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diff --git a/1601-h/1601-h.htm b/1601-h/1601-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..67a8caa --- /dev/null +++ b/1601-h/1601-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,17556 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Breaking Point, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Breaking Point, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Breaking Point + +Author: Mary Roberts Rinehart + +Release Date: September 21, 2008 [EBook #1601] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BREAKING POINT *** + + + + +Produced by Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteers, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE BREAKING POINT + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Mary Roberts Rinehart + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkseventeen"> XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> XXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> XXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> XXX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> XXXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> XXXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> XXXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> XXXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> XXXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> XXXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> XXXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> XXXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> XXXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> XL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> XLI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> XLII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> XLIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> XLIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> XLV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> XLVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> XLVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> XLVIII </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + “Heaven and earth,” sang the tenor, Mr. Henry Wallace, owner of the + Wallace garage. His larynx, which gave him somewhat the effect of having + swallowed a crab-apple and got it only part way down, protruded above his + low collar. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven and earth,” sang the bass, Mr. Edwin Goodno, of the meat market + and the Boy Scouts. “Heaven and earth, are full—” His chin, large + and fleshy, buried itself deep; his eyes were glued on the music sheet in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Are full, are full, are full,” sang the soprano, Clare Rossiter, of the + yellow colonial house on the Ridgely Road. She sang with her eyes turned + up, and as she reached G flat she lifted herself on her toes. “Of the + majesty, of Thy glory.” + </p> + <p> + “Ready,” barked the choir master. “Full now, and all together.” + </p> + <p> + The choir room in the parish house resounded to the twenty voices of the + choir. The choir master at the piano kept time with his head. Earnest and + intent, they filled the building with the Festival Te Deum of Dudley Buck, + Opus 63, No. 1. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth Wheeler liked choir practice. She liked the way in which, after + the different parts had been run through, the voices finally blended into + harmony and beauty. She liked the small sense of achievement it gave her, + and of being a part, on Sundays, of the service. She liked the feeling, + when she put on the black cassock and white surplice and the small round + velvet cap of having placed in her locker the things of this world, such + as a rose-colored hat and a blue georgette frock, and of being stripped, + as it were, for aspirations. + </p> + <p> + At such times she had vague dreams of renunciation. She saw herself + cloistered in some quiet spot, withdrawn from the world; a place where + there were long vistas of pillars and Gothic arches, after a photograph in + the living room at home, and a great organ somewhere, playing. + </p> + <p> + She would go home from church, however, clad in the rose-colored hat and + the blue georgette frock, and eat a healthy Sunday luncheon; and by two + o'clock in the afternoon, when the family slept and Jim had gone to the + country club, her dreams were quite likely to be entirely different. + Generally speaking, they had to do with love. Romantic, unclouded young + love dramatic only because it was love, and very happy. + </p> + <p> + Sometime, perhaps, some one would come and say he loved her. That was all. + That was at once the beginning and the end. Her dreams led up to that and + stopped. Not by so much as a hand clasp did they pass that wall. + </p> + <p> + So she sat in the choir room and awaited her turn. + </p> + <p> + “Altos a little stronger, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Of the majesty, of the majesty, of the majesty, of Thy gl-o-o-ry,” sang + Elizabeth. And was at once a nun and a principal in a sentimental dream of + two. + </p> + <p> + What appeared to the eye was a small and rather ethereal figure with sleek + brown hair and wistful eyes; nice eyes, of no particular color. Pretty + with the beauty of youth, sensitive and thoughtful, infinitely loyal and + capable of suffering and not otherwise extraordinary was Elizabeth Wheeler + in her plain wooden chair. A figure suggestive of no drama and certainly + of no tragedy, its attitude expectant and waiting, with that alternate + hope and fear which is youth at twenty, when all of life lies ahead and + every to-morrow may hold some great adventure. + </p> + <p> + Clare Rossiter walked home that night with Elizabeth. She was a tall + blonde girl, lithe and graceful, and with a calculated coquetry in her + clothes. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind going around the block?” she asked. “By Station Street?” + There was something furtive and yet candid in her voice, and Elizabeth + glanced at her. + </p> + <p> + “All right. But it's out of your way, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I—You're so funny, Elizabeth. It's hard to talk to you. But + I've got to talk to somebody. I go around by Station Street every chance I + get.” + </p> + <p> + “By Station Street? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I should think you could guess why.” + </p> + <p> + She saw that Clare desired to be questioned, and at the same time she felt + a great distaste for the threatened confidence. She loathed arm-in-arm + confidences, the indecency of dragging up and exposing, in whispers, + things that should have been buried deep in reticence. She hesitated, and + Clare slipped an arm through hers. + </p> + <p> + “You don't know, then, do you? Sometimes I think every one must know. And + I don't care. I've reached that point.” + </p> + <p> + Her confession, naive and shameless, and yet somehow not without a certain + dignity, flowed on. She was mad about Doctor Dick Livingstone. Goodness + knew why, for he never looked at her. She might be the dirt under his feet + for all he knew. She trembled when she met him in the street, and + sometimes he looked past her and never saw her. She didn't sleep well any + more. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth listened in great discomfort. She did not see in Clare's + hopeless passion the joy of the flagellant, or the self-dramatization of a + neurotic girl. She saw herself unwillingly forced to peer into the + sentimental windows of Clare's soul, and there to see Doctor Dick + Livingstone, an unconscious occupant. But she had a certain fugitive sense + of guilt, also. Formless as her dreams had been, vague and shy, they had + nevertheless centered about some one who should be tall, like Dick + Livingstone, and alternately grave, which was his professional manner, and + gay, which was his manner when it turned out to be only a cold, and he + could take a few minutes to be himself. Generally speaking, they centered + about some one who resembled Dick Livingstone, but who did not, as did + Doctor Livingstone, assume at times an air of frightful maturity and + pretend that in years gone by he had dandled her on his knee. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I think he positively avoids me,” Clare wailed. “There's the + house, Elizabeth. Do you mind stopping a moment? He must be in his office + now. The light's burning.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you wouldn't, Clare. He'd hate it if he knew.” + </p> + <p> + She moved on and Clare slowly followed her. The Rossiter girl's flow of + talk had suddenly stopped. She was thoughtful and impulsively suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Elizabeth, I believe you care for him yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I? What is the matter with you to-night, Clare?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm just thinking. Your voice was so queer.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on in silence. The flow of Clare's confidences had ceased, and + her eyes were calculating and a trifle hard. + </p> + <p> + “There's a good bit of talk about him,” she jerked out finally. “I suppose + you've heard it.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of talk?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, gossip. You'll hear it. Everybody's talking about it. It's doing him + a lot of harm.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it,” Elizabeth flared. “This town hasn't anything else to + do, and so it talks. It makes me sick.” + </p> + <p> + She did not attempt to analyze the twisted motives that made Clare + belittle what she professed to love. And she did not ask what the gossip + was. Half way up Palmer Lane she turned in at the cement path between + borders of early perennials which led to the white Wheeler house. She was + flushed and angry, hating Clare for her unsolicited confidence and her + malice, hating even Haverly, that smiling, tree-shaded suburb which + “talked.” + </p> + <p> + She opened the door quietly and went in. Micky, the Irish terrier, lay + asleep at the foot of the stairs, and her father's voice, reading aloud, + came pleasantly from the living room. Suddenly her sense of resentment + died. With the closing of the front door the peace of the house enveloped + her. What did it matter if, beyond that door, there were unrequited love + and petty gossip, and even tragedy? Not that she put all that into + conscious thought; she had merely a sensation of sanctuary and peace. + Here, within these four walls, were all that one should need, love and + security and quiet happiness. Walter Wheeler, pausing to turn a page, + heard her singing as she went up the stairs. In the moment of the turning + he too had a flash of content. Twenty-five years of married life and all + well; Nina married, Jim out of college, Elizabeth singing her way up the + stairs, and here by the lamp his wife quietly knitting while he read to + her. He was reading Paradise Lost: “The mind is its own place, and in + itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.” + </p> + <p> + He did a certain amount of serious reading every year. + </p> + <p> + On Sunday mornings, during the service, Elizabeth earnestly tried to + banish all worldly thoughts. In spite of this resolve, however, she was + always conscious of a certain regret that the choir seats necessitated + turning her profile to the congregation. At the age of twelve she had + decided that her nose was too short, and nothing had happened since to + change her conviction. She seldom so much as glanced at the congregation. + During her slow progress up and down the main aisle behind the Courtney + boy, who was still a soprano and who carried the great gold cross, she + always looked straight ahead. Or rather, although she was unconscious of + this, slightly up. She always looked up when she sang, for she had + commenced to take singing lessons when the piano music rack was high above + her head. + </p> + <p> + So she still lifted her eyes as she went up the aisle, and was extremely + serious over the whole thing. Because it is a solemn matter to take a + number of people who have been up to that moment engrossed in thoughts of + food or golf or servants or business, and in the twinkling of an eye, as + the prayer book said about death, turn their minds to worship. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, although she never looked at the pews, she was always + conscious of two of them. The one near the pulpit was the Sayres' and it + was the social calendar of the town. When Mrs. Sayre was in it, it was the + social season. One never knew when Mrs. Sayre's butler would call up and + say: + </p> + <p> + “I am speaking for Mrs. Sayre. Mrs. Sayre would like to have the pleasure + of Miss Wheeler's company on Thursday to luncheon, at one-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + When the Sayre pew was empty, the town knew, if it happened to be winter, + that the Florida or Santa Barbara season was on; or in summer the Maine + coast. + </p> + <p> + The other pew was at the back of the church. Always it had one occupant; + sometimes it had three. But the behavior of this pew was very erratic. + Sometimes an elderly and portly gentleman with white hair and fierce + eyebrows would come in when the sermon was almost over. Again, a hand + would reach through the grill behind it, and a tall young man who had had + his eyes fixed in the proper direction, but not always on the rector, + would reach for his hat, get up and slip out. On these occasions, however, + he would first identify the owner of the hand and then bend over the one + permanent occupant of the pew, a little old lady. His speech was as Yea, + yea, or Nay, nay, for he either said, “I'll be back for dinner,” or “Don't + look for me until you see me.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Crosby, without taking her eyes from the sermon, would nod. + </p> + <p> + Of late years, Doctor David Livingstone had been taking less and less of + the “Don't-look-for-me-until-you-see-me” cases, and Doctor Dick had + acquired a car, which would not freeze when left outside all night like a + forgotten dog, and a sense of philosophy about sleep. That is, that eleven + o'clock P.M. was bed-time to some people, but was just eleven o'clock for + him. + </p> + <p> + When he went to church he listened to the sermon, but rather often he + looked at Elizabeth Wheeler. When his eyes wandered, as the most faithful + eyes will now and then, they were apt to rest on the flag that had hung, + ever since the war, beside the altar. He had fought for his country in a + sea of mud, never nearer than two hundred miles to the battle line, fought + with a surgical kit instead of a gun, but he was content. Not to all the + high adventure. + </p> + <p> + Had he been asked, suddenly, the name of the tall blonde girl who sang + among the sopranos, he could not have told it. + </p> + <p> + The Sunday morning following Clare Rossiter's sentimental confession, + Elizabeth tried very hard to banish all worldly thoughts, as usual, and to + see the kneeling, rising and sitting congregation as there for worship. + But for the first time she wondered. Some of the faces were blank, as + though behind the steady gaze the mind had wandered far afield, or slept. + Some were intent, some even devout. But for the first time she began to + feel that people in the mass might be cruel, too. How many of them, for + instance, would sometime during the day pass on, behind their hands, the + gossip Clare had mentioned? + </p> + <p> + She changed her position, and glanced quickly over the church. The + Livingstone pew was fully occupied, and well up toward the front, Wallie + Sayre was steadfastly regarding her. She looked away quickly. + </p> + <p> + Came the end of the service. Came down the aisle the Courtney boy, clean + and shining and carrying high his glowing symbol. Came the choir, two by + two, the women first, sopranos, altos and Elizabeth. Came the men, bass + and tenor, neatly shaved for Sunday morning. Came the rector, Mr. + Oglethorpe, a trifle wistful, because always he fell so far below the mark + he had set. Came the benediction. Came the slow rising from its knees of + the congregation and its cheerful bustle of dispersal. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Dick Livingstone stood up and helped Doctor David into his new + spring overcoat. He was very content. It was May, and the sun was shining. + It was Sunday, and he would have an hour or two of leisure. And he had + made a resolution about a matter that had been in his mind for some time. + He was very content. + </p> + <p> + He looked around the church with what was almost a possessive eye. These + people were his friends. He knew them all, and they knew him. They had, + against his protest, put his name on the bronze tablet set in the wall on + the roll of honor. Small as it was, this was his world. + </p> + <p> + Half smiling, he glanced about. He did not realize that behind their bows + and greetings there was something new that day, something not so much + unkind as questioning. + </p> + <p> + Outside in the street he tucked his aunt, Mrs. Crosby, against the spring + wind, and waited at the wheel of the car while David entered with the + deliberation of a man accustomed to the sagging of his old side-bar buggy + under his weight. Long ago Dick had dropped the titular “uncle,” and as + David he now addressed him. + </p> + <p> + “You're going to play some golf this afternoon, David,” he said firmly. + “Mike had me out this morning to look at your buggy springs.” + </p> + <p> + David chuckled. He still stuck to his old horse, and to the ancient + vehicle which had been the signal of distress before so many doors for + forty years. “I can trust old Nettie,” he would say. “She doesn't freeze + her radiator on cold nights, she doesn't skid, and if I drop asleep she'll + take me home and into my own barn, which is more than any automobile would + do.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to sleep,” he said comfortably. “Get Wallie Sayre—I see + he's back from some place again—or ask a nice girl. Ask Elizabeth + Wheeler. I don't think Lucy here expects to be the only woman in your + life.” + </p> + <p> + Dick stared into the windshield. + </p> + <p> + “I've been wondering about that, David,” he said, “just how much right—” + </p> + <p> + “Balderdash!” David snorted. “Don't get any fool notion in your head.” + </p> + <p> + Followed a short silence with Dick driving automatically and thinking. + Finally he drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said, “how about that golf—you need exercise. You're + putting on weight, and you know it. And you smoke too much. It's either + less tobacco or more walking, and you ought to know it.” + </p> + <p> + David grunted, but he turned to Lucy Crosby, in the rear seat: + </p> + <p> + “Lucy, d'you know where my clubs are?” + </p> + <p> + “You loaned them to Jim Wheeler last fall. If you get three of them back + you're lucky.” Mrs. Crosby's voice was faintly tart. Long ago she had + learned that her brother's belongings were his only by right of purchase, + and were by way of being community property. When, early in her widowhood + and her return to his home, she had found that her protests resulted only + in a sort of clandestine giving or lending, she had exacted a promise from + him. “I ask only one thing, David,” she had said. “Tell me where the + things go. There wasn't a blanket for the guest-room bed at the time of + the Diocesan Convention.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll run around to the Wheelers' and get them,” Dick observed, in a + carefully casual voice. “I'll see the Carter baby, too, David, and that + clears the afternoon. Any message?” + </p> + <p> + Lucy glanced at him, but David moved toward the house. + </p> + <p> + “Give Elizabeth a kiss for me,” he called over his shoulder, and went + chuckling up the path. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Crosby stood on the pavement, gazing after the car as it moved off. + She had not her brother's simplicity nor his optimism. Her married years + had taken her away from the environment which had enabled him to live his + busy, uncomplicated life; where, the only medical man in a growing + community, he had learned to form his own sturdy decisions and then to + abide by them. + </p> + <p> + Black and white, right and wrong, the proper course and the improper + course—he lived in a sort of two-dimensional ethical world. But to + Lucy Crosby, between black and white there was a gray no-man's land of + doubt and indecision; a half-way house of compromise, and sometimes David + frightened her. He was so sure. + </p> + <p> + She passed the open door into the waiting-room, where sat two or three + patient and silent figures, and went back to the kitchen. Minnie, the + elderly servant, sat by the table reading, amid the odor of roasting + chicken; outside the door on the kitchen porch was the freezer containing + the dinner ice-cream. An orderly Sunday peace was in the air, a gesture of + homely comfort, order and security. + </p> + <p> + Minnie got up. + </p> + <p> + “I'll unpin your veil for you,” she offered, obligingly. “You've got time + to lie down about ten minutes. Mrs. Morgan said she's got to have her ears + treated.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she doesn't sit and talk for an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “She'll talk, all right,” Minnie observed, her mouth full of pins. “She'd + be talking to me yet if I'd stood there. She's got her nerve, too, that + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like to hear you speak so of the patients who come to the house, + Minnie.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't like their asking me questions about the family either,” + said Minnie, truculently. “She wanted to know who was Doctor Dick's + mother. Said she had had a woman here from Wyoming, and she thought she'd + known his people.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Crosby stood very still. + </p> + <p> + “I think she should bring her questions to the family,” she said, after a + silence. “Thank you, Minnie.” + </p> + <p> + Bonnet in hand, she moved toward the stairs, climbed them and went into + her room. Recently life had been growing increasingly calm and less beset + with doubts. For the first time, with Dick's coming to live with them ten + years before, a boy of twenty-two, she had found a vicarious maternity and + gloried in it. Recently she had been very happy. The war was over and he + was safely back; again she could sew on his buttons and darn his socks, + and turn down his bed at night. He filled the old house with cheer and + with vitality. And, as David gave up more and more of the work, he took it + on his broad shoulders, efficient, tireless, and increasingly popular. + </p> + <p> + She put her bonnet away in its box, and suddenly there rose in her frail + old body a fierce and unexpected resentment against David. He had chosen a + course and abided by it. He had even now no doubt or falterings. Just as + in the first anxious days there had been no doubt in him as to the + essential rightness of what he was doing. And now—This was what came + of taking a life and moulding it in accordance with a predetermined plan. + That was for God to do, not man. + </p> + <p> + She sat down near her window and rocked slowly, to calm herself. Outside + the Sunday movement of the little suburban town went by: the older Wheeler + girl, Nina, who had recently married Leslie Ward, in her smart little car; + Harrison Miller, the cynical bachelor who lived next door, on his way to + the station news stand for the New York papers; young couples taking small + babies for the air in a perambulator; younger couples, their eyes on each + other and on the future. + </p> + <p> + That, too, she reflected bitterly! Dick was in love. She had not watched + him for that very thing for so long without being fairly sure now. She had + caught, as simple David with his celibate heart could never have caught, + the tone in Dick's voice when he mentioned the Wheelers. She had watched + him for the past few months in church on Sunday mornings, and she knew + that as she watched him, so he looked at Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + And David was so sure! So sure. + </p> + <p> + The office door closed and Mrs. Morgan went out, a knitted scarf wrapping + her ears against the wind, and following her exit came the slow ascent of + David as he climbed the stairs to wash for dinner. + </p> + <p> + She stopped rocking. + </p> + <p> + “David!” she called sharply. + </p> + <p> + He opened the door and came in, a bulky figure, still faintly aromatic of + drugs, cheerful and serene. + </p> + <p> + “D'you call me?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Shut the door and come in. I want to talk to you.” He closed the + door and went to the hearth-rug. There was a photograph of Dick on the + mantel, taken in his uniform, and he looked at it for a moment. Then he + turned. “All right, my dear. Let's have it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Mrs. Morgan have anything to say?” He stared at her. + </p> + <p> + “She usually has,” he said. “I never knew you considered it worth + repeating. No. Nothing in particular.” + </p> + <p> + The very fact that Mrs. Morgan had limited her inquiry to Minnie confirmed + her suspicions. But somehow, face to face with David, she could not see + his contentment turned to anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “I want to talk to you about Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I think he's in love, David.” + </p> + <p> + David's heavy body straightened, but his face remained serene. + </p> + <p> + “We had to expect that, Lucy. Is it Elizabeth Wheeler, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was silence. The canary in its cage hopped about, a + beady inquisitive eye now on one, now on the other of them. + </p> + <p> + “She's a good girl, Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + “That's not the point, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she cares for him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. There's some talk of Wallie Sayre. He's there a good bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Wallie Sayre!” snorted David. “He's never done a day's work in his life + and never will.” He reflected on that with growing indignation. “He + doesn't hold a candle to Dick. Of course, if the girl's a fool—” + </p> + <p> + Hands thrust deep into his pockets David took a turn about the room. Lucy + watched him. At last: + </p> + <p> + “You're evading the real issue, David, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “I'd better talk to him. I think he's got an + idea he shouldn't marry. That's nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mean that, exactly,” Lucy persisted. “I mean, won't he want a + good many things cleared up before he marries? Isn't he likely to want to + go back to Norada?” + </p> + <p> + Some of the ruddy color left David's face. He stood still, staring at her + and silent. + </p> + <p> + “You know he meant to go three years ago, but the war came, and—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice trailed off. She could not even now easily recall those days + when Dick was drilling on the golf links, and that later period of + separation. + </p> + <p> + “If he does go back—” + </p> + <p> + “Donaldson is dead,” David broke in, almost roughly. + </p> + <p> + “Maggie Donaldson is still living.” + </p> + <p> + “What if she is? She's loyal to the core, in the first place. In the + second, she's criminally liable. As liable as I am.” + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing, David, I ought to know. What has become of the + Carlysle girl?” + </p> + <p> + “She left the stage. There was a sort of general conviction she was + implicated and—I don't know, Lucy. Sometimes I think she was.” He + sighed. “I read something about her coming back, some months ago, in 'The + Valley.' That was the thing she was playing the spring before it + happened.” He turned on her. “Don't get that in your head with the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder, sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the slamming of an automobile door announced Dick's return, and + almost immediately Minnie rang the old fashioned gong which hung in the + lower hall. Mrs. Crosby got up and placed a leaf of lettuce between the + bars of the bird cage. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner time, Caruso,” she said absently. Caruso was the name Dick had + given the bird. And to David: “She must be in her thirties now.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably.” Then his anger and anxiety burst out. “What difference can it + make about her? About Donaldson's wife? About any hang-over from that + rotten time? They're gone, all of them. He's here. He's safe and happy. + He's strong and fine. That's gone.” + </p> + <p> + In the lower hall Dick was taking off his overcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Smell's like chicken, Minnie,” he said, into the dining room. + </p> + <p> + “Chicken and biscuits, Mr. Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “Hi, up there!” he called lustily. “Come and feed a starving man. I'm + going to muffle the door-bell!” + </p> + <p> + He stood smiling up at them, very tidy in his Sunday suit, very boyish, + for all his thirty-two years. His face, smilingly tender as he watched + them, was strong rather than handsome, quietly dependable and faintly + humorous. + </p> + <p> + “In the language of our great ally,” he said, “Madame et Monsieur, le + diner est servi.” + </p> + <p> + In his eyes there was not only tenderness but a somewhat emphasized + affection, as though he meant to demonstrate, not only to them but to + himself, that this new thing that had come to him did not touch their old + relationship. For the new thing had come. He was still slightly dazed with + the knowledge of it, and considerably anxious. Because he had just taken a + glance at himself in the mirror of the walnut hat-rack, and had seen + nothing there particularly to inspire—well, to inspire what he + wanted to inspire. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the stairs he drew Lucy's arm through his, and held her + hand. She seemed very small and frail beside him. + </p> + <p> + “Some day,” he said, “a strong wind will come along and carry off Mrs. + Lucy Crosby, and the Doctors Livingstone will be obliged hurriedly to rent + aeroplanes, and to search for her at various elevations!” + </p> + <p> + David sat down and picked up the old fashioned carving knife. + </p> + <p> + “Get the clubs?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + Dick looked almost stricken. + </p> + <p> + “I forgot them, David,” he said guiltily. “Jim Wheeler went out to look + them up, and I—I'll go back after dinner.” + </p> + <p> + It was sometime later in the meal that Dick looked up from his plate and + said: + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to cut office hours on Wednesday night, David. I've asked + Elizabeth Wheeler to go into town to the theater.” + </p> + <p> + “What about the baby at the Homer place?” + </p> + <p> + “Not due until Sunday. I'll leave my seat number at the box office, + anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to see, Dick?” Mrs. Crosby asked. “Will you have some + dumplings?” + </p> + <p> + “I will, but David shouldn't. Too much starch. Why, it's 'The Valley,' I + think. An actress named Carlysle, Beverly Carlysle, is starring in it.” + </p> + <p> + He ate on, his mind not on his food, but back in the white house on Palmer + Lane, and a girl. Lucy Crosby, fork in air, stared at him, and then + glanced at David. + </p> + <p> + But David did not look up from his plate. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + The Wheeler house was good, modern and commonplace. Walter Wheeler and his + wife were like the house. Just as here and there among the furniture there + was a fine thing, an antique highboy, a Sheraton sideboard or some old cut + glass, so they had, with a certain mediocrity their own outstanding + virtues. They liked music, believed in the home as the unit of the nation, + put happiness before undue ambition, and had devoted their lives to their + children. + </p> + <p> + For many years their lives had centered about the children. For years they + had held anxious conclave about whooping cough, about small early + disobediences, later about Sunday tennis. They stood united to protect the + children against disease, trouble and eternity. + </p> + <p> + Now that the children were no longer children, they were sometimes lonely + and still apprehensive. They feared motor car accidents, and Walter + Wheeler had withstood the appeals of Jim for a half dozen years. They + feared trains for them, and journeys, and unhappy marriages, and hid their + fears from each other. Their nightly prayers were “to keep them safe and + happy.” + </p> + <p> + But they saw life reaching out and taking them, one by one. They saw them + still as children, but as children determined to bear their own burdens. + Jim stayed out late sometimes, and considered his manhood in question if + interrogated. Nina was married and out of the home, but there loomed + before them the possibility of maternity and its dangers for her. There + remained only Elizabeth, and on her they lavished the care formerly + divided among the three. + </p> + <p> + It was their intention and determination that she should never know + trouble. She was tenderer than the others, more docile and gentle. They + saw her, not as a healthy, normal girl, but as something fragile and very + precious. + </p> + <p> + Nina was different. They had always worried a little about Nina, although + they had never put their anxiety to each other. Nina had always overrun + her dress allowance, although she had never failed to be sweetly penitent + about it, and Nina had always placed an undue emphasis on things. Her + bedroom before her marriage was cluttered with odds and ends, cotillion + favors and photographs, college pennants and small unwise purchases—trophies + of the gayety and conquest which were her life. + </p> + <p> + And Nina had “come out.” It had cost a great deal, and it was not so much + to introduce her to society as to put a family recognition on a fact + already accomplished, for Nina had brought herself out unofficially at + sixteen. There had been the club ballroom, and a great many flowers which + withered before they could be got to the hospital; and new clothing for + all the family, and a caterer and orchestra. After that, for a cold and + tumultuous winter Mrs. Wheeler had sat up with the dowagers night after + night until all hours, and the next morning had let Nina sleep, while she + went about her household duties. She had aged, rather, and her determined + smile had grown a little fixed. + </p> + <p> + She was a good woman, and she wanted her children's happiness more than + anything in the world, but she had a faint and sternly repressed feeling + of relief when Nina announced her engagement. Nina did it with + characteristic sangfroid, at dinner one night. + </p> + <p> + “Don't ring for Annie for a minute, mother,” she said. “I want to tell you + all something. I'm going to marry Leslie Ward.” + </p> + <p> + There had been a momentary pause. Then her father said: + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute. Is that Will Ward's boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He's not a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he'll come around to see me before there's any engagement. Has that + occurred to either of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he'll be around. He'd have come to-night, but Howard Moore is having + his bachelor dinner. I hope he doesn't look shot to pieces to-morrow. + These bachelor things—! We'd better have a dinner or something, + mother, and announce it.” + </p> + <p> + There had been the dinner, with a silver loving cup bought for the + occasion, and thereafter to sit out its useless days on the Sheraton + sideboard. And there had been a trousseau and a wedding so expensive that + a small frown of anxiety had developed between Walter Wheeler's eyebrows + and stayed there. + </p> + <p> + For Nina's passion for things was inherent, persisting after her marriage. + She discounted her birthday and Christmases in advance, coming around to + his office a couple of months before the winter holidays and needing + something badly. + </p> + <p> + “It's like this, daddy,” she would say. “You're going to give me a check + for Christmas anyhow, aren't you? And it would do me more good now. I + simply can't go to another ball.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's your trousseau?” + </p> + <p> + “It's worn out-danced to rags. And out of date, too.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand it, Nina. You and Leslie have a good income. Your + mother and I—” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't have any social demands. And wedding presents! If one more + friend of mine is married—” + </p> + <p> + He would get out his checkbook and write a check slowly and thoughtfully. + And tearing it off would say: + </p> + <p> + “Now remember, Nina, this is for Christmas. Don't feel aggrieved when the + time comes and you have no gift from us.” + </p> + <p> + But he knew that when the time came Margaret, his wife, would hold out + almost to the end, and then slip into a jeweler's and buy Nina something + she simply couldn't do without. + </p> + <p> + It wasn't quite fair, he felt. It wasn't fair to Jim or to Elizabeth. + Particularly to Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he looked at Elizabeth with a little prayer in his heart, never + articulate, that life would be good to her; that she might keep her + illusions and her dreams; that the soundness and wholesomeness of her + might keep her from unhappiness. Sometimes, as she sat reading or sewing, + with the light behind her shining through her soft hair, he saw in her a + purity that was almost radiant. + </p> + <p> + He was in arms at once a night or two before Dick had invited Elizabeth to + go to the theater when Margaret Wheeler said: + </p> + <p> + “The house was gayer when Nina was at home.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And you were pretty sick of it. Full of roistering young idiots. + Piano and phonograph going at once, pairs of gigglers in the pantry at the + refrigerator, pairs on the stairs and on the verandah, cigar-ashes—my + cigars—and cigarettes over everything, and more infernal spooning + going on than I've ever seen in my life.” + </p> + <p> + He had resumed his newspaper, to put it down almost at once. + </p> + <p> + “What's that Sayre boy hanging around for?” + </p> + <p> + “I think he's in love with her, Walter.” + </p> + <p> + “Love? Any of the Sayre tribe? Jim Sayre drank himself to death, and this + boy is like him. And Jim Sayre wasn't faithful to his wife. This boy is—well, + he's an heir. That's why he was begotten.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret Wheeler stared at him. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Walter!” she said. “He's a nice boy, and he's a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Because he gets up when you come into the room? Why in heaven's name + don't you encourage real men to come here? There's Dick Livingstone. He's + a man.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Walter, have you ever thought there was anything queer about Dick + Livingstone's coming here?” + </p> + <p> + “Darned good for the town that he did come.” + </p> + <p> + “But—nobody ever dreamed that David and Lucy had a nephew. Then he + turns up, and they send him to medical college, and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got some relations I haven't notified the town I possess,” he said + grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there's something odd. I don't believe Henry Livingstone, the + Wyoming brother, ever had a son.” + </p> + <p> + “What possible foundation have you for a statement like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Cook Morgan's sister-in-law has been visiting her lately. She says + she knew Henry Livingstone well years ago in the West, and she never heard + he was married. She says positively he was not married.” + </p> + <p> + “And trust the Morgan woman to spread the good news,” he said with angry + sarcasm. “Well, suppose that's true? Suppose Dick is an illegitimate + child? That's the worst that's implied, I daresay. That's nothing against + Dick himself. I'll tell the world there's good blood on the Livingstone + side, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “You were very particular about Wallie Sayre's heredity, Walter.” + </p> + <p> + “That's different,” he retorted, and retired into gloomy silence behind + his newspaper. Drat these women anyhow. It was like some fool female to + come there and rake up some old and defunct scandal. He'd stand up for + Dick, if it ever came to a show-down. He liked Dick. What the devil did + his mother matter, anyhow? If this town hadn't had enough evidence of Dick + Livingstone's quality the last few years he'd better go elsewhere. He— + </p> + <p> + He got up and whistled for the dog. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to take a walk,” he said briefly, and went out. He always took + a walk when things disturbed him. + </p> + <p> + On the Sunday afternoon after Dick had gone Elizabeth was alone in her + room upstairs. On the bed lay the sort of gown Nina would have called a + dinner dress, and to which Elizabeth referred as her dark blue. Seen thus, + in the room which was her own expression, there was a certain nobility + about her very simplicity, a steadiness about her eyes that was almost + disconcerting. + </p> + <p> + “She's the saintly-looking sort that would go on the rocks for some man,” + Nina had said once, rather flippantly, “and never know she was + shipwrecked. No man in the world could do that to me.” + </p> + <p> + But just then Elizabeth looked totally unlike shipwreck. Nothing seemed + more like a safe harbor than the Wheeler house that afternoon, or all the + afternoons. Life went on, the comfortable life of an upper middle-class + household. Candles and flowers on the table and a neat waitress to serve; + little carefully planned shopping expeditions; fine hand-sewing on dainty + undergarments for rainy days; small tributes of books and candy; + invitations and consultations as to what to wear; choir practice, a class + in the Sunday school, a little work among the poor; the volcano which had + been Nina overflowing elsewhere in a smart little house with a butler out + on the Ridgely Road. + </p> + <p> + She looked what she was, faithful and quietly loyal, steady—and + serene; not asking greatly but hoping much; full of small unvisualized + dreams and little inarticulate prayers; waiting, without knowing that she + was waiting. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes she worried. She thought she ought to “do something.” A good + many of the girls she knew wanted to do something, but they were vague as + to what. She felt at those times that she was not being very useful, and + she had gone so far as to lay the matter before her father a couple of + years before, when she was just eighteen. + </p> + <p> + “Just what do you think of doing?” he had inquired. + </p> + <p> + “That's it,” she had said despondently. “I don't know. I haven't any + particular talent, you know. But I don't think I ought to go on having you + support me in idleness all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't think it likely that I'll have to,” he had observed, dryly. + “But here's the point, and I think it's important. I don't intend to work + without some compensation, and my family is my compensation. You just hang + around and make me happy, as you do, and you're fulfilling your economic + place in the nation. Don't you forget it, either.” + </p> + <p> + That had comforted her. She had determined then never to marry but to hang + around, as he suggested, for the rest of her life. She was quite earnest + about it, and resolved. + </p> + <p> + She picked up the blue dress and standing before her mirror, held it up + before her. It looked rather shabby, she thought, but the theater was not + like a dance, and anyhow it would look better at night. She had been + thinking about next Wednesday evening ever since Dick Livingstone had + gone. It seemed, better somehow, frightfully important. It was frightfully + important. For the first time she acknowledged to herself that she had + been fond of him, as she put it, for a long time. She had an odd sense, + too, of being young and immature, and as though he had stooped to her from + some height: such as thirty-two years and being in the war, and having to + decide about life and death, and so on. + </p> + <p> + She hoped he did not think she was only a child. + </p> + <p> + She heard Nina coming up the stairs. At the click of her high heels on the + hard wood she placed the dress on the bed again, and went to the window. + Her father was on the path below, clearly headed for a walk. She knew then + that Nina had been asking for something. + </p> + <p> + Nina came in and closed the door. She was smaller than Elizabeth and very + pretty. Her eyebrows had been drawn to a tidy line, and from the top of + her shining head to her brown suede pumps she was exquisite with the hours + of careful tending and careful dressing she gave her young body. + Exquisitely pretty, too. + </p> + <p> + She sat down on Elizabeth's bed with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I really don't know what to do with father,” she said. “He flies off at a + tangent over the smallest things. Elizabeth dear, can you lend me twenty + dollars? I'll get my allowance on Tuesday.” + </p> + <p> + “I can give you ten.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, ask mother for the rest, won't you? You needn't say it's for me. + I'll give it to you Tuesday.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to mother, Nina. She has had a lot of expenses this month.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll borrow it from Wallie Sayre,” Nina said, accepting her defeat + cheerfully. “If it was an ordinary bill it could wait, but I lost it at + bridge last night and it's got to be paid.” + </p> + <p> + “You oughtn't to play bridge for money,” Elizabeth said, a bit primly. + “And if Leslie knew you borrowed from Wallace Sayre—” + </p> + <p> + “I forgot! Wallie's downstairs, Elizabeth. Really, if he wasn't so funny, + he'd be tragic.” + </p> + <p> + “Why tragic? He has everything in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “If you use a little bit of sense, you can have it too.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want things.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! That's what you think now. Wallie's a nice person. Lots of girls + are mad about him. And he has about all the money there is.” Getting no + response from Elizabeth, she went on: “I was thinking it over last night. + You'll have to marry sometime, and it isn't as though Wallie was + dissipated, or anything like that. I suppose he knows his way about, but + then they all do.” + </p> + <p> + She got up. + </p> + <p> + “Be nice to him, anyhow,” she said. “He's crazy about you, and when I + think of you in that house! It's a wonderful house, Elizabeth. She's got a + suite waiting for Wallie to be married before she furnishes it.” + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth looked around her virginal little room, with its painted + dressing table, its chintz, and its white bed with the blue dress on it. + </p> + <p> + “I'm very well satisfied as I am,” she said. + </p> + <p> + While she smoothed her hair before the mirror Nina surveyed the room and + her eyes lighted on the frock. + </p> + <p> + “Are you still wearing that shabby old thing?” she demanded. “I do wish + you'd get some proper clothes. Are you going somewhere?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to the theater on Wednesday night.” + </p> + <p> + “Who with?” Nina in her family was highly colloquial. + </p> + <p> + “With Doctor Livingstone.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you joking?” Nina demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Joking? Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + Nina sat down again on the bed, her eyes on her sister, curious and not a + little apprehensive. + </p> + <p> + “It's the first time it's ever happened, to my knowledge,” she declared. + “I know he's avoided me like poison. I thought he hated women. You know + Clare Rossiter is—” + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth turned suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Clare is ridiculous,” she said. “She hasn't any reserve, or dignity, or + anything else. And I don't see what my going to the theater with Dick + Livingstone has to do with her anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + Nina raised her carefully plucked eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Really!” she said. “You needn't jump down my throat, you know.” She + considered, her eyes on her sister. “Don't go and throw yourself away on + Dick Livingstone, Sis. You're too good-looking, and he hasn't a cent. A + suburban practice, out all night, that tumble-down old house and two old + people hung around your necks, for Doctor David is letting go pretty fast. + It just won't do. Besides, there's a story going the rounds about him, + that—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to hear it, if you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + She went to the door and opened it. + </p> + <p> + “I've hardly spoken a dozen words to him in my life. But just remember + this. When I do find the man I want to marry, I shall make up my own mind. + As you did,” she added as a parting shot. + </p> + <p> + She was rather sorry as she went down the stairs. She had begun to suspect + what the family had never guessed, that Nina was not very happy. More and + more she saw in Nina's passion for clothes and gaiety, for small + possessions, an attempt to substitute them for real things. She even + suspected that sometimes Nina was a little lonely. + </p> + <p> + Wallie Sayre rose from a deep chair as she entered the living-room. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” he said, “I was on the point of asking Central to give me this + number so I could get you on the upstairs telephone.” + </p> + <p> + “Nina and I were talking. I'm sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Wallie, in spite of Walter Wheeler's opinion of him, was an engaging youth + with a wide smile, an air of careless well-being, and an obstinate jaw. + What he wanted he went after and generally secured, and Elizabeth, + enlightened by Nina, began to have a small anxious feeling that afternoon + that what he wanted just now happened to be herself. + </p> + <p> + “Nina coming down?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You couldn't pass the word along that you are going to be engaged for the + next half hour?” + </p> + <p> + “I might, but I certainly don't intend to.” + </p> + <p> + “You are as hard to isolate as a—as a germ,” he complained. “I gave + up a perfectly good golf game to see you, and as your father generally + calls the dog the moment I appear and goes for a walk, I thought I might + see you alone.” + </p> + <p> + “You're seeing me alone now, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he leaned over and catching up her hand, kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “You're so cool and sweet,” he said. “I—I wish you liked me a + little.” He smiled up at her, rather wistfully. “I never knew any one + quite like you.” + </p> + <p> + She drew her hand away. Something Nina had said, that he knew his way + about, came into her mind, and made her uncomfortable. Back of him, + suddenly, was that strange and mysterious region where men of his sort + lived their furtive man-life, where they knew their way about. She had no + curiosity and no interest, but the mere fact of its existence as revealed + by Nina repelled her. + </p> + <p> + “There are plenty like me,” she said. “Don't be silly, Wallie. I hate + having my hand kissed.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” he observed shrewdly, “whether that's really true, or whether + you just hate having me do it?” + </p> + <p> + When Nina came in he was drawing a rough sketch of his new power boat, + being built in Florida. + </p> + <p> + Nina's delay was explained by the appearance, a few minutes later, of a + rather sullen Annie with a tea tray. Afternoon tea was not a Wheeler + institution, but was notoriously a Sayre one. And Nina believed in putting + one's best foot foremost, even when that resulted in a state of unstable + domestic equilibrium. + </p> + <p> + “Put in a word for me, Nina,” Wallie begged. “I intend to ask Elizabeth to + go to the theater this week, and I think she is going to refuse.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the play?” Nina inquired negligently. She was privately + determining that her mother needed a tea cart and a new tea service. There + were some in old Georgian silver— + </p> + <p> + “'The Valley.' Not that the play matters. It's Beverly Carlysle.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought she was dead, or something.” + </p> + <p> + “Or something is right. She retired years ago, at the top of her success. + She was a howling beauty, I'm told. I never saw her. There was some queer + story. I've forgotten it. I was a kid then. How about it, Elizabeth?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry. I'm going Wednesday night.” + </p> + <p> + He looked downcast over that, and he was curious, too. But he made no + comment save: + </p> + <p> + “Well, better luck next time.” + </p> + <p> + “Just imagine,” said Nina. “She's going with Dick Livingstone. Can you + imagine it?” + </p> + <p> + But Wallace Sayre could and did. He had rather a stricken moment, too. Of + course, there might be nothing to it; but on the other hand, there very + well might. And Livingstone was the sort to attract the feminine woman; he + had gravity and responsibility. He was older too, and that flattered a + girl. + </p> + <p> + “He's not a bit attractive,” Nina was saying. “Quiet, and—well, I + don't suppose he knows what he's got on.” + </p> + <p> + Wallie was watching Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know,” he said, with masculine fairness. “He's a good sort, + and he's pretty much of a man.” + </p> + <p> + He was quite sure that the look Elizabeth gave him was grateful. + </p> + <p> + He went soon after that, keeping up an appearance of gaiety to the end, + and very careful to hope that Elizabeth would enjoy the play. + </p> + <p> + “She's a wonder, they say,” he said from the doorway. “Take two hankies + along, for it's got more tears than 'East Lynne' and 'The Old Homestead' + put together.” + </p> + <p> + He went out, holding himself very erect and looking very cheerful until he + reached the corner. There however he slumped, and it was a rather + despondent young man who stood sometime later, on the center of the + deserted bridge over the small river, and surveyed the water with moody + eyes. + </p> + <p> + In the dusky living-room Nina was speaking her mind. + </p> + <p> + “You treat him like a dog,” she said. “Oh, I know you're civil to him, but + if any man looked at me the way Wallie looks at you—I don't know, + though,” she added, thoughtfully. “It may be that that is why he is so + keen. It may be good tactics. Most girls fall for him with a crash.” + </p> + <p> + But when she glanced at Elizabeth she saw that she had not heard. Her eyes + were fixed on something on the street beyond the window. Nina looked out. + With a considerable rattle of loose joints and four extraordinarily worn + tires the Livingstone car was going by. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + David did not sleep well that night. He had not had his golf after all, + for the Homer baby had sent out his advance notice early in the afternoon, + and had himself arrived on Sunday evening, at the hour when Minnie was + winding her clock and preparing to retire early for the Monday washing, + and the Sayre butler was announcing dinner. Dick had come in at ten + o'clock weary and triumphant, to announce that Richard Livingstone Homer, + sex male, color white, weight nine pounds, had been safely delivered into + this vale of tears. + </p> + <p> + David lay in the great walnut bed which had been his mother's, and read + his prayer book by the light of his evening lamp. He read the Evening + Prayer and the Litany, and then at last he resorted to the thirty-nine + articles, which usually had a soporific effect on him. But it was no good. + </p> + <p> + He got up and took to pacing his room, a portly, solid old figure in + striped pajamas and the pair of knitted bedroom slippers which were always + Mrs. Morgan's Christmas offering. “To Doctor David, with love and a merry + Xmas, from Angeline Morgan.” + </p> + <p> + At last he got his keys from his trousers pocket and padded softly down + the stairs and into his office, where he drew the shade and turned on the + lights. Around him was the accumulated professional impedimenta of many + years; the old-fashioned surgical chair; the corner closet which had been + designed for china, and which held his instruments; the bookcase; his + framed diplomas on the wall, their signatures faded, their seals a little + dingy; his desk, from which Dick had removed the old ledger which had held + those erratic records from which, when he needed money, he had been wont—and + reluctant—to make out his bills. + </p> + <p> + Through an open door was Dick's office, a neat place of shining linoleum + and small glass stands, highly modern and business-like. Beyond the office + and opening from it was his laboratory, which had been the fruit closet + once, and into which Dick on occasion retired to fuss with slides and + tubes and stains and a microscope. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he called David in, and talked at length and with enthusiasm + about such human interest things as the Staphylococcus pyogenes aureus, + and the Friedlander bacillus. The older man would listen, but his eyes + were oftener on Dick than on the microscope or the slide. + </p> + <p> + David went to the bookcase and got down a large book, much worn, and + carried it to his desk. + </p> + <p> + An hour or so later he heard footsteps in the hall and closed the book + hastily. It was Lucy, a wadded dressing gown over her nightdress and a + glass of hot milk in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You drink this and come to bed, David,” she said peremptorily. “I've been + lying upstairs waiting for you to come up, and I need some sleep.” + </p> + <p> + He had no sort of hope that she would not notice the book. + </p> + <p> + “I just got to thinking things over, Lucy,” he explained, his tone + apologetic. “There's no use pretending I'm not worried. I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's in God's hands,” she said, quite simply. “Take this up and + drink it slowly. If you gulp it down it makes a lump in your stomach.” + </p> + <p> + She stood by while he replaced the book in the bookcase and put out the + lights. Then in the darkness she preceded him up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better take the milk yourself, Lucy,” he said. “You're not sleeping + either.” + </p> + <p> + “I've had some. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + He went in and sitting on the side of his bed sipped at his milk. Lucy was + right. It was not in their hands. He had the feeling all at once of having + relinquished a great burden. He crawled into bed and was almost instantly + asleep. + </p> + <p> + So sometime after midnight found David sleeping, and Lucy on her knees. It + found Elizabeth dreamlessly unconscious in her white bed, and Dick + Livingstone asleep also, but in his clothing, and in a chair by the + window. In the light from a street lamp his face showed lines of fatigue + and nervous stress, lines only revealed when during sleep a man casts off + the mask with which he protects his soul against even friendly eyes. + </p> + <p> + But midnight found others awake. It found Nina, for instance, in her + draped French bed, consulting her jeweled watch and listening for Leslie's + return from the country club. An angry and rather heart-sick Nina. And it + found the night editor of one of the morning papers drinking a cup of + coffee that a boy had brought in, and running through a mass of copy on + his desk. He picked up several sheets of paper, with a photograph clamped + to them, and ran through them quickly. A man in a soft hat, sitting on the + desk, watched him idly. + </p> + <p> + “Beverly Carlysle,” commented the night editor. “Back with bells on!” He + took up the photograph. “Doesn't look much older, does she? It's a queer + world.” + </p> + <p> + Louis Bassett, star reporter and feature writer of the Times-Republican, + smiled reminiscently. + </p> + <p> + “She was a wonder,” he said. “I interviewed her once, and I was crazy + about her. She had the stage set for me, all right. The papers had been + full of the incident of Jud Clark and the night he lined up fifteen + Johnnies in the lobby, each with a bouquet as big as a tub, all of them in + top hats and Inverness coats, and standing in a row. So she played up the + heavy domestic for me; knitting or sewing, I forget.” + </p> + <p> + “Fell for her, did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Did I? That was ten years ago, and I'm not sure I'm over it yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably that's the reason,” said the city editor, drily. “Go and see + her, and get over it. Get her views on the flapper and bobbed hair, for + next Sunday. Smith would be crazy about it.” + </p> + <p> + He finished his coffee. + </p> + <p> + “You might ask, too, what she thinks has become of Judson Clark,” he + added. “I have an idea she knows, if any one does.” Bassett stared at him. + </p> + <p> + “You're joking, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But it would make a darned good story.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + When he finished medical college Dick Livingstone had found, like other + men, that the two paths of ambition and duty were parallel and did not + meet. Along one lay his desire to focus all his energy in one direction, + to follow disease into the laboratory instead of the sick room, and there + to fight its unsung battles. And win. He felt that he would win. + </p> + <p> + Along the other lay David. + </p> + <p> + It was not until he had completed his course and had come home that he had + realized that David was growing old. Even then he might have felt that, by + the time David was compelled to relinquish his hold on his practice, he + himself would be sufficiently established in his specialty to take over + the support of the household. But here there was interposed a new element, + one he had not counted on. David was fiercely jealous of his practice; the + thought that it might pass into new and alien hands was bitter to him. To + hand it down to his adopted son was one thing; to pass it over to “some + young whipper-snapper” was another. + </p> + <p> + Nor were David's motives selfish or unworthy. His patients were his + friends. He had a sense of responsibility to them, and very little faith + in the new modern methods. He thought there was a great deal of tomfoolery + about them, and he viewed the gradual loss of faith in drugs with alarm. + When Dick wore rubber gloves during their first obstetric case together he + snorted. + </p> + <p> + “I've delivered about half the population of this town,” he said, “and + slapped 'em to make 'em breathe with my own bare hands. And I'm still here + and so are they.” + </p> + <p> + For by that time Dick had made his decision. He could not abandon David. + For him then and hereafter the routine of a general practice in a suburban + town, the long hours, the varied responsibilities, the feeling he had + sometimes that by doing many things passably he was doing none of them + well. But for compensation he had old David's content and greater leisure, + and Lucy Crosby's gratitude and love. + </p> + <p> + Now and then he chafed a little when he read some article in a medical + journal by one of his fellow enthusiasts, or when, in France, he saw men + younger than himself obtaining an experience in their several specialties + that would enable them to reach wide fields at home. But mostly he was + content, or at least resigned. He was building up the Livingstone + practice, and his one anxiety was lest the time should come when more + patients asked for Doctor Dick than for Doctor David. He did not want + David hurt. + </p> + <p> + After ten years the strangeness of his situation had ceased to be strange. + Always he meant some time to go back to Norada, and there to clear up + certain things, but it was a long journey, and he had very little time. + And, as the years went on, the past seemed unimportant compared with the + present. He gave little thought to the future. + </p> + <p> + Then, suddenly, his entire attention became focused on the future. + </p> + <p> + Just when he had fallen in love with Elizabeth Wheeler he did not know. He + had gone away to the war, leaving her a little girl, apparently, and he + had come back to find her, a woman. He did not even know he was in love, + at first. It was when, one day, he found himself driving past the Wheeler + house without occasion that he began to grow uneasy. + </p> + <p> + The future at once became extraordinarily important and so also, but + somewhat less vitally, the past. Had he the right to marry, if he could + make her care for him? + </p> + <p> + He sat in his chair by the window the night after the Homer baby's + arrival, and faced his situation. Marriage meant many things. It meant + love and companionship, but it also meant, should mean, children. Had he + the right to go ahead and live his life fully and happily? Was there any + chance that, out of the years behind him, there would come some forgotten + thing, some taint or incident, to spoil the carefully woven fabric of his + life? + </p> + <p> + Not his life. Hers. + </p> + <p> + On the Monday night after he had asked Elizabeth to go to the theater he + went into David's office and closed the door. Lucy, alive to every + movement in the old house, heard him go in and, rocking in her chair + overhead, her hands idle in her lap, waited in tense anxiety for the + interview to end. She thought she knew what Dick would ask, and what David + would answer. And, in a way, David would be right. Dick, fine, lovable, + upstanding Dick, had a right to the things other men had, to love and a + home of his own, to children, to his own full life. + </p> + <p> + But suppose Dick insisted on clearing everything up before he married? For + to Lucy it was unthinkable that any girl in her senses would refuse him. + Suppose he went back to Norada? He had not changed greatly in ten years. + He had been well known there, a conspicuous figure. + </p> + <p> + Her mind began to turn on the possibility of keeping him away from Norada. + </p> + <p> + Some time later she heard the office door open and then close with Dick's + characteristic slam. He came up the stairs, two at a time as was his + custom, and knocked at her door. When he came in she saw what David's + answer had been, and she closed her eyes for an instant. + </p> + <p> + “Put on your things,” he said gayly, “and we'll take a ride on the + hill-tops. I've arranged for a moon.” + </p> + <p> + And when she hesitated: + </p> + <p> + “It makes you sleep, you know. I'm going, if I have to ride alone and talk + to an imaginary lady beside me.” + </p> + <p> + She rather imagined that that had been his first idea, modified by his + thought of her. She went over and put a wrinkled hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “You look happy, Dick,” she said wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “I am happy, Aunt Lucy,” he replied, and bending over, kissed her. + </p> + <p> + On Wednesday he was in a state of alternating high spirits and periods of + silence. Even Minnie noticed it. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dick's that queer I hardly know how to take him.” she said to Lucy. + “He came back and asked for noodle soup, and he put about all the hardware + in the kitchen on him and said he was a knight in armor. And when I took + the soup in he didn't eat it.” + </p> + <p> + It was when he was ready to go out that Lucy's fears were realized. He + came in, as always when anything unusual was afoot, to let her look him + over. He knew that she waited for him, to give his tie a final pat, to + inspect the laundering of his shirt bosom, to pick imaginary threads off + his dinner coat. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said, standing before her, “how's this? Art can do no more, + Mrs. Crosby.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll brush your back,” she said, and brought the brush. He stooped to + her, according to the little ceremony she had established, and she made + little dabs at his speckless back. “There, that's better.” + </p> + <p> + He straightened. + </p> + <p> + “How do you think Uncle David is?” he asked, unexpectedly. + </p> + <p> + “Better than he has been in years. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I'm thinking of taking a little trip. Only ten days,” he added, + seeing her face. “You could house-clean my office while I'm away. You know + you've been wanting to.” + </p> + <p> + She dropped the brush, and he stooped to pick it up. That gave her a + moment. + </p> + <p> + “'Where?” she managed. + </p> + <p> + “To Dry River, by way of Norada.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you go back there?” she asked, in a carefully suppressed + voice. “Why don't you go East? You've wanted to go back to Johns Hopkins + for months?” + </p> + <p> + “On the other hand, why shouldn't I go back to Norada?” he asked, with an + affectation of lightness. Then he put his hand on her shoulders. “Why + shouldn't I go back and clear things up in my own mind? Why shouldn't I + find out, for instance, that I am a free man?” + </p> + <p> + “You are free.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to know,” he said, almost doggedly. “I can't take a chance. I + believe I am. I believe David, of course. But anyhow I'd like to see the + ranch. I want to see Maggie Donaldson.” + </p> + <p> + “She's not at the ranch. Her husband died, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I have an idea I can find her,” he said. “I'll make a good try, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + When he had gone she got her salts bottle and lay down on her bed. Her + heart was hammering wildly. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth was waiting for him in the living-room, in the midst of her + family. She looked absurdly young and very pretty, and he had a momentary + misgiving that he was old to her, and that—Heaven save the mark!—that + she looked up to him. He considered the blue dress the height of fashion + and the mold of form, and having taken off his overcoat in the hall, tried + to put on Mr. Wheeler's instead in his excitement. Also, becoming very + dignified after the overcoat incident, and making an exit which should + conceal his wild exultation and show only polite pleasure, he stumbled + over Micky, so that they finally departed to a series of staccato yelps. + </p> + <p> + He felt very hot and slightly ridiculous as he tucked Elizabeth into the + little car, being very particular about her feet, and starting with + extreme care, so as not to jar her. He had the feeling of being entrusted + temporarily with something infinitely precious, and very, very dear. + Something that must never suffer or be hurt. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + On Wednesday morning David was in an office in the city. He sat forward on + the edge of his chair, and from time to time he took out his handkerchief + and wiped his face or polished his glasses, quite unconscious of either + action. He was in his best suit, with the tie Lucy had given him for + Christmas. + </p> + <p> + Across from him, barricaded behind a great mahogany desk, sat a small man + with keen eyes and a neat brown beard. On the desk were a spotless + blotter, an inkstand of silver and a pen. Nothing else. The terrible order + of the place had at first rather oppressed David. + </p> + <p> + The small man was answering a question. + </p> + <p> + “Rather on the contrary, I should say. The stronger the character the + greater the smash.” + </p> + <p> + David pondered this. + </p> + <p> + “I've read all you've written on the subject,” he said finally. + “Especially since the war.” + </p> + <p> + The psycho-analyst put his finger tips together, judicially. “Yes. The war + bore me out,” he observed with a certain complacence. “It added a great + deal to our literature, too, although some of the positions are not well + taken. Van Alston, for instance—” + </p> + <p> + “You have said, I think, that every man has a breaking point.” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. All of us. We can go just so far. Where the mind is strong + and very sound we can go further than when it is not. Some men, for + instance, lead lives that would break you or me. Was there—was there + such a history in this case?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Doctor David's voice was reluctant. + </p> + <p> + “The mind is a strange thing,” went on the little man, musingly. “It has + its censors, that go off duty during sleep. Our sternest and often + unconscious repressions pass them then, and emerge in the form of dreams. + But of course you know all that. Dream symbolism. Does the person in this + case dream? That would be interesting, perhaps important.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” David said unhappily. + </p> + <p> + “The walling off, you say, followed a shock?” + </p> + <p> + “Shock and serious illness.” + </p> + <p> + “Was there fear with the shock?” + </p> + <p> + David hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. “Very great fear, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lauler glanced quickly at David and then looked away. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he nodded. “Of course the walling off of a part of the past—you + said a part—?” + </p> + <p> + “Practically all of it. I'll tell you about that later. What about the + walling off?” + </p> + <p> + “It is generally the result of what we call the protective mechanism of + fear. Back of most of these cases lies fear. Not cowardice, but perhaps we + might say the limit of endurance. Fear is a complex, of course. Dislike, + in a small way, has the same reaction. We are apt to forget the names of + persons we dislike. But if you have been reading on the subject—” + </p> + <p> + “I've been studying it for ten years.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten years! Do you mean that this condition has persisted for ten years?” + </p> + <p> + David moistened his dry lips. “Yes,” he admitted. “It might not have done + so, but the—the person who made this experiment used suggestion. The + patient was very ill, and weak. It was desirable that he should not + identify himself with his past. The loss of memory of the period + immediately preceding was complete, but of course, gradually, the cloud + began to lift over the earlier periods. It was there that suggestion was + used, so that such memories as came back were,—well, the patient + adapted them to fit what he was told.” + </p> + <p> + Again Doctor Lauler shot a swift glance at David, and looked away. + </p> + <p> + “An interesting experiment,” he commented. “It must have taken courage.” + </p> + <p> + “A justifiable experiment,” David affirmed stoutly. “And it took courage. + Yes.” + </p> + <p> + David got up and reached for his hat. Then he braced himself for the real + purpose of his visit. + </p> + <p> + “What I have been wondering about,” he said, very carefully, “is this: + this mechanism of fear, this wall—how strong is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Strong?” + </p> + <p> + “It's like a dam, I take it. It holds back certain memories, like a + floodgate. Is anything likely to break it down?” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly something intimately connected with the forgotten period might + do it. I don't know, Livingstone. We've only commenced to dig into the + mind, and we have many theories and a few established facts. For instance, + the primal instincts—” + </p> + <p> + He talked on, with David nodding now and then in apparent understanding, + but with his thoughts far away. He knew the theories; a good many of them + he considered poppycock. Dreams might come from the subconscious mind, but + a good many of them came from the stomach. They might be safety valves for + the mind, but also they might be rarebit. He didn't want dreams; what he + wanted was facts. Facts and hope. + </p> + <p> + The office attendant came in. She was as tidy as the desk, as obsessed by + order, as wooden. She placed a pad before the small man and withdrew. He + rose. + </p> + <p> + “Let me know if I can be of any further assistance, Doctor,” he said. “And + I'll be glad to see your patient at any time. I'd like the record for my + files.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” David said. He stood fingering his hat. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose there's nothing to do? The dam will either break, or it won't.” + </p> + <p> + “That's about it. Of course since the conditions that produced the setting + up of the defensive machinery were unhappy, I'd say that happiness will + play a large part in the situation. That happiness and a normal occupation + will do a great deal to maintain the status quo. Of course I would advise + no return to the unhappy environment, and no shocks. Nothing, in other + words, to break down the wall.” + </p> + <p> + Outside, in the corridor, David remembered to put on his hat. Happiness + and a normal occupation, yes. But no shock. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, he felt vaguely comforted, and as though it had helped to + bring the situation out into the open and discuss it. He had carried his + burden alone for ten years, or with only the additional weight of Lucy's + apprehensions. He wandered out into the city streets, and found himself, + some time later, at the railway station, without remembering how he got + there. + </p> + <p> + Across from the station was a large billboard, and on it the name of + Beverly Carlysle and her play, “The Valley.” He stood for some time and + looked at it, before he went in to buy his ticket. Not until he was in the + train did he realize that he had forgotten to get his lunch. + </p> + <p> + He attended to his work that evening as usual, but he felt very tired, and + Lucy, going in at nine o'clock, found him dozing in his chair, his collar + half choking him and his face deeply suffused. She wakened him and then, + sitting down across from him, joined him in the vigil that was to last + until they heard the car outside. + </p> + <p> + She had brought in her sewing, and David pretended to read. Now and then + he looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + At midnight they heard the car go in, and the slamming of the stable door, + followed by Dick's footsteps on the walk outside. Lucy was very pale, and + the hands that held her sewing twitched nervously. Suddenly she stood up + and put a hand on David's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Dick was whistling on the kitchen porch. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + Louis Bassett was standing at the back of the theater, talking to the + publicity man of The Valley company, Fred Gregory. Bassett was calm and + only slightly interested. By the end of the first act he had realized that + the star was giving a fine performance, that she had even grown in power, + and that his sentimental memory of her was considerably dearer than the + reality. + </p> + <p> + “Going like a house afire,” he said, as the curtain fell. + </p> + <p> + Beside his robust physique, Gregory, the publicity man, sank into + insignificance. Even his pale spats, at which Bassett had shot a + contemptuous glance, his highly expensive tailoring, failed to make him + appear more than he was, a little, dapper man, with a pale cold eye and a + rather too frequent smile. “She's the best there is,” was his comment. He + hesitated, then added: “She's my sister, you know. Naturally, for business + reasons, I don't publish the relationship.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett glanced at him. + </p> + <p> + “That so? Well, I'm glad she decided to come back. She's too good to + bury.” + </p> + <p> + But if he expected Gregory to follow the lead he was disappointed. His + eyes, blank and expressionless, were wandering over the house as the + lights flashed up. + </p> + <p> + “This whole tour has been a triumph. She's the best there is,” Gregory + repeated, “and they know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she know it?” Bassett inquired. + </p> + <p> + “She doesn't throw any temperament, if that's what you mean. She—” + </p> + <p> + He checked himself suddenly, and stood, clutching the railing, bent + forward and staring into the audience. Bassett watched him, considerably + surprised. It took a great deal to startle a theatrical publicity man, yet + here was one who looked as though he had seen a ghost. + </p> + <p> + After a time Gregory straightened and moistened his dry lips. + </p> + <p> + “There's a man sitting down there—see here, the sixth row, next the + aisle; there's a girl in a blue dress beside him. See him? Do you know who + he is?” + </p> + <p> + “Never saw him before.” + </p> + <p> + For perhaps two minutes Gregory continued to stare. Then he moved over to + the side of the house and braced against the wall continued his close and + anxious inspection. After a time he turned away and, passing behind the + boxes, made his way into the wings. Bassett's curiosity was aroused, + especially when, shortly after, Gregory reappeared, bringing with him a + small man in an untidy suit who was probably, Bassett surmised, the stage + manager. + </p> + <p> + He saw the small man stare, nod, stand watching, and finally disappear, + and Gregory resume his former position and attitude against the side wall. + Throughout the last act Gregory did not once look at the stage. He + continued his steady, unwavering study of the man in the sixth row seat + next the aisle, and Bassett continued his study of the little man. + </p> + <p> + His long training made him quick to scent a story. He was not sure, of + course, but the situation appeared to him at least suggestive. With the + end of the play he wandered out with the crowd, edging his way close to + the man and girl who had focused Gregory's attention, and following them + into the street. He saw only a tall man with a certain quiet distinction + of bearing, and a young and pretty girl, still flushed and excited, who + went up the street a short distance and got into a small and shabby car. + Bassett noted, carefully, the license number of the car. + </p> + <p> + Then, still curious and extremely interested, he walked briskly around to + the stage entrance, nodded to the doorkeeper, and went in. + </p> + <p> + Gregory was not in sight, but the stage manager was there, directing the + striking of the last set. + </p> + <p> + “I'm waiting for Gregory,” Bassett said. “Hasn't fainted, has he?” + </p> + <p> + “What d'you mean, fainted?” inquired the stage manager, with a touch of + hostility. + </p> + <p> + “I was with him when he thought he recognized somebody. You know who. You + can tell him I got his automobile number.” + </p> + <p> + The stage manager's hostility faded, and he fell into the trap. “You know + about it, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I was with him when he saw him. Unfortunately I couldn't help him out.” + </p> + <p> + “It's just possible it's a chance resemblance. I'm darned if I know. Look + at the facts! He's supposed to be dead. Ten years dead. His money's been + split up a dozen ways from the ace. Then—I knew him, you know—I + don't think even he would have the courage to come here and sit through a + performance. Although,” he added reflectively, “Jud Clark had the nerve + for anything.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett gave him a cigar and went out into the alley way that led to the + street. Once there, he stood still and softly whistled. Jud Clark! If that + was Judson Clark, he had the story of a lifetime. + </p> + <p> + For some time he walked the deserted streets of the city, thinking and + puzzling over the possibility of Gregory's being right. Sometime after + midnight he went back to the office and to the filing room. There, for two + hours, he sat reading closely old files of the paper, going through them + methodically and making occasional brief notes in a memorandum. Then, at + two o'clock he put away the files, and sitting back, lighted a cigar. + </p> + <p> + It was all there; the enormous Clark fortune inherited by a boy who had + gone mad about this same Beverly Carlysle; her marriage to her leading + man, Howard Lucas; the subsequent killing of Lucas by Clark at his Wyoming + ranch, and Clark's escape into the mountains. The sensational details of + Clark's infatuation, the drama of a crime and Clark's subsequent escape, + and the later certainty of his death in a mountain storm had filled the + newspapers of the time for weeks. Judson Clark had been famous, notorious, + infamous and dead, all in less than two years. A shameful and somehow a + pitiful story. + </p> + <p> + But if Judson Clark had died, the story still lived. Every so often it + came up again. Three years before he had been declared legally dead, and + his vast estates, as provided by the will of old Elihu Clark, had gone to + universities and hospitals. But now and then came a rumor. Jud Clark was + living in India; he had a cattle ranch in Venezuela; he had been seen on + the streets of New Orleans. + </p> + <p> + Bassett ran over the situation in his mind. + </p> + <p> + First then, grant that Clark was still living and had been in the theater + that night. It became necessary to grant other things. To grant, for + instance, that Clark was capable of sitting, with a girl beside him, + through a performance by the woman for whom he had wrecked his life, of a + play he had once known from the opening line to the tag. To grant that he + could laugh and applaud, and at the drop of the curtain go calmly away, + with such memories behind him as must be his. To grant, too, that he had + survived miraculously his sensational disappearance, found a new identity + and a new place for himself; even, witness the girl, possible new ties. + </p> + <p> + At half past two Bassett closed his memorandum book, stuffed it into his + pocket, and started for home. As he passed the Ardmore Hotel he looked up + at its windows. Gregory would have told her, probably. He wondered, half + amused, whether the stage manager had told him of his inquiries, and + whether in that case they might not fear him more than Clark himself. + After all, they had nothing to fear from Clark, if this were Clark. + </p> + <p> + No. What they might see and dread, knowing he had had a hint of a possible + situation, was the revival of the old story she had tried so hard to live + down. She was ambitious, and a new and rigid morality was sweeping the + country. What once might have been an asset stood now to be a bitter + liability. + </p> + <p> + He slowed down, absorbed in deep thought. It was a queer story. It might + be even more queer than it seemed. Gregory had been frightened rather than + startled. The man had even gone pale. + </p> + <p> + Motive, motive, that was the word. What motive lay behind action. + Conscious and unconscious, every volitional act was the result of motive. + </p> + <p> + He wondered what she had done when Gregory had told her. + </p> + <p> + As a matter of fact, Beverly Carlysle had shown less anxiety than her + brother. Still pale and shocked, he had gone directly to her dressing-room + when the curtain was rung down, had tapped and gone in. She was sitting + wearily in a chair, a cigarette between her fingers. Around was the usual + litter of a stage dressing-room after the play, the long shelf beneath the + mirror crowded with powders, rouge and pencils, a bunch of roses in the + corner washstand basin, a wardrobe trunk, and a maid covering with + cheese-cloth bags the evening's costumes. + </p> + <p> + “It went all right, I think, Fred.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said absently. “Go on out, Alice. I'll let you come back in a + few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + He waited until the door closed. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” she asked rather indifferently. “If it's more + quarreling in the company I don't want to hear it. I'm tired.” Then she + took a full look at him, and sat up. + </p> + <p> + “Fred! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + He gave her the truth, brutally and at once. + </p> + <p> + “I think Judson Clark was in the house to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither would I, if somebody told me,” he agreed sullenly. “I saw him. + Don't you suppose I know him? And if you don't believe me, call Saunders. + I got him out front. He knows.” + </p> + <p> + “You called Saunders!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? I tell you, Bev, I was nearly crazy. I'm nearly crazy now.” + </p> + <p> + “What did Saunders say?” + </p> + <p> + “If he didn't know Clark was dead, he'd say it was Clark.” + </p> + <p> + She was worried by that time, but far more collected than he was. She sat, + absently tapping the shelf with a nail file, and reflecting. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” she said. “Suppose he was? What then? He has been in hiding + for ten years. Why shouldn't he continue to hide? What would bring him out + now? Unless he needed money. Was he shabby?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said sulkily. “He was with a girl. He was dressed all right.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't say anything, except to Saunders?” + </p> + <p> + “No I'm not crazy.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd better see Joe,” she reflected. “Go and get him, Fred. And tell Alice + she needn't wait.” + </p> + <p> + She got up and moved about the room, putting things away and finding + relief in movement, a still beautiful woman, with rather accentuated + features and an easy carriage. Without her make-up the stage illusion of + her youth was gone, and she showed past suffering and present strain. Just + then she was uneasy and resentful, startled but not particularly alarmed. + Her reason told her that Judson Clark, even if he still lived and had been + there that night, meant to leave the dead past to care for itself, and + wished no more than she to revive it. She was surprised to find, as she + moved about, that she was trembling. + </p> + <p> + Her brother came back, and she turned to meet him. To her surprise he was + standing inside the door, white to the lips and staring at her with wild + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Saunders!” he said chokingly, “Saunders, the damned fool! He's given it + away.” + </p> + <p> + He staggered to a chair, and ran a handkerchief across his shaking lips. + </p> + <p> + “He told Bassett, of the Times-Republican,” he managed to say. “Do you—do + you know what that means? And Bassett got Clark's automobile number. He + said so.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up at her, his face twitching. “They're hound dogs on a scent, + Bev. They'll get the story, and blow it wide open.” + </p> + <p> + “You know I'm prepared for that. I have been for ten years.” + </p> + <p> + “I know.” He was suddenly emotional. He reached out and took her hand. + “Poor old Bev!” he said. “After the way you've come back, too. It's a + damned shame.” + </p> + <p> + She was calmer than he was, less convinced for one thing, and better + balanced always. She let him stroke her hand, standing near him with her + eyes absent and a little hard. + </p> + <p> + “I'd better make sure that was Jud first,” he offered, after a time, “and + then warn him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Bassett will be after him.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” she commanded sharply. “No, Fred. You let the thing alone. You've + built up an imaginary situation, and you're not thinking straight. Plenty + of things might happen. What probably has happened is that this Bassett is + at home and in bed.” + </p> + <p> + She sent him out for a taxi soon after, and they went back to the hotel. + But, alone later on in her suite in the Ardmore she did not immediately go + to bed. She put on a dressing gown and stood for a long time by her + window, looking out. Instead of the city lights, however, she saw a range + of snow-capped mountains, and sheltered at their foot the Clark ranch + house, built by the old millionaire as a place of occasional refuge from + the pressure of his life. There he had raised his fine horses, and trained + them for the track. There, when late in life he married, he had taken his + wife for their honeymoon and two years later, for the birth of their son. + And there, when she died, he had returned with the child, himself broken + and prematurely aged, to be killed by one of his own stallions when the + boy was fifteen. + </p> + <p> + Six years his own master, Judson had been twenty-one to her twenty, when + she first met him. Going the usual pace, too, and throwing money right and + left. He had financed her as a star, ransacking Europe for her stage + properties, and then he fell in love with her. She shivered as she + remembered it. It had been desperate and terrible, because she had cared + for some one else. + </p> + <p> + Standing by the window, she wondered as she had done over and over again + for ten years, what would have happened if, instead of marrying Howard, + she had married Judson Clark? Would he have settled down? She had felt + sometimes that in his wildest moments he was only playing a game that + amused him; that the hard-headed part of him inherited from his father + sometimes stood off and watched, with a sort of interested detachment, the + follies of the other. That he played his wild game with his tongue in his + cheek. + </p> + <p> + She left the window, turned out the lights and got into her bed. She was + depressed and lonely, and she cried a little. After a time she remembered + that she had not put any cream on her face. She crawled out again and went + through the familiar motions in the dark. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + Dick rose the next morning with a sense of lightness and content that sent + him singing into his shower. In the old stable which now housed both + Nettie and the little car Mike was washing them both with indiscriminate + wavings of the hose nozzle, his old pipe clutched in his teeth. From below + there came up the odors of frying sausages and of strong hot coffee. + </p> + <p> + The world was a good place. A fine old place. It had work and play and + love. It had office hours and visits and the golf links, and it had soft + feminine eyes and small tender figures to be always cared for and looked + after. + </p> + <p> + She liked him. She did not think he was old. She thought his profession + was the finest in the world. She had wondered if he would have time to + come and see her, some day. Time! He considered very seriously, as he + shaved before the slightly distorted mirror in the bathroom, whether it + would be too soon to run in that afternoon, just to see if she was tired, + or had caught cold or anything? Perhaps to-morrow would look better. No, + hang it all, to-day was to-day. + </p> + <p> + On his way from the bathroom to his bedroom he leaned over the staircase. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Lucy!” he called. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dick?” + </p> + <p> + “The top of the morning to you. D'you think Minnie would have time to + press my blue trousers this morning?” + </p> + <p> + There was the sound of her chair being pushed back in the dining-room, of + a colloquy in the kitchen, and Minnie herself appeared below him. + </p> + <p> + “Just throw them down, Doctor Dick,” she said. “I've got an iron hot now.” + </p> + <p> + “Some day, Minnie,” he announced, “you will wear a halo and with the + angels sing.” + </p> + <p> + This mood of unreasoning happiness continued all morning. He went from + house to house, properly grave and responsible but with a small song in + his heart, and about eleven o'clock he found time to stop at the village + haberdasher's and to select a new tie, which he had wrapped and stuffed in + his pocket. And which, inspected in broad day later on a country road, + gave him uneasy qualms as to its brilliance. + </p> + <p> + At the luncheon table he was almost hilarious, and David played up to him, + albeit rather heavily. But Lucy was thoughtful and quiet. She had a sense + of things somehow closing down on them, of hands reaching out from the + past, and clutching; Mrs. Morgan, Beverly Carlysle, Dick in love and + possibly going back to Norada. Unlike David, who was content that one + emergency had passed, she looked ahead and saw their common life a series + of such chances, with their anxieties and their dangers. + </p> + <p> + She could not eat. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless when she herself admitted a new patient for Dick that + afternoon, she had no premonition of trouble. She sent him into the + waiting-room, a tall, robust and youngish man, perhaps in his late + thirties, and went quietly on her way to her sitting-room, and to her + weekly mending. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, Louis Bassett was feeling more or less uncomfortable. + There was an air of peace and quiet respectability about the old house, a + domestic odor of baking cake, a quietness and stability that somehow made + his errand appear absurd. To connect it with Judson Clark and his + tumultuous past seemed ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + His errand, on the surface, was a neuralgic headache. + </p> + <p> + When, hat in hand, he walked into Dick's consulting room, he had made up + his mind that he would pay the price of an overactive imagination for a + prescription, walk out again, and try to forget that he had let a chance + resemblance carry him off his feet. + </p> + <p> + But, as he watched the man who sat across from him, tilted back in his + swivel chair, he was not so sure. Here was the same tall figure, the heavy + brown hair, the features and boyish smile of the photograph he had seen + the night before. As Judson Clark might have looked at thirty-two this man + looked. + </p> + <p> + He made his explanation easily. Was in town for the day. Subject to these + headaches. Worse over the right eye. No, he didn't wear glasses; perhaps + he should. + </p> + <p> + It wasn't Clark. It couldn't be. Jud Clark sitting there tilted back in an + old chair and asking questions as to the nature of his fictitious pain! + Impossible. Nevertheless he was of a mind to clear the slate and get some + sleep that night, and having taken his prescription and paid for it, he + sat back and commenced an apparently casual interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “Two names on your sign, I see. Father and son, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Doctor David Livingstone is my uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think you'd be in the city. Limitations to this sort of thing, + aren't there?” + </p> + <p> + “I like it,” said Dick, with an eye on the office clock. + </p> + <p> + “Patients are your friends, of course. Born and raised here, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. I was raised on a ranch in Wyoming. My father had a ranch + out there.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett shot a glance at him, but Dick was calm and faintly smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Wyoming!” the reporter commented. “That's a long way from here. Anywhere + near the new oil fields?” + </p> + <p> + “Not far from Norada. That's the oil center,” Dick offered, + good-naturedly. He rose, and glanced again at the clock. “If those + headaches continue you'd better have your eyes examined.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was puzzled. It seemed to him that there had been a shade of + evasion in the other man's manner, slightly less frankness in his eyes. + But he showed no excitement, nothing furtive or alarmed. And the open and + unsolicited statement as to Norada baffled him. He had to admit to himself + either that a man strongly resembling Judson Clark had come from the same + neighborhood, or— + </p> + <p> + “Norada?” he said. “That's where the big Clark ranch was located, wasn't + it? Ever happen to meet Judson Clark?” + </p> + <p> + “Our place was very isolated.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett found himself being politely ushered out, considerably more at sea + than when he went in and slightly irritated. His annoyance was not + decreased by the calm voice behind him which said: + </p> + <p> + “Better drink considerable water when you take that stuff. Some stomachs + don't tolerate it very well.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed. The reporter stood in the waiting-room for a moment. Then + he clapped on his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm a damned fool,” he muttered, and went out into the street. + </p> + <p> + He was disappointed and a trifle sheepish. Life was full of queer chances, + that was all. No resemblance on earth, no coincidence of birthplace, could + make him believe that Judson Clark, waster, profligate and fugitive from + the law was now sitting up at night with sick children, or delivering + babies. + </p> + <p> + After a time he remembered the prescription in his hand, and was about to + destroy it. He stopped and examined it, and then carefully placed it in + his pocket-book. After all, there were things that looked queer. The + fellow had certainly evaded that last question of his. + </p> + <p> + He made his way, head bent, toward the station. + </p> + <p> + He had ten minutes to wait, and he wandered to the newsstand. He made a + casual inspection of its display, bought a newspaper and was turning away, + when he stopped and gazed after a man who had just passed him from an + out-bound train. + </p> + <p> + The reporter looked after him with amused interest. Gregory, too! The + Livingstone chap had certainly started something. But it was odd, too. How + had Gregory traced him? Wasn't there something more in Gregory's presence + there than met the eye? Gregory's visit might be, like his own, the desire + to satisfy himself that the man was or was not Clark. Or it might be the + result of a conviction that it was Clark, and a warning against himself. + But if he had traced him, didn't that indicate that Clark himself had got + into communication with him? In other words, that the chap was Clark, + after all? Gregory, having made an inquiry of a hackman, had started along + the street, and, after a moment's thought, Bassett fell into line behind + him. He was extremely interested and increasingly cheerful. He remained + well behind, and with his newspaper rolled in his hand assumed the easy + yet brisk walk of the commuters around him, bound for home and their early + suburban dinners. + </p> + <p> + Half way along Station Street Gregory stopped before the Livingstone + house, read the sign, and rang the doorbell. The reporter slowed down, to + give him time for admission, and then slowly passed. In front of Harrison + Miller's house, however, he stopped and waited. He lighted a cigarette and + made a careful survey of the old place. Strange, if this were to prove the + haven where Judson Clark had taken refuge, this old brick two-story + dwelling, with its ramshackle stable in the rear, its small vegetable + garden, its casual beds of simple garden flowers set in a half acre or so + of ground. + </p> + <p> + A doctor. A pill shooter. Jud Clark! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <p> + Elizabeth had gone about all day with a smile on her lips and a sort of + exaltation in her eyes. She had, girl fashion, gone over and over the + totally uneventful evening they had spent together, remembering small + speeches and gestures; what he had said and she had answered. + </p> + <p> + She had, for instance, mentioned Clare Rossiter, very casually. Oh very, + very casually. And he had said: “Clare Rossiter? Oh, yes, the tall blonde + girl, isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + She was very happy. He had not seemed to find her too young or + particularly immature. He had asked her opinion on quite important things, + and listened carefully when she replied. She felt, though, that she knew + about one-tenth as much as he did, and she determined to read very + seriously from that time on. Her mother, missing her that afternoon, found + her curled up in the library, beginning the first volume of Gibbon's + “Rome” with an air of determined concentration, and wearing her best + summer frock. + </p> + <p> + She did not intend to depend purely on Gibbon's “Rome,” evidently. + </p> + <p> + “Are you expecting any one, Elizabeth?” she asked, with the frank + directness characteristic of mothers, and Elizabeth, fixing a date in her + mind with terrible firmness, looked up absently and said: + </p> + <p> + “No one in particular.” + </p> + <p> + At three o'clock, with a slight headache from concentration, she went + upstairs and put up her hair again; rather high this time to make her feel + taller. Of course, it was not likely he would come. He was very busy. So + many people depended on him. It must be wonderful to be like that, to have + people needing one, and looking out of the door and saying: “I think I see + him coming now.” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless when the postman rang her heart gave a small leap and then + stood quite still. When Annie slowly mounted the stairs she was already on + her feet, but it was only a card announcing: “Mrs. Sayre, Wednesday, May + fifteenth, luncheon at one-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + However, at half past four the bell rang again, and a masculine voice + informed Annie, a moment later, that it would put its overcoat here, + because lately a dog had eaten a piece out of it and got most awful + indigestion. + </p> + <p> + The time it took Annie to get up the stairs again gave her a moment so + that she could breathe more naturally, and she went down very deliberately + and so dreadfully poised that at first he thought she was not glad to see + him. + </p> + <p> + “I came, you see,” he said. “I intended to wait until to-morrow, but I had + a little time. But if you're doing anything—” + </p> + <p> + “I was reading Gibbon's 'Rome,'” she informed him. “I think every one + should know it. Don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, what for?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” They looked at each other, and suddenly they laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to improve my mind,” she explained. “I felt, last night, that + you—that you know so many things, and that I was frightfully stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say,” he asked, aghast, “that I—! Great Scott!” + </p> + <p> + Settled in the living-room, they got back rather quickly to their status + of the night before, and he was moved to confession. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't really intend to wait until to-morrow,” he said. “I got up with + the full intention of coming here to-day, if I did it over the wreck of my + practice. At eleven o'clock this morning I held up a consultation ten + minutes to go to Yardsleys and buy a tie, for this express purpose. + Perhaps you have noticed it already.” + </p> + <p> + “I have indeed. It's a wonderful tie.” + </p> + <p> + “Neat but not gaudy, eh?” He grinned at her, happily. “You know, you might + steer me a bit about my ties. I have the taste of an African savage. I + nearly bought a purple one, with red stripes. And Aunt Lucy thinks I + should wear white lawn, like David!” + </p> + <p> + They talked, those small, highly significant nothings which are only the + barrier behind which go on the eager questionings and unspoken answers of + youth and love. They had known each other for years, had exchanged the + same give and take of neighborhood talk when they met as now. To-day + nothing was changed, and everything. + </p> + <p> + Then, out of a clear sky, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I may be going away before long, Elizabeth.” + </p> + <p> + He was watching her intently. She had a singular feeling that behind this, + as behind everything that afternoon, was something not spoken. Something + that related to her. Perhaps it was because of his tone. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean-not to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I want to go back to Wyoming. Where I was born. Only for a few + weeks.” + </p> + <p> + And in that “only for a few weeks” there lay some of the unspoken things. + That he would miss her and come back quickly to her. That she would miss + him, and that subconsciously he knew it. And behind that, too, a promise. + He would come back to her. + </p> + <p> + “Only for a few weeks,” he repeated. “I thought perhaps, if you wouldn't + mind my writing to you, now and then—I write a rotten hand, you + know. Most medical men do.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like it very much,” she said, primly. + </p> + <p> + She felt suddenly very lonely, as though he had already gone, and slightly + resentful, not at him but at the way things happened. And then, too, + everyone knew that once a Westerner always a Westerner. The West always + called its children. Not that she put it that way. But she had a sort of + vision, gained from the moving pictures, of a country of wide spaces and + tall mountains, where men wore quaint clothing and the women rode wild + horses and had the dash she knew she lacked. She was stirred by vague + jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “You may never come back,” she said, casually. “After all, you were born + there, and we must seem very quiet to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Quiet!” he exclaimed. “You are heavenly restful and comforting. You—” + he checked himself and got up. “Then I'm to write, and you are to make out + as much of my scrawl as you can and answer. Is that right?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll write you all the town gossip.” + </p> + <p> + “If you do—!” he threatened her. “You're to write me what you're + doing, and all about yourself. Remember, I'll be counting on you.” + </p> + <p> + And, if their voices were light, there was in both of them the sense of a + pact made, of a bond that was to hold them, like clasped hands, against + their coming separation. It was rather anti-climacteric after that to have + him acknowledge that he didn't know exactly when he could get away! + </p> + <p> + She went with him to the door and stood there, her soft hair blowing, as + he got into the car. When he looked back, as he turned the corner, she was + still there. He felt very happy affable, and he picked up an elderly + village woman with her and went considerably out of his way to take her + home. + </p> + <p> + He got back to the office at half past six to find a red-eyed Minnie in + the hall. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <p> + AT half past five that afternoon David had let himself into the house with + his latch key, hung up his overcoat on the old walnut hat rack, and went + into his office. The strain of the days before had told on him, and he + felt weary and not entirely well. He had fallen asleep in his buggy, and + had wakened to find old Nettie drawing him slowly down the main street of + the town, pursuing an erratic but homeward course, while the people on the + pavements watched and smiled. + </p> + <p> + He went into his office, closed the door, and then, on the old leather + couch with its sagging springs he stretched himself out to finish his nap. + </p> + <p> + Almost immediately, however, the doorbell rang, and a moment later Minnie + opened his door. + </p> + <p> + “Gentleman to see you, Doctor David.” + </p> + <p> + He got up clumsily and settled his collar. Then he opened the door into + his waiting-room. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” he said resignedly. + </p> + <p> + A small, dapper man, in precisely the type of clothes David most + abominated, and wearing light-colored spats, rose from his chair and + looked at him with evident surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I've made a mistake. A Doctor Livingstone left his seat number + for calls at the box office of the Annex Theater last night—the + Happy Valley company—but he was a younger man. I—” + </p> + <p> + David stiffened, but he surveyed his visitor impassively from under his + shaggy white eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't been in a theater for a dozen years, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Gregory was convinced that he had made a mistake. Like Louis Bassett, the + very unlikeliness of Jud Clark being connected with the domestic + atmosphere and quiet respectability of the old house made him feel + intrusive and absurd. He was about to apologize and turn away, when he + thought of something. + </p> + <p> + “There are two names on your sign. The other one, was he by any chance at + the theater last night?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I shall have to have a reason for these inquiries,” David said + slowly. + </p> + <p> + He was trying to place Gregory, to fit him into the situation; straining + back over ten years of security, racking his memory, without result. + </p> + <p> + “Just what have you come to find out?” he asked, as Gregory turned and + looked around the room. + </p> + <p> + “The other Doctor Livingstone is your brother?” + </p> + <p> + “My nephew.” + </p> + <p> + Gregory shot a sharp glance at him, but all he saw was an elderly man, + with heavy white hair and fierce shaggy eyebrows, a portly and dignified + elderly gentleman, rather resentfully courteous. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry to trouble you,” he said. “I suppose I've made a mistake. I—is + your nephew at home?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “May I see a picture of him, if you have one?” + </p> + <p> + David's wild impulse was to smash Gregory to the earth, to annihilate him. + His collar felt tight, and he pulled it away from his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Not unless I know why you want to see it.” + </p> + <p> + “He is tall, rather spare? And he took a young lady to the theater last + night?” Gregory persisted. + </p> + <p> + “He answers that description. What of it?” + </p> + <p> + “And he is your nephew?” + </p> + <p> + “My brother's son,” David said steadily. + </p> + <p> + Somehow it began to dawn on him that there was nothing inimical in this + strange visitor, that he was anxious and ill at ease. There was, indeed, + something almost beseeching in Gregory's eyes, as though he stood ready to + give confidence for confidence. And, more than that, a sort of not + unfriendly stubbornness, as though he had come to do something he meant to + do. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” he said, relaxing somewhat. “Certainly my nephew is making no + secret of the fact that he went to the theater last night. If you'll tell + me who you are—” + </p> + <p> + But Gregory did not sit down. He stood where he was, and continued to eye + David intently. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know just what it conveys to you, Doctor, but I am Beverly + Carlysle's brother.” + </p> + <p> + David lowered himself into his chair. His knees were suddenly weak under + him. But he was able to control his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said. And waited. + </p> + <p> + “Something happened last night at the theater. It may be important. I'd + have to see your nephew, in order to find out if it is. I can't afford to + make a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + David's ruddy color had faded. He opened a drawer of his desk and produced + a copy of the photograph of Dick in his uniform. “Maybe this will help + you.” + </p> + <p> + Gregory studied it carefully, carrying it to the window to do so. When he + confronted David again he was certain of himself and his errand for the + first time, and his manner had changed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, significantly. “It does.” + </p> + <p> + He placed the photograph on the desk, and sitting down, drew his chair + close to David's. “I'll not use any names, Doctor. I think you know what + I'm talking about. I was sure enough last night. I'm certain now.” + </p> + <p> + David nodded. “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll start like this. God knows I don't want to make any trouble. But + I'll put a hypothetical case. Suppose that a man when drunk commits a + crime and then disappears; suppose he leaves behind him a bad record and + an enormous fortune; suppose then he reforms and becomes a useful citizen, + and everything is buried.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor David listened stonily. Gregory lowered his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose there's a woman mixed up in that situation. Not guiltily, but + there's a lot of talk. And suppose she lives it down, for ten years, and + then goes back to her profession, in a play the families take the children + to see, and makes good. It isn't hard to suppose that neither of those two + people wants the thing revived, is it?” + </p> + <p> + David cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “You mean, then, that there is danger of such a revival?” + </p> + <p> + “I think there is,” Gregory said bitterly. “I recognized this man last + night, and called a fellow who knew him in the old days, Saunders, our + stage manager. And a newspaper man named Bassett wormed it out of + Saunders. You know what that means.” + </p> + <p> + David heard him clearly, but as though from a great distance. + </p> + <p> + “You can see how it appears to Bassett. If he's found it, it's the big + story of a lifetime. I thought he'd better be warned.” + </p> + <p> + When David said nothing, but sat holding tight to the arms of his old + chair, Gregory reached for his hat and got up. + </p> + <p> + “The thing for him to do,” he said, “is to leave town for a while. This + Bassett is a hound-hog on a scent. They all are. He is Bassett of the + Times-Republican. And he took Jud—he took your nephew's automobile + license number.” + </p> + <p> + Still David sat silent, and Gregory moved to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Get him away, to-night if you can.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” David said. His voice was thick. “I appreciate your coming.” + </p> + <p> + He got up dizzily, as Gregory said, “Good-evening” and went out. The room + seemed very dark and unsteady, and not familiar. So this was what had + happened, after all the safe years! A man could work and build and pray, + but if his house was built on the sand— + </p> + <p> + As the outer door closed David fell to the floor with a crash. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <p> + Bassett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which it was Harrison + Miller's custom to clip with his own bachelor hands, and waited. And as he + waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside, behind the neatly + curtained windows of the old brick house. + </p> + <p> + He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to have forgotten + something, and perhaps happen in on what might be drama of a rather high + order; what, supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly sure to be + drama. He discarded the idea, however, and began again his interested + survey of the premises. Whoever conceived this sort of haven for Clark, if + it were Clark, had shown considerable shrewdness. The town fairly smelt of + respectability; the tree-shaded streets, the children in socks and small + crisp-laundered garments, the houses set back, each in its square of + shaved lawn, all peaceful, middle class and unexciting. The last town in + the world for Judson Clark, the last profession, the last house, this + shabby old brick before him. + </p> + <p> + He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory had been right in + his identification, he was, beyond those windows at that moment, very + possibly warning Clark against himself. Gregory would know his type, that + he never let go. He drew himself up a little. + </p> + <p> + The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning toward the station. + Bassett caught up with him and put a hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said cheerfully. “It was, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Gregory stopped dead and stared at him. Then: + </p> + <p> + “Old dog Tray!” he said sneeringly. “If your brain was as good as your + nose, Bassett, you'd be a whale of a newspaper man.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't bother about my brain. It's working fine to-day, anyhow. Well, what + had he to say for himself?” + </p> + <p> + Gregory's mind was busy, and he had had a moment to pull himself together. + </p> + <p> + “We both get off together,” he said, more amiably. “That fellow isn't Jud + Clark and never was. He's a doctor, and the nephew of the old doctor + there. They're in practice together.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you see them both?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett eyed him. Either Gregory was a good actor, or the whole trail + ended there after all. He himself had felt, after his interview, with + Dick, that the scent was false. And there was this to be said: Gregory had + been in the house scarcely ten minutes. Long enough to acknowledge a + mistake, but hardly long enough for any dramatic identification. He was + keenly disappointed, but he had had long experience of disappointment, and + after a moment he only said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's that. He certainly looked like Clark to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll say he did.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather surprised him, didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he was all right,” Gregory said. “I didn't tell him anything, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “I was after you, all right,” he said, cheerfully. “But if I was barking + up the wrong tree, I'm done. I don't have to be hit on the head to make me + stop. Come and have a soda-water on me,” he finished amiably. “There's no + train until seven.” + </p> + <p> + But Gregory refused. + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks. I'll wander on down to the station and get a paper.” + </p> + <p> + The reporter smiled. Gregory was holding a grudge against him, for a bad + night and a bad day. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said affably. “I'll see you at the train. I'll walk about + a bit.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and started back up the street again, walking idly. His chagrin + was very real. He hated to be fooled, and fooled he had been. Gregory was + not the only one who had lost a night's sleep. Then, unexpectedly, he was + hailed from the curbstone, and he saw with amazement that it was Dick + Livingstone. + </p> + <p> + “Take you anywhere?” Dick asked. “How's the headache?” + </p> + <p> + “Better, thanks.” Bassett stared at him. “No, I'm just walking around + until train-time. Are you starting out or going home, at this hour?” + </p> + <p> + “Going home. Well, glad the head's better.” + </p> + <p> + He drove on, leaving the reporter gazing after him. So Gregory had been + lying. He hadn't seen this chap at all. Then why—? He walked on, + turning this new phase of the situation over in his mind. Why this + elaborate fiction, if Gregory had merely gone in, waited for ten minutes, + and come out again? + </p> + <p> + It wasn't reasonable. It wasn't logical. Something had happened inside the + house to convince Gregory that he was right. He had seen somebody, or + something. He hadn't needed to lie. He could have said frankly that he had + seen no one. But no, he had built up a fabric carefully calculated to + throw Bassett off the scent. + </p> + <p> + He saw Dick stop in front of the house, get out and enter. And coming to a + decision, he followed him and rang the doorbell. For a long time no one + answered. Then the maid of the afternoon opened the door, her eyes red + with crying, and looked at him with hostility. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Richard Livingstone?” + </p> + <p> + “You can't see him.” + </p> + <p> + “It's important.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can't see him. Doctor David has just had a stroke. He's in the + office now, on the floor.” + </p> + <p> + She closed the door on him, and he turned and went away. It was all clear + to him; Gregory had seen, not Clark, but the older man; had told him and + gone away. And under the shock the older man had collapsed. That was sad. + It was very sad. But it was also extremely convincing. + </p> + <p> + He sat up late that night again, running over the entries in his notebook. + The old story, as he pieced it out, ran like this: + </p> + <p> + It had been twelve years ago, when, according to the old files, Clark had + financed Beverly Carlysle's first starring venture. He had, apparently, + started out in the beginning only to give her the publicity she needed. In + devising it, however, he had shown a sort of boyish recklessness and + ingenuity that had caught the interest of the press, and set newspaper men + to chuckling wherever they got together. + </p> + <p> + He had got together a dozen or so of young men like himself, wealthy, idle + and reckless with youth, and, headed by him, they had made the + exploitation of the young star an occupation. The newspapers referred to + the star and her constellation as Beverly Carlysle and her Broadway + Beauties. It had been unvicious, young, and highly entertaining, and it + had cost Judson Clark his membership in his father's conservative old + clubs. + </p> + <p> + For a time it livened the theatrical world with escapades that were + harmless enough, if sensational. Then, after a time, newspaper row began + to whisper that young Clark was in love with the girl. The Broadway + Beauties broke up, after a wild farewell dinner. The audiences ceased to + expect a row of a dozen youths, all dressed alike with gardenias in their + buttonholes and perhaps red neckties with their evening suits, to rise in + their boxes on the star's appearance and solemnly bow. And the star + herself lost a little of the anxious look she frequently wore. + </p> + <p> + The story went, after a while, that Judson Clark had been refused, and was + taking his refusal badly. Reporters saw him, carelessly dressed, outside + the stage door waiting, and the story went that the girl had thrown him + over, money and all, for her leading man. One thing was clear; Clark, not + a drinker before, had taken to drinking hard, and after a time, and some + unpleasant scenes probably, she refused to see him any more. + </p> + <p> + When the play closed, in June, 1911, she married Howard Lucas, her leading + man; his third wife. Lucas had been not a bad chap, a good-looking, rather + negligible man, given to all-day Sunday poker, carefully valeted, not very + keen mentally, but amiable. They had bought a house on East Fifty-sixth + Street, and were looking for a new play with Lucas as co-star, when he + unaccountably went to pieces nervously, stopped sleeping, and developed a + slight twitching of his handsome, rather vacuous face. + </p> + <p> + Judson Clark had taken his yacht and gone to Europe, and was reported from + here and there not too favorably. But when he came back, in early + September, he had apparently recovered from his infatuation, was his old, + carefully dressed self again, and when interviewed declared his intention + of spending the winter on his Wyoming ranch. + </p> + <p> + Of course he must have heard of Lucas's breakdown, and equally, of course, + he must have seen them both. What happened at that interview, by what + casual attitude he allayed Lucas's probable jealousy and the girl's own + nervousness, Bassett had no way of discovering. It was clear that he + convinced them both of his good faith, for the next note in the reporter's + book was simply a date, September 12, 1911. + </p> + <p> + That was the day they had all started West together, traveling in Clark's + private car, with Lucas, twitching slightly, smiling and waving farewell + from a window. + </p> + <p> + The big smash did not come until the middle of October. + </p> + <p> + Bassett sat back and considered. He had a fairly clear idea of the + conditions at the ranch; daily riding, some little reading, and a great + deal too much of each other. A sick man, too, unhappy in his exile, + chafing against his restrictions, lonely and irritable. The girl, early + seeing her mistake, and Clark's jealousy of her husband. The door into + their apartment closing, the thousand and one unconscious intimacies + between man and wife, the breakfast for two going up the stairs, and below + that hot-eyed boy, agonized and passionately jealous, yet meeting them and + looking after them, their host and a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + Lucas took to drinking, after a time, to allay his sheer boredom. And Jud + Clark drank with him. At the end of three weeks they were both drinking + heavily, and were politely quarrelsome. Bassett could fill that in also. + He could see the girl protesting, watching, increasingly anxious as she + saw that Clark's jealousy was matched by her husband's. + </p> + <p> + A queer picture, he reflected, the three of them shut away on the great + ranch, and every day some new tension, some new strain. + </p> + <p> + Then, one night at dinner, they quarreled, and Beverly left the table. She + was going to pack her things and go back to New York. She had felt, + probably, that something was bound to snap. And while she was upstairs + Clark had shot and killed Howard Lucas, and himself disappeared. + </p> + <p> + He had run, testimony at the inquest revealed, to the corral, and saddled + a horse. Although it was only October, it was snowing hard, but in spite + of that he had turned his horse toward the mountains. By midnight a posse + from Norada had started out, and another up the Dry River Canyon, but the + storm turned into a blizzard in the mountains, and they were obliged to + turn back. A few inches more snow, and they could not have got their + horses out. A week or so later, with a crust of ice over it, a few of them + began again, with no expectation, however, of finding Clark alive. They + came across his horse on the second day, but they did not find him, and + there were some among them who felt that, after all, old Elihu Clark's boy + had chosen the better way. + </p> + <p> + Bassett closed his notebook and lighted a cigar. + </p> + <p> + There was a big story to be had for the seeking, a whale of a story. He + could go to the office, give them a hint, draw expense money and start for + Norada the next night. He knew well enough that he would have to begin + there, and that it would not be easy. Witnesses of the affair at the ranch + would be missing now, or when found the first accuracy of their statements + would either be dulled by time or have been added to with the passing + years. The ranch itself might have passed into other hands. To reconstruct + the events of ten years ago might be impossible, or nearly so. But that + was not his problem. He would have to connect Norada with Haverly, Clark + with Livingstone. One thing only was simple. If he found Livingstone's + story was correct, that he had lived on a ranch near Norada before the + crime and as Livingstone, then he would acknowledge that two men could + look precisely alike and come from the same place, and yet not be the + same. If not— + </p> + <p> + But, after he had turned out his light and got into bed, he began to feel + a certain distaste for his self-appointed task. If Livingstone were Clark, + if after years of effort he had pulled himself up by his own boot-straps, + had made himself a man out of the reckless boy he had been, a decent and + useful citizen, why pull him down? After all, the world hadn't lost much + in Lucas; a sleek, not over-intelligent big animal, that had been Howard + Lucas. + </p> + <p> + He decided to sleep over it, and by morning he found himself not only + disinclined to the business, but firmly resolved to let it drop. Things + were well enough as they were. The woman in the case was making good. Jud + was making good. And nothing would restore Howard Lucas to that small + theatrical world of his which had waved him good-bye at the station so + long ago. + </p> + <p> + He shaved and dressed, his resolution still holding. He had indeed almost + a conscious glow of virtue, for he was making one of those inglorious and + unsung sacrifices which ought to bring a man credit in the next world, + because they certainly got him nowhere in this. He was quite affable to + the colored waiter who served his breakfasts in the bachelor apartment + house, and increased his weekly tip to a dollar and a half. Then he sat + down and opened the Times-Republican, skimming over it after his habit for + his own space, and frowning over a row of exclamation and interrogation + points unwittingly set behind the name of the mayor. + </p> + <p> + On the second page, however, he stopped, coffee cup in air. “Is Judson + Clark alive? Wife of former ranch manager makes confession.” + </p> + <p> + A woman named Margaret Donaldson, it appeared, fatally injured by an + automobile near the town of Norada, Wyoming, had made a confession on her + deathbed. In it she stated that, afraid to die without shriving her soul, + she had sent for the sheriff of Dallas County and had made the following + confession: + </p> + <p> + That following the tragedy at the Clark ranch her husband, John Donaldson, + since dead, had immediately following the inquest, where he testified, + started out into the mountains in the hope of finding Clark alive, as he + knew of a deserted ranger's cabin where Clark sometimes camped when + hunting. It was his intention to search for Clark at this cabin and effect + his escape. He carried with him food and brandy. + </p> + <p> + That, owing to the blizzard, he was very nearly frozen; that he was + obliged to abandon his horse, shooting it before he did so, and that, + close to death himself, he finally reached the cabin and there found + Judson Clark, the fugitive, who was very ill. + </p> + <p> + She further testified that her husband cared for Clark for four days, + Clark being delirious at the time, and that on the fifth day he started + back on foot for the Clark ranch, having left Clark locked in the cabin, + and that on the following night he took three horses, two saddled, and one + packed with food and supplies. That accompanied by herself they went back + to the cabin in the mountains and that she remained there to care for + Clark, while her husband returned to the ranch, to prevent suspicion. + </p> + <p> + That, a day or so later, looking out of her window, she had perceived a + man outside in the snow coming toward the cabin, and that she had thought + it one of the searching party. That her first instinct had been to lock + him outside, but that she had finally admitted him, and that thereafter he + had remained and had helped her to care for the sick man. + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately for the rest of the narrative it appeared that the injured + woman had here lapsed into a coma, and had subsequently died, carrying her + further knowledge with her. + </p> + <p> + But, the article went on, the story opened a field of infinite surmise. In + all probability Judson Clark was still alive, living under some assumed + identity, free of punishment, outwardly respectable. Three years before he + had been adjudged legally dead, and the estate divided, under bond of the + legatees. + </p> + <p> + Close to a hundred million dollars had gone to charities, and Judson + Clark, wherever he was, would be dependent on his own efforts for + existence. He could have summoned all the legal talent in the country to + his defense, but instead he had chosen to disappear. + </p> + <p> + The whole situation turned on the deposition of Mrs. Donaldson, now dead. + The local authorities at Norada maintained that the woman had not been + sane for several years. On the other hand, the cabin to which she referred + was well known, and no search of it had been made at the time. Clark's + horse had been found not ten miles from the town, and the cabin was buried + in snow twenty miles further away. If Clark had made that journey on foot + he had accomplished the impossible. + </p> + <p> + Certain facts, according to the local correspondent, bore out Margaret + Donaldson's confession. Inquiry showed that she was supposed to have spent + the winter following Judson Clark's crime with relatives in Omaha. She had + returned to the ranch the following spring. + </p> + <p> + A detailed description of Judson Clark, and a photograph of him + accompanied the story. Bassett re-read the article carefully, and swore a + little, under his breath. If he had needed confirmation of his suspicions, + it lay to his hand. But the situation had changed over night. There would + be a search for Clark now, as wide as the knowledge of his disappearance. + Local police authorities would turn him up in every city from Maine to the + Pacific coast. Even Europe would be on the lookout and South America. + </p> + <p> + But it was not the police he feared so much as the press. Not all of the + papers, but some of them, would go after that story, and send their best + men on it. It offered not so much a chance of solution as an opportunity + to revive the old dramatic story. He could see, when he closed his eyes, + the local photographers climbing to that cabin and later sending its + pictures broadcast, and divers gentlemen of the press, eager to pit their + wits against ten years of time and the ability of a once conspicuous man + to hide from the law, packing their suitcases for Norada. + </p> + <p> + No, he couldn't stop now. He would go on, like the others, and with this + advantage, that he was morally certain he could lay his hands on Clark at + any time. But he would have to prove his case, connect it. Who, for + instance, was the other man in the cabin? He must have known who the boy + was who lay in that rough bunk, delirious. Must have suspected anyhow. + That made him, like the Donaldsons, accessory after the fact, and + criminally liable. Small chance of him coming out with any confession. Yet + he was the connecting link. Must be. + </p> + <p> + On his third reading the reporter began to visualize the human elements of + the fight to save the boy; he saw moving before him the whole pitiful + struggle; the indomitable ranch manager, his heart-breaking struggle with + the blizzard, the shooting of his horse, the careful disarming of + suspicion, and later the intrepid woman, daring that night ride through + snow that had sent the posse back to its firesides to the boy, locked in + the cabin and raving. + </p> + <p> + His mind was busy as he packed his suitcase. Already he had forgotten his + compunctions of the early morning; he moved about methodically, + calculating roughly what expense money he would need, and the line of + attack, if any, required at the office. Between Norada and that old brick + house at Haverly lay his story. Ten years of it. He was closing his bag + when he remembered the little girl in the blue dress, at the theater. He + straightened and scowled. After a moment he snapped the bag shut. Damn it + all, if Clark had chosen to tie up with a girl, that was on Clark's + conscience, not his. + </p> + <p> + But he was vaguely uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + “It's a queer world, Joe,” he observed to the waiter, who had come in for + the breakfast dishes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. It is that,” said Joe. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <p> + DURING all the long night Dick sat by David's bedside. Earlier in the + evening there had been a consultation; David had suffered a light stroke, + but there was no paralysis, and the prognosis was good. For this time, at + least, David had escaped, but there must be no other time. He was to be + kept quiet and free from worry, his diet was to be carefully regulated, + and with care he still had long years before him. + </p> + <p> + David slept, his breathing heavy and slow. In the morning there would be a + nurse, but that night Dick, having sent Lucy to bed, himself kept watch. + On the walnut bed lay Doctor David's portly figure, dimly outlined by the + shaded lamp, and on a chair drawn close sat Dick. + </p> + <p> + He was wide-awake and very anxious, but as time went on and no untoward + symptoms appeared, as David's sleep seemed to grow easier and more + natural, Dick's thoughts wandered. They went to Elizabeth first, and then + on and on from that starting point, through the years ahead. He saw the + old house with Elizabeth waiting in it for his return; he saw both their + lives united and flowing on together, with children, with small cares, + with the routine of daily living, and behind it all the two of them, hand + in hand. + </p> + <p> + Then his mind turned on himself. How often in the past ten years it had + done that! He had sat off, with a sort of professional detachment, and + studied his own case. With the entrance into his world of the new science + of psycho-analysis he had made now and then small, not very sincere, + attempts to penetrate the veil of his own unconscious devising. Not very + sincere, for with the increase of his own knowledge of the mind he had + learned that behind such conditions as his lay generally, deeply hidden, + the desire to forget. And that behind that there lay, acknowledged or not, + fear. + </p> + <p> + “But to forget what?” he used to say to David, when the first text-books + on the new science appeared, and he and David were learning the new + terminology, Dick eagerly and David with contemptuous snorts of derision. + “To forget what?” + </p> + <p> + “You had plenty to forget,” David would say, stolidly. “I think this man's + a fool, but at that—you'd had your father's death, for one thing. + And you'd gone pretty close to the edge of eternity yourself. You'd fought + single-handed the worst storm of ten years, you came out of it with double + pneumonia, and you lay alone in that cabin about fifty-six hours. Forget! + You had plenty to forget.” + </p> + <p> + It had never occurred to Dick to doubt David's story. It did not, even + now. He had accepted it unquestioningly from the first, supplemented the + shadowy childish memories that remained to him with it, and gradually + co-ordinating the two had built out of them his house of the past. + </p> + <p> + Thus, the elderly man whom he dimly remembered was not only his father; he + was David's brother. And he had died. It was the shock of that death, + according to David, that had sent him into the mountains, where David had + followed and nursed him back to health. + </p> + <p> + It was quite simple, and even explicable by the new psychology. Not that + he had worried about the new psychology in those early days. He had been + profoundly lethargic, passive and incurious. It had been too much trouble + even to think. + </p> + <p> + True, he had brought over from those lost years certain instincts and a + few mental pictures. He had had a certain impatience at first over the + restrictions of comparative poverty; he had had to learn the value of + money. And the pictures he retained had had a certain opulence which the + facts appeared to contradict. Thus he remembered a large ranch house, and + innumerable horses, grazing in meadows or milling in a corral. But David + had warned him early that there was no estate; that his future depended + entirely on his own efforts. + </p> + <p> + Then the new life had caught and held him. For the first time he had + mothering and love. Lucy was his mother, and David the pattern to which he + meant to conform. He was happy and contented. + </p> + <p> + Now and then, in the early days, he had been conscious of a desire to go + back and try to reconstruct his past again. Later on he knew that if he + were ever to fill up the gap in his life, it would be easier in that + environment of once familiar things. But in the first days he had been + totally dependent on David, and money was none too plentiful. Later on, as + the new life took hold, as he went to medical college and worked at odd + clerical jobs in vacations to help pay his way, there had been no chance. + Then the war came, and on his return there had been the practice, and his + knowledge that David's health was not what it should have been. + </p> + <p> + But as time went on he was more and more aware that there was in him a + peculiar shrinking from going back, an almost apprehension. He knew more + of the mind than he had before, and he knew that not physical hardship, + but mental stress, caused such lapses as his. But what mental stress had + been great enough for such a smash? His father's death? + </p> + <p> + Strain and fear, said the new psychology. Fear? He had never found himself + lacking in courage. Certainly he would have fought a man who called him a + coward. But there was cowardice behind all such conditions as his; a + refusal of the mind to face reality. It was weak. Weak. He hated himself + for that past failure of his to face reality. + </p> + <p> + But that night, sitting by David's bed, he faced reality with a vengeance. + He was in love, and he wanted the things that love should bring to a + normal man. He felt normal. He felt, strengthened by love, that he could + face whatever life had to bring, so long as also it brought Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + Painfully he went back over his talk with David the preceding Sunday + night. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be a fool,” David had said. “Go ahead and take her, if she'll have + you. And don't be too long about it. I'm not as young as I used to be.” + </p> + <p> + “What I feel,” he had replied, “is this: I don't know, of course, if she + cares.” David had grunted. “I do know I'm going to try to make her care, + if it—if it's humanly possible. But I'd like to go back to the ranch + again, David, before things go any further.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to fill the gap. Attempt it anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + What he was thinking about, as he sat by David's bedside, was David's + attitude toward that threatened return of his. For David had opposed it, + offering a dozen trivial, almost puerile reasons. Had shown indeed, a + dogged obstinacy and an irritability that were somehow oddly like fear. + David afraid! David, whose life and heart were open books! David, whose + eyes never wavered, nor his courage! + </p> + <p> + “You let well enough alone, Dick,” he had finished. “You've got everything + you want. And a medical man can't afford to go gadding about. When people + want him they want him.” + </p> + <p> + But he had noticed that David had been different, since. He had taken to + following him with his faded old eyes, had even spoken once of retiring + and turning all the work over to him. Was it possible that David did not + want him to go back to Norada? + </p> + <p> + He bent over and felt the sick man's pulse. It was stronger, not so rapid. + The mechanical act took him back to his first memory of David. + </p> + <p> + He had been lying in a rough bunk in the mountain cabin, and David, beside + him on a wooden box, had been bending forward and feeling his pulse. He + had felt weak and utterly inert, and he knew now that he had been very + ill. The cabin had been a small and lonely one, with snow-peaks not far + above it, and it had been very cold. During the day a woman kept up the + fire. Her name was Maggie, and she moved about the cabin like a thin + ghost. At night she slept in a lean-to shed and David kept the fire going. + A man who seemed to know him well—John Donaldson, he learned, was + his name—was Maggie's husband, and every so often he came, about + dawn, and brought food and supplies. + </p> + <p> + After a long time, as he grew stronger, Maggie had gone away, and David + had fried the bacon and heated the canned tomatoes or the beans. Before + she left she had written out a recipe for biscuits, and David would study + over it painstakingly, and then produce a panfull of burned and blackened + lumps, over which he would groan and agonize. + </p> + <p> + He himself had been totally incurious. He had lived a sort of animal life + of food and sleep, and later on of small tentative excursions around the + room on legs that shook when he walked. The snows came and almost covered + the cabin, and David had read a great deal, and talked at intervals. David + had tried to fill up the gap in his mind. That was how he learned that + David was his father's brother, and that his father had recently died. + </p> + <p> + Going over it all now, it had certain elements that were not clear. They + had, for instance, never gone back to the ranch at all. With the first + clearing of the snow in the spring John Donaldson had appeared again, + leading two saddled horses and driving a pack animal, and they had started + off, leaving him standing in the clearing and gazing after them. But they + had not followed Donaldson's trail. They had started West, over the + mountains, and David did not know the country. Once they were lost for + three days. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the figure on the bed. Only ten years, and yet at that time + David had been vigorous, seemed almost young. He had aged in that ten + years. On the bed he was an old man, a tired old man at that. On that long + ride he had been tireless. He had taken the burden of the nightly camps, + and had hacked a trail with his hatchet across snow fields while Dick, + still weak but furiously protesting, had been compelled to stand and + watch. + </p> + <p> + Now, with the perspective of time behind him, and with the clearly defined + issue of David's protest against his return to the West, he went again + over the details of that winter and spring. Why had they not taken + Donaldson's trail? Or gone back to the ranch? Why, since Donaldson could + make it, had not other visitors come? Another doctor, the night he almost + died, and David sat under the lamp behind the close-screened windows, and + read the very pocket prayer-book that now lay on the stand beside the bed? + Why had they burned his clothes, and Donaldson brought a new outfit? Why + did Donaldson, for all his requests, never bring a razor, so that when + they struck the railroad, miles from anywhere, they were both full + bearded? + </p> + <p> + He brought himself up sharply. He had allowed his imagination to run away + with him. He had been depicting a flight and no one who knew David could + imagine him in flight. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless he was conscious of a new uneasiness and anxiety. When David + recovered sufficiently he would go to Norada, as he had told Elizabeth, + and there he would find the Donaldsons, and clear up the things that + bothered him. After that— + </p> + <p> + He thought of Elizabeth, of her sweetness and sanity. He remembered her at + the theater the evening before, lost in its fictitious emotions, its + counterfeit drama. He had felt moved to comfort her, when he found her on + the verge of tears. + </p> + <p> + “Just remember, they're only acting,” he had said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But life does do things like that to people.” + </p> + <p> + “Not often. The theater deals in the dramatic exceptions to life. You and + I, plain bread and butter people, come to see these things because we get + a sort of vicarious thrill out of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn't anything ever happen to the plain bread and butter people?” + </p> + <p> + “A little jam, sometimes. Or perhaps they drop it, butter side down, on + the carpet.” + </p> + <p> + “But that is tragedy, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + He had had to acknowledge that it might be. But he had been quite emphatic + over the fact that most people didn't drop it. + </p> + <p> + After a long time he slept in his chair. The spring wind came in through + the opened window, and fluttered the leaves of the old prayer-book on the + stand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + The week that followed was an anxious one. David's physical condition + slowly improved. The slight thickness was gone from his speech, and he + sipped resignedly at the broths Lucy or the nurse brought at regular + intervals. Over the entire house there hung all day the odor of stewing + chicken or of beef tea in the making, and above the doorbell was a white + card which said: “Don't ring. Walk in.” + </p> + <p> + As it happened, no one in the old house had seen Maggie Donaldson's + confession in the newspaper. Lucy was saved that anxiety, at least. + Appearing, as it did, the morning after David's stroke, it came in with + the morning milk, lay about unnoticed, and passed out again, to start a + fire or line a pantry shelf. Harrison Miller, next door, read it over his + coffee. Walter Wheeler in the eight-thirty train glanced at it and glanced + away. Nina Ward read it in bed. And that was all. + </p> + <p> + There came to the house a steady procession of inquirers and bearers of + small tribute, flowers and jellies mostly, but other things also. A table + in David's room held a steadily growing number of bedroom slippers, and + Mrs. Morgan had been seen buying soles for still others. David, propped up + in his bed, would cheer a little at these votive offerings, and then + relapse again into the heavy troubled silence that worried Dick and + frightened Lucy Crosby. Something had happened, she was sure. Something + connected with Dick. She watched David when Dick was in the room, and she + saw that his eyes followed the younger man with something very like + terror. + </p> + <p> + And for the first time since he had walked into the house that night so + long ago, followed by the tall young man for whose coming a letter had + prepared her, she felt that David had withdrawn himself from her. She went + about her daily tasks a little hurt, and waited for him to choose his own + time. But, as the days went on, she saw that whatever this new thing might + be, he meant to fight it out alone, and that the fighting it out alone was + bad for him. He improved very slowly. + </p> + <p> + She wondered, sometimes, if it was after all because of Dick's growing + interest in Elizabeth Wheeler. She knew that he was seeing her daily, + although he was too busy now for more than a hasty call. She felt that she + could even tell when he had seen her; he would come in, glowing and almost + exalted, and, as if to make up for the moments stolen from David, would + leap up the stairs two at a time and burst into the invalid's room like a + cheerful cyclone. Wasn't it possible that David had begun to feel as she + did, that the girl was entitled to a clean slate before she pledged + herself to Dick? And the slate—poor Dick!—could never be + cleaned. + </p> + <p> + Then, one day, David astonished them both. He was propped up in his bed, + and he had demanded a cigar, and been very gently but firmly refused. He + had been rather sulky about it, and Dick had been attempting to rally him + into better humor when he said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “I've had time to think things over, Dick. I haven't been fair to you. + You're thrown away here. Besides—” he hesitated. Then: “We might as + well face it. The day of the general practitioner has gone.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it,” Dick said stoutly. “Maybe we are only signposts to + point the way to the other fellows, but the world will always need + signposts.” + </p> + <p> + “What I've been thinking of,” David pursued his own train of thought, “is + this: I want you to go to Johns Hopkins and take up the special work + you've been wanting to do. I'll be up soon and—” + </p> + <p> + “Call the nurse, Aunt Lucy,” said Dick. “He's raving.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” David retorted testily. “I've told you. This whole town only + comes here now to be told what specialist to go to, and you know it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know anything of the sort.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don't, it's because you won't face the facts.” Dick chuckled, and + threw an arm over David's shoulder, “You old hypocrite!” he said. “You're + trying to get rid of me, for some reason. Don't tell me you're going to + get married!” + </p> + <p> + But David did not smile. Lucy, watching him from her post by the window, + saw his face and felt a spasm of fear. At the most, she had feared a + mental conflict in David. Now she saw that it might be something + infinitely worse, something impending and immediate. She could hardly + reply when Dick appealed to her. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to let him get rid of me like this, Aunt Lucy?” he + demanded. “Sentenced to Johns Hopkins, like Napoleon to St. Helena! Are + you with me, or forninst me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Dick,” she said, with her eyes on David. “If it's for your + good—” + </p> + <p> + She went out after a time, leaving them at it hammer and tongs. David was + vanquished in the end, but Dick, going down to the office later on, was + puzzled. Somehow it was borne in on him that behind David's insistence was + a reason, unspoken but urgent, and the only reason that occurred to him as + possible was that David did not, after all, want him to marry Elizabeth + Wheeler. He put the matter to the test that night, wandering in in + dressing-gown and slippers, as was his custom before going to bed, for a + brief chat. The nurse was downstairs, and Dick moved about the room + restlessly. Then he stopped and stood by the bed, looking down. + </p> + <p> + “A few nights ago, David, I asked you if you thought it would be right for + me to marry; if my situation justified it, and if to your knowledge there + was any other reason why I could not or should not. You said there was + not.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no reason, of course. If she'll have you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know that. I know that whether she will or not is a pretty vital + matter to me, David.” + </p> + <p> + David nodded, silently. + </p> + <p> + “But now you want me to go away. To leave her. You're rather urgent about + it. And I feel—well I begin to think you have a reason for it.” + </p> + <p> + David clenched his hands under the bed-clothing, but he returned Dick's + gaze steadily. + </p> + <p> + “She's a good girl,” he said. “But she's entitled to more than you can + give her, the way things are.” + </p> + <p> + “That is presupposing that she cares for me. I haven't an idea that she + does. That she may, in time—Then, that's the reason for this Johns + Hopkins thing, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “That's the reason,” David said stoutly. “She would wait for you. She's + that sort. I've known her all her life. She's as steady as a rock. But + she's been brought up to have a lot of things. Walter Wheeler is well off. + You do as I want you to; pack your things and go to Baltimore. Bring + Reynolds down here to look after the work until I'm around again.” + </p> + <p> + But Dick evaded the direct issue thus opened and followed another line of + thought. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you understand,” he observed, after a renewal of his restless + pacing, “that I've got to tell her my situation first. I don't need to + tell you that I funk doing it, but it's got to be done.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be a fool,” David said querulously. “You'll set a lot of women + cackling, and what they don't know they'll invent. I know 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Only herself and her family.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because they have a right to know it.” + </p> + <p> + But when he saw David formulating a further protest he dropped the + subject. + </p> + <p> + “I'll not do it until we've gone into it together,” he promised. “There's + plenty of time. You settle down now and get ready for sleep.” + </p> + <p> + When the nurse came in at eleven o'clock she found Dick gone and David, + very still, with his face to the wall. + </p> + <p> + It was the end of May before David began to move about his upper room. The + trees along the shaded streets had burst into full leaf by that time, and + Mike was enjoying that gardener's interval of paradise when flowers grow + faster than the weeds among them. Harrison Miller, having rolled his lawn + through all of April, was heard abroad in the early mornings with the lawn + mower or hoe in hand was to be seen behind his house in his vegetable + patch. + </p> + <p> + Cars rolled through the streets, the rear seats laden with blossoming loot + from the country lanes, and the Wheeler dog was again burying bones in the + soft warm ground under the hedge. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth Wheeler was very happy. Her look of expectant waiting, once + vague, had crystallized now into definite form. She was waiting, timidly + and shyly but with infinite content. In time, everything would come. And + in the meantime there was to-day, and some time to-day a shabby car would + stop at the door, and there would be five minutes, or ten. And then Dick + would have to hurry to work, or back to David. After that, of course, + to-day was over, but there would always be to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Now and then, at choir practice or at service, she saw Clare Rossiter. But + Clare was very cool to her, and never on any account sought her, or spoke + to her alone. She was rather unhappy about Clare, when she remembered her. + Because it must be so terrible to care for a man who only said, when one + spoke of Clare, “Oh, the tall blonde girl?” + </p> + <p> + Once or twice, too, she had found Clare's eyes on her, and they were + hostile eyes. It was almost as though they said: “I hate you because you + know. But don't dare to pity me.” + </p> + <p> + Yet, somehow, Elizabeth found herself not entirely believing that Clare's + passion was real. Because the real thing you hid with all your might, at + least until you were sure it was wanted. After that, of course, you could + be so proud of it that you might become utterly shameless. She was afraid + sometimes that she was the sort to be utterly shameless. Yet, for all her + halcyon hours, there were little things that worried her. Wallie Sayre, + for instance, always having to be kept from saying things she didn't want + to hear. And Nina. She wasn't sure that Nina was entirely happy. And, of + course, there was Jim. + </p> + <p> + Jim was difficult. Sometimes he was a man, and then again he was a boy, + and one never knew just which he was going to be. He was too old for + discipline and too young to manage himself. He was spending almost all his + evenings away from home now, and her mother always drew an inaudible sigh + when he was spoken of. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth had waited up for him one night, only a short time before, and + beckoning him into her room, had talked to him severely. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be ashamed, Jim,” she said. “You're simply worrying mother + sick.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why?” he demanded defiantly. “I'm old enough to take care of + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be taking care of her, too.” + </p> + <p> + He had looked rather crestfallen at that, and before he went out he + offered a half-sheepish explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I'd tell them where I go,” he said, “but you'd think a pool room was on + the direct road to hell. Take to-night, now. I can't tell them about it, + but it was all right. I met Wallie Sayre and Leslie at the club before + dinner, and we got a fourth and played bridge. Only half a cent a point. I + swear we were going on playing, but somebody brought in a chap named + Gregory for a cocktail. He turned out to be a brother of Beverly Carlysle, + the actress, and he took us around to the theater and gave us a box. Not a + thing wrong with it, was there?” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you go from there?” she persisted inexorably. “It's half past + one.” + </p> + <p> + “Went around and met her. She's wonderful, Elizabeth. But do you know what + would happen if I told them? They'd have a fit.” + </p> + <p> + She felt rather helpless, because she knew he was right from his own + standpoint. + </p> + <p> + “I know. I'm surprised at Les, Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Les! He just trailed along. He's all right.” + </p> + <p> + She kissed him and he went out, leaving her to lie awake for a long time. + She would have had all her world happy those days, and all her world good. + She didn't want anybody's bread and butter spilled on the carpet. + </p> + <p> + So the days went on, and the web slowly wove itself into its complicated + pattern: Bassett speeding West, and David in his quiet room; Jim and + Leslie Ward seeking amusement, and finding it in the littered + dressing-room of a woman star at a local theater; Clare Rossiter brooding, + and the little question being whispered behind hands, figuratively, of + course—the village was entirely well-bred; Gregory calling round to + see Bassett, and turning away with the information that he had gone away + for an indefinite time; and Maggie Donaldson, lying in the cemetery at the + foot of the mountains outside Norada, having shriven her soul to the limit + of her strength so that she might face her Maker. + </p> + <p> + Out of all of them it was Clare Rossiter who made the first conscious move + of the shuttle; Clare, affronted and not a little malicious, but perhaps + still dramatizing herself, this time as the friend who feels forced to + carry bad tidings. Behind even that, however, was an unconscious desire to + see Dick again, and this time so to impress herself on him that never + again could he pass her in the street unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + On the day, then, that David first sat up in bed Clare went to the house + and took her place in the waiting-room. She was dressed with extreme care, + and she carried a parasol. With it, while she waited, she drilled small + nervous indentations in the old office carpet, and formulated her line of + action. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless she found it hard to begin. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to keep you, if you're busy,” she said, avoiding his eyes. + “If you are in a hurry—” + </p> + <p> + “This is my business,” he said patiently. And waited. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you are going to understand me, when I do begin?” + </p> + <p> + “You sound alarmingly ominous.” He smiled at her, and she had a moment of + panic. “You don't look like a young lady with anything eating at her + damask cheek, or however it goes.” + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Livingstone,” she said suddenly, “people are saying something + about you that you ought to know.” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her, amazed and incredulous. + </p> + <p> + “About me? What can they say? That's absurd.” + </p> + <p> + “I felt you ought to know. Of course I don't believe it. Not for a moment. + But you know what this town is.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it's a very good town,” he said steadily. “However, let's have it. + I daresay it is not very serious.” + </p> + <p> + She was uneasy enough by that time, and rather frightened when she had + finished. For he sat, quiet and rather pale, not looking at her at all, + but gazing fixedly at an old daguerreotype of David that stood on his + desk. One that Lucy had shown him one day and which he had preempted; + David at the age of eight, in a small black velvet suit and with very thin + legs. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you ought to know,” she justified herself, nervously. + </p> + <p> + Dick got up. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. “I ought to know, of course. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + When she had gone he went back and stood before the picture again. From + Clare's first words he had had a stricken conviction that the thing was + true; that, as Mrs. Cook Morgan's visitor from Wyoming had insisted, Henry + Livingstone had never married, never had a son. He stood and gazed at the + picture. His world had collapsed about him, but he was steady and very + erect. + </p> + <p> + “David, David!” he thought. “Why did you do it? And what am I? And who?” + </p> + <p> + Characteristically his first thought after that was of David himself. + Whatever David had done, his motive had been right. He would have to start + with that. If David had built for him a false identity it was because + there was a necessity for it. Something shameful, something he was to be + taken away from. Wasn't it probable that David had heard the gossip, and + had then collapsed? Wasn't the fear that he himself would hear it behind + David's insistence that he go to Baltimore? + </p> + <p> + His thoughts flew to Elizabeth. Everything was changed now, as to + Elizabeth. He would have to be very certain of that past of his before he + could tell her that he loved her, and he had a sense of immediate + helplessness. He could not go to David, as things were. To Lucy? + </p> + <p> + Probably he would have gone to Lucy at once, but the telephone rang. He + answered it, got his hat and bag and went out to the car. Years with David + had made automatic the subordination of self to the demands of the + practice. + </p> + <p> + At half past six Lucy heard him come in and go into his office. When he + did not immediately reappear and take his flying run up the stairs to + David's room, she stood outside the office door and listened. She had a + premonition of something wrong, something of the truth, perhaps. Anyhow, + she tapped at the door and opened it, to find him sitting very quietly at + his desk with his head in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Dick!” she exclaimed. “Is anything wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “I have a headache,” he said. He looked at his watch and got up. “I'll + take a look at David, and then we'll have dinner. I didn't know it was so + late.” + </p> + <p> + But when she had gone out he did not immediately move. He had been going + over again, painfully and carefully, the things that puzzled him, that he + had accepted before without dispute. David and Lucy's reluctance to + discuss his father; the long days in the cabin, with David helping him to + reconstruct his past; the spring, and that slow progress which now he + felt, somehow, had been an escape. + </p> + <p> + He ate very little dinner, and Lucy's sense of dread increased. When, + after the meal, she took refuge in her sitting-room on the lower floor and + picked up her knitting, it was with a conviction that it was only a + temporary reprieve. She did not know from what. + </p> + <p> + She heard him, some time later, coming down from David's room. But he did + not turn into his office. Instead, he came on to her door, stood for a + moment like a man undecided, then came in. She did not look up, even when + very gently he took her knitting from her and laid it on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think we'd better have a talk?” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” she asked, with her heart hammering. + </p> + <p> + “About me.” He stood above her, and looked down, still with the tenderness + with which he always regarded her, but with resolution in his very + attitude. “First of all, I'll tell you something. Then I'll ask you to + tell me all you can.” + </p> + <p> + She yearned over him as he told her, for all her terror. His voice, for + all its steadiness, was strained. + </p> + <p> + “I have felt for some time,” he finished, “that you and David were keeping + something from me. I think, now, that this is what it was. Of course, you + realize that I shall have to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick! Dick!” was all she could say. + </p> + <p> + “I was about,” he went on, with his almost terrible steadiness, “to ask a + girl to take my name. I want to know if I have a name to offer her. I + have, you see, only two alternatives to believe about myself. Either I am + Henry Livingstone's illegitimate son, and in that case I have no right to + my name, or to offer it to any one, or I am—” + </p> + <p> + He made a despairing gesture. + </p> + <p> + “—or I am some one else, some one who was smuggled out of the + mountains and given an identity that makes him a living lie.” + </p> + <p> + Always she had known that this might come some time, but always too she + had seen David bearing the brunt of it. He should bear it. It was not of + her doing or of her approving. For years the danger of discovery had hung + over her like a cloud. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know which?” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you have the unbelievable cruelty not to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + She got up, a taut little figure with a dignity born of her fear and of + her love for him. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not betray David's confidence,” she said. “Long ago I warned him + that this time would come. I was never in favor of keeping you in + ignorance. But it is David's problem, and I cannot take the responsibility + of telling you.” + </p> + <p> + He knew her determination and her obstinate loyalty. But he was fairly + desperate. + </p> + <p> + “You know that if you don't tell me, I shall go to David?” + </p> + <p> + “If you go now you will kill him.” + </p> + <p> + “It's as bad as that, is it?” he asked grimly. “Then there is something + shameful behind it, is there?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Dick. Not that. And I want you, always, to remember this. What + David did was out of love for you. He has made many sacrifices for you. + First he saved your life, and then he made you what you are. And he has + had a great pride in it. Don't destroy his work of years.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice broke and she turned to go out, her chin quivering, but half way + to the door he called to her. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Lucy—” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + She heard him behind her, felt his strong arms as he turned her about. He + drew her to him and stooping, kissed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “You're right,” he said. “Always right. I'll not worry him with it. My + word of honor. When the time comes he'll tell me, and until it comes, I'll + wait. And I love you both. Don't ever forget that.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her again and let her go. + </p> + <p> + But long after David had put down his prayer-book that night, and after + the nurse had rustled down the stairs to the night supper on the + dining-room table, Lucy lay awake and listened to Dick's slow pacing of + his bedroom floor. + </p> + <p> + He was very gentle with David from that time on, and tried to return to + his old light-hearted ways. On the day David was to have his first broiled + sweetbread he caught the nurse outside, borrowed her cap and apron and + carried in the tray himself. + </p> + <p> + “I hope your food is to your taste, Doctor David,” he said, in a high + falsetto which set the nurse giggling in the hall. “I may not be much of a + nurse, but I can cook.” + </p> + <p> + Even Lucy was deceived at times. He went his customary round, sent out the + monthly bills, opened and answered David's mail, bore the double burden of + David's work and his own ungrudgingly, but off guard he was grave and + abstracted. He began to look very thin, too, and Lucy often heard him + pacing the floor at night. She thought that he seldom or never went to the + Wheelers'. + </p> + <p> + And so passed the tenth day of David's illness, with the smile on + Elizabeth's face growing a trifle fixed as three days went by without the + shabby car rattling to the door; with “The Valley” playing its second and + final week before going into New York; and with Leslie Ward unconsciously + taking up the shuttle Clare had dropped, and carrying the pattern one + degree further toward completion. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> + <p> + JUST how Leslie Ward had drifted into his innocuous affair with the star + of “The Valley” he was not certain himself. Innocuous it certainly was. + Afterwards, looking back, he was to wonder sometimes if it had not been + precisely for the purpose it served. But that was long months after. Not + until the pattern was completed and he was able to recognize his own work + in it. + </p> + <p> + The truth was that he was not too happy at home. Nina's smart little house + on the Ridgely Road had at first kept her busy. She had spent unlimited + time with decorators, had studied and rejected innumerable water-color + sketches of interiors, had haunted auction rooms and bid recklessly on + things she felt at the moment she could not do without, later on to have + to wheedle Leslie into straightening her bank balance. Thought, too, and + considerable energy had gone into training and outfitting her servants, + and still more into inducing them to wear the expensive uniforms and + livery she provided. + </p> + <p> + But what she made, so successfully, was a house rather than a home. There + were times, indeed, when Leslie began to feel that it was not even a + house, but a small hotel. They almost never dined alone, and when they did + Nina would explain that everybody was tied up. Then, after dinner, + restlessness would seize her, and she would want to run in to the theater, + or to make a call. If he refused, she nursed a grievance all evening. + </p> + <p> + And he did not like her friends. Things came to a point where, when he + knew one of the gay evenings was on, he would stay in town, playing + billiards at his club, or occasionally wandering into a theater, where he + stood or sat at the back of the house and watched the play with cynical, + discontented eyes. + </p> + <p> + The casual meeting with Gregory and the introduction to his sister brought + a new interest. Perhaps the very novelty was what first attracted him, the + oddity of feeling that he was on terms of friendship, for it amounted to + that with surprising quickness, with a famous woman, whose face smiled out + at him from his morning paper or, huge and shockingly colored, from the + sheets on the bill boards. + </p> + <p> + He formed the habit of calling on her in the afternoons at her hotel, and + he saw that she liked it. It was often lonely, she explained. He sent her + flowers and cigarettes, and he found her poised and restful, and + sometimes, when she was off guard, with the lines of old suffering in her + face. + </p> + <p> + She sat still. She didn't fidget, as Nina did. She listened, too. She was + not as beautiful as she appeared on the stage, but she was attractive, and + he stilled his conscience with the knowledge that she placed no undue + emphasis on his visits. In her world men came and went, brought or sent + small tribute, and she was pleased and grateful. No more. The next week, + or the week after, and other men in other places would be doing the same + things. + </p> + <p> + But he wondered about her, sometimes. Did she ever think of Judson Clark, + and the wreck he had made of her life? What of resentment and sorrow lay + behind her quiet face, or the voice with its careful intonations which was + so unlike Nina's? + </p> + <p> + Now and then he saw her brother. He neither liked nor disliked Gregory, + but he suspected him of rather bullying Beverly. On the rare occasions + when he saw them together there was a sort of nervous tension in the air, + and although Leslie was not subtle he sensed some hidden difference + between them. A small incident one day almost brought this concealed + dissension to a head. He said to Gregory: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, I saw you in Haverly yesterday afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Must have seen somebody else. Haverly? Where's Haverly?” + </p> + <p> + Leslie Ward had been rather annoyed. There had been no mistake about the + recognition. But he passed it off with that curious sense of sex loyalty + that will actuate a man even toward his enemies. + </p> + <p> + “Funny,” he said. “Chap looked like you. Maybe a little heavier.” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless he had a conviction that he had said something better left + unsaid, and that Beverly Carlysle's glance at her brother was almost + hostile. He had that instantaneous picture of the two of them, the man + defiant and somehow frightened, and the woman's eyes anxious and yet + slightly contemptuous. Then, in a flash, it was gone. + </p> + <p> + He had meant to go home that evening, would have, probably, for he was not + ignorant of where he was drifting. But when he went back to the office + Nina was on the wire, with the news that they were to go with a party to a + country inn. + </p> + <p> + “For chicken and waffles, Les,” she said. “It will be oceans of fun. And + I've promised the cocktails.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm tired,” he replied, sulkily. “And why don't you let some of the other + fellows come over with the drinks? It seems to me I'm always the goat.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if that's the way you feel!” Nina said, and hung up the receiver. + </p> + <p> + He did not go home. He went to the theater and stood at the back, with his + sense of guilt deadened by the knowledge that Nina was having what she + would call a heavenly time. After all, it would soon be over. He counted + the days. “The Valley” had only four more before it moved on. + </p> + <p> + He had already played his small part in the drama that involved Dick + Livingstone, but he was unaware of it. He went home that night, to find + Nina settled in bed and very sulky, and he retired himself in no pleasant + frame of mind. But he took a firmer hold of himself that night before he + slept. He didn't want a smash, and yet they might be headed that way. He + wouldn't see Beverly Carlysle again. + </p> + <p> + He lived up to his resolve the next day, bought his flowers as usual, but + this time for Nina and took them with him. And went home with the orchids + which were really an offering to his own conscience. + </p> + <p> + But Nina was not at home. The butler reported that she was dining at the + Wheelers', and he thought the man eyed him with restrained commiseration. + </p> + <p> + “Did she say I am expected there?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “She ordered dinner for you here, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Even for Nina that sounded odd. He took his coat and went out again to the + car; after a moment's hesitation he went back and got the orchids. + </p> + <p> + Dick Livingstone's machine was at the curb before the Wheeler house, and + in the living-room he found Walter Wheeler, pacing the floor. Mr. Wheeler + glanced at him and looked away. + </p> + <p> + “Anybody sick?” Leslie asked, his feeling of apprehension growing. + </p> + <p> + “Nina is having hysterics upstairs,” Mr. Wheeler said, and continued his + pacing. + </p> + <p> + “Nina! Hysterics?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said,” replied Mr. Wheeler, suddenly savage. “You've made a + nice mess of things, haven't you?” + </p> + <p> + Leslie placed the box of orchids on the table and drew off his gloves. His + mind was running over many possibilities. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better tell me about it, hadn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I will. Don't worry. I've seen this coming for months. I'm not taking + her part. God knows I know her, and she has as much idea of making a home + as—as”—he looked about—“as that poker has. But that's + the worst you can say of her. As to you—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wheeler's anxiety was greater than his anger. He lowered his voice. + </p> + <p> + “She got a bill to-day for two or three boxes of flowers, sent to some + actress.” And when Leslie said nothing, “I'm not condoning it, mind you. + You'd no business to do it. But,” he added fretfully, “why the devil, if + you've got to act the fool, don't you have your bills sent to your + office?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I don't need to tell you that's all there was to it? Flowers, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm taking that for granted. But she says she won't go back.” + </p> + <p> + Leslie was aghast and frightened. Not at the threat; she would go back, of + course. But she would always hold it against him. She cherished small + grudges faithfully. And he knew she would never understand, never see her + own contribution to his mild defection, nor comprehend the actual + innocence of those afternoons of tea and talk. + </p> + <p> + There was no sound from upstairs. Mr. Wheeler got his hat and went out, + calling to the dog. Jim came in whistling, looked in and said: “Hello, + Les,” and disappeared. He sat in the growing twilight and cursed himself + for a fool. After all, where had he been heading? A man couldn't eat his + cake and have it. But he was resentful, too; he stressed rather hard his + own innocence, and chose to ignore the less innocent impulse that lay + behind it. + </p> + <p> + After a half hour or so he heard some one descending and Dick Livingstone + appeared in the hall. He called to him, and Dick entered the room. Before + he sat down he lighted a cigarette and in the flare of the match Leslie + got an impression of fatigue and of something new, of trouble. But his own + anxieties obsessed him. + </p> + <p> + “She's told you about it, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “I was a fool, of course. But it was only a matter of a few flowers and + some afternoon calls. She's a fine woman, Livingstone, and she is lonely. + The women have given her a pretty cold deal since the Clark story. They + copy her clothes and her walk, but they don't ask her into their homes.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't the trouble more fundamental than that, Ward? I was thinking about + it upstairs. Nina was pretty frank. She says you've had your good time and + want to settle down, and that she is young and now is her only chance. + Later on there may be children, you know. She blames herself, too, but she + has a fairly clear idea of how it happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she'll go back home?” + </p> + <p> + “She promised she would.” + </p> + <p> + They sat smoking in silence. In the dining-room Annie was laying the table + for dinner, and a most untragic odor of new garden peas began to steal + along the hall. Dick suddenly stirred and threw away his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “I was going to talk to you about something else,” he said, “but this is + hardly the time. I'll get on home.” He rose. “She'll be all right. Only + I'd advise very tactful handling and—the fullest explanation you can + make.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it? I'd be glad to have something to keep my mind occupied. It's + eating itself up just now.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a personal matter.” + </p> + <p> + Ward glanced up at him quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you happened to hear a story that I believe is going round? One that + concerns me?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have,” Leslie admitted. “I didn't pay much attention. Nobody is + taking it very seriously.” + </p> + <p> + “That's not the point,” Dick persisted. “I don't mind idle gossip. I don't + give a damn about it. It's the statement itself.” + </p> + <p> + “I should say that you are the only person who knows anything about it.” + </p> + <p> + Dick made a restless, impatient gesture. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know one thing more,” he said. “Nina told you, I suppose. Does—I + suppose Elizabeth knows it, too?” + </p> + <p> + “I rather think she does.” + </p> + <p> + Dick turned abruptly and went out of the room, and a moment later Leslie + heard the front door slam. Elizabeth, standing at the head of the stairs, + heard it also, and turned away, with a new droop to her usually valiant + shoulders. Her world, too, had gone awry, that safe world of protection + and cheer and kindliness. First had come Nina, white-lipped and shaken, + and Elizabeth had had to face the fact that there were such things as + treachery and the queer hidden things that men did, and that came to light + and brought horrible suffering. + </p> + <p> + And that afternoon she had had to acknowledge that there was something + wrong with Dick. No. Between Dick and herself. There was a formality in + his speech to her, an aloofness that seemed to ignore utterly their new + intimacy. He was there, but he was miles away from her. She tried hard to + feel indignant, but she was only hurt. + </p> + <p> + Peace seemed definitely to have abandoned the Wheeler house. Then late in + the evening a measure of it was restored when Nina and Leslie effected a + reconciliation. It followed several bad hours when Nina had locked her + door against them all, but at ten o'clock she sent for Leslie and faced + him with desperate calmness. + </p> + <p> + To Elizabeth, putting cold cloths on her mother's head as she lay on the + bed, there came a growing conviction that the relation between men and + women was a complicated and baffling thing, and that love and hate were + sometimes close together. + </p> + <p> + Love, and habit perhaps, triumphed in Nina's case, however, for at eleven + o'clock they heard Leslie going down the stairs and later on moving about + the kitchen and pantry while whistling softly. The servants had gone, and + the air was filled with the odor of burning bread. Some time later Mrs. + Wheeler, waiting uneasily in the upper hall, beheld her son-in-law coming + up and carrying proudly a tray on which was toast of an incredible + blackness, and a pot which smelled feebly of tea. + </p> + <p> + “The next time you're out of a cook just send for me,” he said cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wheeler, full and overflowing with indignation and the piece of her + mind she had meant to deliver, retired vanquished to her bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Late that night when Nina had finally forgiven him and had settled down + for sleep, Leslie went downstairs for a cigar, to find Elizabeth sitting + there alone, a book on her knee, face down, and her eyes wistful and with + a question in them. + </p> + <p> + “Sitting and thinking, or just sitting?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Air-castles, eh? Well, be sure you put the right man into them!” He felt + more or less a fool for having said that, for it was extremely likely that + Nina's family was feeling some doubt about Nina's choice. + </p> + <p> + “What I mean is,” he added hastily, “don't be a fool and take Wallie + Sayre. Take a man, while you're about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I would, if I could do the taking.” + </p> + <p> + “That's piffle, Elizabeth.” He sat down on the arm of a chair and looked + at her. “Look here, what about this story the Rossiter girl and a few + others are handing around about Dick Livingstone? You're not worrying + about it, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it's true, and it wouldn't matter to me, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Good for you,” he said heartily, and got up. “You'd better go to bed, + young lady. It's almost midnight.” + </p> + <p> + But although she rose she made no further move to go. + </p> + <p> + “What I am worrying about is this, Leslie. He may hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “He has heard it, honey.” + </p> + <p> + He had expected her to look alarmed, but instead she showed relief. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you the truth, Les,” she said. “I was worrying. I'm terribly + fond of him. It just came all at once, and I couldn't help it. And I + thought he liked me, too, that way.” She stopped and looked up at him to + see if he understood, and he nodded gravely. “Then to-day, when he came to + see Nina, he avoided me. He—I was waiting in the hall upstairs, and + he just said a word or two and went on down.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil!” Leslie said. “You see, he's in an unpleasant position, to + say the least. But here's a thought to go to sleep on. If you ask me, he's + keeping out of your way, not because he cares too little, but because he + cares too much.” + </p> + <p> + Long after a repentant and chastened Leslie had gone to sleep, his arm + over Nina's unconscious shoulder, Elizabeth stood wide-eyed on the tiny + balcony outside her room. From it in daylight she could see the + Livingstone house. Now it was invisible, but an upper window was outlined + in the light. Very shyly she kissed her finger tips to it. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, dear,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV + </h2> + <p> + Louis Bassett had left for Norada the day after David's sudden illness, + but ten days later found him only as far as Chicago, and laid up in his + hotel with a sprained knee. It was not until the day Nina went back to the + little house in the Ridgely Road, having learned the first lesson of + married life, that men must not only be captured but also held, that he + was able to resume his journey. + </p> + <p> + He had chafed wretchedly under the delay. It was true that nothing in the + way of a story had broken yet. The Tribune had carried a photograph of the + cabin where Clark had according to the Donaldson woman spent the winter + following the murder, and there were the usual reports that he had been + seen recently in spots as diverse as Seattle and New Orleans. But when the + following Sunday brought nothing further he surmised that the pack, having + lost the scent, had been called off. + </p> + <p> + He confirmed this before starting West by visiting some of the offices of + the leading papers and looking up old friends. The Clark story was dead + for the time. They had run a lot of pictures of him, however, and some one + might turn him up eventually, but a scent was pretty cold in ten years. + The place had changed, too. Oil had been discovered five years ago, and + the old settlers had, a good many of them, cashed in and moved away. The + town had grown like all oil towns. + </p> + <p> + Bassett was fairly content. He took the night train out of Chicago and + spent the next day crossing Nebraska, fertile, rich and interesting. On + the afternoon of the second day he left the train and took a branch line + toward the mountains and Norada, and from that time on he became an + urbane, interested and generally cigar-smoking interrogation point. + </p> + <p> + “Railroad been here long?” he asked the conductor. + </p> + <p> + “Four years.” + </p> + <p> + “Norada must have been pretty isolated before that.” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty miles in a coach or a Ford car.” + </p> + <p> + “I was reading the other day,” said Bassett, “about the Judson Clark case. + Have a cigar? Got time to sit down?” + </p> + <p> + “You a newspaper man?” + </p> + <p> + “Oil well supplies,” said Bassett easily. “Well, in this article it seemed + some woman or other had made a confession. It sounded fishy to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll tell you about that.” The conductor sat down and bit off the + end of his cigar. “I knew the Donaldsons well, and Maggie Donaldson was an + honest woman. But I'll tell you how I explain the thing. Donaldson died, + and that left her pretty much alone. The executors of the Clark estate + kept her on the ranch, but when the estate was settled three years ago she + had to move. That broke her all up. She's always said he wasn't dead. She + kept the house just as it was, and my wife says she had his clothes all + ready and everything.” + </p> + <p> + “That rather sounds as though the story is true, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not necessarily. It's my idea she got from hoping to moping, so to speak. + She went in to town regular for letters for ten years, and the postmaster + says she never got any. She was hurt in front of the post office. The talk + around here is that she's been off her head for the last year or two.” + </p> + <p> + “But they found the cabin.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure they did,” said the conductor equably. “The cabin was no secret. It + was an old fire station before they put the new one on Goat Mountain. I + spent a month in it myself, once, with a dude who wanted to take pictures + of bear. We found a bear, but it charged the camera and I'd be running yet + if I hadn't come to civilization.” + </p> + <p> + When he had gone Bassett fell into deep thought. So Maggie Donaldson had + gone to the post office for ten years. He tried to visualize those + faithful, wearisome journeys, through spring mud and winter snow, always + futile and always hopeful. He did not for a moment believe that she had + “gone off her head.” She had been faithful to the end, as some women were, + and in the end, too, as had happened before, her faith had killed her. + </p> + <p> + And again he wondered at the curious ability of some men to secure + loyalty. They might go through life, tearing down ideals and destroying + illusions to the last, but always there was some faithful hand to rebuild, + some faithful soul to worship. + </p> + <p> + He was somewhat daunted at the size and bustling activity of Norada. Its + streets were paved and well-lighted, there were a park and a public + library, and the clerk at the Commercial Hotel asked him if he wished a + private bath! But the development was helpful in one way. In the old + Norada a newcomer might have been subjected to a friendly but inquisitive + interest. In this grown-up and self-centered community a man might come + and go unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + And he had other advantages. The pack, as he cynically thought of them, + would have started at the Clark ranch and the cabin. He would get to them, + of course, but he meant to start on the outside of the circle and work in. + </p> + <p> + “Been here long?” he asked the clerk at the desk, after a leisurely meal. + </p> + <p> + The clerk grinned. + </p> + <p> + “I came here two years ago. I never saw Jud Clark. To get to the Clark + place take the road north out of the town and keep straight about eight + miles. The road's good now. You fellows have worn it smooth.” + </p> + <p> + “Must have written that down and learned it off,” Bassett said admiringly. + “What the devil's the Clark place? And why should I go there? Unless,” he + added, “they serve a decent meal.” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry.” The clerk looked at him sharply, was satisfied, and picked up a + pen. “You'll hear the story if you stay around here any time. Anything I + can do for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Fire the cook,” Bassett said, and moved away. + </p> + <p> + He spent the evening in going over his notes and outlining a campaign, and + the next day he stumbled on a bit of luck. His elderly chambermaid had + lived in and around the town for years. + </p> + <p> + “Ever hear of any Livingstones in these parts?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes. There used to be a Livingstone ranch at Dry River,” she said, + pausing with her carpet sweeper, and looking at him. “It wasn't much of a + place. Although you can't tell these days. I sold sixty acres eight years + ago for two thousand dollars, and the folks that bought it are getting a + thousand a day out of it.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed. She had touched the hem of fortune's garment and passed on; + for some opportunity knocked but faintly, and for others it burst open the + door and forced its way in. + </p> + <p> + “I'd be a millionaire now if I'd held on,” she said somberly. That day + Bassett engaged a car by the day, he to drive it himself and return it in + good condition, the garage to furnish tires. + </p> + <p> + “I'd just like to say one thing,” the owner said, as he tried the gears. + “I don't know where you're going, and it's not exactly my business. Here + in the oil country, where they're cutting each other's throats for new + leases, we let a man alone. But if you've any idea of taking that car by + the back road to the old fire station where Jud Clark's supposed to have + spent the winter, I'll just say this: we've had two stuck up there for a + week, and the only way I see to get them back is a cyclone.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to Dry River,” Bassett said shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Dry River's right, if you're looking for oil! Go easy on the brakes, old + man. We need 'em in our business.” + </p> + <p> + Dry River was a small settlement away from the railroad. It consisted of + two intersecting unpaved streets, a dozen or so houses, a closed and empty + saloon and two general stores. He chose one at random and found that the + old Livingstone place had been sold ten years ago, on the death of its + owner, Henry Livingstone. + </p> + <p> + “His brother from the East inherited it,” said the storekeeper. “He came + and sold out, lock, stock and barrel. Not that there was much. A few + cattle and horses, and the stuff in the ranch house, which wasn't + valuable. There were a lot of books, and the brother gave them for a + library, but we haven't any building. The railroad isn't built this far + yet, and unless we get oil here it won't be.” + </p> + <p> + “The brother inherited it, eh? Do you know the brother's name?” + </p> + <p> + “David, I think. He was a doctor back East somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Then this Henry Livingstone wasn't married? Or at least had no children?” + </p> + <p> + “He wasn't married. He was a sort of hermit. He'd been dead two days + before any one knew it. My wife went out when they found him and got him + ready for the funeral. He was buried before the brother got here.” He + glanced at Bassett shrewdly. “The place has been prospected for oil, and + there's a dry hole on the next ranch. I tell my wife nature's like the + railroad. It quit before it got this far.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett's last scruple had fled. The story was there, ready for the + gathering. So ready, indeed, that he was almost suspicious of his luck. + </p> + <p> + And that conviction, that things were coming too easy, persisted through + his interview with the storekeeper's wife, in the small house behind the + store. She was a talkative woman, eager to discuss the one drama in a drab + life, and she showed no curiosity as to the reason for his question. + </p> + <p> + “Henry Livingstone!” she said. “Well, I should say so. I went out right + away when we got the word he was dead, and there I stayed until it was all + over. I guess I know as much about him as any one around here does, for I + had to go over his papers to find out who his people were.” + </p> + <p> + The papers, it seemed, had not been very interesting; canceled checks and + receipted bills, and a large bundle of letters, all of them from a brother + named David and a sister who signed herself Lucy. There had been a sealed + one, too, addressed to David Livingstone, and to be opened after his + death. She had had her husband wire to “David” and he had come out, too + late for the funeral. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember when that was?” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see. Henry Livingstone died about a month before the murder at the + Clark ranch. We date most things around here from that time.” + </p> + <p> + “How long did 'David' stay?” Bassett had tried to keep his tone carefully + conversational, but he saw that it was not necessary. She was glad of a + chance to talk. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'd say about three or four weeks. He hadn't seen his brother for + years, and I guess there was no love lost. He sold everything as quick as + he could, and went back East.” She glanced at the clock. “My husband will + be in soon for dinner. I'd be glad to have you stay and take a meal with + us.” + </p> + <p> + The reporter thanked her and declined. + </p> + <p> + “It's an interesting story,” he said. “I didn't tell your husband, for I + wasn't sure I was on the right trail. But the David and Lucy business + eliminates this man. There's a piece of property waiting in the East for a + Henry Livingstone who came to this state in the 80's, or for his heirs. + You can say positively that this man was not married?