CHAPTER XION HER TRACK
Hanson, having traveled day and night, reached Washington city on the morning of April 15th.
Naturally inferring that Amos Merritt, her late guardian, and her counsel, would be the most likely to know Roma’s present abode, Hanson only took time to engage a room at an East End hotel, change his clothes and eat his breakfast, before he threw himself into a hack and drove to the old lawyer’s office.
On entering, and inquiring of the clerk in the anteroom, he was told that Mr. Merritt was in his private office, and alone.
Declining the clerk’s offer to take in his card, Hanson went and turned the knob of the communicating door and entered the rear room.
Mr. Merritt was sitting in his leather armchair, before his desk, not waiting, but leaning back and reading the morning paper. It was still early, and he had not settled to the day’s work.
He looked up on hearing the unannounced entrance of the visitor, probably taking him to be one of the clerks, coming on official business, as they frequently did.
On recognizing Hanson he started, flushed purple with indignation, and then, without laying aside his paper or rising from his chair, he demanded:
“To what cause, sir, may I attribute the insult of this intrusion?”
Hanson possessed much cool self-control, and more dignity than he had any moral right to show.
He took a chair, and seated himself, without leave, and with quiet insolence, and replied:
“I have come to inquire for my wife. Where is she?”
“Your—wife, fellow? What wife? How should I know anything about your wife? I was not even aware that you had set up a wife. May I ask what misguided woman was idiot enough to marry you? Accept my congratulations,” said the lawyer dryly.
“You know very well, sir, that I allude to your former ward. Miss Roma Fronde, who became my wife on the fifteenth of last November,” Hanson said with cool insolence.
“Or, rather, whom you sought to marry, without her knowledge or consent, by the basest fraud that ever was practiced upon human being. That fraudulent marriage ceremony was set aside by the courts as illegal, therefore null and void,” Mr. Merritt explained.
“That was a pity, for the lady’s sake, even more than for mine, when it is remembered that she went with me as my bride to the Isle of Storms,” Hanson said.
“She went to her own house, sir. To the house of which she was the heiress and the mistress. You stole into that house without her knowledge or consent, like a sneak thief at midnight. You afterward broke into her room like a murderous burglar. She had you at her mercy. Your life was in her hands, at her disposal. You had forfeited your life to her by every human law. Yet she did not take it. She spared you for the Lord’s sake. Without hurting you she escaped. She saved herself.”
“Who will believe that?” scornfully inquired Hanson. “Really, Mr. Merritt, if the court has decided that the rites by which Roma Fronde and myself were united were informal, illegal, I think their decisionis very compromising to the lady, who lived with me as my wife for——”
“Get out of my office, you low beast, before I pitch you out of the window!” exclaimed the lawyer, starting to his feet, and growing purple in the face. “Go!” Hanson went.
He had no wish for a personal encounter with the stalwart old lawyer, even if it had not been possible to end in breaking his own neck out of a three-story window.
He next drove to the West End Hotel, where Roma and her friends had been in the habit of stopping while in Washington. Here he wisely inquired for the lady by her maiden name, knowing full well that she had never acknowledged his.
“Miss Fronde?” repeated the office clerk. “Yes, sir, she was here with the Grays, last November. Mr. Gray was appointed consul to Delicome, and sailed for Liverpool about the twenty-second of the month, I think.”
“Did Miss Fronde accompany them?”
“No, sir. She went to the new apartment house on the Mount Pleasant Road—the Wesleyan Flats. She was there for some time, I know. She may be there yet,” added the clerk.
“Thank you for the information,” said Hanson, and he left the hotel, re-entered his hack, and gave the order:
“To the Wesleyan Flats.”
Twenty minutes’ drive brought him to the building.
He got out and entered the hall, the door of which stood open.
“Can you tell me whether Miss Fronde is staying here at present?” he inquired of our friend Tom, who was on duty there as hall porter.
“She dun lef’ mo’ ’an a week ago,” answered the boy.
