Читать книгу Behind Closed Doors - Anna Katharine Green - Страница 6

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They were in the street. Dr. Cameron whom this last blow had seemingly dazed, stood on the hotel steps looking in a vague way about him, like one made suddenly homeless; while the detective with his hand on his arm endeavored to make him understand the necessity of haste.

“Haste? Why should I hasten?” asked he at last, struck by the word. “I have no engagements, they will scarcely miss the bridegroom if the bride is absent.”

“Possibly not, but that absence must be accounted for. That is my duty, perhaps, but you have one, too, I think, sir.”

“Here? possibly.”

“No, I don’t think you can do anything here. But you might try. The lady is alone, and—”

“I cannot,” interrupted the other, with a look of irrepressible repugnance. “Neither my love nor my complaisance is sufficient for such a humiliation.”And he started away towards the carriage.

Mr. Gryce followed him, saw him enter, and stepped into the vehicle himself.

“To the nearest elevated station,” he shouted to the driver “And quick! We have lost ten minutes by this unexpected discovery,” he explained, in apologetic tones to the doctor, “and must make them up at our own inconvenience.”

The doctor did not reply; apathy had succeeded disgust.

Mr. Gryce went on talking.

“I am in no position to suggest your duty to you, sir, but I will just lay before you one or two conclusions that have come to me in the last five minutes. Will you listen?”

“I have nothing else to do,” dryly remarked the physician.

“Very well, then. Some time ago Miss Gretorex engaged herself to you. She seemed happy; then some trouble came into her life, we do not know what, but we can safely connect it with this Molesworth, and she wished to break her engagement. But her mother to whom she mentioned her desire, thought it too late for her to do so; and driven by some unknown necessity of the situation, she quitted her home three days before her contemplated marriage, leaving behind her, you must remember, a distinct promise to return in time to fulfil her part in the contract. The wedding-day arrives and she delays her return unaccountably; but the wedding-day is not over, and when I saw her here at two o’clock there were yet six hours before her. Did she intend at that time to keep her word? We do not know; but her face was cheerful, even expectant; the face indeed of a woman who is looking forward to immediate marriage with a man worthy of her and whom she not only loves but respects. But a visitor comes. She has a long talk with him, and the result is a distinct change in her bearing and expression, which seems to argue a distinct change in her plans. We still hear that she is going to be married, but the name of her bridegroom is a new one and the place of her bridal the very room which at present is only a witness of her despair. What is the conclusion? There may be many, but the one that has suggested itself to me is this: That in her secret heart Miss Gretorex loves the man she has seemingly fled from, and that in this new and unexpected union she is making a sacrifice to some fancied duty. If this is so—”

“She is lost to me as much as if she gloried in her duplicity,” broke in the doctor coldly.

The detective slowly shook his head. “You do not love her,” his gesture seemed to say.

But his words betrayed no such conviction.

“She is courting a wretched fate,” he declared. “A marriage perpetrated in this manner and under circumstances so near to scandalous, will not only destroy her in her own esteem, but sever all connection with her kindred and the friends who have hitherto made up her world. She is lost if it is allowed to take place. Her mother must stop it since you do not feel yourself equal to the task. And to the mother we hasten.”

Dr. Cameron’s look of gloom did not lighten. “You are right,” he assented. “Let Mrs. Gretorex be told of her daughter’s position as soon as possible. But why need I go with you?”

“To save your good name intact. You are expected to be on hand to marry Miss Gretorex at eight o’clock. If she is too ill to marry you, society will confine itself to commiserating your disappointment. But if you are not there—”

He stopped, for the doctor’s whole manner had changed.

“Shall we not go by the elevated road?” asked Mr. Gryce in his quiet way.

“Certainly, certainly,” came from the doctor in ringing tones strangely in contrast to his late apathetic ones; “anything to get there in time. Who knows but my honor may at least be saved.” And the voice which gave the orders to the coachman now was his, and it was his foot that first touched the pavement and his form that led the way up the stairs to the elevated road.

They were fortunate in catching a train immediately, and once upon it, both breathed easier. Twenty-five minutes certainly would suffice to carry them to One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street, fifteen minutes more take them across town, and fifteen minutes additional see them at the house. Fifty-five minutes and they had an hour and forty minutes. That is, an hour and forty minutes before eight o’clock. But Mrs. Gretorex had to be informed of her daughter’s critical position and got down to the hotel by nine. Could it be done? The calm face of the detective asserted his confidence that it could.

