The Millionaire Baby

by Anna Katharine Green

  XVII

  IN THE GREEN BOUDOIR

  So far in this narrative I have kept from the reader nothing but an oldexperience of which I was now to make use. This experience involved Mrs.Ocumpaugh, and was the cause of the confidence which I had felt from thefirst in my ability to carry this search through to a successfultermination. I believed that in some secret but as yet undiscovered way,it offered a key to this tragedy. And I still believed this, little as Ihad hitherto accomplished and blind as the way continued to look beforeme.

  Nevertheless, it was with anything but a cheerful heart that I advancedthat morning through the shrubbery toward the Ocumpaugh mansion.

  I dreaded the interview I had determined to seek. I was young, far tooyoung, to grapple with the difficulties it involved; yet I saw no way ofavoiding it, or of saving either Mrs. Ocumpaugh or myself from thesuffering it involved.

  Mrs. Carew had advised that I should first see the girl called Celia.But Mrs. Carew knew nothing of the real situation. I did not wish to seeany girl. I felt that no such intermediary would answer in a case likethis. Nor did I choose to trust Miss Porter. Yet to Miss Porter alonecould I appeal.

  The sight of a doctor's gig standing at the side door gave me my firstshock. Mrs. Ocumpaugh was ill, then, really ill. Yet if I came to makeher better? I stood irresolute till I saw the doctor come out; then Iwalked boldly up and asked for Miss Porter.

  Just what Mrs. Carew had advised me not to do.

  Miss Porter came. She recognized me, but only to express her sorrow thatMrs. Ocumpaugh was totally unfit to see any one to-day.

  "Not if he brings news?"

  "News?"

  "I have news, but of a delicate nature. I should like the privilege ofimparting the same to Mrs. Ocumpaugh herself."

  "Impossible."

  "Excuse me, if I urge it."

  "She can not see you. The doctor who has just gone says that at allhazards she must be kept quiet to-day. Won't Mr. Atwater do? Is it--isit good news?"

  "That, Mrs. Ocumpaugh alone can say."

  "See Mr. Atwater; I will call him."

  "I have nothing to say to _him_."

  "But--"

  "Let me advise you. Leave it to Mrs. Ocumpaugh. Take this paper up toher--it is only a sketch--and inform her that the person who drew it hassomething of importance to say either to her or to Mr. Atwater, and lether decide which it shall be. You may, if you wish, mention my name."

  "I do not understand."

  "You hold my credentials," I said and smiled.

  She glanced at the paper I had placed in her hand. It was a folded one,fastened something like an envelope.

  "I can not conceive,--" she began.

  I did not scruple to interrupt her.

  "Mrs. Ocumpaugh has a right to the privilege of seeing what I havesketched there," I said with what impressiveness I could, though myheart was heavy with doubt. "Will you believe that what I ask is for thebest and take this envelope to her? It may mean the ultimate restorationof her child."

  "This paper?"

  "Yes, Miss Porter."

  She did not try to hide her incredulity.

  "I do not see how a picture--yet you seem very much in earnest--and Iknow she has confidence in you, she and Mr. Ocumpaugh, too. I will takeit to her if you can assure me that good will come of it and no morefalse hopes to destroy the little courage she has left."

  "I can not promise that. I believe that she will wish to receive me andhear all I have to say after seeing what that envelope contains. That isas far as I can honestly go."

  "It does not satisfy me. If it were not for the nearness of Mr.Ocumpaugh's return, I would have nothing to do with it. He must hear atSandy Hook that some definite news has been received of his child."

  "You are right, Miss Porter, he must."

  "He idolized Gwendolen. He is a man of strong feelings; very passionateand much given to follow the impulse of the moment. If his suspense isnot ended at the earliest possible instant, the results may be such as Idare not contemplate."

  "I know it; that is why I have pushed matters to this point. You willcarry that up to her?"

  "Yes; and if--"

  "No ifs. Lay it before her where she sits and come away. But not beyondcall. You are a good woman--I see it in your face--do not watch her asshe unfolds this paper. Persons of her temperament do not like to havetheir emotions observed, and this will cause her emotion. That can notbe helped, Miss Porter. Sincerely and honestly I tell you that it isimpossible for her best friends to keep her from suffering now; they canonly strive to keep that suffering from becoming permanent."

  "It is a hard task you have set me," complained the poor woman; "but Iwill do what I can. Anything must be better for Mrs. Ocumpaugh than thesuspense she is now laboring under."

  "Remember," I enjoined, with the full force of my secret anxiety, "thatno eye but hers must fall upon this drawing. Not that it would conveymeaning to anybody but herself, but because it is her affair and heraffair only, and you are the woman to respect another person's affairs."

  She gave me a final scrutinizing look and left the room.

  "God grant that I have made no mistake!" was the inward prayer withwhich I saw her depart.

  My fervency was sincere. I was myself frightened at what I had done.

