{0343}
And the two went down to Wall Street. It was after hours, but the brokers' office was full of excitement. No one knew what was left from the storm, nor what to expect. It was some time before Jack could get speech with one of the young men of the firm.
“How is it?” he asked.
“It's been a——of a time.”
“And Henderson?”
“Oh, his estate is all right, so far as we know. He was well out of the Missouris.”
“And the Missouri?”
“Bottom dropped out; temporarily, anyway.”
“And my account?”
“Wiped out, I am sorry to say. Might come up by-and-by, if you've got a lot of money to put up, and wait.”
“Then it's all up,” said Jack, turning to the Major. He was very pale. He knew now that his fortune was gone absolutely—house, everything.
Few words were exchanged as they made their way back to the club. And here the Major did a most unusual thing for him. He ordered the drinks. But he did this delicately, apologetically.
“I don't know as you care for anything, but Wall Street has made me thirsty. Eh?”
“I don't mind if I do,” Jack replied.
And they sat down.
The conversation was not cheerful; it was mainly ejaculatory. After a second glass, Jack said, “I don't suppose it would do any good, but I should like to see Mavick.” And then, showing the drift of his thoughts, “I wonder what Carmen will do?”
“I should say that will depend upon the will,” replied the Major.
“She is a good-hearted woman,” and Jack's tone was one of inquiry.
“She hasn't any, Jack. Not the least bit of a heart. And I believe Henderson found it out. I shall be surprised if his will doesn't show that he knew it.”
A servant came to the corner where they were sitting and handed Jack a telegram.
“What's this? Mavick?” He tore it open. “No; Edith.” He read it with something like a groan, and passed it over to the Major.
What he read was this: “Don't be cast down, Jack. The boy and I are well. Come. Edith.”
“That is splendid; that is just like her,” cried the Major. “I'd be out of this by the first train.”
“It is no use,” replied Jack gloomily. “I couldn't 'face Edith now. I couldn't do it. I wonder how she knew?”
He called back the servant, and penned as reassuring a message as he could, but said that it was impossible to leave town. She must not worry about him. This despatched, they fell again into a talk about the situation. After another glass Jack was firm in his resolution to stay and watch things. It seemed not impossible that something might turn up.
On the third day after, both the Major and Jack attended the funeral at the house. Carmen was not visible. The interment was private. The day following, Jack left his card of condolence at the door; but one day passed, and another and another, and no word of acknowledgment came from the stricken widow. Jack said to himself that it was not natural to expect it. But he did expect it, and without reason, for he should have known that Carmen was not only overwhelmed with the sudden shock of her calamity, but that she would necessarily be busy with affairs that even grief would not permit her to neglect. Jack heard that Mavick had been in the city, and that he went to the Henderson house, but he had not called at the club, and the visit must have been a flying one.
A week passed, and Jack received no message from Carmen. His note offering his services if she needed the services of any one had not been answered.
Carmen was indeed occupied. It could not be otherwise. The state of Henderson's affairs could not wait upon conventionalities. The day after the funeral Mr. Henderson's private secretary came to the house, and had a long interview with Mrs. Henderson. He explained to her that the affairs should be immediately investigated, the will proved, and the estate put into the hands of the executors. It would be best for Mrs. Henderson herself to bring his keys down to the office, and to see the opening of his desk and boxes. Meantime it would be well for her to see if there were any papers of importance in the house; probably everything was in the office safe.
The next morning Carmen nerved herself to the task. With his keys in hand she went alone into the library and opened his writing-desk. Everything was in perfect order; letters and papers filed and labeled, and neatly arranged in drawers and pigeonholes. There lay his letter-book as he had last used it, and there lay fresh memoranda of his projects and engagements. She found in one of the drawers some letters of her own, mostly notes, and most of them written before her marriage. In another drawer were some bundles of letters, a little yellow with age, endorsed with the name of “Margaret.” She shut the drawer without looking at them. She continued to draw papers from the pigeon-holes and glance at them. Most of them related to closed transactions. At length she drew out one that instantly fixed her attention. It was endorsed, “Last Will and Testament.” She looked first at the date at the end—it was quite recent—and then leaned back in her chair and set herself deliberately to read it.
