The Millionaire Baby

  XVI

  "AN ALL-CONQUERING BEAUTY"

  I was one of the first to procure and read a New York paper nextmorning. Would I discover in the columns any hint of the preceding day'sevents in Yonkers, which, if known, must for ever upset the wagontheory? No, that secret was still my secret, only shared by the doctor,who, so far as I understood him, had no intention of breaking hisself-imposed silence till his fears of some disaster to the little onehad received confirmation. I had therefore several hours before me yetfor free work.

  The first thing I did was to hunt up Miss Graham.

  She met me with eagerness; an eagerness I found it difficult to dispelwith my disappointing news in regard to Doctor Pool.

  "He is not the man," said I. "Can you think of any other?"

  She shook her head, her large gray eyes showing astonishment and what Ifelt bound to regard as an honest bewilderment.

  "I wish to mention a name," said I.

  "One I know?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "I know of no other person capable of wronging that child."

  "You are probably right. But there is a gentleman--one interested in thefamily--a man with something to gain--"

  "Mr. Rathbone? You must not mention him in any such connection. He isone of the best men I know--kind, good, and oh, so sensitive! A dozenfortunes wouldn't tempt a man of his stamp to do any one living a wrong,let alone a little innocent child."

  "I know; but there are other temptations greater than money to some men;infinitely greater to one as sensitive as you say he is. What if heloved a woman! What if his only hope of winning her--"

  "You must not think that of him," she again interposed. "Nothing couldmake a villain of _him_. I have seen him too many times in circumstanceswhich show a man's character. He is good through and through, and in allthat concerns Gwendolen, honorable to the core. I once saw him save herlife at the risk of his own."

  "You did? When? Years ago?"

  "No, lately; within the last year."

  "Tell me the circumstances."

  She did. They were convincing. As I listened, the phantasm of the nightbefore assumed fainter and fainter proportions. When she had finished Iwarmly remarked that I was glad to hear the story of so heroic an act.

  And I was. Not that I ascribed too deep a significance to the word whichhad escaped Mr. Rathbone on the dock, but because I was glad to have myinstinctive confidence in the man verified by facts.

  It seemed to clear the way before me.

  "Ellie," said I (it seemed both natural and proper to call her by thatname now), "what explanation would you give if, under any circumstances(all circumstances are possible, you know), you heard this gentlemanspeak of feeling guilty in connection with Gwendolen Ocumpaugh?"

  "I should have to know the circumstances," was her quiet answer.

  "Let me imagine some. Say that it was night, late night, at an hour whenthe most hardened amongst us are in a peculiarly responsive condition;say that he had been spending hours near the house of the woman he hadlong loved but had quite despaired of winning in his greatly hamperedcondition, and with the fever of this longing upon him, but restrainedby emotions the nature of which we can not surmise, had now found hisway down to the river--to the spot where boats have clustered and mencrouched in the gruesome and unavailing search we know of; say that hehung there long over the water, gazing down in silence, in solitude,alone, as he thought, with his own conscience and the suggestionsoffered by that running stream where some still think, despite facts,despite all the probabilities, that Gwendolen has found rest, and whenhis heart was full, should be seen to strike his breast and utter, witha quick turn of his face up the hill, this one word, 'Guilty'?"

  "What would I think? This: That being overwrought by the struggle youmention (a struggle we can possibly understand when we consider theunavoidable consciousness which must be his of the great change whichwould be effected in all his prospects if Gwendolen should not befound), he gave the name of guilt to feelings which some would callsimply human."

  "Ellie, you are an oracle." This thought of hers had been my thoughtever since I had had time really to reflect upon the matter. "I wonderif you will have an equally wise reply to give to my next question?"

  "I can not say. I speak from intuition; I am not really wise."

  "Intuition is above wisdom. Does your intuition tell you that Mrs. Carewis the true friend she professes to be to Mrs. Ocumpaugh?"

  "Ah, that is a different thing!"

  The clear brow I loved--there! how words escape a man!--lost itssmoothness and her eyes took on a troubled aspect, while her words cameslowly.

  "I do not know how to answer that offhand. Sometimes I have felt thather very soul was knit to that of Mrs. Ocumpaugh, and again I have hadmy doubts. But never deep ones; never any such as would make it easyfor me to answer the question you have just put me."

  "Was her love for Gwendolen sincere?" I asked.

