CHAPTER III.
When Constance revived, she found herself in a quiet room remote fromnoise or intrusion, whither she had been tenderly carried. Virginiawas with her, and with the aid of a professional nurse, who lived nearby and was called in by Mrs. Harris, had been successful in restoringher to consciousness.
The reception was still swinging along at its full height, and while afew of the guests had heard in an indifferent way of some trouble onthe lawn, the reports were so varied and coupled with the fact that nonames were obtainable to give the reports zest, the incident was soonforgotten, and by the great mass of the guests was not even heard of.
It was a sore spot in her breast that throbbed and beat heavily uponthe door of its prison as later she was being driven home in hercarriage. Not a word from John to soothe the aching void. She did noteven inquire about him, contenting herself with the simple assurancethat he was doing his best to find Dorothy.
For two days the strain was upon her, breaking down by its heartviolence her constitution, already frail to the declining point.Scarcely more than a year had passed since Constance had been strickendown with typhoid fever of a malignant type.
She had never regained her usual health and strength, and though thefamily physician had pronounced her recovery complete, there werethose of her friends who, with bated breath, questioned his conclusionand predicted an after effect which in time would develop some strangeand serious ailment.
Telephone inquiries regarding the lost child began to come in thesecond day, but none of any comfort to the distracted mother.
Not one intimation of her husband's quarrel with Corway had reachedher. Mrs. Harris had been careful, upon Constance's recovery at thereception, not to breathe a word, or to allow, where she could controlit, the faintest whisper likely to arouse her suspicion.
And as for Hazel, she had not clearly understood Mr. Thorpe's driftwhen he assaulted Corway. Nevertheless, she somehow had a vague ideathat Constance was the cause; but being a discreet young woman, shehad refrained from mentioning anything about it to her, thus leavingConstance completely ignorant of the true cause of John Thorpe'sabsence from home.
Perhaps if she had not been so absorbed in the recovery of Dorothy,her attention would have been arrested on perusing one of the dailypapers by an ambiguous paragraph referring to a choice morsel ofscandal on the "tapis" in a prominent family, and which was likely toterminate in a tragedy. It was a society paragraph separate from thereport of the probable drowning of the child, Dorothy Thorpe. Severalpersonal acquaintances had become aware, through the crafty Rutley, ofa serious difference having arisen between John Thorpe and hisbeautiful wife, and some of these personal acquaintances, withsignificant looks, at once connected it with the mysteriousdisappearance of the child.
The fact that none of the fashionable set had visited her since thereception did not suggest a thought of being shunned. And so shewaited for news of her child--waited with heart leaden with the chillof hope deferred--waited in momentary expectation of the home-coming ofJohn.
She watched for him through the window, foreshadowing by hisappearance on the walk gladness or sorrow.
"It is now the second day," she muttered, "since that eventful night,and yet no relief from this awful suspense. No word to cheer, or leadme to hope that Dorothy lives."
"It is no use grieving so much, Constance," broke in Hazel, who hadjust entered the room. "Dorothy may be safe with her father,somewhere. Try, dear, to think so, anyway. It is much the best."
"I cannot put away that winsome face from my mind, Hazel. Somethingtells me that I shall see her no more," and tears came into her eyes,despite her efforts to restrain them.
"There, yees be at it again, sure mam, yees do be makin' us all feelmiserable."
It was Smith who spoke, in a soft, appealing voice, full of sympathyand tenderness, the common heritage of his race. He had entered theroom by the parlor door, and stood with his hat in his hand--a short,thick-set man, with a full, smooth-shaven, ruddy face, strong in itslines of "true to a trust." His thin hair was tinged with gray. Hewore a black frock coat that had seen considerable wear; in fact, thatstyle of a coat was worn by him for the double purpose of partlyconcealing the "humiliating" curves of his short bent legs, and alsothe dignity he fancied it lent to his stature. He had been the familycoachman for some years, and was familiarly called "Smith."
As Constance turned to him, he continued with a look suggestive oftearful sympathy.
"Will yees try to forget the trouble, and be the token av it, may itplaise ye mam, just wipe away that tear, do, dear."
"You have always been a good soul, Smith," and Constance tried tosmile through her tears.
"Of course, but we are anxious to know the result of your search,"remarked Hazel.
He was silent for a moment, and nervously commenced to fidget with hishat.
"Sure, ave yees'l wait till I think ave all the places I whint to, andall the people I sphoke to"--and he dolefully muttered under hisbreath--"Sure I dunno what I'll rayport at all, at all--"
"You are very thoughtful and persistent, Smith," responded Constance.