The document was long and full of repetitions and technicalities, but the purport of it was plain. As she read on she was at first astonished, then she was excited to trembling, and felt herself pale and faint; but when she had finished and fully comprehended it her pretty face was distorted with rage. The great bulk of the property was not for her. She sprang up and paced the floor. She came back and took up the document with a motion of tearing it in pieces. No—it would be better to burn it. Of course there must be another will deposited in the safe. Henderson had told her so. It was drawn up shortly after their marriage. It could not be worse for her than this. She lighted the gas-jet by the fireplace, and held the paper in her hand. Then a thought struck her. What if somebody knew of this will, and its execution could be proved! She looked again at the end. It was signed and sealed. There were the names of two witnesses. One was the name of their late butler, who had been long in Henderson's service, and who had died less than a month ago. The other name was Thomas Mavick. Evidently the will had been signed recently, on some occasion when Mavick was in the house. And Henderson's lawyer probably knew it also!
She folded the document carefully, put it back in the pigeon-hole, locked the desk, and rang the bell for her carriage. She was ready when the carriage came to the door, and told the coachman to drive to the office of Mr. Sage in Nassau Street. Mr. Sage had been for many years Henderson's most confidential lawyer.
He received Carmen in his private office, with the subdued respect due to her grief and the sudden tragedy that had overtaken her. He was a man well along in years, a small man, neat in his dress, a little formal and precise in his manner, with a smoothly shaven face and gray eyes, keen, but not unkindly in expression. He had the reputation, which he deserved, for great ability and integrity. After the first salutations and words of condolence were spoken, Carmen said, “I have come to consult you, Mr. Sage, about my husband's affairs.”
“I am quite at your service, madam.”
“I wanted to see you before I went to the office with the keys of his safe.”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Sage, “I could spare you that trouble.”
“Oh no; his secretary thought I had better come myself, if I could.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Sage.
Carmen hesitated a moment, and then said, in an inquiring tone, “I suppose the first thing is the will. He told me long ago that his will was made. I suppose it is in the safe. Didn't you draw it, Mr. Sage?”
“Oh yes,” the lawyer replied, leaning back in his chair, “I drew that; a long time ago; shortly after your marriage. And about a year ago I drew another one. Did he ever speak of that?”
“No,” Carmen replied, with a steady voice, but trembling inwardly at her narrow escape.
“I wonder,” continued Mr. Sage, “if it was ever executed? He took it, and said he would think it over.”
“Executed?” queried Carmen, looking up. “How do you mean, before a magistrate?”
“Oh, no; signed and witnessed. It is very simple. The law requires two witnesses; the testator and the witnesses must declare that they sign in the presence of each other. The witnesses prove the will, or, if they are dead, their signatures can be proved. I was one of the witnesses of the first will, and a clerk of Henderson's, who is still in his office, was the other.”
“The last one is probably in the safe if it was executed.”
“Probably,” the lawyer assented. “If not, you'd better look for it in the house.”
“Of course. Whether it exists or not, I want to carry out my husband's intention,” Carmen said, sweetly. “Have you any memorandum of it?”
“I think so, somewhere, but the leading provisions are in my mind. It would astonish the public.”
“Why?” asked Carmen.
“Well, the property was greater than any of us supposed, and—perhaps I ought not to speak to you of this now, Mrs. Henderson.”
“I think I have a right to know what my husband's last wishes were,” Carmen answered, firmly.
“Well, he had a great scheme. The greater part of his property after the large legacies—” The lawyer saw that Carmen looked pale, and he hesitated a moment, and then said, in a cheery manner: “Oh, I assure you, madam, that this will gave you a great fortune; all the establishment, and a very great fortune. But the residue was in trust for the building and endowment of an Industrial School on the East Side, with a great library and a reading-room, all to be free. It was a great scheme, and carefully worked out.”
“I am so glad to know this,” said Carmen. “Was there anything else?”
“Only some legacies.” And Mr. Sage went on, trying to recall details that his attentive listener already knew. There were legacies to some of his relatives in New Hampshire, and there was a fund, quite a handsome fund, for the poor of the city, called the “Margaret Fund.” And there was something also for a relative of the late Mrs. Henderson.
Carmen again expressed her desire to carry out her husband's wishes in everything, and Mr. Sage was much impressed by her sweet manner. When she had found out all that he knew or remembered of the new will, and arose to go, Mr. Sage said he would accompany her to the office. And Carmen gratefully accepted his escort, saying that she had wished to ask him to go with her, but that she feared to take up so much of his time.
At the office the first will was found, but no other. The lawyer glanced through it, and then handed it to Mrs. Henderson, with the remark, “It leaves you, madam, pretty much everything of which he died possessed.” Carmen put it aside. She did not care to read it now. She would go home and search for the other one.
“If no other is found,” said Mr. Sage, in bidding her good-morning, “this one ought to be proved tomorrow. I may tell you that you and Mr. Hollowell are named as executors.”
