CHAPTER XVII
Rodrigo sat on the edge of a chair in the living room of Henry Dorning's house at Greenwich. Near him, his frail body sunk deeply in the cushions of a large chair especially comfortably upholstered for his benefit, rested Henry Dorning. The attitude of both was one of nervous expectancy. Had you, however, been unacquainted personally with the two men and been told that one of them was a semi-invalid, you might have been excused for choosing Rodrigo as the ailing one. His lean face had grown thinner and his eyes were dark-ringed from the ordeal he was passing through. His clothing showed little trace of his usual sartorial fastidiousness. He fidgeted in his chair, and when he attempted to light a cigarette the match was held so unsteadily that the tobacco with difficulty caught fire. Henry Dorning, on the other hand, though affected very deeply by the plight of his son, maintained a surface calm that belied the turmoil within him.
Indeed, Henry Dorning was at somewhat of a loss to understand the extreme havoc which the disappearance of Elise had wrought in Rodrigo Torriani. He knew that the friendship between John and Rodrigo was so close that the catastrophe which had befallen his son would be shared by his son's friend. But, after all, Rodrigo was a man of the world, of considerable experience in emotional crises. Why had another's tragedy now broken him up so savagely that he seemed upon the verge of a breakdown? Had not more vital matters been pressing, Henry Dorning would have liked to discover the answer to this question.
As for John Dorning, his mad search for his missing wife had, in the physical sense, terminated for the time being. It had now been two weeks since the fatal fire in the Van Clair. The wild rushing about and pursuit of false clews, the almost total loss of sleep and food had caused John's frail body and almost his strong mind, to snap definitely that morning. For days Rodrigo had been warning him, urging him to abandon the search temporarily, tried with everything in his power, except the uttering of the truth about Elise, to prevent John from becoming a second victim. That morning John had collapsed in Rodrigo's arms and lain in the latter's apartment unconscious. Rodrigo had summoned a doctor and revived his friend. On the physician's advice, he had brought the stricken man at top speed in his car to Henry Dorning's home in Greenwich.
"DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT I THINK OF YOU?" MARY ASKED SOFTLY.
John had slumped, apparently more dead than alive, in the seat beside Rodrigo throughout that rapid ride. John's father and sister Alice, apprised in advance by telephone, had been awaiting their arrival. The tortured man, at last too weak to protest further, had been put to bed and the Dorning's family physician summoned.
The latter was now up with the sick man, as was Alice Pritchard. Henry Dorning and Rodrigo were at present waiting for the report upon John's condition.
"Hotchkiss is a long time about his examination," Henry Dorning said finally, breaking a long silence. He had been observing Rodrigo narrowly, and he thought perhaps occupying the Italian's mind with conversation might allay some of Rodrigo's evident nervousness. Otherwise he feared Dr. Hotchkiss might have another patient on his hands when he came downstairs.
Rodrigo nodded shortly.
"It is a blessing, in a way, that John has given out at last," Mr. Dorning went on seriously. "This break was bound to come. I could not stop his frantic search. Neither could you, I suppose. Now he will be kept quiet and will have a chance to recover." He was silent a moment, and then he asked suddenly, "Rodrigo, do you think Elise will ever be found?"
Rodrigo turned his tired eyes quickly to his questioner. "Why—I don't know," he faltered. "But I don't believe—she will."
"Nor do I," said Henry Dorning. "I think she ran away from my boy, and, in doing so, met with a fatal accident somewhere, probably in a motor car. That is my own theory, but of course I have nothing on which to base it. It is merely intuition."
"But she and John were so happy together, loved each other so dearly. Why should she run—"
"Nonsense," the elder Dorning said shortly. "John loved her with all his heart. But I have thought from the first that she had no especial regard for him. I diagnosed her at once as a selfish, frivolous woman. She married John for his money, after carefully sizing the situation up and deciding that I probably would not live very long. Oh, I know that is a brutal way of talking about a woman who is probably dead now. But I cannot help it. I always distrusted her and feared for what she would do to John. A number of her actions confirmed my first suspicions. I was never one to interfere in the private affairs of my children—both Alice and John will tell you that. But I could not help but notice how, for example, Elise would disappear the moment John had left on a business trip and not come back to Greenwich until a few hours before his return. And the type of people she brought into his house—riff-raff is the only word for them.