  And what had I done? Sent her a sketch drawn by myself of Doctor Pooland of his office. If it recalled to her, as I felt it must, theremembrance of a certain memorable visit she had once paid there, shewould receive me.

  When Miss Porter reentered some fifteen minutes later, I saw that myhazardous attempt had been successful.

  "Come," said she; but with no cheerful alacrity, rather with an air ofgloom.

  "Was--was Mrs. Ocumpaugh very much disturbed by what she saw?"

  "I fear so. She was half-asleep when I went in, dreaming as it seemed,and pleasantly. It was cruel to disturb her; indeed I had not the heart,so I just laid the folded paper near her hand and waited, but not toonear, not within sight of her face. A few minutes later--interminableminutes to me--I heard the paper rattle, but I did not move. I was whereshe could see me, so she knew that she was not alone and presently Icaught the sound of a strange noise from her lips, then a low cry, thenthe quick inquiry in sharper and more peremptory tones than I had everbefore heard from her, 'Where did this come from? Who has dared to sendme this?' I advanced quickly. I told her about you and your desire tosee her; how you had asked me to bring her up this little sketch so thatshe would know that you had real business with her; that I regrettedtroubling her when she felt so weak, but that you promised revelationsor some such thing--at which I thought she grew very pale. Are you quiteconvinced that you have news of sufficient importance to warrant theexpectations you have raised in her?"

  "Let me see her," I prayed.

  She made a sign and we both left the room.

  Mrs. Ocumpaugh awaited me in her own boudoir on the second floor. As wewent up the main staircase I was afforded short glimpses of room afterroom of varying richness and beauty, among them, one so dainty anddelicate in its coloring that I presumed to ask if it were that of themissing child.

  Miss Porter's look as she shook her head roused my curiosity.

  "I should be glad to see her room," I said.

  She stopped, seemed to consider the matter for a moment, then advancedquickly and, beckoning me to follow, led me to a certain door which shequietly opened. One look, and my astonishment became apparent. The roombefore me, while large and sunny, was as simple, I had almost said asbare, as my sister's at home. No luxurious furnishings here, nodraperies of silk and damask, no half-lights drawing richness fromstained glass, no gleam of silver or sparkle of glass on bedeckeddresser or carved mantel. Not even the tinted muslins I had seen in somenurseries; but a plain set of furniture on a plain carpet with but oneobject of real adornment within the four walls. That was a picture ofthe Madonna opposite the bed, and that was beautiful. But the frame wasof the cheapest--a simple band of oak.

 
Catching Miss Porter's eye as we quietly withdrew, I ventured to askwhose taste this was.

  The answer was short and had a decided ring of disapproval in it.

  "Her mother's. Mrs. Ocumpaugh believes in simple surroundings forchildren."

  "Yet she dressed Gwendolen like a princess."

  "Yes, for the world's eye. But in her own room she wore gingham apronswhich effectually covered up her ribbons and laces."

  The motive for all this was in a way evident to me, but somehow what Ihad just seen did not add to my courage for the coming interview.

  We stopped at the remotest door of this long hall. As Miss Porter openedit I summoned up all my nerve, and the next moment found myself standingin the presence of the imposing figure of Mrs. Ocumpaugh drawn up in theembrasure of a large window overlooking the Hudson. It was the samewindow, doubtless, in which she had stood for two nights and a daywatching for some sign from the boats engaged in dragging the river-bed.Her back was to me and she seemed to find it difficult to break awayfrom her fixed attitude; for several minutes elapsed before she turnedslowly about and showed me her face.

  When she did, I stood appalled. Not a vestige of color was to be seen oncheek, lip or brow. She was the beautiful Mrs. Ocumpaugh still, but theheart which had sent the hues of life to her features, was beatingslow--slow--and the effect was heartbreaking to one who had seen her inher prime and the full glory of her beauty as wife and mother.

  "Pardon," I faltered out, bowing my head as if before some powerfulrebuke, though her lips were silent and her eyes pleading rather thanaccusing. Truly, I had ventured far in daring to recall to this woman anhour which at this miserable time she probably would give her very lifeto forget. "Pardon," I repeated, with even a more humble intonation thanbefore, for she did not speak and I hardly knew how to begin theconversation. Still she said nothing, and at last I found myself forcedto break the unbearable silence by some definite remark.

  "I have presumed," I therefore continued, advancing but a step towardher who made no advance at all, "to send you a hurried sketch of one whosays he knows you, that you might be sure I was not one of the manyeager but irresponsible men who offer help in your great trouble withoutunderstanding your history or that of the little one to whose seeminglyunaccountable disappearance all are seeking a clue."

  "My history!"

  The words seemed forced from her, but no change in eye or lookaccompanied them; nor could I catch a motion of her lips when shepresently added in a far-away tone inexpressibly affecting, "_Her_history! Did he bid you say that?"

