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Anna Katharine Green >> Initials Only
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He was therefore greatly taken aback, when at his first step upon
the porch, the door before him flew open and he beheld in the dark
recess beyond a young woman of such bright and blooming beauty that
he hardly noticed her expression of extreme anxiety, till she lifted
her hand and laid an admonitory finger softly on her lip:
"Hush!" she whispered, with an earnestness which roused him from his
absorption and restored him to the full meaning of this encounter.
"There is sickness in the house and we are very anxious. Is your
errand an important one? If not--" The faltering break in the
fresh, young voice, the look she cast behind her into the darkened
interior, were eloquent with the hope that he would recognise her
impatience and pass on.
And so he might have done,--so he would have done under all
ordinary circumstances. But if this was Doris--and he did not
doubt the fact after the first moment of startled surprise--how
dare he forego this opportunity of settling the question which had
brought him here.
With a slight stammer but otherwise giving no evidence of the effect
made upon him by the passionate intensity with which she had urged
this plea, he assured her that his errand was important, but one so
quickly told that it would delay her but a moment. "But first," said
he, with very natural caution, "let me make sure that it is to Miss
Doris Scott I am speaking. My errand is to her and her only."
Without showing any surprise, perhaps too engrossed in her own
thoughts to feel any, she answered with simple directness, "Yes, I
am Doris Scott." Whereupon he became his most persuasive self, and
pulling out a folded paper from his pocket, opened it and held it
before her, with these words:
"Then will you be so good as to glance at this letter and tell me
if the person whose initials you will find at the bottom happens to
be in town at the present moment?"
In some astonishment now, she glanced down at the sheet thus boldly
thrust before her, and recognising the O and the B of a well-known
signature, she flashed a look back at Sweetwater in which he read a
confusion of emotions for which he was hardly prepared.
"Ah," thought he, "it's coming. In another moment I shall hear
what will repay me for the trials and disappointments of all these
months."
But the moment passed and he had heard nothing. Instead, she
dropped her hands from the door-jamb and gave such unmistakable
evidences of intended flight, that but one alternative remained to
him; he became abrupt.
Thrusting the paper still nearer, he said, with an emphasis which
could not fail of making an impression, "Read it. Read the whole
letter. You will find your name there. This communication was
addressed to Miss Challoner, but--"
Oh, now she found words! With a low cry, she put out her hand in
quick entreaty, begging him to desist and not speak that name on
any pretext or for any purpose. "He may rouse and hear," she
explained, with another quick look behind her. "The doctor says
that this is the critical day. He may become conscious any minute.
If he should and were to hear that name, it might kill him."
"He!" Sweetwater perked up his ears. "Who do you mean by he?"
"Mr. Brotherson, my patient, he whose letter--" But here her
impatience rose above every other consideration. Without attempting
to finish her sentence, or yielding in the least to her curiosity or
interest in this man's errand, she cried out with smothered intensity,
"Go! go! I cannot stay another moment from his bedside."
But a thunderbolt could not have moved Sweetwater after the hearing
of that name. "Mr. Brotherson!" he echoed. "Brotherson! Not
Orlando?"
"No, no; his name is Oswald. He's the manager of these Works. He's
sick with typhoid. We are caring for him. If you belonged here you
would know that much. There! that's his voice you hear. Go, if
you have any mercy." And she began to push to the door.
But Sweetwater was impervious to all hint. With eager eyes straining
into the shadowy depths just visible over her shoulder, he listened
eagerly for the disjointed words now plainly to be heard in some
near-by but unseen chamber.
"The second O. B.!" he inwardly declared. "And he's a Brotherson
also, and--sick! Miss Scott," he whisperingly entreated as her
hand fell in manifest despair from the door, "don't send me away
yet. I've a question of the greatest importance to put you, and
one minute more cannot make any difference to him. Listen! those
cries are the cries of delirium; he cannot miss you; he's not even
conscious."
"He's calling out in his sleep. He's calling her, just as he has
called for the last two weeks. But he will wake conscious--or he
will not wake at all."
The anguish trembling in that latter phrase would have attracted
Sweetwater's earnest, if not pitiful, attention at any other time,
but now he had ears only for the cry which at that moment came
ringing shrilly from within--
"Edith! Edith!"
