Читать книгу That Affair at Elizabeth - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 12

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I sat for a moment half-dazed, with this astonishing note in my fingers. Then I read it through again—there could be no doubting the sincerity of the writer, her passionate earnestness. "I cannot be your wife ... it is quite, quite impossible." But why was it impossible? Clearly not from any lack of affection. If the note proved anything, it proved that Marcia Lawrence loved Burr Curtiss far beyond the usual application of the word.

Why, then, had she fled? "There can be no explanation." There was nothing left but flight; the marriage was impossible. But why should it be impossible? Was not that too strong a term? Yet she no doubt believed it. Something had happened; there had been some sudden and startling revelation—the revelation of a secret so hideous that, rather than betray it, rather than risk an explanation, she had fled. But that was such a desperate thing to do; such a suicidal thing; and a woman does not throw away her happiness thoughtlessly!

I glanced at Curtiss, who had sunk down again into his chair and sat staring straight before him. Was there in his past some unnamable stain which had lain hidden till this last moment; which this stainless woman had shrunk from, horrified?

Or was there, after all, another man? A man, perhaps, whom she had never intentionally encouraged, yet who had fallen thrall to her, none the less, who had determined to possess her, and who, by some trick, some desperate throw, had managed, at the last moment, to snatch her away from Curtiss? Had she fled from the house of her own volition? Was there any possible explanation of such a flight? None, except that she had suddenly found herself face to face with the fact that she no longer loved the man she was about to marry—face to face with a future so intolerable that any shame, any disgrace, was preferable to it. Yet as I looked again at the note's wording, I recognised anew the absurdity of such a theory. Whatever the solution of the mystery, there could be no doubting Marcia Lawrence's love for Burr Curtiss; whomever she had loved in the past, it was certain that now she loved only him. And even in Mrs. Lawrence's attitude, I seemed to discern an affection for him more intense than is usually bestowed upon a son-in-law—at least, until he has been tested in the crucible of marriage.

There could be, I told myself, only one other explanation. Marcia Lawrence had been abducted. It was true, as her mother had pointed out, that a single scream would have alarmed the house; but perhaps that scream had never been uttered. It could have been prevented easily enough. And there had been no one with her at the time except her maid. Her maid! And I sat suddenly upright; I felt that I had found the key!

"It was your daughter's maid gave you this, Mrs. Lawrence?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, turning toward me with a start which told me that she had again sunk into reverie. "She said she had just found it on Marcia's dresser."

"It's strange," I said, "that it wasn't found before this. You were in your daughter's room, I suppose, after she disappeared?"

"Yes; several times."

"And you didn't see this note?"

"No; I did not notice it."

"Is the maid an old servant?"

"Yes," she said; "Lucy has been in the family for many years."

"And you've always found her perfectly trustworthy?"

"I have no cause of complaint against her," she answered, and though her voice showed no sign of emotion, I saw a sudden trembling seize her and shake her convulsively for a moment. Was it fear? Was it anger? Was it——?

Curtiss saw it, too, and, attributing it to a very different cause, moved impatiently in his chair. I felt that I was hampered by these witnesses. I must get rid of them, if I was to have freedom of action—and without freedom of action I could do nothing.

I turned again to the sheet of paper in my hand and examined it with care. It was an ordinary linen, unruled. I held it to the light and tried to decipher the watermark, but only two letters were on the sheet, "Re." The remainder of the word had been cut away when the sheet was trimmed to its present size. It seemed to me scarcely to possess the quality which one would expect in Miss Lawrence's writing-paper. The writing was in a woman's hand, a little irregular; but haste and stress of emotion would account for that. As I examined the writing more closely, I thought the ink seemed strangely fresh—scarcely dry, in fact; and yet, if the maid's story were true, the note had been lying upon the dresser for nearly three hours. And lying there unnoticed!

"There's no doubt that Miss Lawrence wrote this?" I asked.

"None whatever," answered Curtiss, with a quick shake of the head. "It's her writing—I knew it instantly."

I read the note again, and, satisfied that I had it almost by heart, handed it back to him.

"Of course, Mr. Curtiss," I said, "you must decide one thing before we go any farther. Will you try to follow her, even though she expressly forbids it?"

He sat with knitted brow and quivering mouth, reading the note word by word.

"Yes," he said brokenly, at last. "Yes, I'll try to follow her. I'll do everything I can to find her. I can't live without her!"

"But if the marriage be really impossible?" I suggested.