“Where has she gone?”
“Dun know. Down de country somewhurse. She writ it on a keerd an’ guv me, but mammy’s got it, an’ I’s forgot.”
“Can I see the landlord?”
“I dun know nuffin ’bout no lan’lor. Yo’ kin see Missis B’own, I yeckon. She ’ten’s to eberyfing.”
“Then take my card to Mrs. Brown,” Hanson said, handing over the slip of pasteboard.
The boy disappeared within the elevator, which was about to rise to the upper regions.
Hanson walked up and down the hall for about five minutes, at the end of which time Tom reappeared with a message to the effect that Mrs. Brown would see the visitor.
Hanson followed the boy to the elevator, which rose to the top floor of the house, on which Mrs. Brown’s “sky parlor” was located. It was a plainly furnished room, with a Kidderminster carpet, horsehair chairs and sofa, and windows overlooking the whole city, the Potomac and Anacostia rivers, and the wooded hills of Maryland and Virginia.
Mrs. Brown, the same stout, compact woman of medium height, with fresh complexion, black eyes and black hair, clothed in a dark woolen suit, as I have before described her, rose from her chair and came forward with outstretched hand to meet the visitor, saying:
“I am very glad to see any friend of Miss Fronde. She endeared herself very much to us all during the four months she remained with us.”
“She was here four months, then?”
“Yes, sir. Sit down, pray.”
Hanson took a seat and Mrs. Brown resumed her own.
“Miss Fronde was the bosom friend of my sister, and something nearer and dearer still to myself,” said Hanson, with an air of claiming the lady as his betrothed. He dared not go further than that then, for he could not know how much or how little this Mrs. Brown might know of Roma’s position.
“Oh, indeed, sir!” exclaimed the janitress. “I am delighted to hear it. But how is it that we never saw you here all winter?”
“I have just returned from a long sea voyage, a voyage of many months.”
“Ah! And to think Miss Fronde never mentioned your name to me! But then some young ladies are so reserved,” said Mrs. Brown meditatively.
“Yes, and she among the most reserved. I expected to find her in Washington, but it appears that she has left the city. Can you tell me where she has gone?”
“Certainly, sir. She has gone to her own country seat in Maryland—Hobgoblin House, I think they call it. But I will tell you who can give you exact information—Lawyer Merritt.”
“Humph! He was a great friend of Miss Fronde, I believe?”
“Oh, yes, sir; a very great friend indeed.”
“And a frequent visitor?”
“Oh, yes, sir; of course. He had been her guardian and trustee, and he managed all her business for her. But, of course, sir, if you are engaged to the young lady, you know more about these matters than I do,” Mrs. Brown added.
“Yes, I did know, but I have been away so long. Many changes may take place in five months,” Hanson said, very gravely.
Mrs. Brown broke into a merry little laugh, exclaiming:
“Oh! I see just how it is with you. You are jealous of Miss Fronde’s old guardian. Why, sir, you might as well be jealous of her great-grandfather, if she had one.”
Hanson took no notice of this innocent raillery, but inquired:
“Did Miss Fronde go alone to Goblin Hall?”
“No, sir.”
“Who went with her?” demanded Hanson, turning hot and cold at the thought of Harcourt as her possible companion.
“Not Mr. Merritt, certainly,” slyly replied the janitress.
“Who, then? Who, then?” eagerly demanded Hanson.
“A much younger and more attractive companion, of whom the young lady is excessively fond,” Mrs. Brown replied, smiling mischievously.
“Who was he?” demanded Hanson, rising from his chair in excitement.
“Who said ‘he’? I didn’t. There was no ‘he’ in the case. What are you thinking of, sir?”
“Who went with Miss Fronde to Goblin Hall?”
“A little girl; her adopted child.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Hanson, dropping back on his seat in a state of collapse.
“Who did you think had gone with her, sir?” merrily inquired the janitress.
“I did not know what to think. So she has adopted a child, has she?”
