One Wonderful Night: A Romance of New York
Not often, even in comedy, has the mountain heaved and brought forth
such a ridiculous mouse. Curtis did actually laugh; even his
distraught companion tittered in sheer nervous reaction.
"Please tell him to wait, and not to worry about the fare," said
Curtis. "I suppose," he added, turning to Miss Grandison, "the man put
me down as a newcomer, and, taught by previous experience, thought it
best to warn me how the register mounts."
The effort to restore their rather strained relations to a sedate level
was well meant, but the girl's downcast eyes and tremulous lips
revealed a state of piteous uncertainty and confusion that was more
distressing to Curtis than anything which had gone before.
Nevertheless, reminding himself that precious time was being wasted, he
determined to seek a full explanation of circumstances which at present
savored of Bedlam.
"Now that the fears of the taxi-driver have been stilled," he said
cheerfully, "suppose you and I sit down and discuss matters like
sensible people. I am an American, Miss Grandison, and, although long
an exile from my own country, I appreciate the national characteristic
of plain speech. Let me explain that I am not married, that I have no
ties which prevent free action on my part, and that nothing on earth
will stop me from helping a woman who pins her faith to me. With that
preamble, as the lawyers say, I purpose taking off this heavy overcoat,
and listening in comfort to anything you may wish to tell. Or, if you
are afraid of being disturbed, what do you say if we go to some
restaurant, where, perhaps, we may eat, and, at any rate, talk without
fear of interference?"
"I think we had better remain here," said the girl sadly, though it was
plain that Curtis's offer of protection during the alarm created by the
hall-porter's errand had advanced him a long way in her esteem. "There
are only two persons living who dare pretend to exercise control over
my actions, and if they have arrived in New York this evening I have
good reason to believe that I cannot escape them."
"Are they coming here from Europe?" asked Curtis quickly, for his
active mind was already groping toward certain dimly defined
conclusions.
"Yes."
"Could they have been fellow-passengers of mine on the _Lusitania_?"
"No, they are on board the _Switzerland_."
He smiled, and discarded that fateful overcoat.
"Then set your mind at rest," he said, with the nonchalance of a man
who has shelved a major difficulty. "The _Switzerland_ has broken
down. We passed her early to-day. She is staggering into port with
engines partly disabled and she cannot possibly reach New York before
to-morrow morning."
"Are you quite sure?" came the eager demand.
"Well, there is nothing so uncertain as the sea but a young friend of
mine said that those facts were signaled by wireless, and, to some
extent, they governed his own movements. I myself can assure you that
the _Switzerland_ was limping along like a lame duck at 8 A.M. to-day."
"Ah, thank Heaven for that small mercy!" murmured the girl. For a few
seconds she busied herself with gloves, veil, and hat-pins, and Curtis
happened to glance at the overcoat, which he had placed over the back
of a chair. To his dismay, he noticed that one of the sleeves, the
left, was bespattered with blood, but he contrived to refold the
garment so as to conceal this grewsome record of a tragedy before his
hostess had divested herself of hat and gloves.
Then they seemed to survey each other with a new interest, for Curtis
was a good figure of a man in evening dress, and Hermione Grandison
became, if possible, more attractive to the male eye because of the
wealth of brown hair which crowned her smooth forehead, almost hid her
tiny ears, and clustered low at the back of her slender, well-shaped
neck. Where the rays of light caught the coiled tresses they had the
sheen of burnished gold. In the shadow they commingled those
voluptuous tints by which the magic of Rubens has immortalized one fair
woman, Isabella Brant, in every gallery of note throughout the world.
Hermione it was, now, who first broke the silence which had reigned in
the room for a minute or more. Seating herself on the opposite side of
a square table, and resting her elbows thereon, she propped her pretty
chin on her small, clenched fists, and gazed fearlessly at Curtis.
"You must think me a very extraordinary person," she began.
"Let that pass," said he, with a smile, wise in the knowledge that the
present was no hour for compliments.
"But I am, and I know it, not because I differ so greatly from other
girls of my own age, but owing to the misery which has been my portion.
The one man in the world who should wish to secure my happiness has
become my persecutor. I am here to-night because I have run away from
my father, and I have used every lawful means to get married--under
conditions framed by myself, of course--in order to escape from a
hateful marriage which he has planned."
She hesitated, for a reflective frown was deepening on Curtis's face.
"Now you recognize my name!" she cried. "Have you seen anything about
me in the newspapers?"
"You are Lady Hermione Grandison?" he said, meeting her watchful eyes
frankly.
"Yes."
"Daughter of the Earl of Valletort?"
"Yes."
"And about a month ago you were reported missing from some apartment in
the Rue de Rivoli, on the eve of your marriage with--with some
Hungarian prince?"
"Yes, Count Ladislas Vassilan."
"So you came here--with Monsieur Jean de Courtois?"
"I brought him here, and paid him for his services. I have no desire
to minimize his friendly aid, but I was buying the security of his name
as my husband, and he had given me his guarantee that, when it suited
my purposes, he would help me to dissolve the marriage."
