The Destroying Angel

by Louis Joseph Vance

  IV

  MRS. WHITAKER

  He lived through a long, bad quarter hour, his own tensed nervestwanging in sympathy with the girl's sobbing--like telegraph wiressinging in a gale--his mind busy with many thoughts, thoughts strangelynew and compelling, wearing a fresh complexion that lacked altogetherthe colouring of self-interest.

  He mixed a weak draught of brandy and water and returned to the bedside.The storm was passing in convulsive gasps ever more widely spaced, butstill the girl lay with her back to him.

  "If you'll sit up and try to drink this," he suggested quietly, "I thinkyou'll feel a good deal better."

  Her shoulders moved spasmodically; otherwise he saw no sign that sheheard.

  "Come--please," he begged gently.

  She made an effort to rise, sat up on the bed, dabbed at her eyes with asodden wisp of handkerchief, and groped blindly for the glass. Heoffered it to her lips.

  "What is it?" she whispered hoarsely.

  He spoke of the mixture in disparaging terms as to its potency, until atlength she consented to swallow it--teeth chattering on the rim of thetumbler. The effect was quickly apparent in the colour that came intoher cheeks, faint but warm. He avoided looking directly at her, however,and cast round for the bell-push, which he presently found near the headof the bed.

  She moved quickly with alarm.

  "What are you going to do?" she demanded in a stronger voice.

  "Order you something to eat," he said. "No--please don't object. Youneed food, and I mean to see you get it before I leave."

  If she thought of protesting, the measured determination in his mannerdeterred her. After a moment she asked:

  "Please--who are you?"

  "My name is Whitaker," he said--"Hugh Morten Whitaker."

  She repeated the name aloud. "Haven't I heard of you? Aren't you engagedto Alice Carstairs?"

  "I'm the man you mean," he said quietly; "but I'm not engaged to AliceCarstairs."

  "Oh...." Perplexity clouded the eyes that followed closely his everymovement. "How did you happen to--to find me here?"

  "Quite by accident," he replied. "I didn't want to be known, soregistered as Hugh Morten. They mistook me for your husband. Do you mindtelling me how long it is since you've had anything to eat?"

  She told him: "Last night."

  He suffered a sense of shame only second to her own, to see the dullflush that accompanied her reply. His fingers itched for the throat ofMr. C. W. Morton, chauffeur. Happily a knock at the door distracted him.Opening it no wider than necessary to communicate with the bell-boy, hegave him an order for the kitchen, together with an incentive to speedthe service.

  Closing the door, he swung round to find that the girl had got to herfeet.

  "He won't be long--" Whitaker began vaguely.

  "I want to tell you something." She faced him bravely, though he refusedthe challenge of her tormented eyes. "I ... I have no husband."

  He bowed gravely.

  "You're so good to me--" she faltered.

  "O--nothing! Let's not talk about that now."

  "I must talk--you must let me. You're so kind, I've got to tell you.Won't you listen?"

  He had crossed to a window, where he stood staring out. "I'd rathernot," he said softly, "but if you prefer--"

  "I do prefer," said the voice behind him. "I--I'm Mary Ladislas."

  "Yes," said Whitaker.

  "I ... I ran away from home last week--five days ago--to get married toour chauffeur, Charles Morton...."

  She stammered.

  "Please don't go on, if it hurts," he begged without looking round.

  "I've got to--I've got to get it over with.... We were at Southampton,at my father's summer home--I mean, that's where I ran away from.He--Charley--drove me over to Greenport and I took the ferry there andcame here to wait for him. He went back to New York in the car,promising to join me here as soon as possible...."

  "And he didn't come," Whitaker wound up for her, when she faltered.

  "No."

  "And you wrote and telegraphed, and he didn't answer."

  "Yes--"

  "How much money of yours did he take with him?" Whitaker pursued.

  There was a brief pause of astonishment. "What do you know about that?"she demanded.

  "I know a good deal about that type of man," he said grimly.

  "I didn't have any money to speak of, but I had some jewellery--mymother's--and he was to take that and pawn it for money to get marriedwith."