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He didn't like women. Never had one on the place. Two ranch hands + that are still at the Wassons' and himself, that was all. The Wassons are + the folks who bought the ranch.” + </p> + <p> + No housekeeper then, and no son born out of wedlock, so far as any + evidence went. All that glib lying in the doctor's office, all that + apparent openness and frankness, gone by the board! The man in the cabin, + reported by Maggie Donaldson, had been David Livingstone. Somehow, some + way, he had got Judson Clark out of the country and spirited him East. Not + that the how mattered just yet. The essential fact was there, that David + Livingstone had been in this part of the country at the time Maggie + Donaldson had been nursing Judson Clark in the mountains. + </p> + <p> + Bassett sat back and chewed the end of his cigar thoughtfully. The sheer + boldness of the scheme which had saved Judson Clark compelled his + admiration, but the failure to cover the trail, the ease with which he had + picked it up, made him suspicious. + </p> + <p> + He rose and threw away his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “You say this David went East, when he had sold out the place. Do you + remember where he lived?” + </p> + <p> + “Some town in eastern Pennsylvania. I've forgotten the name.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to be sure I'm wrong, and then go ahead,” he said, as he got his + hat. “I'll see those men at the ranch, I guess, and then be on my way. How + far is it?” + </p> + <p> + It was about ten miles, along a bad road which kept him too much occupied + for any connected thought. But his sense of exultation persisted. He had + found Judson Clark. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI + </h2> + <p> + Dick's decision to cut himself off from Elizabeth was born of his + certainty that he could not see her and keep his head. He was resolutely + determined to keep his head, until he knew what he had to offer her. But + he was very unhappy. He worked sturdily all day and slept at night out of + sheer fatigue, only to rouse in the early morning to a conviction of + something wrong before he was fully awake. Then would come the uncertainty + and pain of full consciousness, and he would lie with his arms under his + head, gazing unblinkingly at the ceiling and preparing to face another + day. + </p> + <p> + There was no prospect of early relief, although David had not again + referred to his going away. David was very feeble. The look of him + sometimes sent an almost physical pain through Dick's heart. But there + were times when he roused to something like his old spirit, shouted for + tobacco, frowned over his diet tray, and fought Harrison Miller when he + came in to play cribbage in much his old tumultuous manner. + </p> + <p> + Then, one afternoon late in May, when for four days Dick had not seen + Elizabeth, suddenly he found the decision as to their relation taken out + of his hands, and by Elizabeth herself. + </p> + <p> + He opened the door one afternoon to find her sitting alone in the + waiting-room, clearly very frightened and almost inarticulate. He could + not speak at all at first, and when he did his voice, to his dismay, was + distinctly husky. + </p> + <p> + “Is anything wrong?” he asked, in a tone which was fairly sepulchral. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I want to know, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he found himself violently angry. Not at her, of course. At + everything. + </p> + <p> + “Wrong?” he said, savagely. “Yes. Everything is wrong!” + </p> + <p> + Then he was angry! She went rather pale. + </p> + <p> + “What have I done, Dick?” + </p> + <p> + As suddenly as he had been fierce he was abject and ashamed. Startled, + too. + </p> + <p> + “You?” he said. “What have you done? You're the only thing that's right in + a wrong world. You—” + </p> + <p> + He checked himself, put down his bag—he had just come in—and + closed the door into the hall. Then he stood at a safe distance from her, + and folded his arms in order to be able to keep his head—which shows how + strange the English language is. + </p> + <p> + “Elizabeth,” he said gravely. “I've been a self-centered fool. I stayed + away because I've been in trouble. I'm still in trouble, for that matter. + But it hasn't anything to do with you. Not directly, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think it's possible that I know what it is?” + </p> + <p> + “You do know.” + </p> + <p> + He was too absorbed to notice the new maturity in her face, the brooding + maternity born of a profound passion. To Elizabeth just then he was not a + man, her man, daily deciding matters of life and death, but a worried boy, + magnifying a trifle into importance. + </p> + <p> + “There is always gossip,” she said, “and the only thing one can do is to + forget it at once. You ought to be too big for that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “But—suppose it is true?” + </p> + <p> + “What difference would it make?” + </p> + <p> + He made a quick movement toward her. + </p> + <p> + “There may be more than that. I don't know, Elizabeth,” he said, his eyes + on hers. “I have always thought—I can't go to David now.” + </p> + <p> + He was moved to go on. To tell her of his lost youth, of that strange + trick by which his mind had shut off those hidden years. But he could not. + He had a perfectly human fear of being abnormal in her eyes, precisely but + greatly magnified the same instinct which had made him inspect his new tie + in daylight for fear it was too brilliant. But greater than that was his + new fear that something neither happy nor right lay behind him under lock + and key in his memory. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to know this, Dick,” she said. “That nothing, no gossip or + anything, can make any difference to me. And I've been terribly hurt. + We've been such friends. You—I've been lying awake at night, + worrying.” + </p> + <p> + That went to his heart first, and then to his head. This might be all, all + he was ever to have. This hour, and this precious and tender child, so + brave in her declaration, so simple and direct; all his world in that + imitation mahogany chair. + </p> + <p> + “You're all I've got,” he said. “The one real thing in a world that's + going to smash. I think I love you more than God.” + </p> + <p> + The same mood, of accepting what he had without question and of refusing + to look ahead, actuated him for the next few days. He was incredibly + happy. + </p> + <p> + He went about his work with his customary care and thoroughness, for long + practice had made it possible for him to go on as though nothing had + happened, to listen to querulous complaints and long lists of symptoms, + and to write without error those scrawled prescriptions which were, so + hopefully, to cure. Not that Dick himself believed greatly in those + empirical doses, but he considered that the expectation of relief was half + the battle. But that was the mind of him, which went about clothed in + flesh, of course, and did its daily and nightly work, and put up a very + fair imitation of Doctor Richard Livingstone. But hidden away was a heart + that behaved in a highly unprofessional manner, and sang and dreamed, and + jumped at the sight of a certain small figure on the street, and generally + played hob with systole and diastole, and the vagus and accelerator + nerves. Which are all any doctor really knows about the heart, until he + falls in love. + </p> + <p> + He even began to wonder if he had read into the situation something that + was not there, and in this his consciousness of David's essential + rectitude helped him. David could not do a wrong thing, or an unworthy + one. He wished he were more like David. + </p> + <p> + The new humility extended to his love for Elizabeth. Sometimes, in his + room or shaving before the bathroom mirror, he wondered what she could see + in him to care about. He shaved twice a day now, and his face was so sore + that he had to put cream on it at night, to his secret humiliation. When + he was dressed in the morning he found himself once or twice taking a + final survey of the ensemble, and at those times he wished very earnestly + that he had some outstanding quality of appearance that she might admire. + </p> + <p> + He refused to think. He was content for a time simply to feel, to be + supremely happy, to live each day as it came and not to look ahead. And + the old house seemed to brighten with him. Never had Lucy's window boxes + been so bright, or Minnie's bread so light; the sun poured into David's + sick room and turned the nurse so dazzling white in her uniform that David + declared he was suffering from snow-blindness. + </p> + <p> + And David himself was improving rapidly. With the passage of each day he + felt more secure. The reporter from the Times-Republican—if he were + really on the trail of Dick he would have come to see him, would have told + him the story. No. That bridge was safely crossed. And Dick was happy. + David, lying in his bed, would listen and smile faintly when Dick came + whistling into the house or leaped up the stairs two at a time; when he + sang in his shower, or tormented the nurse with high-spirited nonsense. + The boy was very happy. He would marry Elizabeth Wheeler, and things would + be as they should be; there would be the fullness of life, young voices in + the house, toys on the lawn. He himself would pass on, in the fullness of + time, but Dick— + </p> + <p> + On Decoration Day they got him out of bed, making a great ceremony of it, + and when he was settled by the window in his big chair with a blanket over + his knees, Dick came in with a great box. Unwrapping it he disclosed a + mass of paper and a small box, and within that still another. + </p> + <p> + “What fol-de-rol is all this?” David demanded fiercely, with a childish + look of expectation in his eyes. “Give me that box. Some more slippers, + probably!” + </p> + <p> + He worked eagerly, and at last he came to the small core of the mass. It + was a cigar! + </p> + <p> + It was somewhat later, when the peace of good tobacco had relaxed him into + a sort of benignant drowsiness, and when Dick had started for his late + afternoon calls, that Lucy came into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Elizabeth Wheeler's downstairs,” she said. “I told her you wanted to see + her. She's brought some chicken jelly, too.” + </p> + <p> + She gathered up the tissue paper that surrounded him, and gave the room a + critical survey. She often felt that the nurse was not as tidy as she + might be. Then she went over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to worry you, David. Not now. But if he's going to marry her—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why shouldn't he?” he demanded truculently. “A good woman would be + one more anchor to windward.” + </p> + <p> + She found that she could not go on. David was always incomprehensible to + her when it came to Dick. Had been incomprehensible from the first. But + she could not proceed without telling him that the village knew something, + and what that something was; that already she felt a change in the local + attitude toward Dick. He was, for one thing, not quite so busy as he had + been. + </p> + <p> + She went out of the room, and sent Elizabeth to David. + </p> + <p> + In her love for Dick, Elizabeth now included everything that pertained to + him, his shabby coats, his rattling car, and his people. She had an + inarticulate desire for their endorsement, to be liked by them and wanted + by them. Not that there could be any words, because both she and Dick were + content just then with love, and were holding it very secret between them. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well!” said David. “And here we are reversed and I'm the patient + and you're the doctor! And good medicine you are, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + He looked her over with approval, and with speculation, too. She was a + small and fragile vessel on which to embark all the hopes that, out of his + own celibate and unfulfilled life, he had dreamed for Dick. She was even + more than that. If Lucy was right, from now on she was a part of that + experiment in a human soul which he had begun with only a professional + interest, but which had ended by becoming a vital part of his own life. + </p> + <p> + She was a little shy with him, he saw; rather fluttered and nervous, yet + radiantly happy. The combination of these mixed emotions, plus her best + sick-room manner, made her slightly prim at first. But soon she was + telling him the small news of the village, although David rather suspected + her of listening for Dick's car all the while. When she got up to go and + held out her hand he kept it, between both of his. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't been studying symptoms for all these years for nothing, my + dear,” he said. “And it seems to me somebody is very happy.” + </p> + <p> + “I am, Doctor David.” + </p> + <p> + He patted her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Mind you,” he said, “I don't know anything and I'm not asking any + questions. But if the Board of Trade, or the Chief of Police, had come to + me and said, 'Who is the best wife for—well, for a young man who is + an important part of this community?' I'd have said in reply, 'Gentlemen, + there is a Miss Elizabeth Wheeler who—'” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she bent down and kissed him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do you think so?” she asked, breathlessly. “I love him so much, + Doctor David. And I feel so unworthy.” + </p> + <p> + “So you are,” he said. “So's he. So are all of us, when it comes to a + great love, child. That is, we are never quite what the other fellow + thinks we are. It's when we don't allow for what the scientist folk call a + margin of error that we come our croppers. I wonder”—he watched her + closely—“if you young people ever allow for a margin of error?” + </p> + <p> + “I only know this,” she said steadily. “I can't imagine ever caring any + less. I've never thought about myself very much, but I do know that. You + see, I think I've cared for a long time.” + </p> + <p> + When she had gone he sat in his chair staring ahead of him and thinking. + Yes. She would stick. She had loyalty, loyalty and patience and a rare + humility. It was up to Dick then. And again he faced the possibility of an + opening door into the past, of crowding memories, of confusion and despair + and even actual danger. And out of that, what? + </p> + <p> + Habit. That was all he had to depend on. The brain was a thing of habits, + like the body; right could be a habit, and so could evil. As a man + thought, so he was. For all of his childhood, and for the last ten years, + Dick's mental habits had been right; his environment had been love, his + teaching responsibility. Even if the door opened, then, there was only the + evil thinking of two or three reckless years to combat, and the door might + never open. Happiness, Lauler had said, would keep it closed, and Dick was + happy. + </p> + <p> + When at five o'clock the nurse came in with a thermometer he was asleep in + his chair, his mouth slightly open, and snoring valiantly. Hearing Dick in + the lower hall, she went to the head of the stairs, her finger to her + lips. + </p> + <p> + Dick nodded and went into the office. The afternoon mail was lying there, + and he began mechanically to open it. His thoughts were elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Now that he had taken the step he had so firmly determined not to take, + certain things, such as Clare Rossiter's story, David's uneasiness, his + own doubts, no longer involved himself alone, nor even Elizabeth and + himself. They had become of vital importance to her family. + </p> + <p> + There was no evading the issue. What had once been only his own + misfortune, mischance, whatever it was, had now become of vital importance + to an entire group of hitherto disinterested people. He would have to put + his situation clearly before them and let them judge. And he would have to + clarify that situation for them and for himself. + </p> + <p> + He had had a weak moment or two. He knew that some men, many men, went to + marriage with certain reticences, meaning to wipe the slate clean and + begin again. He had a man's understanding of such concealments. But he did + not for a moment compare his situation with theirs, even when the + temptation to seize his happiness was strongest. No mere misconduct, but + something hidden and perhaps terrible lay behind David's strange new + attitude. Lay, too, behind the break in his memory which he tried to + analyze with professional detachment. The mind in such cases set up its + defensive machinery of forgetfulness, not against the trivial but against + the unbearable. + </p> + <p> + For the last day or two he had faced the fact that, not only must he use + every endeavor to revive his past, but that such revival threatened with + cruelty and finality to separate him from the present. + </p> + <p> + With an open and unread letter in his hand he stared about the office. + This place was his; he had fought for it, worked for it. He had an almost + physical sense of unseen hands reaching out to drag him away from it; from + David and Lucy, and from Elizabeth. And of himself holding desperately to + them all, and to the believed commonplaceness of his surroundings. + </p> + <p> + He shook himself and began to read the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Doctor: I have tried to see you, but understand you are laid up. + Burn this as soon as you've read it. Louis Bassett has started for Norada, + and I advise your getting the person we discussed out of town as soon as + possible. Bassett is up to mischief. I'm not signing this fully, for + obvious reasons. G.” + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkseventeen" id="linkseventeen"></a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + XVII + </h2> + <p> + The Sayre house stood on the hill behind the town, a long, rather low + white house on Italian lines. In summer, until the family exodus to the + Maine Coast, the brilliant canopy which extended out over the terrace + indicated, as Harrison Miller put it, that the family was “in residence.” + Originally designed as a summer home, Mrs. Sayre now used it the year + round. There was nothing there, as there was in the town house, to remind + her of the bitter days before her widowhood. + </p> + <p> + She was a short, heavy woman, of fine taste in her house and of no taste + whatever in her clothing. + </p> + <p> + “I never know,” said Harrison Miller, “when I look up at the Sayre place, + whether I'm seeing Ann Sayre or an awning.” + </p> + <p> + She was not a shrewd woman, nor a clever one, but she was kindly in the + main, tolerant and maternal. She liked young people, gave gay little + parties to which she wore her outlandish clothes of all colors and all + cuts, lavished gifts on the girls she liked, and was anxious to see Wallie + married to a good steady girl and settled down. Between her son and + herself was a quiet but undemonstrative affection. She viewed him through + eyes that had lost their illusion about all men years ago, and she had no + delusions about him. She had no idea that she knew all that he did with + his time, and no desire to penetrate the veil of his private life. + </p> + <p> + “He spends a great deal of money,” she said one day to her lawyer. “I + suppose in the usual ways. But he is not quite like his father. He has + real affections, which his father hadn't. If he marries the right girl she + can make him almost anything.” + </p> + <p> + She had her first inkling that he was interested in Elizabeth Wheeler one + day when the head gardener reported that Mr. Wallace had ordered certain + roses cut and sent to the Wheeler house. She was angry at first, for the + roses were being saved for a dinner party. Then she considered. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Phelps,” she said. “Do it. And I'll select a plant also, to go + to Mrs. Wheeler.” + </p> + <p> + After all, why not the Wheeler girl? She had been carefully reared, if the + Wheeler house was rather awful in spots, and she was a gentle little + thing; very attractive, too, especially in church. And certainly Wallie + had been seeing a great deal of her. + </p> + <p> + She went to the greenhouses, and from there upstairs and into the rooms + that she had planned for Wallie and his bride, when the time came. She was + more content than she had been for a long time. She was a lonely woman, + isolated by her very grandeur from the neighborliness she craved; when she + wanted society she had to ask for it, by invitation. Standing inside the + door of the boudoir, her thoughts already at work on draperies and + furniture, she had a vague dream of new young life stirring in the big + house, of no more lonely evenings, of the bustle and activity of a family + again. + </p> + <p> + She wanted Wallie to settle down. She was tired of paying his bills at his + clubs and at various hotels, tired and weary of the days he lay in bed all + morning while his valet concocted various things to enable him to pull + himself together. He had been four years sowing his wild oats, and now at + twenty-five she felt he should be through with them. + </p> + <p> + The south room could be the nursery. + </p> + <p> + On Decoration Day, as usual, she did her dutiful best by the community, + sent flowers to the cemetery and even stood through a chilly hour there + while services were read and taps sounded over the graves of those who had + died in three wars. She felt very grateful that Wallie had come back + safely, and that if only now he would marry and settle down all would be + well. + </p> + <p> + The service left her emotionally untouched. She was one of those women who + saw in war, politics, even religion, only their reaction on herself and + her affairs. She had taken the German deluge as a personal affliction. And + she stood only stoically enduring while the village soprano sang “The Star + Spangled Banner.” By the end of the service she had decided that Elizabeth + Wheeler was the answer to her problem. + </p> + <p> + Rather under pressure, Wallie lunched with her at the country club, but + she found him evasive and not particularly happy. + </p> + <p> + “You're twenty-five, you know,” she said, toward the end of a discussion. + “By thirty you'll be too set in your habits, too hard to please.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to marry for the sake of getting married, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. But you have a good bit of money. You'll have much more + when I'm gone. And money carries responsibility with it.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at her, looked away, rapped a fork on the table cloth. + </p> + <p> + “It takes two to make a marriage, mother.” + </p> + <p> + He closed up after that, but she had learned what she wanted. + </p> + <p> + At three o'clock that afternoon the Sayre limousine stopped in front of + Nina's house, and Mrs. Sayre, in brilliant pink and a purple hat, got out. + Leslie, lounging in a window, made the announcement. + </p> + <p> + “Here's the Queen of Sheba,” he said. “I'll go upstairs and have a + headache, if you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed Nina and departed hastily. He was feeling extremely gentle + toward Nina those days and rather smugly virtuous. He considered that his + conscience had brought him back and not a very bad fright, which was the + fact, and he fairly exuded righteousness. + </p> + <p> + It was the great lady's first call, and Nina was considerably uplifted. It + was for such moments as this one trained servants and put Irish lace on + their aprons, and had decorators who stood off with their heads a little + awry and devised backgrounds for one's personality. + </p> + <p> + “What a delightful room!” said Mrs. Sayre. “And how do you keep a maid as + trim as that?” + </p> + <p> + “I must have service,” Nina replied. “The butler's marching in a parade or + something. How nice of you to come and see our little place. It's a + band-box, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Sayre sat down, a gross disharmony in the room, but a solid and not + unkindly woman for all that. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she said, “I am not paying a call. Or not only that. I came to + talk to you about something. About Wallace and your sister.” + </p> + <p> + Nina was gratified and not a little triumphant. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” she said. “Do you mean that they are fond of one another?” + </p> + <p> + “Wallace is. Of course, this talk is between ourselves, but—I'm + going to be frank, Nina. I want Wallie to marry, and I want him to marry + soon. You and I know that the life of an unattached man about town is full + of temptations. I want him to settle down. I'm lonely, too, but that's not + so important.” + </p> + <p> + Nina hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know about Elizabeth. She's fond of Wallie, as who isn't? But + lately—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, for the last few days I have been wondering. She doesn't talk, you + know. But she has been seeing something of Dick Livingstone.” + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Livingstone! She'd be throwing herself away!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but she's like that. I mean, she isn't ambitious. We've always + expected her to throw herself away; at least I have.” + </p> + <p> + A half hour later Leslie, upstairs, leaned over the railing to see if + there were any indications of departure. The door was open, and Mrs. Sayre + evidently about to take her leave. She was saying: + </p> + <p> + “It's very close to my heart, Nina dear, and I know you will be tactful. I + haven't stressed the material advantages, but you might point them out to + her.” + </p> + <p> + A few moments later Leslie came downstairs. Nina was sitting alone, + thinking, with a not entirely pleasant look of calculation on her face. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said. “What were you two plotting?” + </p> + <p> + “Plotting? Nothing, of course.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down at her. “Now see here, old girl,” he said, “you keep your + hands off Elizabeth's affairs. If I know anything she's making a damn good + choice, and don't you forget it.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII + </h2> + <p> + Dick stood with the letter in his hand, staring at it. Who was Bassett? + Who was “G”? What had the departure of whoever Bassett might be for Norada + to do with David? And who was the person who was to be got out of town? + </p> + <p> + He did not go upstairs. He took the letter into his private office, closed + the door, and sitting down at his desk turned his reading lamp on it, as + though that physical act might bring some mental light. + </p> + <p> + Reread, the cryptic sentences began to take on meaning. An unknown named + Bassett, whoever he might be, was going to Norada bent on “mischief,” and + another unknown who signed himself “G” was warning David of that fact. But + the mischief was designed, not against David, but against a third unknown, + some one who was to be got out of town. + </p> + <p> + David had been trying to get him out of town.—The warning referred + to himself. + </p> + <p> + His first impulse was to go to David, and months later he was to wonder + what would have happened had he done so. How far could Bassett have gone? + What would have been his own decision when he learned the truth? + </p> + <p> + For a little while, then, the shuttle was in Dick's own hand. He went up + to David's room, and with his hand on the letter in his pocket, carried on + behind his casual talk the debate that was so vital. But David had a + headache and a slightly faster pulse, and that portion of the pattern was + never woven. + </p> + <p> + The association between anxiety and David's illness had always been + apparent in Dick's mind, but now he began to surmise a concrete shock, a + person, a telegram, or a telephone call. And after dinner that night he + went back to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie,” he inquired, “do you remember the afternoon Doctor David was + taken sick?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll never forget it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he receive a telegram that day?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of. He often answers the bell himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know whether he had a visitor, just before you heard him fall?” + </p> + <p> + “He had a patient, yes. A man.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. He was a stranger to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember what he looked like?” + </p> + <p> + Minnie reflected. + </p> + <p> + “He was a smallish man, maybe thirty-five or so,” she said. “I think he + had gaiters over his shoes, or maybe light tops. He was a nice appearing + person.” + </p> + <p> + “How soon after that did you hear Doctor David fall?” + </p> + <p> + “Right away. First the door slammed, and then he dropped.” + </p> + <p> + Poor old David! Dick had not the slightest doubt now that David had + received some unfortunate news, and that up there in his bedroom ever + since, alone and helpless, he had been struggling with some secret dread + he could not share with any one. Not even with Lucy, probably. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, Dick made a try with Lucy that evening. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Lucy,” he said, “do you know of anything that could have caused + David's collapse?” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of thing?” she asked guardedly. + </p> + <p> + “A letter, we'll say, or a visitor?” + </p> + <p> + When he saw that she was only puzzled and thinking back, he knew she could + not help him. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” he said. “I was feeling about for some cause. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + He was satisfied that Lucy knew no more than he did of David's visitor, + and that David had kept his own counsel ever since. But the sense of + impending disaster that had come with the letter did not leave him. He + went through his evening office hours almost mechanically, with a part of + his mind busy on the puzzle. How did it affect the course of action he had + marked out? Wasn't it even more necessary than ever now to go to Walter + Wheeler and tell him how things stood? He hated mystery. He liked to walk + in the middle of the road in the sunlight. But even stronger than that was + a growing feeling that he needed a sane and normal judgment on his + situation; a fresh viewpoint and some unprejudiced advice. + </p> + <p> + He visited David before he left, and he was very gentle with him. In view + of this new development he saw David from a different angle, facing and + dreading something imminent, and it came to him with a shock that he might + have to clear things up to save David. The burden, whatever it was, was + breaking him. + </p> + <p> + He had telephoned, and Mr. Wheeler was waiting for him. Walter Wheeler + thought he knew what was coming, and he had well in mind what he was going + to say. He had thought it over, pacing the floor alone, with the dog at + his heels. He would say: + </p> + <p> + “I like and respect you, Livingstone. If you're worrying about what these + damned gossips say, let's call it a day and forget it. I know a man when I + see one, and if it's all right with Elizabeth it's all right with me.” + </p> + <p> + Things, however, did not turn out just that way. Dick came in, grave and + clearly preoccupied, and the first thing he said was: + </p> + <p> + “I have a story to tell you, Mr. Wheeler. After you've heard it, and given + me your opinion on it, I'll come to a matter that—well, that I can't + talk about now.” + </p> + <p> + “If it's the silly talk that I daresay you've heard—” + </p> + <p> + “No. I don't give a damn for talk. But there is something else. Something + I haven't told Elizabeth, and that I'll have to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Walter Wheeler drew himself up rather stiffly. Leslie's defection was + still in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me you're tangled up with another woman.” + </p> + <p> + “No. At least I think not. I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + It is doubtful if Walter Wheeler grasped many of the technicalities that + followed. Dick talked and he listened, nodding now and then, and + endeavoring very hard to get the gist of the matter. It seemed to him + curious rather than serious. Certainly the mind was a strange thing. He + must read up on it. Now and then he stopped Dick with a question, and Dick + would break in on his narrative to reply. Thus, once: + </p> + <p> + “You've said nothing to Elizabeth at all? About the walling off, as you + call it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. At first I was simply ashamed of it. I didn't want her to get the + idea that I wasn't normal.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, as I tell you, I begin to think—I've told you that this + walling off is an unconscious desire to forget something too painful to + remember. It's practically always that. I can't go to her with just that, + can I? I've got to know first what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd begun to think there was an understanding between you.” + </p> + <p> + Dick faced him squarely. + </p> + <p> + “There is. I didn't intend it. In fact, I was trying to keep away from + her. I didn't mean to speak to her until I'd cleared things up. But it + happened anyhow; I suppose the way those things always happen.” + </p> + <p> + It was Walter Wheeler's own decision, finally, that he go to Norada with + Dick as soon as David could be safely left. It was the letter which + influenced him. Up to that he had viewed the situation with a certain + detachment; now he saw that it threatened the peace of two households. + </p> + <p> + “It's a warning, all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Undoubtedly.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't recognize the name Bassett?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I've tried, of course.” + </p> + <p> + The result of some indecision was finally that Elizabeth should not be + told anything until they were ready to tell it all. And in the end a + certain resentment that she had become involved in an unhappy situation + died in Walter Wheeler before Dick's white face and sunken eyes. + </p> + <p> + At ten o'clock the house-door opened and closed, and Walter Wheeler got up + and went out into the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Go on upstairs, Margaret,” he said to his wife. “I've got a visitor.” He + did not look at Elizabeth. “You settle down and be comfortable,” he added, + “and I'll be up before long. Where's Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. He didn't go to Nina's.” + </p> + <p> + “He started with you, didn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But he left us at the corner.” + </p> + <p> + They exchanged glances. Jim had been worrying them lately. Strange how a + man could go along for years, his only worries those of business, his + track a single one through comfortable fields where he reaped only what he + sowed. And then his family grew up, and involved him without warning in + new perplexities and new troubles. Nina first, then Jim, and now this + strange story which so inevitably involved Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + He put his arm around his wife and held her to him. + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry about Jim, mother,” he said. “He's all right fundamentally. + He's going through the bad time between being a boy and being a man. He's + a good boy.” + </p> + <p> + He watched her moving up the stairs, his eyes tender and solicitous. To + him she was just “mother.” He had never thought of another woman in all + their twenty-four years together. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth waited near him, her eyes on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Dick?” she asked in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mind, daddy, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I only want you to be happy,” he said rather hoarsely. “You know that, + don't you?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, and turned up her face to be kissed. He knew that she had no + doubt whatever that this interview was to seal her to Dick Livingstone for + ever and ever. She fairly radiated happiness and confidence. He left her + standing there going back to the living-room closed the door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX + </h2> + <p> + Louis Bassett, when he started to the old Livingstone ranch, now the + Wasson place, was carefully turning over in his mind David's participation + in the escape of Judson Clark. Certain phases of it were quite clear, + provided one accepted the fact that, following a heavy snowfall, an + Easterner and a tenderfoot had gone into the mountains alone, under + conditions which had caused the posse after Judson Clark to turn back and + give him up for dead. + </p> + <p> + Had Donaldson sent him there, knowing he was a medical man? If he had, + would Maggie Donaldson not have said so? She had said “a man outside that + she had at first thought was a member of the searching party.” Evidently, + then, Donaldson had not prepared her to expect medical assistance. + </p> + <p> + Take the other angle. Say David Livingstone had not been sent for. Say he + knew nothing of the cabin or its occupants until he stumbled on them. He + had sold the ranch, distributed his brother's books, and apparently the + townspeople at Dry River believed that he had gone back home. Then what + had taken him, clearly alone and having certainly given the impression of + a departure for the East, into the mountains? To hunt? To hunt what, that + he went about it secretly and alone? + </p> + <p> + Bassett was inclined to the Donaldson theory, finally. John Donaldson + would have been wanting a doctor, and not wanting one from Norada. He + might have heard of this Eastern medical man at Dry River, have gone to + him with his story, even have taken him part of the way. The situation was + one that would have a certain appeal. It was possible, anyhow: + </p> + <p> + But instead of clarifying the situation Bassett's visit at the Wasson + place brought forward new elements which fitted neither of the hypotheses + in his mind. + </p> + <p> + To Wasson himself, whom he met on horseback on the road into the ranch, he + gave the same explanation he had given to the store-keeper's wife. Wasson + was a tall man in chaps and a Stetson, and he was courteously interested. + </p> + <p> + “Bill and Jake are still here,” he said. “They're probably in for dinner + now, and I'll see you get a chance to talk to them. I took them over with + the ranch. Property, you say? Well, I hope it's better land than he had + here.” + </p> + <p> + He turned his horse and rode beside the car to the house. + </p> + <p> + “Comes a little late to do Henry Livingstone much good,” he said. “He's + been lying in the Dry River graveyard for about ten years. Not much + mourned either. He was about as close-mouthed and uncompanionable as they + make them.” + </p> + <p> + The description Wasson had applied to Henry Livingstone, Bassett himself + applied to the two ranch hands later on, during their interview. It could + hardly have been called an interview at all, indeed, and after a time + Bassett realized that behind their taciturnity was suspicion. They were + watching him, undoubtedly; he rather thought, when he looked away, that + once or twice they exchanged glances. He was certain, too, that Wasson + himself was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Speak up, Jake,” he said once, irritably. “This gentleman has come a long + way. It's a matter of some property.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of property?” Jake demanded. Jake was the spokesman of the two. + </p> + <p> + “That's not important,” Bassett observed, easily. “What we want to know is + if Henry Livingstone had any family.” + </p> + <p> + “He had a brother.” + </p> + <p> + “No one else?” + </p> + <p> + “Then it's up to me to trail the brother,” Bassett observed. “Either of + you remember where he lived?” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere in the East.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett laughed. + </p> + <p> + “That's a trifle vague,” he commented good-humoredly. “Didn't you boys + ever mail any letters for him?” + </p> + <p> + He was certain again that they exchanged glances, but they continued to + present an unbroken front of ignorance. Wasson was divided between + irritation and amusement. + </p> + <p> + “What'd I tell you?” he asked. “Like master like man. I've been here ten + years, and I've never got a word about the Livingstones out of either of + them.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm a patient man.” Bassett grinned. “I suppose you'll admit that one of + you drove David Livingstone to the train, and that you had a fair idea + then of where he was going?” + </p> + <p> + He looked directly at Jake, but Jake's face was a solid mask. He made no + reply whatever. + </p> + <p> + From that moment on Bassett was certain that David had not been driven + away from the ranch at all. What he did not know, and was in no way to + find out, was whether the two ranch hands knew that he had gone into the + mountains, or why. He surmised back of their taciturnity a small mystery + of their own, and perhaps a fear. Possibly David's going was as much a + puzzle to them as to him. Conceivably, during the hours together on the + range, or during the winter snows, for ten years they had wrangled and + argued over a disappearance as mysterious in its way as Judson Clark's. + </p> + <p> + He gave up at last, having learned certain unimportant facts: that the + recluse had led a lonely life; that he had never tried to make the place + more than carry itself; that he was a student, and that he had no other + peculiarities. + </p> + <p> + “Did he ever say anything that would lead you to believe that he had any + family, outside of his brother and sister? That is, any direct heir?” + Bassett asked. + </p> + <p> + “He never talked about himself,” said Jake. “If that's all, Mr. Wasson, + I've got a steer bogged down in the north pasture and I'll be going.” + </p> + <p> + On the Wassons' invitation he remained to lunch, and when the ranch owner + excused himself and rode away after the meal he sat for some time on the + verandah, with Mrs. Wasson sewing and his own eyes fixed speculatively on + the mountain range, close, bleak and mysterious. + </p> + <p> + “Strange thing,” he commented. “Here's a man, a book-lover and student, + who comes out here, not to make living and be a useful member of the + community, but apparently to bury himself alive. I wonder, why.” + </p> + <p> + “A great many come out here to get away from something, Mr. Bassett.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to start again. But this man never started again. He apparently just + quit.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wasson put down her sewing and looked at him thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Did the boys tell you anything about the young man who visited Henry + Livingstone now and then?” + </p> + <p> + “No. They were not very communicative.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they wouldn't tell. Yet I don't see, unless—” She + stopped, lost in some field of speculation where he could not follow her. + “You know, we haven't much excitement here, and when this boy was first + seen around the place—he was here mostly in the summer—we + decided that he was a relative. I don't know why we considered him + mysterious, unless it was because he was hardly ever seen. I don't even + know that that was deliberate. For that matter Mr. Livingstone wasn't much + more than a name to us.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean, a son?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knew. He was here only now and then.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett moved in his chair and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “How old do you suppose this boy was?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He was here at different times. When Mr. Livingstone died I suppose he + was in his twenties. The thing that makes it seem odd to me is that the + men didn't mention him to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't ask about him, of course.” + </p> + <p> + She went on with her sewing, apparently intending to drop the matter; but + the reporter felt that now and then she was subjecting him to a sharp + scrutiny, and that, in some shrewd woman-fashion, she was trying to place + him. + </p> + <p> + “You said it was a matter of some property?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's rather late, isn't it? Ten years?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what makes it difficult.” + </p> + <p> + There was another silence, during which she evidently made her decision. + </p> + <p> + “I have never said this before, except to Mr. Wasson. But I believe he was + here when Henry Livingstone died.” + </p> + <p> + Her tone was mysterious, and Bassett stared at her. + </p> + <p> + “You don't think Livingstone was murdered!” + </p> + <p> + “No. He died of heart failure. There was an autopsy. But he had a bad cut + on his head. Of course, he may have fallen—Bill and Jake were away. + They'd driven some cattle out on the range. It was two days before he was + found, and it would have been longer if Mr. Wasson hadn't ridden out to + talk to him about buying. He found him dead in his bed, but there was + blood on the floor in the next room. I washed it up myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she added, when Bassett maintained a puzzled silence, “I may + be all wrong. He might have fallen in the next room and dragged himself to + bed. But he was very neatly covered up.” + </p> + <p> + “It's your idea, then, that this boy put him into the bed?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. He wasn't seen about the place. He's never been here since. + But the posse found a horse with the Livingstone brand, saddled, dead in + Dry River Canyon when it was looking for Judson Clark. Of course, that was + a month later. The men here, Bill and Jake, claimed it had wandered off, + but I've often wondered.” + </p> + <p> + After a time Bassett got up and took his leave. He was confused and + irritated. Here, whether creditably or not, was Dick Livingstone accounted + for. There was a story there, probably, but not the story he was after. + This unknown had been at the ranch when Henry Livingstone died, had + perhaps been indirectly responsible for his death. He had, witness the + horse, fled after the thing happened. Later on, then, David Livingstone + had taken him into his family. That was all. + </p> + <p> + Except for that identification of Gregory's, and for the photograph of + Judson Clark.... For a moment he wondered if the two, Jud Clark and the + unknown, could be the same. But Dry River would have known Clark. That + couldn't be. + </p> + <p> + He almost ditched the car on his way back to Norada, so deeply was he + engrossed in thought. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX + </h2> + <p> + On the seventh of June David and Lucy went to the seashore, went by the + order of various professional gentlemen who had differed violently during + the course of David's illness, but who now suddenly agreed with an almost + startling unanimity. Which unanimity was the result of careful coaching by + Dick. + </p> + <p> + He saw in David's absence his only possible chance to go back to Norada + without worry to the sick man, and he felt, too, that a change, getting + away from the surcharged atmosphere of the old house, would be good for + both David and Lucy. + </p> + <p> + For days before they started Lucy went about in a frenzy of nervous + energy, writing out menus for Minnie for a month ahead, counting and + recounting David's collars and handkerchiefs, cleaning and pressing his + neckties. In the harness room in the stable Mike polished boots until his + arms ached, and at the last moment with trunks already bulging, came three + gift dressing-gowns for David, none of which he would leave behind. + </p> + <p> + “I declare,” Lucy protested to Dick, “I don't know what's come over him. + Every present he's had since he was sick he's taking along. You'd think he + was going to be shut up on a desert island.” + </p> + <p> + But Dick thought he understood. In David's life his friends had had to + take the place of wife and children; he clung to them now, in his age and + weakness, and Dick knew that he had a sense of deserting them, of + abandoning them after many faithful years. + </p> + <p> + So David carried with him the calendars and slippers, dressing-gowns and + bed-socks which were at once the tangible evidence of their friendliness + and Lucy's despair. + </p> + <p> + Watching him, Dick was certain nothing further had come to threaten his + recovery. Dick carefully inspected the mail, but no suspicious letter had + arrived, and as the days went on David's peace seemed finally + re-established. He made no more references to Johns Hopkins, slept like a + child, and railed almost pettishly at his restricted diet. + </p> + <p> + “When we get away from Dick, Lucy,” he would say, “we'll have beef again, + and roast pork and sausage.” + </p> + <p> + Lucy would smile absently and shake her head. + </p> + <p> + “You'll stick to your diet, David,” she would say. “David, it's the + strangest thing about your winter underwear. I'm sure you had five suits, + and now there are only three.” + </p> + <p> + Or it was socks she missed, or night-clothing. And David, inwardly + chuckling, would wonder with her, knowing all the while that they had + clothed some needy body. + </p> + <p> + On the night before the departure David went out for his first short walk + alone, and brought Elizabeth back with him. + </p> + <p> + “I found a rose walking up the street, Lucy,” he bellowed up the stairs, + “and I brought it home for the dinner table.” + </p> + <p> + Lucy came down, flushed from her final effort over the trunks, but gently + hospitable. + </p> + <p> + “It's fish night, Elizabeth,” she said. “You know Minnie's a Catholic, so + we always have fish on Friday. I hope you eat it.” She put her hand on + Elizabeth's arm and gently patted it, and thus was Elizabeth taken into + the old brick house as one of its own. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth was finding this period of her tacit engagement rather puzzling. + Her people puzzled her. Even Dick did, at times. And nobody seemed anxious + to make plans for the future, or even to discuss the wedding. She was a + little hurt about that, remembering the excitement over Nina's. + </p> + <p> + But what chiefly bewildered her was the seeming necessity for secrecy. + Even Nina had not been told, nor Jim. She did not resent that, although it + bewildered her. Her own inclination was to shout it from the house-tops. + Her father had simply said: “I've told your mother, honey, and we'd better + let it go at that, for a while. There's no hurry. And I don't want to lose + you yet.” + </p> + <p> + But there were other things. Dick himself varied. He was always gentle and + very tender, but there were times when he seemed to hold himself away from + her, would seem aloof and remote, but all the time watching her almost + fiercely. But after that, as though he had tried an experiment in + separation and failed with it, he would catch her to him savagely and hold + her there. She tried, very meekly, to meet his mood; was submissive to his + passion and acquiescent to those intervals when he withdrew himself and + sat or stood near her, not touching her but watching her intently. + </p> + <p> + She thought men in love were very queer and quite incomprehensible. + Because he varied in other ways, too. He was boyish and gay sometimes, and + again silent and almost brooding. She thought at those times that perhaps + he was tired, what with David's work and his own, and sometimes she + wondered if he were still worrying about that silly story. But once or + twice, after he had gone, she went upstairs and looked carefully into her + mirror. Perhaps she had not looked her best that day. Girl-like, she set + great value on looks in love. She wanted frightfully to be beautiful to + him. She wished she could look like Beverly Carlysle, for instance. + </p> + <p> + Two days before David and Lucy's departure he had brought her her + engagement ring, a square-cut diamond set in platinum. He kissed it first + and then her finger, and slipped it into place. It became a rite, done as + he did it, and she had a sense of something done that could never be + undone. When she looked up at him he was very pale. + </p> + <p> + “Forsaking all others, so long as we both shall live,” he said, + unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “So long as we both shall live,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + However she had to take it off later, for Mrs. Wheeler, it developed, had + very pronounced ideas of engagement rings. They were put on the day the + notices were sent to the newspapers, and not before. So Elizabeth wore her + ring around her neck on a white ribbon, inside her camisole, until such + time as her father would consent to announce that he was about to lose + her. + </p> + <p> + Thus Elizabeth found her engagement full of unexpected turns and twists, + and nothing precisely as she had expected. But she accepted things as they + came, being of the type around which the dramas of life are enacted, while + remaining totally undramatic herself. She lived her quiet days, worried + about Jim on occasion, hemmed table napkins for her linen chest, and slept + at night with her ring on her finger and a sense of being wrapped in + protecting love that was no longer limited to the white Wheeler house, but + now extended two blocks away and around the corner to a shabby old brick + building in a more or less shabby yard. + </p> + <p> + They were very gay in the old brick house that night before the departure, + very noisy over the fish and David's broiled lamb chop. Dick demanded a + bottle of Lucy's home-made wine, and even David got a little of it. They + toasted the seashore, and the departed nurse, and David quoted Robert + Burns at some length and in a horrible Scotch accent. Then Dick had a + trick by which one read the date on one of three pennies while he was not + looking, and he could tell without failing which one it was. It was most + mysterious. And after dinner Dick took her into his laboratory, and while + she squinted one eye and looked into the finder of his microscope he + kissed the white nape of her neck. + </p> + <p> + When they left the laboratory there were patients in the waiting-room, but + he held her in his arms in the office for a moment or two, very quietly, + and because the door was thin they made a sort of game of it, and + pretended she was a patient. + </p> + <p> + “How did you sleep last night?” he said, in a highly professional and very + distinct voice. Then he kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “Very badly, doctor,” she said, also very clearly, and whispered, “I lay + awake and thought about you, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd better give you this sleeping powder.” Oh, frightfully professional, + but the powder turned out to be another kiss. It was a wonderful game. + </p> + <p> + When she slipped out into the hall she had to stop and smooth her hair, + before she went to Lucy's tidy sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI + </h2> + <p> + It was Jim Wheeler's turn to take up the shuttle. A girl met in some + casual fashion; his own youth and the urge of it, perhaps the unconscious + family indulgence of an only son—and Jim wove his bit and passed on. + </p> + <p> + There had been mild contention in the Wheeler family during all the + spring. Looking out from his quiet windows Walter Wheeler saw the young + world going by a-wheel, and going fast. Much that legitimately belonged to + it, and much that did not in the laxness of the new code, he laid to the + automobile. And doggedly he refused to buy one. + </p> + <p> + “We can always get a taxicab,” was his imperturbable answer to Jim. “I pay + pretty good-sized taxi bills without unpleasant discussion. I know you + pretty well too, Jim. Better than you know yourself. And if you had a car, + you'd try your best to break your neck in it.” + </p> + <p> + Now and then Jim got a car, however. Sometimes he rented one, sometimes he + cajoled Nina into lending him hers. + </p> + <p> + “A fellow looks a fool without one,” he would say to her. “Girls expect to + be taken out. It's part of the game.” + </p> + <p> + And Nina, always reached by that argument of how things looked, now and + then reluctantly acquiesced. But a night or two after David and Lucy had + started for the seashore Nina came in like a whirlwind, and routed the + family peace immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” she said, “you just must speak to Jim. He's taken our car twice + at night without asking for it, and last night he broke a spring. Les is + simply crazy.” + </p> + <p> + “Taken your car!” Mrs. Wheeler exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I hate telling on him, but I spoke to him after the first time, and + he did it anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wheeler glanced at her husband uneasily. She often felt he was too + severe with Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry,” he said grimly. “He'll not do it again.” + </p> + <p> + “If we only had a car of our own—” Mrs. Wheeler protested. + </p> + <p> + “You know what I think about that, mother. I'm not going to have him + joy-riding over the country, breaking his neck and getting into trouble. + I've seen him driving Wallace Sayre's car, and he drives like a fool or a + madman.” + </p> + <p> + It was an old dispute and a bitter one. Mr. Wheeler got up, whistled for + the dog, and went out. His wife turned on Nina. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you wouldn't bring these things to your father, Nina,” she said. + “He's been very nervous lately, and he isn't always fair to Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's time Jim was fair to Leslie,” Nina said, with family + frankness. “I'll tell you something, mother. Jim has a girl somewhere, in + town probably. He takes her driving. I found a glove in the car. And he + must be crazy about her, or he'd never do what he's done.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who it is?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Somebody's he's ashamed of, probably, or he wouldn't be so + clandestine about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Nina!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it looks like it. Jim's a man, mother. He's not a little boy. He'll + go through his shady period, like the rest.” + </p> + <p> + That night it was Mrs. Wheeler's turn to lie awake. Again and again she + went over Nina's words, and her troubled mind found a basis in fact for + them. Jim had been getting money from her, to supplement his small salary; + he had been going out a great deal at night, and returning very late; once + or twice, in the morning, he had looked ill and his eyes had been + bloodshot, as though he had been drinking. + </p> + <p> + Anxiety gripped her. There were so many temptations for young men, so many + who waited to waylay them. A girl. Not a good girl, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + She raised herself on her elbow and looked at her sleeping husband. Men + were like that; they begot children and then forgot them. They never + looked ahead or worried. They were taken up with business, and always they + forgot that once they too had been young and liable to temptation. + </p> + <p> + She got up, some time later, and tiptoed to the door of Jim's room. Inside + she could hear his heavy, regular breathing. Her boy. Her only son. + </p> + <p> + She went back and crawled carefully into the bed. + </p> + <p> + There was an acrimonious argument between Jim and his father the next + morning, and Jim slammed out of the house, leaving chaos behind him. It + was then that Elizabeth learned that her father was going away. He said: + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I'm wrong, mother. I don't know. Perhaps, when I come back, I'll + look around for a car. I don't want him driven to doing underhand things.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going away?” Elizabeth asked, surprised. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that he was. More than that, that he was going West with Dick. + It was all arranged and nobody had told her anything about it. + </p> + <p> + She was hurt and a trifle offended, and she cried a little about it. Yet, + as Dick explained to her later that day, it was simple enough. Her father + needed a rest, and besides, it was right that he should know all about + Dick's life before he came to Haverly. + </p> + <p> + “He's going to make me a present of something highly valuable, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “But it looks as though he didn't trust you!” + </p> + <p> + “He's being very polite about it; but, of course, in his eyes I'm a common + thief, stealing—” + </p> + <p> + She would not let him go on. + </p> + <p> + A certain immaturity, the blind confidence of youth in those it loves, + explains Elizabeth's docility at that time. But underneath her submission + that day was a growing uneasiness, fiercely suppressed. Buried deep, the + battle between absolute trust and fear was beginning, a battle which was + so rapidly to mature her. + </p> + <p> + Nina, shrewd and suspicious, sensed something of nervous strain in her + when she came in, later that day, to borrow a hat. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Elizabeth,” she began, “I want to talk to you. Are you going + to live in this—this hole all your life?” + </p> + <p> + “Hole nothing,” Elizabeth said, hotly. “Really, Nina, I do think you might + be more careful of what you say.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's a dear old hole,” Nina said negligently. “But hole it is, + nevertheless. Why in the world mother don't manage her servants—but + no matter about that now. Elizabeth, there's a lot of talk about you and + Dick Livingstone, and it makes me furious. When I think that you can have + Wallie Sayre by lifting your finger—” + </p> + <p> + “And that I don't intend to lift my finger,” Elizabeth interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Then you're a fool. And it is Dick Livingstone!” + </p> + <p> + “It is, Nina.” + </p> + <p> + Nina's ambitious soul was harrowed. + </p> + <p> + “That stodgy old house,” she said, “and two old people! A general + house-work girl, and you cooking on her Thursdays out! I wish you joy of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” Elizabeth said calmly, “whether it ever occurs to you that I + may put love above houses and servants? Or that my life is my own, to live + exactly as I please? Because that is what I intend to do.” + </p> + <p> + Nina rose angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” she said. “I wish you joy of it.” And went out, slamming the + door behind her. + </p> + <p> + Then, with only a day or so remaining before Dick's departure, and Jim's + hand already reaching for the shuttle, Elizabeth found herself the object + of certain unmistakable advances from Mrs. Sayre herself, and that at a + rose luncheon at the house on the hill. + </p> + <p> + The talk about Dick and Elizabeth had been slow in reaching the house on + the hill. When it came, via a little group on the terrace after the + luncheon, Mrs. Sayre was upset and angry and inclined to blame Wallie. + Everything that he wanted had come to him, all his life, and he did not + know how to go after things. He had sat by, and let this shabby-genteel + doctor, years older than the girl, walk away with her. + </p> + <p> + Not that she gave up entirely. She knew the town, and its tendency toward + over-statement. And so she made a desperate attempt, that afternoon, to + tempt Elizabeth. She took her through the greenhouses, and then through + the upper floors of the house. She showed her pictures of their boat at + Miami, and of the house at Marblehead. Elizabeth was politely interested + and completely unresponsive. + </p> + <p> + “When you think,” Mrs. Sayre said at last, “that Wallie will have to + assume a great many burdens one of these days, you can understand how + anxious I am to have him marry the right sort of girl.” + </p> + <p> + She thought Elizabeth flushed slightly. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure he will, Mrs. Sayre.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Sayre tried a new direction. + </p> + <p> + “He will have all I have, my dear, and it is a great responsibility. Used + properly, money can be an agent of great good. Wallie's wife can be a + power, if she so chooses. She can look after the poor. I have a long list + of pensioners, but I am too old to add personal service.” + </p> + <p> + “That would be wonderful,” Elizabeth said gravely. For a moment she wished + Dick were rich. There was so much to be done with money, and how well he + would know how to do it. She was thoughtful on the way downstairs, and + Mrs. Sayre felt some small satisfaction. Now if Wallie would only do his + part— + </p> + <p> + It was that night that Jim brought the tragedy on the Wheeler house that + was to lie heavy on it for many a day. + </p> + <p> + There had been a little dinner, one of those small informal affairs where + Mrs. Wheeler, having found in the market the first of the broiling + chickens and some fine green peas, bought them first and then sat down to + the telephone to invite her friends. Mr. Oglethorpe, the clergyman, and + his wife accepted cheerfully; Harrison Miller, resignedly. Then Mrs. + Wheeler drew a long, resolute breath and invited Mrs. Sayre. When that + lady accepted with alacrity Mrs. Wheeler hastily revised her menu, + telephoned the florist for flowers, and spent a long half-hour with Annie + over plates and finger bowls. + </p> + <p> + Jim was not coming home, and Elizabeth was dining with Nina. Mrs. Wheeler + bustled about the house contentedly. Everything was going well, after all. + Before long there would be a car, and Jim would spend more time at home. + Nina and Leslie were happy again. And Elizabeth—not a good match, + perhaps, but a marriage for love, if ever there was one. + </p> + <p> + She sat at the foot of her table that night, rather too watchful of Annie, + but supremely content. She had herself scoured the loving cup to the last + degree of brightness and it stood, full of flowers, in the center of the + cloth. + </p> + <p> + At Nina's was a smaller but similar group. All over the village at that + time in the evening were similar groups, gathered around flowers and + candles; neatly served, cheerful and undramatic groups, with the house + doors closed and dogs waiting patiently outside in the long spring + twilight. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth was watching Nina. Just so, she was deciding, would she some day + preside at her own board. Perhaps before so very long, too. A little + separation, letters to watch for and answer, and then— + </p> + <p> + The telephone rang, and Leslie answered it. He did not come back; instead + they heard the house door close, and soon after the rumble of the car as + it left the garage. It stopped at the door, and Leslie came in. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry,” he said, “but I guess Elizabeth will have to go home. You'd + better come along, Nina.