"Yes, Rodrigo—I may be a terrible old ogre for saying so—but I am glad that woman has gone. I do not, of course, wish her dead. I am afraid, however, that is what has happened. Otherwise she would certainly have communicated with John in some way by this time. You will remember that I had Warren ask you once what you knew of Elise. He said that you told him nothing. I am not going to question you, Rodrigo—now. But I will say that I believe you knew what sort of woman she really was and that you were afraid to tell John, because he was so infatuated with her that it would hurt him. I respect you for that and think you did wisely. I also respect you for trying to protect her when Warren questioned you. Any gentleman would have done the same, and I was foolish and a little caddish for having the question asked. However——"
But Rodrigo was never to know into what deep waters Henry Dorning's line of thought might have led them, for at that moment Dr. Hotchkiss appeared on the stairs and both men turned expectantly. The doctor was a splendid figure of a man, tall, gray and distinguished looking. He was a personal friend of Henry Dorning's as well as his medical advisor. His face now bore a grave expression that confirmed the fears of the patient's two best male friends.
Dr. Hotchkiss approached Rodrigo, who had risen and taken a step or two forward in his anxiety, and the still seated Henry Dorning, whose condition made it imperative that he walk only when necessary. The doctor said quietly, "There is no use in minimizing things. John is in a very serious condition. He is physically and mentally exhausted. I have telephoned for a nurse. It is too big a job for Alice, willing as she is. I don't want either of you to disturb John. I don't want anybody to go near him, except the nurse, until further instructions from me. To speak frankly, any kind of a shock now would bring on—well, something I don't want to contemplate. It will be a long hard pull, I can tell you, to bring him around. And I want you both—and Alice too—to cooperate with me by assuring John absolute quiet during the next weeks and months."
The two listeners nodded. There was a faint feeling of relief in their minds that Dr. Hotchkiss had not pronounced matters hopeless and had even implied that with good fortune and care John might come through satisfactorily.
When the medical man had left, Rodrigo prepared to follow him. He shook hands with Henry Dorning and received the latter's promise to inform him at once if there was any decided change in John's condition.
"As for continuing the search for Elise—you may use your own judgment about that," said Henry Dorning. "I suppose John would wish it pursued with the same zeal. But I leave it to you."
"Very well," Rodrigo replied softly. "I will use—my own judgment."
He drove back to New York at a snail's pace, the speed of his car in harmony with his thoughts of the long, dreary months of remorse ahead of him.
The next day Rodrigo tried hard to submerge himself in the numerous details of business that made up his work and John's with Dorning and Son. It was the only way now that he could stand by his stricken friend. Mary Drake was his able lieutenant—a silent, rather impersonal sort of lieutenant, to be sure, but he could expect nothing different now, he grimly told himself.
An alarming week followed at the Dorning home in Greenwich. For two or three days John's condition was very bad. There were periods in which he alternately raved in hysteric delirium and then sank into a coma, recognizing nobody and sustained by a scarcely detectable heart-beat. In his periods of delirium he called loudly upon Elise, upon Rodrigo, upon the mother who had died in his childhood, while the nurse, Alice Pritchard, and Doctor Hotchkiss labored with physical strength and opiates to quiet him. In that week, Rodrigo lived through a hundred hells, calling on the telephone every few hours to receive bulletins that sank his heart anew each time.
At the end of the week he learned from the doctor that John's physical condition had taken a slight turn for the better. Mentally, however, he was very bad. Dr. Hotchkiss indicated his fears that, unless the strain were in some way removed, his young patient's mind might go.
In disposing of the increased business worries placed upon his shoulders by the absence of John, Rodrigo found unexpectedly efficient assistance in the person of Max Rosner. For Rodrigo had taken a practical means of making good John's promise that something would be done for Rosner, after the dramatic encounter in which Rodrigo had saved his friend from the leaden danger in Rosner's revolver. John had advanced the little man a loan and placed his ill wife in the hospital. Rodrigo had suggested a way for the harassed little man to repay the money and regain his self-respect. John's responsibilities in Dorning and Son had always been too heavy. Rodrigo suggested the installation of Rosner as John's assistant, pointing out that while the ex-employee was no executive, he knew the business and would doubtless prove very acceptable in a subordinate capacity.
