Heart to heart

Henry Cross was compelled to smile in spite of the serious and weighty thoughts that were engrossing his mind. He stopped short in his pacing up and down the office.

“Yes, you have always been my friend, Nancy, ever since I knew you. That is why I come to you now.”

The colored woman felt flattered at this speech, and her mouth broadened even more than before.

“Yo’ kin rely on me tellin’ yo’ de truf,” she said.

“How old was Miss Maud when you went to live with the colonel’s family?”

“She was about twelve yeahs, sah—jess a slip ob a child, wid wild, golden hair a-streamin’ down her back. I kin remember her a-playin’ in de back garden down in Fairwood—as happy as de honey bees dat was a-buzzin’ about, sah!”

“She lived at Fairwood until she came here four years ago, did she not?”

“Yes, sah—dat is, when she was home. She went to boardin’ school fo’ three yeahs, jess befo’ de family moved yeah—to a place way out in Pennsylvania.”

“Oh! And she came from the boarding school to Lakeview?”

“Yes, sah. De colonel was all settled yeah when she came back.”

“I knew she had been to school somewhere. And—and she knew Mr. Chesterbrook before she came here, didn’t she?”

The colored woman rolled her eyes in thought.

“I don’t know as she did, sah. It might be, sah, but I nebber heered tell ob it, sah. But he’s dead an’ gone now, Mistah Cross, so wot’s de use ob——”

“Oh, I only thought to ask, that’s all,” he interrupted. “By the way, wasn’t there another gentleman friend who used to call on her at that time?”

Nancy Motley shook her head.

“No, indeed, sah. When Miss Maud came from de boardin’ school she was quite a different young lady, sah, dan she is now. She didn’t hab no company, an’ she didn’t want none. De colonel used to try to git her to go out, but she didn’t eben want to do dat. She used to hav some school friend dat libed a good way off, an’ she went once in a while to visit her, an’ dat was all. Yo’ was about de fust gentleman frien’ she had in Lakeview; an’ den Mr. Chesterbrook came along, an’ if you hadn’t a-been so shy—excuse me fo’ sayin’ it—yo’ might have been de chosen one long ago, sah, to my way of thinkin’, sah,” and again Nancy Motley smiled broadly in a way that made Henry Cross’ heart ache.

“We do not always know things when we should,” he said, somewhat softly, and with a double meaning. “Did Miss Maud come home often from school—say, during the holidays or at other times?”

“Werry seldom, sah. De colonel went West on business half a dozen times, so she had small occasion fo’ dat, sah.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of the colonel’s Western trips. By the way, Mrs. Devigney is one of her old school friends, I believe. I wonder why she didn’t come on to take part in the wedding?”

“She couldn’t, sah—at least so she told Miss Maud. But dar was enough others, sah—more’n Miss Maud wanted.”

“Did you help her to dress on that awful morning—I mean before she and the colonel took the coach for the church?” and, to hide his eagerness, the young man turned to the window and stood staring out.

“I helped her a bit, sah, but she didn’t want no ’sistance—said so herself.”

“Didn’t want you to assist her on her wedding morning! That was strange.”

“Miss Maud wasn’t herself dat morning, sah. I is inclined to beliebe dat spirits was around her, a-tellin’ her dat all wasn’t gwine ter be right,” and the colored woman rolled her eyes solemnly.

She came from a place where hoodooism flourished, and she was a firm believer in spirits and the like.

“And she dressed entirely alone?”

“I was wid her in de early mornin’, sah, about eight o’clock. Den she sent me away to de kitchen to help on de weddin’ lunch, wot dey was gwine to hab arfter dey came from church—an’ locked herself in her room all alone, sah.”

“And didn’t you go to her again?”