  "Oh, yes; oh, yes. That is, I always thought so, and with noqualification, till something in her conduct when she first heard ofGwendolen's disappearance--I can not describe it--gave me a sense ofdisappointment. She was shocked, of course, and she was grieved, but nothopelessly so. There was something lacking in her manner--we all feltit; Mrs. Ocumpaugh felt it, and let her dear friend go the moment sheshowed the slightest inclination to do so."

  "There were excuses for Mrs. Carew, just at that time," said I. "Youforget the new interest which had come into her life. It was naturalthat she should be preoccupied."

  "With thoughts of her little nephew?" replied Miss Graham. "True, true;but she had been so fond of Gwendolen! You would have thought-- But whyall this talk about Mrs. Carew? You don't believe--you surely can notbelieve--"

  "That Mrs. Carew is a charming woman? Oh, yes, but I do. Mr. Rathboneshows good taste."

  "Ah, is she the one?"

  "Did you not know it?"

  "No; yet I have seen them together many times. Now I understand muchthat has always been a mystery to me. He never pressed his suit; heloved, but never harassed her. Oh, he is a good man!" This withemphasis.

  "Is she a good woman?"

  Miss Graham's eyes suddenly fell, then rose again until they met minefully and frankly.

  "I have no reason," said she, "to believe her otherwise. I have neverseen anything in her to hinder my esteem; only--"

  "Finish that 'only.'"

  "She does not appeal to me as many less gifted women do. Perhaps I amsecretly jealous of the extreme fondness Gwendolen has always shown forher. If so, the fault is in me, not in her."

  What I said in reply is not germane to this story.

  After being assured by a few more discreet inquiries in some otherperfectly safe quarters that Miss Graham's opinion of Mr. Rathbone wasshared by those who best knew him, I returned to the one spot mostlikely to afford me a clue to, if no explanation of, this elusivemystery.

  What did I propose to myself? First, to revisit Mrs. Carew and make theacquaintance of the boy Harry. I no longer doubted his being just whatshe called him, but she had asked me to call for this purpose and I hadno excuse for declining the invitation, even if I had desired to do so.Afterward--but first let us finish with Mrs. Carew.

  As she entered her reception-room that morning she looked sobright--that is, with the instinctive brightness of a naturallyvivacious temperament--that I wondered if I had been mistaken in mythought that she had had no sleep all that night, simply because many ofthe lights in her house had not been put out till morning. But aninspection of her face revealed lines of care, which only her smilecould efface, and she was not quite ready for smiles, affable andgracious as she showed herself.

  Her first words, just as I expected, were:

  "There is nothing in the papers about the child in the wagon."

  "No; everything does not get into the papers."

  "Will what we saw and what we found in the bungalow last night?"

  "I hardly think so. That is our own special clue, Mr
s. Carew--if it is aclue."

  "You seem to regard it as such."

  With a shrug I declared that we had come upon a mystery of some kind.

  "But the child is not dead? That you feel demonstrated--or don't you?"

  "As I said last night, I do not know what to think. Ah; is that thelittle boy?"

  "Yes," she gaily responded, as the glad step of a child was hearddescending the stairs. "Harry! come here, Harry!" she cried, with thatjoyous accent which a child's presence seems to call out in some women."Here is a gentleman who would like to shake hands with you."

  A sprite of a child entered; a perfect sunbeam irradiating the wholeroom. If, under the confidence induced by the vision I had had of him onhis knees the night before, any suspicion remained in my mind of hisbeing Gwendolen Ocumpaugh in disguise, it vanished at sight of thefearless head, lifted high in boyish freedom, and the gay swish, swishof the whip in his nervous little hand.

  "Harry is playing horse," he cried, galloping toward me in what heevidently considered true jockey style.

  I made a gesture and stopped him.

  "How do you do, little man? What did you say your name is?"

  "Harry," this very stoutly.

  "Harry what? Harry Carew?"

  "No, Harry; just Harry."

  "And how do you like it here?"

  "I like it; I like it better than my old home."

  "Where was your old home?"

  "I don't know. I didn't like it."

  "He was with uncongenial people, and he is very sensitive," put in Mrs.Carew, softly.

  "I like it here," he repeated, "and I like the big ocean. I am going onthe ocean. And I like horses. Get up, Dandy!" and he cracked his whipand was off again on his imaginary trot.

  I felt very foolish over the doubts I had so openly evinced. This wasnot only a boy to the marrow of his bones, but he was, as any eye couldsee, the near relative she called him. In my embarrassment I rose; atall events I soon found myself standing near the door with Mrs. Carew.

  "A fine fellow!" I enthusiastically exclaimed; "and startlingly like youin expression. He is your nephew, I believe?"

