"Yes; she was, but--"
"As for my son," said Mrs. Richie, "he is not at home; but I a.s.sure you,"--she stumbled a little over this; "I a.s.sure you that if he were he would have no desire to see your wife."
Blair was silent. Then he said, in a smothered voice: "If she is at your house, tell her I won"t keep the money. I"ll make Nannie build a hospital with it; or I"ll ... tell her, if she will only just come back to me, I"ll--" He could not go on.
"Blair," Robert Ferguson said, from the doorway, "it is light enough now to get a boat."
Blair nodded. "If she has gone to you, if she is alive," he said, "tell her I"ll give him the money."
Helena Richie lifted her head with involuntary hauteur. "My son has no interest in your money!"
"Oh," he said, brokenly, "you can"t seem to think of anything but his quarrel with me. Somehow, all that seems so unimportant now!
Why, I"d ask David to help me, if I could reach him." He did not see her relenting, outstretched hand; for the first time in a life starved for want of the actualities of pain, Blair was suffering; he forgot embarra.s.sment, he even forgot hatred; he touched fundamentals: the need of help and the instinctive reliance upon friendship. "David would help me!" he said, pa.s.sionately; "or my mother would know what to do; but you people--" He dashed after Mr. Ferguson, and a moment later Mrs.
Richie heard the carriage rattling down the street; the two men were going to the river to begin their heart-sickening search.
It was then that she started upon a search of her own. She made a somewhat lame excuse to Nannie--Nannie was the last person to be intrusted with Helena Richie"s fears! Then she took the morning express across the mountains. She sat all day in fierce alternations of hope and angry concern: Surely Elizabeth was alive; but suppose she was alive--with David! David"s mother, remembering what he had said to her that Sunday afternoon on the beach, knew, in the bottom of her heart, that she would rather have Elizabeth dead than alive under such conditions. Her old misgivings began to press upon her: the conditions might have held no danger for him if he had had a different mother! She found herself remembering, with anguish, a question that had been asked her very long ago, when David was a little boy: Can _you_ make him brave; can _you_ make him honorable; can _you_--"I"ve tried, oh, I have tried," she said; "but perhaps Dr. Lavendar ought not to have given him to me!" It was an unendurable idea; she drove it out of her mind, and sat looking at the mist-enfolded mountains, struggling to decide between a hope that implied a fear and a fear that destroyed a hope;--but every now and then, under both the hope and the fear, came a pang of memory that sent the color into her face: Robert Ferguson"s library; his words; his kiss....
As the afternoon darkened into dusk, through sheer fatigue she relaxed into certainty that both the hope and the fear were baseless: Elizabeth had not gone to David; she couldn"t have done such an insane thing! David"s mother began to be sorry she had suggested to Blair that his wife might be in Philadelphia. She began to wish she had stayed in Mercer, and not left them all to their cruel anxiety. "If she has done what they think, I"ll go back to-morrow. Robert will need me, and David would want me to go back." It occurred to her, with a lift of joy, that she might possibly find David at home. Owing to the bad weather, he might not have gone down to the beach to close the cottage as he had written her he meant to do. She wondered how he would take this news about Elizabeth. For a moment she almost hoped he would not be at home, so that she need not tell him. "Oh," she said to herself, "when will he get over her cruelty to him?" As she gathered up her wraps to leave the car, she wondered whether human creatures ever did quite "get over" the catastrophes of life. "Have I? And I am fifty,--and it was twenty years ago!"
When with a lurch the cab drew up against the curb, her glance at the unlighted windows of her parlor made her sigh with relief; there was n.o.body there! Yes; she had certainly been foolish to rush off across the mountains, and leave those poor, distressed people in Mercer.
"The doctor is at Little Beach, I suppose?" she said to the woman who answered her ring; "By-the-way, Mary, no one has been here to-day? No lady to see me?"
"There was a lady to see the doctor; she was just possessed to see him. I told her he was down at the beach, and she was that upset," Mary said, smiling, "you"d "a" thought there wasn"t another doctor in Philadelphia!" Patients were still enough of a rarity to interest the whole friendly household.
