CHAPTER IX
The Old Sorrow
"To Mrs. Lawrence?" I repeated. Here was a coincidence, indeed! Could itbe, I asked myself again, that this thing had been deliberatelyarranged? But I dismissed the thought as ridiculous.
"I will tell you the story so far I know it," said the clergyman. "It isno breach of trust to do so, for it was public property at the time,though long since forgotten. I should not recall it now but for the factthat it may shed some light upon to-day's occurrence."
"Perhaps it will," I agreed.
"Mrs. Lawrence," began my companion, "was born at Scotch Plains aboutfifty years ago. Her father's name was Hiram Jarvis. He had made acomfortable fortune in the dry-goods business in New York, and had builthimself a country-house at Scotch Plains, going in to New York everymorning and returning every evening. Scotch Plains is a very smallplace--a mere village--but has a number of handsome country homes. It isnot on the railroad, but lies about a mile back of Fanwood, which is itsstation. It has a little Presbyterian church, and when I graduated in'65 from Princeton seminary, I received a call to it, which I accepted.Mr. Jarvis and his daughter were members of my congregation--the former,indeed, being the president of the board of trustees."
I nodded my interest. Plainly I had done well in coming to Dr. Schuyler.
"Jarvis was a tall, straight, austere Scotchman of the old school,"continued the clergyman, "with a belief in predestination and eternalpunishment, which was--well--rather fanatical, even for those days. Hisdaughter was a beautiful girl of seventeen or eighteen. Her mother haddied some years before and she was left solely in her father's care,without brothers or sisters. There was an aunt in New York City, ayounger sister of her father, and married to a banker named Heminway,but she seemingly took little interest in the girl. Her character--or soI judged the few times I saw her--was much like her brother's, tempered,perhaps, with a little more worldliness. I think she's still living; atleast, I've never heard of her death. She has been a widow for manyyears.
"So the girl grew up in the lonely house, with only her father to carefor. I sometimes thought his treatment of her a little severe--he wouldrarely permit her to take part in even the most innocentmerry-making--and I often found myself pitying her. But I concluded itwas none of my business--a conclusion which was cowardly, perhaps; butthat was my first charge, and Jarvis was quite a terrifying man."
I could well believe it, and said so.
"There was another member of my congregation," went on Dr. Schuyler,"concerning whom I had doubts of quite an opposite character--that wasyoung Boyd Endicott. The Endicott place lay just beyond the Jarvishouse, which it quite overshadowed, for the Endicotts were very wealthy.The father did not belong to my church--nor, indeed, to any church--andI seldom met him. He had been associated with Jim Fisk in someoperations which seemed to me of questionable honesty--though Fisk'sreputation may have prejudiced me unduly. But his wife was a lovelyChristian woman, and devoted to her children."
"Her children?" I repeated. The story interested me so intensely that Iwanted every detail.
"There were two, a girl of seventeen or eighteen, named Ruth; and Boyd,who was about nineteen, and a junior at Princeton. I had heard somethingof his college escapades while I was at the seminary, but the first timeI saw him was when he came home for the holidays. He was a handsome boy,dark, with a face that showed his breeding; but he was the wildest, mostuntamable I ever knew. When he came walking into church with his mother,it used to amuse me to see how Mr. Jarvis would glare at him; heconsidered him a firebrand of hell, and didn't scruple to say so. Andyoung Endicott would stare back--at Jarvis, as I thought, but I saw mymistake afterwards.
"There was more or less trouble of a personal kind between the two.Endicott's dog killed some of the Jarvis chickens, and Jarvis shot thedog. Endicott rode over the Jarvis land, and Jarvis swore out a warrantagainst him for trespass--mere persecution, the villagers thoughtit,--and there were other differences of a similar nature, which wereended only when the boy went back to school.
"Of course, Mr. Lester, I don't know all the steps in the affair; but onChristmas Eve, just a year later, there came a great knocking at mydoor, and when I opened it, there on the step stood Jarvis, with such aface as I had never seen on a man before. He stamped in and flung asheet of paper down on the table.
"'Read that!' he said, in a stifled voice. 'Read that, man! Oh, that Ishould have bred a harlot!'
"I was too astonished to reply, but I picked up the paper and read it.It was a note from his daughter--I forget the exact words--but she toldhim that she had secretly married Boyd Endicott, knowing that she couldnever win his consent, and prayed for his forgiveness. They were goingfar away, she said; she would not see him again for a long time, andhoped he would think kindly of her. It was a touching note, Mr. Lester."
The good man's voice choked and he paused to regain control of it. Asfor me, I thought of that other note I had read a few hours since.
