Part 10

What she would have done next was a matter for speculation, but before she had opportunity to act there rang through the silent house the sound of the doorbell being pushed violently and with annoying energy. It rang in a series of staccato periods, broken now and then with a single long and violent clamor. At the sound Mrs. Tolliver ran, and, as she approached the door, she cried out, “Yes!... Yes!... I’m coming. You needn’t wear out the battery!”

On opening it she discovered on the outside that source of all evil, Jimmy Seton. Even at sight of her he was unable to relinquish the pleasure of ringing the bell. Indeed he kept his hand upon the button until she knocked it loose by a sudden slap on the wrist.

“What do you mean by ringing like that?”

Jimmy, unabashed, faced her. “Ma,” he began, in his shrill voice, “wants to know if Mr. Murdock is over here. He ain’t been at our house since before supper. He said he was going to the barber shop and he never came back.”

For an instant, Mrs. Tolliver, wisely, held her tongue. The old instinct, working rapidly, told her that she must protect Ellen. It was clear then that the girl had not gone to the Setons’. Where could she be? Where was Mr. Murdock? Within the space of a second unspeakable catastrophes framed themselves in her mind. But she managed to answer. “He’s not here. He hasn’t been here. I don’t know anything about him.”

“All right,” said Jimmy. “I’ll tell her.”

He made a faint gesture toward the button of the doorbell but Mrs. Tolliver thrust her powerful body between him and the object of his temptation, so that Jimmy, with a baffled air, turned and sped away into the darkness. When he had vanished she closed the door slowly, and stood for an instant leaning against it. Then, before she moved away, she raised her voice in a summons.

“Papa!” she called, “Papa! Something _has_ happened. Ellen wasn’t at the Setons’ and Mr. Murdock is missing.”

* * * * *

In the moment or two while she stood thus with her hand resting on the knob of the door, there passed quickly through her mind in a series of isolated fragments all the events and the forebodings of the past few weeks. Gradually these fitted into a pattern. She understood well enough what had happened; she knew that Ellen had gone. Yet she refused to admit this, as if by refusing to acknowledge the fact it might come gradually to have no existence. She understood Gramp Tolliver’s ominous outburst of restlessness, Ellen’s strange look of triumph, the air almost of happiness which had come over the girl. Only one thing she could not understand.... Clarence Murdock! After all, Ellen had mocked him as something quite beneath her consideration. Why had she chosen him?

In that single brief moment she was hurt more deeply than she was ever hurt again. Those things which came afterward were not so cruel because she came in time to be used to them. But this ... this was so sudden, so cruel. She had no defenses ready, not even the defense which the less primitive have--a capacity for putting themselves into the shoes of the other fellow, of understanding why he should have acted thus and so. No, there was nothing, save only a sudden sharp physical pain and that which was far greater--a fear for a child who was gone suddenly from her protection.

* * * * *

When she reëntered the warm living room, she found her husband sitting on the edge of his sofa. Because he was a man who enjoyed his sleep and was reluctant to shake it off, he was not altogether awake.

“You say,” he murmured drowsily, “that Ellen has run off with that Murdock?”

“They are both gone.... They must have gone together.”

This the husband considered for a moment. Foolishly exalting logic above intuition, he asked, “How do you know?” To which his wife retorted, “Know! Know! Because I do know! I’m sure of it.... What are we going to do?” Suddenly she leaned forward and shook him violently. “Why, they’re not even married. They can’t have been and they’ve gone off together. Anything might happen.”

The husband, out of the depths of knowledge which arose not from instinct or profound love but from long speculation upon the human race answered, “Don’t worry about that. Ellen’s no fool! She’s not in love with him!”

“When you talk like that, you’re like your father!” Nothing could have signified in clearer fashion the gravity of the situation, for this was a retort which Mrs. Tolliver used only upon occasions of profound disaster. It was, she believed, the most cruel thing she could say. This time she did not wait for him to reply.