On her way home Carmen stopped at a telegraph station, and sent a message to Mavick, in Washington, to take an afternoon train and come to New York.
When Carmen reached home she was in a serious but perfectly clear frame of mind. The revelation in the last will of Henderson's change of mind towards her was mortifying to a certain extent. It was true that his fortune was much increased since the first will was made, and that it justified his benevolent scheme. But he might have consulted her about it. If she had argued the matter with her conscience, she would have told her conscience that she would carry out this new plan in her own way and time. She was master of the situation, and saw before her a future of almost unlimited opportunity and splendor, except for one little obstacle. That obstacle was Mr. Mavick. She believed that she understood him thoroughly, but she could not take the next step until she had seen him. It was true that no one except herself positively knew that a second will now existed, but she did not know how much he might choose to remember.
She was very impatient to see Mr. Mavick. She wandered about the house, restless and feverish. Presently it occurred to her that it would be best to take the will wholly into her own keeping. She unlocked the desk, took it out with a trembling hand, but did not open it again. It was not necessary. A first reading had burned every item of it into her brain. It seemed to be a sort of living thing. She despised herself for being so agitated, and for the furtive feeling that overcame her as she glanced about to be sure that she was alone, and then she ran up stairs to her room and locked the document in her own writing-desk.
What was that? Oh, it was only the door-bell. But who could it be? Some one from the office, from her lawyer? She could see nobody. In two minutes there was a rap at her door. It was only the servant with a despatch. She took it and opened it without haste.
“Very well, Dobson; no answer. I expect Mr. Mavick on business at ten. I am at home to no one else.”
At ten o'clock Mr. Mavick came, and was shown into the library, where Carmen awaited him.
“It was very good of you to come,” she said, as she advanced to meet him and gave him her hand in the natural subdued manner that the circumstances called for.
“I took the first train after I received your despatch.”
“I am sorry to inconvenience you so,” she said, after they were seated, “but you know so much of Mr. Henderson's affairs that your advice will be needed. His will is to be proved tomorrow.”
“Yes?” said Mavick.
“I went to see—Mr. Sage today, and he went with me to the office. The will was in the safe. I did not read it, but Mr. Sage said that it left everything to me except a few legacies.”
“Yes?”
“He said it should be proved tomorrow, unless a later will turned up.”
“Was there a later will?”
“That is what he did not know. He had drawn a new will about a year ago, but he doubted if it had ever been executed. Mr. Henderson was considering it. He thought he had a memorandum of it somewhere, but he remembered the principal features of it.”
“Was it a great change from the first?” Mavick asked.
“Yes, considerable. In fact, the greater part of his property, as far as I could make out, was to go to endow a vast training-school, library, and reading-room on the East Side. Of course that would be a fine thing.”
“Of course,” said Mavick. “And no such will has been found?”
“I've looked everywhere,” replied Carmen, simply; “all over the house. It should be in that desk if anywhere. We can look again, but I feel pretty sure there is no such document there.”
She took in her hand the bunch of keys that lay on the table, as if she were about to rise and unlock the desk. Then she hesitated, and looked Mavick full in the face.
“Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that will was ever executed?”
For a moment they looked steadily at each other, and then he said, deliberately, their eyes squarely meeting, “I do not think it was.” And in a moment he added, “He never said anything to me about such a disposition of his property.”
Two things were evident to Carmen from this reply. He saw her interests as she saw them, and it was pretty certain that the contents of the will were not made known to him when he witnessed it. She experienced an immense feeling of relief as she arose and unlocked the desk. They sat down before it together, and went over its contents. Mavick made a note of the fresh business memoranda that might be of service next day, since Mrs. Henderson had requested him to attend the proving of the will, and to continue for the present the business relations with her that he had held with Mr. Henderson.
It was late when he left the house, but he took with him a note to Mr. Sage to drop into the box for morning delivery. The note said that she had searched the house, that no second will existed there, and that she had telegraphed to Mr. Mavick, who had much knowledge of Mr. Henderson's affairs, to meet him in the morning. And she read the note to Mavick before she sealed it.
Before the note could have been dropped into the box, Carmen was in her room, and the note was literally true. No second will existed.
The will was proved, and on the second day its contents were in all the newspapers. But with it went a very exciting story. This was the rumor of another will, and of Henderson's vast scheme of benevolence. Mr. Sage had been interviewed and Carmen had been interviewed. The memorandum (which was only rough and not wholly legible notes) had been found and sent to Carmen. There was no concealment about it. She gave the reporters all the details, and to every one she said that it was her intention to carry out her husband's wishes, so far as they could be ascertained from this memorandum, when his affairs had been settled. The thirst of the reporters for information amused even Carmen, who had seen much of this industrious tribe. One of them, to whom she had partially explained the situation, ended by asking her, “Are you going to contest the will?”