"He was like a man crazed," continued Dr. Schuyler, at last. "Hewouldn't listen to reason; he demanded only that I accompany him, whilehe sought his daughter out and made sure that she and young Endicottwere really married. He swore that he would follow them to the ends ofthe earth that he might see them wedded with his own eyes. A heavy stormwas raging, but I could not deny him; he had his buggy at the door, andwe drove away to the Fanwood station. There the agent told us that MissJarvis had taken the afternoon train for New York. There was no othertrain for an hour, so we waited. Jarvis tramped up and down the stationlike a wild thing. And then, just before the train was due, there came atelegram for him. It was from his sister and stated that Mary hadreached her home unattended and was very ill.
"That settled the matter, so far as I was concerned. I drove back homeagain and Jarvis went on to New York. Unfortunately, in the first rageof his discovery of his daughter's flight, he had given the servantssome hint of the affair, and it leaked out, but was gradually forgotten.Mary Jarvis, after a long illness, went with her father for a visit toScotland, and did not return to her home at Scotch Plains for nearlythree years. She was greatly changed--older and with an air of sadnesswhich never quite left her.
"Her father was changed, too. He had left his daughter at his old homein Scotland and hurried back--why I didn't guess till afterwards. Hebecame more crabbed and irritable than ever; he seemed to be witheringaway, and his face grew to haunt me, it was so harried and anxious. Isuspected that he had become involved in business troubles of some sort,for the country was on the verge of a panic, and once I tried toapproach the subject to offer him any help I could, but he stopped mewith such ferocity that I never tried again. Then, suddenly, came thenews that Endicott had been caught with Fisk in the ruin of BlackFriday; but while Fisk saved himself by repudiating his obligations,Endicott had been bound in such a way that he could not repudiate--andthe man who had bound him was Hiram Jarvis."
The speaker paused and leaned back for a moment in his chair, his facevery stern.
"That was his revenge," he added. "But I doubt if he foresaw how bitterit was to be. For Endicott shot himself; the place was sold, and thewidow and her daughter came to live here in Elizabeth, where they hadrelatives."
"But the boy," I asked; "where was he?"
"He was killed two days after that Christmas Eve in a railroad wrecksomewhere in the West--I have forgotten exactly where. His body wasbrought home to Scotch Plains and buried there."
"In the West?" I repeated. "What was he doing in the West?"
"I don't know," answered Dr. Schuyler. "I've never been able tounderstand it."
"Were he and Miss Jarvis already married? Or did they expect to bemarried afterwards?"
"Well," said Dr. Schuyler slowly, "I inferred from the note that theywere already married. But I may have been mistaken in thinking so. Iknow that her father did not believe it."
"And you say that you've never been able to understand why, after all,they did not go away together--why Miss Jarvis went to New York an
dEndicott to the West?"
Dr. Schuyler hesitated.
"Of course," he said, after a moment, "the most obvious explanation isthat Endicott deserted her; and yet that would have been so unlike him,for he was not a vicious or selfish fellow, Mr. Lester, but generous,honourable, warm-hearted, despite his other faults, which were merely, Ithink, faults of youth. I've never believed that he deserted her.Perhaps, at the last moment, her courage failed; or perhaps there was amistake of some sort, a misunderstanding which kept them apart."
I pondered it for a moment, then put it aside. That was not the mysteryI had set myself to solve.
"Well, Miss Jarvis evidently got over it," I remarked, "since sheafterwards became Mrs. Lawrence."
"That is one way of looking at it," he assented; "but I've alwaysthought that she was so far from getting over it that she never greatlycared what became of her afterwards."
"Was it so bad as that?"
"It was as bad as it could possibly be. She did not return from Scotlandfor two years and more. It was about a year later that she marriedLawrence, who was a business associate of her father, and lived here atElizabeth. I had been called to the pastorate of the church here andperformed the ceremony."
"Lawrence must have been considerably older than she, then," Isuggested.
"Oh, much older. He was a widower, without children. I always fanciedthat her father had arranged the match. He had completely broken down,and knew he hadn't long to live."
"And there was only one child of this marriage?"
"Only one--Marcia."
"How long has Mrs. Lawrence been a widow?"
"Oh, for twenty years and more."
"She has lived here ever since?"
"She has kept her home here, but she was abroad with her daughter for along time--six or seven years, at least. She was very fond ofFrance--and so was Marcia, perhaps because she was born there."
"Born there?" I repeated, in some surprise.
"Yes. Mr. Lawrence had a very severe illness a few months after hismarriage--I don't remember just what it was--and his doctor ordered himto the south of France for a long rest. His wife, of course, accompaniedhim, and Marcia was born there. I think that is all the story, Mr.Lester."
