CHAPTER IV.
MR. CORBIN MAKES A CALL.
On the evening of the same day that Mona visited the office of Corbin & Russel, attorneys at law, and shortly after Mrs. Montague had finished her lonely dinner—for her nephew was away on business—there came a sharp ring at the door of No.—West Forty-ninth street.
Mary answered it, and, after ushering the gentleman into the reception-room, went to her mistress to inform her that a caller was waiting below.
"Erastus Corbin," Mrs. Montague read, as she took the neat card from the salver, and her face lighted with sudden interest.
"Perhaps he has sold that property for me," she murmured. "I hope so, for I wish to turn all my real estate into money, if possible, before my marriage."
She made some slight change in her costume, for she never allowed herself to go into the presence of gentlemen without looking her best, and then hastened below.
She greeted the lawyer with great cordiality, and remarked, smilingly:
"I hope you have good news for me. Is that property sold yet?"
"I cannot say that it is sold, madame," Mr. Corbin returned; "but I have had an offer for it, which, if you see fit to accept, will settle the matter very shortly."
"Tell me about it," said the lady, eagerly.
Mr. Corbin made a statement from a memorandum which he drew from his pocket, upon the conclusion of which Mrs. Montague authorized him to sell immediately, saying that she wished to dispose of all her real estate, even if she had to sacrifice something in doing so, remarking that a bank account was far less trouble than such property; and, having discussed and decided some other points, the lawyer arose as if to take his leave.
"Pray do not hasten," Mrs. Montague smilingly remarked.
She happened to have no engagement for the evening, and, being alone, was glad of even the companionship of a prosy attorney.
"Thank you," Mr. Corbin politely returned; "but I have other matters on hand which ought to be attended to."
"Surely you do not work evenings as well as during the day?" Mrs.
Montague observed, with some surprise.
"Not always; but just now I seem to have some very knotty cases on hand—one, in particular, seems to baffle all my skill with its mystery. Indeed, it bids fair to develop quite a romance."
"Indeed! you pique my curiosity, and we women are dear lovers of romance in real life, you know," said the charming widow, with an arch smile. "Would it be betraying confidence to tell me a little about it?" she added, persuasively.
"Oh no; the matter is no secret, that I know of, and really you are so cozy here," with an appreciative glance about the attractive room as he resumed his seat, "I am tempted to stay and chat a while. I recently received a communication from an English lawyer who desired to turn a case over to me, as it related to American parties, and he had no time to come here to look them up. A man who was on his way home from Australia, was taken ill in London and died there; but before his death he made his will, leaving all his property to a niece, although he did not know whether she was living or not. All the information he could give regarding her was her name, with the date and place of her birth. In case she should not be living, her heirs are to inherit the money. I have made every effort to find her—have been to the place where she was born—but can get no trace of her—no one remembered such a person, and I could not even learn whether she had ever married. I am afraid that the case will prove to be a very complicated and vexatious one."
"I should think so," responded Mrs. Montague, who appeared to be deeply interested in the story. "What was the girl's name?"
"Mona Forester."
"Mona Forester!" repeated the woman, in a startled tone, and growing as white as her handkerchief. "I didn't know she had a relative in the world, except—"
She abruptly paused, for she had been thrown entirely off her guard, and had committed herself, just as the wily lawyer intended and suspected.
A flash of triumph gleamed in his eyes for an instant at the success of his ruse.
"Ah! did you ever know of such a person?" he demanded, eagerly, and with well-feigned surprise.
"I—I knew of—a girl by that name before I was married," Mrs. Montague reluctantly admitted, and beginning to recover her composure.
"Where did she reside?"
"She was born in Trenton, New Jersey, I believe," was the evasive reply.
"Yes, my papers so state—and she must be the same person," said Mr.
Corbin, in a tone of conviction. "But that is very meager information.
Was Trenton your home also?"
"No, I lived in New York until my marriage."
"Was Miss Forester ever married?"
"Yes."
"Ah! how fortunate that I happened to mention this circumstance to you this evening!" exclaimed the lawyer, with great apparent satisfaction, but ignoring the evident reluctance of his companion to give him information. "Perhaps you can give more particulars. Whom did the lady marry?"
"Don't ask me anything about her, Mr. Corbin," Mrs. Montague cried, excitedly, and with an angry gesture. "The girl ruined my life—she loved the man I loved and—I hated her accordingly."
"But surely you can have no objection to telling me what you know of her history," returned Mr. Corbin, with assumed surprise. "I have this case to settle, and I simply wish to find the woman or her heirs, in order to do my duty and carry out the instructions of the will. It would assist me greatly if you could tell me where I might find her," he concluded, in an appealing tone.
"She is dead—she died more than eighteen years ago."
"Ah! where did she die?"
"Abroad—in London."
