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<h3>Chapter XXIII</h3> Michael, as he went about on his search kept crying over and over again in his heart: “Oh, God! Do something to save her! Do something to save my little Starr!” Over and over the prayer prayed itself without seeming thought or volition on his part, as he went from place to place, faithfully, keenly, step by step, searching out what he needed to know. At last toward six o’clock, his chain of evidence led him to the door of Stuyvesant Carter’s apartments. After some delay the door was opened reluctantly a little way by a servant with an immobile mask of a face who stared at him stupidly, but finally admitted that the three men whose names he mentioned were inside. He also said that Mr. Carter was in, but could not be seen. He closed the door on the visitor and went inside again to see if any of the others would come out. There ensued an altercation in loud and somewhat unsteady tones, and at last the door opened again and a fast looking young man who admitted himself to be Theodore Brooks slid out and closed it carefully behind him. The air that came with him was thick with tobacco smoke and heavy with liquor, and the one glimpse Michael got of the room showed a strange radiance of some peculiar light that glowed into the dusky hall weirdly. The heavy-eyed youth who stood braced against the wall uncertainly looked into Michael’s face with an impudent laugh. “Well, parson, what’s the grouch? Are you the devil or an angel sent to bring retribution?” He ended with a silly laugh that told the experienced ear of the young lawyer that the young man had been drinking heavily. And this was the man whose name was signed as Rev. Theodore Brooks, D.D., on the tawdry little marriage certificate that Michael held in his hand. His heart sank at the futility of the task before him. “Are you a minister?” asked Michael briefly. “Am I a minister?” drawled young Brooks. “M-my-m-m-mnster! Well now that get’s my goat! Say, boys, he wants t’ kno’ ’f I’m a m-min’ster! Min-ster of what? Min-ster plen-p’ten’sherry?” “Did you ever perform a marriage?” asked Michael sharply to stop the loud guffaw that was re-echoing through the polished corridors of the apartment. “P’form a m’riage, d’ye say? No, but I’m goin’ perform ’t a marriage tonight ’f the dead wakes up in time. Goin’ t’ be bes’ man. Say, boys! Got ’im ’wake yet? Gettin’ late!” Michael in despair took hold of the other’s arm and tried to explain what he wanted to know. Finally he succeeded in bringing the matter into the fellow’s comprehension. “Wedding, oh, yes, I ’member, peach of a girl! Stuyvy awfully fond of her. No harm meant. Good joke! Yes,—I borr’wed Grand’F’ther Brooks’s old gown’n ban’s. Awf’lly good disguise! No harm meant—on’y good joke—girl awf’lly set on getting married. Stuyvy wanted t’ please ’er—awfully good, joke—!” “A ghastly joke, I should say, sir!” said Michael sternly and then the door was flung open by hands from inside, loud angry voices protesting while another hand sought unavailingly to close the door again, but Michael came and planted himself in the open door and stood like an avenging angel come to call to judgment. The scene that was revealed to him was too horrifying for words. A long banquet table stood in the midst of the handsome room whose furnishings were of the costliest. Amid the scattered remains of the feast, napkins lying under the table, upset glasses still dripping their ruby contents down the damask of the tablecloth, broken china, scattered plates and silver, stood a handsome silver bound coffin, within which, pallid and deathlike, lay the handsome form of the bridegroom of the evening. All about the casket in high sconces burned tall tapers casting their spectral light over the scene. Distributed about the room lounging in chairs, fast asleep on the couches, lying under the table, fighting by the doorway, one standing on a velvet chair raising an unsteady glass of wine and making a flabby attempt at a drinking song, were ten young men, the flower of society, the expected ushers of the evening’s wedding. Michael with his white face, his golden hair aflame in the flickering candle light, his eyes full of shocked indignation, stood for a moment surveying the scene, and all at once he knew that his prayer was answered. There would be no wedding that night. “Is this another of your ghastly jokes?” he turned to Brooks who stood by as master of ceremonies, not in the least disturbed by the presence of the stranger. “That’s just what it is,” stuttered Brooks, “a j-j-joke, a p-p-p-pract’cal joke. No harm meant, only Stuyvy’s hard to wake up. Never did like gettin’ up in the mornin’. Wake ’im up boys! Wake ’im up! Time to get dressed for the wedding!” “Has anyone sent word to Miss Endicott?” “Sent word to Mish Endicott? No, I’d ’no’s they have. Think she’d care to come? Say, boys, that’s a good joke. This old fellow—don’t know who he is—devil’n all his angels p’raps—he s’gests we send word to Mish Endicott t’ come’ th’ fun’ral—” “I said nothing of the kind,” said Michael fiercely. “Have you no sense of decency? Go and wash your face and try to realize what you have been doing. Have some one telephone for a doctor. I will go and tell the family,” and Michael strode out of the room to perform the hardest