“Contest the will?” cried Carmen. “There is nothing to contest.”
“I didn't know,” said the young man, whose usual occupation was reporting sports, and who had a dim idea that every big will must be contested.
Necessarily the affair made a great deal of talk. The newspapers discussed it for days, and turned over the scheme in every light, the most saying that it was a noble gift to the city that had been intended, while only one or two doubted if charity institutions of this sort really helped the poor. Regret, of course, was expressed that the second will had never been executed, but with this regret was the confidence that the widow would carry out, eventually, Henderson's plans.
This revelation modified the opinion in regard to Henderson. He came to be regarded as a public benefactor, and his faithful wife shared the credit of his noble intention.
Waiting for something to turn up, Jack found a weary business. He had written to Mavick after the newspaper report that that government officer had been in the city on Henderson's affairs, and had received a very civil and unsatisfactory reply. In the note Mavick had asked him to come to Washington and spend a little time, if he had nothing better on hand, as his guest. Perhaps no offense was intended, but the reply enraged Jack. There was in the tone of the letter and in the manner of the invitation a note of patronage that was unendurable.
“Confound the fellow's impudence!” said Jack to himself; and he did not answer the invitation.
Personally his situation was desperate enough, but he was not inclined to face it. In a sort of stupor he let the law take its course. There was nothing left of his fortune, and his creditors were in possession of his house and all it contained. “Do not try to keep anything back that legally belongs to them,” Edith had written when he informed her of this last humiliation. Of course decency was observed. Jack's and Edith's wardrobes, and some pieces of ancestral furniture that he pointed out as belonging to his wife, were removed before the auction flag was hung out. When this was over he still temporized. Edith's affectionate entreaties to him to leave the dreadful city and come home were evaded on one plea or another. He had wild schemes of going off West or South—of disappearing. Perhaps he would have luck somewhere. He couldn't ask aid or seek occupation of his friends, but some place where he was not known he felt that he might do something to regain his position, get some situation, or make some money—lots of men had done it in a new country and reinstate himself in Edith's opinion.
But he did not go, and days and weeks went by in irresolution. No word came from Carmen, and this humiliated Jack more than anything else—not the loss of her friendship, but the remembrance that he had ever danced attendance on her and trusted her. He was getting a good many wholesome lessons in these days.
One afternoon he called upon Miss Tavish. There was no change in her. She received him with her usual gay cordiality, and with no affectation.
“I didn't know what had become of you,” she said.
“I've been busy,” he replied, with a faint attempt at a smile.
“Yes, I know. It's been an awful time, what with Henderson's death and everything else. Almost everybody has been hit. But,” and she looked at him cheerfully, “they will come up again; up and down; it is always so. Why, even I got a little twist in that panic.” The girl was doing what she could in her way to cheer him up.
“I think of going off somewhere to seek my fortune,” said Jack, with a rueful smile.
“Oh, I hope not; your friends wouldn't like that. There is no place like New York, I'm sure.” And there was a real note of friendliness and encouragement in her tone. “Only,” and she gave him another bright smile, “I think of running away from it myself, for a time. It's a secret yet. Carmen wants me to go abroad with her.”
“I have not seen Mrs. Henderson since her husband's death. How is she?”
“Oh, she bears up wonderfully. But then she has so much to do, poor thing. And then the letters she gets, the begging letters. You've no idea. I don't wonder she wants to go abroad. Don't stay away so long again,” she said as Jack rose to go. “And, oh, can't you come in to dinner tomorrow night—just Carmen—I think I can persuade her—and nobody else?”
“I'm sorry that I have an engagement,” Jack answered.
“Well, some other time. Only soon.”
This call did Jack temporarily a world of good. It helped his self-esteem. But it was only temporary. The black fact stared him in the face every morning that he was ruined. And it came over him gradually that he was a useless member of society. He never had done anything; he was not trained or fitted to do anything. And this was impressed upon him in the occasional attempts he made to get employment. He avoided as much as possible contact with those who knew him. Shame prevented him from applying to them for occupation, and besides he very well knew that to those who knew him his idle career was no recommendation. Yet he formed a habit of going down-town every day and looking for work. His appearance commanded civility, but everywhere he met with refusal, and he began to feel like a well-bred tramp. There had been in his mind before no excuse for tramps. He could see now how they were made.