"Did she leave any heirs?"
"She died in giving birth to her only child."
"Did the child live?"
"I—believe so."
"Was it a son or a daughter?"
"The latter."
"What became of her—where is she now?"
"I do not know—I do not care!" were the vicious words which burst from the woman's white lips, and Mr. Corbin saw that she was greatly excited, while everything that she had said thus far went to corroborate the statements Mona had made to him regarding her mother.
"But, my dear madame," Mr. Corbin said, soothingly, "while I do not like to trouble you, or recall painful memories, cannot you see that it is my duty to sift this matter and avail myself of whatever information I can get? If Miss Forester was married and had a child, that child, if living, is Homer Forester's heir, and I must find her. Now, if you know anything about these people that will assist me in my search, it becomes your duty to reveal it to me."
"I cannot; I do not know of anything that will assist you," sullenly returned Mrs. Montague, who was mentally reproaching herself in the most bitter manner for having allowed herself to be taken so unawares and to betray so much.
"Whom did the lady marry?" persisted Mr. Corbin.
"I will not tell you!" passionately exclaimed his companion. "Oh, why have I told you anything? Why did I acknowledge that I even knew Mona Forester? I should not have done so, but you surprised the truth from me, and I will tell you nothing more. I hated the girl, and though I have never seen her, I hate the child on her account, and I would not lift even a finger to help her in any way."
"Are you not unreasonably vindictive, Mrs. Montague?" mildly asked Mr.
Corbin.
"Unreasonable or not, I mean what I say, and Homer Forester's money may be scattered to the four winds of heaven for any effort that I will make for Mona Forester's child," was the dogged response.
"Do you not see that I must learn the truth?" the lawyer asked, with some sternness, "and though I am averse to using threats to a lady, if you will not tell me voluntarily I shall be obliged to use means to compel you to reveal what you know."
"Compel me!" repeated Mrs. Montague, confronting him with haughty mien.
"You cannot do that."
"But I can, Mrs. Montague," Mr. Corbin positively asserted. "Since you have acknowledged so much, and it is evident that you could reveal more, you can be compelled, by law, to do so under oath."
"You would not dare to adopt such stringent measures with me, after all the business that I have thrown into your hands," the woman said, sharply, but growing white about the mouth.
"My duty is just as obligatory to one client as to another. I am under as much obligation to carry out the conditions of Homer Forester's will as I am to be faithful to your interests," the lawyer replied, with inflexible integrity.
"Then you will no longer be faithful to me—you will transact no more business for me," Mrs. Montague asserted, with angry brow and compressed lips.
"Very well, if that is your decision I must submit to it," was the imperturbable response. "And now, madame, I ask you, once for all, to tell me the name of the man whom Mona Forester married?"
"I will not."
"Then let me tell you what conclusion I have drawn from what I have learned during this interview," said Mr. Corbin, as he leaned forward and looked straight into the woman's flashing eyes. "You have said you hated her because she ruined your life—because she loved the man you loved. You have refused to tell me the name of that man. You can have but one reason in thus withholding this information—that motive is fear; therefore, I infer that Mona Forester was the first wife of your husband—her child was your husband's daughter."
"Prove it, then!" cried his companion, with a scornful, though nervous, laugh. "Find the marriage certificate—find the witnesses who saw them married, the clergyman who performed the ceremony, the church register where their names are recorded, if you can."
"I believe they will be found in good time," confidently asserted Mr. Corbin, as he arose the second time to leave; "and, madame, if such proofs are found do you comprehend what the result will be? Not only will Mona Forester's child inherit the fortune left by Homer Forester, but also the bulk of your deceased husband's property."
"Never! for no one in this world can prove that Mona Forester was ever legally married, and—I defy you to do your worst," hoarsely cried Mrs. Montague, with lips that were almost livid, while she trembled visibly with mingled excitement, fear, and anger.
But the gentleman had no desire to discuss the matter further. He simply bade her a courteous good-evening, and then quietly left the house.
"It is the strangest affair that I ever had anything to do with," he muttered, as he walked briskly down the street. "The girl's story must be true, for it tallies exactly with the woman's admissions this evening. There must be proof somewhere, too. Can it be possible," he went on, with a start, "that they are in Mrs. Montague's hands? If so, she is liable to destroy them, and thus plunge my pretty little client into endless trouble. It is strange that her uncle, Dinsmore, could not have been more sensible and left some definite information regarding the child. But I am going to do my best for her, and though I never had quite so mysterious a case before, I believe the very obscurity which invests it only adds interest to it."
Mrs. Montague was in a terrible passion after her lawyer had left. She sprang to her feet and paced the floor from end to end, with angry steps, her face almost convulsed with malice and hatred.