“What train have they taken?... They’re bound to go east. Perhaps you can stop them. Come! Get up.... If you don’t go I will!”

With exasperating slowness her husband gained his feet. “There’s a train a little after eleven.” He regarded his watch. “We might be able to catch them, though I don’t think I can make it.”

Already his wife stood before him with the coat she had taken from the living room closet. “Here!” she said. “And wrap your throat well. It’s a bitter night.” Then she herself helped him into his coat and fastened his muffler with great care. Before she had finished, he asked, “What sort of a person is this Murdock?”

“It’s no time to ask that.... Go! Hurry!”

Barely had these speeding words fallen from her lips when from overhead there came with the suddenness of an explosion the sound of a terrific crash, as if some part of the house had suddenly collapsed. The sound distinctly came from the rear. The volcano at last had burst forth!

In a breathless instant, the pair faced each other. It was Mrs. Tolliver who spoke first.

“What has he done now?” And with a fierce emphasis she added, “I think the Devil himself has gotten into him.” Then she recovered herself quickly. “Go! Go! Catch Ellen. I’ll take care of Gramp.”

He argued for a moment--one precious moment--and losing as usual, was sped on his way by his powerful wife.

* * * * *

When her husband had vanished sleepily into the darkness, Mrs. Tolliver made her way up the back stairs to the room under the tin roof. As she opened the door, there rose before her in the flickering light of the kerosene lamp a room which had the appearance of a place wrecked by a cyclone. One of the vast bookcases lay overturned, the worn leather volumes sprawled in a wild confusion about the floor. Bits of paper covered with bird track handwriting lay scattered like fallen leaves and at one side, a little removed from the path of the catastrophe, lay stretched at full length the brittle body of Gramp Tolliver, still and apparently unconscious. There was in its rigidity something ghastly. Only a miracle had saved him from being buried under his own books, battered and broken perhaps by his own beloved Decline and Fall.

Climbing over the wreckage, Mrs. Tolliver leaned down and took the body of the old man in her arms. Thus a truce was declared, and when the one enemy had made certain that the other was still alive, she went downstairs, wrapped a shawl about her and fetched a doctor.

19

It was midnight when Charles Tolliver returned alone. Without removing his coat or the carefully bound muffler, he made his way through the house to the back stairs which he climbed slowly and with an air of sheepishness. His wife was, after all, no easy woman to face under conditions like this. The news he had for her was not the best. Indeed it is probable that he experienced a great relief when he found that his wife was not alone. In the dusty room thrown now into a wild disorder which Mrs. Tolliver was already vigorously engaged in clearing away, the doctor stood beside the bed. There was a quality of the grotesque in the battered figure of the old man and the fantastic shadow of the physician cast by the flickering light upon the wall. At the sound of his footsteps Mrs. Tolliver, still holding in her arms volumes three and four of the Decline and Fall, looked up from her task. She stared hard at him as if by concentration she might produce out of thin air the figure of her daughter. But there was no mistake. He was alone.

It was Charles Tolliver who spoke first. He found no pleasure in airing his troubles in public, so he said nothing of his errand. “What’s the matter with Gramp?”

The doctor faced him. He was a short fat man with little mutton chop whiskers. “It seems he’s had a stroke,” he murmured. “And yet I don’t know. It might be something else. The symptoms aren’t right.” And he took up once more the bony wrist, to count the pulse. Instantly Mrs. Tolliver stepped close to her husband.

“Did you find her?” she asked in a low voice.

“No.... The train was pulling out just as I reached the station. I was a minute too late.”

“It was Gramp who let her get away. If you hadn’t stayed to argue. You could have hurried. My God, who knows what will happen to her.... My little girl!”

“She isn’t that.... Not any longer.”