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Is somebody sick?” Elizabeth gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Jim's been in an automobile accident. Steady now, Elizabeth! He's hurt, + but he's going to be all right.” + </p> + <p> + The Wheeler house, when they got there, was brightly lighted. Annie was + crying in the hall, and in the living-room Mrs. Sayre stood alone, a + strange figure in a gaudy dress, but with her face strong and calm. + </p> + <p> + “They've gone to the hospital in my car,” she said. “They'll be there now + any minute, and Mr. Oglethorpe will telephone at once. You are to wait + before starting in.” + </p> + <p> + They all knew what that meant. It might be too late to start in. Nina was + crying hysterically, but Elizabeth could not cry. She stood dry-eyed by + the telephone, listening to Mrs. Sayre and Leslie, but hardly hearing + them. They had got Dick Livingstone and he had gone on in. Mrs. Sayre was + afraid it had been one of Wallie's cars. She had begged Wallie to tell Jim + to be careful in it. It had too much speed. + </p> + <p> + The telephone rang and Leslie took the receiver and pushed Elizabeth + gently aside. He listened for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said. Then he hung up and stood still before he turned + around: + </p> + <p> + “It isn't very good news,” he said. “I wish I could—Elizabeth!” + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth had crumpled up in a small heap on the floor. + </p> + <p> + All through the long night that followed, with the movement of feet + through the halls, with her mother's door closing and the ghastly silence + that followed it, with the dawn that came through the windows, the dawn + that to Jim meant not a new day, but a new life beyond their living touch, + all through the night Elizabeth was aware of two figures that came and + went. One was Dick, quiet, tender and watchful. And one was of a heavy + woman in a gaudy dress, her face old and weary in the morning light, who + tended her with gentle hands. + </p> + <p> + She fell asleep as the light was brightening in the East, with Dick + holding her hands and kneeling on the floor beside her bed. + </p> + <p> + It was not until the next day that they knew that Jim had not been alone. + A girl who was with him had been pinned under the car and had died + instantly. + </p> + <p> + Jim had woven his bit in the pattern and passed on. The girl was + negligible; she was, she had been. That was all. But Jim's death added the + last element to the impending catastrophe. It sent Dick West alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII + </h2> + <p> + For several days after his visit to the Livingstone ranch Louis Bassett + made no move to go to the cabin. He wandered around the town, made + promiscuous acquaintances and led up, in careful conversations with such + older residents as he could find, to the Clark and Livingstone families. + Of the latter he learned nothing; of the former not much that he had not + known before. + </p> + <p> + One day he happened on a short, heavy-set man, the sheriff, who had lost + his office on the strength of Jud Clark's escape, and had now recovered + it. Bassett had brought some whisky with him, and on the promise of a + drink lured Wilkins to his room. Over his glass the sheriff talked. + </p> + <p> + “All this newspaper stuff lately about Jud Clark being alive is dead + wrong,” he declared, irritably. “Maggie Donaldson was crazy. You can ask + the people here about her. They all know it. Those newspaper fellows + descended on us here with a tooth-brush apiece and a suitcase full of + liquor, and thought they'd get something. Seemed to think we'd hold out on + them unless we got our skins full. But there isn't anything to hold out. + Jud Clark's dead. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure he's dead,” Bassett agreed, amiably. “You found his horse, didn't + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Dead. And when you find a man's horse dead in the mountains in a + blizzard, you don't need any more evidence. It was five months before you + could see a trail up the Goat that winter.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett nodded, rose and poured out another drink. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he observed casually, “that even if Clark turned up now, it + would be hard to convict him, wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + The sheriff considered that, holding up his glass. + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes and no,” he said. “It was circumstantial evidence, mostly. + Nobody saw it done. The worst thing against him was his running off.” + </p> + <p> + “How about witnesses?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody actually saw it done. John Donaldson came the nearest, and he's + dead. Lucas's wife was still alive, the last I heard, and I reckon the + valet is floating around somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose if he did turn up you'd make a try for it.” Bassett stared at + the end of his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “We'd make a try for it, all right,” Wilkins said somberly. “There are + some folks in this county still giving me the laugh over that case.” + </p> + <p> + The next day Bassett hired a quiet horse, rolled in his raincoat two days' + supply of food, strapped it to the cantle of his saddle, and rode into the + mountains. He had not ridden for years, and at the end of the first hour + he began to realize that he was in for a bad time. By noon he was so sore + that he could hardly get out of the saddle, and so stiff that once out, he + could barely get back again. All morning the horse had climbed, twisting + back and forth on a narrow canyon trail, grunting occasionally, as is the + way of a horse on a steep grade. All morning they had followed a roaring + mountain stream, descending in small cataracts from the ice fields far + above. And all morning Bassett had been mentally following that trail as + it had been ridden ten years ago by a boy maddened with fear and drink, + who drove his horse forward through the night and the blizzard, with no + objective and no hope. + </p> + <p> + He found it practically impossible to connect this frenzied fugitive with + the quiet man in his office chair at Haverly, the man who was or was not + Judson Clark. He lay on a bank at noon and faced the situation squarely, + while his horse, hobbled, grazed with grotesque little forward jumps in an + upland meadow. Either Dick Livingstone was Clark, or he was the unknown + occasional visitor at the Livingstone Ranch. If he were Clark, and if that + could be proved, there were two courses open to Bassett. He could denounce + him to the authorities and then spring the big story of his career. Or he + could let things stand. From a professional standpoint the first course + attracted him, as a man he began to hate it. The last few days had shed a + new light on Judson Clark. He had been immensely popular; there were men + in the town who told about trying to save him from himself. He had been + extravagant, but he had also been generous. He had been “a good kid,” + until liberty and money got hold of him. There had been more than one man + in the sheriff's posse who hadn't wanted to find him. + </p> + <p> + He was tempted to turn back. The mountains surrounded him, somber and + majestically still. They made him feel infinitely small and rather + impertinent, as though he had come to penetrate the secrets they never + yielded. He had almost to fight a conviction that they were hostile. + </p> + <p> + After an hour or so he determined to go on. Let them throw him over a + gorge if they so determined. He got up, grunting, and leading the horse + beside a boulder, climbed painfully into the saddle. To relieve his + depression he addressed the horse: + </p> + <p> + “It would be easier on both of us if you were two feet narrower in the + beam, old dear,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, he made good time. By six o'clock he knew that he must have + made thirty odd miles, and that he must be near the cabin. Also that it + was going to be bitterly cold that night, under the snow fields, and that + he had brought no wood axe. The deep valley was purple with twilight by + seven, and he could scarcely see the rough-drawn trail map he had been + following. And the trail grew increasingly bad. For the last mile or two + the horse took its own way. + </p> + <p> + It wandered on, through fords and out of them, under the low-growing + branches of scrub pine, brushing his bruised legs against rocks. He had + definitely decided that he had missed the cabin when the horse turned off + the trail, and he saw it. + </p> + <p> + It was built of rough logs, the chinks once closed with mud which had + fallen away. The door stood open, and his entrance into its darkness was + followed by the scurrying of many little feet. Bassett unstrapped his + raincoat from the saddle with fingers numb with cold, and flung it to the + ground. He uncinched and removed the heavy saddle, hobbled his horse and + removed the bridle, and turned him loose with a slap on the flank. + </p> + <p> + “For the love of Mike, don't go far, old man,” he besought him. And was + startled by the sound of his own voice. + </p> + <p> + By the light of his candle lantern the prospects were extremely poor. The + fir branches in the double-berthed bunk were dry and useless, the floor + was crumbling under his feet, and the roof of the lean-to had fallen in + and crushed the rusty stove. In the cabin itself some one had recently + placed a large flat stone in a corner for a fireplace, with two slabs to + back it, and above it had broken out a corner of the roof as a chimney. + Bassett thought he saw the handwork of some enterprising journalist, and + smiled grimly. + </p> + <p> + He set to work with the resource of a man who had learned to take what + came, threw the dry bedding onto the slab and set a match to it, brought + in portions of the lean-to roof for further supply for the fire, opened a + can of tomatoes and set it on the edge of the hearth to heat, and sliced + bacon into his diminutive frying-pan. + </p> + <p> + It was too late for any examination that night. He ate his supper from the + rough table, drawing up to it a broken chair, and afterwards brought in + more wood for his fire. Then, with a lighted cigar, and with his boots + steaming on the hearth, he sat in front of the blaze and fell into deep + study. + </p> + <p> + He was aching in every muscle when he finally stretched out on the bare + boards of the lower bunk. While he slept small furry noses appeared in the + openings in the broken floor, to be followed by little bodies that moved + cautiously out into the open. He roused once and peered over the edge of + the bunk. Several field mice were basking in front of the dying embers of + the fire, and two were sitting on his boots. He grinned at them and lay + back again, but he found himself fully awake and very uncomfortable. He + lay there, contemplating his own folly, and demanding of himself almost + fiercely what he had expected to get out of all this effort and misery. + For ten years or so men had come here. Wilkins had come, for one, and + there had been others. And had found nothing, and had gone away. And now + he was there, the end of the procession, to look for God knows what. + </p> + <p> + He pulled the raincoat up around his shoulders, and lay back stiffly. Then—he + was not an imaginative man—he began to feel that eyes were staring + at him, furtive, hidden eyes, intently watching him. + </p> + <p> + Without moving he began to rake the cabin with his eyes, wall to wall, + corner to corner. He turned, cautiously, and glanced at the door into the + lean-to. It gaped, cavernous and empty. But the sense of being watched + persisted, and when he looked at the floor the field mice had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + He began gradually to see more clearly as his eyes grew accustomed to the + semi-darkness, and he felt, too, that he could almost locate the direction + of the menace. For as a menace he found himself considering it. It was the + broken, windowless East wall, opposite the bunk. + </p> + <p> + After a time the thing became intolerable. He reached for his revolver, + and getting quickly out of the bunk, ran to the doorway and threw open the + door, to find himself peering into a blackness like a wall, and to hear a + hasty crunching of the underbrush that sounded like some animal in full + flight. + </p> + <p> + With the sounds, and his own movement, the terror died. The cold night air + on his face, the feel of the pine needles under his stockinged feet, + brought him back to sense and normality. Some creature of the wilderness, + a deer or a bear, perhaps, had been moving stealthily outside the cabin, + and it was sound he had heard, not a gaze he had felt. He was rather + cynically amused at himself. He went back into the cabin, closed the door, + and stooped to turn his boots over before the fire. + </p> + <p> + It was while he was stooping that he heard a horse galloping off along the + trail. + </p> + <p> + He did not go to sleep again. Now and then he considered the possibility + of its having been his own animal, somehow freed of the rope and + frightened by the same thing that had frightened him. But when with the + first light he went outside, his horse, securely hobbled, was grazing on + the scant pasture not far away. + </p> + <p> + Before he cooked his breakfast he made a minute examination of the ground + beneath the East wall, but the earth was hard, and a broken branch or two + might have been caused by his horse. He had no skill in woodcraft, and in + the broad day his alarm seemed almost absurd. Some free horse on the range + had probably wandered into the vicinity of the cabin, and had made off + again on a trot. Nevertheless, he made up his mind not to remain over + another night, but to look about after breakfast, and then to start down + again. + </p> + <p> + He worked on his boots, dry and hard after yesterday's wetting, fried his + bacon and dropped some crackers into the sizzling fat, and ate quickly. + After that he went out to the trail and inspected it. He had an idea that + range horses were mostly unshod, and that perhaps the trail would reveal + something. But it was unused and overgrown. Not until he had gone some + distance did he find anything. Then in a small bare spot he found in the + dust the imprints of a horse's shoes, turned down the trail up which he + had come. + </p> + <p> + Even then he was slow to read into the incident anything that related to + himself or to his errand. He went over the various contingencies of the + trail: a ranger, on his way to town; a forest fire somewhere; a belated + hound from the newspaper pack. He was convinced now that human eyes had + watched him for some time through the log wall the night before, but he + could not connect them with the business in hand. + </p> + <p> + He set resolutely about his business, which was to turn up, somehow, some + way, a proof of the truth of Maggie Donaldson's dying statement. To begin + with then he accepted that statement, to find where it would lead him, and + it led him, eventually, to the broken-down stove under the fallen roof of + the lean-to. + </p> + <p> + He deliberately set himself to work, at first, to reconstruct the life in + the cabin. Jud would have had the lower bunk, David the upper. The + skeleton of a cot bed in the lean-to would have been Maggie's. But none of + them yielded anything. + </p> + <p> + Very well. Having accepted that they lived here, it was from here that the + escape was made. They would have started the moment the snow was melted + enough to let them get out, and they would have taken, not the trail + toward the town, but some other and circuitous route toward the railroad. + But there had been things to do before they left. They would have cleared + the cabin of every trace of occupancy; the tin cans, Clark's clothing, + such bedding as they could not carry. The cans must have been a problem; + the clothes, of course, could have been burned. But there were things, + like buttons, that did not burn easily. Clark's watch, if he wore one, his + cuff links. Buried? + </p> + <p> + It occurred to him that they might have disposed of some of the unburnable + articles under the floor, and he lifted a rough board or two. But to + pursue the search systematically he would have needed a pickaxe, and + reluctantly he gave it up and turned his attention to the lean-to and the + buried stove. + </p> + <p> + The stove lay in a shallow pit, filled with ancient ashes and crumbled + bits of wood from the roof. It lay on its side, its sheet-iron sides + collapsed, its long chimney disintegrated. He was in a heavy sweat before + he had uncovered it and was able to remove it from its bed of ashes and + pine needles. This done, he brought his candle-lantern and settled himself + cross-legged on the ground. + </p> + <p> + His first casual inspection of the ashes revealed nothing. He set to work + more carefully then, picking them up by handfuls, examining and + discarding. Within ten minutes he had in a pile beside him some burned and + blackened metal buttons, the eyelets and a piece of leather from a shoe, + and the almost unrecognizable nib of a fountain pen. + </p> + <p> + He sat with them in the palm of his hand. Taken alone, each one was + insignificant, proved nothing whatever. Taken all together, they assumed + vast proportions, became convincing, became evidence. + </p> + <p> + Late that night he descended stiffly at the livery stable, and turned his + weary horse over to a stableman. + </p> + <p> + “Looks dead beat,” said the stableman, eyeing the animal. + </p> + <p> + “He's got nothing on me,” Bassett responded cheerfully. “Better give him a + hot bath and put him to bed. That's what I'm going to do.” + </p> + <p> + He walked back to the hotel, glad to stretch his aching muscles. The lobby + was empty, and behind the desk the night clerk was waiting for the + midnight train. Bassett was wide awake by that time, and he went back to + the desk and lounged against it. + </p> + <p> + “You look as though you'd struck oil,” said the night clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Oil! I'll tell you what I have struck. I've struck a livery stable saddle + two million times in the last two days.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk grinned, and Bassett idly pulled the register toward him. + </p> + <p> + “J. Smith, Minneapolis,” he read. Then he stopped and stared. Richard + Livingstone was registered on the next line above. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII + </h2> + <p> + Dick had found it hard to leave Elizabeth, for she clung to him in her + grief with childish wistfulness. He found, too, that her family depended + on him rather than on Leslie Ward for moral support. It was to him that + Walter Wheeler looked for assurance that the father had had no indirect + responsibility for the son's death; it was to him that Jim's mother, lying + gray-faced and listless in her bed or on her couch, brought her anxious + questionings. Had Jim suffered? Could they have avoided it? And an + insistent demand to know who and what had been the girl who was with him. + </p> + <p> + In spite of his own feeling that he would have to go to Norada quickly, + before David became impatient over his exile, Dick took a few hours to + find the answer to that question. But when he found it he could not tell + them. The girl had been a dweller in the shady byways of life, had played + her small unmoral part and gone on, perhaps to some place where men were + kinder and less urgent. Dick did not judge her. He saw her, as her kind + had been through all time, storm centers of the social world, passively + and unconsciously blighting, at once the hunters and the prey. + </p> + <p> + He secured her former address from the police, a three-story brick + rooming-house in the local tenderloin, and waited rather uncomfortably for + the mistress of the place to see him. She came at last, a big woman, vast + and shapeless and with an amiable loose smile, and she came in with the + light step of the overfleshed, only to pause in the doorway and to stare + at him. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” she said. “I thought you were dead!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you're mistaking me for some one else, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him carefully. + </p> + <p> + “I'd have sworn—” she muttered, and turning to the button inside the + door she switched on the light. Then she surveyed him again. + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Livingstone. Doctor Livingstone. I called—” + </p> + <p> + “Is that for me, or for the police?” + </p> + <p> + “Now see here,” he said pleasantly. “I don't know who you are mistaking me + for, and I'm not hiding from the police. Here's my card, and I have come + from the family of a young man named Wheeler, who was killed recently in + an automobile accident.” + </p> + <p> + She took the card and read it, and then resumed her intent scrutiny of + him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you fooled me all right,” she said at last. “I thought you were—well, + never mind that. What about this Wheeler family? Are they going to settle + with the undertaker? Because I tell you flat, I can't and won't. She owed + me a month's rent, and her clothes won't bring over seventy-five or a + hundred dollars.” + </p> + <p> + As he left he was aware that she stood in the doorway looking after him. + He drove home slowly in the car, and on the way he made up a kindly story + to tell the family. He could not let them know that Jim had been seeking + love in the byways of life. And that night he mailed a check in payment of + the undertaker's bill, carefully leaving the stub empty. + </p> + <p> + On the third day after Jim's funeral he started for Norada. An interne + from a local hospital, having newly finished his service there, had agreed + to take over his work for a time. But Dick was faintly jealous when he + installed Doctor Reynolds in his office, and turned him over to a + mystified Minnie to look after. + </p> + <p> + “Is he going to sleep in your bed?” she demanded belligerently. + </p> + <p> + She was only partially mollified when she found Doctor Reynolds was to + have the spare room. She did not like the way things were going, she + confided to Mike. Why wasn't she to let on to Mrs. Crosby that Doctor Dick + had gone away? Or to the old doctor? Both of them away, and that little + upstart in the office ready to steal their patients and hang out his own + sign the moment they got back! + </p> + <p> + Unused to duplicity as he was, Dick found himself floundering along an + extremely crooked path. He wrote a half dozen pleasant, non-committal + letters to David and Lucy, spending an inordinate time on them, and gave + them to Walter Wheeler to mail at stated intervals. But his chief + difficulty was with Elizabeth. Perhaps he would have told her; there were + times when he had to fight his desire to have her share his anxiety as + well as know the truth about him. But she was already carrying the burden + of Jim's tragedy, and her father, too, was insistent that she be kept in + ignorance. + </p> + <p> + “Until she can have the whole thing,” he said, with the new heaviness + which had crept into his voice. + </p> + <p> + Beside that real trouble Dick's looked dim and nebulous. Other things + could be set right; there was always a fighting chance. It was only death + that was final. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth went to the station to see him off, a small slim thing in a + black frock, with eyes that persistently sought his face, and a determined + smile. He pulled her arm through his, so he might hold her hand, and when + he found that she was wearing her ring he drew her even closer, with a + wave of passionate possession. + </p> + <p> + “You are mine. My little girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I am yours. For ever and ever.” + </p> + <p> + But they assumed a certain lightness after that, each to cheer the other. + As when she asserted that she was sure she would always know the moment he + stopped thinking about her, and he stopped, with any number of people + about, and said: + </p> + <p> + “That's simply terrible! Suppose, when we are married, my mind turns on + such a mundane thing as beefsteak and onions? Will you simply walk out on + me?” + </p> + <p> + He stood on the lowest step of the train until her figure was lost in the + darkness, and the porter expostulated. He was, that night, a little drunk + with love, and he did not read the note she had thrust into his hand at + the last moment until he was safely in his berth, his long figure + stretched diagonally to find the length it needed. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, darling Dick,” she had written. “I wonder so often how you can + care for me, or what I have done to deserve you. And I cannot write how I + feel, just as I cannot say it. But, Dick dear, I have such a terrible fear + of losing you, and you are my life now. You will be careful and not run + any risks, won't you? And just remember this always. Wherever you are and + wherever I am, I am thinking of you and waiting for you.” + </p> + <p> + He read it three times, until he knew it by heart, and he slept with it in + the pocket of his pajama coat. + </p> + <p> + Three days later he reached Norada, and registered at the Commercial + Hotel. The town itself conveyed nothing to him. He found it totally + unfamiliar, and for its part the town passed him by without a glance. A + new field had come in, twenty miles from the old one, and had brought with + it a fresh influx of prospectors, riggers, and lease buyers. The hotel was + crowded. + </p> + <p> + That was his first disappointment. He had been nursing the hope that + surroundings which he must once have known well would assist him in + finding himself. That was the theory, he knew. He stood at the window of + his hotel room, with its angular furniture and the Gideon Bible, and for + the first time he realized the difficulty of what he had set out to do. + Had he been able to take David into his confidence he would have had the + names of one or two men to go to, but as things were he had nothing. + </p> + <p> + The almost morbid shrinking he felt from exposing his condition was + increased, rather than diminished, in the new surroundings. He would, of + course, go to the ranch at Dry River, and begin his inquiries from there, + but not until now had he realized what that would mean; his recognition by + people he could not remember, the questions he could not answer. + </p> + <p> + He knew the letter to David from beginning to end, but he got it out and + read it again. Who was this Bassett, and what mischief was he up to? Why + should he himself be got out of town quickly and the warning burned? Who + was “G”? And why wouldn't the simplest thing be to locate this Bassett + himself? + </p> + <p> + The more he considered that the more obvious it seemed as a solution, + provided of course he could locate the man. Whether Bassett were friendly + or inimical, he was convinced that he knew or was finding out something + concerning himself which David was keeping from him. + </p> + <p> + He was relieved when he went down to the desk to find that his man was + registered there, although the clerk reported him out of town. But the + very fact that only a few hours or days separated him from a solution of + the mystery heartened him. + </p> + <p> + He ate his dinner alone, unnoticed, and after dinner, in the writing room, + with its mission furniture and its traveling men copying orders, he wrote + a letter to Elizabeth. Into it he put some of the things that lay too deep + for speech when he was with her, and because he had so much to say and + therefore wrote extremely fast, a considerable portion of it was + practically illegible. Then, as though he could hurry the trains East, he + put a special delivery stamp on it. + </p> + <p> + With that off his mind, and the need of exercise after the trip insistent, + he took his hat and wandered out into the town. The main street was + crowded; moving picture theaters were summoning their evening audiences + with bright lights and colored posters, and automobiles lined the curb. + But here and there an Indian with braids and a Stetson hat, or a + cowpuncher from a ranch in boots and spurs reminded him that after all + this was the West, the horse and cattle country. It was still twilight, + and when he had left the main street behind him he began to have a sense + of the familiar. Surely he had stood here before, had seen the court-house + on its low hill, the row of frame houses in small gardens just across the + street. It seemed infinitely long ago, but very real. He even remembered + dimly an open place at the other side of the building where the ranchmen + tied their horses. To test himself he walked around. Yes, it was there, + but no horses stood there now, heads drooping, bridle reins thrown loosely + over the rail. Only a muddy automobile, without lights, and a dog on guard + beside it. + </p> + <p> + He spoke to the dog, and it came and sniffed at him. Then it squatted in + front of him, looking up into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Lonely, old chap, aren't you?” he said. “Well, you've got nothing on me.” + </p> + <p> + He felt a little cheered as he turned back toward the hotel. A few + encounters with the things of his youth, and perhaps the cloud would clear + away. Already the court-house had stirred some memories. And on turning + back down the hill he had another swift vision, photographically distinct + but unrelated to anything that had preceded or followed it. It was like a + few feet cut from a moving picture film. + </p> + <p> + He was riding down that street at night on a small horse, and his father + was beside him on a tall one. He looked up at his father, and he seemed + very large. The largest man in the world. And the most important. + </p> + <p> + It began and stopped there, and his endeavor to follow it further resulted + in its ultimately leaving him. It faded, became less real, until he + wondered if he had not himself conjured it. But that experience taught him + something. Things out of the past would come or they would not come, but + they could not be forced. One could not will to revive them. + </p> + <p> + He stood at a window facing north that night, under the impression it was + east, and sent his love and an inarticulate sort of prayer to Elizabeth, + for her safety and happiness, in the general direction of the Arctic + Circle. + </p> + <p> + Bassett had not returned in the morning, and he found himself with a day + on his hands. He decided to try the experiment of visiting the Livingstone + ranch, or at least of viewing it from a safe distance, with the hope of a + repetition of last night's experience. Of all his childish memories the + ranch house, next to his father, was most distinct. When he had at various + times tried to analyze what things he recalled he had found that what they + lacked of normal memory was connection. They stood out, like the one the + night before, each complete in itself, brief, and having no apparent + relation to what had gone before or what came after. + </p> + <p> + But the ranch house had been different. The pictures were mostly + superimposed on it; it was their background. Himself standing on the + mountain looking down at it, and his father pointing to it; the tutor who + was afraid of horses, sitting at a big table in a great wood-ceiled and + wood-paneled room; a long gallery or porch along one side of the building + and rooms added on to the house so that one had to go along the gallery to + reach them; a gun-room full of guns. + </p> + <p> + When, much later, Dick was able calmly to review that day, he found his + recollection of it confused by the events that followed, but one thing + stood out as clearly as his later knowledge of the almost incredible fact + that for one entire day and for the evening of another, he had openly + appeared in Norada and had not been recognized. That fact was his + discovery that the Livingstone ranch house had no place in his memory + whatever. + </p> + <p> + He had hired a car and a driver, a driver who asserted that this was the + old Livingstone ranch house. And it bore no resemblance, not the faintest, + to the building he remembered. It did not lie where it should have lain. + The mountains were too far behind it. It was not the house. The fields + were not the proper fields. It was wrong, all wrong. + </p> + <p> + He went no closer than the highway, because it was not necessary. He + ordered the car to turn and go back, and for the first and only time he + was filled with bitter resentment against David. David had fooled him. He + sat beside the driver, his face glowering and his eyes hot, and let his + indignation burn in him like a flame. + </p> + <p> + Hours afterwards he had, of course, found excuses for David. Accepted + them, rather, as a part of the mystery which wrapped him about. But they + had no effect on the decision he made during that miserable ride back to + Norada, when he determined to see the man Bassett and get the truth out of + him if he had to choke it out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIV + </h2> + <p> + Bassett was astounded when he saw Dick's signature on the hotel register. + It destroyed, in one line, every theory he held. That Judson Clark should + return to Norada after his flight was incredible. Ten years was only ten + years after all. It was not a lifetime. There were men in the town who had + known Clark well. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless for a time he held to his earlier conviction, even fought for + it. He went so far as to wonder if Clark had come back for a tardy + surrender. Men had done that before this, had carried a burden for years, + had reached the breaking point, had broken. But he dismissed that. There + had been no evidence of breaking in the young man in the office chair. He + found himself thrown back, finally, on the story of the Wasson woman, and + wondering if he would have to accept it after all. + </p> + <p> + The reaction from his certainty in the cabin to uncertainty again made him + fretful and sleepless. It was almost morning before he relaxed on his hard + hotel bed enough to sleep. + </p> + <p> + He wakened late, and telephoned down for breakfast. His confusion had not + decreased with the night, and while he got painfully out of bed and + prepared to shave and dress, his thoughts were busy. There was no doubt in + his mind that, in spite of the growth of the town, the newcomer would be + under arrest almost as soon as he made his appearance. A resemblance that + could deceive Beverly Carlysle's brother could deceive others, and would. + That he had escaped so long amazed him. + </p> + <p> + By the time he had bathed he had developed a sort of philosophic + acceptance of the new situation. There would be no exclusive story now, no + scoop. The events of the next few hours were for every man to read. He + shrugged his shoulders as, partially dressed, he carried his shaving + materials into the better light of his bedroom. + </p> + <p> + With his face partially lathered he heard a knock at the door, and sang + out a not uncheerful “Come in.” It happened, then, that it was in his + mirror that he learned that his visitor was not the waiter, but + Livingstone himself. He had an instant of stunned amazement before he + turned. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” Dick said. “I was afraid you'd get out before I saw + you. My name's Livingstone, and I want to talk to you, if you don't mind. + If you like I'll come back later.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett perceived two things simultaneously; that owing probably to the + lather on his face he had not been recognized, and that the face of the + man inside the door was haggard and strained. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right. Come in and sit down. I'll get this stuff off my face + and be with you in a jiffy.” + </p> + <p> + But he was very deliberate in the bathroom. His astonishment grew, rather + than decreased. Clearly Livingstone had not known him. How, then, had he + known that he was in Norada? And when he recognized him, as he would in a + moment, what then? He put on his collar and tied his tie slowly. Gregory + might be the key. Gregory might have found out that he had started for + Norada and warned him. Then, if that were true, this man was Clark after + all. But if he were Clark he wouldn't be there. It was like a kitten after + its tail. It whirled in a circle and got nowhere. + </p> + <p> + The waiter had laid his breakfast and gone when he emerged from the + bathroom, and Dick was standing by the window looking out. He turned. + </p> + <p> + “I'm here, Mr. Bassett, on rather a peculiar—” He stopped and looked + at Bassett. “I see. You were in my office about a month ago, weren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “For a headache, yes.” Bassett was very wary and watchful, but there was + no particular unfriendliness in his visitor's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It never occurred to me that you might be Bassett,” Dick said gravely. + “Never mind about that. Eat your breakfast. Do you mind if I talk while + you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you have some coffee? I can get a glass from the bathroom. It takes + a week to get a waiter here.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The feeling of unreality grew in the reporter's mind. It increased still + further when they sat opposite each other, the small table with its Bible + on the lower shelf between them, while he made a pretense at breakfasting. + </p> + <p> + “First of all,” Dick said, at last, “I was not sure I had found the right + man. You are the only Bassett in the place, however, and you're registered + from my town. So I took a chance. I suppose that headache was not + genuine.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “No” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “What you really wanted to do was to see me, then?” + </p> + <p> + “In a way, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll ask you one more question. It may clear the air. Does this mean + anything to you? I'll tell you now that it doesn't, to me.” + </p> + <p> + From his pocketbook he took the note addressed to David, and passed it + over the table. Bassett looked at him quickly and took it. + </p> + <p> + “Before you read it, I'll explain something. It was not sent to me. It was + sent to my—to Doctor David Livingstone. It happened to fall into my + hands. I've come a long way to find out what it means.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and looked the reporter straight in the eyes. “I am laying my + cards on the table, Bassett. This 'G,' whoever he is, is clearly warning + my uncle against you. I want to know what he is warning him about.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett read the note carefully, and looked up. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know who 'G' is?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll give you another name, and maybe you'll get it. A name that I think + will mean something to you. Beverly Carlysle.” + </p> + <p> + “The actress?” + </p> + <p> + Bassett had an extraordinary feeling of unreality, followed by one of + doubt. Either the fellow was a very good actor, or— + </p> + <p> + “Sorry,” Dick said slowly. “I don't seem to get it. I don't know that 'G' + is as important as his warning. That note's a warning.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It's a warning. And I don't think you need me to tell you what + about.” + </p> + <p> + “Concerning my uncle, or myself?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you trying to put it over on me that you don't know?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I'm trying to do,” Dick said, with a sort of grave patience. + </p> + <p> + The reporter liked courage when he saw it, and he was compelled to a sort + of reluctant admiration. + </p> + <p> + “You've got your courage with you,” he observed. “How long do you suppose + it will be after you set foot on the streets of this town before you're + arrested? How do you know I won't send for the police myself?” + </p> + <p> + “I know damned well you won't,” Dick said grimly. “Not before I'm through + with you. You've chosen to interest yourself in me. I suppose you don't + deny the imputation in that letter. You'll grant that I have a right to + know who and what you are, and just what you are interested in.” + </p> + <p> + “Right-o,” the reporter said cheerfully, glad to get to grips; and to stop + a fencing that was getting nowhere. “I'm connected with the + Times-Republican, in your own fair city. I was in the theater the night + Gregory recognized you. Verbum sap.” + </p> + <p> + “This Gregory is the 'G'?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, quit it, Clark,” Bassett said, suddenly impatient. “That letter's the + last proof I needed. Gregory wrote it after he'd seen David Livingstone. + He wouldn't have written it if he and the old man hadn't come to an + understanding. I've been to the cabin. My God, man, I've even got the + parts of your clothing that wouldn't burn! You can thank Maggie Donaldson + for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Donaldson,” Dick repeated. “That was it. I couldn't remember her name. + The woman in the cabin. Maggie. And Jack. Jack Donaldson.” + </p> + <p> + He got up, and was apparently dizzy, for he caught at the table. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” Bassett said, “let me give you a drink. You look all in.” + </p> + <p> + But Dick shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks just the same. I'll ask you to be plain with me, Bassett. I am—I + have become engaged to a girl, and—well, I want the story. That's + all.” + </p> + <p> + And, when Bassett only continued to stare at him: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I've begun wrong end first. I forgot about how it must seem to + you. I dropped a block out of my life about ten years ago. Can't remember + it. I'm not proud of it, but it's the fact. What I'm trying to do now is + to fill in the gap. But I've got to, somehow. I owe it to the girl.” + </p> + <p> + When Bassett could apparently find nothing to say he went on: + </p> + <p> + “You say I may be arrested if I go out on the street. And you rather more + than intimate that a woman named Beverly Carlysle is mixed up in it + somehow. I take it that I knew her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You knew her,” Bassett said slowly. At the intimation in his tone + Dick surveyed him for a moment without speaking. His face, pale before, + took on a grayish tinge. + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't—married to her?” + </p> + <p> + “No. You didn't marry her. See here, Clark, this is straight goods, is it? + You're not trying to put something over on me? Because if you are, you + needn't. I'd about made up my mind to follow the story through for my own + satisfaction, and then quit cold on it. When a man's pulled himself out of + the mud as you have it's not my business to pull him down. But I don't + want you to pull any bunk.” + </p> + <p> + Dick winced. + </p> + <p> + “Out of the mud!” he said. “No. I'm telling you the truth, Bassett. I have + some fragmentary memories, places and people, but no names, and all of + them, I imagine from my childhood. I pick up at a cabin in the mountains, + with snow around, and David Livingstone feeding me soup with a tin spoon.” + He tried to smile and failed. His face twitched. “I could stand it for + myself,” he said, “but I've tied another life to mine, like a cursed fool, + and now you speak of a woman, and of arrest. Arrest! For what?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose,” Bassett said after a moment, “suppose you let that go just now, + and tell me more about this—this gap. You're a medical man. You've + probably gone into your own case pretty thoroughly. I'm accepting your + statement, you see. As a matter of fact it must be true, or you wouldn't + be here. But I've got to know what I'm doing before I lay my cards on the + table. Make it simple, if you can. I don't know your medical jargon.” + </p> + <p> + Dick did his best. The mind closed down now and then, mainly from a shock. + No, there was no injury required. He didn't think he had had an injury. A + mental shock would do it, if it were strong enough. And fear. It was + generally fear. He had never considered himself braver than the other + fellow, but no man liked to think that he had a cowardly mind. Even if + things hadn't broken as they had, he'd have come back before he went to + the length of marriage, to find out what it was he had been afraid of. He + paused then, to give Bassett a chance to tell him, but the reporter only + said: “Go on, you put your cards on the table, and then I'll lay mine + out.” + </p> + <p> + Dick went on. He didn't blame Bassett. If there was something that was in + his line of work, he understood. At the same time he wanted to save David + anything unpleasant. (The word “unpleasant” startled Bassett, by its very + inadequacy.) He knew now that David had built up for him an identity that + probably did not exist, but he wanted Bassett to know that there could + never be doubt of David's high purpose and his essential fineness. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever I was before.” he finished simply, “and I'll get that from you + now, if I am any sort of a man at all it is his work.” + </p> + <p> + He stood up and braced himself. It had been clear to Bassett for ten + minutes that Dick was talking against time, against the period of + revelation. He would have it, but he was mentally bracing himself against + it. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he said, “I'll have that whisky now.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett poured him a small drink, and took a turn about the room while he + drank it. He was perplexed and apprehensive. Strange as the story was, he + was convinced that he had heard the truth. He had, now and then, run + across men who came back after a brief disappearance, with a cock and bull + story of forgetting who they were, and because nearly always these men + vanished at the peak of some crisis they had always been open to + suspicion. Perhaps, poor devils, they had been telling the truth after + all. So the mind shut down, eh? Closed like a grave over the unbearable! + </p> + <p> + His own part in the threatening catastrophe began to obsess him. Without + the warning from Gregory there would have been no return to Norada, no + arrest. It had all been dead and buried, until he himself had revived it. + And a girl, too! The girl in the blue dress at the theater, of course. + </p> + <p> + Dick put down the glass. + </p> + <p> + “I'm ready, if you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Does the name of Clark recall anything to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Judson Clark? Jud Clark?” + </p> + <p> + Dick passed his hand over his forehead wearily. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not sure,” he said. “It sounds familiar, and then it doesn't. It + doesn't mean anything to me, if you get that. If it's a key, it doesn't + unlock. That's all. Am I Judson Clark?” + </p> + <p> + Oddly enough, Bassett found himself now seeking for hope of escape in the + very situation that had previously irritated him, in the story he had + heard at Wasson's. He considered, and said, almost violently: + </p> + <p> + “Look here, I may have made a mistake. I came out here pretty well + convinced I'd found the solution to an old mystery, and for that matter I + think I have. But there's a twist in it that isn't clear, and until it is + clear I'm not going to saddle you with an identity that may not belong to + you. You are one of two men. One of them is Judson Clark, and I'll be + honest with you; I'm pretty sure you're Clark. The other I don't know, but + I have reason to believe that he spent part of his time with Henry + Livingstone at Dry River.” + </p> + <p> + “I went to the Livingstone ranch yesterday. I remember my early home. That + wasn't it. Which one of these two men will be arrested if he is + recognized?” + </p> + <p> + “Clark.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm coming to that. I suppose you'll have to know. Another drink? No? All + right. About ten years ago, or a little less, a young chap called Judson + Clark got into trouble here, and headed into the mountains in a blizzard. + He was supposed to have frozen to death. But recently a woman named + Donaldson made a confession on her deathbed. She said that she had helped + to nurse Clark in a mountain cabin, and that with the aid of some one + unnamed he had got away.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'm Clark. I remember her, and the cabin.” + </p> + <p> + There was a short silence following that admission. To Dick, it was filled + with the thought of Elizabeth, and of her relation to what he was about to + hear. Again he braced himself for what was coming. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he said at last, “that if I ran away I was in pretty serious + trouble. What was it?” + </p> + <p> + “We've got no absolute proof that you are Clark, remember. You don't know, + and Maggie Donaldson was considered not quite sane before she died. I've + told you there's a chance you are the other man.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. What had Clark done?” + </p> + <p> + “He had shot a man.” + </p> + <p> + The reporter was instantly alarmed. If Dick had been haggard before, he + was ghastly now. He got up slowly and held to the back of his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Not—murder?” he asked, with stiff lips. + </p> + <p> + “No,” Bassett said quickly. “Not at all. See here, you've had about all + you can stand. Remember, we don't even know you are Clark. All I said was—” + </p> + <p> + “I understand that. It was murder, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there had been a quarrel, I understand. The law allows for that, I + think.” + </p> + <p> + Dick went slowly to the window, and stood with his back to Bassett. For a + long time the room was quiet. In the street below long lines of cars in + front of the hotel denoted the luncheon hour. An Indian woman with a child + in the shawl on her back stopped in the street, looked up at Dick and + extended a beaded belt. With it still extended she continued to stare at + his white face. + </p> + <p> + “The man died, of course?” he asked at last, without turning. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I knew him. He wasn't any great loss. It was at the Clark ranch. I + don't believe a conviction would be possible, although they would try for + one. It was circumstantial evidence.” + </p> + <p> + “And I ran away?” + </p> + <p> + “Clark ran away,” Bassett corrected him. “As I've told you, the + authorities here believe he is dead.” + </p> + <p> + After an even longer silence Dick turned. + </p> + <p> + “I told you there was a girl. I'd like to think out some way to keep the + thing from her, before I surrender myself. If I can protect her, and David—” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, you don't even know you are Clark.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. If I'm not, they'll know. If I am—I tell you I'm not + going through the rest of my life with a thing like that hanging over me. + Maggie Donaldson was sane enough. Why, when I look back, I know our + leaving the cabin was a flight. I'm not Henry Livingstone's son, because + he never had a son. I can tell you what the Clark ranch house looks like.” + And after a pause: “Can you imagine the reverse of a dream when you've + dreamed you are guilty of something and wake up to find you are innocent? + Who was the man?” + </p> + <p> + Bassett watched him narrowly. + </p> + <p> + “His name was Lucas. Howard Lucas.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Now we have that, where does Beverly Carlysle come in?” + </p> + <p> + “Clark was infatuated with her. The man he shot was the man she had + married.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXV + </h2> + <p> + Shortly after that Dick said he would go to his room. He was still pale, + but his eyes looked bright and feverish, and Bassett went with him, + uneasily conscious that something was not quite right. Dick spoke only + once on the way. + </p> + <p> + “My head aches like the mischief,” he said, and his voice was dull and + lifeless. + </p> + <p> + He did not want Bassett to go with him, but Bassett went, nevertheless. + Dick's statement, that he meant to surrender himself, had filled him with + uneasiness. He determined, following him along the hall, to keep a close + guard on him for the next few hours, but beyond that, just then, he did + not try to go. If it were humanly possible he meant to smuggle him out of + the town and take him East. But he had an uneasy conviction that Dick was + going to be ill. The mind did strange things with the body. + </p> + <p> + Dick sat down on the edge of the bed. + </p> + <p> + “My head aches like the mischief,” he repeated. “Look in that grip and + find me some tablets, will you? I'm dizzy.” + </p> + <p> + He made an effort and stretched out on the bed. “Good Lord,” he muttered, + “I haven't had such a headache since—” + </p> + <p> + His voice trailed off. Bassett, bending over the army kit bag in the + corner, straightened and looked around. Dick was suddenly asleep and + breathing heavily. + </p> + <p> + For a long time the reporter sat by the side of the bed, watching him and + trying to plan some course of action. He was overcome by his own + responsibility, and by the prospect of tragedy that threatened. That + Livingstone was Clark, and that he would insist on surrendering himself + when he wakened, he could no longer doubt. His mind wandered back to that + day when he had visited the old house as a patient, and from that along + the strange road they had both come since then. He reflected, not exactly + in those terms, that life, any man's life, was only one thread in a + pattern woven of an infinite number of threads, and that to tangle the one + thread was to interfere with all the others. David Livingstone, the girl + in the blue dress, the man twitching uneasily on the bed, Wilkins the + sheriff, himself, who could tell how many others, all threads. + </p> + <p> + He swore in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + The maid tapped at the door. He opened it an inch or so and sent her off. + In view of his new determination even the maid had become a danger. She + was the same elderly woman who looked after his own bedroom, and she might + have known Clark. Just what Providence had kept him from recognition + before this he did not know, but it could not go on indefinitely. + </p> + <p> + After an hour or so Bassett locked the door behind him and went down to + lunch. He was not hungry, but he wanted to get out of the room, to think + without that quiet figure before him. Over the pretence of food he faced + the situation. Lying ready to his hand was the biggest story of his + career, but he could not carry it through. It was characteristic of him + that, before abandoning it, he should follow through to the end the result + of its publication. He did not believe, for instance, that either Dick's + voluntary surrender or his own disclosure of the situation necessarily + meant a conviction for murder. To convict a man of a crime he did not know + he had committed would be difficult. But, with his customary thoroughness + he followed that through also. Livingstone acquitted was once again Clark, + would be known to the world as Clark. The new place he had so painfully + made for himself would be gone. The story would follow him, never to be + lived down. And in his particular profession confidence and respect were + half the game. All that would be gone. + </p> + <p> + Thus by gradual stages he got back to David, and he struggled for the + motive which lay behind every decisive human act. A man who followed a + course by which he had nothing to gain and everything to lose was either a + fool or was actuated by some profound unselfishness. To save a life? But + with all the resources Clark could have commanded, added to his personal + popularity, a first degree sentence would have been unlikely. Not a life, + then, but perhaps something greater than a life. A man's soul. + </p> + <p> + It came to him, then, in a great light of comprehension, the thing David + had tried to do; to take this waster and fugitive, the slate of his mind + wiped clean by shock and illness, only his childish memories remaining, + and on it to lead him to write a new record. To take the body he had + found, and the always untouched soul, and from them to make a man. + </p> + <p> + And with that comprehension came the conviction, too, that David had + succeeded. He had indeed made a man. + </p> + <p> + He ate absently, consulting his railroad schedule and formulating the + arguments he meant to use against Dick's determination to give himself up. + He foresaw a struggle there, but he himself held one or two strong cards—the + ruthless undoing of David's work, the involving of David for conspiring + against the law. And Dick's own obligation to the girl at home. + </p> + <p> + He was more at ease in the practical arrangements. An express went through + on the main line at midnight, and there was a local on the branch line at + eight. But the local train, the railway station, too, were full of + possible dangers. After some thought he decided to get a car, drive down + to the main line with Dick, and then send the car back. + </p> + <p> + He went out at once and made an arrangement for a car, and on returning + notified the clerk that he was going to leave, and asked to have his bill + made out. After some hesitation he said: “I'll pay three-twenty too, while + I'm at it. Friend of mine there, going with me. Yes, up to to-night.” + </p> + <p> + As he turned away he saw the short, heavy figure of Wilkins coming in. He + stood back and watched. The sheriff went to the desk, pulled the register + toward him and ran over several pages of it. Then he shoved it away, + turned and saw him. + </p> + <p> + “Been away, haven't you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I took a little horseback trip into the mountains. My knees are + still not on speaking terms.” + </p> + <p> + The sheriff chuckled. Then he sobered. + </p> + <p> + “Come and sit down,” he said. “I'm going to watch who goes in and out of + here for a while.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett followed him unwillingly to two chairs that faced the desk and the + lobby. He had the key of Dick's room in his pocket, but he knew that if he + wakened he could easily telephone and have his door unlocked. But that was + not his only anxiety. He had a sudden conviction that the sheriff's watch + was connected with Dick himself. Wilkins, from a friendly and gregarious + fellow-being, had suddenly grown to sinister proportions in his mind. + </p> + <p> + And, as the minutes went by, with the sheriff sitting forward and watching + the lobby and staircase with intent, unblinking eyes, Bassett's anxiety + turned to fear. He found his heart leaping when the room bells rang, and + the clerk, with a glance at the annunciator, sent boys hurrying off. His + hands shook, and he felt them cold and moist. And all the time Wilkins was + holding him with a flow of unimportant chatter. + </p> + <p> + “Watching for any one in particular?” he managed, after five minutes or + so. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I'll tell you about it as soon as—Bill! Is Alex outside?” + </p> + <p> + Bill stopped in front of them, and nodded. + </p> + <p> + “All right. Now get this—I want everything decent and in order. No + excitement. I'll come out behind him, and you and Bill stand by. Outside + I'll speak to him, and when we walk off, just fall in behind. But keep + close.” + </p> + <p> + Bill wandered off, to take up a stand of extreme nonchalance inside the + entrance. When Wilkins turned to him again Bassett had had a moment to + adjust himself, and more or less to plan his own campaign. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody's out of luck,” he commented. “And speaking of being out of + luck, I've got a sick man on my hands. Friend of mine from home. We've got + to catch the midnight, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Too bad,” Wilkins commented rather absently. Then, perhaps feeling that + he had not shown proper interest, “Tell you what I'll do. I've got some + business on hand now, but it'll be cleared up one way or another pretty + soon. I'll bring my car around and take him to the station. These hacks + are the limit to ride in.” + </p> + <p> + The disaster to his plans thus threatened steadied the reporter, and he + managed to keep his face impassive. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” he said. “I'll let you know if he's able to travel. Is this—is + this business you're on confidential?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is and it isn't. I've talked some to you, and as you're leaving + anyhow—it's the Jud Clark case again.” + </p> + <p> + “Sort of hysteria, I suppose. He'll be seen all over the country for the + next six months.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I never saw a hysterical Indian. Well, a little while ago an + Indian woman named Lizzie Lazarus blew into my office. She's a smart + woman. Her husband was a breed, dairy hand on the Clark ranch for years. + Lizzie was the first Indian woman in these parts to go to school, and + besides being smart, she's got Indian sight. You know these Indians. When + they aren't blind with trachoma they can see further and better than a + telescope.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett made an effort. + </p> + <p> + “What's that got to do with Jud Clark?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she blew in. You know there was a reward out for him, and I guess + it still stands. I'll have to look it up, for if Maggie Donaldson wasn't + crazy some one will turn him up some day, probably. Well, Lizzie blew in, + and she said she'd seen Jud Clark. Saw him standing at a second story + window of this hotel. Can you beat that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for pure invention. Hardly.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said at first. But I don't know. In some ways it would be + like him. He wouldn't mind coming back and giving us the laugh, if he + thought he could get away with it. He didn't know fear. Only time he ever + showed funk was when he beat it after the shooting, and then he was full + of hootch, and on the edge of D.T.'s.” + </p> + <p> + “A man doesn't play jokes with the hangman's rope,” Bassett commented, + dryly. He looked at his watch and rose. “It's a good story, but I wouldn't + wear out any trouser-seats sitting here watching for him. If he's living + he's taken pretty good care for ten years not to put his head in the + noose; and I'd remember this, too. Wherever he is, if he is anywhere, he's + probably so changed his appearance that Telescope Lizzie wouldn't know + him. Or you either.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably,” the sheriff said, comfortably. “Still I'm not taking any + chances. I'm up for reelection this fall, and that Donaldson woman's story + nearly queered me. I've got a fellow at the railroad station, just for + luck.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett went up the stairs and along the corridor, deep in dejected + thought. The trap of his own making was closing, and his active mind was + busy with schemes for getting Dick away before it shut entirely. + </p> + <p> + It might be better, in one way, to keep Livingstone there in his room + until the alarm blew over. On the other hand, Livingstone himself had to + be dealt with, and that he would remain quiescent under the circumstances + was unlikely. The motor to the main line seemed to be the best thing. + True, he would have first to get Livingstone to agree to go. That done, + and he did not underestimate its difficulty, there was the question of + getting him out of the hotel, now that the alarm had been given. + </p> + <p> + When he found Dick still sleeping he made a careful survey of the second + floor. There was a second staircase, but investigation showed that it led + into the kitchens. He decided finally on a fire-escape from a rear hall + window, which led into a courtyard littered with the untidy rubbish of an + overcrowded and undermanned hotel, and where now two or three saddled + horses waited while their riders ate within. + </p> + <p> + When he had made certain that he was not observed he unlocked and opened + the window, and removed the wire screen. There was a red fire-exit lamp in + the ceiling nearby, but he could not reach it, nor could he find any wall + switch. Nevertheless he knew by that time that through the window lay + Dick's only chance of escape. He cleared the grating of a broken box and + an empty flower pot, stood the screen outside the wall, and then, still + unobserved, made his way back to his own bedroom and packed his + belongings. + </p> + <p> + Dick was still sleeping, stretched on his bed, when he returned to + three-twenty. And here Bassett's careful plans began to go awry, for + Dick's body was twitching, and his face was pale and covered with a cold + sweat. From wondering how they could get away, Bassett began to wonder + whether they would get away at all. The sleep was more like a stupor than + sleep. He sat down by the bed, closer to sheer fright than he had ever + been before, and wretched with the miserable knowledge of his own + responsibility. + </p> + <p> + As the afternoon wore on, it became increasingly evident that somehow or + other he must get a doctor. He turned the subject over in his mind, pro + and con. If he could get a new man, one who did not remember Jud Clark, it + might do. But he hesitated until, at seven, Dick opened his eyes and + clearly did not know him. Then he knew that the matter was out of his + hands, and that from now on whatever it was that controlled the affairs of + men, David's God or his own vague Providence, was in charge. + </p> + <p> + He got his hat and went out, and down the stairs again. Wilkins had + disappeared, but Bill still stood by the entrance, watching the crowd that + drifted in and out. In his state of tension he felt that the hotel clerk's + eyes were suspicious as he retained the two rooms for another day, and + that Bill watched him out with more than casual interest. Even the matter + of cancelling the order for the car loomed large and suspicion-breeding + before him, but he accomplished it, and then set out to find medical + assistance. + </p> + <p> + There, however, chance favored him. The first doctor's sign led him to a + young man, new to the town, and obviously at leisure. Not that he found + that out at once. He invented a condition for himself, as he had done once + before, got a prescription and paid for it, learned what he wanted, and + then mentioned Dick. He was careful to emphasize his name and profession, + and his standing “back home.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll admit he's got me worried,” he finished. “He saw me registered and + came to my room this morning to see me, and got sick there. That is, he + said he had a violent headache and was dizzy. I got him to his room and on + the bed, and he's been sleeping ever since. He looks pretty sick to me.” + </p> + <p> + He was conscious of Bill's eyes on him as they went through the lobby + again, but he realized now that they were unsuspicious. Bassett himself + was in a hot sweat. He stopped outside the room and mopped his face. + </p> + <p> + “Look kind of shot up yourself,” the doctor commented. “Watch this sun out + here. Because it's dry here you Eastern people don't notice the heat until + it plays the deuce with you.” + </p> + <p> + He made a careful examination of the sleeping man, while Bassett watched + his face. + </p> + <p> + “Been a drinking man? Or do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But I think not. I gave him a small drink this morning, when he + seemed to need it.” + </p> + <p> + “Been like this all day?” + </p> + <p> + “Since noon. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Once more the medical man stooped. When he straightened it was to deliver + Bassett a body blow. + </p> + <p> + “I don't like his condition, or that twitching. If these were the good old + days in Wyoming I'd say he is on the verge of delirium tremens. But that's + only snap judgment. He might be on the verge of a good many things. + Anyhow, he'd better be moved to the hospital. This is no place for him.” + </p> + <p> + And against this common-sense suggestion Bassett had nothing to offer. If + the doctor had been looking he would have seen him make a gesture of + despair. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” he said, dully. “Is it near? I'll go myself and get a + room.” + </p> + <p> + “That's my advice. I'll look in later, and if the stupor continues I'll + have in a consultant.” He picked up his bag and stood looking down at the + bed. “Big fine-looking chap, isn't he?” he commented. “Married?