It was not that he lacked capacity. He knew a great deal, in an amateurish way, about pictures, books, bric-a-brac, and about society. Why shouldn't he write? He visited the Loan Exhibition, and wrote a careful criticism on the pictures and sent it to a well-known journal. It was returned with thanks: the journal had its own art critic. He prepared other articles about curious books, and one about porcelain and pottery. They were all returned, except one which gave the history of a rare bit of majolica, which had been picked up forty cents and then sold for five hundred dollars, and was now owned by a collector who had paid four thousand dollars for it. For that the newspaper sent him five dollars. That was not encouraging, and his next effort for the same journal was returned. Either he hadn't the newspaper knack, or the competition was too great.
He had ceased going to his club. It was too painful to meet his acquaintances in his altered circumstances, and it was too expensive. It even annoyed him to meet Major Fairfax. That philosopher had not changed towards him any more than Miss Tavish had, but it was a melancholy business to talk of his affairs, and to listen to the repeated advice to go down to the country to Edith, and wait for some good opening. That was just what he could not do. His whole frivolous life he began now to see as she must have seen it. And it seemed to him that he could only retain a remnant of his self-respect by doing something that would reinstate him in her opinion.
“Very well,” said the Major, at the close of the last of their talks at the club; “what are you going to do?”
“I'm going into some business,” said Jack, stiffly.
“Have you spoken to any of your friends?”
“No. It's no use,” he said, bitterly; “they are all like me, or they know me.”
“And hasn't your wife some relations who are in business?”
“The last people I should apply to. No. I'm going to look around. Major, do you happen to know a cheap lodging-house that is respectable?”
“I don't know any that is not respectable,” the Major replied, in a huffy manner.
“I beg your pardon,” said Jack. “I want to reduce expenses.”
The Major did know of a place in the neighborhood where he lived. He gave Jack the address, and thereafter the club and his usual resorts knew him no more.
As the days went by and nothing happened to break the monotony of his waiting and his fruitless search, he became despondent. Day after day he tramped about the city, among the business portions, and often on the East Side, to see misery worse than his own. He had saved out of the wreck his ample wardrobe, his watch, and some jewelry, and upon these he raised money for his cheap lodgings and his cheap food. He grew careless of his personal appearance. Every morning he rose and went about the city, always with less hope, and every night he returned to his lodging, but not always sober.
One day he read the announcement that Mrs. Rodney Henderson and Miss Tavish had sailed for Europe. That ended that chapter. What exactly he had expected he could not say. Help from Carmen? Certainly not. But there had never been a sign from her, nor any word from Mavick lately. There evidently was nothing. He had been thrown over. Carmen evidently had no more use for him. She had other plans. The thought that he had been used and duped was almost more bitter than his loss.
In after-days Jack looked back upon this time with a feeling akin to thankfulness for Carmen's utter heartlessness in regard to his affairs. He trembled to think what might have happened to him if she had sent for him and consulted him and drawn him again into the fatal embrace of her schemes and her fascinations. Now he was simply enraged when he thought of her, and irritated with himself.
These were dark days, days to which he looked back with a shudder. He wrote to Edith frequently—a brief note. He was straightening out his affairs; he was busy. But he did not give her his address, and he only got her letters when the Major forwarded them from the club, which was irregularly. A stranger, who met him at his lodgings or elsewhere, would have said that he was an idle and rather dissipated-looking man. He was idle, except in his feeble efforts to get work; he was worn and discouraged, but he was not doing anything very bad. In his way of looking at it, he was carrying out his notion of honor. He was only breaking a woman's heart.
He was conscious of little except his own misfortunes and misery. He did not yet apprehend his own selfishness nor her nobility. He did not yet comprehend the unselfishness of a good woman's love.
On the East Side one day, as he was sauntering along Grand Street, he encountered Dr. Leigh, his wife's friend, whom he had seen once at his house. She did not at first recognize him until he stopped and spoke his name.
“Oh,” she said, with surprise at seeing him, and at his appearance, “I didn't expect to see you here. I thought everybody had gone from the city. Perhaps you are going to the Neighborhood Guild?”
“No,” and Jack forced a little laugh, “I'm not so good as that. I'm kept in town on business. I strolled over here to see how the other side of life looks.”
“It doesn't improve. It is one of the worst summers I ever saw. Since Mr. Henderson's death—”
“What difference did Henderson's death make over here?”
“Why, he had deposited a little fund for Father Damon to draw on, and the day after his death the bank returned a small check with the notice that there was no deposit to draw on. It had been such a help in extraordinary cases. Perhaps you saw some allusion to it in the newspapers?”