"Who was she? What was she like? Did she give her name?" Mrs.
Richie was breathless; the servant was startled at the change in her; fear, like a tangible thing, leaped upon her and shook her.
"Who was she?" Mrs. Richie said, fiercely.
The surprised woman, giving the details of that early call, was, of course, ignorant of the lady"s name; but after the first word or two David"s mother knew it. "Bring me a time-table. Never mind my supper! I must see the lady. I think I know who she was. She wanted to see me, and I must find her. I know where she has gone.
Hurry! Where is the new time-table?"
"She didn"t ask for you, "m," the bewildered maid a.s.sured her.
Mrs. Richie was not listening; she was turning the leaves of the _Pathfinder_ with trembling fingers; the trains had been changed on the little branch road, but somehow she must get there,--_"to-night!"_ she said to herself. To find a train to Normans was an immense relief, though it involved a fourteen- mile drive to Little Beach. She could not reach them ("them!" she was sure of it now), she could not reach them until nearly twelve, but she would be able to say that Elizabeth had spent the night with her.
The hour before the train started for Normans seemed endless to Helena Richie. She sent a despatch to Blair to say:
_"I have found her. Do not come for her yet. This is imperative. Will telegraph you to-morrow."_
After that she walked about, up and down, sometimes stopping to look out of the window into the rainswept street, sometimes pausing to pick up a book but though she turned over the pages, she did not know what she read. She debated constantly whether she had done well to telegraph Blair. Suppose, in spite of her command, he should rush right on to Philadelphia, "then what!"
she said to herself, frantically. If he found that Elizabeth had followed David down to the cottage, what would he do? There would be a scandal! And it was not David"s fault--she had followed him; how like her to follow him, careless of everything but her own whim of the moment! She would have recalled the despatch if she could have done so. "If Robert were only here to tell me what to do!" she thought, realizing, even in her cruel alarm, how greatly she depended on him. Suddenly she must have realized something else, for a startled look came into her eyes. "No! of course I"m not," she said; but the color rose in her face. The revelation was only for an instant; the next moment she was tense with anxiety and counting the minutes before she could start for the station.
It was a great relief when she found herself at last on the little local train, rattling out into the rainy night. When she reached Normans it was not easy to get a carriage to go to Little Beach. No depot hack-driver would consider such a drive on such a night. She found her way through the rainy streets to a livery- stable, and standing in the doorway of a little office that smelled of harnesses and horses, she bargained with a reluctant man, who, though polite enough to take his feet from his desk and stand up before a lady, told her point-blank that there wasn"t no money, no, nor no woman, that he"d drive twenty-eight miles for-- down to the beach and back; on no such night as this; "but maybe one of my men might, if you"d make it worth his while," he said, doubtfully.
"I will make it worth his while," Mrs. Richie said.
"There"s a sort of inlet between us and the beach, kind of a river, like; you"ll have to ferry over," the man warned her.
"Please get the carriage at once," she said.
So the long drive began. It was very dark. At times the rain sheeted down so that little streams of water dripped upon her from the top of the carryall, and the side curtains flapped so furiously that she could scarcely hear the driver grumbling that if he"d "a" knowed what kind of a night it was he wouldn"t have undertook the job.
"I"ll pay you double your price," she said in a lull of the storm; and after that there was only the sheeting rain and the tugging splash of mud-loaded fetlocks. At the ferry there was a long delay. "The ferry-man"s asleep, I guess," the driver told her; certainly there was no light in the little weather-beaten house on the riverbank. The man clambered out from under the streaming rubber ap.r.o.n of the carryall, and handing the wet reins back to her to hold--"that horse takes a notion to run sometimes," he said, casually; made his way to the ferry-house.
"Come out!" he said, pounding on the door; "tend to your business! there"s a lady wants to cross!"
