The Best Man (20 page)

And then a new solution to the problem came to her. Suppose this – whoever he was – this man who had married her, had gone out to find and punish George Hayne? Suppose – But then she covered her eyes with her hands and shuttered. Yet why should she care? But she did. Suppose he should be killed, himself! Who was he if not George Hayne and how did he come to take his place? Was it just another of George’s terrible tricks upon her?

A quick vision came of their bringing him back to her. He would lie, perhaps, on that great crimson leather couch over there, just as he had lain in the dawning of the morning in the state-room of the train, with his hands hanging limp, and one perhaps across his breast, as if he were guarding something forehead – only, his forehead would be white, so white and cold, with a little blue mark in his temple perhaps.

The footsteps of the man Henry brought her back to the present again. She smiled at him pleasantly as he entered, and answered his questions about what she would have for breakfast; but it was he who selected the menu, not she, and after he had gone she could not have told what she had ordered. She could not get away from the vision on the couch. She closed her eyes and pressed her cold fingers against her eyeballs to drive it away, but still her bridegroom seemed to lie there before her.

The colored man came back presently with a loaded tray, and set it down on a little table which he wheeled before her, as though he had done it many times before. She thanked him, and said there was nothing else she needed, so he went away.

She toyed with the cup of delicious coffee which he had poured for her, and the few swallows she took gave her new heart. She broke a bit from a hot roll, and ate a little of the delicious steak, but still her mind was at work at the problem, and her heart was full of nameless anxiety.

He had gone away without any breakfast himself, and he had had no supper he night before, she was sure. He probably had given to her everything he could get on the train. She was haunted with regret because she had not shared with him. She got up and walked about the room, trying to shake off the horror that was upon her, and the dread of what the morning might bring forth. Ordinarily she would have thought of sending a message to her mother and brother, but her mind was so troubled now that it never occurred to her.

The walls of the room were tinted a soft greenish gray, and above the picture moulding they blended into a woodsy landscape with a hint of water, greensward, and blue sky through interlacing branches. It reminded her of the little village they had seen as they started from the train in the early morning light. What a beautiful day they had spent together and how it had changed her whole attitude of heart toward the man she had married!

Two or three fine pictures were hung in good lights. She studied them, and knew that the one who had selected and hung them was a judge of true art; but they did not hold her attention long, for as yet, she had not connected the room with the man for whom she waited.

A handsome mahogany desk stood open in a broad space by the window. She was attracted by a little painted miniature of a woman. She took it up and studied the face. It was fine and sweet, with brown hair dressed low, and eyes that reminded her of the man who had just gone from her. Was this, then, the home of some relative with whom he had come to stop for a day or two, and, if so, where was the relative? The dress in the miniature was of a quarter of a century past, yet the face was young and sweet, as young, perhaps, as herself. She wondered who it was. She put the miniature back in place with caressing hand. She felt that she would like to know this woman with the tender eyes. She wished her here now, that she might tell her all her anxiety.

Her eye wandered to the pile of letters, some of them official-looking ones, one or two in square, perfumed envelopes, with high, angular writing. They were all addressed to Mr. Cyril Gordon. That was strange! Who was Mr. Cyril Gordon? What had they – what had she – to do with him? Was he a friend whom George – whom they – were visiting for a few days? It was all bewildering.

Then the telephone rang.

Her heart beat wildly and she looked toward it as if it had been a human voice speaking and she had no power to answer. What should she do now? Should she answer? Or should she wait for the man to come? Could the man hear the telephone bell or was she perhaps expected to answer? And yet if Mr. Cyril Gordon – well, somebody ought to answer. The ’phone rang insistently once more, and still a third time. What if he should be calling her? Perhaps he was in distress. This thought sent her flying to the ’phone. She took down the receiver and called:

“Hello!” and her voice sounded far away to herself.

“Is this Mr. Gordon’s apartment?”

“Yes,” she answered, for her eyes were resting on the pile of letters close at hand.

“Is Mr. Gordon there?”

“No he is not,” she answered, growing more confident now and almost wishing she had not presumed to answer a stranger’s phone.