But there are accidents that upset all our calculations. Just as they were congratulating themselves upon the good time they were making, the cars gave a sudden jerk and came to a standstill. Instantly all the ladies in the car rose, and next moment the gentlemen, for they had just left a station and were yet some distance from another.

“A break-down!” exclaimed the doctor.

“In the middle of the block!” added his companion.

Yet they did not believe their own words, and it was some minutes before they fully realized that the engine had really given out, and that they were virtually prisoners, and liable to stay where they were for half an hour at least. When they did, and had calculated the possibilities of escape and found none (for like all such accidents it had taken place in the highest portion of the road), they turned from each other with an irrepressible expression of dismay. For even if they succeeded in reaching the house by eight o’clock, the half-hour now being lost made the expectation of getting Mrs. Gretorex down to the hotel in time to stay her daughter’s marriage, no longer within the possibilities. Her fate was then decided, and by a power higher than their own. The thought affected the doctor deeply, for he knew, or thought he knew, enough of Dr. Molesworth, to foresee anything but happiness for her in an alliance with him. Even if he were a man of her world, which he was not, he had characteristics of disposition that would try the meekest woman; and she was a decidedly haughty one, with memories behind her that would make a life of constant concession intolerable.

In the blank of the dull window out of which he looked, he perceived her image, tied with all her accomplishments and lady-like proclivities, to this brusque, stern, self-contained man, whose ambition was as hard as his poverty, and whose will was allied to something narrow and constrained, rather than to what was broad and helpful. The result was pity. Not the pity that is akin to love, for love he could not have now or ever again for this woman. The shock she had given his pride had killed its very germs in his heart. Even if he could bring himself to believe in the detective’s plausible explanation of her conduct, and find in her very inconsistencies the evidence of a hidden and baffled affection for himself, his feeling must still remain one of pity alone. The fact that he saw her face as never before; that its least line struck him with a sense of beauty that had sometimes been lacking in his contemplation of her, did not go far to dispell this conviction. Misfortune while separating them had emphasized her figure in his eyes, and though she was his no more, he could not but marvel over the fate that had come between him and one whom he now saw could easily have been his ideal of what was personally fascinating and attractive. The Genevieve he had seen at his last interview—not the one he had seen to-day—was beautiful; and pitiable as it was to consider, had shown signs of that feeling attributed to her by his companion. He flushed as he remembered it and rigorously turned away his thoughts. But they had taken deep root, and though he rose from his seat and walked the length of the train, talked to the engineer and interested himself in one or two passengers whose countenances betrayed apprehension, he could not escape them, nor substitute with any other vision the picture of her face as it had looked to him on that one night. He saw it in the clouded skies as he glanced out, in the blaze of the fire as he peered into the furnace, finally in the abstracted visage of his companion, as he returned to his old seat and sat down again by the detective’s side. Do what he would,—and his pride impelled him to make every effort possible,—the shy, almost beseeching glance so new to those proud eyes, the bright, alluring smile, even the turn of her form as she looked back on leaving him, would recur to his memory with a photographic distinctness that effectually blotted out the wild dishevelled woman of whom he had had that hateful and stolen glimpse through the curtains. Had it not been for the hurried beating of his heart, the fierce, almost unbearable irritation of his nerves worn to exasperation by these lingering moments of enforced waiting, he could almost have imagined that the events and revelations of the day had been a dream, and that he was going forward with warmth in his heart and hope in his soul to a marriage that promised love and honor. As it was, no clinging and persistent vision of her or any other woman, could blot out the shameful fact that he was on his way to anything but a happy bridal scene; that instead of honor he should meet mortification, and in place of love, defeat and possible regret.

Mr. Gryce—who, in the wisdom of his old age, never chafed at what was unavoidable—had nothing to say during this time of inaction. Possibly he had taken the opportunity to study up some other case, possibly he thought silence more discreet than speech; at all events, he made no effort to break it, and the minutes went by, and the seemingly interminable half-hour came to an end without a word having been uttered between them. But with the first onward movement of the car both roused and Mr. Gryce spoke.

“Thirty-five minutes lost! That’s bad! but if the fates are propitious we may succeed in our intentions yet. Come to the door and don’t stop for any courtesies. Seconds are of importance now.”