During the time Rosner was winning back his health and mental balance, his duties had been light. In the weeks just before Elise's disappearance, he had gradually been given larger responsibilities and had been executing them surprisingly well. Now, with John gone, he stepped manfully into the breach and performed yeoman service in enabling Rodrigo to carry on. Henry Madison was his usual capable self in managing the retail sales force; however, without the aid of Rosner, Rodrigo frequently told himself that the buying and important outside contract work of the concern, the part of the business on which the reputation of Dorning and Son rested, would have gone to pieces.
Moreover, Rodrigo discovered in Rosner, whom he had hitherto regarded with some distaste, personal qualities and a sympathy that made him really like the frail middle-aged man and established a bond between them.
It started in the second week of John's illness when Rosner, who fairly worshipped Rodrigo now for the kindness he had done him, said timidly at the end of a business conference, "How is John this morning?"
"Improving a little, as rapidly as anybody could expect."
Rosner continued hesitantly, "You're not looking at all well yourself, Count Torriani. You're worrying too much about John. It's time you thought about yourself a little. If you don't—well, you may be where he is."
"Would to God that I were!" Rodrigo cried with a suddenness and vehemence that startled Rosner. In the next instant he was angry at himself for losing control, for his manifestation of the jumpy state of his nerves. He continued more calmly, "Thanks for your sympathy, Rosner, but don't worry about me. I'm all right."
"If you wanted to go away a while, for a rest—I could manage, I think, after a fashion," Rosner offered.
"Thanks. I know you could. You're doing wonderful work—you and Miss Drake and all the rest of the people. But I'll stick around until John gets back in harness. Then I'm going away for a long rest, abroad probably."
After Rosner had gone, Rodrigo realized that their little conversation had been a relief, even his explosive demonstration of his nervous condition. The only other person in the establishment with whom he discussed John's illness was Mary Drake, and to her he merely communicated briefly the latest news from Greenwich daily, in answer to her question. There was no mention of their former relations to each other, merely a question and answer about some one in whom both felt a deep concern. Beyond this and the daily contacts into which the routine of the business brought them, Rodrigo and Mary were now to all intents and purposes just an employer and a trusted employee. Of the frequent anxious and sympathetic glances which Mary cast at him when he chanced to be facing away from her, Rodrigo, of course, knew nothing.
It was December, when his illness had run along for nearly two months, that John Dorning showed a definite improvement and return to normal. One morning Rodrigo received word by telephone that John was to leave two days later for southern California, in charge of his sister and his nurse, and would like to see Rodrigo before he departed. The doctor had declared that a change of scene would help the patient as soon as he was in condition to travel. It was thought that John was now strong enough, and the plans had been made for an indefinite stay in the region of San Diego.
Rodrigo drove up to Greenwich that afternoon. Alice Pritchard ushered him into John's room, near a window at which his friend was seated, looking moodily out upon the snow-clad lawn. Though he was prepared to see a change in John's appearance, Rodrigo was shocked in spite of himself at the actuality. The face of the man in the chair was white and gaunt. His blond hair was streaked with gray. He looked at least ten years older than he had on the day Rodrigo had seen him last. And as, aware of visitors, he turned, Rodrigo saw that his eyes looked sunken and lack-lustre.
Rodrigo managed a smile as he advanced with hand outstretched. A semblance of a smile appeared on John's wan face also, and he said in a low voice, "This is good, old man."
"It is, indeed," Rodrigo said heartily. "I'm glad to see you looking better."
"Yes, I am feeling better. I want to thank you for sticking by me through it all, Rodrigo. They've told me of the constant interest you've shown and the fine work you're doing at the shop. I'm sorry to have to impose upon you any longer—but they tell me I must go away for a time. I don't know that it will do any good." His weak voice fell away, and his head bowed a little.
"Oh, it's bound to," Rodrigo cut in cheerfully. "New faces, new scenes. You'll come back a new man, ready to pitch in like a whirlwind."
But John had hardly listened to him. Alice had left the room, as the patient discovered when he looked cautiously around. At once he caught Rodrigo's sleeve with his thin fingers and looked at him so pathetically that the latter wanted to turn his head away. John asked, "Have you learned anything at all about Elise, Rodrigo?" And when Rodrigo shook his head slowly, John's hand and head fell and he whispered, "Nothing—in all these months? It's unbelievable—it's maddening."