"Impossible!" and he turned upon me hotly. "How could it be? What could make it impossible? I tell you, sir, there's nothing on earth can keep us apart."

"But this," and I leaned forward and tapped the note.

"Yes—that—I can't explain it. At least, the only explanation I can give is that it's a hideous mistake."

"A mistake? But Miss Lawrence wasn't an emotional woman?" I questioned. "Not a woman to be carried away by a moment's passion?"

"Oh, no! Quite the contrary."

"Not a woman who would jump at a conclusion?" I persisted. "Not a woman who would condemn a man unheard—who would overlook the possibility of mistake and be convinced by what we lawyers call circumstantial evidence?"

"She was not such a woman at all," he said decidedly. "She was just the opposite of all that."

"That makes it more difficult," I pointed out.

"I know; I've thought it all out, as well as I'm able—only there's a blank wall I can't get past. Besides, if there's a reason, I have the right to know it."

"Yes," I assented heartily. "Undoubtedly you have the right to know it. There we're on solid ground. Well, that point is settled, then. And now I must ask you another question, Mr. Curtiss, which you may resent, but which it is absolutely necessary I should ask if I'm to be of any help to you."

"I think I can guess what it is, Mr. Lester," and he smiled grimly. "Since Marcia disappeared, I've reviewed carefully my whole past life, and I can find nothing in it which would justify, in the slightest degree, such an action. I've not been a saint, but at least I've never been dishonourable nor dissolute. Does that answer the question?"

"Perfectly," I said. There could be no doubting his utter truthfulness. "And your family history?"

"Is neither long nor brilliant. My father and mother both died when I was a baby. I was raised by my grandparents."

"They lived in New York?"

"No; on Long Island. My grandfather's name was John Curtiss. He managed an estate belonging to a New York banker. He was an honest and honourable man."

"And he is dead?"

"Yes; he and his wife have been dead ten years and more."

"You have no brothers or sisters?"

"No; nor any other near relatives."

That was the end of that theory, then. If the secret did not concern Curtiss, it must concern Miss Lawrence herself. More and more I felt that she was the victim of a plot. Of the maid's complicity, I had not the shadow of a doubt—but was Mrs. Lawrence a party to it, too?

I turned back to her. She was, apparently, so busy with her own thoughts that she paid no heed to what was passing. How explain her calmness, her lack of interest? How, except on the theory that she knew where her daughter was, had assisted in her disappearance and approved of it? I felt my blood warm suddenly in Curtiss's behalf. If he had been the victim of an adventuress, it should be my business to expose her!

But a second glance at Mrs. Lawrence's face showed me the folly of such a thought. She was no adventuress—she was a gentle, cultured Christian woman, who had suffered, as all mortals must, but had still preserved her sweetness and serenity, as few mortals do. Yet more and more was I perplexed by that indefinable abstraction in her behaviour, which seemed somehow out of tune with the circumstances. Perhaps she was really more moved than she seemed to be; perhaps her apparent indifference was in reality only an admirable self-control. I fancied that it had given way for an instant when she was telling us the story of her daughter's disappearance. If I could only hit upon some way to startle her out of her self-possession, I might yet learn——

She turned suddenly and met my eyes. She flushed painfully—perhaps she read my thought; and instantly I blamed myself for my clumsiness in permitting my suspicion to appear in my face. It was a mischance not easily retrieved.

"I have told you all I know," she said, rising quickly, and answering the question I had not uttered. "I feel the need of rest. If I can help you in any way, command me."

"Thank you," I answered, and opened the door for her.

She paused on the threshold—glanced around—her eyes rested on Burr Curtiss's dreary face. In an instant, she was beside him, bending over him with infinite tenderness.

"Dear boy," she said, so low I could scarcely hear her, and smoothed back his hair with a gesture almost motherly, "dear boy, don't worry so. I'm sure it will all come right."

He looked up and smiled at her tremulously. With a quick impulsiveness, she stooped and kissed him, then went rapidly from the room, leaving me, at least, more puzzled than before at this sudden glimpse of unsuspected depths of tenderness.

I closed the door after her and turned back to Curtiss.

"Has Mrs. Lawrence favoured your suit for her daughter's hand?" I asked.

"Favoured it?" he repeated. "Yes, from the very first."

"Then, in your opinion, she couldn't have had anything to do with this disappearance—advised it, perhaps assisted in it?"

"No," he said decidedly; "that's absurd."

"And yet——" I began.