"Not quite all," I said. "There is still a loose end. What became ofMrs. Endicott and her daughter--I think you said there was a daughter?"
"Yes--Ruth. One of the loveliest girls I ever knew. They came here fromScotch Plains, as I've said, to make their home with Mrs. Endicott'ssister, Mrs. Kingdon."
He noticed my start of astonishment, and paused to look at meinquiringly.
"I beg your pardon," I said, "but the name struck me. Miss Lawrence'smaid is named Kingdon."
"Yes; she's a niece of Mrs. Endicott. I've sometimes thought that it wasbecause of this relationship that Mrs. Lawrence was so kind to her andto her sister."
"Kind to them?" I repeated. "In what way?"
"She gave them the cottage they live in," he explained, "and has helpedthem in many other ways. The younger girl, Lucy, has a place in herhousehold, where her duties, I fancy, are purely nominal. Her sister issupposed to take in sewing, but she really does very little."
"And they are Mrs. Endicott's nieces?"
"Yes--her sister's children."
"And Boyd Endicott's cousins?"
"Precisely."
I felt a little glow of excitement, for here was a clue which might leadme out of the labyrinth--a loose end, which, grasped firmly, might serveto unravel this tangled skein.
"Please go on," I said. "You have not yet told me what became of Mrs.Endicott and her daughter."
"They made their home with Mrs. Kingdon, who was also a widow. Mrs.Kingdon had had much trouble--her husband had died in an asylum for theinsane--and they had a hard time to get along. But Mrs. Endicott diedwithin a year."
"And Ruth?" I questioned.
"Ruth was a lovely girl--I shall never forget her--with the same dark,passionate beauty her brother had. She possessed artistic talent whichseemed to me of an unusual order, and she fancied that she could make aliving by painting portraits. But she soon found that there was nomarket for her work here in Elizabeth, and that she needed years oftraining before she could hope to be successful elsewhere. So she wasforced to give it up."
"And then?" I prompted, for I saw by his hesitation that there was stillsomething coming, and I was determined to have the whole story.
"I have already told you that Mr. Lawrence was a widower. His first wifewas an invalid for a long time before her death, and when Ruth Endicottfound she could not make a living with her brush, she accepted theposition of companion to Mrs. Lawrence. I do not fancy the place was apleasant one, but she kept it until Mrs. Lawrence's death."
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for an instant in theeffort to straighten out this story, which was always turning back uponitself. What mystery was there--what mystery could there be--in thelives of the Kingdons and the Lawrences and the Endicotts, which had ledup to the tragedy for which I was seeking an explanation?
"Well, and after that?" I asked, giving it up with a sigh of despair andturning back to the clergyman.
"There isn't much more to tell. After Mrs. Lawrence's death, RuthEndicott remained for a time as Lawrence's housekeeper. But she hadoverworked herself--she seemed the very embodiment of health, and taxedher strength too heavily. She broke down very suddenly, and died, if Iremember rightly, in Florida, where the elder Kingdon girl had takenher. She was the last of the Endicotts."
"The last of the Endicotts. The last of the Endicotts." I repeated thewords over and over to myself. It may have been a presentiment, ormerely an idle fancy, but something whispered in my ear--some impalpablepresence warned me--that I had not yet heard the last of her. "RuthEndicott." There was a something in the name--a melody, the vision itevoked of a dark and brilliantly beautiful woman--which haunted me.
And yet, what possible connection could she have with the mystery whichI had started to investigate? Thirty years dead--how could any factconnected with her drive Marcia Lawrence forth into hiding at the hourof her wedding? The utter absurdity of the thought was so apparent thatI put it impatiently from me.
"You knew Mr. Lawrence, of course?" I asked, at last.
"Oh, yes," and he hitched uneasily in his chair, as though approachingan unwelcome topic. "But I did not know him well. He was what the worldcalls a hard man--somewhat harsh and cold, though perfectly free frompositive vice. He was thoroughly respected."
"He seems to have left a large property."
"Yes; one of the largest in Elizabeth. Mrs. Lawrence, of course,inherited her father's, also."
"Both she and her daughter are members of your church?"
"Two of the most faithful. They give largely to charity; they are reallyChristian women."
We sat silent for a moment. To me, at least, the mystery seemed deeperthan ever.
"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Lester," asked the clergyman hesitatingly,"that perhaps Miss Lawrence discovered something in Mr. Curtiss'spast----"
"Yes," I interrupted. "I put that before Curtiss squarely, and heassured me there was nothing she could discover. I'm sure he spoke thetruth. Besides, in that case, why should Miss Lawrence flee? Why notmerely dismiss him? Her flight seems to argue some guilt on her part."
