Chapter XXVI: Mr. Merritt’s News

It was growing late in the afternoon when the train ran into the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Depot at Washington.

Harcourt had still two hours to wait before he could get a train for West Virginia.

He determined to utilize this time by calling at the chambers of Mr. Amos Merritt to ascertain from him the present address of Roma Fronde, the probabilities of her receiving again the child who had been stolen from her, or if the lady’s views were changed in regard to protecting the orphan, what had changed them.

He secured his tickets for Logwood, checked his valise, because he could not well carry it to the lawyer’s office, and then took the hand of Owlet and led her from the building.

“Now, then, where are you going to carry me right away?” inquired that practical young woman, who was so largely endowed with common sense, and had so exalted an appreciation of its value.

“I am going to Mr. Merritt’s office to inquire where Lady is at present. You remember Mr. Merritt?” inquired Harcourt as they walked on toward Louisiana Avenue, for it is needless to say Harcourt could not afford to hire a carriage, nor indeed was one needed for so short a distance.

“Well, I should smile! Haven’t I been talking to you about him? He is one of them old gentlemen Lady will have to marry if you don’t marry her.”

“My dear child, do not talk that way,” said Harcourt.

“Isn’t Lady at Goblin Hall?”

“I am not sure that she is there now. She may be at the Isle of Storms, or she may be here in this very city.”

“Oh, if I thought that!” joyfully exclaimed Owlet.

“Well, you see, it is better to inquire and make sure of where she is before we do anything else.”

“Oh, yes. And Mr. Merritt will be certain to know all about Lady.”

“Here we are. This is the place where the old lawyer hangs out.”

Owlet looked all the way up the front of the house, and then turned great round eyes of inquiry to Harcourt’s face.

“Oh, I don’t mean himself, but his sign. There it is—‘Amos Merritt, Attorney-at-Law.’”

“Oh, yes,” said the child, as her companion led her into the house and up the stairs to the second floor, where Mr. Merritt’s chambers were situated.

He opened a door on the right, that led into a large front room, where a young clerk sat writing at a desk. There was no one else in this outer office.

“Is Mr. Merritt in?” inquired Harcourt, going up to the desk.

“In his private office, yes, sir,” the clerk replied.

“Will you take my card to him and say that I would be pleased to see him?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered, and he took the bit of pasteboard and carried it into the back room.

In a few minutes he returned and said:

“Mr. Merritt will see you, sir.”

“Now, my dear little girl, will you mind sitting here for a few minutes, while I go in first to speak to Mr. Merritt alone?” Harcourt inquired of the child.

“Well, n—no,” said Owlet reluctantly, “not if you want me to do it. But you know Mr. Merritt is a very good friend of mine.”

“Yes, I know, and you shall come in and speak to him presently.”

“All right; go along. I will sit away off here by the window and look out on the street. I don’t want to hear your secrets,” said Owlet, with a ludicrous burlesque of childish dignity.

At a happier time Harcourt might have smiled at the little airs of the child, but now he only laid his hand kindly on her head, and then saying, “I will not be gone long,” passed into the inner room.

Lawyer Merritt had risen to receive his unexpected visitor, and now stood facing the door, drawn up to his utmost height, with a very severe expression of countenance, and without a word of welcome on his lips.

Young Harcourt felt chilled and discouraged by such a want of welcome, and hastened to say, deprecatingly:

“Mr. Merritt, I should, perhaps, apologize for this intrusion, but I have come here on business in which I think one of your fair clients is interested.”

“Then take a seat, sir, and be good enough to let me know the precise nature of the business which has procured me the unlooked for honor of this call,” said the lawyer frigidly.

“Thank you, I will not sit,” said Harcourt, flushing deeply. “What I have to say may be said in a very few minutes.”

The lawyer bowed, and stood waiting, with one hand resting upon his desk.

“You received a telegram yesterday announcing the discovery of a child lost in the streets of New York, and ascertained to have been stolen from the custody of her guardian, Miss Fronde, at Goblin Hall?”

“I did receive such a telegram, sir, and answered it. May I inquire what you have to do with the matter?”

“Certainly. It was I who found the child, and through the intervention of a good woman, full of tact and delicacy, learned as much of the little one’s story as could be drawn from a creature of her tender years. I learned, in short, that the little Owlet was an orphan who had been adopted by Miss Fronde, between whom and herself there seemed to have been a strong bond of affection.”