  "Yes," she replied, somewhat wistfully I thought.

  I felt that I should apologize for--well, perhaps for the change shemust have discerned in my manner.

  "The likeness caused me a shock. I was not prepared for it, I suppose."

  She looked at me quite wonderingly.

  "I have never heard any one speak of it before. I am glad that you seeit." And she seemed glad, very glad.

  But I know that for some reason she was gladder yet when I turned todepart. However, she did not hasten me.

  "What are you going to do next?" she inquired, as she courteously ledthe way through the piles of heaped-up boxes and baskets, the number ofwhich had rather grown than diminished since my visit the eveningbefore. "Pardon my asking."

  "Resort to my last means," said I. "See and talk with Mrs. Ocumpaugh."

  An instant of hesitation on her part, so short, however, that I couldhardly detect it, then she declared:

  "But you can not do that."

  "Why not?"

  "She is ill; I am sure that they will let no one approach her. One ofher maids was in this morning. She did not even ask me to come over."

  "I am sorry," said I, "but I shall make the effort. The illness whichaffects Mrs. Ocumpaugh can be best cured by the restoration of herchild."

  "But you have not found Gwendolen?" she replied.

  "No; but I have discovered footprints on the dust of the bungalow floor,and, as you know, a bit of candy which looks as if it had been crushedin a sleeping child's hand, and I am in need of every aid possible inorder to make the most of these discoveries. They may point the way toGwendolen's present whereabouts and they may not. But they shall begiven every chance."

  "Whoop! get up! get up!" broke in a childish voice from the upperlanding.

  "Am I not right?" I asked.

  "Always; only I am sorry for Mrs. Ocumpaugh. May I tell you--" as I laidmy hand upon the outer door-knob--"just how to approach her?"

  "Certainly, if you will be so good."

  "I would not ask for Miss Porter. Ask for Celia; she is Mrs. Ocumpaugh'sspecial maid. Let her carry your message--if you feel that it will doany good to disturb her."

  "Thank you; the recommendation is valuable. Good morning, Mrs. Carew. Imay not see you again; may I wish you a safe journey?"

  "Certainly; are we not almost friends?"

  Why did I not make my bow and go? There was nothing more to be said--atleast by me. Was I held by something in her manner? Doubtless, for whileI was thus reasoning with myself she followed me out on to the porch,and with some remark as to the beauty of the morning, led me to anopening in the vines, whence a fine view could be caught of the river.

  But it was not for the view she had brought me there. This was evidentenough from her manner, and soon she paused in her observations on thebeauties of nature, and with a strange ringing emphasis for which I wasnot altogether prepared, remarked with feeling:

  "I may be making a mistake--I was always an unconventional woman--but Ithink you ought to know something of Mrs. Ocumpaugh's private historybefore you see her. It is not a common one--at least it has its romanticelements--and an acquaintance with some of its features is almostnecessary to you if you expect to approach her on so delicate a matterwith any hope of success. But perhaps you are better informed on thissubject than I supposed? Detectives are a mine of secret intelligence, Iam told; possibly you have already learned from some other source thestory of her marriage and homecoming to Homewood and the peculiarcircumstances of her early married life?"

  "No," I disclaimed in great relief, and I have no doubt with unnecessaryvivacity. "On the contrary, I have never heard anything said in regardto it."

  "Would you like to? Men have not the curiosity of women, and I do notwish to bore you, but--I see that I shall not do that," she exclaimed."Sit down, Mr. Trevitt; I shall not detain you long; I have not muchtime myself."

  As she sank into a chair in saying this, I had no alternative but tofollow her example. I took pains, however, to choose one which broughtme into the shadow of the vines, for I felt some embarrassment at thisnew turn in the conversation, and was conscious that I should have moreor less difficulty in hiding my only too intense interest in all thatconcerned the lady of whom we were speaking.

  "Mrs. Ocumpaugh was a western woman," Mrs. Carew began softly; "theoldest of five daughters. There was not much money in the family, butshe had beauty, a commanding, all-conquering beauty; not the beauty yousee in her to-day, but that exquisite, persuasive loveliness whichseizes upon the imagination as well as moves the heart. I have a pictureof her at eighteen--but never mind that."

  Was it affection for her friend which made Mrs. Carew's always richvoice so very mellow? I wished I knew; but I was successful, I think, inkeeping that wish out of my face, and preserving my manner of the simplypolite listener.