And seconds were made use of. Old as Mr. Gryce was, he showed that when hurry was demanded not even his proverbial rheumatism stood in the way. As soon as the cars stopped at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, they were out of them, and sighting a train approaching them on the cable road, ran, caught it and were on their way across town before some of their fellow passengers had reached the bottom of the elevated stairs.

There was no delay this time; St. Nicholas Avenue was reached at a quarter to eight, and as they had but a few minutes’ walk before them, they stepped out with a decision that was almost hopeful. Suddenly a carriage rolled by them.

“Good God!” exclaimed Dr. Cameron, “a guest going to the wedding!”

Another carriage and another; the street seemed alive with them.

“Why didn’t I think of this,” muttered the doctor, feeling the cold sweat breaking out over him.

“Did you expect anything else?” asked the detective. “The parents, hoping for her return up to the last, naturally could take no measures to warn their guests. You will even see an awning up you may be sure.”

“ ‘Tis horrible!” came from his companion, with bitter emphasis; and at the corner of St. Nicholas Place he almost stopped as if he felt himself unable to proceed. But the detective’s firm figure passing hurriedly on, he recovered from his momentary weakness and followed him.

Meanwhile the stream of carriages kept up, and presently they could hear the slamming of doors as their occupants alighted. Something in the sound, in the general aspect of things, seemed to move the doctor strangely.

“Hark,” cried he, clutching at the detective’s arm to stop him. “There is no confusion, no delay; the guests go in and are received. And look! lights—lights from basement to garret! What does it mean? Do those wretched parents still hope that she will come?”

For answer, Mr. Gryce drew him hurriedly on.

“Don’t stop for anything,” he cried. “Forget your wrongs, your fears, your hopes even. Be a machine; we have work to do.” Then with a sudden change of tone. “You must not be seen by these people, and you must see the hostess, and immediately. How are we going to do it? Is there a basement door?”

“Yes, but the side-door is better. If we are met it will cause less remark. I am expected at the side-door.”

“Good! to the side-door then.” And dashing through a crowd of small urchins that blocked the road, they made their way around the house to the entrance mentioned, catching glimpses through the windows, as they did so, of blazing chandeliers and towering plants, and hearing with feelings that may well be imagined, the bewildering tones of an orchestra, mingling with the hum of many voices.

They opened the door. A festive scene burst upon them, but they paid it little heed. The tall figure of the family butler bowing before them, absorbed all their attention, for he wore a look of expectancy and cheerful welcome that added to the mystery of the moment and made it difficult for the doctor to stammer out:

“Where is Mrs. Gretorex? I must see her at once.”

The butler, surprised, stared at the doctor an instant, and seeing something in his face that he did not understand, faltered helplessly, and turned his eyes upon the detective.

“Mrs. Gretorex,” repeated Dr. Cameron. “I want to see her. Tell her—”

“Wait!” whispered Mr, Gryce, “I had better send her my name.” And he took a card out of his pocket.

But the butler more and more surprised, shook his head, and while he did not refuse to take the card, muttered:

“Pardon, Monsieur!—Madam Gretorex make her toilet, but if Dr, Cameron will go to his room, I will tell her—”

“That will do,” broke in the detective. “Take us up stairs at once.” And ignoring with his usual imperturbability, the glances of astonished inquiry that followed his rather burly figure clad in its common business coat, he pushed his way to the stairway without waiting to see if the doctor was behind him.

This gave the butler an opportunity to whisper, “The bride is a little late, Monsieur; and Mrs. Gretorex ask me to say—”

“I cannot wait,” broke in the doctor, exasperated that they should still attempt to keep him in ignorance of the real state of affairs. “I will go up, and you see that Mrs. Gretorex comes to me immediately.” And he followed in the wake of the detective, conscious from the expression of the faces he passed, that he wore anything but the aspect appropriate to his supposed position of bridegroom.

Mr. Gryce was waiting in the hall above. “I have inquired for the room set apart for your use,” whispered he, “and they point out the one at the end of the hall. Isn’t it a sham?” he added. “And what pluck on the part of the mother. I declare I had no idea she would carry it as far as this. But I suppose she could not help herself. She kept hoping and hoping from minute to minute that her daughter would come, and has not yet found courage nor opportunity perhaps to explain the situation and dismiss her guests. If it were not for what we have still to do,” he added as they stepped into the room which had been pointed out to them, “I would wait and hear what excuses she would frame to meet the emergency; for you may be sure they would be entirely in accordance with the demands of the occasion.”

