Kitabı oku: «Dark Hollow», sayfa 15
XXVI
THE TELEGRAM
"I CANNOT say anything, I cannot do anything till I have had a few words with Mrs. Scoville. How soon do you think I can speak to her?"
"Not very soon. Her daughter says she is quite worn out. Would it not be better to give her a rest for to-night, judge?"
The judge, now quite recovered, but strangely shrunk and wan, showed no surprise, at this request, odd as it was, on the lips of this honest but somewhat crabbed lawyer, but answered out of the fulness of his own heart and from the depths of his preoccupation:
"My necessity is greater than hers. The change I saw in her is inexplicable. One moment she was all fire and determination, satisfied of Oliver's innocence and eager to proclaim it. The next—but you were with us. You witnessed her hesitation—felt its force and what its effect was upon the damnable scamp who has our honour—the honour of the Ostranders under his tongue. Something must have produced this change. What? good friend, what?"
"I don't know any more than you do, judge. But I think you are mistaken about the previous nature of her feelings. I noticed that she was not at peace with herself when she came into the room."
"What's that?" The tone was short, and for the first time irritable.
"The change, if there was a change, was not so sudden as you think. She looked troubled, and as I thought, irresolute when she came into the room."
"You don't know her; you don't know what passed between us. She was all right then, but—Go to her, Black. She must have recovered by this time. Ask her to come here for a minute. I won't detain her. I will wait for her warning knock right here."
Alanson Black was a harsh man, but he had a soft streak in him—a streak which had been much developed of late. Where he loved, he could be extraordinarily kind, and he loved, had loved for years, in his own way which was not a very demonstrative one, this man whom he was now striving to serve. But a counter affection was making difficulties for him just at this minute. Against all probability, many would have said possibility, Deborah Scoville had roused in this hard nature, a feeling which he was not yet ready to name even to himself, but which nevertheless stood very decidedly in his way when the judge made this demand which meant further distress to her.
But the judge had declared his necessity to be greater than hers, and after Mr. Black had subjected him to one of his most searching looks he decided that this was so, and quietly departed upon his errand. The judge left alone, sat, a brooding figure in his great chair, with no light in heart or mind to combat the shadows of approaching night settling heavier and heavier upon the room and upon himself with every slow passing and intolerable minute.
At last, when the final ray had departed and darkness reigned supreme, there came a low knock on the door. Then a troubled cry:
"Oh, judge, are you here?"
"I am here."
"Alone and so dark?"
"I am always alone, and it is always dark. Is there any one with you?"
"No, sir. Shall I make a light?"
"No light. Is the door quite shut?"
"No, judge."
"Shut it."
There came the sound of a hand fumbling over the panels, then a quick snap.
"It is shut," she said.
"Don't come any nearer; it is not necessary." A pause, then the quick question ringing hollow from the darkness, "Why have your doubts returned? Why are you no longer the woman you were when not an hour ago and in this very spot you cried, 'I will be Oliver's advocate!'" Then, as no answer came,—as minutes passed, and still no answer came, he spoke again and added: "I know that you are ill and exhausted—broken between duty and sympathy; but you must answer me, Mrs. Scoville. My affairs won't wait. I must know the truth and all the truth before this day is over."
"You shall." Her voice sounded hollow too and oh, how weary! "You allowed the document you showed me to remain a little too long before my eyes. That last page—need I say it?"
"Say it."
"Shows—shows changes, Judge Ostrander. Some words have been erased and new ones written in. They are not many, but—"
"I understand. I do not blame you, Deborah." The words came after a pause and very softly, almost as softly as her own BUT which had sounded its low knell of doom through the darkness. "Too many stumbling-blocks in your way, Deborah, too much to combat. The most trusting heart must give way under such a strain. That page WAS tampered with. I tampered with it myself. I am not expert at forgery. I had better have left it, as he wrote it." Then after another silence, he added, with a certain vehemence: "We will struggle no longer, either you or I. The boy must come home. Prepare Reuther, or, if you think best, provide a place for her where she will be safe from the storm which bids fair to wreck us here. No, don't speak; just ask Mr. Black to return, will you?"
"Judge—"
"I understand. Mr. Black, Deborah."
Slowly she moved away and began to grope for the door. As her hand fell on the knob she thought she heard a sob in those impenetrable depths behind her; but when she listened again, all was still; still as if merciful death and not weary life gave its significance to the surrounding gloom.