"If you knew her," he interrupted, "you would see its absurdity. She has always been most kind to me. You saw——"

"Yes," I nodded.

"She has always been like that. She has treated me as a dearly beloved son ever since we told her of our engagement."

"There has been no cloud?"

"Not the slightest! She seemed to share in her daughter's happiness and in mine. She has told me more than once that she thought fate had made us for each other."

"And she helped on the wedding-day?"

"In a thousand ways. She and Marcia worked together upon the trousseau. She helped with all the plans. Surely, Mr. Lester, if she objected, she wouldn't have waited till the last minute to make her objection known."

"Most certainly she would not," I agreed.

"Besides," Curtiss added hoarsely, "I don't believe that even her mother could have kept Marcia from me."

"She's a widow?" I asked.

"Yes. Her husband has been dead ten or twelve years. Marcia is the only child."

"She seems to have had her share of sorrow," I remarked. "Her face shows it."

"She has not been quite well lately; but she was always a little—well—sad, it seemed to me; serious, you know; smiling sometimes, but rarely laughing. I've fancied she grieved for her husband; but I really know nothing about it."

"She doesn't look very strong," I hazarded, in the hope that Curtiss really knew more than he supposed.

"She isn't strong; but I've never seen her really ill. She is subject to spells of depression, so Marcia told me. Of course, I've known her only six months."

So there was an old trouble, as I had thought, beside which this new one seemed of little moment. She had been schooled by suffering; perhaps I had misjudged her in thinking her indifferent. But it was evident that I could get no further information from Curtiss.

"You were at the church," I asked, "when you heard that Miss Lawrence had disappeared?"

"Yes," he answered hoarsely. "Royce brought me word."

"And you came straight here?"

"Yes."

"And searched for her?"

"Where could I search? I was utterly at sea. I—I don't remember just what I did at first."

"But you didn't search the house nor the grounds?"

"Why should I have done that when Mrs. Lawrence had already done it thoroughly?" he demanded.

"True," I assented. After all, I had no right to shake his faith in her upon a mere suspicion.

"I was overwhelmed," he added. "I was too dazed to think. Royce said he'd wire for you. I'm glad he did, for I'm utterly unable to decide what to do. I should like you to advise me."

"Well, Mr. Curtiss," I said, "there's plainly only one thing to be done—that is, to find Miss Lawrence and demand an explanation from her own lips. Whether or not this is the wisest course, may be open to question—but if I were in your place, I think I'd do just as you are doing and take the risk."

"But to find her—how can I do that? I can't set a detective on her track."

"No, of course not," I agreed; "but I think we can get along without a detective."

"We must. Detectives talk too much, and this thing mustn't get into the papers."

"I don't see how you can prevent that. It was to have been a church wedding, wasn't it?"

"Yes; a church wedding."

"With an invited list of guests?"

"Certainly."

"And they were present at the church, weren't they?"

Curtiss groaned and I saw the perspiration start out across his forehead.

"Present!" echoed Mr. Royce. "I should say they were—the church was crowded. And we were waiting there in the minister's study, worrying because it was so late, when word came——"

"Don't!" protested Curtiss, with a despairing gesture. "I'd never thought of that. I've been thinking only of myself. Of course the papers will have it!" and he groaned again.

"Well, there's no use worrying about it," interposed Mr. Royce. "What is done is done. The thing is to find Miss Lawrence, and if anybody can find her, Lester can. I'm sure that five minutes' talk with her will straighten out the whole tangle. There's been an absurd mistake of some sort."

"No doubt," I assented, though in my heart I did doubt it very much. At any rate, the five minutes' talk could do no harm.

"Now you go away somewhere for a day or two, and leave this thing in our hands," added our junior. "What you need is rest. Don't worry any more than you can help. Let us know where you are, and we'll wire you as soon as we have any information. That's good advice, isn't it, Lester?"

"Very good," I said. "I hope Mr. Curtiss will follow it."

"No, no," he protested. "I can't go away—I must stay here—I couldn't stand it to go away."

"May I speak to you frankly, Mr. Curtiss?" I asked quietly.

"Please do," he said. "Speak as frankly as you like."

"Well, then," I began, "you'll pardon me for saying it, but I don't believe you can help us any, just at present. Besides, you need to pull yourself together."

"That's true," he agreed, and glanced at his trembling hands.

"Take my advice," I went on earnestly, "and Mr. Royce's advice. Leave Elizabeth for a little while. There isn't much chance of my finding Miss Lawrence for a day or two. You must get your calmness and self-possession back, for you'll need them."