"Yis, indade, mam, I try to be that very same. Sure, wasn't I up atRose-a-mant and walked the bache there and watched the boats, butniver a sight did I git ave Mr. Thorpe."
"I know John is leaving no stone unturned to find Dorothy," assuredConstance, "but you, poor man, you must be tired with your long walk."
"The walk was long, but me heart was warrum for yees, and I didn'tmoind it at all, at all. Sure, the child may not be in the water atall. Will yees try to think so, dear?" And again the beseeching lookcame over his expressive face.
"Do you think so, Smith?" interrogated Hazel.
"Well, I 'ave me own ideas, Miss, and to be plain, and not hurtin'yees failin's, I think she was kidnapped."
"You do?" questioned Hazel, surprised, for such a possibility hadnever crossed her mind.
"I do," he replied.
"Sure, I have no rason to think so, Miss, at all, at all; but says Ito myself, says I, 'I'll just flim-flam around the 'dago' quarters inSouth Portland, on me own account, keeping a sharp lookout betimes.'"
"What did you find there?" again asked the girl.
"Nothin' I wanted, Miss, unless it war a sassy fellow wid a big blackmoustache, and a skin full ave greenbile."
"But you were not looking for him," replied Hazel.
"Not wan bit, Miss, though I do belave now he do be lookin' for me.Indade, Miss, I was not failin' well at all, at all. Sure, wasn't thelittle darlint missin', and between the sorrow at home and the failin'in me heart, and the long walk, and the cowld mornin', and the sassylook the fellow gave me--"
"What were you doing that so offended him?" interrupted Hazel.
"Indade, I was just walkin' around Carbut Strate and Hood Strate for alittle divarsion--not wan bit more or less, Miss--an' he axed me what Iwanted. Says I to him, says I, respectful-like, 'Maybe yees can tellme did yees see a little girl strayin' about widout a home. A ladysint me to inquire.'
"He immejetly made some raymark, quick an' sharp-like, about the damdesavin' wimmen--"
"Oh!" Hazel exclaimed, interrupting him.
"Shocking!" exclaimed Constance.
Smith--"Indade Miss, Oi followed wid wan on the souleave his plexus."]
"Sure--and I beg yees pardon fir sayin' it, darlints, but that's justwhat he towld me and niver a wink whint wid it, the blackguard!
"I up and axed him who he'd be refarrin' to, because I had in my moinda sartin lady wid trouble ave her own.
"He says, says he, wid a snarl, 'None ave yees business.'
"Widout thinkin' whether he meant anything by it or not, I tould himhe was a gintleman and a liar, too. So I did."
"You insulted him!" exclaimed Hazel, astounded.
"Indade I did, Miss, in foine style, sure"--and he spoke softly toHazel--"he got it right betwix the two eyes, and I followed it wid wanon the soule ave his plexis."
"You did!
" Hazel exclaimed, amazed, yet with an irrepressible smilethat flickered about her pretty mouth.
"I did!" he replied gravely.
"Is the soul of one's plexus in his eyes, Smith?" interrogated Hazel.
"Sure, some say it do be the cramps; but I think it do be trouble avethe bowels, Miss," he answered.
"Poor man!" exclaimed Constance, and she looked at Smithreproachfully.
He quickly turned to her with a disgusted look on his face, and slowlyexclaimed, "Yis mam!"
During the silence that followed Smith realized that he had spokenhastily and rude, and the disgust so palpably in evidence quicklymerged into a look of grave concern.
His native wit, however, came to his aid in a singular apology.
"While the fellow hunted for a soft spot on the pavement, I called upa nearby doctor to help him," he said.
"You shall be repaid," Constance assured him in an absent manner.
"Plaise God, it will not be the 'dago' who'll do it!" he solemnlyreplied, and then he softly asked.
"Be there any more arders, mam?"
"No, Smith, you must be in need of rest. Thank you for all yourkindness," and Constance turned from him with grief, unaffected, stillon her face. "God bless yees!" he replied, and then as he turned toleave the room, said to himself, "I shud loike to see the wan--bad luckto him--who brought all this trouble on the poor missus," and he shuthis teeth tight in silent rage.
After he had gone Constance pressed her hand down on the top of herhead and said distractedly, "Still no word of encouragement; no reliefto this strain that seems to be tearing my brain asunder!"
