University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
MRS. SMITH MAKES A CALL.

Two days later the young gentleman who officiated
as office-boy and messenger to the firm of
Shaw & Co., was surprised in the performance
of a difficult feat in gyamastics by the soft
rustle of a silk dress beside him. When he
looked up, the wearer, a remarkably handsome
lady with a satin complexion and very bright
eyes, was standing beside him, seemingly very
much interested in watching his performance.

“Is this Mr. Shaw's office?” she asked in a
soft, satin-like voice, that fell low and distinct
upon the ear.

“Yes, ma'am—excuse me; Mr. Shaw is not
in.”

“I don't think I need to trouble Mr. Shaw.
My business is not very important. Perhaps
you could answer the question I would ask.”

Timothy Dwight, known in that office and on
the street as Tim, was sixteen years of age. He
had been in Mr. Shaw's office three years. He
had read some law books in his leisure moments,
when exhausted by the performance of
some perilous gymnastic feat, and had listened
to some conversation on legal topics. He considered
himself a pretty good lawyer, and was a
little flattered at the lady's suggestion that he
might be consulted in the place of his master.
Tim, therefore, made haste to place a chair for the
lady, and signify that he was at her service.

“The first question I wish to ask,” resumed the
lady. “is concerning a young girl who visited this office.
Did you happen to see her?”

Tim remembered Mliss. He remembered how Mliss
had rushed into Mr. Gray's arms and the effect such
an exhibition of affection had produced upon himself.
Tim answered in the affirmative. Tim described the
girl. Tim described the meeting, greatly encouraged
at the smiling approval he read in the lady's handsome
eyes.

“Would you know this young girl if you should see
her again?”

Tim was quite certain he should. Her features were
engraved upon the tablets of his memory. He was
certain he could pick her out from several thousand
young girls of the same age, height, and general appearance.

Tim was rewarded with another smile. This time
the smile seemed to say that in the lady's opinion Tim's
habit of acute observation would eventually secure
him a seat in Congress, perhaps in the Presidential
chair itself.

“Did you observe,” continued the lady, after having
paid this silent tribute to Tim's powers of observation,
“if the young girl went away alone?”

“The young girl did not go away alone; she went
away with Mr. Gray.”

“Did Mr. Gray return to the office that evening?”
Mr. Gray did not.

“Was Mr. Gray in the habit of returning to his office
in the evening?”

Mr. Gray was in the habit of returning to his office
in the evening.

The lady sighed and brought her soft glance to bear
more fully upon Tim's face. She raised her white,
jeweled hand and laid it upon Tim's shoulder.

“Did Tim know where the young girl was at that
time?”

Tim was about to relapse into the disgraceful position
of a rising young lawyer who did not know everything,
when a footstep on the stair saved him the humiliating
confession. The footstep was followed by the entrance
of Mr. Gray.

The lady withdrew her hand from Tim's shoulder
and rose to her feet. She was standing when Mr.
Gray appeared.

“Mr. Gray,” said the lady, advancing, “I have had
the pleasure of meeting you before.”

“Mrs.—”

“Smith,” softly aspirated the lady. “You have forgotten
me. How unkind to let me know it.”

Mr. Gray had not forgotten the brilliant, half-closed
eyes, the pale, satin complexion, the tender smile of
the lady who greeted him. He hesitated because he
did not know by what name to address her.

“You do injustice to your own charms and to my
powers of memory,” he replied, bowing courteously.
“Mrs. Smith, I imagine, is forgotten by very few people
who have once known her.”

“At least you know how to console me for being forgotten,”
she rejoined, and there was a shade of auxious
inquiry in the glance she threw up to his face,
for perhaps she thought it might be a misfortune to
be a woman whom no one forgets.

Mr. Gray relieved Mr. Timothy Dwight of father
immediate duty as counselor-at-law, by inviting his
visitor into his private office. He was not yet quite
prepared for an interview he half expected, but since
it had come he would not seem to shrink.

Tim stood perfectly still until the door closed, and
then threw a neat handspring by way of relief.