But before she could reply the doctor interrupted. “No, I don’t know what it is. His pulse seems all right and he has no fever.” And the little man fell to wagging his head, in the manner of a physician who was always secretly doubtful of his own opinion. “To-morrow I’ll fetch another doctor. We’ll have to have a consultation.”

After that he packed his bag, wrapped himself up to the throat and bidding them good night in a mournful, bedside whisper, as if (thought Hattie sourly) Gramp had been an adored child cut off in the bloom of youth, made his way down the creaking stairs.

When he had gone, Mrs. Tolliver turned abruptly and said again, “You could have made it if Gramp hadn’t thrown this fit. And now she’s gone....”

In the shadows that covered the vast bed, Gramp Tolliver’s body lay stiff as a poker thrust beneath the sheets. But presently in the midst of the hushed talk that went on by his side, one eye opened slowly and surveyed the scene. For an instant there rose in the still cold air the echo--it could not have been more than that--of a far-off demoniacal chuckle. At the sound Mrs. Tolliver turned and approached the bed.

“He laughed,” she said to her husband. “I’m sure of it ...” and she shook the old man gently without gaining the faintest suspicion of a response. He lay rigid and still. At last she turned away.

“Go,” she said, “and take the next train. You might catch them at Pittsburgh. If you haven’t enough money there’s some tied in a handkerchief under the mattress.”

“But you.... What’ll you do?”

“Never mind me ... I’ll sit here in the rocker and keep watch....”

And until the gray winter dawn crept in at the windows she sat there, awake, with one eye on the old man, for the echo of that wicked chuckle had awakened in her mind the most amazing suspicions. In the single moment that she had stood listening to the sound of the catastrophe overhead, Ellen had made her escape.... How could he have known what no one else knew? Yet she was certain that he had known.

* * * * *

Charles Tolliver did not overtake his daughter; indeed, on that night she escaped from him forever. He saw her afterward ... long afterward, but he never recaptured her, even for one fleeting moment. Perhaps in the dismal solitude of a day coach filled with weary travelers rushing eastward through the winter night, he understood this in his own way. It was, after all, a way different from that of his father, Old Gramp, or his wife who sat patiently now in a kind of dumb, animal agony by the side of the old man. Of Charles Tolliver, it might have been said that he expected nothing of life, that from the very first he had accepted life as at best a matter of compromise. One took what came and was thankful that it was not worse. Because he was like this people called him a weak man.

And it is impossible to say that he regretted profoundly the flight of his daughter. In his gentleness, he understood that this thing which she had done was inevitable. Nothing could have prevented it. Even the pursuit was a futile thing. If Ellen were recaptured, it was vain to hope that she would remain so; yet the pursuit was in itself a symbol of action and therefore it satisfied his wife in at least a small way. It may even have been that in the rare wakeful moments of his lonely, fruitless journey he envied Ellen; that he saw in her escape a hope which had always eluded him. He had been known since childhood as a worthy man, the unfortunate son of a father who was worthless and a failure. He had existed always as a symbol of virtue, as one who had stood by his mother (dead now these many years) in the long periods of poverty and unhappiness. If he had been ruthless instead of dutiful, if he had escaped, if he had ventured into a new world.... What might have happened? But even this thought could not have troubled him for long. He slipped easily back into the pleasant oblivion of sleep.

The passengers wakeful, uncomfortable, restless in the close air of the crowded car could never have guessed that the gray-haired, handsome man, who slept so peacefully, was a father in pursuit of an eloping daughter.

* * * * *

And in another train a hundred miles beyond, rushing faster and faster toward the rising dawn, sat Ellen and Clarence Murdock. They too rode in the common car, for the train was crowded. They sat bolt upright and rather far apart for lovers. From time to time Clarence reached out and touched her hand, gently, almost with deprecation, and to this she submitted quietly, as if she were unconscious of the humble gesture toward affection. It is true that they were both a little frightened; what had happened had happened so quickly. Even Clarence could not have explained it. To Ellen, though she came in the end to understand it all, it must have been a great mystery.

