The Holladay Case Part 31
He had got down another book, and was running his finger rapidly down the page--his finger all a-tremble with excitement. Suddenly, he stopped with a little cry of triumph.
"Here it is, messieurs! I knew I could not be mistaken! See!"
Under the date of June 10, 1876, was an entry of which this is the English:
"Holladay, Hiram W., and Elizabeth, his wife, of the city of New York, United States of America; from Celeste Alix, widow of Auguste Alix, her daughter Celeste, aged five months. All claim surrendered in consideration of the payment of 25,000 francs."
Mr. Royce caught up the book and glanced at the back. It was the "Record of Adoptions."
CHAPTER XVIII
The Veil is Lifted
In a moment we were hurrying along the street, in the direction the notary had pointed out to us. Martigny was already out of sight, and we had need of haste. My head was in a whirl. So Frances Holladay was not really the daughter of the dead millionaire! The thought compelled a complete readjustment of my point of view. Of course, she was legally his daughter; equally of course, this new development could make no difference in my companion's feeling for her. Nothing, then, was really changed. She must go back with us; she must take up the old life----But I had no time to reason it all out.
We had reached the beach again, and we turned along it in the direction of the cliffs. Far ahead, I saw a man hurrying in the same direction--I could guess at what agony and danger to himself. The path began to ascend, and we panted up it to the gra.s.sy down, which seemed to stretch for miles and miles to the northward. Right before us was a little wood, in the midst of which I caught a glimpse of a farmhouse.
We ran toward it, through a gate, and up the path to the door. It was closed, but we heard from within a man's excited voice--a resonant voice which I knew well. I tried the door; it yielded, and we stepped into the hall. The voice came from the room at the right. It was no time for hesitation--we sprang to the door and entered.
Martigny was standing in the middle of the floor, fairly foaming at the mouth, shrieking out commands and imprecations at two women who cowered in the farther corner. The elder one I knew at a glance--the younger--my heart leaped as I looked at her--was it Miss Holladay? No, yet strangely like.
He saw their startled eyes turn past him to us, and swung sharply round. For an instant he stood poised like a serpent about to strike, then I saw his eyes fix in a frightful stare, his face turned livid, and with a strangled cry, he fell back and down. Together we lifted him to the low window-seat, pursuers and pursued alike, loosened his collar, chafed his hands, bathed his temples, did everything we could think of doing; but he lay there staring at the ceiling with clenched teeth. At last Royce bent and laid his ear against his breast. Then he arose and turned gently to the women.
"It is no use," he said. "He is dead."
I looked to see them wince under the blow; but they did not. The younger woman went slowly to the window and stood there sobbing quietly; the other's face lit up with a positive blaze of joy.
"So," she exclaimed, in that low, vibrant voice I so well remembered, "so he is dead! That treacherous, cruel heart has burst at last!"
Royce gazed at her a moment in astonishment. She looked not at him, but at the dead man on the window-seat, her hands clasping and unclasping.
"Madame Alix," he said, at last, "you know our errand--we must carry it out."
She bowed her head.
"I know it, monsieur," she answered. "But for him, there would have been no such errand. As it is, I will help you all I can. Cecile," she called to the woman at the window, "go and bring your sister to these gentlemen."
The younger woman dried her eyes and left the room. We waited in tense silence, our eyes on the door. We heard the sound of footsteps on the stair; a moment, and she was on the threshold.
She came in slowly, listlessly--it gave me a shock to see the pallor of her face. Then she glanced up and saw Royce standing there; she drew in her breath with a quick gasp, a great wave of color swept over her cheeks and brow, a great light sprang into her eyes.
"Oh, John!" she cried, and swayed toward him.
He had her in his arms, against his heart, and the glad tears sprang to my eyes as I looked at them. I glanced at the elder woman, and saw that her eyes were shining and her lips quivering.
"And I have come to take you away, my love," he was saying.
"Oh, yes; take me away," she sobbed, "before the other comes."
She stopped, her eyes on the window-seat, where "the other" lay, and the color died out of her cheeks again.
"He, at least, has paid the penalty," said Royce. "He can trouble you no more, my love."
She was sobbing helplessly upon his shoulder, but as the moments pa.s.sed she grew more calm, and at last stood upright from him. The younger woman had come back into the room, and was watching her curiously, with no trace of emotion.
"Come, let us go," said the girl. "We must take the first boat home."
But Royce held back.
"There has been a crime committed," he said slowly. "We must see that it is punished."
"A crime? Oh, yes; but I forgive them, dear."
"The crime against yourself you may forgive; but there was another crime--murder----"
"There was no murder!" burst in Cecile Alix. "I swear it to you, monsieur. Do you understand? There was no murder!"
I saw Miss Holladay wince at the other's voice, and Royce saw it, too.
"I must get her to the inn," he said. "This is more than she can bear--I fear she will break down utterly. Do you stay and get the story, Lester. Then we'll decide what it is best to do."
He led her away, out of the house and down the path, not once looking back. I watched them till the trees hid them, and then turned to the women.
"Now," I said, "I shall be happy to hear the story."
"It was that man yonder who was the cause of it all," began the mother, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to keep them still.
"Four years ago he came from Paris here to spend the summer--he was ver' ill--his heart. We had been living happily, my daughter and I, but for the one anxiety of her not marrying. He met her and proposed marriage. He was ver' good--he asked no dowry, and, besides, my daughter was twenty-five years old--past her first youth. But she attracted him, and they were married. He took her back to Paris, where he had a little theater, a hall of the dance--but he grew worse again, and came back here. It was then that he found out that I had another daughter, whom I had given to a rich American. I was ver' poor, monsieur," she added piteously. "My man had died--"
"Yes, madame, I know," I said, touched by her emotion. Plainly she was telling the truth.
"So he wrote to friends in Amerique, and made questions about Monsieur Holladay. He learned--oh, he learned that he was ver' rich--what you call a man of millions--and that his daughter--my daughter, monsieur--was living still. From that moment, he was like a man possessed. At once he formed his plan, building I know not what hopes upon it. He drilled us for two years in speaking the English; he took us for six months to Londres that we might better learn. Day after day we took our lessons there--always and always English. Cecile learned ver' well, monsieur; but I not so well, as you can see--I was too old. Then, at last we reached New York, and my daughter--this one--was sent to see Monsieur Holladay, while I was directed that I write to Celeste--to Mademoiselle Holladay. She came that ver'
afternoon," she continued, "and I told her that it was I who was her mother. He was with me, and displayed to her the papers of adoption.
She could not but be convinced. He talked to her as an angel--oh, he could seem one when he chose!--he told her that I was in poverty--he made her to weep, which was what he desired. She promised to bring us money; she was ver' good; my heart went out to her. Then, just as she had arisen to start homeward, in Celeste came, crying, sobbing, stained with blood."
She shuddered and clasped her hands before her eyes.
"But you have said it was not murder, madame," I said to the younger woman.
"Nor was it!" she cried. "Let me tell you, monsieur. I reached the great building, which my husband had already pointed out to me; I went up in the lift; I entered the office, but saw no one. I went on through an open door and saw an old man sitting at a desk. I inquired if Mr. Holladay was there. The old man glanced at me and bowed toward another door. I saw it was a private office and entered it. The door swung shut behind me. There was another old man sitting at a desk, sharpening a pencil."
"'Is it you, Frances?' he asked.
"'No,' I said, stepping before him. 'It is her sister, Monsieur Holladay!'