task that had ever yet fallen to his lot. He did not wait for the elevator but ran down the flights of stairs trying to steady his thoughts and realize the horror through which he had just passed. As he started down the last flight he heard the elevator door clang below, and as it shot past him he caught a glimpse of white garments and a face with eyes that he knew. He stopped short and looked upward. Was it—could it be? But no, of course not. He was foolish. He turned and compelled his feet to hurry down the rest of the stairs, but at the door his worst fears were confirmed, for there stood the great electric car, and the familiar face of the Endicott chauffeur assured him that some one of the family had just gone to the ghastly spectacle upstairs. In sudden panic he turned and fled up the stairs. He could not wait for elevators now. He fain would have had wings, the wings of a protecting angel, that he might reach her ere she saw that sight of horror. Yet even as he started he knew that he must be too late. Starr stopped startled in the open doorway, with Morton, protesting, apprehensive, just behind her. The soft cloak slid away from her down the satin of her gown, and left her revealed in all her wedding whiteness, her eyes like stars, her beautiful face flushed excitedly. Then the eyes rested on the coffin and its death-like occupant and her face went white as her dress, while a great horror grew in her eyes. Brooks, more nearly sober than the rest, saw her first, and hastened to do the honors. “Say, boys, she’s come,” he shouted. “Bride’s come. Git up, Bobby Trascom. Don’t yer know ye mustn’t lie down, when there’s a lady present—Van—get out from under that table. Help me pick up these things. Place all in a mess. Glad to see you, Mish Endicott—” He bowed low and staggered as he recovered himself. Starr turned her white face toward him: “Mr. Brooks,” she said in a tone that sobered him somewhat, “what does it mean? Is he dead?” “Not at all, not at all, Mish Endicott,” he tried to say gravely. “Have him all right in plenty time. Just a little joke, Mish Endicott. He’s merely shlightly intoxicated—” But Starr heard no more. With a little stifled cry and a groping motion of her white-clad arms, she crumpled into a white heap at the feet of her horrified nurse. It was just as she fell that Michael appeared at the door, like the rescuing angel that he was, and with one withering glance at the huddled group of men he gathered her in his arms and sped down the stairs, faithful Morton puffing after him. Neither of them noticed a man who got out of the elevator just before Starr fell and walking rapidly toward the open door saw the whole action. In a moment more Mr. Endicott stood in the door surveying the scene before him with stern, wrathful countenance. Like a dash of cold water his appearance brought several of the participants in the disgraceful scene to their senses. A few questions and he was possessed of the whole shameful story; the stag dinner growing into a midnight orgy; the foolish dare, and the reckless acceptance of it by the already intoxicated bridegroom; the drugged drinks; and the practical joke carried out by brains long under the influence of liquor. Carter’s man who had protested had been bound and gagged in the back room. The jokers had found no trouble in securing the necessary tools to carry out their joke. Money will buy anything, even an undertaker for a living man. The promise of secrecy and generous fees brought all they needed. Then when the ghastly work was completed and the unconscious bridegroom lying in state in his coffin amid the debris of the table, they drowned the horror of their deed in deeper drinking. Mr. Endicott turned from the scene, his soul filled with loathing and horror. He had reached home to find the house in a tumult and Starr gone. Morton, as she went out the door after her young mistress, had whispered to the butler their destination, and that they would return at once. She had an innate suspicion that it would be best for some one to know. Mr. Endicott at once ordered the runabout and hastened after them, arriving but a moment or two later. Michael had just vanished up the Apartment stairs as he entered the lower hallway. The vague indefinite trouble that had filled his mind concerning his daughter’s marriage to a man he little knew except by reputation, crystallized into trouble, dear and distinct, as he hurried after his daughter. Something terrible must have come to Starr or she would never have hurried away practically alone at a time like this. The electric car was gone by the time Mr. Endicott reached the lower hall again, and he was forced to go back alone as he came, without further explanation of the affair than what he could see; but he had time in the rapid trip to become profoundly thankful that the disgraceful scene he had just left had occurred before and not after his daughter’s marriage. Whatever alleviating circumstances there were to excuse the reckless victim of his comrade’s joke, the fact remained that a man who could fall victim to a joke like that was not the companion for his daughter’s life; she who had been shielded and guarded at every possible point, and loved as the very apple of his eye. His feelings toward the perpetrators of this gruesome sport were such that