That Affair at Elizabeth 26 – Stevenson · Verses Across
Literature · Detective Fiction
That Affair at Elizabeth 26The Return
18
Literature · Detective Fiction
That Affair at Elizabeth 26
The Return
StevensonEnglish
It was not until we were back at the office again that either Mr. Royce or myself ventured a comment upon this extraordinary story. Even then, we found very little to say. Nothing could be done to divert the blow; nothing even to lessen its severity. Burr Curtiss and Marcia Lawrence must endure their fate with such courage as they could; must forget; at least, must strive to soften love into affection. How would they regard each other, I wondered? Would the mere fact of revealed relationship alter their old feeling, or would love survive to torture them? They had in common no brotherly-and-sisterly instincts or experiences; they were unchanged; they were still maid and lover, as they had always been.
The days passed, and in the stress of work at the office, the memory of Burr Curtiss and his fortunes gradually became less vivid, until I began to hope that, in time, it might really cease to worry me. But one morning, Mr. Royce looked up from his paper, his eyes shining.
"The Umbria reached Liverpool this morning," he said, in a voice not wholly steady. "It's all over by this time. I wonder how they bore it?"
"Bravely, I've no doubt," I answered, but I trembled at thought of it. How had she summoned courage to tell him?
"He'll come home, I think," added Mr. Royce, pursuing his own thoughts. "They could hardly stay abroad together; their relationship, of course, will always remain a secret----"
The office boy entered and laid a little envelope at his elbow. He tore it open quickly and read its contents at a glance.
"It's a cable from Curtiss," he said, and passed it over to me.
"Oceanic delayed engine break-down," I read. "Reached Liverpool five hours after Umbria. Missed Marcia but searching for her. Cable care Hotel Adelphi."
Mr. Royce sat for a moment drumming nervously upon his chair-arm.
"He hasn't any chance of finding her in a place like that," he said, at last. "Most probably she's gone on to London."
"Or to some place on the continent. There must be many places where she'd feel at home."
"What would we better do? Shall we write out the story and mail it to Curtiss? He'll get it in a week."
"He won't stay at Liverpool a week," I objected. "The letter might go astray, and be opened by some one who had no right to read it."
"We might cable a mere outline."
I thought it over; but somehow my point of view had changed. Now that I knew the story, it seemed to me that it was Marcia Lawrence's right to decide what step should be taken next. Once she had recovered her self-poise, she would see what course was best, and I was certain that she would be brave enough, strong enough, to follow it unshrinking to the end.
"Let us wait," I said. "A little delay can do no harm; just as haste can do no good."
"Yes; I believe that's best," agreed our junior. "Nothing we can do will help them. They must work out the problem for themselves."
"Besides," I added, "I've a feeling that Miss Lawrence will herself decide to meet it squarely. She'll realise that Curtiss has a right to know the story. I believe that she'll soon come home again, ready to face him and tell him everything. She'll see that it's cowardly to stay away. Then there's her mother--she'll think of her--of her misery and loneliness. She won't leave her to live by herself in that great, gloomy house. We're safe in leaving the future in her hands."
But in the days that followed, I came to doubt more and more whether this policy was the best one. Had I not been thinking too much of Miss Lawrence, and too little of our client? Perhaps if he knew the secret, he would no longer wish to pursue her; he might prefer to wait, to give time opportunity to heal the first rawness of the wound. Indeed, it was conceivable that love might change to loathing. In that case, it were better to have the crisis over with at once; to apply the knife before the sore had a chance to harden or grow deeper. Such heroic action might effect a cure. But I kept these doubts to myself; there was no use disturbing our junior with them. I could see how he was suffering on his friend's behalf. I could guess his fear that some dreadful tragedy would mark the end.
The days passed, and we heard no more from
Curtiss, not a word to tell us how the search had progressed. Godfrey came in to see me once or twice, but he had nothing new to tell; and of course I had nothing to tell him. At last, he expressed the opinion that we should never solve the mystery; and as the public had forgotten it long since, he decided to waste no more time upon it.
Another visitor I had one afternoon, when Dr. Schuyler's card was brought in to me. I ordered him shown in at once, and as I shook hands with him, I noted that he seemed greyer and older than when I had seen him last.
"Yes," he said, with a smile, interpreting my glance; "it's this trouble which has been weighing upon me. I've tried to shake it off, but I can't."
"Sit down," I said. "I'm glad to see you. And I wouldn't allow the affair to worry me, if I were you."
"That's easy enough to say," he retorted, with a little shake of the head. "But remember, Mr. Lester, Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter were two of my dearest friends. And this tragedy has wrecked their lives. Is there any news?"
"None at all, except that Curtiss missed the Umbria at Liverpool, and has not been able to find Miss Lawrence."
"Perhaps that was best."
"I'm inclined to think so myself," I agreed.
"There's one thing, though," he added suddenly. "Curtiss has no reason to be ashamed of his birth."
I looked at him with quick interest.
"Then you've discovered----"
"Yes; the minister who married Mary Jarvis and Boyd Endicott. I couldn't rest after you showed me that picture--after I knew that Mary Jarvis had had a child. I felt that I must find out--for her sake, as well as for my own. And so I set systematically to work. It was really not difficult, for there were not more than six or eight places where the ceremony could possibly have been performed. I took them one after another, and soon found the right one--you see, I had the date, approximately. Her story was true in every detail. They had driven to Clearwater, about five miles north of Plainfield, a little village of two or three hundred inhabitants. The minister who married them is still living. He showed me the record, and he remembered the affair distinctly. The night was a very bad one, and he had been aroused from sleep by a loud knocking at the door. He had gone down, thinking that it was some neighbour come to summon him to the bedside of some one taken suddenly ill, and was surprised to find a handsome young fellow standing on the doorstep. He explained his errand in a few words, and ten minutes later, the thing was done. The minister's wife was the only witness. The bride was very frightened and more than once seemed about to faint, but managed to pull through, and was driven away with her husband a few minutes after the ceremony has been performed."