The living shouting for the dead! A heart still warm sending forth
its longing to the pierced and pulseless one, hidden in a far-off
tomb! To Sweetwater, who had seen Miss Challoner buried, this
summons of distracted love came with weird force.
Then the present regained its sway. He heard her name again, and
this time it sounded less like a call and more like the welcoming
cry of meeting spirits. Was death to end this separation? Had he
found the true O. B., only to behold another and final seal fall
upon this closely folded mystery? In his fear of this possibility,
he caught at Doris' hand as she was about to bound away, and eagerly
asked:
"When was Mr. Brotherson taken ill? Tell me, I entreat you; the
exact day and, if you can, the exact hour. More depends upon this
than you can readily realise."
She wrenched her hand from his, panting with impatience and a vague
alarm. But she answered him distinctly:
"On the Twenty-fifth of last month, just an hour after he was made
manager. He fell in a faint at the Works."
The day--the very day of Miss Challoner's death!
"Had he heard--did you tell him then or afterwards what happened
in New York on that very date?"
"No, no, we have not told him. It would have killed him--and may
yet."
"Edith! Edith!" came again through the hush, a hush so deep that
Sweetwater received the impression that the house was empty save
for patient and nurse.
This discovery had its effects upon him. Why should he subject this
young and loving girl to further pain? He had already learned more
than he had expected to. The rest would come with time. But at the
first intimation he gave of leaving, she lost her abstracted air and
turned with absolute eagerness towards him.
"One moment," said she. "You are a stranger and I do not know your
name or your purpose here. But I cannot let you go without begging
you not to mention to any one in this town that Mr. Brotherson has
any interest in the lady whose name we must not speak. Do not
repeat that delirious cry you have heard or betray in any way our
intense and fearful interest in this young lady's strange death.
You have shown me a letter. Do not speak of that letter, I entreat
you. Help us to retain our secret a little longer. Only the doctor
and myself know what awaits Mr. Brotherson if he lives. I had to
tell the doctor, but a doctor reveals nothing. Promise that you
will not either, at least till this crisis is passed. It will help
my father and it will help me; and we need all the help we can get."
Sweetwater allowed himself one minute of thought, then he earnestly
replied:
"I will keep your secret for to-day, and longer, if possible."
"Thank you," she cried; "thank you. I thought I saw kindness in your
face." And she again prepared to close the door.
But Sweetwater had one more question to ask. "Pardon me," said he,
as he stepped down on the walk, "you say that this is a critical day
with your patient. Is that why every one whom I have seen so far
wears such a look of anxiety?"
"Yes, yes," she cried, giving him one other glimpse of her lovely,
agitated face. "There's but one feeling in town to-day, but one
hope, and, as I believe, but one prayer. That the man whom every
one loves and every one trusts may live to run these Works."
"Edith! Edith!" rose in ceaseless reiteration from within.
But it rang but faintly now in the ears of our detective. The door
had fallen to, and Sweetwater's share in the anxieties of that
household was over.
Slowly he moved away. He was in a confused yet elated condition of
mind. Here was food for a thousand new thoughts and conjectures.
An Orlando Brotherson and an Oswald Brotherson--relatives possibly,
strangers possibly; but whether relatives or strangers, both given
to signing their letters with their initials simply; and both the
acknowledged admirers of the deceased Miss Challoner. But she had
loved only one, and that one, Oswald. It not difficult to recognise
the object of this high hearted woman's affections in this man whose
struggle with the master-destroyer had awakened the solicitude of a
whole town.
XXIV
SUSPENSE
Ten minutes after Sweetwater's arrival in the village streets, he
was at home with the people he found there. His conversation with
Doris in the doorway of her home had been observed by the curious
and far-sighted, and the questions asked and answered had made him
friends at once. Of course, he could tell them nothing, but that
did not matter, he had seen and talked with Doris and their idolised
young manager was no worse and might possibly soon be better.
Of his own affairs--of his business with Doris and the manager,
they asked nothing. All ordinary interests were lost in the stress
of their great suspense.
