“Why should I let the poor man suffer when I can relieve him?” she asked herself.

 

So the next morning, after Curtis had, according to his custom, gone downtown, being in the invalid²’s sick chamber³, she began to act in a mysterious manner. She tiptoed to the door, closed it and approached Mr. Linden’s bedside with the air of one about to unfold a strange story.

 

“Whist now,” she said, with her finger on her lips.

 

“What is the matter?” asked the invalid, rather alarmed.

 

“Can you bear a surprise, sir?”

 

“Have you any bad news for me?”

 

“No; it’s good news, but you must promise not to tell Curtis.”

 

“Is it about Florence? Your messenger can hardly have reached Chicago.”

 

“He isn’t going there, sir.”

 

“But you promised that he should,” said Mr. Linden, disturbed.

 

“I’ll tell you why, sir. Florence is not in Chicago.”

 

“I—I don’t understand. You said she was there.”

 

“Begging your pardon, sir, it was Curtis that said so, though he knew she was in New York.”

 

“But what motive⁴ could he have had for thus misrepresenting matters?”

 

“He doesn’t want you to take her back.”

 

“I can’t believe you, Mrs. Barnes. He loves her, and wants to marry her.”

 

“He couldn’t marry her if she consented to take him.”

 

“Why not? Mrs. Barnes, you confuse me.”

 

“I won’t deceive you as he has done. There’s rason in plinty. He’s married already.”

 

“Is this true?” demanded Mr. Linden, in excitement.

 

“It’s true enough; more by token, to-morrow, whin he’s out, his wife will come here and tell you so herself.”

分享到：