Shuddering, she turned the knob and paused again for rebuff or command. Neither came; and, realising that having spoken once the judge would not speak again, she slipped softly away, and the door swung to after her.
When Mr. Black re-entered the study, it was to find the room lighted and the judge bent over the table, writing.
"You are going to send for Oliver?" he queried.
The judge hesitated, then motioning Black to sit, said abruptly:
"What is Andrews' attitude in this matter?"
Andrews was Shelby's District Attorney.
Black's answer was like the man.
"I saw him for one minute an hour ago. I think, at present, he is inclined to be both deaf and dumb, but if he's driven to action, he will act. And, judge, this man Flannagan isn't going to stop where he is."
"Black, be merciful to my misery. What does this man know? Have you any idea?"
"No, judge, I haven't. He's as tight as a drum,—and as noisy. It is possible—just possible that he's as empty. A few days will tell."
"I cannot wait for a few days. I hardly feel as if I could wait a few hours. Oliver must come, even if—if the consequences are likely to be fatal. An Ostrander once accused cannot skulk. Oliver has been accused and—Send that!" he quickly cried, pulling forward the telegram he had been writing.
Mr. Black took up the telegram and read:
Come at once. Imperative. No delay and no excuse.
ARCHIBALD OSTRANDER.
"Mrs. Scoville will supply the address," continued the poor father. "You will see that it goes, and that its sending is kept secret. The answer, if any is sent, had better be directed to your office. What do you say, Black?"
"I am your friend, right straight through, judge. Your friend."
"And my boy's adviser?"
"You wish that?"
"Very much."
"Then, there's my hand on it, unless he wishes a change when we see him."
"He will not wish any change."
"I don't know. I'm a surly fellow, judge. I have known you all these years, yet I've never expressed—never said what I even find it hard to say now, that—that my esteem is something more than esteem; that—that I'll do anything for you, judge."
"I—we won't talk of that, Black. Tell Mrs. Scoville to keep me informed—and bring me any message that may come. The boy, even if he leaves the first thing in the morning, cannot get here before to-morrow night."
"Not possibly."
"He will telegraph. I shall hear from him. O God! the hours I must wait; my boy! my boy!"
It was nature's irrepressible cry. Black pressed his hand and went out with the telegram.
BOOK III
THE DOOR OF MYSTERY
XXVII
HE MUST BE FOUND
Three hours later, an agitated confab took place at the gate, or rather between the two front gates. Mr. Black had rung for admittance, and Mrs. Scoville had answered the call. In the constrained interview which followed, these words were said:
"One moment, Mrs. Scoville. How can I tell the judge! Young Ostrander is gone—flew the city, and I can get no clew to his whereabouts. Some warning of what is happening here may have reached him, or he may be simply following impulses consequent upon his personal disappointments; but the fact is just this—he asked for two weeks' leave to go West upon business,—and he's been gone three. Meanwhile, no word has come, nor can his best friends tell the place of his destination. I have been burning the telegraph wires ever since the first despatch, and this is the result."
"Poor Judge Ostrander!" Then, in lower and still more pathetic tones, "Poor Reuther!"
"Where is Reuther?"
"At Miss Weeks'. I had to command her to leave me alone with the judge. It's the first time I ever spoke unkindly to her."
"Shall I tell the judge the result of his telegram, or will you?"
"Have you the messages with you?"
He bundled them into her hand.
"I will hand them in to him. We can do nothing less and nothing more. Then if he wants you, I will telephone."
"Mrs. Scoville?"
She felt his hand laid softly on her shoulder.
"Yes, Mr. Black."
"There is some one else in this matter to consider besides Judge Ostrander."
"Reuther? Oh, don't I know it! She's not out of my mind a moment."
"Reuther is young, and has a gallant soul. I mean you, Mrs. Scoville, you! You are not to succumb to this trial. You have a future—a bright future—or should have. Do not endanger it by giving up all your strength now. It's precious, that strength, or would be—"
He broke off; she began to move away. Overhead in the narrow space of sky visible to them from where they stood, the stars burned brightly. Some instinct made them look up; as they did so, their hands met. Then a gruff sound broke the silence. It was Alanson Black's voice uttering a grim farewell.