"Yes," nodded my companion; "yes."
"Some guilt, too," I added, "of a very remarkable kind, which she wasnot conscious of until this morning, and which then appeared suddenlybefore her in such hideous shape that flight was her only resource. Thatseems inconceivable, doesn't it?"
Dr. Schuyler dropped his head back against his chair with a little sighwhich bespoke utter fatigue.
"Yes," he said, "inconceivable--the whole thing is inconceivable. It's akind of horrible nightmare. I can't make anything of it. My brain is ina whirl."
"I'm taxing your patience too long," I protested, rising instantly. "Youneed rest. Only let me thank you for your kindness."
H
e held out his hand with a smile.
"I seem only to have made dark places darker," he said. "If you succeedin untangling the snarl, I should like to hear about it."
"You shall," I promised and took myself back to the hotel. I felt thatthere was nothing more to be done that night, and so mounted to my room.
As I started to undress, I remembered suddenly the envelope Curtiss hadsent me. I got it out and opened it, and my heart leaped with a suddensuffocating sympathy as I looked at the photograph within. A Madonna,indeed! Mr. Royce had chosen the right word, had paid a fitting tributenot only to her beauty but to the spotless soul behind it. For the facewas essentially girlish, virginal--there was no shameful secret back ofthat clear, direct gaze. It was sweet, frank, winning--a strong face,too, showing intellect and training; no ordinary woman, I told myself;not one, certainly, to be swayed by momentary passion, to yield to anunreasoning impulse. No, nor one to fall victim to an adventurer; forthis was a woman with ideals and high ones--a woman whose clear eyescould detect any specious imposture at a glance. A fitting mate for BurrCurtiss--the appointed mate--and yet not his! Not his! Snatched from himby a desperate act. Desperate! If I, a man hardened by contact with theworld, could feel that, how much more poignantly must she have feltit--with what horror must she have shrunk from it--with what agonyyielded!
As I gazed at her, it seemed to me that there was something familiar inthe face--in the set of the eyes, the shape of the forehead--somethingfamiliar in the expression, in the poise of the head, which puzzled andeluded me. A resemblance to her mother, I decided at last, and so putthe photograph away and went to bed.
But sleep did not come easily. Ever before my eyes there danced a visionof that vine-embowered cottage opening from the Lawrence grounds. There,I felt, lay the key to the mystery; it was to it I must turn for theclue which would lead me out of this labyrinth. There was some secretabout these Kingdon sisters which defied and worried me. Dr. Schuyler'sexplanation of their connection with Mrs. Lawrence did not in the leastsatisfy me. That she should keep them near her, shower them with gifts,merely because of an old fondness for a cousin of theirs, seemed to meexceedingly improbable. There must be some other reason, some morecompelling one than that.
It was much more likely, I told myself, remembering the passionatefierceness of the younger sister, that the gifts were intended toplacate, not to reward; that they were the outgrowth of fear, not ofaffection. Fear of what? I could not even guess. Fear of the exposure ofsome secret, perhaps--and the thought stung me to a sudden attention.
Had the gifts been in vain? Had the secret been exposed? Was it they whohad whispered in Marcia Lawrence's ear the story which had broken themarriage, caused her flight, ruined her future? Was that their revengefor some old injury? Had they waited till the last moment to make itmore complete, more crushing? But if they, indeed, had so avengedthemselves, would she have fled to them for refuge? Would she not ratherhave fled from them with loathing?
I felt that I was entangling myself in a web of my own weaving. I putthe problem from me, but it pursued me even past sleep's portals. Idreamed that I was staring over the hedge at the Kingdon cottage, at alighted window. Three women were in the room, as I could see from theshadows thrown upon the blind. They were walking up and down, seeminglyin great excitement. I fancied that I could hear the sound of voices,but I could distinguish no words. Then suddenly, two of the women sprangupon the third. She struggled desperately, but their hands were at herthroat, choking her life away. She turned toward me, the curtain seemedto lift, and I beheld the agonised face of Marcia Lawrence.
I tried to leap the hedge, but could not stir. Some power beyond meseemed to hold me fast; some mighty weight bound me to the spot. Amoment longer the struggle lasted, while I stood staring; I felt hereyes on mine, I knew that she had seen me. She held out an imploringhand; then, when I made no sign in answer, despair swept across herface, she seemed to realise her helplessness, and collapsed into thearms of her assailants with a scream so shrill, so terrible that itstartled me awake.
That Affair at Elizabeth Page 9