The ferry-man had his opinion of ladies who wanted to do such things in such weather; but he came, after what seemed to the shivering pa.s.senger an interminable time, and the carryall was driven onto the flat-bottomed boat. A minute later the creak of the cable and the slow rock of the carriage told her they had started. It was too dark to see anything, but she could hear the sibilant slap of the water against the side of the scow and the brush of rain on the river. Once the dripping horse shook himself, and the harness rattled and the old hack quivered on its sagging springs. She realized that she was cold; she could hear the driver and the ferryman talking; there was the blue spurt of a match, and a whiff of very bad tobacco from a pipe. Then a dash of rain blew in her face, and the smell of the pipe was washed out of the air.
It was after twelve when, stumbling up the path to her own house, she leaned against the door awaiting David"s answer to her knock; when he opened it to the gust of wet wind and her drawn, white face, he was stunned with astonishment. He never knew what answer he made to those first broken, frantic words; as for her, she did not wait to hear his answer. She ran past him and burst into the fire-lit silence that was still tingling with emotion. She saw Elizabeth rising, panic-stricken, from her chair. Clutching her shoulder, she looked hard into the younger woman"s face; then, with a great sigh, she sank down into a chair.
"Thank G.o.d!" she said, faintly.
David, following her, stammered out, "How did you get here?" The full, hot torrent of pa.s.sion of only a moment before had come to a crashing standstill. He could hardly breathe with the suddenness of it. His thoughts galloped. He heard his own voice as if it had been somebody else"s, and he was conscious of his foolishness in asking his question; what difference did it make how she got here! Besides, he knew how: she had come over the mountains that day, taken the evening train for Normans, and driven down here, fourteen miles--in this storm! "You must be worn out," he said, involuntarily.
"I am in time; nothing else matters. David, go and pay the man.
Here is my purse."
He glanced at Elizabeth, hesitated, and went. The two women, alone, looked at each other for a speechless instant.
[Ill.u.s.tration: CLUTCHING HER SHOULDER, SHE LOOKED HARD INTO THE YOUNGER WOMAN"S FACE]
CHAPTER x.x.xIX
"You ought not to be here, you know," Helena Richie said, in a low voice.
Elizabeth was silent.
"They are all very much frightened about you at home."
"I am sorry they are frightened."
"Your coming might be misunderstood," David"s mother said; her voice was very harsh; the gentle loveliness of her face had changed to an incredible harshness. "I shall say I was here with you, of course; but you are insane, Elizabeth! you are insane to be here!"
"Mother," David said, quietly, "you mustn"t find fault with Elizabeth." He had come back, and even as he spoke retreating wheels were heard. They were alone, these three; there was no world to any of them outside that fire-lit room, encompa.s.sed by night, the ocean, and the storm. "Elizabeth did exactly right to come down here to--to consult me," David said; "but we won"t talk about it now; it"s too late, and you are too tired."
Then turning to Elizabeth, he took her hand. "Won"t you go up- stairs now? You are as tired as Materna! But she must have something to eat before she goes to bed." Still holding her hand, he opened the door for her. "You know the spare room? I"m afraid it"s rather in disorder, but you will find some blankets and things in the closet."
Elizabeth hesitated; then obeyed him.
David was entirely self-possessed by this time; in that moment while he stood in the rain, counting out the money from his mother"s purse for the driver, and telling the man of a short cut across the dunes, the emotion of a moment before cooled into grim alertness to meet the emergency: _there must be no scene_.
To avoid the possibility of such a thing, he must get Elizabeth out of the room at once. As he slipped the bolt on the front door and hurried back to the living room, he said a single short word between his teeth. But he was not angry; he was only irritated-- as one might be irritated at a good child whose ignorant innocence led it into meddling with matters beyond its comprehension. And he was not apprehensive; his mother"s coming could not alter anything; it was merely an embarra.s.sment and distress. What on earth should he do with her the next morning!
"I"ll have to lie to her," he thought, in consternation. David had never lied to his mother, and even in this self-absorbed moment he shrank from doing so. He was keenly disturbed, but as the door closed upon Elizabeth he spoke quietly enough: "You are very tired, Materna; don"t let"s get to discussing things tonight. I"ll bring you something to eat, and then you must go up to your room."
"There is nothing to discuss, David," she said; "of course Elizabeth ought not to have come down here to you. But I am here.