“Oh, yes, sir; a bright, quaint, interesting little girl of about five years of age.”
“Whose child was it? How came Miss Fronde to adopt it?”
“It was the child of a poor, friendless and destitute young widow, who died of consumption here about two weeks ago. Oh, I must tell you all about that poor woman and her child, and what an angel of mercy Miss Fronde was to them.”
Hanson assented, not because he was in the very least degree interested in the objects of Roma’s benevolence, but because in hearing them he should hear more of her.
“They occupied a room in the rear of this upper floor—one of the cheapest rooms in the building. There are no registers up as high as this. You see, sir. I have an open grate.”
“Well, it is pleasanter,” said Hanson.
“Yes, sir, but in those little rooms there were no such things; only little iron stoves, that mostly smoked, being so near the roof. Even for this poor room she could scarcely pay the rent, and only managed to do it by half starving herself, living on breadand tea. Fancy a young woman in consumption living in such a way as that!”
“Very sad,” said Hanson.
“I really do not know what would have become of her if Miss Fronde had not found her out. She took her out of that cold, smoky room, and brought her downstairs to her own luxurious apartments, and made her comfortable there. Miss Fronde had the finest suit of rooms in the building. And then she came to me to see if she could engage commodious rooms for the sick woman and child; but it was in the thick of the season, and there was not a vacant bed, not to say room, in the whole house; and I told her so, and advised her to send the young woman to the Providence Hospital and the child to the orphan asylum. And what do you think she answered me?”
“I am sure I don’t know. Something quixotic, no doubt.”
“She said—that angel did—‘The dying mother and her child are devotedly attached to each other. It would be cruel to separate them now, and it would probably hasten the death of the young woman. Besides, they both cling to me, as to their only friend, in a manner that is very pathetic.’”
“The instinct of self-preservation,” said Hanson curtly.
“And then,” continued the janitress, “she asked me: ‘Mrs. Brown, do you think that you would send your own sister to a hospital, under such circumstances, if you had the means of taking care of her at home?’ I was forced to confess that I would not. Then she said: ‘No more will I send this poor sister woman away from me while I have, as I certainly now have, the means of taking care of her at home, even though it is but a temporary home.’ And then what do you think that angel of yours did, sir?”
“Something equally quixotic, I suppose.”
“She gave up her own elegant parlor to the invalid and the child. She supplied them with every possible comfort and luxury. She engaged the best medical attendance the city could supply, and she nursed thewoman herself, both night and day; and not only nursed her, but read to her, talked to her, and entertained and amused her. I do believe she would have taken her to Florida to try to save her life if she had been able to travel. She was all in all to that young woman as long as the poor thing lived.”
“What detained Miss Fronde so long here?”
“That young woman did. Miss Fronde meant to have gone to the country in December, but the poor, sick creature was not able to travel, so the young lady stayed here with her. The woman got so much better in her new, luxurious quarters, with the skillful medical treatment and the tender nursing and cheerful companionship, that Miss Fronde began to talk about taking her to the country as soon as the spring should open, if she should then be able to travel. And I know that the poor widow looked forward to going there as to going to Paradise. I don’t think, however, that there are many young beauties and heiresses spending a winter in Washington who would have given up all society for the sake of nursing a poor, consumptive fellow creature.”
“It was very extravagant benevolence,” said Hanson.
“So I told her. ‘Miss Fronde,’ I said, ‘if you mean to do for every forlorn human being all that you are doing for this mother and child, you will have your hands full, and need the fortune of Vanderbilt ten times told.’”
“What did she say to that?” inquired Hanson.
“Oh, sir, she looked at me with such a grave, sweet smile, and said:
“‘But I am not required to “do” for all the “forlorn.” The poor are freely distributed around and about the rich throughout the world. Every one who has the power to relieve is responsible for the suffering that comes under his notice. Just at present I am only required to take care of these two poor, helpless creatures. I do not find them a grievous burden, I assure you. The Lord has not demanded of me more than I can well perform.’”