The romance--what little of it there had been--was all vanished now, gone cold before the glare of the flaring lights, beneath the staring, bleary eyes of their fellow passengers. Somehow everything had turned cold and stuffy, touched by the taste of soot and the accumulated dust of half a continent. The train rocked and swayed over the glittering rails, and presently Clarence, who had been frowning for a long time over something, said, “D’you think they’ll ever send on my hand bags?”

Ellen laughed and regarded him suddenly with a curious glance of startled affection. For a moment one might have taken them for a mother and child ... a mother who saw that her child must be protected and pitied a little.

“I wouldn’t worry over that,” she answered. “What difference does it make now?”

“And May ...” began Clarence once more.

“It’s done now,” said Ellen gravely. “Besides in a little while she’ll forget everything and marry some one else. Any man will suit May. It’s only _a_ man she wants, not _the_ man.”

But Clarence was not comforted; there was his conscience to torment him, and worse than that there was a distrust, vague and undefined, of what lay ahead. He could not have described it. If he had been a strong man, he would have said, “All this is a mistake. We will not marry. It is wrong, everything about it.” He could have turned back then and saved himself; but he did not. He sat quietly against the dusty plush, watching Ellen now and then out of the corner of his nice eyes with the manner of a man resting upon the rim of a volcano.

By dawn the train had come in sight of the furnaces on the outskirts of Pittsburgh and the color of the flames mingled with the cold gray of the January sky. He had come out on the train with Lily; he was going back on the train with her cousin. He stood there, timidly, upon the threshold of his new world--a world filled with people who haunted those rare flights of a treacherous imagination.

20

It was not until noon of the following day that the amazing news percolated fully through the houses of the Town. Women congregated and discussed it, passionately; men greeted each other with the news, “Have you heard that Charlie Tolliver’s girl has eloped with that young Murdock who was visiting Skinflint Seton?” They turned the news over and over, worrying it, adding details, filling in the gaps in a story which could have been known to no one. And always the conclusion was the same ... that here was another evidence of the wildness and eccentricity of the Barr family. Old Julia Shane, in her youth, had done the same thing. And then there was Sam Barr and his crazy perpetual motion machine. The history of this spirited family was ransacked and a thousand odd, half-forgotten stories brought to light. There was, of course, that element which hinted that Ellen had eloped because the circumstances made it necessary. Women said this, not because they believed it, but because they hated Ellen and old Julia Shane.

In her sooty house among the Mills this grim old woman received the news, rather later than most (it was brought her by one of her negro servants) with a sort of wicked delight. This was a great-niece worthy of her blood, who took matters into her own hands and acted, quickly, sensationally! And before an hour had passed she seated herself with a quill pen and wrote the news triumphantly to Lily who, that morning, had started back to Paris. The letter finally overtook her daughter a month later when Lily, installed once more in her big house in the Rue Raynouard, sat awaiting the arrival of her friend the Baron. To him she read it aloud, creating for his pleasure a picture of the smoky Town, of the effect the news would have upon its residents. She described to him the fierce impetuous Ellen. She told him the Town was a town like Roubaix or Tourcoing or Lille, only more provincial.

Across the silver-laden tea table in her long drawing-room in Passy, she said, “You may see her one day yourself. I’ve told her to come here and live with me. She wants to be a great pianist.... A girl like that can accomplish anything she sets her mind to.... But I don’t think you’ll like her.... She’s too powerful.”