“Wasn't it the Margaret Fund?”
“Yes. Father Damon dropped a note to Mrs. Henderson explaining about it. No reply came.”
“As he might have expected.” Dr. Leigh looked up quickly as if for an explanation, but Jack ignored the query, and went on. “And Father Damon, is he as active as ever?”
“He has gone.”
“What, left the city, quit his work? And the mission?”
“I don't suppose he will ever quit his work while he lives, but he is much broken down. The mission chapel is not closed, but a poor woman told me that it seemed so.”
“And he will not return? Mrs. Delancy will be so sorry.”
“I think not. He is in retreat now, and I heard that he might go to Baltimore. I thought of your wife. She was so interested in his work. Is she well this summer?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Jack, and they parted. But as she went on her way his altered appearance struck her anew, and she wondered what had happened.
This meeting with Mr. Delancy recalled most forcibly Edith, her interest in the East Side work, her sympathy with Father Damon and the mission, the first flush of those days of enthusiasm. When Father Damon began his work the ladies used to come in their carriages to the little chapel with flowers and money and hearts full of sympathy with the devoted priest. Alone of all these Edith had been faithful in her visits, always, when she was in town. And now the whole glittering show of charity had vanished for the time, and Father Damon—The little doctor stopped, consulted a memorandum in her hand-bag, looked up at the tenement-house she was passing, and then began to climb its rickety stairway.
Yes, Father Damon had gone, and Ruth Leigh simply went on with her work as before. Perhaps in all the city that summer there was no other person whose daily life was so little changed as hers. Others were driven away by the heat, by temporary weariness, by the need of a vacation and change of scene. Some charities and some clubs and schools were temporarily suspended; other charities, befitting the name, were more active, the very young children were most looked after, and the Good Samaritans of the Fresh-Air Funds went about everywhere full of this new enthusiasm of humanity. But the occupation of Ruth Leigh remained always the same, in a faithful pertinacity that nothing could wholly discourage, in a routine that no projects could kindle into much enthusiasm. Day after day she went about among the sick and the poor, relieving and counseling individuals, and tiring herself out in that personal service, and more and more conscious, when she had time, at night, for instance, to think, of the monstrous injustice somewhere, and at times in a mood of fierce revolt against the social order that made all this misery possible and hopeless.
Yet a great change had come into her life—the greatest that can come to any man or woman in the natural order. She loved and she was loved. An ideal light had been cast upon her commonplace existence, the depths of her own nature had been revealed to herself. In this illuminating light she walked about in the misery of this world. This love must be denied, this longing of the heart for companionship could never be gratified, yet after all it was a sweet self-sacrifice, and the love itself brought its own consolation. She had not to think of herself as weak, and neither was her lover's image dimmed to her by any surrender of his own principle or his own ideal. She saw him, as she had first seen him, a person consecrated and set apart, however much she might disagree with his supernatural vagaries—set apart to the service of humanity. She had bitter thoughts sometimes of the world, and bitter thoughts of the false system that controlled his conduct, but never of him.
It was unavoidable that she should recall her last interview with him, and that the image of his noble, spiritual face should be ever distinct in her mind. And there was even a certain comfort in this recollection.
Father Damon had indeed striven, under the counsel of his own courage and of Brother Monies, to conquer himself on the field of his temptation. But with his frail physique it was asking too much. This at last was so evident that the good brother advised him, and the advice was in the nature of a command in his order, to retire for a while, and then take up his work in a fresh field.
When this was determined on, his desire was nearly irresistible to see Ruth Leigh; he thought it would be cowardly to disappear and not say good-by. Indeed, it was necessary to see her and explain the stoppage of help from the Margaret Fund. The check that he had drawn, which was returned, had been for one of Dr. Leigh's cases. With his failure to elicit any response from Mrs. Henderson, the hope, raised by the newspaper comments on the unexecuted will, that the fund would be renewed was dissipated.
In the interview which Father Damon sought with Dr. Leigh at the Women's Hospital all this was explained, and ways and means were discussed for help elsewhere.
“I wanted to talk this over with you,” said Father Damon, “because I am going away to take a rest.”
“You need it, Father Damon,” was Ruth's answer, in a professional manner.
“And—and,” he continued, with some hesitation, “probably I shall not return to this mission.”
“Perhaps that will be best,” she said, simply, but looking up at him now, with a face full of tender sympathy.
