, who went to his hotel and stole the real envelope outof his private safe and brought it here----"
"So that was it!" said Roger. "And in your boudoir I found the envelopeaddressed to him at his bank, and sent it back to the Dietz that night."
"Roger! It was you?"
"Yes. You are not the only one with a confession to make. There are manythings I----"
"I don't want a confession from you!" she broke in. "Whatever you didwas right. Even before you told me, I felt you knew about the pearlsbeing gone----"
"Though I knew, I ought to have trusted you. I ought to have trusted youwhen I heard you telephone O'Reilly----"
"So you did hear! I was sure of it. I telephoned about Clo. He washelping her, and so, indirectly, helping me, though I'd seen him onlywhen he brought her here that Sunday night, after she'd been to hishotel. Oh, Roger, you don't know what that child has done for me! Notonly did she get back the envelope, and now the pearls--which Petersonstole--but she has gone through an ordeal terrible enough to kill mostwomen, or drive them mad--that delicate girl! She may be in dangerstill--for she dropped the pearls in a bag out of a window in a shabbyboarding-house where she has been watching a thief. Miss Blackburne hasjust told me. My one comfort is that a man, answering Justin O'Reilly'sdescription, got out of a motor car in front of the house, as MissBlackburne came away. Clo tricked O'Reilly, and stole from him, andyet--I think she bewitched him. I think he'd risk his life to keep herfrom harm. I pray that he may bring her here, safe and sound."
"He's not likely to come to my house," Roger said. "I've just caused himthe greatest disappointment of his life. I wanted to hurt him--and Ifound a way. By this time he must know what I've done. There's an oldmansion in Gramercy Square built by O'Reilly's great-great-grandfather.Years ago there was a forced sale; and ever since Justin O'Reilly was aboy he has wanted to buy the house back. I have bought it. But I wish toheaven he would fall in love with this Clo of yours and marry her. I'dgive them the deed of sale as a wedding present!"
Roger had sprung up, released by Beverley, and almost shouted the wordsof his inspiration. He had forgotten everything and everybody in theworld except his wife, the girl who had helped her, and his own lateenemy, whom he would now gladly welcome as his dearest friend. A knockbrought him back to realities with a start; yet he felt half dazed as heopened the door, to face Leontine.
"The butler begged of me to come," said the Frenchwoman. "Is it the wishof Monsieur and Madame that dinner be still longer delayed?"
Roger turned and looked at Beverley, his hand on the door. "What shallwe say?" he asked. "Shall I go down without you? Shall I explain thatyou've a headache----"
"No," Beverley answered. She stood up, tall and very beautiful, thoughdeadly pale. "I have no headache. I am quite well. Leontine, tellJohnson dinner may be served."