“Well, sir,” said the lawyer in the same icy tone.

“It was I who wired you of the discovery of the lost child.”

“Under a false name, then,” said the lawyer scornfully.

“Not exactly, but under my own first name,” said Harcourt patiently.

“Well, sir, I answered your telegram in sufficiently clear terms, I think.”

“Yes; but—pray pardon me—your answer came in a few hours after my dispatch. Did you really have time to communicate with Miss Fronde on the subject before answering my telegram?”

“No. I relied upon my own responsibility as her solicitor, with perfect knowledge of her relations to the adopted child, as well as of all her other business, and I considered my course in the matter conclusive.”

“Yes,” said the young man, still very forbearingly, “and that would have settled the question as to what should be done with the forsaken orphan, and I should myself have taken care of her, had not a message come summoning me immediately to the sick bed of my dear mother, to whom I am even now en route, only waiting for the train that will start in less than two hours for West Virginia.”

“I am sorry to hear that Mrs. Harcourt is ill,” said the lawyer, softened a little by the sorrow and patience of his young visitor.

“Thank you, sir. Under such circumstances I really did not know what to do with the forlorn child, except to bring her along with me.”

“And you have really brought her here?” demanded the lawyer in surprise.

“I could not do otherwise. The little creature was and is, wild to return to her benefactress. I thought possibly, under the circumstances, that Miss Fronde might reconsider her resolution to have nothing further to do with the child, and reflect that the orphan’s abduction was her great misfortune rather than her fault.”

“You are mistaken. Miss Fronde formed no such determination. If you recall the terms of my telegram, you will find that I merely said that Miss Fronde could not interfere in the case of the child. And, in fact, sir, she had no right to do so.”

“No right? May I be permitted to ask why she had no right?” Harcourt inquired.

The lawyer dismissed the question with a wave of his hand and said:

“I am by no means sure, however, that since the little one has been lost, and found again, Miss Fronde may not be willing, and even well pleased, to receive her back again. She was certainly very fond of little Owlet. However, that can be easily ascertained, as Miss Fronde is now in Washington.”

“In Washington!” echoed Harcourt, as his heart bounded and sank at the thought that his loved and lost Roma was now so close within his reach, yet so unapproachable—forever unapproachable by him.

“Yes. She arrived here by the late train from the West last night. She was on her way when I answered your telegram, which was the reason why I could not communicate with her. She is en route for the Isle of Storms, which she is turning into a sanitorium for destitute invalids and children. She leaves to-morrow by the early boat for the Isle. So, if you feel inclined to try the experiment, you had better take the child to her this evening. You will find her at her old quarters, the Wesleyan Flats, in the northwestern suburbs of the city.”

Harcourt had not been able to put in a word until now.

“Ah!” he sighed, “I have not time. My train leaves at seven, and it is now after six. I dare not miss a train while my mother lies at the point of death. No—nor to tell the bitter truth—dare I present myself to Miss Fronde.”

The lawyer suddenly looked grave and stern again.

Harcourt perceived his change of mood, and said, with a sigh:

“I feel and know in what a dark aspect I must appear to you, Mr. Merritt, but wait only for a few days longer and you will know and understand all.”

“Mystery is humbug, sir,” said the lawyer roughly.

“It is more than that, in some cases, Mr. Merritt—it is guilt, remorse and shame,” said the young man, in a tone of such deep despair that the old lawyer was startled. “But let that pass for the moment,” he added. “This child—does Miss Fronde know that she has been found?”

“No. I only saw her last night, when I met her by appointment, at the depot, and took her to the Wesleyan. I would not trouble her then with news that might have broken her night’s rest. For reasons that it is not necessary to go into now she thought Owlet was in proper hands, and was, in a measure, at ease on her account. If, however, I had told her that the child had been lost and found in the city of New York she would have been very much distressed, especially as she could not have then interfered; but since the child is here again, and without her agency, she may receive her; and I am inclined to think she will do so. I have not seen Miss Fronde to-day, but I have an engagement to dine with her at the Flats this evening at half-past seven.”

“Then, Mr. Merritt, as it is impossible for me to approach Miss Fronde, and be the happy medium of restoring the lost one, will it be too much for me to ask of you to do this gracious service to the orphan and her benefactress?” Harcourt pleaded.