“How long did this state of things continue?”
“I told you, sir, that the young woman died about two weeks ago. She was buried at Oak Hill Cemetery. Miss Fronde paid all the funeral expenses and adopted the orphan. I have often heard that childless people often love their adopted children as well or better than if they had been born their own. I do think this was the case with Miss Fronde. Young as she was, she took to this little five-year-old orphan as if she had been the widow, and it was her own and only child. Yes, sir, it is wonderful to see. Her heart is just wrapped up in that mite. I really do think it would grieve her to death if she were to lose it. I did wonder at it; but I said to myself it is because she is alone in the world—not knowing anything about her engagement to you, sir, you must recollect.”
“When did Miss Fronde leave here for Goblin Hall?”
“Nearly two weeks ago, sir; a few days after the funeral.”
“Taking the child with her?”
“Yes, sir. I told you so.”
“And no one else?”
“No, sir. I told you that also.”
“Had Miss Fronde any visitors while here?”
“No, sir.”
“No gentlemen visitors?”
“Now, there you are again! You men are so awfully jealous! No, sir, she had no gentlemen visitors, unless you call her old guardian, who came on business, and the old doctor who attended the sick woman, visitors, and both of them were over sixty years old.”
“Did you ever hear Miss Fronde speak of a young gentleman friend of hers, of the name of Harcourt?”
“No, sir, never; nor of no one else—not even of yourself, sir. Miss Fronde, good and kind as she was, was very reserved—very much so, indeed, sir.”
“Well, Mrs. Brown,” said Hanson, rising, “I am very much indebted to you for all this information. Now I will ask you but one more question, and thenbid you good-morning. Do you think that Miss Fronde intends to keep that child with her at Goblin Hall?”
“Yes, indeed; I don’t only think it, I know it. She said so. I hope you will make no objections, sir. It would break her heart to part with that child now, though, of course, after she marries, and has children of her own, she will not be so much wrapped up in it.”
“Probably not. Well, good-morning. I am off to Goblin Hall by this evening’s express train. Have you any message for Miss Fronde?”
“Please give her my best love and respects, and ask her, if she should visit Washington city on her bridal tour, to be sure to come to stay at this house.”
“I will. Good-morning.”
Hanson left the room and went down with the elevator to the ground floor, where he entered the restaurant, took a seat at a table, and ordered a lunch.
While he leisurely discussed his oysters and ale he thought over all that he had heard, and formed his plans upon the information.
Harcourt had not reappeared upon the scene of Roma’s life. So much was certain. She was alone at Goblin Hall, comforting her lonely heart with the love of her adopted child—some miserable little waif, offspring of some unknown woman, picked up in an apartment house. He did not even know the name of the child or the woman. He could not remember whether the janitress had ever mentioned those names, nor was he sufficiently interested in Roma’s protégées to try to recollect.
Yet, my reader, if Mrs. Brown had chanced to call that mother or child by name Hanson would have been so thunderstruck that he would not have forgotten the circumstances, for, as the personal advertisements say, he would have heard “something to his advantage.”
However, this much he knew—that his rival was out of the way, departed for parts unknown; that the Grays were all in Europe; that Roma was atGoblin Hall, unprotected, except by her own strong self, and alone but for the presence of her pet child and her own servants.
And he determined to go down to see her there, to try to reconcile her to himself; and in the event of her obstinate refusal, to warn her that he should make an appeal to have the decision of the court that set aside their marriage ceremony as illegal reversed in his favor, on the ground of his compulsory absence from the trial. And this appeal he would make in any case. If she should still be obstinate in her determination to repudiate him he would find means to wring her heart so cruelly that she should be compelled to yield to him.
With this resolution he finished his lunch, paid his bill, went back to his hotel, packed up again, and sent off his luggage by express to Goeberlin.
Later he ate dinner, settled with the office clerk, and started for the six-thirty express train to Goeberlin. He caught it, and was soon flying westward on his evil errand.