  "I see."

  To his infinite relief the waiter interrupted them. The girl in her turnwent to one of the windows, standing with her back to the room, whileWhitaker admitted the man with his tray. When they were alone once more,he fixed the place and drew a chair for her.

  "Everything's ready," he said--and had the sense not to try to make histone too cheerful.

  "I hadn't finished what I wanted to tell you," said the girl, comingback to him.

  "Will you do me the favour to wait," he pleaded. "I think things willseem--well, otherwise--when you've had some food."

  "But I--"

  "Oh, please!" he begged with his odd, twisted smile.

  She submitted, head drooping and eyes downcast. He returned to hiswindow, rather wishing that he had thought to order for himself as wellas for the girl; for it was suddenly borne strongly in upon him that hehimself had had little enough to eat since dinner with Peter Stark. Helighted a cigarette, by way of dulling his appetite, and then let itsmoulder to ashes between his fingers, while he lost himself in profoundspeculations, in painstaking analysis of the girl's position.

  Subconsciously he grew aware that the storm was moderating perceptibly,the sky breaking....

  "I've finished," the girl announced at length.

  "You're feeling better?"

  "Stronger, I think."

  "Is there anything more--?"

  "If you wouldn't mind sitting down--"

  She had twisted her arm-chair away from the table. Whitaker took a seata little distance from her, with a keen glance appraising the change inher condition and finding it not so marked as he had hoped. Still, sheseemed measurably more composed and mistress of her emotions, though hehad to judge mostly by her voice and manner, so dark was the room.Through the shadows he could see little more than masses of light andshade blocking in the slender figure huddled in a big, dilapidatedchair--the pallid oval of her face, and the darkness of her wide,intent, young eyes.

  "Don't!" she cried sharply. "Please don't look at me so--"

  "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to--"

  "It's only--only that you make me think of what you must be thinkingabout me--"

  "I think you're rather fortunate," he said slowly.

  "Fortunate!"

  He shivered a little with the chill bitterness of that cry.

  "You've had a narrow but a wonderfully lucky escape."

  "Oh! ... But I'm not glad ... I was desperate--"

  "I mean," he interrupted coolly, "from Mr. Morton. The silver lining is,you're not married to a blackguard."

  "Oh, yes, yes!" she agreed passionately.

  "And you have youth, health, years of life before you!"

  He sighed inaudibly....

  "You wouldn't say that, if you understood."

  "There are worse things to put up with than youth and health and theright to live."

  "But--how can I live? What am I to do?"

  "Have you thought of going home?"

  "It isn't possible."

  "Have you made sure of that? Have you written to yourfather--explained?"

  "I sent him a special delivery three days ago, and--and yesterday atelegram. I knew it wouldn't do any good, but I ... I told himeverything. He didn't answer. He won't, ever."

  From what Whitaker knew of Thurlow Ladislas, he felt this to be toocruelly true to admit of further argument. At a loss, he fell silent,knitting his hands together as he strove to find other words wherewithto comfort and reassure the girl.

&n
bsp; She bent forward, elbows on knees, head and shoulders cringing.

  "It hurts so!" she wailed ... "what people will think ... the shame, thebitter, bitter shame of this! And yet I haven't any right to complain. Ideserve it all; I've earned my punishment."

  "Oh, I say--!"

  "But I have, because--because I didn't love him. I didn't love him atall, and I knew it, even though I meant to marry him...."

  "But, why--in Heaven's name?"

  "Because I was so lonely and ... misunderstood and unhappy at home.You don't know how desperately unhappy.... No mother, never daringto see my sister (she ran away, too) ... my friendships at schooldiscouraged ... nothing in life but a great, empty, lonesome houseand my father to bully me and make cruel fun of me because I'm notpretty.... That's why I ran away with a man I didn't love--becauseI wanted freedom and a little happiness."

  "Good Lord!" he murmured beneath his breath, awed by the pitiful,childish simplicity of her confession and the deep damnation that hadwaited upon her.