The clergyman's face was glowing with satisfaction.
"It was a great thing to me," he added, "to be able to prove that Mary Jarvis had told her father the truth."
"It seems strange," I said, "that he never made any attempt to verify it."
"Ah, but he did," broke in Dr. Schuyler quickly. "He did verify it. At least it could have been no one else in my opinion, from the description given me by the minister at Clearwater. He was there and saw the record only a few days after that Christmas Eve on which his daughter attempted to run away."
"He never told his sister," I said, and told him of Mrs. Heminway's story.
"It was like him," said my companion, after a moment's thought, "to keep it to himself. Perhaps he feared his sister would feel some tenderness for the child if she knew there was no shame attached to it. But whatever his motive, I am glad that I know the truth."
"And I," I said. "It will be easier to tell Curtiss--if he must be told."
"And Marcia."
"I don't believe she ever doubted."
"Perhaps not; but it will be good for her to know."
"Yes," I agreed, and fell a moment silent. How would the story end?
"Poor children!" said my companion, and rose with a little sigh. "They must bear the burden with what strength they have. God send it be sufficient! I must bid you good-bye, Mr. Lester. I feel better, now that you know the truth. I want every one who knows the story to know this part of it."
"They shall," I promised.
"And if there is any way that I can help----"
"You don't need to assure me of that," I interrupted. "I shall call upon you without an instant's hesitation."
"Thank you," and he wrung my hand and was gone.
How would the story end? I asked myself the question again, as I sank back into my seat. And I could find no answer to it.
But the end was nearer than I had thought.
It was near closing time one afternoon, and we were finishing up some odds and ends of work, when the door opened, and in came Burr Curtiss. We were on our feet in an instant--Mr. Royce and I--and had him by the hands. He was greatly changed--older and thinner, with an increased lankness of jaw; but he had regained his equilibrium. He was no longer dazed by the blow fate had dealt him. The firm-set lips told that he had taught himself how to face the world and his own future.
We sat down after the first greetings, and then there was a little pause. I was uncertain how to begin; I had a horror of opening old wounds which I saw that Mr. Royce acutely shared.
"Well, I'm back," Curtiss began, seeing our hesitation and no doubt understanding it. "I soon found out that I'd undertaken a hopeless task."
"Then you didn't find her?" asked Mr. Royce.
"No," answered the other evenly. "I completely lost track of her after she left Liverpool. I was able to trace her to the station, and to find that she'd taken train for London, and that was all. So I decided that the wisest thing for me to do was to come home. My boat got in an hour ago--and I came straight here for news."
Our junior nodded.
"Yes--I think you did right to come back. But I haven't any news--at least, I believe that she herself would wish to tell you----"
Curtiss started sharp around.
"Then you know?" he asked. "You know why she left me?"
Mr. Royce paused an instant, then chose the better way.
"Yes," he said. "Lester hit upon it, and we proved he was right."
Curtiss was out of his chair now; but he held himself well in hand.
"And you'll tell me?"
"It was nothing that reflects on either of you. It was something neither of you could help nor do anything to alter."
"So it's bad news!" and his face turned suddenly livid.
"Sit down, Curtiss," said our junior imploringly. "It's hard enough, at best--I--can't tell you at all if you take it that way."
Curtiss glanced at him again, then sat down.
"Now tell me," he said quietly, but I saw how his hands were trembling.
"I don't wonder she fled," began Mr. Royce, shrinking from the plunge. "She couldn't face the world----"
"But me," cried Curtiss; "she could have faced me!"
"You least of all."
"Tell me," whispered Curtiss. "Let me judge of that."
There was no resisting him--it was his right to know--so our junior told the story, as briefly as might be.
He bore it better than I had hoped. After a time, he was able to talk of it quite calmly, to ask a question or two, to tell us something of his own boyhood, and of the people who reared him.
"I never suspected," he concluded, "that John Curtiss and his wife weren't really my grandparents. They told me my father and mother were dead, and they certainly treated me as a child of their own. They had no other children, and doubtless by the time I came of age to ask questions, regarded me as wholly theirs. Mrs. Curtiss died when I was sixteen, her husband three years later, just as I was ready to enter college; and I found that he'd made me his sole heir, and that I was worth some thirty thousand dollars. I went on to college, as they'd wished me to. And now," he added, "what shall I do? Shall I go to Elizabeth and see Mrs. Lawrence----"
It was plain that he could not think of her as his mother. She had never been his mother. He had never known her as such; she had played no part in his childhood. I knew that one of the questions I had asked myself was answered: the mere revelation of kinship had made no difference in his feeling for Marcia Lawrence. He loved her yet; he had that battle still to fight. And she--was it the same with her? What a hideous irony of fate!
"Mrs. Lawrence knew nothing of the story," I pointed out. "She may know nothing of it, even yet. She doesn't suspect that her child lived. I think her daughter means that she should never know, if it can be kept from her."
"Then she shall never know from me," he said, and took a deep breath. "I suppose that I'd better wait. Marcia can decide what's best to do. I--I don't think I quite realise what it all means," and he passed his hand before his eyes. "The best thing for me is to go to work. That'll give me something else to think about."
"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.