Under the circumstances, inaction, to one of Hazel's temperament, wasanything but pleasant, and the young girl was to be condoned ratherthan censured for desiring to get away from the distress that pervadedthe house. Moreover, she felt that something must be done to relievethe strain that weighed so heavily upon Constance.
"Don't you think I had better see Mrs. Harris, dear?" she said, with awistful look of sympathy at Constance. "Perhaps she may have somethingto tell."
"Very well," replied Constance. "Do, dear, if you think some good maycome from your visit. Virginia may be home soon and I shall not bealone."
"I shall get my wraps."
After Hazel had left the room, Constance, dispirited and sadly out ofharmony with Smith's simple recital of his search for Dorothy, steppedout on the piazza, as though the air of the close room oppressed her.
The sky was cloudy, the air raw and cold.
Dorothy's pet canary, with its bill thrust under its wing, rested onthe perch of its cage, glum and inert, immediately before her.
"Poor thing!" she exclaimed tenderly. "Sweet, sweet! Look up, pet!"
The dainty little beauty, with a throat of silky mellowness, lookedcuriously about, gave a "cheep" of recognition and then again buriedits bill under its wing.
"Even my darling's pet will not be comforted." And tears stole intoher eyes as she turned away from the bird. "Oh, Sam, I've been soanxious to hear from you! Have you found my darling?"
Sam had approached the steps unseen by her, and when she turned awayfrom the bird he stood directly in front of her, though at a littledistance.
Her mind at once recalled his words, which rang in her ears as shesank to the ground on that fateful night of the reception, and it wastherefore the first and most natural question uppermost in her mindwhen she saw him.
He started back in evident surprise and answered confusedly:
"Well--I--I am sure, Mrs. Thorpe, if I had found her, I should only betoo glad to--to tell you."
"And you have no tidings of her? But--come in, I am sure somethingimportant brought you here."
She entered the house, followed by Sam, who muttered to himself,"She's conjuring tears already, but I'm proof, were they to fall likerain. I guess so!"
Upon entering the room he looked at her steadfastly and quizically.
There was something in his look, too, that bore the imprint ofeffrontery.
She stared at him and asked timidly with alarm in her voice. "Oh, whatdo you know of her?"
"I--I--beg your pardon, Mrs. Thorpe, but--well, the truth is, I called toknow if you have any information of her."
"How can you ask that question of me?" replied Constance brokenly,while again the tears welled up in her eyes.
"You see, madam--ahem! You won't be offended with me, for God knows Ido not mean any offense to you, but--ahem--you see, madam, you are theunhappy cause of as fine a hearted gentleman as was ever born being abroken-spirited, a--a--blighted man!"
"Sam!" she affrightedly exclaimed. "What are you saying?"
"This," continued he, with dauntless determination, "and I'll tell youthe truth. You are the talk of the town, and they say you--you--you'vesecured the child from your husband."
Her face became ashy white as the meaning of John's absence from homedawned on her mind. She staggered, then sank into a chair. Presentlyshe looked up with a sort of dazed, wandering expression and tried tosmile through watery eyes. "My cup of woe is very full, Sam! Pleasedon't jest with me!"
He wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he felt his resolution toaccomplish what he had set out to do was fast crumbling.
He rushed on, "I am not jesting. No, I guess not! I know I am painingyou, but I have a duty to do which I shall do, as I have always donethrough my life. And as this affair occurred at my uncle's place, theysay he knows more about it than he cares to tell, which he doesn't.And I have come to see if you really don't know something of thewhereabouts of Dorothy, as that would relieve my uncle and aunt ofmuch embarrassment--at least--I guess so!"
Her lips trembled with the pathos of her reply: "Did I know of thefate of my child, heaven could not bless me with a more joyfuldesire--to let you know, to let your aunt know, that Dorothy is--issafe. As it is, I would to heaven that I were dead and with mydarling." And her head fell forward on the table as a burst ofheart-rending agony shook her frame.
It was evident Sam was uneasy and much affected by her distress. Hecoughed and tried to clear his throat again and again. "Ahem!--you mustexcuse me, Mrs. Thorpe--ahem! But--but, Lord--Lord! I can't bear to hearyou take on that way. Ahem! Ahem! I'm rough and thoughtless in my way,and it seems harsh and brutal to speak to you as I have done--I guessso!--and if any man in my hearing says you have hidden your child--why,by Heavens, I'll knock the lie back through his teeth."