"He must be found! Oliver must be found!" How the words rung in her ears. She had handed in the messages to the waiting father; she had uttered a word or two of explanation, and then, at his request, had left him. But his last cry followed her: "He must be found!"
When she told it to Mr. Black the next morning, he looked serious.
"Pride or hope?" he asked.
"Desperation," she responded, with a guilty look about her. "Possibly, some hope is in it, too. Perhaps, he thinks that any charge of this nature must fall before Oliver's manly appearance. Whatever he thinks, there is but one thing to do: find Oliver."
"Mrs. Scoville, the police have started upon that attempt. I got the tip this morning."
"We must forestall them. To satisfy the judge, Oliver must come of his own accord to face these charges."
"It's a brave stock. If Oliver gets his father's telegram he will come."
"But how are we to reach him! We are absolutely in the dark."
"If I could go to Detroit, I might strike some clew; but I cannot leave the judge. Mr. Black, he told me this morning when I carried in his breakfast that he should see no one and go nowhere till I brought him word that Oliver was in the house. The hermit life has begun again. What shall we do? Advise me in this emergency, for I feel as helpless as a child,—as a lost child."
They were standing far apart in the little front parlour, and he gave no evidence of wishing to lessen the space between them, but he gave her a look as she said this, which, as she thought it over afterwards, held in its kindly flame something which had never shone upon her before, whether as maid, wife or widow. But, while she noticed it, she did not dwell upon it now, only upon the words which followed it.
"You say you cannot go to Detroit. Shall I go?"
"Mr. Black!"
"Court is adjourned. I know of nothing more important than Judge Ostrander's peace of mind– unless it is yours. I will go if you say so."
"Will it avail? Let me think. I knew him well, and yet not well enough to know where he would be most likely to go under impulse."
"There is some one who knows him better than you do."
"His father?"
"No."
"Reuther? Oh, she mustn't be told—"
"Yes, she must. She's our one adviser. Go for her—or send me."
"It won't be necessary. There's her ring at the gate. But oh, Mr. Black, think again before you trouble this fragile child of mine with doubts and questions which make her mother tremble."
"Has she shown the greater weakness yet?"
"No, but—"
"She has sources of strength which you lack. She believes absolutely in Oliver's integrity. It will carry her through."
"Please let her in, Mr. Black. I will wait here while you tell her."
Mr. Black hurried from the room. When his form became visible on the walk without, Deborah watched him from where she stood far back in the room. Why? Was this swelling of her impetuous heart in the midst of such suspense an instinct of thankfulness? A staff had been put in her hand, rough to the touch, but firm under pressure, and she needed such a staff. Yes, it was thankfulness.
But she forgot gratitude and every lesser emotion in watching Reuther's expression as the two came up the path. The child was radiant, and the mother, thus prepared, was not surprised when the young girl, running into her arms, burst out with the glad cry:
"Oliver is no longer in Detroit, but he's wanted here, and Mr. Black and I are going to find him. I think I know where to look. Get me ready, mother dear; we are going to-night."
"You are going to-night?" This was said after the first moment of ebullition had past. "Where, Reuther? You have not been corresponding with Oliver. How should you know where to look for him?"
Then Reuther told her story.
"Mr. Ostrander and I were talking very seriously one day. It was before we became definitely engaged, and he seemed to feel very dispirited and uncertain of the future. There was a treatise he wanted to write, and for this he could get no opportunity in Detroit. 'I need time,' he said, 'and complete seclusion.' And then he made this remark: 'If ever life becomes too much for me, I shall go to one of two places and give myself up to this task.' 'And what are the places?' I asked. 'One is Washington,' he answered, 'where I can have the run of a great library and the influence of the most inspiring surroundings in the world; the other is a little lodge in a mountain top above Lake Placid—Tempest Lodge, they call it; perhaps, in contrast to the peacefulness it dominates.' And he described this last place with so much enthusiasm and weighed so carefully the advantages of the one spot against the other for the absorbing piece of work that he contemplated, that I am sure that if we do not find him in Washington, we certainly shall in the Adirondacks."
"Let us hope that it will be in Washington," replied the lawyer, with a keen remembrance of the rigours of an Adirondack fall—rigours of which Reuther in her enthusiasm, if not in her ignorance, appeared to take little count. "And now," he went on, "this is how I hope to proceed. We will go first to Washington, and, if unsuccessful there, to Tempest Lodge. We will take Miss Weeks with us, for I am sure that I could not, without some such assistance, do justice to this young lady's comfort. If you have a picture of Mr. Ostrander as he looks now, I hope you will take it, Miss Scoville. With that and the clew to his intentions, which you have given me, I have no doubt that we shall find him within the week."