Rodrigo hastened to soothe him, to change the subject. A few moments later Alice returned with the nurse, and Rodrigo deduced that it was time that he left. The two men shook hands and, with an encouraging caution to come back strong and healthy, Rodrigo was out of the room.
During the remainder of the winter, the word from California was of John's constant improvement. He was living almost in the open air and doing little besides eat and sleep. In February he started writing short notes to Rodrigo in his own hand. By the first of March, the notes had grown longer and had lost both their unsteadiness of chirography and the perfunctory air of being written by a man too tired mentally to use his imagination.
John was taking an interest in life again. He took to commenting upon the beauty of the natural scenery about him and upon the desecration being wrought upon Nature by some of the architectural monstrosities of the region. He told in subsequent letters of having lunch with mutual business friends of theirs, of a trip to Catalina Island. He even made some inquiries about certain projects he had left unfinished upon the occasion of his abrupt leave-taking from Dorning and Son and urged Rodrigo to tell him in detail of his business problems of the hour. This last, to Rodrigo, was the most encouraging sign of all.
Early in April, John Dorning returned to Greenwich. Rodrigo spent the week-end there and rejoiced to see his friend looking so changed for the better. Though he was still thin and fragile-looking, there was color in his cheeks and life in his eyes. And whatever his mood might be when alone, in the presence of his family and of Rodrigo, John was now nearly his old self. He had, right at the start of Rodrigo's visit, made an effort to prove this by meeting his friend at the station in the Dorning sedan and driving him to the house. In answer to Rodrigo's joyous greeting and eager questioning, he replied, "Yes, I'm in quite good shape now. In fact, Dr. Hotchkiss is so pleased with me that he says I may come in a couple of days next week for an hour or so each day and kind of get in touch with things at the shop. And I'll be glad to do it, I can tell you."
Though Rodrigo sensed somehow that the thought of the missing Elise still occupied the back of John Dorning's mind, to the exclusion of everything else, her name was not mentioned at all throughout the week-end.
Sunday morning, Rodrigo rode horseback with John, a pastime which Dr. Hotchkiss had recommended and which had led to the purchase of two excellent saddle-horses and their installation in the long empty Dorning barn. The bridle-path led them quite close to the Millbank development, where stood the vacant home of John and Elise. Rodrigo did not, of course, allude to this and even glanced anxiously at John as they passed the place.
"I am going over to my old house next week sometime and take out the stuff I left there," John said calmly, though Rodrigo wondered if there was not suppressed emotion behind those quiet words. "I have put the place on the market and intend to dispose of it." John was frowning and his lips were clenched tightly.
Rodrigo did not answer him, but soon afterward prodded his horse into a gallop. John followed him, and they finished their journey at a very rapid pace. Rodrigo left for New York that evening, very much pleased with his friend's condition. Some of the heavy load was lifted off the young Italian's mind at last. Though he had not permitted himself to think about it during all the long months of that sad winter and early spring, he was utterly worn out in body and mind. On the rare occasions when he relaxed the grim guard upon his mind and was weak enough to pity himself, it seemed to him that soon he must, must get away.
No returning hero ever received a more sincere welcome from his associates than did John Dorning when he walked into the shop on Wednesday of the week following. The whole staff abruptly dropped what they were doing and clustered around him. Hands were outstretched and grasped. In many eyes there were tears. John, smiling happily, was very close to crying himself. He thanked them all collectively for carrying on in his absence, with special mention of Rodrigo, Henry Madison, Rosner and Mary Drake. The last named dabbed at her eyes furtively and stole a proud glance at Rodrigo, which he did not catch.
John remained scarcely half an hour, spending the time in a short conference with the four who composed the executive staff of the business. On Friday, however, he came in again, this time with a tentative sketch suggestion for the murals Dorning and Son were to submit for a new art theatre building to be erected in New York. After this his appearance became steadily more frequent and for longer intervals.