“There is no excuse possible. The truth will have to be told,” declared the doctor.

But Mr. Gryce shook his head, and pointing to the clock, replied, “There is yet an hour before us. If she will come at once, and go with us at once, Mr. Gretorex may safely be left to announce to the throng that his daughter has been suddenly taken so violently ill that her marriage to-night is impossible. Not one in a dozen will believe him, but the talk that will follow will not hurt you; and tomorrow any turn can be given to the story which the facts will bear out.”

“Yes, yes,” began the doctor, but he went on further, for at that moment there was a rustle heard on the threshold, and Mrs. Gretorex magnificent in velvet and diamonds, slowly pushed open the door and stood in a dignified attitude before them. Both gentlemen started forward and both gentlemen paused confused, for her air was one of courteous protest and the glance she allowed to travel from one to the other had nothing but a haughty inquiry in it, which to them, knowing as they did all that was hid behind it, showed a power of dissimulation that for the moment was almost disconcerting. Nor were her first words calculated to better the impression she had made.

“You have sent for me?” said she, with a glance at the doctor which completely ignored the detective. “May I ask what I can do for you?” Then as the doctor hesitated in his agitation, added politely. “It is eight o’clock and my daughter is almost ready. I hope these few minutes of delay have not inconvenienced you?”

“Your daughter,” gasped Dr. Cameron. “She is here?” While Mr. Gryce in no wise disturbed by the coldness with which his presence had been received, took up a silver paper-weight from off a table near by and began to weigh it in his hand while his lips moved with what might be called the ghost of a whistle.

“My daughter is here of course, sir,” declared the mother in tones that were almost icy in their pride and indignation. “Where else should she be on her wedding night?” And she cast a furious glance at the detective which that person was of course much too absorbed to meet.

“Here!” again repeated the physician absolutely dumbfounded at her audacity. “I beg pardon but I thought—”

Her smooth smile stopped him.

“Shall I inform my child that her bridegroom is ready?” she asked, with a polite but doubtful glance at the overcoat he still wore.

Dr. Cameron stared, felt himself inadequate to grapple with the situation and glanced at Mr. Gryce, who softly laid his paper-weight down and advanced.

“Madam,” said the latter, “excuse me, but moments are of inestimable value just now and I must go straight to facts. Your daughter—”

But this woman was not one to brook interference. “I don’t know you, sir,” she affirmed, and turned again to the doctor. “When my daughter’s toilet is quite complete you will receive a summons from her maid. Would you like any assistance yourself?”

This roused Dr. Cameron. Advancing, he took the lady’s hand and respectfully bowed over it. “Mrs. Gretorex,” said he, “you ignore the man you have employed, but you will not ignore me. If your daughter is in this house she must have returned here in the last few minutes. In that case—”

But here he was again interrupted.

“You mistake. My daughter—concerning whose movements you seem to have formed the most unaccountable conclusions—has been in this house since noon. She came back with a cousin of hers from Montclair, just as we were beginning to feel anxious about her. Her present delay is owing to an entirely different source. Some trouble about her veil, I believe.”

For the second time the doctor showed intense astonishment. “Mrs. Gretorex, do you speak the truth?” he asked, “Miss Gretorex here and since noon, when I myself saw her at the C— Hotel an hour ago? You are deceiving me and I as your intended son-in-law will not endure it. Though I pity your daughter from the bottom of my heart, I cannot marry her, for her conduct has shown a duplicity to which this tardy return to fulfil her engagement only gives an emphasis.”

It was now Mrs. Gretorex’s turn to look dumbfounded. She gazed at the doctor as if to see whether he were in his proper senses, then she stepped up to the detective.

“This is your work,” she cried. “You have gone beyond your orders. Did you not receive my telegram?”

“No, madam.”

“I sent you one as soon as my daughter came back. Her explanations were entirely satisfactory and there is no reason why any of us should think of the matter again. Yet you have talked in the very quarter where I desired you to be silent, and the consequence is, that my daughter’s happiness is threatened and her character impeached. It is an irreparable injury which I shall never forgive.” And leaving Mr. Gryce to digest these pleasing words, she turned again to Dr. Cameron.