  "So it's over!" she cried--"over, and I've learned my lesson, and I'mdisgraced forever, and friendless and--"

  "Stop right there!" he checked her roughly. "You're not friendless yet,and that nullifies all the rest. Be glad you've had your romance andlearned your lesson--"

  "Please don't think I'm not grateful for your kindness," sheinterrupted. "But the disgrace--that can't be blotted out!"

  "Oh, yes, it can," he insisted bluntly. "There's a way I know--"

  A glimmering of that way had only that instant let a little light inupon the darkness of his solicitous distress for her. He rose and beganto walk and think, hands clasped behind him, trying to make what he hadin mind seem right and reasonable.

  "You mean beg my father to take me back. I'll die first!"

  "There mustn't be any more talk, or even any thought, of anything likethat. I understand too well to ask the impossible of you. But there isone way out--a perfectly right way--if you're willing and brave enoughto take a chance--a long chance."

  Somehow she seemed to gain hope of his tone. She sat up, following himwith eyes that sought incredulously to believe.

  "Have I any choice?" she asked. "I'm desperate enough...."

  "God knows," he said, "you'll have to be!"

  "Try me."

  He paused, standing over her.

  "Desperate enough to marry a man who's bound to die within six monthsand leave you free? I'm that man: the doctors give me six months more oflife. I'm alone in the world, with no one dependent upon me, nothing tolook forward to but a death that will benefit nobody--a useless end to auseless life.... Will you take my name to free yourself? Heaven mywitness, you're welcome to it."

  "Oh," she breathed, aghast, "what are you saying?"

  "I'm proposing marriage," he said, with his quaint, one-sided smile."Please listen: I came to this place to make a quick end to mytroubles--but I've changed my mind about that, now. What's happened inthis room has made me see that nobody has any right to--hasten things.But I mean to leave the country--immediately--and let death find mewhere it will. I shall leave behind me a name and a little money,neither of any conceivable use to me. Will you take them, employ them tomake your life what it was meant to be? It's a little thing, but it willmake me feel a lot more fit to go out of this world--to know I've leftat least one decent act to mark my memory. There's only this far-fetchedchance--I _may_ live. It's a million-to-one shot, but you've got to bearit in mind. But really you can't lose--"

  "Oh, stop, stop!" she implored him, half hysterical. "To think ofmarrying to benefit by the death of a man like you--!"

  "You've no right to look at it that way." He had a wry, secret smile forhis specious sophistry. "You're being asked to confer, not to accept, afavour. It's just an act of kindness to a hopeless man. I'd go mad if Ididn't know you were safe from a recurrence of the folly of thisafternoon."

  "Don't!" she cried--"don't tempt me. You've no right.... You don't knowhow frantic I am...."

  "I do," he countered frankly. "I'm depending on just that to swing youto my point of view. You've got to come to it. I mean you shall marryme."

  She stared up at him, spell-bound, insensibly yielding to the dominationof his will. It was inevitable. He was scarcely less desperate thanshe--and no less overwrought and unstrung; and he was the stronger; inthe natural course of things his will could not but prevail. She waslittle more than a child, accustomed to yield and go where others led orpointed out the path. What resistance could she offer to the domineeringimportunity of a man of full stature, arrogant in his strengthand--hounded by devils? And he in the fatuity of his soul believed thathe was right, that he was fighting for the girl's best interests,fighting--and not ungenerously--to save her from the raveningconsequences of her indiscretion!

  The bald truth is, he was hardly a responsible agent: distracted by theravings of an ego mutinous in the shadow of annihilation, as well as bycontemplation of the girl's wretched plight, he saw all things indistorted perspective. He had his being in a nightmare world offrightful, insane realities. He could have conceived of nothing tooterrible and preposterous to seem reasonable and right....

  The last trace of evening light had faded out of the world before theywere agreed. Darkness wrapped them in its folds; they were but as voiceswarring in a black and boundless void.

  Whitaker struck a match and applied it to the solitary gas-jet. A thin,blue, sputtering tongue of flame revealed them to one another. The girlstill crouched in her arm-chair, weary and spent, her powers ofcontention all vitiated by the losing struggle. Whitaker was tremblingwith nervous fatigue.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Oh, have your own way," she said drearily. "If it must be...."