“I am sure of it,” he replied, turning away from her gaze. “The fact is, doctor, I am a little hipped—overworked, and all that. I shall pull myself together with a little rest. But I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your work, and—and what a comfort you have been to me in my poor labors. I used to hope that some time you would see this world in relation to the other, and—”
“Yes, I know,” she interrupted, hastily, “I cannot think as you do, but—” And she could not go on for a great lump in her throat. Involuntarily she rose from her seat. The interview was too trying. Father Damon rose also. There was a moment's painful silence as they looked in each other's faces. Neither could trust the voice for speech. He took her hand and pressed it, and said “God bless you!” and went out, closing the door softly.
A moment after he opened it again and stood on the threshold. She was in her chair, her head bowed upon her arms on the table. As he spoke she looked up, and she never forgot the expression of his face.
“I want to say, Ruth”—he had never before called her by her first name, and his accent thrilled her—“that I shall pray for you as I pray for myself, and though I may never see you again in this world, the greatest happiness that can come to me in this life will be to hear that you have learned to say Our Father which art in heaven.”
As she looked he was gone, and his last words remained a refrain in her mind that evening and afterwards—“Our Father which art in heaven”—a refrain recurring again and again in all her life, inseparable from the memory of the man she loved.
Along the Long Island coast lay the haze of early autumn. It was the time of lassitude. In the season of ripening and decay Nature seemed to have lost her spring, and lay in a sort of delicious languor. Sea and shore were in a kind of truce, and the ocean south wind brought cool refreshment but no incentive.
From the sea the old brown farmhouse seemed a snug haven of refuge; from the inland road it appeared, with its spreading, sloping roofs, like an ancient sea-craft come ashore, which had been covered in and then embowered by kindly Nature with foliage. In those days its golden-brown color was in harmony with the ripening orchards and gardens.
Surely, if anywhere in the world, peace was here. But to its owner this very peace and quietness was becoming intolerable. The waiting days were so long, the sleepless nights of uncertainty were so weary. When her work was done, and Edith sat with a book or some sewing under the arbor where the grape clusters hung, growing dark and transparent, and the boy played about near her, she had a view of the blue sea, and about her were the twitter of birds and the hum of the cicada. The very beauty made her heart ache. Seaward there was nothing—nothing but the leaping little waves and the sky. From the land side help might come at any hour, and at every roll of wheels along the road her heart beat faster and hope sprang up anew. But day after day nothing came.
Perhaps there is no greater bravery than this sort of waiting, doing the daily duty and waiting. Endurance is woman's bravery, and Edith was enduring, with an almost broken but still with a courageous heart. It was all so strange. Was it simply shame that kept him away, or had he ceased to love her? If the latter, there was no help for her. She had begged him to come, she had offered to leave the boy with her cousin companion and go to him. Perhaps it was pride only. In one of his short letters he had said, “Thank God, your little fortune is untouched.” If it were pride only, how could she overcome it? Of this she thought night and day. She thought, and she was restless, feverish, and growing thin in her abiding anxiety.
It was true that her own fortune was safe and in her control. But with the usual instinct of women who know they have an income not likely to be ever increased, she began to be economical. She thought not of herself; but of the boy. It was the boy's fortune now. She began to look sharply after expenses; she reduced her household; she took upon herself the care of the boy, and other household duties. This was all well for her, for it occupied her time, and to some extent diverted her thoughts.
So the summer passed—a summer of anxiety, longing, and dull pain for Edith. The time came when the uncertainty of it could no longer be endured. If Jack had deserted her, even if he should die, she could order her life and try to adjust her heavy burden. But this uncertainty was quite beyond her power to sustain.
She made up her mind that she would go to the city and seek him. It was what he had written that she must not on any account do, but nothing that could happen to her there could be so bad as this suspense. Perhaps she could bring him back. If he refused, and was angry at her interference, that even would be something definite. And then she had carefully thought out another plan. It might fail, but some action had now become for her a necessity.
Early one morning—it was in September-she prepared for a journey to the city. This little trip, which thousands of people made daily, took on for her the air of an adventure. She had been immured so long that it seemed a great undertaking. And when she bade good-by to the boy for the day she hugged him and kissed him again and again, as if it were to be an eternal farewell. To her cousin were given the most explicit directions for his care, and after she had started for the train she returned to give further injunctions. So she told herself, but it was really for one more look at the boy.
But on the whole there was a certain exhilaration in the preparation and the going, and her spirits rose as they had not done in months before. Arrived in the city, she drove at once to the club Jack most frequented. “He is not in,” the porter said; “indeed, Mr. Delancy has not been here lately.”
“Is Major Fairfax in?” Edith asked.