he dared not think about them yet. No punishment seemed too great for such. And she, his little Starr, had looked upon that shameful scene; had seen the man she was expecting to marry lying as one dead—! It was too awful! And what had it done to her? Had it killed her? Had the shock unsettled her mind? The journey to his home seemed longer than his whole ocean voyage. Oh, why had he not left business to go to the winds and come back long ago to shield his little girl! Meantime, Michael, his precious burden in his arms, had stepped into the waiting car, motioning Morton to follow and sit in the opposite seat. The delicate Paris frock trailed unnoticed under foot, and the rare lace of the veil fell back from the white face, but neither Michael nor the nurse thought of satin and lace now, as they bent anxiously above the girl to see if she still breathed. All the way to her home Michael held the lovely little bride in his arms, feeling her weight no more than a feather; fervently thankful that he might bear her thus for the moment, away from the danger that had threatened her life. He wished with all his heart he might carry her so to the ends of the earth and never stop until he had her safe from all harm that earth could bring. His heart thrilled wildly with the touch of her frail sweetness, even while his anxious face bent over her to watch for signs of returning consciousness. But she did not become conscious before she reached the house. His strong arms held her as gently as though she had been a baby as he stepped carefully out and carried her to her own room; laying her upon the white bed, where but two hours before the delicate wedding garments had been spread ready for her to put on. Then he stood back, reverently looked upon her dear face, and turned away. It was in the hall that he met her mother, and her face was fairly disfigured with her sudden recognition of him. “What! Is it you that have dared come into this house? The impertinence! I shall report all your doings to my husband. He will be very angry. I believe that you are at the bottom of this whole business! You shall certainly be dealt with as you deserve!” She hissed the words after him as Michael descended the stairs with bowed head and closed lips. It mattered not now what she said or thought of him. Starr was saved! He was about to pass out into the world again, away from her, away even from knowledge of how she came out of her swoon. He had no further right there now. His duty was done. He had been allowed to save her in her extremity! But just as he reached it the door opened and Mr. Endicott hurried in. He paused for an instant. “Son!” said he, “it was you who brought her home!” It was as if that conviction had but just been revealed to his perturbed mind. “Son, I’m obliged. Sit here till I come. I want to speak with you.” The doctor came with a nurse, and Michael sat and listened to the distant voices in her room. He gathered from the sounds by and by that Starr was conscious, was better. Until then no one had thought of the wedding or of the waiting guests that would be gathering. Something must be done. And so it came about that as the great organ sounded forth the first notes of the wedding march—for by some blunder the bride’s signal had been given to the organist when the Endicott car drew up at the church—that Michael, bare headed, with his hat in his hand, walked gravely up the aisle, unconscious of the battery of eyes, and astonished whispers of “Who is he? Isn’t he magnificent? What does it mean? I thought the ushers were to come first?” until he stood calmly in the chancel and faced the wondering audience. If an angel had come straight down from heaven and interfered with their wedding they could not have been more astonished. For, as he stood beneath the many soft lights in front of the wall of living green and blossoms, with his white face and grave sweet dignity, they forgot for once to study the fashion of his coat, and sat awed before his beautiful face; for Michael wore tonight the look of transport with chin uplifted, glowing eyes, and countenance that showed the spirit shining through. The organist looked down, and instinctively hushed his music. Had he made some mistake? Then Michael spoke. Doubtless he should have gone to the minister who was to perform the ceremony, and given him the message, but Michael little knew the ways of weddings. It was the first one he had ever attended, and he went straight to the point. “On account of the sudden and serious illness of the groom,” he said, “it will be impossible for the ceremony to go on at this time. The bride’s family ask that you will kindly excuse them from further intrusion or explanation this evening.” With a slight inclination of his head to the breathless audience Michael passed swiftly down the aisle and out into the night, and the organist, by tremendous self-control, kept on playing softly until the excited people who had drifted usherless into the church got themselves out into their carriages once more. Michael walked out into the night, bareheaded still, his eyes lifted to the stars shining so far away above the city, and said softly, with wondering, reverent voice: “Oh, God! Oh, God!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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