"But," objected Deborah, "if you know where to look for him, why take the child? Why go yourself? Why not telegraph to these places?"
His answer was a look, quick, sharp and enigmatical enough to require explanation. He could not give it to her then, but later, when Reuther had left them, he said:
"Men who fly their engagements and secrete themselves, with or without a pretext, are not so easily reached. We shall have to surprise Oliver Ostrander, in order to place his father's message in his hands."
"You may be right. But Reuther? Can she stand the excitement—the physical strain?"
"You have the harder task of the two, Mrs. Scoville. Leave the little one to me. She shall not suffer."
Deborah's response was eloquent. It was only a look, but it made his harsh features glow and his hard eye soften. Alanson Black had waited long, but his day of romance had come—and possibly hers also.
But his thoughts, if not his hopes, received a check when, with every plan made and Miss Weeks, as well as Reuther, in trembling anticipation of the journey, he encountered the triumphant figure of Flannagan coming out of Police Headquarters.
His jaunty air, his complaisant nod, admitted of but one explanation. He had told his story to the chief authorities and been listened to. Proof that he had something of actual moment to tell them; something which the District Attorney's office might feel bound to take up.
Alanson Black felt the shock of this discovery, but was glad of the warning it gave him. Plans which had seemed both simple and natural before, he now saw must be altered to suit the emergency. He could no longer hope to leave town with his little party without attracting unwelcome attention. They might even be followed. For whatever Flannagan may have told the police, there was one thing he had been unable to impart, and that was where to look for Oliver. Only Reuther held that clew, and if they once suspected this fact, she would certainly become the victim of their closest surveillance. Little Reuther, therefore, must not accompany him on his quest, but hold herself quite apart from it; or, better still, be made to act as a diversion to draw off the scent from the chief actor, which was himself. The idea was good, and one to be immediately carried out.
Continuing on to his office, he called up Miss Weeks.
"Are you there?" he asked.
Yes, she was there.
"Alone?"
Yes, Reuther was home packing.
"Nobody around?"
Nobody.
"No one listening on the line?"
She was sure not.
"Very well. Listen closely and act quickly. You are not to go to—I will not mention the name; and you are not to wait for me. You are to start at the hour named, but you will buy tickets for Atlantic City, where you must get what accommodations you can. Our little friend needs to be taken out of town,—not on business you understand, but to escape the unpleasantness here and to get such change as will distract her mind. Her mother cannot leave her duties, so you have undertaken to accompany the child. The rest leave to me. Have you understood all this?"
"Yes, perfectly; but—"
"Not another word, Miss Weeks. The change will do our little friend good. Trust my judgment, and ask her to do the same. Above all, do not be late for the train. Telephone at once for a cab, and forget everything but the pleasant trip before you.—Oh, one minute! There's an article you had better send me. I hope you can guess what it is."
"I think I can."
"You know the city I am going to. Mark the package, General Delivery, and let me have it soon. That's all."
He hung up the receiver.
At midnight he started for Washington. He gave a political reason in excuse for this trip. He did not expect to be believed; but the spy, if such had been sent, had taken the earlier train on which the two ladies had left for Atlantic City. He knew every man who got on board of the same train as himself; and none of them were in league with Police Headquarters.
XXVIII
THE FIRST EFFORT
LEAVES FROM ALANSON BLACK'S NOTE-BOOK, FOUND BY REUTHER SOME MONTHS LATER, IN A VERY QUEER PLACE, VIZ.: HER MOTHER'S JEWEL-BOX
At the New Willard. Awaiting two articles—Oliver's picture and a few lines in the judge's writing requesting his son's immediate return. Meanwhile, I have made no secret of my reason for being here. All my inquiries at the desk have shown it to be particularly connected with a certain bill now before Congress, in which Shelby is vitally interested.
Perhaps I can further the interests of this bill in off minutes. I am willing to.
The picture is here, as well as the name of the hotel where the two women are staying. I have spent five minutes studying the face I must be able to recognise at first glance in any crowd. It's not a bad face; I can see his mother's looks in him. But it is not the face I used to know. Trouble develops a man.