Major Fairfax was in, and he came out immediately to her carriage. From him she learned Jack's address, and drove to his lodging-house. The Major was more than civil; he was disposed to be sympathetic, but he had the tact to see that Mrs. Delancy did not wish to be questioned, nor to talk.
“Is Mr. Delancy at home?” she asked the small boy who ran the elevator.
“No'me.”
“And he did not say where he was going?”
“No'me.”
“Is he not sometimes at home in the daytime?”
“No'me.”
“And what time does he usually come home in the evening?”
“Don't know. After I've gone, I guess.”
Edith hesitated whether she should leave a card or a note, but she decided not to do either, and ordered the cabman to take her to Pearl Street, to the house of Fletcher & Co.
Mr. Fletcher, the senior partner, was her cousin, the son of her father's elder brother, and a man now past sixty years. Circumstances had carried the families apart socially since the death of her father and his brother, but they were on the most friendly terms, and the ties of blood were not in any way weakened. Indeed, although Edith had seen Gilbert Fletcher only a few times since her marriage, she felt that she could go to him any time if she were in trouble, with the certainty of sympathy and help. He had the reputation of the old-fashioned New York merchants, to whom her father belonged, for integrity and conservatism.
It was to him that she went now. The great shop, or wholesale warehouse rather, into which she entered from the narrow and cart-encumbered street, showed her at once the nature of the business of Fletcher & Co. It was something in the twine and cordage way. There were everywhere great coils of ropes and bales of twine, and the dark rooms had a tarry smell. Mr. Fletcher was in his office, a little space partitioned off in the rear, with half a dozen clerks working by gaslight, and a little sanctum where the senior partner was commonly found at his desk.
Mr. Fletcher was a little, round-headed man, with a shrewd face, vigorous and cheerful, thoroughly a man of business, never speculating, and who had been slowly gaining wealth by careful industry and cautious extension of his trade. Certain hours of the day—from ten to three—he gave to his business. It was a habit, and it was a habit that he enjoyed. He had now come back, as he told Edith, from a little holiday at the sea, where his family were, to get into shape for the fall trade.
Edith was closeted with him for a full hour. When she came out her eyes were brighter and her step more elastic. At sundown she reached home, almost in high spirits. And when she snatched up the boy and hugged him, she whispered in his ear, “Baby, we have done it, and we shall see.”
One night when Jack returned from his now almost aimless tramping about the city he found a letter on his table. It seemed from the printing on the envelope to be a business letter; and business, in the condition he was in—and it was the condition in which he usually came home—did not interest him. He was about to toss the letter aside, when the name of Fletcher caught his eye, and he opened it.
It was a brief note, written on an office memorandum, which simply asked Mr. Delancy to call at the office as soon as it was convenient, as the writer wished to talk with him on a matter of business, and it was signed “Gilbert Fletcher.”
“Why don't he say what his business is?” said Jack, throwing the letter down impatiently. “I am not going to be hauled over the coals by any of the Fletchers.” And he tumbled into bed in an injured and yet independent frame of mind.
But the next morning he reread the formal little letter in a new light. To be sure, it was from Edith's cousin. He knew him very well; he was not a person to go out of his way to interfere with anybody, and more than likely it was in relation to Edith's affairs that he was asked to call. That thought put a new aspect on the matter. Of course if it concerned her interests he ought to go. He dressed with unusual care for him in these days, breakfasted at the cheap restaurant which he frequented, and before noon was in the Fletcher warehouse in Pearl Street.
He had never been there before, and he was somewhat curious to see what sort of a place it was where Gilbert carried on the string business, as he used to call it when speaking to Edith of her cousin's occupation. It was a much more dingy and smelly place than he expected, but the carts about the doors, and the bustle of loading and unloading, of workmen hauling and pulling, and of clerks calling out names and numbers to be registered and checked, gave him the impression that it was not a dull place.
Mr. Fletcher received him in the little dim back office with a cordial shake of the hand, gave him a chair, and reseated himself, pushing back the papers in front of him with the air of a very busy man who was dropping for a moment one thing in order to give his mind promptly to another.
“Our fall trade is just starting up,” he said, “and it keeps us all pretty busy.”
“Yes,” said Jack. “I could drop in any other time—”
“No, no,” interrupted Mr. Fletcher; “it is just because I am busy that I wanted to see you. Are you engaged in anything?”
“Nothing in particular,” replied Jack, hesitating. “I'd thought of going into some business.” And then, after a pause: “It's no use to mince matters. You know—everybody knows, I suppose—that I got hit in that Henderson panic.”