  "Doctor Pool? He has given me no commands other than to find the child.I am not here as an agent of his. I am here in Mr. Ocumpaugh's interestand your own; with some knowledge--a little more knowledge than othershave perhaps--to aid me in the business of recovering this child. Madam,the police are seeking her in the holes and slums of the great city andat the hands of desperate characters who make a living out of theterrors and griefs of the rich. But this is not where I should look forGwendolen Ocumpaugh. I should look nearer, just as you have lookednearer; and I should use means which I am sure have not commendedthemselves to the police. These means you can doubtless put in my hands.A mother knows many things in connection with her child which sheneither thinks to impart nor would, under any ordinary circumstances,give up, especially to a stranger. I am not a stranger; you have seen mein Mr. Ocumpaugh's confidence; will you then pardon me if I ask what maystrike you as impertinent questions, but which may lead to the discoveryof the motive if not to the method of the little one's abduction?"

  "I do not understand--" She was trying to shake off her apathy. "I feelconfused, sick, almost like one dying. How can I help? Haven't I doneeverything? I believe that she strayed to the river and was drowned. Istill believe her dead. Otherwise we should have news--real news--and wedon't, we don't."

  The intensity with which she uttered the last two words brought a lineof red into her gasping lips. She was becoming human, and for a minute Icould not help drawing a comparison between her and her friend Mrs.Carew as the latter had just appeared to me in her little half-denudedhouse on the other side of the hedge-row. Both beautiful, but owingtheir charms to quite different sources, I surveyed this woman, whiteagainst the pale green of the curtain before which she stood, andimperceptibly but surely the glowing attractions of the gay-heartedwidow who had found a child to love, faded before the cold loveliness ofthis bereaved mother, wan with suffering and alive with terrors of whosedepth I could judge from the clutch with which she still held my littlesketch.

  Meanwhile I had attempted some kind of answer to Mrs. Ocumpaugh'sheart-rending appeal.

  "We do not hear because she was not taken from you simply for the moneyher return would bring. Indeed, after hours of action and considerablethinking, I am beginning to doubt if she was taken for money at all. Canyou not think of some other motive? Do you not know of some one whowanted the child from--_love_, let us say?"

  "Love?"

  Did her lips frame it, or did I see it in her eyes? Certainly I heard nosound, yet I was conscious that she repeated the word in her mind, ifnot aloud.

  "I know I have startled you," I pursued. "But, pardon me--I can not helpmy presumption--I must be personal--I must even go so far as to probethe wound I have made. You have a claim to Gwendolen not to be doubted,not to be gainsaid. But isn't there some one else who is conscious ofpossessing certain claims also? I do not allude to Mr. Ocumpaugh."

  "You mean--some relative--aunt--cousin--" She was fully human now, andvery keenly alert. "Mr. Rathbone, perhaps?"

  "No, Mrs. Ocumpaugh, none of these." Then as the paper rattled in herhand and I saw her eyes fall in terror on it, I said as calmly andrespectfully as I could: "You have a secret, Mrs. Ocumpaugh; that secretI share."

  The paper trembled from her clasp and fell fluttering downward. Ipointed at it and waited till our eyes met, possibly that I might giveher some encouragement from my look if not from my words.

  "I was a boy in Doctor Pool's employ some five years ago, and one day--"

  I paused; she had made me a supplicating gesture.

  "Shall I not go on?" I finally asked.

  "Give me a minute," was her low entreaty. "O God! O God! that I shouldhave thought myself secure all these years, with two in the worldknowing my fatal secret!"

  "I learned it by accident," I went on, when I saw her eye turn again onmine. "On a certain night six years ago, I was in the office behind anold curtain--you remember the curtain hanging at the left of thedoctor's table over that break in the book-shelves. I had no businessthere. I had been meddling with things which did not belong to me and,when I heard the doctor's step at the door, was glad to shrink into thisrefuge and wait for an opportunity to escape. It did not come very soon.First he had one patient, then another. The last one was you; I heardyour name and caught a glimpse of your face as you went out. It was avery interesting story you told him--I was touched by it though Ihardly understood."

  "Oh! oh!"

  She was swaying from side to side, swaying so heavily that Iinstinctively pushed forward a chair.

  "Sit," I prayed. "You are not strong enough for this excitement."

  She glanced at me vaguely, shook her head, but made no move towardaccepting the proffered chair. She submitted, however, when I continuedto press it upon her; and I felt less a brute and hard-hearted monsterwhen I saw her sitting with folded hands before me.

  "I bring this up," said I, "that you may understand what I mean when Isay that some one else--another woman, in fact, may feel her claim uponthis child greater than yours."

  "You mean the real mother. Is she known? The doctor swore--"

  "I do not know the real mother. I only know that you are not; that towin some toleration from your mother-in-law, to make sure of yourhusband's lasting love, you won the doctor over to a deception whichsecured a seeming heir to the Ocumpaughs. Whose child was given you, isdoubtless known to you--"

  "No, no."

  I stared, aghast.r />
  "What! You do not know?"

  "No, I did not wish to. Nor was she ever to know me or my name."

  "Then this hope has also failed. I thought that in this mother, we mightfind the child's abductor."