Children of the Whirlwind [67]
and who suddenly cancelled his lease and moved away."
The Duchess drew nearer to the heart of her thoughts.
"Was the baby a boy or girl, Joe?"
"Girl."
The Duchess did not so much as blink. "How old would she be by this time?"
"Eighteen."
"What was her name?"
"Mary--after her mother. But of course I ordered it to be changed. I don't know what her name is now."
The Duchess pressed closer.
"What became of her, Joe?"
A glow began to come into the somber eyes of Joe Ellison. "I told you her mother was a fine woman, and she never knew anything bad about me. I wanted my girl to grow up like her mother. I wanted her to have as good a chance as any of those nice girls over in Jersey--I wanted her never to know any of the lot I've known--I wanted her never to have the stain of knowing her father was a crook--I wanted her never to know even who her father was."
"How did you manage it?"
"Her mother had left a little fortune, about twenty-five thousand-- twelve or fifteen hundred a year. I turned the money and the girl over to my best pal--and the squarest pal a man ever had--the only one I'd let know about my Jersey life. I told him what to do. She was an awfully bright little thing; at a year and a half, when I saw her last, she was already talking. She was to be brought up among nice, simple people--go to a good school--grow up to be a nice, simple girl. And especially never to know anything about me. She was to believe herself an orphan. And my pal did just as I ordered. He wrote me how she was getting on till about four years ago, then I had news that he was dead and that the trust fund had been transferred to a firm of lawyers, though I wasn't given the name of the lawyers. That doesn't make any difference since she's getting the money just the same.
"What was your pal's name, Joe?"
"Jimmie Carlisle."
The Duchess had been certain what this name would be, but nevertheless she could not repress a start.
"What's the matter?" Joe asked sharply. "Did you know him?"
"Not in those days," said the Duchess, recovering her even tone. "Though I got to know him later. By the way," she added casually, "did Jimmie Carlisle have any children of his own?"
"Not before I went away. He wasn't even married."
There was now no slightest doubt left in the Duchess's mind. Maggie was really Joe Ellison's daughter.
Joe Ellison went on, the glow of his sunken eyes becoming yet more exalted. He was almost voicing his thoughts to himself alone, for his friendship with the Duchess was so old that her presence was no inhibition. His low words were almost identical in substance with what Larry had told--a summary of what had come to be his one great hope and dream, the nearest thing he had to a religion.
"Somewhere, in a nice place, my girl is now growing up like her mother. Clean of everything I was and I knew. She must be practically a woman now. I don't know where she is--there's now no way for me to learn. And I don't want to know. And I don't want her ever to know about me. I don't ever want to be the cause of making her feel disgraced, or of dragging her down from among the people where she belongs."
The Duchess gave no visible sign of emotion, but her ancient heart- strings were set vibrating by that tense, low-pitched voice. She had a momentary impulse to tell him the truth. But just then the Duchess was a confusion of many conflicting impulses, and the balance of their strength was for the moment against telling. So she said nothing.
Their talk drifted back to commonplaces, and presently Joe Ellison went away. The Duchess sat motionless at her desk, again thinking-- thinking--thinking; and when Joe Ellison was back in his gardener's cottage at Cedar Crest and was happily asleep, she still sat where he had left her. During her generations of looking upon life from the inside, she had seen the truth of many strange situations of which the world had learned only the wildest rumors or the most respectable versions; but during the long night hours, perhaps because the affair touched her
The Duchess drew nearer to the heart of her thoughts.
"Was the baby a boy or girl, Joe?"
"Girl."
The Duchess did not so much as blink. "How old would she be by this time?"
"Eighteen."
"What was her name?"
"Mary--after her mother. But of course I ordered it to be changed. I don't know what her name is now."
The Duchess pressed closer.
"What became of her, Joe?"
A glow began to come into the somber eyes of Joe Ellison. "I told you her mother was a fine woman, and she never knew anything bad about me. I wanted my girl to grow up like her mother. I wanted her to have as good a chance as any of those nice girls over in Jersey--I wanted her never to know any of the lot I've known--I wanted her never to have the stain of knowing her father was a crook--I wanted her never to know even who her father was."
"How did you manage it?"
"Her mother had left a little fortune, about twenty-five thousand-- twelve or fifteen hundred a year. I turned the money and the girl over to my best pal--and the squarest pal a man ever had--the only one I'd let know about my Jersey life. I told him what to do. She was an awfully bright little thing; at a year and a half, when I saw her last, she was already talking. She was to be brought up among nice, simple people--go to a good school--grow up to be a nice, simple girl. And especially never to know anything about me. She was to believe herself an orphan. And my pal did just as I ordered. He wrote me how she was getting on till about four years ago, then I had news that he was dead and that the trust fund had been transferred to a firm of lawyers, though I wasn't given the name of the lawyers. That doesn't make any difference since she's getting the money just the same.
"What was your pal's name, Joe?"
"Jimmie Carlisle."
The Duchess had been certain what this name would be, but nevertheless she could not repress a start.
"What's the matter?" Joe asked sharply. "Did you know him?"
"Not in those days," said the Duchess, recovering her even tone. "Though I got to know him later. By the way," she added casually, "did Jimmie Carlisle have any children of his own?"
"Not before I went away. He wasn't even married."
There was now no slightest doubt left in the Duchess's mind. Maggie was really Joe Ellison's daughter.
Joe Ellison went on, the glow of his sunken eyes becoming yet more exalted. He was almost voicing his thoughts to himself alone, for his friendship with the Duchess was so old that her presence was no inhibition. His low words were almost identical in substance with what Larry had told--a summary of what had come to be his one great hope and dream, the nearest thing he had to a religion.
"Somewhere, in a nice place, my girl is now growing up like her mother. Clean of everything I was and I knew. She must be practically a woman now. I don't know where she is--there's now no way for me to learn. And I don't want to know. And I don't want her ever to know about me. I don't ever want to be the cause of making her feel disgraced, or of dragging her down from among the people where she belongs."
The Duchess gave no visible sign of emotion, but her ancient heart- strings were set vibrating by that tense, low-pitched voice. She had a momentary impulse to tell him the truth. But just then the Duchess was a confusion of many conflicting impulses, and the balance of their strength was for the moment against telling. So she said nothing.
Their talk drifted back to commonplaces, and presently Joe Ellison went away. The Duchess sat motionless at her desk, again thinking-- thinking--thinking; and when Joe Ellison was back in his gardener's cottage at Cedar Crest and was happily asleep, she still sat where he had left her. During her generations of looking upon life from the inside, she had seen the truth of many strange situations of which the world had learned only the wildest rumors or the most respectable versions; but during the long night hours, perhaps because the affair touched her