“Of course I will take the child to Miss Fronde. Where is she?” inquired the lawyer, looking around as if he expected to find her perched upon some chair.

“In the front room. I will go and bring her in, if you will permit me.”

“Certainly. Go, and bring her.”

Harcourt passed into the front room, where he found the child yawning in a deep leather armchair, in which her little figure was nearly lost.

“Well, you have been a time! I have almost gaped the top of my head off!” said Owlet reproachfully, as soon as she saw him.

“I’m sorry. But come, my dear. Mr. Merritt wants to see you, and take you right away to your Lady,” said Harcourt.

“Oh, where is she? Where is she?” exclaimed Owlet, jumping off the chair in great excitement.

“Not far off. She is back here in the city, and in that same house where you first met her. You will see her in time to take tea with her,” he replied as he led the delighted child into the presence of the lawyer.

“Hello, Miss Catherine! Is that you? You have had adventures since I saw you last. You will have to write your travels, I am thinking. Where did you come from last?” gayly demanded Mr. Merritt, holding out his hand to the child.

She rushed upon it, seized it, looked up into his face, and exclaimed:

“Oh! are you going to take me to Lady—right away—this very, very minute?”

“Just as soon as I can wash my face, change my coat and put on my hat,” said Amos Merritt, smiling at the impetuosity of the child.

“Well, then, please—oh, please! be very, very quick! And I know you will be, for you always was possessed of common sense!” exclaimed the child, with her formula of highest praise.

“Oh, thank you! I feel as if I were invested with the Order of the Garter,” said the lawyer as he left the office to retire into the little dressing-room where he kept his best coat, clean collars, combs and brushes, etc.

He spent but a few moments over his toilet, and came out dressed for dinner.

“Come, now; I am ready,” he said.

“Good-by, dear little Owlet,” said Harcourt, stooping to kiss the child.

“Oh!—but ain’t you going with us to see Lady?” inquired the little one, with a look of surprise and disappointment.

“No, dear child, I cannot do so,” sadly replied the young man.

“Oh! but indeed, indeed, you must! you must! you must!” she insisted.

“Listen to me, little one. My dear old mother is sick in bed. I did not tell you so before, because I did not wish to trouble you, but I tell you so now so that you may know why I must hurry away to see her,” said Harcourt, looking down into the earnest face of the child, whose brown eyes were lifted to his, full of sympathy.

“Oh, I am so sorry—so very sorry! I hope she will get well soon, and then you can come to see Lady and me,” she said.

“I should be very happy to do so, dear. Now you will let me go? Good-by, dear,” he said, stooping again to kiss her, and saying to himself:

“This is another final parting. Even this child I shall never see after this day.”

Mr. Merritt was drawing on his gloves, and kindliness getting the better of his sternness for a moment, he said:

“Oh, don’t take leave of her here. Come along with us. Our course goes the same way as far as the avenue, where we take the up car, and you the down one.”

“Yes; come as far with us as you can,” pleaded Owlet, clinging to his hand.

“Willingly, my dear,” said the young man.

The three left the room together, Harcourt leading the little girl.

In the outer office Mr. Merritt stopped a moment to speak to his clerk.

“I shall not return here again, Lloyd. Lock up at the usual hour.”

Then they went downstairs and left the house.

On their way down Four and One-half Street to Pennsylvania Avenue, Owlet chattered to her friend:

“I do thank you ever so much for being so good to me. I shall be sure to tell Lady all about you, and she will thank you, too, oh! ever so much! And so will Ducky Darling, though she can’t say much, poor little thing. She is so little, and so ignorant, you know. And, oh! I hope your dear mother will soon get well, and you will come to see me and Lady. And you will fetch her, too, won’t you? I shall tell Lady to write and ask her to come with you,” she said.

They were very near the avenue, and they saw an uptown car coming toward the crossing.

Mr. Merritt raised his stick and his voice to hail and stop it. Then he took a hurried leave of the young man, seized the child, and put her on the car while she was still saying to her friend:

“Oh! good-by! good-by! good-by! I am so sorry you are not going with us!”

He raised his hat and smiled as the car ran away with them.

Then he turned his steps in the opposite direction and walked hurriedly to the railway station, arriving there just in time to catch his train.