"Yes," he said hoarsely; "yes, I'll need them. Very well, I'll do as you say, Mr. Lester. Only it's deuced selfish of me to throw my troubles on your shoulders this way."

"Selfish nothing!" cried our junior. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know," answered Curtiss helplessly.

"Go to one of the beaches near New York. The sea-air and surf will do you good. Let us know where you are; then, if we want you, we won't have any trouble finding you, and you can get back here in an hour or two."

"There's one thing Mr. Curtiss can do," I said. "A photograph of Miss Lawrence might prove a great help."

"Why, of course," he assented, and thrust his hand into an inner pocket. But, after an instant's hesitation, he drew it out empty. "I can't give you that one," he said; "I must keep that one. I'll send you another. You're at the Sheridan?"

"Yes."

"I'll leave it there for you. But please don't use it unless you absolutely have to."

"I won't use it at all, if I can avoid it," I assured him. "I promise you that it won't go out of my hands."

"Thank you," he said. "I knew you'd understand. As soon as you have any news you'll wire me?"

"The very moment. I want you to rely on us."

"I will."

"And not worry."

"I'll try not to," and he was gone.

As the door closed behind him, Mr. Royce looked at me with a somewhat guilty countenance.

"You see, I've got you into it again, Lester," he began. "I hope you don't mind."

"I don't. Rather the contrary."

"It's a little out of our line," he added. "But for a friend—and I certainly pity the poor fellow—we lawyers have to do peculiar things sometimes."

"I've done more peculiar ones than this," I said. "This is, at bottom, merely a matter of finding an important witness who is missing."

"Thank you, Lester," he said, and held out his hand. "I didn't want to seem to be imposing on you."

"You're not," I assured him again, and rose. "Now I think I'd better be getting to work."

"Can I be of any help?" he asked, rising too. "If not, I'll take the four-ten back to New York. I think Curtiss needs a little looking after. I'll hunt him up and take him with me. Besides, my wife is so wrought-up over this affair that she wants to get home."

"Very well," I assented. "Curtiss will need some one to protect him from the reporters. It's a wonder they haven't treed him before this."

"They tried to," said Mr. Royce, smiling grimly. "I succeeded in keeping them off. He was too preoccupied to notice. There's nothing else I can do?"

"No, I think not. If I need you, I'll wire."

"You won't need me," and he smiled again. "You know I'm no good at this kind of work."

"I know you'll be working harder than I will, keeping up with things at the office."

"Don't worry about that. You intend to stay here?"

"Yes; but only for a day or two, I trust. I can't think it a very difficult task to find a young woman who has run away in broad daylight in her wedding finery. Somebody must have seen her—that is, if she ran away at all."

"No doubt," he agreed. "Of course you'll find her—it's not about that I'm worrying so much; it's about her motive for doing such a thing. It seems preposterous to suppose that any woman in her right mind would run away half an hour before her wedding. Curtiss saw her at ten o'clock and found her happy, yet an hour later she had taken this desperate step. I wonder, Lester, if you realise just how desperate it was?"

"Yes," I said; "I think I do."

"Well, I'm free to confess I didn't until I saw its effect on my wife. Why, Lester, it was suicidal—it means social ostracism—no less. Even if it doesn't altogether ruin her life, it will always shadow it. It's something she can never outlive."

"Yes," I said again; "it's all that."

"And yet she was a thoughtful, self-controlled, well-balanced woman, who would foresee all this—who would realise the consequences more clearly than we can do. Lester—what was it drove her to it?"

"Ah, if I only knew! But I'm going to find out!"

"I hope you will—and yet I fear it, too. I'm afraid to think of it—I'm afraid to try to guess the secret—I'm afraid I'll unearth some grisly, loathsome skeleton, which should never have seen the light! But I'm sure of one thing," he added, his face hardening. "I think you suspected, too."

"What was that?"

"Whatever the secret is, Mrs. Lawrence knows it."

"Yes," I agreed, "I believe she does."

"And had a hand in her daughter's disappearance."

"Yes," I said again, "I think that very likely."

He stood for a moment longer, looking at me as though half-inclined to say something more; then he shook hands abruptly and left the room.

As I turned to sit down again, I noticed, in the chair from which I had arisen, something white crushed into one corner of the seat. I picked it up. It was a handkerchief of dainty lace and it was damp—with tears?