“Why I just ’phone to the office and they told me he had returned,” said a voice that had an imperious note in it. “Are you sure he isn’t there?”

“Quite sure,” she replied.

“Who is this, please?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Celia trying to make time and knowing not how to reply. She was not any longer Miss Hathaway. Who was she? Mrs. Hayne? She shrank from the name. It was filled with horror for her. “Who is this, I said,” snapped the other voice now. “Is this the chambermaid? Because if it is I’d like you to look around and inquire and be quite sure that Mr. Gordon isn’t there. I wish to speak with him about something very important.”

Celia smiled.

“No, this is not the chambermaid,” she said sweetly, “and I am quite sure Mr. Gordon is not here.”

“How long before he will be there?

“I don’t know really, for I have just come myself.”

“Who is this to whom I am talking?”

“Why – just a friend,” she answered, wondering if that were the best thing to say.

“Oh!” there was a long and contemplative pause at the other end.

“Well, could you give Mr. Gordon a message when he comes in?”

“Why certainly, I think so. Who is this?”

“Miss Bentley. Julia Bentley. He’ll know,” replied the imperious one eagerly now. “And tell him please that he is expected here to dinner to-night. We need him to complete the number, and he simply mustn’t fail me. I’ll excuse him for going off in such a rush if he comes early and tells me all about it. Now you won’t forget, will you? You got the name, Bentley, did you? B,E,N,T,L,E,Y, you know. And you’ll tell him the minute he comes in?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you! What did you say your name was?”

But Celia had hung up. Somehow the message annoyed her, she could not tell why. She wished she had not answered the ’phone. Whoever Mr. Cyril Gordon was what should she do if he should suddenly appear? And as for this imperious lady and her message she hoped she would never have to deliver it. On second thought why not write it and leave it on his desk with the pile of letters? She would do it. It would serve to pass away a few of these dreadful minutes that lagged so distressfully.

She sat down and wrote: “Miss Bentley wished Mr. Gordon to dine with her this evening. She will pardon his running away the other day if he will come early.” She laid it beside the high angular writing on the square perfumed letters and went back to the leather chair too restless to rest yet too weary to stand up.

She went presently to the back windows to look out and then to the side ones. Across the housetops she could catch a glimpse of domes and buildings. There was the Congressional Library, which usually delighted her with its exquisite tones of gold and brown and white. But she had no eyes for it now. Beyond were more buildings, all set in the lovely foliage which was much farther developed than it had been in New York state. From another window she could get a glimpse of the Potomac shining in the morning sun.

She wandered to the front windows and looked out. There were people passing and repassing. It was a busy street, but she could not make out whether it was one she knew or not. There were two men walking back and forth on the opposite side. They did not go further than the corner of the street either way. They looked across at the windows sometimes and pointed up, when they met, and once one of them took something out of his pocket and flashed it under his coat at his side, as if to have it ready for use. It reminded her of the thing her husband had held in his hand in the bedroom and she shuddered. She watched them, fascinated, not able to draw herself away from the window.

Now and then she would go to the rear window, to see if there was any sign of the automobile returning, and then hurry back to the front, to see if the men were still there. Once she returned to the chair, and, lying back, shut her eyes, and let the memory of yesterday sweep over her in all its sweet details, up to the time when they had got into the way train and she had seemed to feel her disloyalty to her father. But now her heart was all on the other side, and she began to feel that there had been some dreadful mistake, somewhere, and he was surely all right. He could not, could not have written those terrible letters. Then again the details of their wild carriage ride in Pittsburgh and miraculous escape haunted her. There was something strange and unexplained about that which she must understand.

Meantime, Gordon was speeding away to another part of the city by the fastest time an experienced chauffeur dare to make. About the time they turned the first corner into the avenue, two burly policemen sauntered casually into the pretty square in front of the house where lived the chief of the Secret Service. There was nothing about their demeanor to show that they had been detailed there by special urgency, and three men who hurried to the little park just across the street from the house could not possibly know that their leisurely and careless stroll was the result of a hurried telephone message from the chief to police headquarters immediately after his message from Gordon.