It was the same in the bar-room of the one hotel. Without resorting
to more than a question or two, he readily learned all that was
generally known of Oswald Brotherson. Every one was talking about
him, and each had some story to tell illustrative of his kindness,
his courage and his quick mind. The Works had never produced a man
of such varied capabilities and all round sympathies. To have him
for manager meant the greatest good which could befall this little
community.
His rise had been rapid. He had come from the east three years
before, new to the work. Now, he was the one man there. Of his
relationships east, family or otherwise, nothing was said. For
them his life began and ended in Derby, and Sweetwater could see,
though no actual expression was given to the feeling, that there
was but one expectation in regard to him and Doris, to whose
uncommon beauty and sweetness they all seemed fully alive. And
Sweetwater wondered, as many of us have wondered, at the gulf
frequently existing between fancy and fact.
Later there came a small excitement. The doctor was seen riding by
on his way to the sick man. From the window where he sat, Sweetwater
watched him pass up the street and take the road he had himself so
lately traversed. It was so straight a one and led so directly
northward that he could follow with his eye the doctor's whole
course, and even get a glimpse of his figure as he stepped from the
buggy and proceeded to tie up the horse. There was an energy about
him pleasing to Sweetwater. He might have much to do with this
doctor. If Oswald Brotherson died--but he was not willing to
consider this possibility--yet. His personal sympathies, to
say nothing of his professional interest in the mystery to which
this man--and this man only--possibly held the key, alike
forbade. He would hope, as these others were hoping, and if he did
not count the minutes, he at least saw every move of the old horse
waiting with drooping head and the resignation of long custom for
the re-appearance of his master with his news of life or death.
And so an hour--two hours passed. Others were watching the old
horse now. The street showed many an eager figure with head turned
northward. From the open door-ways women stepped, looked in the
direction of their anxiety and retreated to their work again.
Suspense was everywhere; the moments dragged like hours; it became
so keen at last that some impatient hearts could no longer stand it.
A woman put her baby into another woman's arms and hurried up the
road; another followed, then another; then an old man, bowed with
years and of tottering steps, began to go that way, halting a dozen
times before he reached the group now collected in the dusty highway,
near but not too near that house. As Sweetwater's own enthusiasm
swelled at this sight, he thought of the other Brotherson with his
theories and active advocacy for reform, and wondered if men and
women would forego their meals and stand for hours in the keen
spring wind just to be the first to hear if he were to live or die.
He knew that he himself would not. But he had suffered much both
in his pride and his purse at the hands of the Brooklyn inventor;
and such despoliation is not a reliable basis for sympathy. He
was questioning his own judgment in this matter and losing himself
in the mazes of past doubts and conjectures when a sudden change
took place in the aspect of the street; he saw people running, and
in another moment saw why. The doctor had shown himself on the
porch which all were watching. Was he coming out? No, he stands
quite still, runs his eye over the people waiting quietly in the
road, and beckons to one of the smaller boys. The child, with
upturned face, stands listening to what he has to say, then starts
on a run for the village. He is stopped, pulled about, questioned,
and allowed to run on. Many rush forth to meet him. He is panting,
but gleeful. Mr. Brotherson has waked up conscious, and the doctor
says, HE WILL LIVE.
XXV
THE OVAL HUT
That night Dr. Fenton had a visitor. We know that visitor and we
almost know what his questions were, if not the answers of the good
doctor. Nevertheless, it may be better to listen to a part at
least of their conversation. Sweetwater, who knew when to be frank
and open, as well as when to be reserved and ambiguous, made no
effort to disguise the nature of his business or his chief cause
of interest in Oswald Brotherson. The eye which met his was too
penetrating not to detect the smallest attempt at subterfuge;
besides, Sweetwater had no need to hide his errand; it was one of
peace, and it threatened nobody--"the more's the pity," thought he
in uneasy comment to himself, as he realised the hopelessness of
the whole situation.
His first word, therefore, was a plain announcement.
"Dr. Fenton, my name is Sweetwater. I am from New York, and
represent for the nonce, Mr. Challoner, whose name I have simply
to mention, for you to understand that my business is with Mr.
Brotherson whom I am sorry to find seriously, if not dangerously,
ill. Will you tell me how long you think it will be before I can
have a talk with him on a subject which I will not disguise from
you may prove a very exciting one?"
