CHAPTER II.
Accordingly, the next day I called upon Mrs. Walworth. She lived, as Ialready knew, in a small and unpretentious house just on the verge ofour most fashionable quarter. But there was great taste displayed in thefurnishing of that house, and I was not at all surprised to seeevidences here and there of a poverty which the general effect tended tomake you forget. I was fortunate enough to find her in, and still morefortunate to find her alone, but my courage fell as I confronted her,for she has one of those appealing faces that equally interest andbaffle you, making you feel that unless your errand be one of peace andcomfort, you had better not confront so tremulous a mouth and so tendera hazel eye. But I had steeled myself against too much sympathy when Ientered her presence, so barely pausing to make my most ingratiatingbow, I took her by the hand, and gently forcing her to stand for amoment where the light from the one window fell full upon her face, Isaid:
"You must pardon my intrusion upon you at a time when you are naturallybusy, but there is something you can do for me that will rid me of agreat anxiety. You remember being in ---- Hotel one morning last month?"
She was looking quietly up at me, her lips parted, her eyes smiling andexpectant, but at the mention of that hotel I thought--and yet I mayhave been mistaken--that a slight change took place in her expression,if it was only that the glance grew more gentle and the smile moremarked.
But her voice when she answered was the same as that with which she haduttered her greeting.
"I do not remember," she replied, "yet I may have been there; I go to somany places. Why do you ask?" she inquired.
"Because if you were there on that morning--and I have been told youwere--you may be able to solve a question that is greatly perplexingme."
Still the same gentle inquiring look on her face, only now there was alittle furrow of wonder or interest between the eyes.
"I had business in that hotel on that morning," I continued. "I had lefta letter for a young friend of mine in the Bible that lies on the smalltable of the inner parlor, and as she never received it, I have beendriven into making all kinds of inquiries, in hope of finding someexplanation of the fact. As you were there at the time, you may haveseen something that would aid me. Is it not possible, Mrs. Walworth?"
Her smile, which had faded, reappeared on the lips which Taylor so muchadmired, a little pout became visible and she looked quite enchanting.
"I do not even remember being at that hotel at all," she protested. "DidMr. Taylor say I was there?" she inquired, with just that added look ofexquisite naivete which the utterance of a lover's name should call upon the face of a prospective bride.
"No," I answered gravely, "Mr. Taylor, unhappily, was not with you thatmorning."
She looked startled.
"Unhappily," she repeated. "What do you mean by that word?" And she drewback looking very much displeased.
I had expected this and so was not thrown off my guard.
"I mean," I proceeded calmly, "that if you had had such a companion withyou on that morning I should now be able to put my question to him,instead of taking up your time and interrupting your affairs by myimportunities."
She lost her look of anger and acquired one of doubt. Did she survey meso closely because she was anxious to know if I had compromised her inthe eyes of her intended husband? Or was her expression merely thatnatural to innocence equally startled and perplexed? I could notdetermine.
"You will tell me just what you mean?" said she earnestly.
I was equally emphatic in my reply. "That is only just. You ought toknow why I trouble you with this matter. It is because this letter ofwhich I speak was taken from its hiding place by some one who went intothe hotel parlor between the hours of half past ten and twelve, and tomy certain knowledge only three persons crossed its threshold on thatespecial morning at that especial time. I naturally appeal to each ofthem in turn for an answer to the problem that is troubling me. You knowMiss N. Seeing by accident a letter addressed to her lying in a Bible ina strange hotel, you might think it your duty to take it out and carryit to her. If you did and if you lost it----"
"But I didn't," she interrupted warmly. "I know nothing about any suchletter, and if you had not declared so positively that I was in thathotel on that especial day, I should be tempted to deny that, too, for Ihave no recollection of going there last month."
"Not for the purpose of rearranging a veil that had been blown off?"
"Oh!" she said, but as one who recalls a forgotten fact, not as one whois tripped up in an evasion.