Curtis disregarded a perceptible coldness in her tone. He was too busy
sweeping away the mists.
"What sort of guarantee?" he asked.
"His promise, his word of honor."
"Was he--a gentleman?"
"Not socially, but in every other sense. He was my music-master in
Paris."
Curtis put his next question hurriedly. He was anxious to avoid the
least suspicion on the girl's part that he might be crediting Jean de
Courtois with motives which would not pass muster before a jury of
cool-headed men so readily as they seemed to have satisfied an
impetuous and frightened girl.
"How did your father ascertain that you were in New York?" he said.
"Oh, it seems that a certain period of residence was necessary before a
marriage license could be obtained, and it was unavoidable that my name
should be found out by those whom he hired to track me."
"But why were you not married under an assumed name?"
"Monsieur de Courtois assured me that such a thing would render the
marriage invalid."
"He was wrong," said Curtis dryly. "It subjected you to some small
legal penalty, but you would be just as effectually married if you
called yourself Jane Smith."
"I really think you are mistaken. Monsieur de Courtois made the most
exhaustive inquiries."
"Were you not leaving the ceremony to the latest possible hour?" went
on Curtis, divided now between the fear of shocking her and the
paramount importance of learning the truth about the curiously
scrupulous Jean de Courtois.
"We were to have been married two days ago, but the license was stolen."
"So it is rather by accident than otherwise that Lord Valletort and
Count Vassilan, who, I take it, is with your father on board the
_Switzerland_, have not arrived in time to prevent the marriage--that
is, if they were able to prevent it?"
"No, I think not. Poor Monsieur de Courtois was here this afternoon,
and he was jubilant because we had plenty of time, provided we were
married this evening."
"Where was the ceremony to take place?"
"I--I don't know. I left everything in the hands of Monsieur de
Courtois."
A very real and active doubt of the Frenchman's good faith was
beginning to peep up in Curtis's mind. Rather to account for the
thoughtful lines on his forehead than for any reason connected with the
license, he took that document from the table, where it had lain since
he produced it, and affected to examine it judiciously. Therefore, he
was really surprised when he found an endorsement on the back which
read;--"Issued in duplicate. This license is not available if the
original has been used."
"Oh!" he said, and the monosyllable might mean much or little.
"What have you discovered there?" said the girl, rising and coming
nearer, to stoop over the table and scrutinize the paper with him.
"The original license certainly seems to have disappeared," said
Curtis, who had suddenly become aware that the propinquity of a
charming woman was one of the subtle joys of life.
"Ah me!" sighed Lady Hermione, straightening her supple form, and
turning slightly aside.
There was a little pause. Curtis, whose enunciation was usually
distinguished by its ease and clearness, found some slight difficulty
in resuming the conversation. He resolved firmly that, in future, he
would eschew liqueurs after champagne.
"I hate to act the role of inquisitor, Lady Hermione," he said, rather
huskily as to the first few words, "but would you mind telling me why
you are so opposed to Count Ladislas Vassilan as a husband?"
"First, because I do not want to marry any man; secondly, because Count
Vassilan is a vile person, both in appearance and repute; and thirdly,
because my father is only urging this match to serve his own ends. Our
unhappy history is so widely known that there is no harm in telling you
that my mother and he were separated during many years, and when mamma
died three years ago she left all her money to me, absolutely under my
control. I was young, only seventeen, but I managed to retain it,
though goodness only knows how, and this horrid Hungarian prince wants
it--to help him to regain a throne, he says--but I don't believe him."
"You could not be forced into matrimony," said Curtis, with a slow
gravity that was lost on his dejected hearer.
"You cannot have lived in France, or you would not say that," was the
bitter answer. "Everyone, everything, was opposed to me. I was a
minor, and one against many. The laws seemed to conspire with my
relatives to force me into the power of a beast. . . . Yes, it sounds
horrid on my lips, but the man is really a beast," and she stamped an
emphatic foot on the floor; Curtis could see the white circles over the
tiny knuckles as her hands clenched in protest. They were such pretty
hands, too. He had often smiled at the notion of a man kissing a
woman's hand, but it did not strike him now as a specially foolish act.
"Let us forget him," he agreed.
"But how can I forget him? He will be here to-morrow. Once my father
and he have found me, what am I to do? Die, I suppose! . . . I would
rather die than marry Count Vassilan, and again I would rather die than
figure in a vulgar brawl, such as the newspapers would take a delight
in. My father is well aware of that, and will play on my
weakness. . . . B-but--I may--be able--to defeat them--in another way."
Curtis stood up. The sound of her grief maddened him, and he threw
prudence to the winds.
"The first reason you gave was the most convincing one, so far as you
personally are concerned, Lady Hermione," he said, making the effort of
his life to speak calmly. "You said you did not want to marry any man."
"Y-yes, it is true. I d-don't."
"Still, there is only one way out of your trouble. You must marry
me--to-night."
The girl whirled round on him; her eyes were glistening with tears, but
her face was radiant.
"Do you really mean that?" she cried.
"I do."