  "It's for the best," he insisted obstinately. "You'll never regret it."

  "One of us will--either you or I," she said quietly. "It's tooone-sided. You want to give all and ask nothing in return. It's a fool'sbargain."

  He hesitated, stammering with surprise. She had a habit of saying theunexpected. "A fool's bargain"--the wisdom of the sage from the lips ofa child....

  "Then it's settled," he said, business-like, offering his hand. "Fool'sbargain or not--it's a bargain."

  She rose unassisted, then trusted her slender fingers to his palm. Shesaid nothing. The steady gaze of her extraordinary eyes abashed him.

  "Come along and let's get it over," he muttered clumsily. "It's late,and there's a train to New York at half-past ten, you might as wellcatch."

  She withdrew her hand, but continued to regard him steadfastly with herenigmatic, strange stare. "So," she said coolly, "that's settled too, Ipresume."

  "I'm afraid you couldn't catch an earlier one," he evaded. "Have you anybaggage?"

  "Only my suit-case. It won't take a minute to pack that."

  "No hurry," he mumbled....

  They left the hotel together. Whitaker got his change of a hundreddollars at the desk--"Mrs. Morten's" bill, of course, included withhis--and bribed the bell-boy to take the suit-case to the railwaystation and leave it there, together with his own hand-bag. Since he hadunaccountably conceived a determination to continue living for a time,he meant to seek out more pleasant accommodations for the night.

  The rain had ceased, leaving a ragged sky of clouds and stars inpatches. The air was warm and heavy with wetness. Sidewalks glistenedlike black watered silk; street lights mirrored themselves in fugitivepuddles in the roadways; limbs of trees overhanging the sidewalksshivered now and again in a half-hearted breeze, pelting the wayfarerswith miniature showers of lukewarm, scented drops.

  Turning away from the centre of the town, they traversed slowly longstreets of residences set well back behind decent lawns. Warm lamplightmocked them from a hundred homely windows. They passed few people--apair of lovers; three bareheaded giggling girls in short, light frocksstrolling with their arms round one another; a scattering of menhurrying home to belated suppers.

  The girl lagged with weariness. Awakening to this fact, Whitakersl
ackened his impatient stride and quietly slipped her arm through his.

  "Is it much farther?" she asked.

  "No--not now," he assured her with a confidence he by no means felt.

  He was beginning to realize the tremendous difficulties to be overcome.It bothered him to scheme a way to bring about the marriage withoutattracting an appalling amount of gratuitous publicity, in a communityas staid and sober as this. He who would marry secretly should notselect a half-grown New England city for his enterprise....

  However, one rarely finds any really insuperable obstacles in the way ofan especially wrong-headed project.

  Whitaker, taking his heart and his fate in his hands, accosted avenerable gentleman whom they encountered as he was on the point ofturning off the sidewalk to private grounds.

  "I beg your pardon," he began.

  The man paused and turned upon them a saintly countenance framed in hairlike snow.

  "There is something I can do for you?" he inquired with punctiliouscourtesy.

  "If you will be kind enough to direct me to a minister...."

  "I am one."

  "I thought so," said Whitaker. "We wish to get married."

  The gentleman looked from his face to the girl's, then moved aside fromthe gate. "This is my home," he explained. "Will you be good enough tocome in?"

  Conducting them to his private study, he subjected them to a kindlycatechism. The girl said little, Whitaker taking upon himself the bruntof the examination. Absolutely straightforward and intensely sincere, hecame through the ordeal well, without being obliged to disclose what hepreferred to keep secret. The minister, satisfied, at length called inthe town clerk by telephone; who issued the license, pocketed his fee,and, in company with the minister's wife, acted as witness....