Mrs. Smith took a seat back to the window, not forgetting
to assume her most graceful position, and to
assure herself that her rich silk robe fell around her
person and upon the floor in the sweeping fold ladies
so much admire. Thus placed, her side to Mr. Gray,
so that she could give him her face or withhold it without
seeming to do so, she said:

“You have neglected us, Mr. Gray.”

Mr. Gray pleaded guilty. He had been much occupied
with business, he had not known if Mrs. Smith
had come to the city, or if so, where she recided.

“You need not apologize. I heard how in six
months you have become a well-known lawyer. It is a
great rise from a little country school. But Mliss has
taken your neglect sadly at heart.”

“Mliss! Does she still remember me? How is the
dear child?”

“Mliss is well, but I am not sure she would like to
hear you call her child.”

“Mliss is only thirteen.

“In this State girls of thirteen are sometimes
women. Mliss has matured very rapidly of late.”

“Is she as odd and charming as ever?”

“She grows pretty, I think. Perhaps it is a mother's
partial eye.”

So far they had fenced purposely for occupation's
sake. Neither deceived the other. Mrs. Smith knew
Mr. Gray had seen Mliss within three days, and Mr.
Gray knew that Mrs. Smith had not seen Mliss for a
still longer term of time. The lady was the first to
make a reconnoissance in force.

“I have come to consult you, Mr. Gray, not as a
lawyer but a friend—a friend to Mliss.”

Mr. Gray bowed in silence.

“The child has fallen in with bad associates. She
defies restraint and is sometimes gone days at a time.
What shall I do?”

“Do, madam,” exclaimed Mr. Gray, turning quickly
and looking in her face, “are you her mother?”

The suddenness of the question put the lady out.
Her face blanched, her black eyes glittered, and the
false smile that ever played about her mouth flickered
and went out.

“Really, Mr. Gray, your energy is uncalled for. Of
course I am her mother. But you know I was separated
from her from infancy till she was twelve years
of age. I fear I have never succeeded in winning her
love.”

Mr. Gray was satisfied in his own mind on one
point. The woman was not Mliss's mother. One prop
in his theory.

“Where is Mr. Waters?” he asked quietly.

“Mr. Waters! Whom do you mean?”

The man who killed McSnagley in Smith's claim.”

“O! I had forgotten his name. How should I
know where he is?”

“I thought you might. I believe he is an old friend
of yours.”

“Not a friend. I had met him in the stage before
that unfortunate occurrence, but I never knew him.”

The woman was looking straight before her so that
Mr. Gray could not see her face, but he thought he
detected a quaver in her voice. It seemed less sweet
and low and silvery than usual. It encouraged him,
to perceive that she could not lie without wincing.
Perhaps, however, it was only a latent fear of detection.

“Mrs. Smith,” he said, “we are here alone. No
one need know what passes between us. Are you willing
to surrender the guardianship of Mliss to a proper
person whom the court may appoint, if you are permitted
to enjoy a widow's half of Mr. Smith's estate?”

She turned quietly, though with fierceness in her
eyes and defiance in her gesture, and asked:

“How dare you make such a proposition to me? I
am her mother.”

“I have not disputed that point. But you and
Mliss do not get on well together. Why not let her
go?”

“Because I—won't.”

“Very well. It is nothing to me. You know, doubtless,
if you can afford to brave the searching investigation
that a lawsuit will involve.”

“I can afford to brave any investigation that can be
set on foot. I know my own record and I will maintain
my own right.”

“Do so; it is your privilege. But remember that
the law has sharp eyes. It can follow the most obscure.” person day by day to the hour of their birth. It
can bring deeds to light that have been forgotten. It
searches graveyards and tombs; it makes the dead
speak if their evidence is needed to protect the living

There was a moment of silence, and then Mrs
Smith turned on him with a smiling face.

“The conversation has taken a singular turn. I
came here to consult with you about my daughter.
You talk of law, graveyards and tombstones.”

“I have nothing more to say on these topics. I
beg of you to remember, however, that I offered you
peace and affluence.”