The policemen strolled by the house, greeted each other, and walked on around the square across the little park. They eyed the three men sitting idly on a bench, and passed leisurely on. They disappeared around a corner, and to the three men were out of the way. The latter did not know the hidden places where the officers took up their watch, and when an automobile appeared, and the three stealthily got up from their park bench and distributed themselves among the shrubbery near the walk, they knew not that their every movement was observed with keen attention. But they did wonder how it happened that those two policemen seemed to spring out of the ground suddenly, just as the auto came to a halt in front of the chief’s house.

Gordon sprang out and up the steps with a bound, the door opening before him as if he were expected. The two grim and apparently indifferent policemen stood outside like two stone images on guard, while up the street with the rhythmic sound rode two mounted police, also coming to a halt before the house as if for a purpose. The three men in the bushes hid their instruments of death, and would have slunk away had there been a chance; but, turning to make a hasty flight, they were met by three more policemen. There was the crack of a revolver as one of the three desperadoes tried a last reckless dash for freedom – and failed. The wretch went to justice with his right arm hanging limp by his side.

Inside the house Gordon was delivering up his message, and as he laid it before his chief, and stood silent while the elder man read and pondered its tremendous import, it occurred to him for the first time that his chief would require some report of his journey, and the hindrances that had made him a whole day late in getting back to Washington. His heart stood still with sudden panic. What was he to do? How could he tell it all? What right had he to tell of his marriage to an unknown woman? A marriage that perhaps was not a marriage. He could not know what the outcome would be until he had told the girl everything. As far as himself was concerned he knew that the great joy of his life had come to him in her. And he must think of her and protect her good name in every way. If there should be such a thing as that she should consent to remain with him and be his wife he must never let a soul know but what the marriage had been planned long ago. It would not be fair to her. It would make life intolerable for them both either together or apart. And while he might be and doubtless was perfectly safe in confiding his chief, and asking him to keep silence about the matter, still he felt even that would be a breach of faith with Celia. He must close his lips upon the story until he could talk with her and know her wishes. He drew a sigh of weariness. It was a long, hard way he had come, and it was not over. The worst ordeal would be his confession to the bride who was not his wife.

The chief looked up.

“Could you make this out, Gordon?” he asked, noting keenly the young man’s weary eyes, the strained, tense look about his mouth.

“Oh, yes sir; I saw it at once. I was almost afraid my eyes might betray the secret before I got away with it.”

“Then you know that you have saved the country, and what you have been worth to the Service.”

The young man flushed with pleasure.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, looking down. “I understood it was important, and I am glad I was able to accomplish the errand without failing.”

“Have you reason to suppose you were followed, except for what you saw at the station in this city?”

“Yes, sir; I am sure there were detectives after me as I was leaving New York. They were suspicious of me. I saw one of the men who had been at the dinner with me watching me. The disguise – and – some circumstances – threw him off. He wasn’t sure. Then, there was a man – you know him, Balder – at Pittsburgh -”

“Pittsburgh!”

“Yes, you wonder how I got to Pittsburgh. You see, I was shadowed almost from the first I suspect, for when I reached the station in New York I was sure I recognized this man who had sat opposite me a few minutes before. I suppose my disguise, which you so thoughtfully provided, bothered him, for though he followed me about at a little distance he didn’t speak to me. I had to get on the first train that circumstances permitted, and perhaps the fact that it was a Chicago train made him think he was mistaken in me. Anyhow I saw no more of him after the train left the station. Rather unexpectedly I found I could get the drawing room compartment, and went into immediate retirement, leaving the train at daylight where it was delayed on a side track, and walked across country till I found a conveyance that took me to Pittsburgh train. It didn’t seem feasible to get away from the Chicago train any sooner as the train made no further stops, and it was rather late at night by the time I boarded it. I thought I would run less risk by making a detour. I never dreamed they would have watchers out for me at Pittsburgh, and I can’t think yet how they managed to get on my track, but almost the first minute I landed I spied Balder stretching his neck over the crowds. I bolted from the station at once and finding a carriage drawn up before the door just ready for me I got in and ordered them to drive me to East Liberty Station.