  "Mr. Ocumpaugh was on a hunting trip," she proceeded, after a slightglance my way. "He had traveled the world over and seen beautiful womeneverywhere; but there was something in Marion Allison which he had foundin no other, and at the end of their first interview he determined tomake her his wife. A man of impulses, but also a man of steadyresolution, Mr. Trevitt. Perhaps you know this?"

  I bowed. "A strong man," I remarked.

  "And a romantic one. He had this intention from the first, as I havesaid, but he wished to make himself sure of her heart. He knew how hisadvantages counted; how hard it is for a woman to disassociate the manfrom his belongings, and having a spirit of some daring, he resolvedthat this 'pearl of the west'--so I have heard him call her--shouldmarry the man and not his money."

  "Was he as wealthy then as now?"

  "Almost. Possibly he was not quite such a power in the financial world,but he had Homewood in almost as beautiful a condition as now, thoughthe new house was not put up till after his marriage. He courtedher--not as the
landscape painter of Tennyson's poem--but as a risingyoung business man who had made his way sufficiently to give her a goodhome. This home he did not have to describe, since her own imaginationimmediately pictured it as much below the one she lived in, as he wasyears younger than her hard-worked father. Delighted with this naivete,he took pains not to disabuse her mind of the simple prospects withwhich she was evidently so well satisfied, and succeeded in marrying herand bringing her as far as our station below there, without her havingthe least suspicion of the splendor she was destined for. And now, Mr.Trevitt, picture, if you can, the scene of that first arrival. I haveheard it described by him and I have heard it described by her. He wasdressed plainly; so was she; and lest the surprise should come beforethe proper moment, he had brought her on a train little patronized byhis friends. The sumptuousness of the solitary equipage standing at thedepot platform must, in consequence, have struck her all the moreforcibly, and when he turned and asked her if she did not admire thisfine turn-out, you can imagine the lovely smile with which sheacknowledged its splendor and then turned away to look up and down forthe street-car she expected to take with him to their bridal home.

  "He says that he caught her back with the remark that he was glad sheliked it because it was hers and many more like it. But she insists thathe did not say a word, only smiled in a way to make her see for whom thecarriage door was being held open. Such was her entrance into wealth andlove and alas! into trouble. For the latter followed hard upon the twofirst. Mr. Ocumpaugh's mother, who had held sway at Homewood for thirtyyears or more, was hard as the nether millstone. She was a Rathbone andhad brought both wealth and aristocratic connections into the family.She had no sympathy for penniless beauties (she was a very plain womanherself) and made those first few years of her daughter-in-law's lifeas nearly miserable as any woman's can be who adores her husband. I haveheard that it was a common experience for this sharp-tongued old lady totaunt her with the fact that she brought nothing into the family butherself--not even a _towel_; and when two years passed and no childcame, the biting criticisms became so frequent that a cloud fell overthe young wife's sensitive beauty, which no after happiness has eversucceeded in fully dispelling. Matters went better after Gwendolen came,but in reckoning up the possible defects in Mrs. Ocumpaugh's characteryou should never forget the twist that may have been given to it by thatmother-in-law."

  "I have heard of Madam Ocumpaugh," I remarked, rising, anxious to end aninterview whose purport was more or less enigmatic to me.

  "She is dead now--happily. A woman like that is accountable for muchmore than she herself ever realizes. But one thing she never succeededin doing: she never shook Mr. Ocumpaugh's love for his wife or hers forhim. Whether it was the result of that early romantic episode of which Ihave spoken, or whether their natures are peculiarly congenial, thebond between them has been one of exceptional strength and purity."

  "It will be their comfort now," I remarked.

  Mrs. Carew smiled, but in a dubious way that added to my perplexity andmade me question more seriously than ever just what her motive had beenin subjecting me to these very intimate reminiscences of one I was aboutto approach on an errand of whose purport she could have only a generalidea.

  Had she read my inmost soul? Did she wish to save her friend, or saveherself, or even to save me from the result of a blind use of such toolsas were the only ones afforded me? Impossible to determine. She was atthis present moment, as she had always been, in fact, an unsolvableproblem to me, and it was not at this hurried time and with such seriouswork before me that I could venture to make any attempt to understandher.

  "You will let me know the outcome of your talk with Mrs. Ocumpaugh?" shecried, as I moved to the front of the porch.

  It was for me to look dubious now. I could make no such promise asthat.

  "I will let you know the instant there is any good news," I assured her.

  And with that I moved off, but not before hearing the peremptory commandwith which she entered the house:

  "Now, Dinah, quick!"

  Evidently, her preparations for departure were to be pushed.