That Affair at Elizabeth Part 40

"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.

"G.o.dfrey."

CHAPTER XXVII

The Curtain Lifts

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 G.o.dfrey, 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! G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 hoa.r.s.ely. "G.o.d 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--"