"Weeks, weeks," returned the doctor. "Mr. Brotherson has been a
very sick man and the only hope I have of his recovery is the fact
that he is ignorant of his trouble or that he has any cause for
doubt or dread. Were this happy condition of things to be disturbed,
--were the faintest rumour of sorrow or disaster to reach him in
his present weakened state, I should fear a relapse, with all its
attendant dangers. What then, if any intimation should be given
him of the horrible tragedy suggested by the name you have
mentioned? The man would die before your eyes. Mr. Challoner's
business will have to wait."
"That I see; but if I knew when I might speak--"
"I can give you no date. Typhoid is a treacherous complaint; he
has the best of nurses and the chances are in favour of a quick
recovery; but we never can be sure. You had better return to New
York. Later, you can write me if you wish, or Mr. Challoner can.
You may have confidence in my reply; it will not mislead you."
Sweetwater muttered his thanks and rose. Then he slowly sat down
again.
"Dr. Fenton," he began, "you are a man to be trusted. I'm in a devil
of a fix, and there is just a possibility that you may be able to
help me out. It is the general opinion in New York, as you may know,
that Miss Challoner committed suicide. But the circumstances do not
fully bear out this theory, nor can Mr. Challoner be made to accept
it. Indeed, he is so convinced of its falsehood, that he stands
ready to do anything, pay anything, suffer anything, to have this
distressing blight removed from his daughter's good name. Mr.
Brotherson was her dearest friend, and as such may have the clew to
this mystery, but Mr. Brotherson may not be in a condition to speak
for several weeks. Meanwhile, Mr. Challoner must suffer from great
suspense unless--" a pause during which he searched the doctor's face
with a perfectly frank and inquiring expression--"unless some one
else can help us out. Dr. Fenton, can you?"
The doctor did not need to speak; his expression conveyed his answer.
"No more than another," said he. "Except for what Doris felt
compelled to tell me, I know as little as yourself. Mr. Brotherson's
delirium took the form of calling continually upon one name. I did
not know this name, but Doris did, also the danger lurking in the
fact that he had yet to hear of the tragedy which had robbed him of
this woman to whom he was so deeply attached. So she told me just
this much. That the Edith whose name rung so continuously in our
ears was no other than the Miss Challoner of New York of whose death
and its tragic circumstances the papers have been full; that their
engagement was a secret one unshared so far as she knew by any one
but herself. That she begged me to preserve this secret and to give
her all the help I could when the time came for him to ask questions.
Especially did she entreat me to be with her at the crisis. I was,
but his waking was quite natural. He did not ask for Miss Challoner;
he only inquired how long he had been ill and whether Doris had
received a letter during that time. She had not received one, a
fact which seemed to disappoint him; but she carried it off so gaily
(she is a wonderful girl, Mr. Sweetwater--the darling of all our
hearts), saying that he must not be so egotistical as to think that
the news of his illness had gone beyond Derby, that he soon recovered
his spirits and became a very promising convalescent. That is all I
know about the matter; little more, I take it, than you know yourself."
Sweetwater nodded; he had expected nothing from the doctor, and was
not disappointed at his failure. There were two strings to his bow,
and the one proving valueless, he proceeded to test the other.
"You have mentioned Miss Scott, as the confidante--and only
confidante of this unhappy pair," said he. "Would it be possible
--can you make it possible for me to see her?"
It was a daring proposition; he understood this at once from the
doctor's expression; and, fearing a hasty rebuff, he proceeded to
supplement his request with a few added arguments, urged with such
unexpected address and show of reason that Dr. Fenton's aspect
visibly softened and in the end he found himself ready to promise
that he would do what he could to secure his visitor the interview
he desired if he would come to the house the next day at the time
of his own morning visit.
This was as much as the young detective could expect, and having
expressed his thanks, he took his leave in anything but a
discontented frame of mind. With so powerful an advocate as the
doctor, he felt confident that he should soon be able to conquer
this young girl's reticence and learn all that was to be learned
from any one but Mr. Brotherson himself. In the time which must
elapse between that happy hour and the present, he would circulate
and learn what he could about the prospective manager. But he
soon found that he could not enter the Works without a permit, and
this he was hardly in a position to demand; so he strolled about
the village instead, and later wandered away into the forest.