“I shall always remember your kindness. Your
motives, I am sure, are purely disinterested. It is not
a little singular, however, that you continue your interest
in my daughter only on the condition that she
abandons her mother?”

“My interest in Miss will continue under any possible
circumstance. What I suggest, I deem better
for you and for her.”

“Why should I surrender my daughter to strangers?”

“The time is not come yet to tell you why.”

“Your reply is a vailed threat. What have I done
that you should turn against me?”

“I know of nothing that you have done. I based
my proposition on the statement that Mliss had passed
out of your control. I may add, also, that at this moment,
while you sit here, officers of the law are searching
for her at your instigation.”

“You know this, then?”

“Since three days.”

“And you know, doubtless, why they do not find
her?”

“Madam, I only know that it is a cruel and heartiless
act to advertise a girl of thirteen as a runaway, giving
out intimations that she is consorting with the dregs
of the community. Do you know, if the officers find
her, what they will do to her?”

“They will bring her to me.”

“That you may cover her with disgrace by sending
her to some public institution for safe-keeping—some
Magdalen Asylum for a child.”

The woman sprang to her feet, facing him with the
fury of a savage.

“You lie!” she exclaimed hoarsely; “I have no such
purpose.”

“Madam, four days ago, at your room on Kearny
street, the whole plan was talked over between you and
the murderer, Waters.”

“It is false! I have not seen Waters for six months.”

“I give you the benefit of the statement.”

“Coward! If I were a man you would not dare to
thus insult me.”

“Unless I am misinformed, you have a man at your
disposal.”

The woman was a woman after all. At this taunt,
which the young man regretted as soon as uttered,
she uttered a low cry and sank weeping upon a chair.

Mr. Gray stood self-convicted. His zeal for Mliss
had carried him too far. He had given a woman just
cause for tears. He felt himself a coward and wished
she would rise up and strike him. Anything but sob—sob—sob
as if her heart would break.

Mr. Gray endured the infliction with a fortitude

born of helplessness. He could not retract. He was
too much of a lawyer for that. So he sat in troubled
silence while the woman wept. At last the tempest
subsided. The sobs came less frequent. The flutter
of a delicate lace-bordered handkerchief informed
him that the drying process had commenced. The
lady slowly raised her head. The drying process was
complete. Her eyes were sad and reproachful, but
her passion had gone with her tears.

“You have been misinformed, Mr. Gray. It is the
misfortune of my sex to be suspected. I forgive
you.”

The young man thought that if the lady had been a
man, a little explanation might have been required
from her. When gentlemen give the lie they are held
responsible. But he was too glad to perceive that
she was preparing to go to prolong the conversation.

She arose, seeing that he maintained an obstinate
silence, and gathered her shawl about her.

“Good day, sir,” she said.

“Good day, madam.”

Tim had not deserted his post. He was balancing a
ruler on his thumb, when the door opened and the
handsome lady, serene and smiling, again stood before
him.

“Let me thank you for your kindness,” she said
softly; “I may see you again.”

She bowed graciously and disappeared. Tim mentally
compared her with other ladies who questioned
him as it he had been an animated piece of furniture,
or ignored his presence as they pass in or out.

A few minutes' walk brought Mrs. Smith to her
residence. She had been in her room but a moment
when she was joined by a man the reader would have
suspected to be Waters but for the fact that he wore a
handsome blonde beard and hair of a like hue.

“Well,” he said, after assuring himself that they
were alone. “What success?”

“Mliss is under Mr. Gray's protection.”

The man replied by an oath so comprehensive in
scope that it included both the lawyer and his protege.

Mrs. Smith, not in the least shocked, related her interview
with Tim.

“The young hell-cat! How did she find him?”

“That is of little importance. She has found him.
How shall we get her away from him?”

The sinister lines grew deep around the man's
mouth.

“He has not forgotten you,” said the lady in her
softest tone. “At least he asked after the man who
killed McSnagley.”

The man preserved a moody silence.

“Don't you think,” whispered Mrs. Smith, still
speaking in her dulcet tones, “that it would be better
to be known as the man who killed Mr. Gray?”