"Can it be possible that I am going to have that battle to fight over again, after all these years?" she muttered; "that the child is going to rise up to avenge the wrongs of her mother? What if she does? Why need I fear her? I have held my own so far, and I will make a tough fight to do so in the future. Possession is said to be nine points in law and I shall hold on to my money like grim death. I never could—I never will give up these luxuries," she cried, sweeping a covetous glance around the exquisitely furnished room. "I plotted for them—I sold my soul for them and him, now they are mine—mine, and no one shall take them from me! Mona Forester, how I hated you!—how I hate your daughter, even though I have never seen her!—how I almost hate that girl up stairs for her strange resemblance to you. I would have sent her out of the house long ago for it, if she had not been so good and faithful a seamstress, and needful to me in many ways. She, herself, saw the resemblance to that picture—By the way," she interposed, with a start, "I wonder if she obeyed me about that crayon the other day! If she didn't—if she kept it I shall be tempted to believe—I'll find out, anyhow."
With a somewhat anxious look on her face, the woman hurried up stairs to her room.
Upon reaching it she rang an imperative peal upon her bell.
Mary presently made her appearance, and one quick glance told her that something had gone wrong with her mistress.
"Bring me a pitcher of ice-water," curtly commanded Mrs. Montague. "And,
Mary—"
"Yes, marm."
"Did Miss Richards give you a torn picture the other day?"
"Yes, marm," answered the girl, flushing, "she said you wanted it burned."
"Did you burn it?"
"N-o, marm, somehow I couldn't make up my mind to put it in the fire; it was such a pretty face, and so like Miss Richards, and I've been wanting a picture of her ever since she came here, only I thought maybe she'd resent it if I asked her for one; and so I pasted it together as well as I could, and tacked it up in my room," the girl explained, volubly, and concluded by meekly adding: "I hope there was no harm in it, marm."
"You may bring it to me," was all the reply that Mrs. Montague vouchsafed her attendant; and Mary, looking rather crestfallen, withdrew to obey the command.
"It is a shame to burn it," she muttered, as she took down the defaced picture, and slowly returned down stairs; "but I'm glad Miss Ruth gave it to me before she asked for it."
Mrs. Montague sprang up the moment the girl entered the room, and snatching the portrait from her hands, dashed it upon the bed of glowing coals in the grate.
"When I give an order I want it obeyed," she said, imperiously. "Now go and bring me the water."
Mary withdrew again, wondering what could have happened to make her mistress so out of sorts, and finally came to the conclusion that the lawyer must have brought her bad news.
"There! that is the last of that!" Mrs. Montague said, as she watched the flames curl about the beautiful face in the grate. "I'm glad the girl didn't keep the picture herself; I believe that all my previous suspicions would have been aroused if she had. It can't be that she is Mona's child, for she has always been so indifferent when I have questioned her. Possibly she may be a descendant of some other branch of the family, and does not know it. My only regret is that I did not try to see that other girl before Walter Dinsmore died; then I should have been sure. I wonder where she can be? And to think that Mona Forester should have had an uncle to turn up just at this time! I didn't suppose she had a relative in the world besides the child."
Her musings were cut short at this point by the return of Mary with the water. She poured out a glassful for her mistress, and then was told that she might go.
The lady set down the glass without even tasting its contents; then rising, went to the door and locked it, after which she walked to a small table which stood in a bay-window, and removed the marble top, carefully laying it upon the floor.
This act revealed instead of the usual skeleton stand where a marble top is used a polished table of solid cherry, with what appeared to be a lid in the top, and in which there was a small brass-bound key-hole.
Drawing a bunch of keys from her pocket, Mrs. Montague selected a tiny one from among the others, inserted it in the lock, and the next moment the lid in the table was lifted, thus revealing a secret compartment underneath.
This was filled with various things—paper boxes, packages of various forms and sizes, together with some documents and letters.
Drawing a chair before the table, the woman sat down and began to examine the letters.
There was an intensely bitter expression on her face—a frown on her brow, a sneer on her lips—which so disfigured it that scarcely any one would have recognized her as the brilliant and beautiful woman of the world who so charmed every one in society.
There were perhaps a dozen letters in the package which she took out of the table, and these, as she untied the ribbon that bound them together, and slipped them through her fingers, were all addressed in a delicate and beautiful style of penmanship.
She snatched one from the others, and passionately tore it across, envelope and all. Then she suddenly dropped them on her lap, a shiver running over her, her cheek paling with some inward emotion.
"Ugh! they give me a ghostly feeling! My flesh creeps! I feel almost as if Mona Forester herself were standing beside me, and had laid her dead hand upon me. I cannot look them over—I will tie them up again and burn them all at once," she muttered, in a hoarse tone.
She gathered them up, and hastily wound the ribbon about them, laying them upon the table beside her, then proceeded with her examination of the other contents of the secret compartment.