“I went up arfter a while an’ knocked, but she wouldn’t answer me, an’ I t’ink she must hab had a spell on, sah—indeed I do. Den I went away; an’ de next t’ing I knew she was all dressed an’ in the parlor wid de colonel. She was as white as a ghost, an’ I was suah she was sick, sah; but she wasn’t—leastwise, she said she wasn’t—an’ den dey drobe off to church, an’ me an’ John and Mary, de cook, follered in de yaller carriage—an’ yo’ know de rest, sah. It was awful, sah. But de Lord didn’t mean it to be, sah—she wasn’t to marry him, sah; she was to marry yo’, sah—bless yo’ heart!”

It was well that the office was dark, that Cross had not taken the trouble to turn on one of the lights. She could not see his face, so white and full of agony. He tried to speak, but the words would not come, and he walked to the water cooler to moisten his lips.

“And so you are sure she had no one around when she dressed on that morning—no friend or dressmaker?” he asked finally.

“No, sah, not a soul. She locked herself in all alone, sah.”

He gave a groan, and, to hide it, pretended that he had stubbed his toe on the corner of a desk. She watched him curiously, too obtuse to fathom his manner or suspect what he had been driving at.

“I was going to ask you about Mrs. Devigney,” he said, changing the subject. “How long is she going to stay?”

“She is gwine away to-morrow, sah.”

“On the boat?”

“Yes, sah.”

“I was in hopes I might see her again. But perhaps I shall be unable to do so now. Now, Nancy, please don’t say anything about our little talk.” He forced a smile. “You know how young men are when they—you know.”

“Oh, yes, sah. Thank you, sah, thank you!” the last words as her fat hand closed over a bank note he had thrust into her palm. “Didn’t I say I was yo’ friend? Anyt’ing else I can do fo’ you, sah?”

“Not now.” He led the way to the door and let her out. “You’ll have a cold walk home, I’m afraid. Good night.”

He closed the door before she had time to say a word in return. In the darkness he moved toward a couch in his inner office and threw himself face downward upon this, giving himself up to reflections that to him were almost as bitter as death.

He spent the night in the office, too overcome by his feelings to go out and walk to his apartments. At daybreak he arose from the couch, his head aching and his heart like a lump of lead within his breast. When the clock on the wall struck seven, fearful that the boy would come and find him there, he slipped outside, locking the door after him.

He turned his footsteps at first toward his bachelor home, but before it was reached he changed his mind. Regardless of the wintry wind that was blowing, he turned away from the lake and followed the road that led up into the woods.

On and on and on he trudged, walking rapidly, and apparently aimlessly. It seemed to ease his heart and mind to keep moving. But at last he grew exhausted, and at the noon hour, eight miles from Lakeview, he threw himself on a flat rock, too tired to advance another step.

Here he remained until he was chilled to the bone; then, with blue lips and chattering teeth, he arose once more and started to go back.

“She will wonder what is keeping me away,” he murmured. “And what shall I say to her when we come face to face? Shall I say I have discovered her secret? Shall I ask her if she went there?”

He had forgotten all about his business—that Mr. Pardue wished to see him at noon. He glanced at his watch. It was half past one.

“Business must take care of itself—bonds, mortgages, railroad, and all,” he thought. “This must be settled first; I must know the truth. I must know the truth.”

He repeated the last words over and over again, as though to build up a resolution upon their utterance. Sitting on the rock had rested him, and again he walked along as fast as ever.

Presently the sound of carriage wheels broke upon his ears. He stepped to one side to let the turn-out pass, but it did not; it came to a halt instead.

“Why, Harry, what in the world are you doing away out here?”

He looked up in amazement. There was Maud Willowby before him, seated in her father’s buggy alone. Her face expressed intense surprise.

“I—I took a walk. I did not feel well,” he stammered. “How came you here?”

“I have just taken Alice to the boat—she has gone away, you know. I thought you would call at the house before she went away. Will you get in?”

He could not decline the invitation. He got in. But he did not attempt to kiss her, although they were utterly alone. He did not even take her hand. She noticed his coolness and indifference, and her face grew a trifle pale.