  Whitaker found himself on his feet beside Mary Ladislas. They were beingmarried. He was shaken by a profound amazement. The incredible washappening--with his assistance. He heard his voice uttering responses;it seemed something as foreign to him as the voice of the girl at hisside. He wondered stupidly at her calm--and later, at his own. It wasall preposterously matter-of-fact and, at the same time, stupidlyromantic. He divined obscurely that this thing was happening inobedience to forces nameless and unknown to them, strange and terrificforces that worked mysteriously beyond their mortal ken. He seemed tohear the droning of the loom of the Fates....

  And they were man and wife. The door had closed, the gate-latch clickedbehind them. They were walking quietly side by side through the scentednight, they whom God had joined together.

  Man and wife! Bride and groom, already started on the strangest,shortest of wedding journeys--from the parsonage to the railroadstation!

  Neither found anything to say. They walked on, heels in unison poundingthe wet flagstones. The night was sweet with the scent of wet grass andshrubbery. The sidewalks were boldly patterned with a stencilling ofblack leaves and a milky dappling of electric light. At every cornerhigh-swung arcs shot vivid slants of silver-blue radiance through theblack and green of trees.

  These things all printed themselves indelibly upon the tablets of hismemory....

  They arrived at the station. Whitaker bought his wife a ticket to NewYork and secured for her solitary use a drawing-room in the sleeper.When that was accomplished, they had still a good part of an hour towait. They found a bench on the station platform, and sat down. Whitakerpossessed himself of his wife's hand-bag long enough to furnish it witha sum of money and an old envelope bearing the name and address of hislaw partner. He explained that he would write to Drummond, who would seeto her welfare as far as she would permit--issue her an adequate monthlyallowance and advise her when she should have become her own mistressonce more: in a word, a widow.

  She thanked him briefly, quietly, with a constraint he understood toowell to resent.

  People began to gather upon the platform, to loiter about and pass upand down. Further conversation would have been difficult, even if theyhad found much to say to one another. Curiously or not, they didn't.They sat on in thoughtful silence.

  Both, perhaps, were sensible of some relief when at length the trainthundered in from the East, breathing smoke and flame. Whitaker helpedhis wife aboard and interviewed the porter in her behalf. Then they hada moment or two alone in the drawing-room, in which to consummate whatwas meant to be their first and last parting.

  "You'll get in about two," said Whitaker. "Better just slip across thestreet to the Belmont for to-night. To-morrow--or the dayafter--whenever you feel rested--you can find yourself more quietquarters."

  "Yes," she said....

  He comprehended something of the struggle she was having with herself,and respected it. If he had consulted his own inclinations, he wouldhave turned and marched off without another word. But for her sake helingered. Let her have the satisfaction (he bade himself) of knowingthat she had done her duty at their leave-taking.

  She caught him suddenly by the shoulders with both her hands. Her eyessought his with a wistful courage he could not but admire.

  "You know I'm grateful...."

  "Don't think of it that way--though I'm glad you are."

  "You're a good man," she said brokenly.

  He knew himself too well to be able to reply.

  "You mustn't worry about me, now. You've made things easy for me. I cantake care of myself, and ... I shan't forget whose name I bear."

  He muttered something to the effect that he was sure of that.

  She released his shoulders and stood back, searching his face withtormented eyes. Abruptly she offered him her hand.

  "Good-by," she said, her lips quivering--"Good-by, good friend!"

  He caught the hand, wrung it clumsily and painfully and ... realizedthat the train was in motion. He had barely time to get away....

  He found himself on the station platform, stupidly watching the rearlights dwindle down the tracks and wondering whether or nothallucinations were a phase of his malady. A sick man often dreamsstrange dreams....

  A voice behind him, cool with a trace of irony, observed:

  "I'd give a good deal to know just what particular brand of damn'foolishness you've been indulging in, this time."

  He whirled around to face Peter Stark--Peter quietly amused and verymuch the master of the situation.

  "You needn't think," said he, "that you have any chance on earth ofescaping my fond attentions, Hugh. I'll go to the ends of the earthafter you, if you won't let me go with you. I've fixed it up with Nellyto wait until I bring you home, a well man, before we get married; andif you refuse to be my best man--well, there won't be any party. You canmake up your mind to that."