Sam had forgotten his resolution to resist the influence of a woman'stears; moreover, he felt convinced he was standing in the presence ofa true, atrociously wronged and much slandered woman, and in hiseagerness to undo the wrong he had done her by practically chargingher with the wrecking of her husband's happiness and connivance at thechild's disappearance, had lost control of that gentleness he felt dueto the weaker sex, especially this bereaved woman. He stammered anapology in a soft regretful tone of voice.
"I--I--beg your pardon. I--I could not help it. These expressions willslip out now and again, won't they? I guess so. I am satisfied you aredeeply grieved about Dorothy, and I'm interested in her, too. The factis, I was so anxious on my aunt's account that I have behaved like abrute. Now please understand me, you are not friendless, for I shalldo my best for you, and if Dorothy is out of water I'm going to findher. I'm off now, so good-bye!"
And he was gone--glad to get away from the distress that raised a lumpin his throat which all his labored coughing could not dislodge.
Sam had entered her presence a scoffer. He had made up his mind thather grief was as deceitful as her reputed double life. He departed,her firm friend and almost choked with disgust at his own readiness tobelieve the foul reports, magnified by gossiping busybodies.
Gradually Constances' emotion subsided. She sat upright in the chair.A significant dryness had come into her eyes as she stared at the wallwith profound abstraction. Out of the haze John Thorpe's picturegradually emerged.
Suddenly she exclaimed in strangely low tones, almost a whisper--tonesin which a woma
n's life was projected on the horoscope offaithfulness, immutable as the "Rock of Ages":
"John! John! You are breaking my heart!"
Then her mind began to settle upon one object--to see her husband, JohnThorpe.
"It must be some mistake!" she muttered. "It cannot be so. John wouldnever treat me thus. I will have Smith seek him and deliver a messageat once."
She went to her desk and wrote a hasty note, requesting John to comehome to her immediately. With the sealed note in her hand, she hurriedout to find Smith. She found him fast asleep on an old couch justinside the coach-house door, and remembering his tired look, softlysaid: "Poor man! How fatigued he must be! After all, what matters itfor a few hours?" And then, instead of arousing him, she took his coatoff the rack and gently covered him, murmuring in a broken voice thatbetrayed the pathos of her trouble: "Asleep, with the peace of Godresting on his face. Heaven bless and reward your faithful heart.Sleep on."
Returning to the house, she sat down at the table to think of apossible something she had done to cause John's unkind behavior.
A shadow darkened the doorway. She turned mechanically. A tall, graveand elderly gentleman, with stooping shoulders and bared head, stoodin the entrance.
Constance arose. He approached her and said softly: "I beg toapologize for the intrusion. The door being open, and seeing youwithin, I entered unannounced."
"Oh, Mr. Williams! Have you any tidings of Dorothy?"
"I regret not being able to bring any tidings of your child. The riverhas been carefully dragged for a considerable distance in front of'Rosemont.' I fear she is drowned and the body carried down to theColumbia."
"My poor darling!"
"There is yet hope, however, that your child lives. An old cripple--adisreputable looking vagabond--was seen lurking about the grounds thenight she was lost. He has not been seen since. Detectives are baffledin tracing him. He may have abducted your child. It's the only hopethat she is alive, though I admit, a frail one."
"Heaven give me strength to hope it is so. But who could be so cruelas to steal away my little darling? No, no, she is drowned!"
"I have to announce a disagreeable errand," and he paused, not quitesatisfied of the propriety of the moment for so serious a declarationas he was about to make; but he at length continued hesitatingly:
"As--as your--legal adviser--." Again he paused.
Constance looked at him timidly. A cold, creepy fear of somethingdreadful about to happen chilled her. Her blanched face and beseechingeyes warned him of very grave consequences.
"What is it, Judge?" she whispered with parched lips, "speak out; tellme what you have come for."
"Are you strong enough?--I think--perhaps--I had better defer--"
"Oh, yes, my strength is not great--but--the suspense--I cannot bear. Letme hear--what it is." He hesitated no longer.
"As your attorney, I have been served with a notice of an applicationfor a divorce, by John Thorpe, from his wife, Constance."
With bowed head he laid the document on the table.
She clasped her hand to her head, clutched the back of a chair forsupport, for the suddenness and weight of the blow staggered her. She,however, managed to bear herself bravely up.
"And--could--he really believe this of me?" she said distractedly.
"He has, at the same time, placed at your disposal in the NationalBank a sum of money for your immediate wants." He paused. A solemnquietness pervaded the room.
At length he continued in a low, grave tone: "I am prepared to receiveinstructions. Shall I give notice of your intention to resist hisapplication for divorce?"