“Sir,” said she, “I do not know what excuse you can have for asserting that you have seen my daughter within an hour. I only know that the fact is impossible, for Genevieve has not been out of the house since her return at the time I mentioned, as a dozen witnesses at least can prove to you. As to the duplicity of which you complain, it amounts simply to this, that she felt her health giving way under the constant strain of our numerous preparations, and in a sudden freak, which she now deplores as sincerely as myself, started off for Montclair without telling any one of her intention, thinking that the complete rest thus obtained would benefit her, as it has; for never has she looked more blooming or more fitted to be your wife than at this very moment when you hesitate to accept her.”

For answer, the doctor walked up to the detective.

“Could we have been mistaken?” he asked. “Was it indeed another woman?”

“I will tell you in two minutes,” was the hasty answer; and quitting them with small ceremony, Mr. Gryce passed out of the room.

The doctor made no effort to apologize or answer Mrs. Gretorex till he came back. His whole future destiny was trembling in the balance and it was as much as he could do to retain his composure. Happily the time of waiting was short. Mr. Gryce rejoined them almost immediately, and bowing low to the lady of the house, said in Dr. Cameron’s ear, “Another case of mistaken identity. Mrs. Gretorex is correct in all her assertions. You have made a fool of me and I show my chagrin by simply departing.”

The doctor attempted no reply. He was beside himself with joy. What, the whole dreadful business of the last four hours a farce? His marriage assured, his bride untainted, no Molesworth in her past, no possible jealousy in their future? He almost dropped on his knees to Mrs. Gretorex, in his contrition; attempted explanations and paused thinking them too inadequate, laughed, asked questions about his bride’s beauty and betrayed impatience to see her; in short, acted like any man suddenly transported from unhappiness to rapture.

The mother understanding him better than he thought, perhaps, only smiled, and pointing to his black neck-tie, asked if he had a white one in his pocket.

His face grew suddenly long and he flushed with intense mortification.

“I have not come quite prepared for so grand a ceremony,” he stammered. “If the guests will wait a little longer while I send for my coat and tie—”

“They must,” declared Mrs. Gretorex, calling a servant at once and giving him one or two orders. “It will not take more than another half-hour, and the band can keep them patient till then”

“Tell them I was detained by an accident on the elevated road. As I was,” he merrily added. “Keep them in good-nature and give me a glimpse of my bride.”

“You impatient lover!” was all the relieved mother could say; but her look was a promise, and in a few minutes, a trim and quiet girl came tripping to the door, and smiling coquettishly, showed him a room at the other end of the hall, saying:

“Miss Gretorex is all dressed, sir, and will speak to you for a minute if you desire it.”

He did not linger an instant. Something,—was it love, or only that old pride of his restored to its full life, burned in his breast, and made his short walk down the hall a remembrance of delight to him? Her door just ajar, was like a beacon of hope, and when he saw it open wider and caught the one short glimpse she allowed him of her tall and elegant figure in its shimmering robes and misty veil, he felt his pulses beat as never before, and scarcely needed the charming smile she gave him to complete a happiness which at that moment was supreme.

“I have kept you waiting,” she murmured; and he found no answer for looking at her eyes, that, seen thus through her veil, possessed a beauty and a glow which made her absolutely beautiful. “I am all ready now,” she cried, “but mamma says that you are not. Naughty man, to go careering down-town to look after some patient or other, when you should have been thinking only of me.”

He laughed, feeling himself to be another being, and she another being from the man and woman of a week ago. Then he looked at her again, and uttered some tender compliment which made her blush deliciously, and then in answer to a wave of her hand, that seemed to say: “Enough!” was about to withdraw, when he saw her eyes suddenly dilate and a look of such shock and fear cross her face that he involuntarily turned and glanced down the hall behind him for its cause. There was nothing there, absolutely nothing; only the figure of a hair-dresser or some such woman, who in cloak and veil, stood with her little bag on her arm waiting to enter, and astonished at the ease with which his mind lent itself to the most startling conjectures, he turned back to reassure himself by another look when the door which had been swung open between them, softly closed, and he found himself shut out from her presence, with a new memory and a new fear to make discord of the notes of the wedding-march he was soon to hear.