I began to think her innocent and lost some of the gloom which had beenoppressing me.
"You remember now," said I.
"Oh, yes, I remember that."
Her manner so completely declared that her acknowledgments stoppedthere, I saw it would be useless to venture further. If she wereinnocent she could not tell more, if she were guilty she would not; sofeeling that the inclination of my belief was in favor of the formerhypothesis, I again took her hand and said:
"I see that you can give me no help. I am sorry, for the whole happinessof a man, and perhaps that of a woman also, depends upon the discoveryas to who took the letter from out the Bible where I had hidden it onthat unfortunate morning." And making her another low bow, I was aboutto take my departure when she grasped me impulsively by the arm.
"What man?" she whispered, and in a lower tone still, "What woman?"
I turned and looked at her. "Great heaven!" thought I, "can such a facehide a selfish and intriguing heart?" and in a flash I summoned up incomparison before me the plain, honest, and reliable countenance of Mrs.Couldock and that of the comely and unpretending Miss Dawes, and knewnot what to think.
"You do not mean yourself?" she continued as she met my look ofdistress.
"No," I returned; "happily for me, my welfare is not bound up in thehonor of any woman," and leaving that shaft to work its way into herheart if that heart was vulnerable, I took my leave, more troubled andless decided than when I entered.
For her manner had been absolutely that of a woman surprised byinsinuations she was too innocent to rate at their real importance; andyet if she did not take away that letter who did? Mrs. Couldock?Impossible. Miss Dawes? The thought was untenable even for an instant. Iwaited in great depression of spirits for the call which I knew Taylorwould not fail to make me that evening.
When he came I saw what the result of my revelations was likely to be asplainly as I see it now. He had conversed frankly with Mrs. Couldock andwith Miss Dawes and was perfectly convinced as to the utter ignorance ofthem both in regard to the whole affair. In consequence, Mrs. Walworthwas guilty in his estimation, and being held guilty could be no wife forhim, much as he had loved her and urgent as may have been the causes forher act.
"But," said I, in some horror of the consequences of an interference forwhich I was almost ready to blame myself now, "Mrs. Couldock and MissDawes could have done no more than deny all knowledge of this letter.Now Mrs. Walworth does that, and----"
"You have seen her? You have asked her----"
"Yes, I have seen her and I have asked her, and not an eyelash droopedas she affirmed a complete ignorance of the whole affair."
Taylor's head fell.
"I told you how that would be," he murmured at last. "I cannot feel thatit is any proof of her innocence. Or rather," he added, "I should alwayshave my doubts."
"And Mrs. Couldock and Miss Dawes?"
"Ah!" he cried, rising and turning away. "There is no question ofmarriage between either of them and myself."
I was therefore not astonished when the week went by and no announcementof his wedding appeared. But I was troubled and I am troubled still, forif mistakes are made in criminal courts and the innocent sometimesthrough the sheer force of circumstantial evidence are made to sufferfor the guilty, might it not be that in this letter question of morals,Mrs. Walworth has been wronged, and that when I played the part ofarbitrator in her fate, I only succeeded in separating two hearts
whoseright it was to be made happy? It is impossible to tell. Nor is timelikely to solve the riddle. Must I then forever blame myself, or did Ionly do in this matter what any honest man would have done in my place?Answer me, some one, for I do not find my lonely bachelor life in anywise brightened by the doubt, and would be grateful to any one who wouldrelieve me of it.
THE END.
_Uniform with this Work._
Noughts and Crosses. By Q, Author of "Dead Man's Rock," &c.
Fourteen to One, and other Stories. By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.
Otto the Knight, and other Stories. By OCTAVE THANET.
Eleven Possible Cases. By FRANK STOCKTON, JOAQUIN MILLER, Q, and others.
A Singer's Wife. By FANNY N. D. MURFREE.
The Poet's Audience, and Delilah. By CLARE SAVILE CLARKE.
Eleven Possible Cases Page 25