Struck by the inviting aspect of a narrow and little used road
opening from the highway shortly above the house where his interests
were just then centred, he strolled into the heart of the spring
woods till he came to a depression where a surprise awaited him, in
the shape of a peculiar structure rising from its midst where it
just fitted, or so nearly fitted that one could hardly walk about
it without brushing the surrounding tree trunks. Of an oval shape,
with its door facing the approach, it nestled there, a wonder to the
eye and the occasion of considerable speculation to his inquiring
mind. It had not been long built, as was shown very plainly by the
fresh appearance of the unpainted boards of which it was constructed;
and while it boasted of a door, as I've already said, there were no
evidences visible of any other break in the smooth, neatly finished
walls. A wooden ellipse with a roof but no windows; such it
appeared and such it proved to be. A mystery to Sweetwater's eyes,
and like all mysteries, interesting. For what purpose had it been
built and why this isolation? It was too flimsy for a reservoir
and too expensive for the wild freak of a crank.
A nearer view increased his curiosity. In the projection of the
roof over the curving sides he found fresh food for inquiry. As he
examined it in the walk he made around the whole structure, he came
to a place where something like a hinge became visible and further
on another. The roof was not simply a roof; it was also a lid
capable of being raised for the air and light which the lack of
windows necessitated. This was an odd discovery indeed, giving to
the uncanny structure the appearance of a huge box, the cover of
which could be raised or lowered at pleasure. And again he asked
himself for what it could be intended? What enterprise, even of the
great Works, could demand a secrecy so absolute that such pains as
these should be taken to shut out all possibility of a prying eye.
Nothing in his experience supplied him with an answer.
He was still looking up at these hinges, with a glance which took
in at the same time the nearness and extreme height of the trees by
which this sylvan mystery was surrounded, when a sound from the road
on the opposite side of the hollow brought his conjectures to a
standstill and sent him hurrying on to the nearest point from which
that road became visible.
A team was approaching. He could hear the heavy tread of horses
working their laborious way through trees whose obstructing branches
swished before and behind them. They were bringing in a load for
this shed, whose uses he would consequently soon understand.
Grateful for his good luck--for his was a curiosity which could
not stand defeat--he took a few steps into the wood, and from the
vantage point of a concealing cluster of bushes, fixed his eyes
upon the spot where the road opened into the hollow.
Something blue moved there, and in another moment, to his great
amazement, there stepped into view the spirited form of Doris Scott,
who if he had given the matter a thought he would have supposed to
be sitting just then by the bedside of her patient, a half mile
back on the road.
She was dressed for the woods in a blue skirt and jacket and moved
like a leader in front of a heavily laden wagon now coming to a
standstill before the closely shut shed--if such we may call it.
"I have a key," so she called out to the driver who had paused for
orders. "When I swing the doors wide, drive straight in."
Sweetwater took a look at the wagon. It was piled high with large
wooden boxes on more than one of which he could see scrawled the
words: O. Brotherson, Derby, Pa.
This explained her presence, but the boxes told nothing. They were
of all sizes and shapes, and some of them so large that the
assistance of another man was needed to handle them. Sweetwater was
about to offer his services when a second man appeared from somewhere
in the rear, and the detective's attention being thus released from
the load out of which he could make nothing, he allowed it to
concentrate upon the young girl who had it in charge and who, for
many reasons, was the one person of supreme importance to him.
She had swung open the two wide doors, and now stood waiting for
horse and wagon to enter. With locks flying free--she wore no
bonnet--she presented a picture of ever increasing interest to
Sweetwater. Truly she was a very beautiful girl, buoyant, healthy
and sweet; as unlike as possible his preconceived notions of Miss
Challoner's humble little protegee. Her brown hair of a rich
chestnut hue, was in itself a wonder. On no head, even in the great
city he had just left, had he seen such abundance, held in such
modest restraint. Nature had been partial to this little working
girl and given her the chevelure of a queen.
But this was nothing. No one saw this aureole when once the eye
had rested on her features and caught the full nobility of their
expression and the lurking sweetness underlying her every look.
She herself made the charm and whether placed high or placed low,
must ever attract the eye and afterwards lure the heart, by an
individuality which hardly needed perfect features in which to
express itself.
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