Two weeks later, he said, at the end of the first full day he had spent at the shop. "Monday I intend to resume my place here in earnest, Rodrigo. I'm feeling well now, and I'm perfectly capable of putting on the harness. In fact, the harder I work, the better I feel. But you've been working too hard, Rodrigo. You're looking tired and seedy. I really believe I appear healthier than you do. Don't I, Mary?" The scene was John's office. Mary had just come in to take away the signed letters. She looked around and smiled at his question, flashing a glance at Rodrigo but not committing herself to an answer. "Mary has been a big help to me in getting back into the swim," John smiled. "And I intend to lean upon her more than ever." He looked so affectionately at the grave girl that Rodrigo glanced from one to the other and experienced a sudden flash of foreboding. John and Mary—now that Elise was gone—John's need of someone to lean upon—the realization, to him, of Mary's worth——
But Rodrigo dismissed it from his mind with an effort. He simply would not think of it. The ache of loving Mary was still too raw in his own heart.
"Why don't you take a long vacation, Rodrigo?" John was saying. "Go abroad, to Italy, or something. You certainly deserve it. We'll carry on here."
And another portion of the heavy load on Rodrigo's mind lifted. He felt like sighing audibly with relief. At last he could put into effect the plan that had been forming in his brain ever since that awful morning. John was well now, reasonably happy, as happy as he perhaps ever would be again. The burden of keeping the faith by carrying on his business for him had been taken from Rodrigo's shoulders. The guilt in Rodrigo's soul could never be taken away, of course. But at least he could gain some surcease by going away from this man whom he could never again look in the eye with a clear conscience, never again see without feeling how he had betrayed him. He would go away, and stay away. When his heart cried, "But Mary?—You love Mary. You cannot give her up," he tried to stifle that cry, and resolved, just the same, to go.
He voiced this resolution to John. "I do need a vacation, John. I'm glad you suggested it. If you can get along without me, I think I shall book passage to Italy. My house over there is vacant, you know, and I want to see about selling it, for one thing. And I should like to see some of my old friends. And the Bay of Naples, and all the old places. It will do me good. And perhaps I can pick up some treasures over there at bargain prices. I'll keep that in mind too."
Rodrigo sailed four weeks later on a Saturday. John bade him good-bye at the close of the day's work on the afternoon previous, for John was under the doctor's orders to take two full days' vacation each week-end.
"When will you be back, Rodrigo?" John asked.
And Rodrigo had hesitated and finally answered, "I—can't tell."
"Well, take your time—but I'll be awfully eager to see you again. I'll miss you like the dickens," John said rather wistfully.
Rodrigo, his baggage already aboard, arrived early at the steamer that Saturday. In the midst of the passengers waving and calling to the swarms of friends standing in the doorways of the pier-sheds, he stood alone on the deck, looking ashore. He was probably the only one there to whom someone was not wishing bon voyage, he told himself rather grimly. Then suddenly he saw Mary Drake and she had finally managed to thrust her slim way through the gesticulating groups on shore and was searching the deck of the ship with her eyes.
Rodrigo turned abruptly and hurried down the gangplank. He pushed to her side.
"This is good of you, Mary," he said to her.
She started, turned, smiled, and said seriously, "I came down to ask you to reconsider not coming back."
"How do you know I am not coming back?" he echoed the seriousness in her voice.
"You told me once that you were going away and not return. I guessed you were only waiting until John was firmly on his feet. He is there now. And you are sailing away."
"Would you like me to come back—for yourself, Mary?" he asked hopefully.
"I am not to be considered," she answered almost coldly, though there was a little catch in her throat. "You should come back for the sake of your own soul. To run away and stay away is cowardice. You will spend the rest of your life hating yourself." She lifted her face to his appealingly. "Oh, Rodrigo, can't you see that the only right way is to tell John the truth, even now? He can stand it now. And you will save yourself. You are not happy. You will never be happy as long as this terrible thing is in your heart."
"Is that question of telling John always to stand between us, Mary? Do I have to wreck John's life all over again in order to make you love me?" He asked almost bitterly.
She did not reply. The whistle of the great vessel beside them shrieked mightily amid the hiss of escaping steam.
"Good-bye, Mary," he said brokenly, taking her hand. He hesitated, lifted it to his lips, and, without another glance at her, half ran to the gangplank, which had already been lifted a foot off the dock. So he did not see the tears that streamed down her face, and what was written behind the tears as she lifted her eyes and realized he was gone.