Still leaning on the chair for support, and without lifting her bowedhead, or raising her downcast eyes, she said in a voice barelyarticulate with the huskiness and tremor of threatened physicalcollapse, "Please leave me for awhile. Providence has seen fit toafflict me so sorely that I must beg a little time to try to think.But, stay!" And her voice gathered a little strength in an effort tokeep from breaking down altogether:
"I desire to receive nothing from John. I shall not reply to hiscomplaint, and you will return the money he has placed to my credit inthe bank. Now, please leave me; I desire to be alone."
During his professional experience, the "Judge" had been a witness tomany painful scenes, and familiarity had calloused somewhat his senseof sympathy. But as he gazed upon the white, spiritually chaste faceof this frail woman, a conviction that a great wrong was being done toher forced and crowded itself upon his brain.
"Someone must answer for it before a higher than human court," hethought, and then with bent head he left her, feeling that he wouldvalue beyond price the power to effect a little gleam of sunshine toheal her broken heart.
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" he muttered, and he passed out from her presencewith words of Tennyson on his lips:
"Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, The sound of a voice that is still!"
After he had gone, Constance remained motionless. She was strangelyquiet, yet wrapt in thoughts of bitterest shame and grief, the worldhad little left for her to care for.
A sense of gloom enveloped her. Its shadow bore heavily upon heroppressed spirits, smothering by its weight the stifled cry of herheart's anguish.
It was therefore with a wondrously calm voice, pregnant with tragicpathos, that she at length broke the stillness: "I am sure of thecause of John's absence now, and the very worst has come to me. Whatnow can compensate me for the humiliation of being thought by him soshameless and debased? Oh, how wretched I am!" and with a moan, sheplaced her hand on the top of her head.
"Oh, heaven spare my reason--yet--what is reason to me now? Or--life? Mydarling is drowned. John has left me, and with them hope and happinessare gone forever."
It was then a strange, uncanny, desperate flash leapt into her eyes.Suddenly she withdrew her hand from the top of her head, but instantlypressed it to her brow.
In a moment her appearance underwent a great change. Under thecontinuous strain, the strands of grief and despair had at lastsnapped asunder and up rushed an exultation that instantly overwhelmedall opposition to a suddenly conceived and terrible purpose. Shewhispered with an earnestness intense as it was significant: "There isa way out." Then she suddenly burst into a frenzy of pathetic joy asshe thought of the phial of laudanum in the medicine chest in herroom.
"A passage to my darling beyond!"
She did not see Virginia standing in the doorway, nor did she pause assome do to take a last farewell look at earth and sky. Her mind wasset upon the swift accomplishment of an object.
Upon reaching her room, she took up the phial of laudanum and then, asshe fell on her knees, locked her hands together, and her voicesoftened into tenderness--softened in inexpressibly sweet and plaintivetones, as she cried out in a whisper of her soul's anguish:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me!"
She was standing in the shadow of the valley of death.
Strangely coincident, the inspiring notes of the "Star SpangledBanner" softly broke upon the air from a piano in the music roombelow. As the grand strains swelled upward, they were met with a breakin the clouds through which the sun poured down a flood of dazzlingglory.
At that moment Dorothy's pet canary began to sing. The delicate littlefeathered thing, that had nestled its bill under its wing in the rawcold of the morning, felt the warm influence of the sunshine that fellupon it, and looked up, twittered, lifted its voice in surprisedgladness, and then in response to the soft strains that were pealingforth from the music room, broke into song.
Higher and higher it swelled, cleaving the air with its exultantmelody.
Oh! the wild soaring flight of that joyous song!
Through the partly closed window it burst and flooded the room withits gladness and cheer. Death stayed his hand.
The little silken feathered throat of her darling's pet had turnedaside the "Grim Sickle."
She heard it. Out over the entrancing beauty of Autumn-dyedvegetation, her sad eyes wandered-
-wandered wistfully over naturebathed in the splendor of the sun's radiance. She heeded the call, andthen, appalled at her contemplated sin, she cowered--bowed down--lower,lower. In tones of resignation--tones tremulous with awe of theOmnipotent, she said: "Have pity upon me, Merciful Heaven!"
And then very softly Virginia knelt beside her, gently encircling herwaist with her arm, and looked into her spiritual face with eyesoverflowing with tears. In a broken voice, scarcely articulate througha great sob, she said: "Oh, Constance! Constance, dear, I am punishedenough already!"
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