There's a fellow here who rouses my suspicions. No one knows him;—I don't myself. But he's strangely interested in me. If he's from Shelby—in other words, if he's from the detective bureau there, I've led him a chase to-day which must have greatly bewildered him. I'm not slow, and I'm not above mixing things. From the Cairo where our present congressman lives, I went to the Treasury, then to the White House, and then to the Smithsonian—with a few newspaper offices thrown in, and some hotels where I took pains that my interviews should not be too brief. When quite satisfied that by these various and somewhat confusing peregrinations I had thrown off any possible shadower, I fetched up at the Library where I lunched. Then, as I thought the time had come for me to enjoy myself, I took a walk about the great building, ending up with the reading-room. Here I asked for a book on a certain abstruse subject. Of course, it was not in my line, but I looked wise and spoke the name glibly. When I sat down to consult it, the man who brought it threw me a short glance which I chose to think peculiar. "You don't have many readers for this volume?" I ventured. He smiled and answered, "Just sent it back to the shelves. It's had a steady reader for ten days. Before that, nobody." "Is this your steady reader?" I asked, showing him the photograph I drew from my pocket. He stared, but said nothing. He did not have to. In a state of strange satisfaction I opened the book. It was Greek, if not worse, to me, but I meant to read a few paragraphs for the sake of appearances, and was turning over the pages in search of a promising chapter, when—Talk of remarkable happenings!—there in the middle of the book was a card,—his card!—left as a marker, no doubt, and on this card, an address hastily scribbled in lead pencil. It only remained for me to find that the hotel designated in this address was a Washington one, for me to recognise in this simple but strangely opportune occurrence, a coincidence—or, as YOU would say,—an act of Providence as startling as those we read of in books.
The first man I accosted in regard to the location of this hotel said there was none of that name in Washington. The next, that he thought there was, but that he could not tell me where to look for it. The third, that I was within ten blocks of its doors. Did I walk? No, I took a taxi. I thought of your impatience and became impatient too. But when I got there, I stopped hurrying. I waited a full half-hour in the lobby to be sure that I had not been followed before I approached the desk and asked to see Mr. Ostrander. No such person was in the hotel or had been. Then I brought out my photograph. The face was recognised, but not as that of a guest. This seemed a puzzle. But after thinking it over for awhile, I came to this conclusion: that the address I saw written on the card was not his own, but that of some friend he had casually met.
This put me in a quandary. The house was full of young men; how pick out the friend? Besides, this friend was undoubtedly a transient and gone long ago. My hopes seemed likely to end in smoke—my great coincidence to prove valueless. I was so convinced of this, that I started to go; then I remembered you, and remained. I even took a room, registering myself for the second time that day,—which formality over, I sat down in the office to write letters.
Oliver Ostrander is in Washington. That's something.
I cannot sleep. Indeed, I may say that this is the first time in my life when I failed to lose my cares the moment my head struck the pillow.
The cause I will now relate.
I had finished and mailed my letter to you and was just in the act of sealing another, when I heard a loud salutation uttered behind me, and turning, was witness to the meeting of two young men who had run upon each other in the open doorway. The one going out was a stranger to me and I hardly noticed him, but the one coming in was Oliver Ostrander (or his photograph greatly belied him), and in my joy at an encounter so greatly desired but so entirely unhoped for, I was on the point of rising to intercept him, when some instinct of precaution led me to glance about me first for the individual who had shown such a persistent interest in me from the moment of my arrival. There he sat, not a dozen chairs away, ostensibly reading, but with a quick eye ready for me the instant I gave him the slightest chance:—a detective, as certainly as I was Black, the lawyer.
What was I to do? The boy was leaving town—was even then on his way to the station as his whole appearance and such words as he let fall amply denoted. If I let him go, would another such chance of delivering his father's message be given me? Should I not lose him altogether; while if I approached him or betrayed in any way my interest in him, the detective would recognise his prey and, if he did not arrest him on the spot, would never allow him to return to Shelby unattended. This would be to defeat the object of my journey, and recalling the judge's expression at parting, I dared not hesitate. My eyes returned with seeming unconcern to the letter I was holding and the detective's to his paper. When we both looked up again the two young men had quit the building and the business which had brought me to Washington was at an end.
But I am far from being discouraged. A fresh start with the prospect of Reuther's companionship, inspires me with more hope for my next venture.