Nearer home, the news came to May Seton and her mother a little after midnight when Jimmy, sent a second time as messenger, brought back the suspicion of their elopement. In the beginning the situation was embarrassing, for May in her optimism had spread the story that the _fiançailles_ of Clarence and herself had been accomplished. Once this had passed, she experienced a sort of inverted triumph, superior if possible even to that which might have arisen from the capture of a New York young man. She understood presently that people regarded her as a martyr, a virgin robbed of her lover, and once she got the full sense of this she played the rôle to perfection. Dressed in her most somber clothing, as if she mourned a lover worse than dead, she paid and received a great number of calls, always in company with her mother who now assumed the rôle of duenna and garnished May’s account of the affair with appropriate and growing details. Old ladies swooped about and settled upon the tale to pick it over and contemplate the ruins with ghoulish satisfaction, until at length the event, now of proportions beyond the realms of the imagination, became an epic in the chronicles of the Town, a piece in which May Seton played the rôle of injured innocence and Ellen that of adventuress in the grand manner of East Lynne or Lady Audley’s Secret. In short, what had appeared in the beginning to be a calamity, turned out to be a triumph. Husbands might be found at every turn, but public martyrdom comes rarely. Indeed before many weeks had passed, potential husbands began to loom upon the horizon and crowd into the middle distance. Because May in her bereavement had become what she had never been ... a figure of interest.

But there was one part of the story which remained known to only one person in the Town. It was the space of time which elapsed between the hour that Clarence departed for the mythical barber shop and the hour the train left for the east. This was a matter of five hours, in which much might have taken place. No one seemed able to account for it. No one had seen either of them. They had, to all intents, disappeared for five hours ... a thing which in the Town was incredible.

Yet there was one person who knew, and she was the last whom any one could suspect. It was impossible to believe that a creature so birdlike, so gentle, could have played a part in so scandalous an affair as the rape of May Seton’s lover. Yet it was true; the guilty pair had spent the five hours in the room filled with conch shells and pampas grass and plush, for Miss Ogilvie had kept her rash promise to Ellen. Indeed, the whole affair had been planned under her very eyes. But in the little house surrounded by lilacs and syringa bushes, she kept her secret as faithfully as she had kept her promise, though it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. It was almost as if she herself had escaped into a great world where there were no neighbors and no sewing circles.

* * * * *

But the two who suffered most were the two whose pride was greatest ... those born enemies Mrs. Tolliver and Skinflint Seton. From the moment of the elopement the ancient feud over the swindle of the synthetic corset stays emerged without shame or pretense into the open, and the story became common property that Harvey Seton had been seen on the Tollivers’ piazza being ordered into the street because he suggested that Ellen had eloped because the circumstances made it necessary.

Scarcely less mysterious than the missing five hours was the nature of Gramp’s illness, a thing which had baffled the consultations and head waggings of the Town’s best medical talent. Two days later he was up and about again perambulating once more, in his coonskin coat, the icy pavement of the Town. And it was with a new look of defiant malice that he regarded the faces peering at him from behind the Boston ferns of Sycamore Street. The sharp old eyes mocked the passers-by. They said, “My Granddaughter has a good deal of the old man in her. She has the courage to do as she sees fit. You’ll hear from that girl!” All this punctuated by the sharp tap! tap! tap! of his tough hickory stick on icy pavements where an ordinary man would long ago have slipped and broken his leg.

21

Weeks passed before there came from Ellen any news beyond the mere statement that she was alive, comfortable and well, and that although she was sorry for her actions she could not have done otherwise. Some day, she implied with romantic overtones, they would understand.

When at last a real letter came, it was turbulent, hard and unrepentant. Nor was the spelling the best.

“I am sorry for May ... a little,” she wrote, “but it won’t make any difference to her. She is in love with men and not one man. To have lost Clarence won’t end her happiness. Any man will do as well. In a year she’ll be married, like as not to Herman Biggs. It was different with me. Everything depended upon Clarence ... everything, you understand. To me he made all the difference.

“And we are happy,” she continued, as if this was, after all, a matter of secondary importance. “Clarence loves me. We have a nice apartment quite near to Riverside Drive that overlooks the river where the warships anchor. It is the top floor of an enormous apartment house ... ten stories high, and the view is wonderful. You can see over half the city. It is called the Babylon Arms.