“Are you very sick?” she asked.

“Not very,” he murmured. “It is my head, and I thought the fresh air would do me good.”

“I am so sorry! Can’t I do something for you? Let me take you to the house, and——”

“No, no, don’t drive to the house. Let us drive—drive along the road. Let us keep out of town, away from the houses.”

“Well, just as you wish.” She was more surprised than ever. “I am afraid you have been working too hard lately. You must take it easier, or you will be down with brain fever or something as bad.”

“Not I!” he laughed hollowly. “So Mrs. Devigney has gone away?”

“Yes. She received a message to come home—an aunt is very sick. She sent you a good-by.”

“Thanks for it.”

There was an embarrassing pause as he tried to think of the best way to broach the disagreeable topic upon which he wished to question her. Then he started to speak, but broke off abruptly.

“What is it—there is something on your mind,” she cried presently. “I can see it in your face. Can you not trust me?”

Now he groaned aloud. Trust her! What was the meaning of those words?

“Maud!”

The name sounded so strange that it came like a shock to her.

“What is it? Tell me plainly.” A sudden fear sprang up in her eyes. “Did you—have you—made a mistake—about me, Harry?” she faltered. “Don’t be afraid to tell the truth.”

She looked at him as though expecting him to throw his arms about her, and he would have done it on the instant had not his mind been racked with the torture of suspicion—nay, something more than suspicion. He turned his face away.

“Maud, answer me truthfully”—he breathed hard. “Did you remain home all the morning when you were to marry Chesterbrook, or did you go out?”

She gave a sharp gasp, and, turning to gaze at her, he saw every particle of color leave her face. She tried to turn away, but he would not let her.

“Tell me the truth,” he went on. “Did you remain home or not?”

She did not answer—indeed, all her breath seemed to be escaping from her pale lips. Had he been less interested and less jealous, he would have had more pity.

“Why don’t you speak? It is a very simple question to answer. Did you remain home, or did you—go to Chesterbrook’s rooms?”

The last words were hardly uttered when she gave a cry, so shrill, so full of anguish, that it pierced him to the very soul. But he never took his eyes from her, and in those big, staring blue orbs he saw that he had reached the truth.

“You went to his rooms, then. I see it in your face; you dare not deny it. And for what purpose?”

At last she gained her voice.

“He was my affianced husband,” she murmured.

“Your affianced husband?” He almost threw a sneer into his tones. “Your affianced husband, and you——”

“Stop, stop! Oh, heavens above us, have mercy! Harry, have mercy!” she wailed.

“And you were the last one who saw him alive?” he went on.

She shivered.

“Yes, I was the last one who saw him alive,” she replied, in such a low tone that he could scarcely hear her.

“And why did you go to him at that time—the last hour? Will you tell me that?”

“I cannot! I cannot! Oh, have mercy!”

“Why should I be merciful? Did you have mercy on me? I loved you, madly, blindly—and hopelessly! Why did you not tell me—or send me off! If you had killed off my love it would have been a thousand times better. But you permitted it to grow—almost to master me. And all the time you were hiding the truth from me. You were hiding the awful fact that you had a son, a boy named Roy——”

He got no further. Again she cried out, and would have fallen from the vehicle had he not caught her in his arms. The cry was succeeded by utter stillness. She lay like a dead body in his arms.

Alarmed, he sprang with her to the ground. He laid her upon a grassy bank, and, running to a pool, brought his hat full of water, with which he bathed her face. In a few moments she revived and stared wildly at him.

“Let me go home!” she wailed. “Let me go home. I never want to see you or any one again! Oh, I wish I were dead!”

She dragged herself to her feet. He attempted to assist her, but she pushed him off, and staggered to the buggy, pulling herself into it.

“Maud! Come back! I love you!” he cried loudly, frantically; but she would not listen, and so passed out of his sight.