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll get the ambulance, and later on we'll go over him properly. + I'd call a maid to sit with him, if I were you.” In the grip of a + situation that was too much for him, Bassett rang the bell. It was + answered by the elderly maid who took care of his own bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Months later, puzzling over the situation, Bassett was to wonder, and not + to know, whether chance or design brought the Thorwald woman to the door + that night. At the time, and for weeks, he laid it to tragic chance, the + same chance which had placed in Dick's hand the warning letter that had + brought him West. But as months went on, the part played in the tragedy by + that faded woman with her tired dispirited voice and her ash colored hair + streaked with gray, assumed other proportions, loomed large and + mysterious. + </p> + <p> + There were times when he wished that some prescience of danger had made + him throttle her then and there, so she could not have raised her shrill, + alarming voice! But he had no warning. All he saw was a woman in a + washed-out blue calico dress and a fresh white apron, raising incurious + eyes to his. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it's all right if she sits in the hall?” Bassett inquired, + still fighting his losing fight. “She can go in if he stirs.” + </p> + <p> + “Right-o,” said the doctor, who had been to France and had brought home + some British phrases. + </p> + <p> + Bassett walked back from the hospital alone. The game was up and he knew + it. Sooner or later—In a way he tried to defend himself to himself. + He had done his best. Two or three days ago he would have been exultant + over the developments. After all, mince things as one would, Clark was a + murderer. Other men killed and paid the penalty. And the game was not up + entirely, at that. The providence which had watched over him for so long + might continue to. The hospital was new. (It was, ironically enough, the + Clark Memorial hospital.) There was still a chance. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious of something strange as he entered the lobby. The + constable was gone, and there was no clerk behind the desk. At the foot of + the stairs stood a group of guests and loungers, looking up, while a + bell-boy barred the way. + </p> + <p> + Even then Bassett's first thought was of fire. He elbowed his way to the + foot of the stairs, and demanded to be allowed to go up, but he was + refused. + </p> + <p> + “In a few minutes,” said the boy. “No need of excitement.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a fire?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know myself. I've got my orders. That's all.” Wilkins came + hurrying in. The crowd, silent and respectful before the law, opened to + let him through and closed behind him. + </p> + <p> + Bassett stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVI + </h2> + <p> + To Elizabeth the first days of Dick's absence were unbelievably dreary. + She seemed to live only from one visit of the postman to the next. She + felt sometimes that only part of her was at home in the Wheeler house, + slept at night in her white bed, donned its black frocks and took them + off, and made those sad daily pilgrimages to the cemetery above the town, + where her mother tidied with tender hands the long narrow mound, so + fearfully remindful of Jim's tall slim body. + </p> + <p> + That part of her grieved sorely, and spent itself in small comforting + actions and little caressing touches on bowed heads and grief-stooped + shoulders. It put away Jim's clothing, and kept immaculate the room where + now her mother spent most of her waking hours. It sent her on her knees at + night to pray for Jim's happiness in some young-man heaven which would + please him. But the other part of her was not there at all. It was off + with Dick in some mysterious place of mountains and vast distance called + Wyoming. + </p> + <p> + And because of this division in herself, because she felt that her loyalty + to her people had wavered, because she knew that already she had forsaken + her father and her mother and would follow her love through the rest of + her life, she was touchingly anxious to comfort and to please them. + </p> + <p> + “She's taking Dick's absence very hard,” Mrs. Wheeler said one night, when + she had kissed them and gone upstairs to bed. “She worries me sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wheeler sighed. Why was it that a man could not tell his children what + he had learned,—that nothing was so great as one expected; that love + was worth living for, but not dying for. The impatience of youth for life! + It had killed Jim. It was hurting Nina. It would all come, all come, in + God's good time. The young did not live to-day, but always to-morrow. + There seemed no time to live to-day, for any one. First one looked ahead + and said, “I will be so happy.” And before one knew it one was looking + back and saying: “I was so happy.” + </p> + <p> + “She'll be all right,” he said aloud. + </p> + <p> + He got up and whistled for the dog. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take him around the block before I lock up,” he said heavily. He + bent over and kissed his wife. She was a sad figure to him in her black + dress. He did not say to her what he thought sometimes; that Jim had been + saved a great deal. That to live on, and to lose the things one loved, one + by one, was harder than to go quickly, from a joyous youth. + </p> + <p> + He had not told her what he knew about Jim's companion that night. She + would never have understood. In her simple and child-like faith she knew + that her boy sat that day among the blessed company of heaven. He himself + believed that Jim had gone forgiven into whatever lay behind the veil we + call death, had gone shriven and clean before the Judge who knew the urge + of youth and life. He did not fear for Jim. He only missed him. + </p> + <p> + He walked around the block that night, a stooped commonplace figure, the + dog at his heels. Now and then he spoke to him, for companionship. At the + corner he stopped and looked along the side street toward the Livingstone + house. And as he looked he sighed. Jim and Nina, and now Elizabeth. Jim + and Nina were beyond his care now. He could do no more. But what could he + do for Elizabeth? That, too, wasn't that beyond him? He stood still, + facing the tragedy of his helplessness, beset by vague apprehensions. Then + he went on doggedly, his hands clasped behind him, his head sunk on his + breast. + </p> + <p> + He lay awake for a long time that night, wondering whether he and Dick had + been quite fair to Elizabeth. She should, he thought, have been told. + Then, if Dick's apprehensions were justified, she would have had some + preparation. As it was—Suppose something turned up out there, + something that would break her heart? + </p> + <p> + He had thought Margaret was sleeping, but after a time she moved and + slipped her hand into his. It comforted him. That, too, was life. Very + soon now they would be alone together again, as in the early days before + the children came. All the years and the struggle, and then back where + they started. But still, thank God, hand in hand. + </p> + <p> + Ever since the night of Jim's death Mrs. Sayre had been a constant visitor + to the house. She came in, solid, practical, and with an everyday manner + neither forcedly cheerful nor too decorously mournful, which made her very + welcome. After the three first days, when she had practically lived at the + house, there was no necessity for small pretensions with her. She knew the + china closet and the pantry, and the kitchen. She had even penetrated to + Mr. Wheeler's shabby old den on the second floor, and had slept a part of + the first night there on the leather couch with broken springs which he + kept because it fitted his body. + </p> + <p> + She was a kindly woman, and she had ached with pity. And, because of her + usual detachment from the town and its affairs, the feeling that she was + being of service gave her a little glow of content. She liked the family, + too, and particularly she liked Elizabeth. But after she had seen Dick and + Elizabeth together once or twice she felt that no plan she might make for + Wallace could possibly succeed. Lying on the old leather couch that first + night, between her frequent excursions among the waking family, she had + thought that out and abandoned it. + </p> + <p> + But, during the days that followed the funeral, she was increasingly + anxious about Wallace. She knew that rumors of the engagement had reached + him, for he was restless and irritable. He did not care to go out, but + wandered about the house or until late at night sat smoking alone on the + terrace, looking down at the town with sunken, unhappy eyes. Once or twice + in the evening he had taken his car and started out, and lying awake in + her French bed she would hear him coming hours later. In the mornings his + eyes were suffused and his color bad, and she knew that he was drinking in + order to get to sleep. + </p> + <p> + On the third day after Dick's departure for the West she got up when she + heard him coming in, and putting on her dressing gown and slippers, + knocked at his door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” he called ungraciously. + </p> + <p> + She found him with his coat off, standing half defiantly with a glass of + whisky and soda in his hand. She went up to him and took it from him. + </p> + <p> + “We've had enough of that in the family, Wallie,” she said. “And it's a + pretty poor resource in time of trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have that back, if you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense,” she said briskly, and flung it, glass and all, out of the + window. She was rather impressive when she turned. + </p> + <p> + “I've been a fairly indulgent mother,” she said. “I've let you alone, + because it's a Sayre trait to run away when they feel a pull on the bit. + But there's a limit to my patience, and it is reached when my son drinks + to forget a girl.” + </p> + <p> + He flushed and glowered at her in somber silence, but she moved about the + room calmly, giving it a housekeeper's critical inspection, and apparently + unconscious of his anger. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe you ever cared for any one in all your life,” he said + roughly. “If you had, you would know.” + </p> + <p> + She was straightening a picture over the mantel, and she completed her + work before she turned. + </p> + <p> + “I care for you.” + </p> + <p> + “That's different.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then. I cared for your father. I cared terribly. And he killed + my love.” + </p> + <p> + She padded out of the room, her heavy square body in its blazing kimono a + trifle rigid, but her face still and calm. He remained staring at the door + when she had closed it, and for some time after. He knew what message for + him had lain behind that emotionless speech of hers, not only + understanding, but a warning. She had cared terribly, and his father had + killed that love. He had drunk and played through his gay young life, and + then he had died, and no one had greatly mourned him. + </p> + <p> + She had left the decanter on its stand, and he made a movement toward it. + Then, with a half smile, he picked it up and walked to the window with it. + He was still smiling, half boyishly, as he put out his light and got into + bed. It had occurred to him that the milkman's flivver, driving in at the + break of dawn, would encounter considerable glass. + </p> + <p> + By morning, after a bad night, he had made a sort of double-headed + resolution, that he was through with booze, as he termed it, and that he + would find out how he stood with Elizabeth. But for a day or two no + opportunity presented itself. When he called there was always present some + grave-faced sympathizing visitor, dark clad and low of voice, and over the + drawing-room would hang the indescribable hush of a house in mourning. It + seemed to touch Elizabeth, too, making her remote and beyond earthly + things. He would go in, burning with impatience, hungry for the mere sight + of her, fairly overcharged with emotion, only to face that strange new + spirituality that made him ashamed of the fleshly urge in him. + </p> + <p> + Once he found Clare Rossiter there, and was aware of something electric in + the air. After a time he identified it. Behind the Rossiter girl's soft + voice and sympathetic words, there was a veiled hostility. She was + watching Elizabeth, was overconscious of her. And she was, for some + reason, playing up to himself. He thought he saw a faint look of relief on + Elizabeth's face when Clare at last rose to go. + </p> + <p> + “I'm on my way to see the man Dick Livingstone left in his place,” Clare + said, adjusting her veil at the mirror. “I've got a cold. Isn't it queer, + the way the whole Livingstone connection is broken up?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly queer. And it's only temporary.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. But if you ask me, I don't believe Dick will come back. Mind, I + don't defend the town, but it doesn't like to be fooled. And he's fooled + it for years. I know a lot of people who'd quit going to him.” She turned + to Wallie. + </p> + <p> + “He isn't David's nephew, you know. The question is, who is he? Of course + I don't say it, but a good many are saying that when a man takes a false + identity he has something to hide.” + </p> + <p> + She gave them no chance to reply, but sauntered out with her + sex-conscious, half-sensuous walk. Outside the door her smile faded, and + her face was hard and bitter. She might forget Dick Livingstone, but never + would she forgive herself for her confession to Elizabeth, nor Elizabeth + for having heard it. + </p> + <p> + Wallie turned to Elizabeth when she had gone, slightly bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “What's got into her?” he inquired. And then, seeing Elizabeth's white + face, rather shrewdly: “That was one for him and two for you, was it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. Probably.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you would look like that if any one attacked me!” + </p> + <p> + “No one attacks you, Wallie.” + </p> + <p> + “That's not an answer. You wouldn't, would you? It's different, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. A little.” + </p> + <p> + He straightened, and looked past her, unseeing, at the wall. “I guess I've + known it for quite a while,” he said at last. “I didn't want to believe + it, so I wouldn't. Are you engaged to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It's not to be known just yet, Wallie.” + </p> + <p> + “He's a good fellow,” he said, after rather a long silence. “Not that that + makes it easier,” he added with a twisted smile. Then, boyishly and + unexpectedly he said, “Oh, my God!” + </p> + <p> + He sat down, and when the dog came and placed a head on his knee he patted + it absently. He wanted to go, but he had a queer feeling that when he went + he went for good. + </p> + <p> + “I've cared for you for years,” he said. “I've been a poor lot, but I'd + have been a good bit worse, except for you.” + </p> + <p> + And again: + </p> + <p> + “Only last night I made up my mind that if you'd have me, I'd make + something out of myself. I suppose a man's pretty weak when he puts a + responsibility like that on a girl.” + </p> + <p> + She yearned over him, rather. She made little tentative overtures of + friendship and affection. But he scarcely seemed to hear them, wrapped as + he was in the selfish absorption of his disappointment. When she heard the + postman outside and went to the door for the mail, she thought he had not + noticed her going. But when she returned he was watching her with jealous, + almost tragic eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you hear from him by every mail.” + </p> + <p> + “There has been nothing to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Something in her voice or her face made him look at her closely. + </p> + <p> + “Has he written at all?” + </p> + <p> + “The first day he got there. Not since.” + </p> + <p> + He went away soon, and not after all with the feeling of going for good. + In his sceptical young mind, fed by Clare's malice, was growing a + comforting doubt of Dick's good faith. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVII + </h2> + <p> + When Wilkins had disappeared around the angle of the staircase Bassett + went to a chair and sat down. He felt sick, and his knees were trembling. + Something had happened, a search for Clark room by room perhaps, and the + discovery had been made. + </p> + <p> + He was totally unable to think or to plan. With Dick well they could + perhaps have made a run for it. The fire-escape stood ready. But as things + were—The murmuring among the crowd at the foot of the stairs ceased, + and he looked up. Wilkins was on the staircase, searching the lobby with + his eyes. When he saw Bassett he came quickly down and confronted him, his + face angry and suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “You're mixed up in this somehow,” he said sharply. “You might as well + come over with the story. We'll get him. He can't get out of this town.” + </p> + <p> + With the words, and the knowledge that in some incredible fashion Dick had + made his escape, Bassett's mind reacted instantly. + </p> + <p> + “What's eating you, Wilkins?” he demanded. “Who got away? I couldn't get + that tongue-tied bell-hop to tell me. Thought it was a fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't stall, Bassett. You've had Jud Clark hidden upstairs in + three-twenty all day.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett got up and towered angrily over the sheriff. The crowd had turned + and was watching. + </p> + <p> + “In three-twenty?” he said. “You're crazy. Jud Clark! Let me tell you + something. I don't know what you've got in your head, but three-twenty is + a Doctor Livingstone from near my home town. Well known and highly + respected, too. What's more, he's a sick man, and if he's got away, as you + say, it's because he is delirious. I had a doctor in to see him an hour + ago. I've just arranged for a room at the hospital for him. Does that look + as though I've been hiding him?” + </p> + <p> + The positiveness of his identification and his indignation resulted in a + change in Wilkins' manner. + </p> + <p> + “I'll ask you to stay here until I come back.” His tone was official, but + less suspicious. “We'll have him in a half hour. It's Clark all right. I'm + not saying you knew it was Clark, but I want to ask you some questions.” + </p> + <p> + He went out, and Bassett heard him shouting an order in the street. He + went to the street door, and realized that a search was going on, both by + the police and by unofficial volunteers. Men on horseback clattered by to + guard the borders of the town, and in the vicinity of the hotel searchers + were investigating yards and alleyways. + </p> + <p> + Bassett himself was helpless. He stood by, watching the fire of his own + igniting, conscious of the curious scrutiny of the few hotel loungers who + remained, and expecting momentarily to hear of Dick's capture. It must + come eventually, he felt sure. As to how Dick had been identified, or by + what means he had escaped, he was in complete ignorance; and an endeavor + to learn by establishing the former entente cordiale between the room + clerk and himself was met by a suspicious glance and what amounted to a + snub. He went back to his chair against the wall and sat there, waiting + for the end. + </p> + <p> + It was an hour before the sheriff returned, and he came in scowling. + </p> + <p> + “I'll see you now,” he said briefly, and led the way back to the hotel + office behind the desk. Bassett's last hope died when he saw sitting + there, pale but composed, the elderly maid. The sheriff lost no time. + </p> + <p> + “Now I'll tell you what we know about your connection with this case, + Bassett,” he said. “You engaged a car to take you both to the main line + to-night. You paid off Clark's room as well as your own this afternoon. + When you found he was sick you canceled your going. That's true, isn't + it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is. I've told you I knew him at home, but not as Clark.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll let that go. You intended to take the midnight on the main line, but + you ordered a car instead of using the branch road.” + </p> + <p> + “Livingstone was sick. I thought it would be easier. That's all.” His + voice sharpened. “You can't drag me into this, Sheriff. In the first place + I don't believe it was Clark, or he wouldn't have come here, of all places + on the earth. I didn't even know he was here, until he came into my room + this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did he come into your room?” + </p> + <p> + “He had seen that I was registered. He said he felt sick. I took him back + and put him to bed. To-night I got a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + The sheriff felt in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. Bassett's + morale was almost destroyed when he saw that it was Gregory's letter to + David. + </p> + <p> + “I'll ask you to explain this. It was on Clark's bed.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett took it and read it slowly. He was thinking hard. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said. “Well, that explains why he came here. He was too sick + to talk when I saw him. You see, this is not addressed to him, but to his + uncle, David Livingstone. David Livingstone is a brother of Henry + Livingstone, who died some years ago at Dry River. This refers to a + personal matter connected with the Livingstone estate.” + </p> + <p> + The sheriff took the letter and reread it. He was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “You're a good talker,” he acknowledged grudgingly. He turned to the maid. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Hattie,” he said. “We'll have that story again. But just a + minute.” He turned to the reporter. “Mrs. Thorwald here hasn't seen Lizzie + Lazarus, the squaw. Lizzie has been sitting in my office ever since noon. + Now, Hattie.” + </p> + <p> + Hattie moistened her dry lips. + </p> + <p> + “It was Jud Clark, all right,” she said. “I knew him all his life, off and + on. But I wish I hadn't screamed. I don't believe he killed Lucas, and I + never will. I hope he gets away.” + </p> + <p> + She eyed the sheriff vindictively, but he only smiled grimly. + </p> + <p> + “What did I tell you?” he said to Bassett. “Hell with the women—that + was Jud Clark. And we'll get him, Hattie. Don't worry. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at Bassett. + </p> + <p> + “When you left me, I sat outside the door, as you said. Then I heard him + moving, and I went in. The room was not very light, and I didn't know him + at first. He sat up in bed and looked at me, and he said, 'Why, hello, + Hattie Thorwald.' That's my name. I married a Swede. Then he looked again, + and he said, 'Excuse me, I thought you were a Mrs. Thorwald, but I see now + you're older.' I recognized him then, and I thought I was going to faint. + I knew he'd be arrested the moment it was known he was here. I said, 'Lie + down, Mr. Jud. You're not very well.' And I closed the door and locked it. + I was scared.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice broke; she fumbled for a handkerchief. The sheriff glanced at + Bassett. + </p> + <p> + “Now where's your Livingstone story?” he demanded. “All right, Hattie. + Let's have it.” + </p> + <p> + “I said, 'For God's sake, Mr. Jud, lie still, until I think what to do. + The sheriff's likely downstairs this very minute.' And then he went queer + and wild. He jumped off the bed and stood listening and staring, and + shaking all over. 'I've got to get away,' he said, very loud. 'I won't let + them take me. I'll kill myself first!' When I put my hand on his arm he + threw it off, and he made for the door. I saw then that he was delirious + with fever, and I stood in front of the door and begged him not to go out. + But he threw me away so hard that that I fell, and I screamed.” + </p> + <p> + “And then what?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all. If I hadn't been almost out of my mind I'd never have told + that it was Jud Clark. That'll hang on me dying day.” + </p> + <p> + An hour or so later Bassett went back to his room in a state of mental and + nervous exhaustion. He knew that from that time on he would be under + suspicion and probably under espionage, and he proceeded methodically, his + door locked, to go over his papers. His notebook and the cuttings from old + files relative to the Clark case he burned in his wash basin and then + carefully washed the basin. That done, his attendance on a sick man, and + the letter found on the bed was all the positive evidence they had to + connect him with the case. He had had some thought of slipping out by the + fire-escape and making a search for Dick on his own account, but his lack + of familiarity with his surroundings made that practically useless. + </p> + <p> + At midnight he stretched out on his bed without undressing, and went over + the situation carefully. He knew nothing of the various neuroses which + affect the human mind, but he had a vague impression that memory when lost + did eventually return, and Dick's recognition of the chambermaid pointed + to such a return. He wondered what a man would feel under such conditions, + what he would think. He could not do it. He abandoned the effort finally, + and lay frowning at the ceiling while he considered his own part in the + catastrophe. He saw himself, following his training and his instinct, + leading the inevitable march toward this night's tragedy, planning, + scheming, searching, and now that it had come, lying helpless on his bed + while the procession of events went on past him and beyond his control. + </p> + <p> + When an automobile engine back-fired in the street below he went sick with + fear. + </p> + <p> + He made the resolution then that was to be the guiding motive for his life + for the next few months, to fight the thing of his own creating to a + finish. But with the resolution newly made he saw the futility of it. He + might fight, would fight, but nothing could restore to Dick Livingstone + the place he had made for himself in the world. He might be saved from his + past, but he could not be given a future. + </p> + <p> + All at once he was aware that some one was working stealthily at the lock + of the door which communicated with a room beyond. He slid cautiously off + the bed and went to the light switch, standing with a hand on it, and + waited. The wild thought that it might be Livingstone was uppermost in his + mind, and when the door creaked open and closed again, that was the word + he breathed into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said a woman's voice in a whisper. “It's the maid, Hattie. Be + careful. There's a guard at the top of the stairs.” + </p> + <p> + He heard her moving to his outer door, and he knew that she stood there, + listening, her head against the panel. When she was satisfied she slipped, + with the swiftness of familiarity with her surroundings, to the stand + beside his bed, and turned on the lamp. In the shaded light he saw that + she wore a dark cape, with its hood drawn over her head. In some strange + fashion the maid, even the woman, was lost, and she stood, strange, + mysterious, and dramatic in the little room. + </p> + <p> + “If you found Jud Clark, what would you do with him?” she demanded. From + beneath the hood her eyes searched his face. “Turn him over to Wilkins and + his outfit?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you know better than that.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got any plan?” + </p> + <p> + “Plan? No. They've got every outlet closed, haven't they? Do you know + where he is?” + </p> + <p> + “I know where he isn't, or they'd have him by now. And I know Jud Clark. + He'd take to the mountains, same as he did before. He's got a good horse.” + </p> + <p> + “A horse!” + </p> + <p> + “Listen. I haven't told this, and I don't mean to. They'll learn it in a + couple of hours, anyhow. He got out by a back fire-escape—they know + that. But they don't know he took Ed Rickett's black mare. They think he's + on foot. I've been down there now, and she's gone. Ed's shut up in a room + on the top floor, playing poker. They won't break up until about three + o'clock and he'll miss his horse then. That's two hours yet.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett tried to see her face in the shadow of the hood. He was puzzled + and suspicious at her change of front, more than half afraid of a trap. + </p> + <p> + “How do I know you are not working with Wilkins?” he demanded. “You could + have saved the situation to-night by saying you weren't sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I was upset. I've had time to think since.” + </p> + <p> + He was forced to trust her, eventually, although the sense of some hidden + motive, some urge greater than compassion, persisted in him. + </p> + <p> + “You've got some sort of plan for me, then? I can't follow him haphazard + into the mountains at night, and expect to find him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He was delirious when he left. That thing about the sheriff being + after him—he wasn't after him then. Not until I gave the alarm. He's + delirious, and he thinks he's back to the night he—you know. + Wouldn't he do the same thing again, and make for the mountains and the + cabin? He went to the cabin before.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett looked at his watch. It was half past twelve. + </p> + <p> + “Even if I could get a horse I couldn't get out of the town.” + </p> + <p> + “You might, on foot. They'll be trailing Rickett's horse by dawn. And if + you can get out of town I can get you a horse. I can get you out, too, I + think. I know every foot of the place.” + </p> + <p> + A feeling of theatrical unreality was Bassett's chief emotion during the + trying time that followed. The cloaked and shrouded figure of the woman + ahead, the passage through two dark and empty rooms by pass key to an + unguarded corridor in the rear, the descent of the fire-escape, where they + stood flattened against the wall while a man, possibly one of the posse, + rode in, tied his horse and stamped in high heeled boots into the + building, and always just ahead the sure movement and silent tread of the + woman, kept his nerves taut and increased his feeling of the unreal. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the fire-escape the woman slid out of sight noiselessly, + but under Bassett's feet a tin can rolled and clattered. Then a horse + snorted close to his shoulder, and he was frozen with fright. After that + she gave him her hand, and led him through an empty outbuilding and + another yard into a street. + </p> + <p> + At two o'clock that morning Bassett, waiting in a lonely road near what he + judged to be the camp of a drilling crew, heard a horse coming toward him + and snorting nervously as it came and drew back into the shadows until he + recognized the shrouded silhouette leading him. + </p> + <p> + “It belongs to my son,” she said. “I'll fix it with him to-morrow. But if + you're caught you'll have to say you came out and took him, or you'll get + us all in trouble.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him careful instructions as to how to find the trail, and urged + him to haste. + </p> + <p> + “If you get him,” she advised, “better keep right on over the range.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, with his foot in the stirrup. + </p> + <p> + “You seem pretty certain he's taken to the mountains.” + </p> + <p> + “It's your only chance. They'll get him anywhere else.” + </p> + <p> + He mounted and prepared to ride off. He would have shaken hands with her, + but the horse was still terrified at her shrouded figure and veered and + snorted when she approached. “However it turns out,” he said, “you've done + your best, and I'm grateful.” + </p> + <p> + The horse moved off and left her standing there, her cowl drawn forward + and her hands crossed on her breast. She stood for a moment, facing toward + the mountains, oddly monkish in outline and posture. Then she turned back + toward the town. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXVIII + </h2> + <p> + Dick had picked up life again where he had left it off so long before. + Gone was David's house built on the sands of forgetfulness. Gone was David + himself, and Lucy. Gone not even born into his consciousness was + Elizabeth. The war, his work, his new place in the world, were all + obliterated, drowned in the flood of memories revived by the shock of + Bassett's revelations. + </p> + <p> + Not that the breaking point had revealed itself as such at once. There was + confusion first, then stupor and unconsciousness, and out of that, sharply + and clearly, came memory. It was not ten years ago, but an hour ago, a + minute ago, that he had stood staring at Howard Lucas on the floor of the + billiard room, and had seen Beverly run in through the door. + </p> + <p> + “Bev!” he was saying. “Bev! Don't look like that!” + </p> + <p> + He moved and found he was in bed. It had been a dream. He drew a long + breath, looked about the room, saw the woman and greeted her. But already + he knew he had not been dreaming. Things were sharpening in his mind. He + shuddered and looked at the floor, but nobody lay there. Only the horror + in his mind, and the instinct to get away from it. He was not thinking at + all, but rising in him was not only the need for flight, but the sense of + pursuit. They were after him. They would get him. They must never get him + alive. + </p> + <p> + Instinct and will took the place of thought, and whatever closed chamber + in his brain had opened, it clearly influenced his physical condition. He + bore all the stigmata of prolonged and heavy drinking; his nerves were + gone; he twitched and shook. When he got down the fire-escape his legs + would scarcely hold him. + </p> + <p> + The discovery of Ed Rickett's horse in the courtyard, saddled and ready, + fitted in with the brain pattern of the past. + </p> + <p> + Like one who enters a room for the first time, to find it already + familiar, for a moment he felt that this thing that he was doing he had + done before. Only for a moment. Then partial memory ceased, and he climbed + into the saddle, rode out and turned toward the mountains and the cabin. + By that strange quality of the brain which is called habit, although the + habit be of only one emphatic precedent, he followed the route he had + taken ten years before. How closely will never be known. Did he stop at + this turn to look back, as he had once before? Did he let his horse + breathe there? Not the latter, probably, for as, following the blind + course that he had followed ten years before, he left the town and went up + the canyon trail, he was riding as though all the devils of hell were + behind him. + </p> + <p> + One thing is certain. The reproduction of the conditions of the earlier + flight, the familiar associations of the trail, must have helped rather + than hindered his fixation in the past. Again he was Judson Clark, who had + killed a man, and was flying from himself and from pursuit. + </p> + <p> + Before long his horse was in acute distress, but he did not notice it. At + the top of the long climb the animal stopped, but he kicked him on + recklessly. He was as unaware of his own fatigue, or that he was swaying + in the saddle, until galloping across a meadow the horse stumbled and + threw him. + </p> + <p> + He lay still for some time; not hurt but apparently lacking the initiative + to get up again. He had at that period the alternating lucidity and mental + torpor of the half drunken man. But struggling up through layers of + blackness at last there came again the instinct for flight, and he got on + the horse and set off. + </p> + <p> + The torpor again overcame him and he slept in the saddle. When the horse + stopped he roused and kicked it on. Once he came up through the blackness + to the accompaniment of a great roaring, and found that the animal was + saddle deep in a ford, and floundering badly among the rocks. He turned + its head upstream, and got it out safely. + </p> + <p> + Toward dawn some of the confusion was gone, but he firmly fixed in the + past. The horse wandered on, head down, occasionally stopping to seize a + leaf as it passed, and once to drink deeply at a spring. Dick was still + not thinking—there was something that forbade him to think—but he + was weak and emotional. He muttered: + </p> + <p> + “Poor Bev! Poor old Bev!” + </p> + <p> + A great wave of tenderness and memory swept over him. Poor Bev! He had + made life hell for her, all right. He had an almost uncontrollable impulse + to turn the horse around, go back and see her once more. He was gone + anyhow. They would get him. And he wanted her to know that he would have + died rather than do what he had done. + </p> + <p> + The flight impulse died; he felt sick and very cold, and now and then he + shook violently. He began to watch the trail behind him for the pursuit, + but without fear. He seemed to have been wandering for a thousand black + nights through deep gorges and over peaks as high as the stars, and now he + wanted to rest, to stop somewhere and sleep, to be warm again. Let them + come and take him, anywhere out of this nightmare. + </p> + <p> + With the dawn still gray he heard a horse behind and below him on the + trail up the cliff face. He stopped and sat waiting, twisted about in his + saddle, his expression ugly and defiant, and yet touchingly helpless, the + look of a boy in trouble and at bay. The horseman came into sight on the + trail below, riding hard, a middle-aged man in a dark sack suit and a + straw hat, an oddly incongruous figure and manifestly weary. He rode bent + forward, and now and again he raised his eyes from the trail and searched + the wall above with bloodshot, anxious eyes. + </p> + <p> + On the turn below Dick, Bassett saw him for the first time, and spoke to + him in a quiet voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, old man,” he said. “I began to think I was going to miss you after + all.” + </p> + <p> + His scrutiny of Dick's face had rather reassured him. The delirium had + passed, apparently. Dishevelled although he was, covered with dust and + with sweat from the horse, Livingstone's eyes were steady enough. As he + rode up to him, however, he was not so certain. He found himself surveyed + with a sort of cool malignity that startled him. + </p> + <p> + “Miss me!” Livingstone sneered bitterly. “With every damned hill covered + by this time with your outfit! I'll tell you this. If I'd had a gun you'd + never have got me alive.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was puzzled and slightly ruffled. + </p> + <p> + “My outfit! I'll tell you this, son, I've risked my neck half the night to + get you out of this mess.” + </p> + <p> + “God Almighty couldn't get me out of this mess,” Dick said somberly. + </p> + <p> + It was then that Bassett saw something not quite normal in his face, and + he rode closer. + </p> + <p> + “See here, Livingstone,” he said, in a soothing tone, “nobody's going to + get you. I'm here to keep them from getting you. We've got a good start, + but we'll have to keep moving.” + </p> + <p> + Dick sat obstinately still, his horse turned across the trail, and his + eyes still suspicious and unfriendly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know you,” he said doggedly. “And I've done all the running away + I'm going to do. You go back and tell Wilkins I'm here and to come and get + me. The sooner the better.” The sneer faded, and he turned on Bassett with + a depth of tragedy in his eyes that frightened the reporter. “My God,” he + said, “I killed a man last night! I can't go through life with that on me. + I'm done, I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Last night!” Some faint comprehension began to dawn in Bassett's mind, a + suspicion of the truth. But there was no time to verify it. He turned and + carefully inspected the trail to where it came into sight at the opposite + rim of the valley. When he was satisfied that the pursuit was still well + behind them he spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “Pull yourself together, Livingstone,” he said, rather sharply. “Think a + bit. You didn't kill anybody last night. Now listen,” he added + impressively. “You are Livingstone, Doctor Richard Livingstone. You stick + to that, and think about it.” + </p> + <p> + But Dick was not listening, save to some bitter inner voice, for suddenly + he turned his horse around on the trail. “Get out of the way,” he said, + “I'm going back to give myself up.” + </p> + <p> + He would have done it, probably, would have crowded past Bassett on the + narrow trail and headed back toward capture, but for his horse. It balked + and whirled on the ledge, but it would not pass Bassett. Dick swore and + kicked it, his face ugly and determined, but it refused sullenly. He slid + out of the saddle then and tried to drag it on, but he was suddenly weak + and sick. He staggered. Bassett was off his horse in a moment and caught + him. He eased him onto a boulder, and he sat there, his shoulders sagging + and his whole body twitching. + </p> + <p> + “Been drinking my head off,” he said at last. “If I had a drink now I'd + straighten out.” He tried to sit up. “That's what's the matter with me. + I'm funking, of course, but that's not all. I'd give my soul for some + whisky.”' + </p> + <p> + “I can get you a drink, if you'll come on about a mile,” Bassett coaxed. + “At the cabin you and I talked about yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you're talking.” Dick made an effort and got to his feet, shaking off + Bassett's assisting arm. “For God's sake keep your hands off me,” he said + irritably. “I've got a hangover, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + He got into his saddle without assistance and started off up the trail. + Bassett once more searched the valley, but it was empty save for a deer + drinking at the stream far below. He turned and followed. + </p> + <p> + He was fairly hopeless by that time, what with Dick's unexpected + resistance and the change in the man himself. He was dealing with + something he did not understand, and the hypothesis of delirium did not + hold. There was a sort of desperate sanity in Dick's eyes. That statement, + now, about drinking his head off—he hadn't looked yesterday like a + drinking man. But now he did. He was twitching, his hands shook. On the + rock his face had been covered with a cold sweat. What was that the doctor + yesterday had said about delirium tremens? Suppose he collapsed? That + meant capture. + </p> + <p> + He did not need to guide Dick to the cabin. He turned off the trail + himself, and Bassett, following, saw him dismount and survey the ruin with + a puzzled face. But he said nothing. Bassett waiting outside to tie the + horses came in to find him sitting on one of the dilapidated chairs, + staring around, but all he said was: + </p> + <p> + “Get me that drink, won't you? I'm going to pieces.” Bassett found his tin + cup where he had left it on a shelf and poured out a small amount of + whisky from his flask. + </p> + <p> + “This is all we have,” he explained. “We'll have to go slow with it.” + </p> + <p> + It had an almost immediate effect. The twitching grew less, and a faint + color came into Dick's face. He stood up and stretched himself. “That's + better,” he said. “I was all in. I must have been riding that infernal + horse for years.” + </p> + <p> + He wandered about while the reporter made a fire and set the coffee pot to + boil. Bassett, glancing up once, saw him surveying the ruined lean-to from + the doorway, with an expression he could not understand. But he did not + say anything, nor did he speak again until Bassett called him to get some + food. Even then he was laconic, and he seemed to be listening and waiting. + </p> + <p> + Once something startled the horses outside, and he sat up and listened. + </p> + <p> + “They're here!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so,” Bassett replied, and went to the doorway. “No,” he + called back over his shoulder, “you go on and finish. I'll watch.” + </p> + <p> + “Come back and eat,” Dick said surlily. + </p> + <p> + He ate very little, but drank of the coffee. Bassett too ate almost + nothing. He was pulling himself together for the struggle that was to + come, marshaling his arguments for flight, and trying to fathom the extent + of the change in the man across the small table. + </p> + <p> + Dick put down his tin cup and got up. He was strong again, and the + nightmare confusion of the night had passed away. Instead of it there was + a desperate lucidity and a courage born of desperation. He remembered it + all distinctly; he had killed Howard Lucas the night before. Before long + Wilkins or some of his outfit would ride up to the door, and take him back + to Norada. He was not afraid of that. They would always think he had run + away because he was afraid of capture, but it was not that. He had run + away from Bev's face. Only he had not got away from it. It had been with + him all night, and it was with him now. + </p> + <p> + But he would have to go back. He couldn't be caught like a rat in a trap. + The Clarks didn't run away. They were fighters. Only the Clarks didn't + kill. They fought, but they didn't murder. + </p> + <p> + He picked up his hat and went to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you've been mighty kind, old man,” he said. “But I've got to go + back. I ran last night like a scared kid, but I'm through with that sort + of foolishness.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd give a good bit,” Bassett said, watching him, “to know what made you + run last night. You were safe where you were.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what you are talking about,” Dick said drearily. “I didn't + run from them. I ran to get away from something.” He turned away + irritably. “You wouldn't understand. Say I was drunk. I was, for that + matter. I'm not over it yet.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett watched him. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said quietly. “It was last night, was it, that this thing + happened?” + </p> + <p> + “You know it, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “And, after it happened, do you remember what followed?” + </p> + <p> + “I've been riding all night. I didn't care what happened. I knew I'd run + into a whale of a blizzard, but I—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped and stared outside, to where the horses grazed in the upland + meadow, knee deep in mountain flowers. Bassett, watching him, saw the + incredulity in his eyes, and spoke very gently. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow,” he said, “you are right. Try to understand what I am + saying, and take it easy. You rode into a blizzard, right enough. But that + was not last night. It was ten years ago.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIX + </h2> + <p> + Had Bassett had some wider knowledge of Dick's condition he might have + succeeded better during that bad hour that followed. Certainly, if he had + hoped that the mere statement of fact and its proof would bring results, + he failed. And the need for haste, the fear of the pursuit behind them, + made him nervous and incoherent. + </p> + <p> + He had first to accept the incredible, himself—that Dick Livingstone + no longer existed, that he had died and was buried deep in some chamber of + an unconscious mind. He made every effort to revive him, to restore him + into the field of consciousness, but without result. And his struggle was + increased in difficulty by the fact that he knew so little of Dick's life. + David's name meant nothing, apparently, and it was the only name he knew. + He described the Livingstone house; he described Elizabeth as he had seen + her that night at the theater. Even Minnie. But Dick only shook his head. + And until he had aroused some instinct, some desire to live, he could not + combat Dick's intention to return and surrender. + </p> + <p> + “I understand what you are saying,” Dick would say. “I'm trying to get it. + But it doesn't mean anything to me.” + </p> + <p> + He even tried the war. + </p> + <p> + “War? What war?” Dick asked. And when he heard about it he groaned. + </p> + <p> + “A war!” he said. “And I've missed it!” + </p> + <p> + But soon after that he got up, and moved to the door. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going back,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “They're after me, aren't they?” + </p> + <p> + “You're forgetting again. Why should they be after you now, after ten + years?” + </p> + <p> + “I see. I can't get it, you know. I keep listening for them.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett too was listening, but he kept his fears to himself. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do it?” he asked finally. + </p> + <p> + “I was drunk, and I hated him. He married a girl I was crazy about.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett tried new tactics. He stressed the absurdity of surrendering for a + crime committed ten years before and forgotten. + </p> + <p> + “They won't convict you anyhow,” he urged. “It was a quarrel, wasn't it? I + mean, you didn't deliberately shoot him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't remember. We quarreled. Yes. I don't remember shooting him.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + Dick made an effort, although he was white to the lips. + </p> + <p> + “I saw him on the floor,” he said slowly, and staggered a little. + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't even know you did it.” + </p> + <p> + “I hated him.” + </p> + <p> + But Bassett saw that his determination to surrender himself was weakening. + Bassett fought it with every argument he could summon, and at last he + brought forward the one he felt might be conclusive. + </p> + <p> + “You see, you've not only made a man's place in the world, Clark, as I've + told you. You've formed associations you can't get away from. You've got + to think of the Livingstones, and you told me yesterday a shock would kill + the old man. But it's more than that. There's a girl back in your town. I + think you were engaged to her.” + </p> + <p> + But if he had hoped to pierce the veil with that statement he failed. + Dick's face flushed, and he went to the door of the cabin, much as he had + gone to the window the day before. He did not look around when he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'm an unconscionable cad,” he said. “I've only cared for one woman + in my life. And I've shipwrecked her for good.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean—” + </p> + <p> + “You know who I mean.” + </p> + <p> + Sometime later Bassett got on his horse and rode out to a ledge which + commanded a long stretch of trail in the valley below. Far away horsemen + were riding along it, one behind the other, small dots that moved on + slowly but steadily. He turned and went back to the cabin. + </p> + <p> + “We'd better be moving,” he said, “and it's up to you to say where. You've + got two choices. You can go back to Norada and run the chance of arrest. + You know what that means. Without much chance of a conviction you will + stand trial and bring wretchedness to the people who stood by you before + and who care for you now. Or you can go on over the mountains with me and + strike the railroad somewhere to the West. You'll have time to think + things over, anyhow. They've waited ten years. They can wait longer.” + </p> + <p> + To his relief Dick acquiesced. He had become oddly passive; he seemed + indeed not greatly interested. He did not even notice the haste with which + Bassett removed the evidences of their meal, or extinguished the dying + fire and scattered the ashes. Nor, when they were mounted, the care with + which they avoided the trail. He gave, when asked, information as to the + direction of the railroad at the foot of the western slope of the range, + and at the same instigation found a trail for them some miles beyond their + starting point. But mostly he merely followed, in a dead silence. + </p> + <p> + They made slow progress. Both horses were weary and hungry, and the going + was often rough and even dangerous. But for Dick's knowledge of the + country they would have been hopelessly lost. Bassett, however, although + tortured with muscular soreness, felt his spirits rising as the miles were + covered, and there was no sign of the pursuit. + </p> + <p> + By mid-afternoon they were obliged to rest their horses and let them + graze, and the necessity of food for themselves became insistent. Dick + stretched out and was immediately asleep, but the reporter could not rest. + The magnitude of his undertaking obsessed him. They had covered perhaps + twenty miles since leaving the cabin, and the railroad was still sixty + miles away. With fresh horses they could have made it by dawn of the next + morning, but he did not believe their jaded animals could go much farther. + The country grew worse instead of better. A pass ahead, which they must + cross, was full of snow. + </p> + <p> + He was anxious, too, as to Dick's physical condition. The twitching was + gone, but he was very pale and he slept like a man exhausted and at his + physical limit. But the necessity of crossing the pass before nightfall or + of waiting until dawn to do it drove Bassett back from an anxious + reconnoitering of the trail at five o'clock, to rouse the sleeping man and + start on again. + </p> + <p> + Near the pass, however, Dick roused himself and took the lead. + </p> + <p> + “Let me ahead, Bassett,” he said peremptorily. “And give your horse his + head. He'll take care of you if you give him a chance.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was glad to fall back. He was exhausted and nervous. The trail + frightened him. It clung to the side of a rocky wall, twisting and turning + on itself; it ran under milky waterfalls of glacial water, and higher up + it led over an ice field which was a glassy bridge over a rushing stream + beneath. To add to their wretchedness mosquitoes hung about them in + voracious clouds, and tiny black gnats which got into their eyes and their + nostrils and set the horses frantic. + </p> + <p> + Once across the ice field Dick's horse fell and for a time could not get + up again. He lay, making ineffectual efforts to rise, his sides heaving, + his eyes rolling in distress. They gave up then, and prepared to make such + camp as they could. + </p> + <p> + With the setting of the sun it had grown bitterly cold, and Bassett was + forced to light a fire. He did it under the protection of the mountain + wall, and Dick, after unsaddling his fallen horse, built a rough shelter + of rocks against the wind. After a time the exhausted horse got up, but + there was no forage, and the two animals stood disconsolate, or made small + hopeless excursions, noses to the ground, among the moss and scrub pines. + </p> + <p> + Before turning in Bassett divided the remaining contents of the flask + between them, and his last cigarettes. Dick did not talk. He sat, his back + to the shelter, facing the fire, his mind busy with what Bassett knew were + bitter and conflicting thoughts. Once, however, as the reporter was dozing + off, Dick spoke. + </p> + <p> + “You said I told you there was a girl,” he said. “Did I tell you her + name?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Go to sleep. I thought if I heard it it might help.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett lay back and watched him. + </p> + <p> + “Better get some sleep, old man,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He dozed, to waken again cold and shivering. The fire had burned low, and + Dick was sitting near it, unheeding, and in a deep study. He looked up, + and Bassett was shocked at the quiet tragedy in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Beverly Carlysle now?” he asked. “Or do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I saw her not long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she married again?” + </p> + <p> + “No. She's revived 'The Valley,' and she's in New York with it.” + </p> + <p> + Dick slept for only an hour or so that night, but as he slept he dreamed. + In his dream he was at peace and happy, and there was a girl in a black + frock who seemed to be a part of that peace. When he roused, however, + still with the warmth of his dream on him, he could not summon her. She + had slipped away among the shadows of the night. + </p> + <p> + He sat by the fire in the grip of a great despair. He had lost ten years + out of his life, his best years. And he could not go back to where he had + left off. There was nothing to go back to but shame and remorse. He looked + at Bassett, lying by the fire, and tried to fit him into the situation. + Who was he, and why was he here? Why had he ridden out at night alone, + into unknown mountains, to find him? + </p> + <p> + As though his intent gaze had roused the sleeper, Bassett opened his eyes, + at first drowsily, then wide awake. He raised himself on his elbow and + listened, as though for some far-off sound, and his face was strained and + anxious. But the night was silent, and he relaxed and slept again. + </p> + <p> + Something that had been forming itself in Dick's mind suddenly + crystallized into conviction. He rose and walked to the edge of the + mountain wall and stood there listening. When he went back to the fire he + felt in his pockets, found a small pad and pencil, and bending forward to + catch the light, commenced to write... At dawn Bassett wakened. He was + stiff and wretched, and he grunted as he moved. He turned over and + surveyed the small plateau. It was empty, except for his horse, making its + continuous, hopeless search for grass. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXX + </h2> + <p> + David was enjoying his holiday. He lay in bed most of the morning, making + the most of his one after-breakfast cigar and surrounded by newspaper and + magazines. He had made friends of the waiter who brought his breakfast, + and of the little chambermaid who looked after his room, and such + conversations as this would follow: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Nellie,” he would say, “and did you go to the dance on the pier + last night?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Your gentleman friend showed up all right, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. He didn't telephone because he was on a job out of town.” + </p> + <p> + Here perhaps David would lower his voice, for Lucy was never far away. + </p> + <p> + “Did you wear the flowers?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, violets. I put one away to remember you by. It was funny at first. I + wouldn't tell him who gave them to me.” + </p> + <p> + David would chuckle delightedly. + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” he would say. “Keep him guessing, the young rascal. We men + are kittle cattle, Nellie, kittle cattle!” + </p> + <p> + Even the valet unbent to him, and inquired if the doctor needed a man at + home to look after him and his clothes. David was enormously tickled. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I'll tell you how I manage + now, and then you'll see. When I want my trousers pressed I send them + downstairs and then I wait in my bathrobe until they come back. I'm a + trifle better off for boots, but you'd have to knock Mike, my hired man, + unconscious before he'd let you touch them.” + </p> + <p> + The valet grinned understandingly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, there's my nephew,” David went on, a little note of pride in + his voice. “He's become engaged recently, and I notice he's bought some + clothes. But still I don't think even he will want anybody to hold his + trousers while he gets into them.” + </p> + <p> + David chuckled over that for a long time after the valet had gone. + </p> + <p> + He was quite happy and contented. He spent all afternoon in a roller + chair, conversing affably with the man who pushed him, and now and then + when Lucy was out of sight getting out and stretching his legs. He picked + up lost children and lonely dogs, and tried his eye in a shooting gallery, + and had hard work keeping off the roller coasters and out of the sea. + </p> + <p> + Then, one day, when he had been gone some time, he was astonished on + entering his hotel to find Harrison Miller sitting in the lobby. David + beamed with surprise and pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “You old humbug!” he said. “Off on a jaunt after all! And the contempt of + you when I was shipped here!” + </p> + <p> + Harrison Miller was constrained and uncomfortable. He had meant to see + Lucy first. She was a sensible woman, and she would know just what David + could stand, or could not. But David did not notice his constraint; took + him to his room, made him admire the ocean view, gave him a cigar, and + then sat down across from him, beaming and hospitable. + </p> + <p> + “Suffering Crimus, Miller,” he said. “I didn't know I was homesick until I + saw you. Well, how's everything? Dick's letters haven't been much, and we + haven't had any for several days.” + </p> + <p> + Harrison Miller cleared his throat. He knew that David had not been told + of Jim Wheeler's death, but that Lucy knew. He knew too from Walter + Wheeler that David did not know that Dick had gone west. Did Lucy know + that, or not? Probably yes. But he considered the entire benevolent + conspiracy an absurdity and a mistake. It was making him uncomfortable, + and most of his life had been devoted to being comfortable. + </p> + <p> + He decided to temporize. + </p> + <p> + “Things are about the same,” he said. “They're going to pave Chisholm + Street. And your Mike knocked down the night watchman last week. I got him + off with a fine.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he hasn't been in my cellar. He's got a weakness, but then—How's + Dick? Not overworking?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He's all right.” + </p> + <p> + But David was no man's fool. He began to see something strange in + Harrison's manner, and he bent forward in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Harrison,” he said, “there's something the matter with you. + You've got something on your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have and I haven't. I'd like to see Lucy, David, if she's about.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucy's gadding. You can tell me if you can her. What is it? Is it about + Dick?” + </p> + <p> + “In a way, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He's not sick?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He's all right, as far as I know. I guess I'd better tell you, David. + Walter Wheeler has got some sort of bee in his bonnet, and he got me to + come on. Dick was pretty tired and—well, one or two things happened + to worry him. One was that Jim Wheeler—you'll get this sooner or + later—was in an automobile accident, and it did for him.” + </p> + <p> + David had lost some of his ruddy color. It was a moment before he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Jim,” he said hoarsely. “He was a good boy, only full of life. It + will be hard on the family.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Harrison Miller said simply. + </p> + <p> + But David was resentful, too. When his friends were in trouble he wanted + to know about it. He was somewhat indignant and not a little hurt. But he + soon reverted to Dick. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go back and send him off for a rest,” he said. “I'm as good as I'll + ever be, and the boy's tired. What's the bee in Wheeler's bonnet?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, David, you know your own business best, and Wheeler didn't + feel at liberty to tell me very much. But he seemed to think you were the + only one who could tell us certain things. He'd have come himself, but + it's not easy for him to leave the family just now. Dick went away just + after Jim's funeral. He left a young chap named Reynolds in his place, + and, I believe, in order not to worry you, some letters to be mailed at + intervals.” + </p> + <p> + “Went where?” David asked, in a terrible voice. + </p> + <p> + “To a town called Norada, in Wyoming. Near his old home somewhere. And the + Wheelers haven't heard anything from him since the day he got there. + That's three weeks ago. He wrote Elizabeth the night he got there, and + wired her at the same time. There's been nothing since.” + </p> + <p> + David was gripping the arms of his chair with both hands, but he forced + himself to calmness. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go to Norada at once,” he said. “Get a time-table, Harrison, and + ring for the valet.” + </p> + <p> + “Not on your life you won't. I'm here to do that, when I've got something + to go on. Wheeler thought you might have heard from him. If you hadn't, I + was to get all the information I could and then start. Elizabeth's almost + crazy. We wired the chief of police of Norada yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” David said thickly. “Trust your friends to make every damned + mistake possible! You've set the whole pack on his trail.” And then he + fell back in his chair, and gasped, “Open the window!” + </p> + <p> + When Lucy came in, a half hour later, she found David on his bed with the + hotel doctor beside him, and Harrison Miller in the room. David was + fighting for breath, but he was conscious and very calm. He looked up at + her and spoke slowly and distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “They've got Dick, Lucy,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He looked aged and pinched, and entirely hopeless. Even after his heart + had quieted down and he lay still among his pillows, he gave no evidence + of his old fighting spirit. He lay with his eyes shut, relaxed and + passive. He had done his best, and he had failed. It was out of his hands + now, and in the hands of God. Once, as he lay there, he prayed. He said + that he had failed, and that now he was too old and weak to fight. That + God would have to take it on, and do the best He could. But he added that + if God did not save Dick and bring him back to happiness, that he, David, + was through. + </p> + <p> + Toward morning he wakened from a light sleep. The door into Lucy's room + was open and a dim light was burning beyond it. David called her, and by + her immediate response he knew she had not been sleeping. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, David,” she said, and came padding in in her bedroom slippers and + wadded dressing-gown, a tragic figure of apprehension, determinedly + smiling. “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + When she had done so he put out his hand, fumbling for hers. She was + touched and alarmed, for it was a long while since there had been any open + demonstration of affection between them. David was silent for a time, + absorbed in thought. Then: + </p> + <p> + “I'm not in very good shape, Lucy. I suppose you know that. This old pump + of mine has sprung a leak or something. I don't want you to worry if + anything happens. I've come to the time when I've got a good many over + there, and it will be like going home.” + </p> + <p> + Lucy nodded. Her chin quivered. She smoothed his hand, with its high + twisted veins. + </p> + <p> + “I know, David,” she said. “Mother and father, and Henry, and a good many + friends. But I need you, too. You're all I have, now that Dick—” + </p> + <p> + “That's why I called you. If I can get out there, I'll go. And I'll put up + a fight that will make them wish they'd never started anything. But if I + can't, if I—” She felt his fingers tighten on her hand. “If Hattie + Thorwald is still living, we'll put her on the stand. If I can't go, for + any reason, I want you to see that she is called. And you know where + Henry's statement is?” + </p> + <p> + “In your box, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Have the statement read first, and then have her called to + corroborate it. Tell the story I have told you—or no, I'll dictate + it to you in the morning, and sign it before witnesses. Jake and Bill will + testify too.” + </p> + <p> + He felt easier in his mind after that. He had marshalled his forces and + begun his preparations for battle. He felt less apprehension now in case + he fell asleep, to waken among those he had loved long since and lost + awhile. After a few moments his eyes closed, and Lucy went back to her bed + and crawled into it. + </p> + <p> + It was, however, Harrison Miller who took the statement that morning. + Lucy's cramped old hand wrote too slowly for David's impatience. Harrison + Miller took it, on hotel stationery, covering the carefully numbered pages + with his neat, copper-plate writing. He wrote with an impassive face, but + with intense interest, for by that time he knew Dick's story. + </p> + <p> + Never, in his orderly bachelor life, of daily papers and a flower garden + and political economy at night, had he been so close to the passions of + men to love and hate and the disorder they brought with them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXI + </h2> + <p> + “My brother, Henry Livingstone, was not a strong man,” David dictated. “He + had the same heart condition I have, but it developed earlier. After he + left college he went to Arizona and bought a ranch, and there he met and + chummed with Elihu Clark, who had bought an old mine and was reworking it. + Henry loaned him a small amount of money at that time, and a number of + years later in return for that, when Henry's health failed, Clark, who had + grown wealthy, bought him a ranch in Wyoming at Dry River, not far from + Clark's own property. + </p> + <p> + “Henry had been teaching in an Eastern university, and then taken up + tutoring. We saw little of him. He was a student, and he became almost a + recluse. I saw less of him than ever after Clark gave him the ranch. + </p> + <p> + “In the spring of 1910 Henry wrote me that he was not well, and I went out + to see him. He seemed worried and was in bad shape physically. Elihu Clark + had died five years before, and left him a fair sum of money, fifty + thousand dollars, but he was living in a way which made me think he was + not using it. The ranch buildings were dilapidated, and there was nothing + but the barest necessities in the house. + </p> + <p> + “I taxed Henry with miserliness, and he then told me that the money was + not his, but left to him to be used for an illegitimate son of Clark's, + born before his marriage, the child of a small rancher's daughter named + Hattie Burgess. The Burgess girl had gone to Omaha for its birth, and the + story was not known. In early years Clark had paid the child's board + through his lawyer to an Omaha woman named Hines, and had later sent him + to college. The Burgess girl married a Swede named Thorwald. The boy was + eight years older than Judson, Clark's legitimate son. + </p> + <p> + “After the death of his wife Elihu Clark began to think about the child, + especially after Judson became a fair-sized boy. He had the older boy, who + went by the name of Hines, sent to college, and in summer he stayed at + Henry's tutoring school. Henry said the boy was like the Burgess family, + blonde and excitable and rather commonplace. He did not get on well at + college, and did not graduate. So far as he knew, Clark never saw him. + </p> + <p> + “The boy himself believed that he was an orphan, and that the Hines woman + had adopted him as a foundling. But on the death of the woman he found + that she had no estate, and that a firm of New York attorneys had been + paying his college bills. + </p> + <p> + “He had spent considerable time with Henry, one way and another, and he + began to think that Henry knew who he was. He thought at first that Henry + was his father, and there was some trouble. In order to end it Henry + finally acknowledged that he knew who the father was, and after that he + had no peace. Clifton—his name was Clifton Hines—attacked + Henry once, and if it had not been for the two men on the place he would + have hurt him. + </p> + <p> + “Henry began to give him money. Clark had left the fifty thousand for the + boy with the idea that Henry should start him in business with it. But he + only turned up wild-cat schemes that Henry would not listen to. He did not + know how Henry got the money, or from where. He thought for a long time + that Henry had saved it. + </p> + <p> + “I'd better say here that Henry was fond of Clifton, although he didn't + approve of him. He'd never married, and the boy was like a son to him for + a good many years. He didn't have him at the ranch much, however, for he + was a Burgess through and through and looked like them. And he was always + afraid that somehow the story would get out. + </p> + <p> + “Then Clifton learned, somehow or other, of Clark's legacy to Henry, and + he put two and two together. There was a bad time, but Henry denied it and + they went upstairs to bed. That night Clifton broke into Henry's desk and + found some letters from Elihu Clark that told the story. + </p> + <p> + “He almost went crazy. He took the papers up to Henry's and wakened him, + standing over Henry with them in hand, and shaking all over. I think they + had a struggle, too. All Henry told me was that he took them from him and + threw them in the fire. + </p> + <p> + “That was a year before Henry died, and at the time young Jud Clark's name + was in all the newspapers. He had left college after a wild career there, + and although Elihu had tied up the property until Jud was twenty-one, Jud + had his mother's estate and a big allowance. Then, too, he borrowed on his + prospects, and he lost a hundred thousand dollars at Monte Carlo within + six weeks after he graduated. + </p> + <p> + “One way and another he was always in the newspapers, and when he saw how + Jud was throwing money away Clifton went wild. + </p> + <p> + “As Henry had burned the letters he had no proofs. He didn't know who his + mother was, but he set to work to find out. He ferreted into Elihu's past + life, and he learned something about Hattie Burgess, or Thorwald. She was + married by that time, and lived on a little ranch near Norada. He went to + see her, and he accused her downright of being his mother. It must have + been a bad time for her, for after all he was her son, and she had to + disclaim him. She had a husband and a boy by that husband, however, by + that time, and she was desperate. She threw him off the track somehow, + lied and talked him down, and then went to bed in collapse. She sent for + Henry later and told him. + </p> + <p> + “The queer thing was that as soon as she saw him she wanted him. He was + her son. She went to Henry one night, and said she had perjured her soul, + and that she wanted him back. She wasn't in love with Thorwald. I think + she'd always cared for Clark. She went away finally, however, after + promising Henry she would keep Clark's secret. But I have a suspicion that + later on she acknowledged the truth to the boy. + </p> + <p> + “What he wanted, of course, was a share of the Clark estate. Of course he + hadn't a chance in law, but he saw a chance to blackmail young Jud Clark + and he tried it. Not personally, for he hadn't any real courage, but by + mail. Clark's attorneys wrote back saying they would jail him if he tried + it again, and he went back to Dry River and after Henry again. + </p> + <p> + “That was in the spring of 1911. Henry was uneasy, for Clifton was not + like himself. He had spells of brooding, and he took to making long trips + on his horse into the mountains, and coming in with the animal run to + death. Henry thought, too, that he was seeing the Thorwald woman, the + mother. Thorwald had died, and she was living with the son on their ranch + and trying to sell it. He thought Hines was trying to have her make a + confession which would give him a hold on Jud Clark. + </p> + <p> + “Henry was not well, and in the early fall he knew he hadn't long to live. + He wrote out the story and left it in his desk for me to read after he had + gone, and as he added to it from time to time, when I got it it was almost + up to date. + </p> + <p> + “Judson came back to the Clark ranch in September, bringing along an + actress named Beverly Carlysle, and her husband, Howard Lucas. There was + considerable talk, because it was known Jud had been infatuated with the + woman. But no one saw much of the party, outside of the ranch. The + Carlysle woman seemed to be a lady, but the story was that both men were + drinking a good bit, especially Jud. + </p> + <p> + “Henry wrote that Hines had been in the East for some months at that time, + and that he had not heard from him. But he felt that it was only a truce, + and that he would turn up again, hell bent for trouble. He made a will and + left the money to me, with instructions to turn it over to Hines. It is + still in the bank, and amounts to about thirty-five thousand dollars. It + is not mine, and I will not touch it. But I have never located Clifton + Hines. + </p> + <p> + “In the last entry in his record I call attention to my brother's + statement that he did not regard Clifton Hines as entirely sane on this + one matter, and to his conviction that the hatred Hines then bore him, + amounting to a delusion of persecution, might on his death turn against + Judson Clark. He instructed me to go to Clark, tell him the story, and put + him on his guard. + </p> + <p> + “Clark and his party had been at the ranch only a day or two when one + night Hines turned up at Dry River. He wanted the fifty thousand, or what + was left of it, and when he failed to move Henry he attacked him. The two + men on the place heard the noise and ran in, but Hines got away. Henry + swore them to secrecy, and told them the story. He felt he might need + help. + </p> + <p> + “From what the two men at the ranch told me when I got there, I think + Hines stayed somewhere in the mountains for the next day or two, and that + he came down for food the night Henry died. + </p> + <p> + “Just what he contributed to Henry's death I do not know. Henry fell in + one room, and was found in bed in another when the hands had been taking + the cattle to the winter range, and he'd been alone in the house. + </p> + <p> + “When I got there the funeral was over. I read the letter he had left, and + then I talked to the two hands, Bill Ardary and Jake Mazetti. They would + not talk at first, but I showed them Henry's record and then they were + free enough. The autopsy had shown that Henry died from heart disease, but + he had a cut on his head also, and they believed that Hines had come back, + had quarreled with him again, and had knocked him down. + </p> + <p> + “As Henry had in a way handed over to me his responsibility for the boy, + and as I wanted to transfer the money, I waited for three weeks at the + ranch, hoping he would turn up again. I saw the Thorwald woman, but she + protested that she did not know where he was. And I made two attempts to + see and warn Jud Clark, but failed both times. Then one night the Thorwald + woman came in, looking like a ghost, and admitted that Hines had been + hiding in the mountains since Henry's death, that he insisted he had + killed him, and that he blamed Jud Clark for that, and for all the rest of + his troubles. She was afraid he would kill Clark. The three of us, the two + men at the ranch and myself, prepared to go into the mountains and hunt + for him, before he got snowed in. + </p> + <p> + “Then came the shooting at the Clark place, and I rode over that night in + a howling storm and helped the coroner and a Norada doctor in the + examination. All the evidence was against Clark, especially his running + away. But I happened on Hattie Thorwald outside on a verandah—she'd + been working at the house—and I didn't need any conversation to tell + me what she thought. All she said was: + </p> + <p> + “He didn't do it, doctor. He's still in the mountains.” + </p> + <p> + “He's been here to-night, Hattie, and you know it. He shot the wrong man.” + </p> + <p> + “But she swore he hadn't been, and at the end I didn't know. I'll say + right now that I don't know. But I'll say, too, that I believe that is + what happened, and that Hines probably stayed hidden that night on Hattie + Thorwald's place. I went there the next day, but she denied it all, and + said he was still in the mountains. She carried on about the blizzard and + his being frozen to death, until I began to think she was telling the + truth. + </p> + <p> + “The next day I did what only a tenderfoot would do, started into the + mountains alone. Bill and Jake were out with a posse after Clark, and I + packed up some food and started. I'll not go into the details of that + trip. I went in from the Dry River Canyon, and I guess I faced death a + dozen times the first day. I had a map, but I lost myself in six hours. I + had food and blankets and an axe along, and I built a shelter and stayed + there overnight. I had to cut up one of my blankets the next morning and + tie up the horse's feet, so he wouldn't sink too deep in the snow. But it + stayed cold and the snow hardened, and we got along better after that. + </p> + <p> + “I'd have turned back more than once, but I thought I'd meet up with some + of the sheriff's party. I didn't do that, but I stumbled on a trail on the + third day, toward evening. It was the trail made by John Donaldson, as I + learned later. I followed it, but I concluded after a while that whoever + made it was lost, too. It seemed to be going in a circle. I was in bad + shape and had frozen a part of my right hand, when I saw a cabin, and + there was smoke coming out of the chimney.” + </p> + <p> + From that time on David's statement dealt with the situation in the cabin; + with Jud Clark and the Donaldsons, and with the snow storm, which began + again and lasted for days. He spoke at length of his discovery of Clark's + identity, and of the fact that the boy had lost all memory of what had + happened, and even of who he was. He went into that in detail; the + peculiar effect of fear and mental shock on a high-strung nature, + especially where the physical condition was lowered by excess and + wrong-living; his early attempts, as the boy improved, to pierce the veil, + and then his slow-growing conviction that it were an act of mercy not to + do so. The Donaldsons' faithfulness, the cessation of the search under the + conviction that Clark was dead, both were there, and also David's growing + liking for Judson himself. But David's own psychology was interesting and + clearly put. + </p> + <p> + “First of all,” he dictated, in his careful old voice, “it must be + remembered that I was not certain that the boy had committed the crime. I + believed, and I still believe, that Lucas was shot by Clifton Hines, + probably through an open window. There were no powder marks on the body. I + believed, too, and still believe, that Hines had fled after the crime, + either to Hattie Thorwald's house or to the mountains. In one case he had + escaped and could not be brought to justice, and in the other he was dead, + and beyond conviction. + </p> + <p> + “But there is another element which I urge, not in defense but in + explanation. The boy Judson Clark was a new slate to write on. He had + never had a chance. He had had too much money, too much liberty, too + little responsibility. His errors had been wiped away by the loss of his + memory, and he had, I felt, a chance for a new and useful life. + </p> + <p> + “I did not come to my decision quickly. It was a long fight for his life, + for he had contracted pneumonia, and he had the drinker's heart. But in + the long days of his convalescence while Maggie worked in the lean-to, I + had time to see what might be done. If in making an experiment with a + man's soul I usurped the authority of my Lord and Master, I am sorry. But + he knows that I did it for the best. + </p> + <p> + “I deliberately built up for Judson Clark a new identity. He was my + nephew, my brother Henry's son. He had the traditions of an honorable + family to carry on, and those traditions were honor, integrity, clean + living and work. I did not stress love, for that I felt must be + experienced, not talked about. But love was to be the foundation on which + I built. The boy had had no love in his life. + </p> + <p> + “It has worked out. I may not live to see it at its fullest, but I defy + the world to produce today a finer or more honorable gentleman, a more + useful member of the community. And it will last. The time may come when + Judson Clark will again be Judson Clark. I have expected it for many + years. But he will never again be the Judson Clark of ten years ago. He + may even will to return to the old reckless ways, but as I lie here, + perhaps never to see him, I say this: he cannot go back. His character and + habits of thought are established. + </p> + <p> + “To convict Judson Clark of the murder of Howard Lucas is to convict a + probably or at least possibly innocent man. To convict Richard Livingstone + of that crime is to convict a different man, innocent of the crime, + innocent of its memory, innocent of any single impulse to lift his hand + against a law of God or the state.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXII + </h2> + <p> + For a month Haverly had buzzed with whispered conjectures. It knew + nothing, and yet somehow it knew everything. Doctor David was ill at the + seashore, and Dick was not with him. Harrison Miller, who was never known + to depart farther from his comfortable hearth than the railway station in + one direction and the Sayre house in the other, had made a trip East and + was now in the far West. Doctor Reynolds, who might or might not know + something, had joined the country club and sent for his golf bag. + </p> + <p> + And Elizabeth Wheeler was going around with a drawn white face and a + determined smile that faded the moment one looked away. + </p> + <p> + The village was hurt and suspicious. It resented its lack of knowledge, + and turned cynical where, had it been taken into confidence, it would have + been solicitous. It believed that Elizabeth had been jilted, for it knew, + via Annie and the Oglethorpe's laundress, that no letters came from Dick. + And against Dick its indignation was directed, in a hot flame of mainly + feminine anger. + </p> + <p> + But it sensed a mystery, too, and if it hated a jilt it loved a mystery. + </p> + <p> + Nina had taken to going about with her small pointed chin held high, and + angrily she demanded that Elizabeth do the same. + </p> + <p> + “You know what they are saying, and yet you go about looking crushed.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't act, Nina. I do go about.” + </p> + <p> + And Nina had a softened moment. + </p> + <p> + “Don't think about him,” she said. “He isn't sick, or he would have had + some one wire or write, and he isn't dead, or they'd have found his papers + and let us know.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he's in some sort of trouble. I want to go out there. I want to go + out there!” + </p> + <p> + That, indeed, had been her constant cry for the last two weeks. She would + have done it probably, packed her bag and slipped away, but she had no + money of her own, and even Leslie, to whom she appealed, had refused her + when he knew her purpose. + </p> + <p> + “We're following him up, little sister,” he said. “Harrison Miller has + gone out, and there's enough talk as it is.” + </p> + <p> + She thought, lying in her bed at night, that they were all too afraid of + what people might say. It seemed so unimportant to her. And she could not + understand the conspiracy of silence. Other men went away and were not + heard from, and the police were notified and the papers told. It seemed to + her, too, that every one, her father and Nina and Leslie and even Harrison + Miller, knew more than she did. + </p> + <p> + There had been that long conference behind closed doors, when Harrison + Miller came back from seeing David, and before he went west. Leslie had + been there, and even Doctor Reynolds, but they had shut her out. And her + father had not been the same since. + </p> + <p> + He seemed, sometimes, to be burning with a sort of inner anger. Not at + her, however. He was very gentle with her. + </p> + <p> + And here was a curious thing. She had always felt that she knew when Dick + was thinking of her. All at once, and without any warning, there would + come a glow of happiness and warmth, and a sort of surrounding and + encircling sense of protection. Rather like what she had felt as a little + girl when she had run home through the terrors of twilight, and closed the + house door behind her. She was in the warm and lighted house, safe and + cared for. + </p> + <p> + That was completely gone. It was as though the warm and lighted house of + her love had turned her out and locked the door, and she was alone + outside, cold and frightened. + </p> + <p> + She avoided the village, and from a sense of delicacy it left her alone. + The small gaieties of the summer were on, dinners, dances and picnics, but + her mourning made her absence inconspicuous. She could not, however, avoid + Mrs. Sayre. She tried to, at first, but that lady's insistence and her own + apathy made it easier to accept than to refuse. Then, after a time, she + found the house rather a refuge. She seldom saw Wallie, and she found her + hostess tactful, kindly and uninquisitive. + </p> + <p> + “Take the scissors and a basket, child, and cut your mother some roses,” + she would say. Or they would loot the green houses and, going in the car + to the cemetery, make of Jim's grave a thing of beauty and remembrance. + </p> + <p> + Now and then, of course, she saw Wallie, but he never reverted to the day + she had told him of her engagement. Mother and son, she began to feel that + only with them could she be herself. For the village, her chin high as + Nina had said. At home, assumed cheerfulness. Only at the house on the + hill could she drop her pose. + </p> + <p> + She waited with a sort of desperate courage for word from Harrison Miller. + What she wanted that word to be she did not know. There were, of course, + times when she had to face the possibility that Dick had deliberately cut + himself off from her. After all, there had never been any real reason why + he should care for her. She was not clever and not beautiful. Perhaps he + had been disappointed in her, and this was the thing they were concealing. + Perhaps he had gone back to Wyoming and had there found some one more + worthy of him, some one who understood when he talked about the things he + did in his laboratory, and did not just sit and listen with loving, rather + bewildered eyes. + </p> + <p> + Then, one night at dinner, a telegram was brought in, and she knew it was + the expected word. She felt her mother's eyes on her, and she sat very + still with her hands clenched in her lap. But her father did not read it + at the table; he got up and went out, and some time later he came to the + door. The telegram was not in sight. + </p> + <p> + “That was from Harrison Miller,” he said. “He has traced Dick to a hotel + at Norada, but he had left the hotel, and he hasn't got in touch with him + yet.” + </p> + <p> + He went away then, and they heard the house door close. + </p> + <p> + Then, some days later, she learned that Harrison Miller was coming home, + and that David was being brought back. She saw that telegram from Mr. + Miller, and read into it failure and discouragement, and something more + ominous than either. + </p> + <p> + “Reach home Tuesday night. Nothing definite. Think safe.” + </p> + <p> + “Think safe?” she asked, breathlessly. “Then he has been in danger? What + are you keeping from me?” And when no one spoke: “Oh, don't you see how + cruel it is? You are all trying to protect me, and you are killing me + instead.” + </p> + <p> + “Not danger,” her father said, slowly. “So far as we know, he is well. Is + all right.” And seeing her face: “It is nothing that affects his feeling + for you, dear. He is thinking of you and loving you, wherever he is. Only, + we don't know where he is.” + </p> + <p> + But when he came back on Tuesday, after seeing Harrison Miller, he was + discouraged and sick at heart. He went directly upstairs to his wife, and + shut the bedroom door. + </p> + <p> + “Not a trace,” he said, in reply to the question in her eyes. “The + situation is as he outlined it in the letter. He elaborated, of course. + The fact is, and David will have to see it, that that statement of his + doesn't help at all, unless he can prove there is a Clifton Hines. And + even then it's all supposition. There's a strong sentiment out there that + Dick either killed himself or met with an accident and died in the + mountains. The horse wandered into town last week. I'll have to tell her.” + </p> + <p> + Over this possibility they faced each other, a tragic middle-aged pair, + helpless as is the way of middle-age before the attacks of life on their + young. + </p> + <p> + “It will kill her, Walter.” + </p> + <p> + “She's young,” he said sturdily. “She'll get over it.” + </p> + <p> + But he did not think so, and she knew it. + </p> + <p> + “There is a rather queer element in it,” he observed, after a time. + “Another man, named Bassett, disappeared the same night. His stuff is at + the hotel, but no papers to identify him. He had looked after Dick that + day when he was sick, and he simply vanished. He didn't take the train. He + was under suspicion for being with Dick, and the station was being + watched.” But she was not interested in Bassett. The name meant nothing to + her. She harked back to the question that had been in both their minds + since they had read, in stupefied amazement, David's statement. + </p> + <p> + “In a way, Walter, it would be better, if he...” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “My little girl, and—Judson Clark!” + </p> + <p> + But he fought that sturdily. They had ten years of knowledge and respect + to build on. The past was past. All he prayed for was Dick's return, an + end to this long waiting. There would be no reservations in his welcome, + if only— + </p> + <p> + Some time later he went downstairs, to where Elizabeth sat waiting in the + library. He went like a man to his execution, and his resolution nearly + gave way when he saw her, small in her big chair and pathetically patient. + He told her the story as guardedly as he could. He began with Dick's story + to him, about his forgotten youth, and went on carefully to Dick's own + feeling that he must clear up that past before he married. She followed + him carefully, bewildered a little and very tense. + </p> + <p> + “But why didn't he tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “He saw it as a sort of weakness. He meant to when he came back.” + </p> + <p> + He fought Dick's fight for him valiantly, stressing certain points that + were to prepare her for others to come. He plunged, indeed, rather + recklessly into the psychology of the situation, and only got out of the + unconscious mind with an effort. But behind it all was his overwhelming + desire to save her pain. + </p> + <p> + “You must remember,” he said, “that Dick's life before this happened, and + since, are two different things. Whatever he did then should not count + against him now.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” she said. “Then he—had done something?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Something that brought him into conflict with the authorities.” + </p> + <p> + She did not shrink from that, and he was encouraged to go on. + </p> + <p> + “He was young then, remember. Only twenty-one or so. And there was a + quarrel with another man. The other man was shot.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean Dick shot him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You understand, don't you,” he added anxiously, “that he doesn't + remember doing it?” + </p> + <p> + In spite of his anxiety he was forced to marvel at the sublime faith with + which she made her comment, through lips that had gone white. + </p> + <p> + “Then it was either an accident, or he deserved shooting,” she said. But + she inquired, he thought with difficulty, “Did he die?” + </p> + <p> + He could not lie to her. “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She closed her eyes, but a moment later she was fighting her valiant fight + again for Dick. + </p> + <p> + “But they let him go,” she protested. “Men do shoot in the West, don't + they? There must have been a reason for it. You know Dick as well as I do. + He couldn't do a wrong thing.” + </p> + <p> + He let that pass. “Nothing was done about it at the time,” he said. “And + Dick came here and lived his useful life among us. He wouldn't have known + the man's name if he heard it. But do you see, sweetheart, where this is + taking us? He went back, and they tried to get him, for a thing he didn't + remember doing.” + </p> + <p> + “Father!” she said, and went very white. “Is that where he is? In prison?” + </p> + <p> + He tried to steady his voice. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear. He escaped into the mountains. But you can understand his + silence. You can understand, too, that he may feel he cannot come back to + us, with this thing hanging over him. What we have to do now is to find + him, and to tell him that it makes no difference. That he has his place in + the world waiting for him, and that we are waiting too.” + </p> + <p> + When it was all over, her questions and his sometimes stumbling replies, + he saw that out of it all the one thing that mattered vitally to her was + that Dick was only a fugitive, and not dead. But she said, just before + they went, arm in arm, up the stairs: + </p> + <p> + “It is queer in one way, father. It isn't like him to run away.” + </p> + <p> + He told Margaret, later, and she listened carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Then you didn't tell her about the woman in the case?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. Why should I?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wheeler looked at him, with the eternal surprise of woman at the lack + of masculine understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Because, whether you think it or not, she will resent and hate that as + she hates nothing else. Murder will be nothing, to that. And she will have + to know it some time.” + </p> + <p> + He pondered her flat statement unhappily, standing by the window and + looking out into the shaded street, and a man who had been standing, cigar + in mouth, on a pavement across withdrew into the shadow of a tree box. + </p> + <p> + “It's all a puzzle to me,” he said, at last. “God alone knows how it will + turn out. Harrison Miller seems to think this Bassett, whoever he is, + could tell us something. I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + He drew the shade and wound his watch. “I don't know,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + Outside, on the street, the man with the cigar struck a match and looked + at his watch. Then he walked briskly toward the railway station. A half + hour later he walked into the offices of the Times-Republican and to the + night editor's desk. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Bassett,” said that gentleman. “We thought you were dead. Well, + how about the sister in California? It was the Clark story, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Bassett, noncommittally. + </p> + <p> + “And it blew up on you! Well, there were others who were fooled, too. You + had a holiday, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I had a holiday,” said Bassett, and going over to his own desk began + to sort his vast accumulation of mail. Sometime later he found the night + editor at his elbow. + </p> + <p> + “Did you get anything on the Clark business at all?” he asked. “Williams + thinks there's a page in it for Sunday, anyhow. You've been on the ground, + and there's a human interest element in it. The last man who talked to + Clark; the ranch to-day. That sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett went on doggedly sorting his mail. + </p> + <p> + “You take it from me,” he said, “the story's dead, and so is Clark. The + Donaldson woman was crazy. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXIII + </h2> + <p> + David was brought home the next day, a shrivelled and aged David, but with + a fighting fire in his eyes and a careful smile at the station for the + group of friends who met him. + </p> + <p> + David had decided on a course and meant to follow it. That course was to + protect Dick's name, and to keep the place he had made in the world open + for him. Not even to Lucy had he yet breathed the terror that was with him + day and night, that Dick had reached the breaking point and had gone back. + But he knew it was possible. Lauler had warned him against shocks and + trouble, and looking back David could see the gradually accumulating + pressure against that mental wall of Dick's subconscious building; + overwork and David's illness, his love affair and Jim Wheeler's tragedy, + and coming on top of that, in some way he had not yet learned, the + knowledge that he was Judson Clark and a fugitive from the law. The work + of ten years perhaps undone. + </p> + <p> + Both David and Lucy found the home-coming painful. Harrison Miller rode up + with them from the station, and between him and Doctor Reynolds David + walked into his house and was assisted up the stairs. At the door of + Dick's room he stopped and looked in, and then went on, his face set and + rigid. He would not go to bed, but sat in his chair while about him went + on the bustle of the return, the bringing up of trunks and bags; but the + careful smile was gone, and his throat, now so much too thin for his + collar, worked convulsively. + </p> + <p> + He had got Harrison Miller's narrative from him on the way from the + station, and it had only confirmed his suspicions. + </p> + <p> + “He had been in a stupor all day,” Miller related, “and was being cared + for by a man named Bassett. I daresay that's the man Gregory had referred + to. He may have become suspicious of Bassett. I don't know. But a + chambermaid recognized him as he was making his escape, and raised an + alarm. He got a horse out of the courtyard of the hotel, and not a sign of + him has been found since.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't Bassett who raised the alarm?” + </p> + <p> + “No, apparently not. The odd thing is that this Bassett disappeared, too, + the same night. I called up his paper yesterday, but he hasn't shown up.” + </p> + <p> + And with some small amplifications, that is all there was to it. + </p> + <p> + Before Harrison Miller and Doctor Reynolds left him to rest, David called + Lucy in, and put his plea to all of them. + </p> + <p> + “It is my hope,” he said, “to carry on exactly as though Dick might walk + in to-morrow and take his place again. As I hold to my belief in God, so I + hold to my conviction that he will come back, and that before I—before + long. But our friends will be asking where he is and what he is doing, and + we would better agree on that beforehand. What we'd better say is simply + that Dick was called away on business connected with some property in the + West. They may not believe it, but they'll hardly disprove it.” + </p> + <p> + So the benevolent conspiracy to protect Dick Livingstone's name was + arranged, and from that time on the four of them who were a party to it + turned to the outside world an unbroken front of loyalty and courage. Even + to Minnie, anxious and red-eyed in her kitchen, Lucy gave the same + explanation while she arranged David's tray. + </p> + <p> + “He has been detained in the West on business,” Lucy said. + </p> + <p> + “He might have sent me a postcard. And he hasn't written Doctor Reynolds + at all.” + </p> + <p> + “He has been very busy. Get the sugar bowl, Minnie. He'll be back soon, + I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + But Minnie did not immediately move. + </p> + <p> + “He'd better come soon if he wants to see Doctor David,” she said, with + twitching lips. “And I'll just say this, Mrs. Crosby. The talk that's + going on in this town is something awful.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to hear it,” Lucy said firmly. + </p> + <p> + She ate alone, painfully remembering that last gay little feast before + they started away. But before she sat down she did a touching thing. She + rang the bell and called Minnie. + </p> + <p> + “After this, Minnie,” she said, “we will always set Doctor Richard's + place. Then, when he comes—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice broke and Minnie, scenting a tragedy but ignorant of it, went + back to her kitchen to cry into the roller towel. Her world was gone to + pieces. By years of service to the one family she had no other world, no + home, no ties. She was with the Livingstones, but not one of them. Alone + in her kitchen she felt lonely and cut off. She thought that David, had he + not been ill, would have told her. + </p> + <p> + Lucy found David moving about upstairs some time later, and when she went + up she found him sitting in Dick's room, on a stiff chair inside the door. + She stood beside him and put her hand on his shoulder, but he did not say + anything, and she went away. + </p> + <p> + That night David had a caller. All evening the bell had been ringing, and + the little card tray on the hatrack was filled with visiting cards. There + were gifts, too, flowers and jellies and some squab from Mrs. Sayre. Lucy + had seen no one, excusing herself on the ground of fatigue, but the man + who came at nine o'clock was not inclined to be turned away. + </p> + <p> + “You take this card up to Doctor Livingstone, anyhow,” he said. “I'll + wait.” + </p> + <p> + He wrote in pencil on the card, placing it against the door post to do so, + and passed it to Minnie. She calmly read it, and rather defiantly carried + it off. But she came down quickly, touched by some contagion of + expectation from the room upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Hang your hat on the rack and go on up.” + </p> + <p> + So it was that David and the reporter met, for the first time, in David's + old fashioned chamber, with its walnut bed and the dresser with the marble + top, and Dick's picture in his uniform on the mantle. + </p> + <p> + Bassett was shocked at the sight of David, shocked and alarmed. He was + uncertain at first as to the wisdom of telling his startling story to an + obviously sick man, but David's first words reassured him. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” he said. “You are the Bassett who was with Doctor Livingstone + at Norada?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I see you know about it.” + </p> + <p> + “We know something, not everything.” Suddenly David's pose deserted him. + He got up and stood very straight, searching eyes on his visitor. “Is he + living?” he asked, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “I think so. I'm not certain.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't know where he is?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He got away—but you know that. Sit down, doctor. I've got a + long story to tell.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll get you to call my sister first,” David said. “And tell her to get + Harrison Miller. Mr. Miller is our neighbor, and he very kindly went west + when my health did not permit me to go.” + </p> + <p> + While they waited David asked only one question. + </p> + <p> + “The report we have had is that he was in a stupor in the hotel, and the + doctor who saw him—you got him, I think—said he appeared to + have been drinking heavily. Is that true? He was not a drinking man.” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite sure he had not.” + </p> + <p> + There was another question in David's mind, but he did not put it. He sat, + with the patience of his age and his new infirmity, waiting for Lucy to + bring Harrison Miller, and had it not been for the trembling of his hands + Bassett would have thought him calm and even placid. + </p> + <p> + During the recital that followed somewhat later David did not move. He sat + silent, his eyes closed, his face set. + </p> + <p> + “That's about all,” Bassett finished. “He had been perfectly clear in his + head all day, and it took headwork to get over the pass. But, as I say, he + had simply dropped ten years, and was back to the Lucas trouble. I tried + everything I knew, used your name and would have used the young lady's, + because sometimes that sort of thing strikes pretty deep, but I didn't + know it. He was convinced after a while, but he was dazed, of course. He + knew it, that is, but he couldn't comprehend it. + </p> + <p> + “I was done up, and I've cursed myself for it since, but I must have slept + like the dead. I wakened once, early in the night, and he was still + sitting by the fire, staring at it. I've forgotten to say that he had been + determined all day to go back and give himself up, and the only way I + prevented it was by telling him what a blow it would be to you and to the + girl. I wakened once and said to him, 'Better get some sleep, old man.' He + did not answer at once, and then he said, 'All right.' I was dozing off + when he spoke again. He said, 'Where is Beverly Carlysle now? Has she + married again?' 'She's revived “The Valley,” and she's in New York with + it,' I told him. + </p> + <p> + “When I wakened in the morning he was gone, but he'd left a piece of paper + in a cleft stick beside me, with directions for reaching the railroad, and—well, + here it is.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett took from his pocket-book a note, and passed it over to David, who + got out his spectacles with shaking hands and read it. It was on Dick's + prescription paper, with his name at the top and the familiar Rx below it. + David read it aloud, his voice husky. + </p> + <p> + “Many thanks for everything, Bassett,” he read. “I don't like to leave + you, but you'll get out all right if you follow the map on the back of + this. I've had all night to think things out, and I'm leaving you because + you are safer without me. I realize now what you've known all day and kept + from me. That woman at the hotel recognized me, and they are after me. + </p> + <p> + “I can't make up my mind what to do. Ultimately I think I'll go back and + give myself up. I am a dead man, anyhow, to all who might have cared, but + I've got to do one or two things first, and I want to think things over. + One thing you've got a right to know. I hated Lucas, but it never entered + my head to kill him. How it happened God only knows. I don't.” + </p> + <p> + It was signed “J. C.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett broke the silence that followed the reading. + </p> + <p> + “I made every effort to find him. I had to work alone, you understand, and + from the west side of the range, not to arouse suspicion. They were after + me, too, you know. His horse, I heard, worked its way back a few days ago. + It's a forsaken country, and if he lost his horse he was in it on foot and + without food. Of course there's a chance—” + </p> + <p> + His voice trailed off. In the stillness David sat, touching with tender + tremulous fingers what might be Dick's last message, and gazing at the + picture of Dick in his uniform. He knew what they all thought, that Dick + was dead and that he held his final words in his hands, but his militant + old spirit refused to accept that silent verdict. Dick might be dead to + them, but he was living. He looked around the room defiantly, resentfully. + Of all of them he was the only one to have faith, and he was bound to a + chair. He knew them. They would sit down supinely and grieve, while time + passed and Dick fought his battle alone. + </p> + <p> + No, by God, he would not be bound to a chair. He raised himself and stood, + swaying on his shaking legs. + </p> + <p> + “You've given up,” he said scornfully. “You make a few days' search, and + then you quit. It's easy to say he's dead, and so you say he's dead. I'm + going out there myself, and I'll make a search—” + </p> + <p> + He collapsed into the chair again, and looked at them with shamed, + appealing eyes. Bassett was the first to break the silence, speaking in a + carefully emotionless tone. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't given up for a minute. I've given up the search, because he's + beyond finding just now. Either he's got away, or he is—well, beyond + help. We have to go on the hypothesis that he got away, and in that case + sooner or later you'll hear from him. He's bound to remember you in time. + The worst thing is this charge against him.” + </p> + <p> + “He never killed Howard Lucas,” David said, in a tone of conviction. + “Harrison, read Mr. Bassett my statement to you.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett took the statement home with him that night, and studied it + carefully. It explained a great deal that had puzzled him before; Mrs. + Wasson's story and David's arrival at the mountain cabin. But most of all + it explained why the Thorwald woman had sent him after Dick. She knew + then, in spite of her protests to David, that Jud Clark had not killed + Lucas. + </p> + <p> + He paced the floor for an hour or two, sunk in thought, and then unlocked + a desk drawer and took out his bankbook. He had saved a little money. Not + much, but it would carry him over if he couldn't get another leave of + absence. He thought, as he put the book away and prepared for bed, that it + was a small price to pay for finding Clifton Hines and saving his own + soul. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXIV + </h2> + <p> + Dick had written his note, and placed it where Bassett would be certain to + see it. Then he found his horse and led him for the first half mile or so + of level ground before the trail began to descend. He mounted there, for + he knew the animal could find its way in the darkness where he could not. + </p> + <p> + He felt no weariness and no hunger, although he had neither slept nor + eaten for thirty-odd hours, and as contrasted with the night before his + head was clear. He was able to start a train of thought and to follow it + through consecutively for the first time in hours. Thought, however, was + easier than realization, and to add to his perplexity, he struggled to + place Bassett and failed entirely. He remained a mysterious and + incomprehensible figure, beginning and ending with the trail. + </p> + <p> + Then he had an odd thought, that brought him up standing. He had only + Bassett's word for the story. Perhaps Bassett was lying to him, or mad. He + rode on after a moment, considering that, but there was something, not in + Bassett's circumstantial narrative but in himself, that refused to accept + that loophole of escape. He could not have told what it was. + </p> + <p> + And, with his increasing clarity, he began to make out the case for + Bassett and against himself; the unfamiliar clothing he wore, the pad with + the name of Livingstone on it and the sign Rx, the other contents of his + pockets. + </p> + <p> + He tried to orient himself in Bassett's story. A doctor. The devil's irony + of it! Some poor hack, losing sleep and bringing babies. Peddling pills. + Leading what Bassett had called a life of usefulness! That was a career + for you, a pill peddler. God! + </p> + <p> + But underlying all his surface thinking was still the need of flight, and + he was continually confusing it with the earlier one. One moment he was + looking about for the snow of that earlier escape, and the next he would + remember, and the sense of panic would leave him. After all he meant to + surrender eventually. It did not matter if they caught him. + </p> + <p> + But, like the sense of flight, there was something else in his mind, + something that he fought down and would not face. When it came up he + thrust it back fiercely. That something was the figure of Beverly + Carlysle, stooping over her husband's body. He would have died to save her + pain, and yet last night—no, it wasn't last night. It was years and + years ago, and all this time she had hated him. + </p> + <p> + It was unbearable that she had gone on hating him, all this time. + </p> + <p> + He was very thirsty, and water did not satisfy him. He wanted a real + drink. He wanted alcohol. Suddenly he wanted all the liquor in the world. + The craving came on at dawn, and after that he kicked his weary horse on + recklessly, so that it rocked and stumbled down the trail. He had only one + thought after the frenzy seized him, and that was to get to civilization + and whisky. It was as though he saw in drunkenness his only escape from + the unbearable. In all probability he would have killed both his horse and + himself in the grip of that sudden madness, but deliverance came in the + shape of a casual rider, a stranger who for a moment took up the shuttle, + wove his bit of the pattern and passed on, to use his blow-pipe, his + spirit lamp and his chemicals in some prospector's paradise among the + mountains. + </p> + <p> + When Dick heard somewhere ahead the creaking of saddle leather and the + rattle of harness he drew aside on the trail and waited. He had lost all + caution in the grip of his craving, and all fear. A line of loaded burros + rounded a point ahead and came toward him, picking their way delicately + with small deliberate feet and walking on the outer edge of the trail, + after the way of pack animals the world over. Behind them was a horseman, + rifle in the scabbard on his saddle and spurs jingling. Dick watched him + with thirsty, feverish eyes as he drew near. He could hardly wait to put + his question. + </p> + <p> + “Happen to have a drink about you, partner?” he called. + </p> + <p> + The man stopped his horse and grinned. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty early in the morning for a drink, isn't it?” he inquired. Then he + saw Dick's eyes, and reached reluctantly into his saddle bag. “I've got a + quart here,” he said. “I've traveled forty miles and spent nine dollars to + get it, but I guess you need some.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't care to sell it, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “The bottle? Not on your life.” + </p> + <p> + He untied a tin cup from his saddle and carefully poured a fair amount + into it, steadying the horse the while. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he said, and passed it over. “But you'd better cut it out after + this. It's bad medicine. You've got two good drinks there. Be careful.” + </p> + <p> + Dick took the cup and looked at the liquor. The odor assailed him, and for + a queer moment he felt a sudden distaste for it. He had a revulsion that + almost shook him. But he drank it down and passed the cup back. + </p> + <p> + “You've traveled a long way for it,” he said, “and I needed it, I guess. + If you'll let me pay for it—” + </p> + <p> + “Forget it,” said the man amiably, and started his horse. “But better cut + it out, first chance you get. It's bad medicine.” + </p> + <p> + He rode on after his vanishing pack, and Dick took up the trail again. But + before long he began to feel sick and dizzy. The aftertaste of the liquor + in his mouth nauseated him. The craving had been mental habit, not + physical need, and his body fought the poison rebelliously. After a time + the sickness passed, and he slept in the saddle. He roused once, enough to + know that the horse had left the trail and was grazing in a green meadow. + Still overcome with his first real sleep he tumbled out of the saddle and + stretched himself out on the ground. He slept all day, lying out in the + burning sun, his face upturned to the sky. + </p> + <p> + When he wakened it was twilight, and the horse had disappeared. His face + burned from the sun, and his head ached violently. He was weak, too, from + hunger, and the morning's dizziness persisted. Connected thought was + impossible, beyond the fact that if he did not get out soon, he would be + too weak to travel. Exhausted and on the verge of sunstroke, he set out on + foot to find the trail. + </p> + <p> + He traveled all night, and the dawn found him still moving, a mere + automaton of a man, haggard and shambling, no longer willing his progress, + but somehow incredibly advancing. He found water and drank it, fell, got + up, and still, right foot, left foot, he went on. Some time during that + advance he had found a trail, and he kept to it automatically. He felt no + surprise and no relief when he saw a cabin in a clearing and a woman in + the doorway, watching him with curious eyes. He pulled himself together + and made a final effort, but without much interest in the result. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you could give me some food?” he said. “I have lost my horse + and I've been wandering all night.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I can,” she replied, not unamiably. “You look as though you need + it, and a wash, too. There's a basin and a pail of water on that bench.” + </p> + <p> + But when she came out later to call him to breakfast she found him sitting + on the bench and the pail overturned on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry,” he said, dully, “I tried to lift it, but I'm about all in.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd better come in. I've made some coffee.” + </p> + <p> + He could not rise. He could not even raise his hands. + </p> + <p> + She called her husband from where he was chopping wood off in the trees, + and together they got him into the house. It was days before he so much as + spoke again. + </p> + <p> + So it happened that the search went on. Wilkins from the east of the + range, and Bassett from the west, hunted at first with furious energy, + then spasmodically, then not at all, while Dick lay in a mountain cabin, + on the bed made of young trees, and for the second time in his life + watched a woman moving in a lean-to kitchen, and was fed by a woman's + hand. + </p> + <p> + He forced himself to think of this small panorama of life that moved + before him, rather than of himself. The woman was young, and pretty in a + slovenly way. The man was much older, and silent. He was of better class + than the woman, and underlying his assumption of crudity there were + occasional outcroppings of some cultural background. Not then, nor at any + subsequent time, did he learn the story, if story there was. He began to + see them, however, not so much pioneers as refugees. The cabin was, he + thought, a haven to the man and a prison to the woman. + </p> + <p> + But they were uniformly kind to him, and for weeks he stayed there, slowly + readjusting. In his early convalescence he would sit paring potatoes or + watching a cooking pot for her. As he gained in strength he cut a little + firewood. Always he sought something to keep him from thinking. + </p> + <p> + Two incidents always stood out afterwards in his memory of the cabin. One + was the first time he saw himself in a mirror. He knew by that time that + Bassett's story had been true, and that he was ten years older than he + remembered himself to be. He thought he was in a measure prepared. But he + saw in the glass a man whose face was lined and whose hair was streaked + with gray. The fact that his beard had grown added to the terrible + maturity of the reflection he saw, and he sent the mirror clattering to + the ground. + </p> + <p> + The other incident was later, and when he was fairly strong again. The man + was caught under a tree he was felling, and badly hurt. During the hour or + so that followed, getting the tree cut away, and moving the injured man to + the cabin on a wood sledge, Dick had the feeling of helplessness of any + layman in an accident. He was solicitous but clumsy. But when they had got + the patient into his bed, quite automatically he found himself making an + investigation and pronouncing a verdict. + </p> + <p> + Later he was to realize that this was the first peak of submerged memory, + rising above the flood. At the time all he felt was a great certainty. He + must act quickly or the man would not live. And that night, with such + instruments as he could extemporize, he operated. There was no time to + send to a town. + </p> + <p> + All night, after the operation, Dick watched by the bedside, the woman + moving back and forth restlessly. He got his only knowledge of the story, + such as it was, then when she said once: + </p> + <p> + “I deserved this, but he didn't. I took him away from his wife.” + </p> + <p> + He had to stay on after that, for the woman could not be left alone. And + he was glad of the respite, willing to drift until he got his bearings. + Certain things had come back, more as pictures than realities. Thus he saw + David clearly, Lucy dimly, Elizabeth not at all. But David came first; + David in the buggy with the sagging springs, David's loud voice and portly + figure, David, steady and upright and gentle as a woman. But there was + something wrong about David. He puzzled over that, but he was learning not + to try to force things, to let them come to the surface themselves. + </p> + <p> + It was two or three days later that he remembered that David was ill, and + was filled with a sickening remorse and anxiety. For the first time he + made plans to get away, for whatever happened after that he knew he must + see David again. But all his thought led him to an impasse at that time, + and that impasse was the feeling that he was a criminal and a fugitive, + and that he had no right to tie up innocent lives with his. Even a letter + to David might incriminate him. + </p> + <p> + Coupled with his determination to surrender, the idea of atonement was + strong in him. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. That had been + his father's belief, and well he remembered it. But during the drifting + period he thrust it back, into that painful niche where he held Beverly, + and the thing he would not face. + </p> + <p> + That phase of his readjustment, then, when he reached it, was painful and + confused. There was the necessity for atonement, which involved surrender, + and there was the call of David, and the insistent desire to see Beverly + again, which was the thing he would not face. Of the three, the last, + mixed up as it was with the murder and its expiation, was the strongest. + For by the very freshness of his released memories, it was the days before + his flight from the ranch that seemed most recent, and his life with David + that was long ago, and blurred in its details as by the passing of + infinite time. + </p> + <p> + When Elizabeth finally came back to him it was as something very gentle + and remote, out of the long-forgotten past. Even his image of her was + blurred and shadowy. He could not hear the tones of her voice, or remember + anything she had said. He could never bring her at will, as he could + David, for instance. She only came clearly at night, while he slept. Then + the guard was down, and there crept into his dreams a small figure, + infinitely loving and tender; but as he roused from sleep she changed + gradually into Beverly. It was Beverly's arms he felt around his neck. + Nevertheless he held to Elizabeth more completely than he knew, for the + one thing that emerged from his misty recollection of her was that she + cared for him. In a world of hate and bitterness she cared. + </p> + <p> + But she was never real to him, as the other woman was real. And he knew + that she was lost to him, as David was lost. He could never go back to + either of them. + </p> + <p> + As time went on he reached the point of making practical plans. He had + lost his pocketbook somewhere, probably during his wanderings afoot, and + he had no money. He knew that the obvious course was to go to the nearest + settlement and surrender himself and he played with the thought, but even + as he did so he knew that he would not do it. Surrender he would, + eventually, but before he did that he would satisfy a craving that was in + some ways like his desire for liquor that morning on the trail. A + reckless, mad, and irresistible impulse to see Beverly Lucas again. + </p> + <p> + In August he started for the railroad, going on foot and without money, + his immediate destination the harvest fields of some distant ranch, his + object to earn his train fare to New York. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXV + </h2> + <p> + The summer passed slowly. To David and Elizabeth it was a long waiting, + but with this difference, that David was kept alive by hope, and that + Elizabeth felt sometimes that hope was killing her. To David each day was + a new day, and might hold Dick. To Elizabeth, after a time, each day was + but one more of separation. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Reynolds had become a fixture in the old house, but he was not like + Dick. He was a heavy, silent young man, shy of intruding into the family + life and already engrossed in a budding affair with the Rossiter girl. + David tolerated him, but with a sort of smouldering jealousy increased by + the fact that he had introduced innovations David resented; had for + instance moved Dick's desk nearer the window, and instead of doing his own + laboratory work had what David considered a damnably lazy fashion of + sending his little tubes, carefully closed with cotton, to a hospital in + town. + </p> + <p> + David found the days very long and infinitely sad. He wakened each morning + to renewed hope, watched for the postman from his upper window, and for + Lucy's step on the stairs with the mail. His first glimpse of her always + told him the story. At the beginning he had insisted on talking about + Dick, but he saw that it hurt her, and of late they had fallen into the + habit of long silences. + </p> + <p> + The determination to live on until that return which he never ceased to + expect only carried him so far, however. He felt no incentive to activity. + There were times when he tried Lucy sorely, when she felt that if he would + only move about, go downstairs and attend to his office practice, get out + into the sun and air, he would grow stronger. But there were times, too, + when she felt that only the will to live was carrying him on. + </p> + <p> + Nothing further had developed, so far as they knew. The search had been + abandoned. Lucy was no longer so sure as she had been that the house was + under surveillance, against Dick's possible return. Often she lay in her + bed and faced the conviction that Dick was dead. She had never understood + the talk that at first had gone on about her, when Bassett and Harrison + Miller, and once or twice the psycho-analyst David had consulted in town, + had got together in David's bedroom. The mind was the mind, and Dick was + Dick. This thing about habit, over which David pored at night when he + should have been sleeping, or brought her in to listen to, with an air of + triumphant vindication, meant nothing to her. + </p> + <p> + A man properly trained in right habits of thinking and of action could not + think wrong and go wrong, David argued. He even went further. He said that + love was a habit, and that love would bring Dick back to him. That he + could not forget them. + </p> + <p> + She believed that, of course, if he still lived. But hadn't Mr. Bassett, + who seemed so curiously mixed in the affair, been out again to Norada + without result? No, it was all over, and she felt that it would be a + comfort to know where he lay, and to bring him back to some well-loved and + tended grave. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth came often to see them. She looked much the same as ever, + although she was very slender and her smile rather strained, and she and + David would have long talks together. She always felt rather like an empty + vessel when she went in, but David filled her with hope and sent her away + cheered and visibly brighter to her long waiting. She rather avoided Lucy, + for Lucy's fears lay in her face and were like a shadow over her spirit. + She came across her one day putting Dick's clothing away in camphor, and + the act took on an air of finality that almost crushed her. + </p> + <p> + So far they had kept from her Dick's real identity, but certain things + they had told her. She knew that he had gone back, in some strange way, to + the years before he came to Haverly, and that he had temporarily forgotten + everything since. But they had told her too, and seemed to believe + themselves, that it was only temporary. + </p> + <p> + At first the thought had been more than she could bear. But she had to + live her life, and in such a way as to hide her fears. Perhaps it was good + for her, the necessity of putting up a bold front, to join the conspiracy + that was to hold Dick's place in the world against the hope of his return. + And she still went to the Sayre house, sure that there at least there + would be no curious glances, no too casual questions. She could not be + sure of that even at home, for Nina was constantly conjecturing. + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes wonder—” Nina began one day, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Wonder what?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I suppose I might as well go on. Do you ever think that if Dick + had gone back, as they say he has, that there might be somebody else?” + </p> + <p> + “Another girl, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Some one he knew before.” + </p> + <p> + Nina was watching her. Sometimes she almost burst with the drama she was + suppressing. She had been a small girl when Judson Clark had disappeared, + but even at twelve she had known something of the story. She wanted + frantically to go about the village and say to them: “Do you know who has + been living here, whom you used to patronize? Judson Clark, one of the + richest men in the world!” She built day dreams on that foundation. He + would come back, for of course he would be found and acquitted, and buy + the Sayre place perhaps, or build a much larger one, and they would all go + to Europe in his yacht. But she knew now that the woman Leslie had sent + his flowers to had loomed large in Dick's past, and she both hated and + feared her. Not content with having given her, Nina, some bad hours, she + saw the woman now possibly blocking her ambitions for Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + “What I'm getting at is this,” she said, examining her polished nails + critically. “If it does turn out that there was somebody, you'd have to + remember that it was all years and years ago, and be sensible.” + </p> + <p> + “I only want him back,” Elizabeth said. “I don't care how he comes, so he + comes.” + </p> + <p> + Louis Bassett had become a familiar figure in the village life by that + time. David depended on him with a sort of wistful confidence that set him + to grinding his teeth occasionally in a fury at his own helplessness. And, + as the extent of the disaster developed, as he saw David failing and Lucy + ageing, and when in time he met Elizabeth, the feeling of his own guilt + was intensified. + </p> + <p> + He spent hours studying the case, and he was chiefly instrumental in + sending Harrison Miller back to Norada in September. He had struck up a + friendship with Miller over their common cause, and the night he was to + depart that small inner group which was fighting David's battle for him + formed a board of strategy in Harrison's tidy living-room; Walter Wheeler + and Bassett, Miller and, tardily taken into their confidence, Doctor + Reynolds. + </p> + <p> + The same group met him on his return, sat around with expectant faces + while he got out his tobacco and laid a sheaf of papers on the table, and + waited while their envoy, laying Bassett's map on the table, proceeded + carefully to draw in a continuation of the trail beyond the pass, some + sketchy mountains, and a small square. + </p> + <p> + “I've got something,” he said at last. “Not much, but enough to work on. + Here's where you lost him, Bassett.” He pointed with his pencil. “He went + on for a while on the horse. Then somehow he must have lost the horse, for + he turned up on foot, date unknown, in a state of exhaustion at a cabin + that lies here. I got lost myself, or I'd never have found the place. He + was sick there for weeks, and he seems to have stayed on quite a while + after he recovered, as though he couldn't decide what to do next.” + </p> + <p> + Walter Wheeler stirred and looked up. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of condition was he in when he left?” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, they said.” + </p> + <p> + “You're sure it was Livingstone?” + </p> + <p> + “The man there had a tree fall on him. He operated. I guess that's the + answer.” + </p> + <p> + He considered the situation. + </p> + <p> + “It's the answer to more than that,” Reynolds said slowly. “It shows he + had come back to himself. If he hadn't he couldn't have done it.” + </p> + <p> + “And after that?” some one asked. + </p> + <p> + “I lost him. He left to hike to the railroad, and he said nothing of his + plans. If I'd been able to make open inquiries I might have turned up + something, but I couldn't. It's a hard proposition. I had trouble finding + Hattie Thorwald, too. She'd left the hotel, and is living with her son. + She swears she doesn't know where Clifton Hines is, and hasn't seen him + for years.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett had been listening intently, his head dropped forward. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the son doesn't know about Hines?” + </p> + <p> + “No. She warned me. He was surly and suspicious. The sheriff had sent for + him and questioned him about how you got his horse, and I gathered that he + thought I was a detective. When I told him I was a friend of yours, he + sent you a message. You may be able to make something out of it. I can't. + He said: `You can tell him I didn't say anything about the other time.'” + </p> + <p> + Bassett sat forward. + </p> + <p> + “The other time?” + </p> + <p> + “He is under the impression that his mother got the horse for you once + before, about ten days before Clark escaped. At night, also.” + </p> + <p> + “Not for me,” Bassett said decisively. “Ten days before that I was—” + he got out his notebook and consulted it. “I was on my way to the cabin in + the mountains, where the Donaldsons had hidden Jud Clark. I hired a horse + at a livery stable.” + </p> + <p> + “Could the Thorwald woman have followed you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil should she do that?” he asked irritably. “She didn't know + who I was. She hadn't a chance at my papers, for I kept them on me. If she + did suspect I was on the case, a dozen fellows had preceded me, and half + of them had gone to the cabin.” + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless,” he finished, “I believe she did. She or Hines himself. + There was some one on a horse outside the cabin that night.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence in the room, Harrison Miller thoughtfully drawing at + random on the map before him. Each man was seeing the situation from his + own angle; to Reynolds, its medical interest, and the possibility of his + permanency in the town; to Walter Wheeler, Elizabeth's spoiled young life; + to Harrison Miller, David; and to the reporter a conviction that the clues + he now held should lead him somewhere, and did not. + </p> + <p> + Before the meeting broke up Miller took a folded manuscript from the table + and passed it to Bassett. + </p> + <p> + “Copy of the Coroner's inquiry, after the murder,” he said. “Thought it + might interest you...” + </p> + <p> + Then, for a time, that was all. Bassett, poring at home over the inquest + records, and finding them of engrossing interest, saw the futility of + saving a man who could not be found. And even Nina's faith, that the + fabulously rich could not die obscurely, began to fade as the summer + waned. She restored some of her favor to Wallie Sayre, and even listened + again to his alternating hopes and fears. + </p> + <p> + And by the end of September he felt that he had gained real headway with + Elizabeth. He had come to a point where she needed him more than she + realized, where the call in her of youth for youth, even in trouble, was + insistent. In return he felt his responsibility and responded to it. In + the vernacular of the town he had “settled down,” and the general trend of + opinion, which had previously disapproved him, was now that Elizabeth + might do worse. + </p> + <p> + On a crisp night early in October he had brought her home from Nina's, and + because the moon was full they sat for a time on the steps of the veranda, + Wallie below her, stirring the dead leaves on the walk with his stick, and + looking up at her with boyish adoring eyes when she spoke. He was never + very articulate with her, and her trouble had given her a strange new + aloofness that almost frightened him. But that night, when she shivered a + little, he reached up and touched her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You're cold,” he said almost roughly. He was sometimes rather savage, for + fear he might be tender. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not cold. I think it's the dead leaves.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead leaves?” he repeated, puzzled. “You're a queer girl, Elizabeth. Why + dead leaves?” + </p> + <p> + “I hate the fall. It's the death of the year.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense. It's going to bed for a long winter's nap. That's all. I'll + bring you a wrap.” + </p> + <p> + He went in, and came out in a moment with her father's overcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he said peremptorily, “put this on. I'm not going to be called on + the carpet for giving you a sniffle.” + </p> + <p> + She stood up obediently and he put the big coat around her. Then, obeying + an irresistible impulse, he caught her to him. He released her + immediately, however, and stepped back. + </p> + <p> + “I love you so,” he stammered. “I'm sorry. I'll not do it again.” + </p> + <p> + She was startled, but not angry. + </p> + <p> + “I don't like it,” was all she said. And because she did not want him to + think she was angry, she sat down again. But the boy was shaken. He got + out a cigarette and lighted it, his hands trembling. He could not think of + anything to say. It was as though by that one act he had cut a bridge + behind him and on the other side lay all the platitudes, the small give + and take of their hours together. What to her was a regrettable incident + was to him a great dramatic climax. Boylike, he refused to recognize its + unimportance to her. He wanted to talk about it. + </p> + <p> + “When you said just now that you didn't like what I did just then, do you + mean you didn't like me to do it? Or that you don't care for that sort of + thing? Of course I know,” he added hastily, “you're not that kind of girl. + I—” + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “You know I'm still in love with you, don't you, Elizabeth?” + </p> + <p> + She returned his gaze frankly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see how you can be when you know what you do know.” + </p> + <p> + “I know how you feel now. But I know that people don't go on loving + hopelessly all their lives. You're young. You've got”—he figured + quickly—“you've got about fifty-odd years to live yet, and some of + these days you'll be—not forgetting,” he changed, when he saw her + quick movement. “I know you'll not forget him. But remembering and loving + are different.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” she said, her eyes on the moon, and full of young tragedy. “If + they are, if one can remember without loving, then couldn't one love + without remembering?” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her. + </p> + <p> + “You're too deep for me sometimes,” he said. “I'm not subtle, Elizabeth. I + daresay I'm stupid in lots of things. But I'm not stupid about this. I'm + not trying to get a promise, you know. I only want you to know how things + are. I don't want to know why he went away, or why he doesn't come back. I + only want you to face the facts. I'd be good to you,” he finished, in a + low tone. “I'd spend my life thinking of ways to make you happy.” + </p> + <p> + She was touched. She reached down and put her hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You deserve the best, Wallie. And you're asking for a second best. Even + that—I'm just not made that way, I suppose. Fifty years or a + hundred, it would be all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd always care for him, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I'm afraid so.” + </p> + <p> + When he looked at her her eyes had again that faraway and yet flaming look + which he had come to associate with her thoughts of Dick. She seemed + infinitely removed from him, traveling her lonely road past loving + outstretched hands and facing ahead toward—well, toward fifty years + of spinsterhood. The sheer waste of it made him shudder. + </p> + <p> + “You're cold, too, Wallie,” she said gently. “You'd better go home.” + </p> + <p> + He was about to repudiate the idea scornfully, when he sneezed! She got up + at once and held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You are very dear to feel about me the way you do” she said, rather + rapidly. “I appreciate your telling me. And if you're chilly when you get + home, you'd better take some camphor.” + </p> + <p> + He saw her in, hat in hand, and then turned and stalked up the street. + Camphor, indeed! But so stubborn was hope in his young heart that before + he had climbed the hill he was finding comfort in her thought for him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Sayre had been away for a week, visiting in Michigan, and he had not + expected her for a day or so. To his surprise he found her on the terrace, + wrapped in furs, and evidently waiting for him. + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't enjoying it,” she explained, when he had kissed her. “It's a + summer place, not heated to amount to anything, and when it turned cold—where + have you been to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Dined at the Wards', and then took Elizabeth home.” + </p> + <p> + “How is she?” + </p> + <p> + “She's all right.” + </p> + <p> + “And there's no news?” + </p> + <p> + He knew her very well, and he saw then that she was laboring under + suppressed excitement. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter, mother? You're worried about something, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have something to tell you. We'd better go inside.” He followed her in, + unexcited and half smiling. Her world was a small one, of minor domestic + difficulties, of not unfriendly gossip, of occasional money problems, + investments and what not. He had seen her hands tremble over a matter of a + poorly served dinner. So he went into the house, closed the terrace window + and followed her to the library. When she closed the door he recognized + her old tactics when the servants were in question. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he inquired. “I suppose—” Then he saw her face. “Sorry, + mother. What's the trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “Wallie, I saw Dick Livingstone in Chicago.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXVI + </h2> + <p> + During August Dick had labored in the alfalfa fields of Central + Washington, a harvest hand or “working stiff” among other migratory + agricultural workers. Among them, but not entirely of them. Recruited from + the lowest levels as men grade, gathered in at a slave market on the + coast, herded in bunk houses alive with vermin, fully but badly fed, + overflowing with blasphemy and filled with sullen hate for those above + them in the social scale, the “stiffs” regarded him with distrust from the + start. + </p> + <p> + In the beginning he accepted their sneers with a degree of philosophy. His + physical condition was poor. At night he ached intolerably, collapsing + into his wooden bunk to sleep the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. + There were times when he felt that it would be better to return at once to + Norada and surrender, for that he must do so eventually he never doubted. + It was as well perhaps that he had no time for brooding, but he gained + sleep at the cost of superhuman exertion all day. + </p> + <p> + A feeling of unreality began to obsess him, so that at times he felt like + a ghost walking among sweating men, like a resurrection into life, but + without life. And more than once he tried to sink down to the level of the + others, to unite himself again with the crowd, to feel again the touch of + elbows, the sensation of fellowship. The primal instinct of the herd + asserted itself, the need of human companionship of any sort. + </p> + <p> + But he failed miserably, as Jud Clark could never have failed. He could + not drink with them. He could not sink to their level of degradation. + Their oaths and obscenity sickened and disgusted him, and their talk of + women drove him into the fresh air. + </p> + <p> + The fact that he could no longer drink himself into a stupor puzzled him. + Bad whiskey circulated freely among the hay stacks and bunk houses where + the harvest hands were quartered, and at ruinous prices. The men clubbed + together to buy it, and he put in his share, only to find that it not only + sickened him, but that he had a mental inhibition against it. + </p> + <p> + They called him the “Dude,” and put into it gradually all the class hatred + of their wretched sullen lives. He had to fight them, more than once, and + had they united against him he might have been killed. But they never + united. Their own personal animosities and angers kept them apart, as + their misery held them together. And as time went on and his muscles + hardened he was able to give a better account of himself. The time came + when they let him alone, and when one day a big shocker fell off a stack + and broke his leg and Dick set it, he gained their respect. They asked no + questions, for their law was that the past was the past. They did not like + him, but in the queer twisted ethics of the camp they judged the secret + behind him by the height from which he had fallen, and began slowly to + accept him as of the brotherhood of derelicts. + </p> + <p> + With his improvement in his physical condition there came, toward the end + of the summer, a more rapid subsidence of the flood of the long past. He + had slept out one night in the fields, where the uncut alfalfa was belled + with purple flowers and yellow buttercups rose and nodded above him. With + the first touch of dawn on the mountains he wakened to a clarity of mind + like that of the morning. He felt almost an exaltation. He stood up and + threw out his arms. + </p> + <p> + It was all his again, never to lose, the old house, and David and Lucy; + the little laboratory; the church on Sunday mornings. Mike, whistling in + the stable. A wave of love warmed him, a great surging tenderness. He + would go back to them. They were his and he was theirs. It was at first + only a great emotion; a tingling joyousness, a vast relief, as of one who + sees, from a far distance, the lights in the windows of home. Save for the + gap between the drunken revel at the ranch and his awakening to David's + face bending over him in the cabin, everything was clear. Still by an + effort, but successfully, he could unite now the two portions of his life + with only a scar between them. + </p> + <p> + Not that he formulated it. It was rather a mood, an impulse of unreasoning + happiness. The last cloud had gone, the last bit of mist from the valley. + He saw Haverly, and the children who played in its shaded streets; Mike + washing the old car, and the ice cream freezer on Sundays, wrapped in + sacking on the kitchen porch. Jim Wheeler came back to him, the weight of + his coffin dragging at his right hand as he helped to carry it; he was + kneeling beside Elizabeth's bed, and putting his hand over her staring + eyes so she would go to sleep. + </p> + <p> + The glow died away, and he began to suffer intensely. They were all lost + to him, along with the life they represented. And already he began to look + back on his period of forgetfulness with regret. At least then he had not + known what he had lost. + </p> + <p> + He wondered again what they knew. What did they think? If they believed + him dead, was that not kinder than the truth? Outside of David and Lucy, + and of course Bassett, the sole foundation on which any search for him had + rested had been the semi-hysterical recognition of Hattie Thorwald. But he + wondered how far that search had gone. + </p> + <p> + Had it extended far enough to involve David? Had the hue and cry died + away, or were the police still searching for him? Could he even write to + David, without involving him in his own trouble? For David, fine, + wonderful old David—David had deliberately obstructed the course of + justice, and was an accessory after the fact. + </p> + <p> + Up to that time he had drifted, unable to set a course in the fog, but now + he could see the way, and it led him back to Norada. He would not + communicate with David. He would go out of the lives at the old house as + he had gone in, under a lie. When he surrendered it would be as Judson + Clark, with his lips shut tight on the years since his escape. Let them + think, if they would, that the curtain that had closed down over his + memory had not lifted, and that he had picked up life again where he had + laid it down. The police would get nothing from him to incriminate David. + </p> + <p> + But he had a moment, too, when surrender seemed to him not strength but + weakness; where its sheer supineness, its easy solution to his problem + revolted him, where he clenched his fist and looked at it, and longed for + the right to fight his way out. + </p> + <p> + When smoke began to issue from the cook-house chimney he stirred, rose and + went back. He ate no breakfast, and the men, seeing his squared jaw and + set face, let him alone. He worked with the strength of three men that + day, but that night, when the foreman offered him a job as pacer, with + double wages, he refused it. + </p> + <p> + “Give it to somebody else, Joe,” he said. “I'm quitting.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell you are! When?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to check out to-night.” + </p> + <p> + His going was without comment. They had never fully accepted him, and + comings and goings without notice in the camp were common. He rolled up + his bedding, his change of under-garments inside it, and took the road + that night. + </p> + <p> + The railroad was ten miles away, and he made the distance easily. He + walked between wire fences, behind which horses moved restlessly as he + passed and cattle slept around a water hole, and as he walked he faced a + situation which all day he had labored like three men to evade. + </p> + <p> + He was going out of life. It did not much matter whether it was to be + behind bars or to pay the ultimate price. The shadow that lay over him was + that he was leaving forever David and all that he stood for, and a woman. + And the woman was not Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + He cursed himself in the dark for a fool and a madman; he cursed the + infatuation which rose like a demoniac possession from his early life. + When that failed he tried to kill it by remembering the passage of time, + the loathing she must have nursed all these years. He summoned the image + of Elizabeth to his aid, to find it eclipsed by something infinitely more + real and vital. Beverly in her dressing-room, grotesque and yet lovely in + her make-up; Beverly on the mountain-trail, in her boyish riding clothes. + Beverly. + </p> + <p> + Probably at that stage of his recovery his mind had reacted more quickly + than his emotions. And by that strange faculty by which an idea often + becomes stronger in memory than in its original production he found + himself in the grip of a passion infinitely more terrible than his earlier + one for her. It wiped out the memory, even the thought, of Elizabeth, and + left him a victim of its associated emotions. Bitter jealousy racked him, + remorse and profound grief. The ten miles of road to the railroad became + ten miles of torture, of increasing domination of the impulse to go to + her, and of final surrender. + </p> + <p> + In Spokane he outfitted himself, for his clothes were ragged, and with the + remainder of his money bought a ticket to Chicago. Beyond Chicago he had + no thought save one. Some way, somehow, he must get to New York. Yet all + the time he was fighting. He tried again and again to break away from the + emotional associations from which his memory of her was erected; when that + failed he struggled to face reality; the lapse of time, the certainty of + his disappointment, at the best the inevitable parting when he went back + to Norada. But always in the end he found his face turned toward the East, + and her. + </p> + <p> + He had no fear of starving. If he had learned the cost of a dollar in + blood and muscle, he had the blood and the muscle. There was a time, in + Chicago, when the necessity of thinking about money irritated him, for the + memory of his old opulent days was very clear. Times when his temper was + uncertain, and he turned surly. Times when his helplessness brought to his + lips the old familiar blasphemies of his youth, which sounded strange and + revolting to his ears. + </p> + <p> + He had no fear, then, but a great impatience, as though, having lost so + much time, he must advance with every minute. And Chicago drove him + frantic. There came a time there when he made a deliberate attempt to sink + to the very depths, to seek forgetfulness by burying one wretchedness + under another. He attempted to find work and failed, and he tried to let + go and sink. The total result of the experiment was that he wakened one + morning in his lodging-house ill and with his money gone, save for some + small silver. He thought ironically, lying on his untidy bed, that even + the resources of the depths were closed to him. + </p> + <p> + He never tried that experiment again. He hated himself for it. + </p> + <p> + For days he haunted the West Madison Street employment agencies. But the + agencies and sidewalks were filled with men who wandered aimlessly with + the objectless shuffle of the unemployed. Beds had gone up in the + lodging-houses to thirty-five cents a night, and the food in the cheap + restaurants was almost uneatable. There came a day when the free morning + coffee at a Bible Rescue Home, and its soup and potatoes and carrots at + night was all he ate. + </p> + <p> + For the first time his courage began to fail him. He went to the lakeside + that night and stood looking at the water. He meant to fight that impulse + of cowardice at the source. + </p> + <p> + Up to that time he had given no thought whatever to his estate, beyond the + fact that he had been undoubtedly adjudged legally dead and his property + divided. But that day as he turned away from the lake front, he began to + wonder about it. After all, since he meant to surrender himself before + long, why not telegraph collect to the old offices of the estate in New + York and have them wire him money? But even granting that they were still + in existence, he knew with what lengthy caution, following stunned + surprise, they would go about investigating the message. And there were + leaks in the telegraph. He would have a pack of newspaper hounds at his + heels within a few hours. The police, too. No, it wouldn't do. + </p> + <p> + The next day he got a job as a taxicab driver, and that night and every + night thereafter he went back to West Madison Street and picked up one or + more of the derelicts there and bought them food. He developed quite a + system about it. He waited until he saw a man stop outside an eating-house + look in and then pass on. But one night he got rather a shock. For the + young fellow he accosted looked at him first with suspicion, which was not + unusual, and later with amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Captain Livingstone!” he said, and checked his hand as it was about to + rise to the salute. His face broke into a smile, and he whipped off his + cap. “You've forgotten me, sir,” he said. “But I've got your visiting card + on the top of my head all right. Can you see it?” + </p> + <p> + He bent his head and waited, but on no immediate reply being forthcoming, + for Dick was hastily determining on a course of action, he looked up. It + was then that he saw Dick's cheap and shabby clothes, and his grin faded. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” he said. “You are Livingstone, aren't you? I'd have known—” + </p> + <p> + “I think you've made a mistake, old man,” Dick said, feeling for his words + carefully. “That's not my name, anyhow. I thought, when I saw you staring + in at that window—How about it?” + </p> + <p> + The boy looked at him again, and then glanced away. + </p> + <p> + “I was looking, all right,” he said. “I've been having a run of hard + luck.” + </p> + <p> + It had been Dick's custom to eat with his finds, and thus remove from the + meal the quality of detached charity. Men who would not take money would + join him in a meal. But he could not face the lights with this keen-eyed + youngster. He offered him money instead. + </p> + <p> + “Just a lift,” he said, awkwardly, when the boy hesitated. “I've been + there myself, lately.” + </p> + <p> + But when at last he had prevailed and turned away he was conscious that + the doughboy was staring after him, puzzled and unconvinced. + </p> + <p> + He had a bad night after that. The encounter had brought back his + hard-working, care-free days in the army. It had brought back, too, the + things he had put behind him, his profession and his joy in it, the + struggles and the aspirations that constitute a man's life. With them + there came, too, a more real Elizabeth, and a wave of tenderness for her, + and of regret. He turned on his sagging bed, and deliberately put her away + from him. Even if this other ghost were laid, he had no right to her. + </p> + <p> + Then, one day, he met Mrs. Sayre, and saw that she knew him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXVII + </h2> + <p> + Wallie stared at his mother. His mind was at once protesting the fact and + accepting it, with its consequences to himself. There was a perceptible + pause before he spoke. He stood, if anything, somewhat straighter, but + that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it was Livingstone?” + </p> + <p> + “Positive. I talked to him. I wasn't sure myself, at first. He looked + shabby and thin, as though he'd been ill, and he had the audacity to + pretend at first he didn't know me. He closed the door on me and—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, mother. What door?” + </p> + <p> + “He was driving a taxicab.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it,” he said slowly. “I think you've made a mistake, + that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense. I know him as well as I know you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he acknowledge his identity?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in so many words,” she admitted. “He said I had made a mistake, and + he stuck to it. Then he shut the door and drove me to the station. The + only other chance I had was at the station, and there was a line of cabs + behind us, so I had only a second. I saw he didn't intend to admit + anything, so I said: 'I can see you don't mean to recognize me, Doctor + Livingstone, but I must know whether I am to say at home that I've seen + you.' He was making change for me at the time—I'd have known his + hands, I think, if I hadn't seen anything else-and when he looked up his + face was shocking. He said, 'Are they all right?' 'David is very ill,' I + said. The cars behind were waiting and making a terrific din, and a + traffic man ran up then and made him move on. He gave me the strangest + look as he went. I stood and waited, thinking he would turn and come back + again at the end of the line, but he didn't. I almost missed my train.” + </p> + <p> + Wallie's first reaction to the news was one of burning anger and + condemnation. + </p> + <p> + “The blackguard!” he said. “The insufferable cad! To have run away as he + did, and then to let them believe him dead! For that's what they do + believe. It is killing David Livingstone, and as for Elizabeth—She'll + have to be told, mother. He's alive. He's well. And he has deliberately + deserted them all. He ought to be shot.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't see him, Wallie. I did. He's been through something, I don't + know what. I didn't sleep last night for thinking of his face. It had + despair in it.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said, angrily pausing before her. “What do you intend to + do? Let them go on as they are, hoping and waiting; lauding him to the + skies as a sort of superman? The thing to do is to tell the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “But we don't know the truth, Wallie. There's something behind it all.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing very creditable, be sure of that,” he pronounced. “Do you think + it is fair to Elizabeth to let her waste her life on the memory of a man + who's deserted her?” + </p> + <p> + “It would be cruel to tell her.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got to be cruel to be kind, sometimes,” he said oracularly. “Why, + the man may be married. May be anything. A taxi driver! Doesn't that in + itself show that he's hiding from something?” + </p> + <p> + She sat, a small obese figure made larger by her furs, and stared at him + with troubled eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Wallie,” she said helplessly. “In a way, it might be better + to tell her. She could put him out of her mind, then. But I hate to do it. + It's like stabbing a baby.” + </p> + <p> + He understood her, and nodded. When, after taking a turn or two about the + room he again stopped in front of her his angry flush had subsided. + </p> + <p> + “It's the devil of a mess,” he commented. “I suppose the square thing to + do is to tell Doctor David, and let him decide. I've got too much at stake + to be a judge of what to do.” + </p> + <p> + He went upstairs soon after that, leaving her still in her chair, swathed + in furs, her round anxious face bent forward in thought. He had rarely + seen her so troubled, so uncertain of her next move, and he surmised, + knowing her, that her emotions were a complex of anxiety for himself with + Elizabeth, of pity for David, and of the memory of Dick Livingstone's + haggard face. + </p> + <p> + She sat alone for some time and then went reluctantly up the stairs to her + bedroom. She felt, like Wallie, that she had too much at stake to decide + easily what to do. + </p> + <p> + In the end she decided to ask Doctor Reynolds' advice, and in the morning + she proceeded to do it. Reynolds was interested, even a little excited, + she thought, but he thought it better not to tell David. He would himself + go to Harrison Miller with it. + </p> + <p> + “You say he knew you?” he inquired, watching her. “I suppose there is no + doubt of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. He's known me for years. And he asked about David.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” He fell into profound thought, while she sat in her chair a + trifle annoyed with him. He was wondering how all this would affect him + and his prospects, and through them his right to marry. He had walked into + a good thing, and into a very considerable content. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he repeated, and got up. “I'll tell Miller, and we'll get to + work. We are all very grateful to you, Mrs. Sayre—” + </p> + <p> + As a result of that visit Harrison Miller and Bassett went that night to + Chicago. They left it to Doctor Reynolds' medical judgment whether David + should be told or not, and Reynolds himself did not know. In the end he + passed the shuttle the next evening to Clare Rossiter. + </p> + <p> + “Something's troubling you,” she said. “You're not a bit like yourself, + old dear.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her. To him she was all that was fine and good and sane of + judgment. + </p> + <p> + “I've got something to settle,” he said. “I was wondering while you were + singing, dear, whether you could help me out.” + </p> + <p> + “When I sing you're supposed to listen. Well? What is it?” She perched + herself on the arm of his chair, and ran her fingers over his hair. She + was very fond of him, and she meant to be a good wife. If she ever thought + of Dick Livingstone now it was in connection with her own reckless + confession to Elizabeth. She had hated Elizabeth ever since. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take a hypothetical case. If you guess, you needn't say. Of course + it's a great secret.” + </p> + <p> + She listened, nodding now and then. He used no names, and he said nothing + of any crime. + </p> + <p> + “The point is this,” he finished. “Is it better to believe the man is + dead, or to know that he is alive, but has cut himself off?” + </p> + <p> + “There's no mistake about the recognition?” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody from the village saw him in Chicago within day or two, and + talked to him.” + </p> + <p> + She had the whole picture in a moment. She knew that Mrs. Sayre had been + in Chicago, that she had seen Dick there and talked to him. She turned the + matter over in her mind, shrewdly calculating, planning her small revenge + on Elizabeth even as she talked. + </p> + <p> + “I'd wait,” she advised him. “He may come back with them, and in that case + David will know soon enough. Or he may refuse to, and that would kill him. + He'd rather think him dead than that.” + </p> + <p> + She slept quietly that night, and spent rather more time than usual in + dressing that morning. Then she took her way to the Wheeler house. She saw + in what she was doing no particularly culpable thing. She had no great + revenge in mind; all that she intended was an evening of the score between + them. “He preferred you to me, when you knew I cared. But he has deserted + you.” And perhaps, too, a small present jealousy, for she was to live in + the old brick Livingstone house, or in one like it, while all the village + expected ultimately to see Elizabeth installed in the house on the hill. + </p> + <p> + She kept her message to the end of her visit, and delivered her blow + standing. + </p> + <p> + “I have something I ought to tell you, Elizabeth. But I don't know how + you'll take it.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe it's something I won't want to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you, if you won't say where you heard it.” + </p> + <p> + But Elizabeth made a small, impatient gesture. “I don't like secrets, + Clare. I can't keep them, for one thing. You'd better not tell me.” + </p> + <p> + Clare was nearly balked of her revenge, but not entirely. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” she said, and prepared to depart. “I won't. But you might + just find out from your friend Mrs. Sayre who it was she saw in Chicago + this week.” + </p> + <p> + It was in this manner, bit by bit and each bit trivial, that the case + against Dick was built up for Elizabeth. Mrs. Sayre, helpless before her + quiet questioning, had to acknowledge one damning thing after another. He + had known her; he had not asked for Elizabeth, but only for David; he + looked tired and thin, but well. She stood at the window watching + Elizabeth go down the hill, with a feeling that she had just seen + something die before her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXVIII + </h2> + <p> + On the night Bassett and Harrison Miller were to return from Chicago Lucy + sat downstairs in her sitting-room waiting for news. + </p> + <p> + At ten o'clock, according to her custom, she went up to see that David was + comfortable for the night, and to read him that prayer for the absent with + which he always closed his day of waiting. But before she went she stopped + before the old mirror in the hall, to see if she wore any visible sign of + tension. + </p> + <p> + The door into Dick's office was open, and on his once neat desk there lay + a litter of papers and letters. She sighed and went up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + David lay propped up in his walnut bed. An incredibly wasted and old + David; the hands on the log-cabin quilt which their mother had made were + old hands, and tired. Sometimes Lucy, with a frightened gasp, would fear + that David's waiting now was not all for Dick. That he was waiting for + peace. + </p> + <p> + There had been something new in David lately. She thought it was fear. + Always he had been so sure of himself; he had made his experiment in a + man's soul, and whatever the result he had been ready to face his Creator + with it. But he had lost courage. He had tampered with the things that + were to be and not he, but Dick, was paying for that awful audacity. + </p> + <p> + Once, picking up his prayer-book to read evening prayer as was her custom + now, it had opened at a verse marked with an uneven line: + </p> + <p> + “I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, Father, I have + sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called + Thy son.” + </p> + <p> + That had frightened her + </p> + <p> + David's eyes followed her about the room. + </p> + <p> + “I've got an idea you're keeping something from me, Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + “I? Why should I do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Then where's Harrison?” he demanded, querulously. + </p> + <p> + She told him one of the few white lies of her life when she said: “He + hasn't been well. He'll be over to-morrow.” She sat down and picked up the + prayer-book, only to find him lifting himself in the bed and listening. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody closed the hall door, Lucy. If it's Reynolds, I want to see + him.” + </p> + <p> + She got up and went to the head of the stairs. The light was low in the + hall beneath, and she saw a man standing there. But she still wore her + reading glasses, and she saw at first hardly more than a figure. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Doctor Reynolds?” she asked, in her high old voice. + </p> + <p> + Then she put her hand to her throat and stood rigid, staring down. For the + man had whipped off his cap and stood with his arms wide, looking up. + </p> + <p> + Holding to the stair-rail, her knees trembling under her, Lucy went down, + and not until Dick's arms were around her was she sure that it was Dick, + and not his shabby, weary ghost. She clung to him, tears streaming down + her face, still in that cautious silence which governed them both; she + held him off and looked at him, and then strained herself to him again, as + though the sense of unreality were too strong, and only the contact of his + rough clothing made him real to her. + </p> + <p> + It was not until they were in her sitting-room with the door closed that + either of them dared to speak. Or perhaps, could speak. Even then she kept + hold of him. + </p> + <p> + “Dick!” she said. “Dick!” + </p> + <p> + And that, over and over. + </p> + <p> + “How is he?” he was able to ask finally. + </p> + <p> + “He has been very ill. I began to think—Dick, I'm afraid to tell + him. I'm afraid he'll die of joy.” + </p> + <p> + He winced at that. There could not be much joy in the farewell that was + coming. Winced, and almost staggered. He had walked all the way from the + city, and he had had no food that day. + </p> + <p> + “We'll have to break it to him very gently,” he said. “And he mustn't see + me like this. If you can find some of my clothes and Reynolds' razor, I'll—” + He caught suddenly to the back of a chair and held on to it. “I haven't + taken time to eat much to-day,” he said, smiling at her. “I guess I need + food, Aunt Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time then she saw his clothes, his shabbiness and his + pallor, and perhaps she guessed the truth. She got up, her face twitching, + and pushed him into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “You sit here,” she said, “and leave the door closed. The nurse is out for + a walk, and she'll be in soon. I'll bring some milk and cookies now, and + start the fire. I've got some chops in the house.” + </p> + <p> + When she came back almost immediately, with the familiar tray and the + familiar food, he was sitting where she had left him. He had spent the + entire time, had she known it, in impressing on his mind the familiar + details of the room, to carry away with him. + </p> + <p> + She stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, to see that he drank the + milk slowly. + </p> + <p> + “I've got the fire going,” she said. “And I'll run up now and get your + clothes. I—had put them away.” Her voice broke a little. “You see, + we—You can change in your laboratory. Richard, can't you? If you go + upstairs he'll hear you.” + </p> + <p> + He reached up and caught her hand. That touch, too, of the nearest to a + mother's hand that he had known, he meant to carry away with him. He could + not speak. + </p> + <p> + She bustled away, into her bright kitchen first, and then with happy + stealth to the store-room. Her very heart was singing within her. She + neither thought nor reasoned. Dick was back, and all would be well. If she + had any subconscious anxieties they were quieted, also subconsciously, by + confidence in the men who were fighting his battle for him, by Walter + Wheeler and Bassett and Harrison Miller. That Dick himself would present + any difficulty lay beyond her worst fears. + </p> + <p> + She had been out of the room only twenty minutes when she returned to + David and prepared to break her great news. At first she thought he was + asleep. He was lying back with his eyes closed and his hands crossed on + the prayer-book. But he looked up at her, and was instantly roused to full + attention by her face. + </p> + <p> + “You've had some news,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, David. There's a little news. Don't count too much on it. Don't sit + up. David, I have heard something that makes me think he is alive. Alive + and well.” + </p> + <p> + He made a desperate effort and controlled himself. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + She sat down beside him and took his hand between hers. + </p> + <p> + “David,” she said slowly, “God has been very good to us. I want to tell + you something, and I want you to prepare yourself. We have heard from + Dick. He is all right. He loves us, as he always did. And—he is + downstairs, David.” + </p> + <p> + He lay very still and without speaking. She was frightened at first, + afraid to go on with her further news. But suddenly David sat up in bed + and in a full, firm voice began the Te Deum Laudamus. “We praise thee, O + God: we acknowledge thee to be the Lord. All the earth doth worship thee, + the Father everlasting.” + </p> + <p> + He repeated it in its entirety. At the end, however, his voice broke. + </p> + <p> + “O Lord, in thee have I trusted—I doubted Him, Lucy,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Dick, waiting at the foot of the stairs, heard that triumphant paean of + thanksgiving and praise and closed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + It was a few minutes later that Lucy came down the stairs again. + </p> + <p> + “You heard him?” she asked. “Oh, Dick, he had frightened me. It was more + than a question of himself and you. He was making it one of himself and + God.” + </p> + <p> + She let him go up alone and waited below, straining her ears, but she + heard nothing beyond David's first hoarse cry, and after a little she went + into her sitting-room and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + Whatever lay underneath, there was no surface drama in the meeting. The + determination to ignore any tragedy in the situation was strong in them + both, and if David's eyes were blurred and his hands trembling, if Dick's + first words were rather choked, they hid their emotion carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, here I am, like a bad penny!” said Dick huskily from the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “And a long time you've been about it,” grumbled David. “You young + rascal!” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand, and Dick crushed it between both of his. He was + startled at the change in David. For a moment he could only stand there, + holding his hand, and trying to keep his apprehension out of his face. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” David said awkwardly, and blew his nose with a terrific blast. + “I've been laid up for a while, but I'm all right now. I'll fool them all + yet,” he boasted, out of his happiness and content. “Business has been + going to the dogs, Dick. Reynolds is a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you'll fool them.” There was still a band around Dick's throat. + It hurt him to look at David, so thin and feeble, so sunken from his + former portliness. And David saw his eyes, and knew. + </p> + <p> + “I've dropped a little flesh, eh, Dick?” he inquired. “Old bulge is gone, + you see. The nurse makes up the bed when I'm in it, flat as when I'm out.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly his composure broke. He was a feeble and apprehensive old man, + shaken with the tearless sobbing of weakness and age. Dick put an arm + across his shoulders, and they sat without speech until David was quiet + again. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a crying old woman, Dick,” David said at last. “That's what comes of + never feeling a pair of pants on your legs and being coddled like a baby.” + He sat up and stared around him ferociously. “They sprinkle violet water + on my pillows, Dick! Can you beat that?” + </p> + <p> + Warned by Lucy, the nurse went to her room and did not disturb them. But + she sat for a time in her rocking-chair, before she changed into the + nightgown and kimono in which she slept on the couch in David's room. She + knew the story, and her kindly heart ached within her. What good would it + do after all, this home-coming? Dick could not stay. It was even + dangerous. Reynolds had confided to her that he suspected a watch on the + house by the police, and that the mail was being opened. What good was it? + </p> + <p> + Across the hall she could hear Lucy moving briskly about in Dick's room, + changing the bedding, throwing up the windows, opening and closing bureau + drawers. After a time Lucy tapped at her door and she opened it. + </p> + <p> + “I put a cake of scented soap among your handkerchiefs,” she said, rather + breathlessly. “Will you let me have it for Doctor Dick's room?” + </p> + <p> + She got the soap and gave it to her. + </p> + <p> + “He is going to stay, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly he is going to stay,” Lucy said, surprised. “This is his home. + Where else should he go?” + </p> + <p> + But David knew. He lay, listening with avid interest to Dick's story, + asking a question now and then, nodding over Dick's halting attempt to + reconstruct the period of his confusion, but all the time one part of him, + a keen and relentless inner voice, was saying: “Look at him well. Hold him + close. Listen to his voice. Because this hour is yours, and perhaps only + this hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the Sayre woman doesn't know about your coming?” he asked, when Dick + had finished. + </p> + <p> + “Still, she mustn't talk about having seen you. I'll send Reynolds up in + the morning.” + </p> + <p> + He was eager to hear of what had occurred in the long interval between + them, and good, bad and indifferent Dick told him. But he limited himself + to events, and did not touch on his mental battles, and David saw and + noted it. The real story, he knew, lay there, but it was not time for it. + After a while he raised himself in his bed. + </p> + <p> + “Call Lucy, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + When she had come, a strangely younger Lucy, her withered cheeks flushed + with exercise and excitement, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Bring me the copy of the statement I made to Harrison Miller, Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + She brought it, patted Dick's shoulder, and went away. David held out the + paper. + </p> + <p> + “Read it slowly, boy,” he said. “It is my justification, and God willing, + it may help you. The letter is from my brother, Henry. Read that, too.” + </p> + <p> + Lucy, having got Dick's room in readiness, sat down in it to await his + coming. Downstairs, in the warming oven, was his supper. His bed, with the + best blankets, was turned down and ready. His dressing-gown and slippers + were in their old accustomed place. She drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + Below, Doctor Reynolds came in quietly and stood listening. The house was + very still, and he decided that his news, which was after all no news, + could wait. He went into the office and got out a sheet of note-paper, + with his name at the top, and began his nightly letter to Clare Rossiter. + </p> + <p> + “My darling,” it commenced. + </p> + <p> + Above, David lay in his bed and Dick read the papers in his hand. And as + he read them David watched him. Not once, since Dick's entrance, had he + mentioned Elizabeth. David lay still and pondered that. There was + something wrong about it. This was Dick, their own Dick; no shadowy ghost + of the past, but Dick himself. True, an older Dick, strangely haggard and + with gray running in the brown of his hair, but still Dick; the Dick whose + eyes had lighted at the sight of a girl, who had shamelessly persisted in + holding her hand at that last dinner, who had almost idolatrously loved + her. + </p> + <p> + And he had not mentioned her name. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished the reading Dick sat for a moment with the papers in + his hand, thinking. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said finally. “Of course, it's possible. Good God, if I could + only think it.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the answer,” David said stubbornly. “He was prowling around, and + fired through the window. Donaldson made the statement at the inquest that + some one had been seen on the place, and that he notified you that night + after dinner. He'd put guards around the place.” + </p> + <p> + “It gives me a fighting chance, anyhow.” Dick got up and threw back his + shoulders. “That's all I want. A chance to fight. I know this. I hated + Lucas—he was a poor thing and you know what he did to me. But I + never thought of killing him. That wouldn't have helped matters. It was + too late.” + </p> + <p> + “What about—that?” David asked, not looking at him. When Dick did + not immediately reply David glanced at him, to find his face set and + pained. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we'd better not go into that now,” David said hastily. “It's + natural that the readjustments will take time.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll have to go into it. It's the hardest thing I have to face.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not dead, then?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Dick said slowly. “It's not dead, David. And I'd better bring it + into the open. I've fought it to the limit by myself. It's the one thing + that seems to have survived the shipwreck. I can't argue it down or think + it down.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe, if you see Elizabeth—” + </p> + <p> + “I'd break her heart, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to make David understand. He told in its sordid details his + failure to kill it, his attempts to sink memory and conscience in Chicago + and their failure, the continued remoteness of Elizabeth and what seemed + to him the flesh and blood reality of the other woman. That she was + yesterday, and Elizabeth was long ago. + </p> + <p> + “I can't argue it down,” he finished. “I've tried to, desperately. It's a—I + think it's a wicked thing, in a way. And God knows all she ever got out of + it was suffering. She must loathe the thought of me.” + </p> + <p> + David was compelled to let it rest there. He found that Dick was doggedly + determined to see Beverly Carlysle. After that, he didn't know. No man + wanted to surrender himself for trial, unless he was sure himself of + whether he was innocent or guilty. If there was a reasonable doubt—but + what did it matter one way or the other? His place was gone, as he'd made + it, gone if he was cleared, gone if he was convicted. + </p> + <p> + “I can't come back, David. They wouldn't have me.” + </p> + <p> + After a silence he asked: + </p> + <p> + “How much is known here? What does Elizabeth know?” + </p> + <p> + “The town knows nothing. She knows a part of it. She cares a great deal, + Dick. It's a tragedy for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall you tell her I have been here?” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless you intend to see her.” + </p> + <p> + But Dick shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Even if other things were the same I haven't a right to see her, until + I've got a clean slate.” + </p> + <p> + “That's sheer evasion,” David said, almost with irritation. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Dick acknowledged gravely. “It is sheer evasion.” + </p> + <p> + “What about the police?” he inquired after a silence. “I was registered at + Norada. I suppose they traced me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The house was watched for a while; I understand they've given it up + now.” + </p> + <p> + In response to questions about his own condition David was almost + querulous. He was all right. He would get well if they'd let him, and stop + coddling him. He would get up now, in spite of them. He was good for one + more fight before he died, and he intended to make it, in a court if + necessary. + </p> + <p> + “They can't prove it, Dick,” he said triumphantly. “I've been over it + every day for months. There is no case. There never was a case, for that + matter. They're a lot of pin-headed fools, and we'll show them up, boy. + We'll show them up.” + </p> + <p> + But for all his excitement fatigue was telling on him. Lucy tapped at the + door and came in. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better have your supper before it spoils,” she said. “And David + needs a rest. Doctor Reynolds is in the office. I haven't told him yet.” + </p> + <p> + The two men exchanged glances. + </p> + <p> + “Time for that later,” David said. “I can't keep him out of my office, but + I can out of my family affairs for an hour or so.” + </p> + <p> + So it happened that Dick followed Lucy down the back stairs and ate his + meal stealthily in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “I don't like you to eat here,” she protested. + </p> + <p> + “I've eaten in worse places,” he said, smiling at her. “And sometimes not + at all.” He was immediately sorry for that, for the tears came to her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + He broke as gently as he could the news that he could not stay, but it was + a great blow to her. Her sagging chin quivered piteously, and it took all + the cheerfulness he could summon and all the promises of return he could + make to soften the shock. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't even seen Elizabeth,” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “That will have to wait until things are cleared up, Aunt Lucy.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you write her something then, Richard? She looks like a ghost these + days.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were on him, puzzled and wistful. He met them gravely. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't the right to see her, or to write to her.” + </p> + <p> + And the finality in his tone closed the discussion, that and something + very close to despair in his face. + </p> + <p> + For all his earlier hunger he ate very little, and soon after he tiptoed + up the stairs again to David's room. When he came down to the kitchen + later on he found her still there, at the table where he had left her, her + arms across it and her face buried in them. On a chair was the suitcase + she had hastily packed for him, and a roll of bills lay on the table. + </p> + <p> + “You must take it,” she insisted. “It breaks my heart to think—Dick, + I have the feeling that I am seeing you for the last time.” Then for fear + she had hurt him she forced a determined smile. “Don't pay any attention + to me. David will tell you that I have said, over and over, that I'd never + see you again. And here you are!” + </p> + <p> + He was going. He had said good-bye to David and was going at once. She + accepted it with a stoicism born of many years of hail and farewell, + kissed him tenderly, let her hand linger for a moment on the rough sleeve + of his coat, and then let him out by the kitchen door into the yard. But + long after he had gone she stood in the doorway, staring out... + </p> + <p> + In the office Doctor Reynolds was finishing a long and carefully written + letter. + </p> + <p> + “I am not good at putting myself on paper, as you know, dear heart. But + this I do know. I do not believe that real love dies. We may bury it, so + deep that it seems to be entirely dead, but some day it sends up a shoot, + and it either lives, or the business of killing it has to be begun all + over again. So when we quarrel, I always know—” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXXIX + </h2> + <p> + The evening had shaken Dick profoundly. David's appearance and Lucy's + grief and premonition, most of all the talk of Elizabeth, had depressed + and unnerved him. Even the possibility of his own innocence was + subordinated to an overwhelming yearning for the old house and the old + life. + </p> + <p> + Through a side window as he went toward the street he could see Reynolds + at his desk in the office, and he was possessed by a fierce jealousy and + resentment at his presence there. The laboratory window was dark, and he + stood outside and looked at it. He would have given his hope of + immortality just then to have been inside it once more, working over his + tubes and his cultures, his slides and microscope. Even the memory of + certain dearly-bought extravagances in apparatus revived in him, and sent + the blood to his head in a wave of unreasoning anger and bitterness. + </p> + <p> + He had a wild desire to go in at the front door, confront Reynolds in his + smug complacency and drive him out; to demand his place in the world and + take it. He could hardly tear himself away. + </p> + <p> + Under a street lamp he looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock, and he + had a half hour to spare before train-time. Following an impulse he did + not analyze he turned toward the Wheeler house. Just so months ago had he + turned in that direction, but with this difference, that then he went with + a sort of hurried expectancy, and that now he loitered on the way. Yet + that it somehow drew him he knew. Not with the yearning he had felt toward + the old brick house, but with the poignancy of a long past happiness. He + did not love, but he remembered. + </p> + <p> + Yet, for a man who did not love, he was oddly angry at the sight of two + young figures on the doorstep. Their clear voices came to him across the + quiet street, vibrant and full of youth. It was the Sayre boy and + Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + He half stopped, and looked across. They were quite oblivious of him, + intent and self-absorbed. As he had viewed Reynolds' unconscious figure + with jealous dislike, so he viewed Wallace Sayre. Here, everywhere, his + place was filled. He was angry with an unreasoning, inexplicable anger, + angry at Elizabeth, angry at the boy, and at himself. + </p> + <p> + He had but to cross the street and take his place there. He could drive + that beardless youngster away with a word. The furious possessive jealousy + of the male animal, which had nothing to do with love, made him stop and + draw himself up as he stared across. + </p> + <p> + Then he smiled wryly and went on. He could do it, but he did not want to. + He would never do it. Let them live their lives, and let him live his. But + he knew that there, across the street, so near that he might have raised + his voice and summoned her, he was leaving the best thing that had come + into his life; the one fine and good thing, outside of David and Lucy. + That against its loss he had nothing but an infatuation that had ruined + three lives already, and was not yet finished. + </p> + <p> + He stopped and, turning, looked back. He saw the girl bend down and put a + hand on Wallie Sayre's shoulder, and the boy's face upturned and looking + into hers. He shook himself and went on. After all, that was best. He felt + no anger now. She deserved better than to be used to help a man work out + his salvation. She deserved youth, and joyousness, and the forgetfulness + that comes with time. She was already forgetting. + </p> + <p> + He smiled again as he went on up the street, but his hands as he buttoned + his overcoat were shaking. + </p> + <p> + It was shortly after that that he met the rector, Mr. Oglethorpe. He + passed him quickly, but he was conscious that the clergyman had stopped + and was staring after him. Half an hour later, sitting in the empty smoker + of the train, he wondered if he had not missed something there. Perhaps + the church could have helped him, a good man's simple belief in right and + wrong. He was wandering in a gray no-man's land, without faith or compass. + </p> + <p> + David had given him the location of Bassett's apartment house, and he + found it quickly. He was in a state of nervous irritability by that time, + for the sense of being a fugitive was constantly stressed in the familiar + streets by the danger of recognition. It was in vain that he argued with + himself that only the police were interested in his movements, and the + casual roundsman not at all. He found himself shying away from them like a + nervous horse. + </p> + <p> + But if he expected any surprise from Bassett he was disappointed. He + greeted him as if he had seen him yesterday, and explained his lack of + amazement in his first words. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor Livingstone telephoned me. Sit down, man, and let me look at you. + You've given me more trouble than any human being on earth.” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry,” Dick said awkwardly, “I seem to have a faculty of involving other + people in my difficulties.” + </p> + <p> + “Want a drink?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks. I'll smoke, if you have any tobacco. I've been afraid to risk + a shop.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett talked cheerfully as he found cigarettes and matches. “The old boy + had a different ring to his voice to-night. He was going down pretty fast, + Livingstone; was giving up the fight. But I fancy you've given him a new + grip on the earth.” When they were seated, however, a sort of awkwardness + developed. To Dick, Bassett had been a more or less shadowy memory, + clouded over with the details and miseries of the flight. And Bassett + found Dick greatly altered. He was older than he remembered him. The sort + of boyishness which had come with the resurrection of his early identity + had gone, and the man who sat before him was grave, weary, and much older. + But his gaze was clear and direct. + </p> + <p> + “Well, a good bit of water has gone over the dam since we met,” Bassett + said. “I nearly broke a leg going down that infernal mountain again. And I + don't mind telling you that I came within an ace of landing in the Norada + jail. They knew I'd helped you get away. But they couldn't prove it.” + </p> + <p> + “I got out, because I didn't see any need of dragging you down with me. I + was a good bit of a mess just then, but I could reason that out, anyhow. + It wasn't entirely unselfish, either. I had a better chance without you. + Or thought I did.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was watching him intently. + </p> + <p> + “Has it all come back?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Practically all. Not much between the thing that happened at the ranch + and David Livingstone's picking me up at the cabin.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it ever occur to you to wonder just how I got in on your secret?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you read Maggie Donaldson's confession.” + </p> + <p> + “I came to see you before that came out.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I don't know, I'm afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you would stake your life on the fact that Beverly Carlysle + knows nothing of what happened that night at the ranch?” + </p> + <p> + Dick's face twitched, but he returned Bassett's gaze steadily. + </p> + <p> + “She has no criminal knowledge, if that is what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not so sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you'd better explain that.” + </p> + <p> + At the cold anger in Dick's voice Bassett stared at him. So that was how + the wind lay. Poor devil! And out of the smug complacence of his bachelor + peace Bassett thanked his stars for no women in his life. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Livingstone,” he said easily. “I don't + think that she shot Lucas. But I don't think she has ever told all she + knows. I've got the coroner's inquest here, and we'll go over it later. + I'll tell you how I got onto your trail. Do you remember taking Elizabeth + Wheeler to see 'The Valley?'” + </p> + <p> + “I had forgotten it. I remember now.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Gregory, the brother, saw you and recognized you. I was with him. + He tried to deny you later, but I was on. Of course he told her, and I + think she sent him to warn David Livingstone. They knew I was on the trail + of a big story. Then I think Gregory stayed here to watch me when the + company made its next jump. He knew I'd started, for he sent David + Livingstone the letter you got. By the way, that letter nearly got me + jailed in Norada.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not hiding behind her skirts,” Dick said shortly. “And there's + nothing incriminating in what you say. She saw me as a fugitive, and she + sent me a warning. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Easy, easy, old man. I'm not pinning anything on her. But I want, if you + don't mind, to carry this through. I have every reason to believe that, + some time before you got to Norada, the Thorwald woman was on my trail. I + know that I was followed to the cabin the night I stayed there, and that + she got a saddle horse from her son that night, her son by Thorwald, + either for herself or some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I accept that, tentatively.” + </p> + <p> + “That means that she knew I was coming to Norada. Think a minute; I'd kept + my movements quiet, but Beverly Carlysle knew, and her brother. When they + warned David they warned her.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you had killed Lucas,” Bassett asserted positively, “the Thorwald + woman would have let the sheriff get you, and be damned to you. She had no + reason to love you. You'd kept her son out of what she felt was his + birthright.” + </p> + <p> + He got up and opened a table drawer. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a copy of the coroner's inquest here. It will bear going over. + And it may help you to remember, too. We needn't read it all. There's a + lot that isn't pertinent.” + </p> + <p> + He got out a long envelope, and took from it a number of typed pages, + backed with a base of heavy paper. + </p> + <p> + “'Inquest in the Coroner's office on the body of Howard Lucas,'” he read. + “'October 10th, 1911.' That was the second day after. 'Examination of + witnesses by Coroner Samuel J. Burkhardt. Mrs. Lucas called and sworn.'” + He glanced at Dick and hesitated. “I don't know about this to-night, + Livingstone. You look pretty well shot to pieces.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't sleep last night. I'm all right. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + During the reading that followed he sat back in his deep chair, his eyes + closed. Except that once or twice he clenched his hands he made no + movement whatever. + </p> + <p> + Q. “What is your name?” + </p> + <p> + A. “Anne Elizabeth Lucas. My stage name is Beverly Carlysle.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Where do you live, Mrs. Lucas?” + </p> + <p> + A. “At 26 East 56th Street, New York City.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “I shall have to ask you some questions that are necessarily painful at + this time. I shall be as brief as possible. Perhaps it will be easier for + you to tell so much as you know of what happened the night before last at + the Clark ranch.” + </p> + <p> + A. “I cannot tell very much. I am confused, too. I was given a sleeping + powder last night. I can only say that I heard a shot, and thought at + first that it was fired from outside. I ran down the stairs, and back to + the billiard room. As I entered the room Mr. Donaldson came in through a + window. My husband was lying on the floor. That is all.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Where was Judson Clark?” + </p> + <p> + A. “He was leaning on the roulette table, staring at the—at my + husband.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Did you see him leave the room?” + </p> + <p> + A. “No. I was on my knees beside Mr. Lucas. I think when I got up he was + gone. I didn't notice.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Did you see a revolver?” + </p> + <p> + A. “No. I didn't look for one.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Now I shall ask you one more question, and that is all. Had there been + any quarrel between Mr. Lucas and Mr. Clark that evening in your + presence?” + </p> + <p> + A. “No. But I had quarreled with them both. They were drinking too much. I + had gone to my room to pack and go home. I was packing when I heard the + shot.” + </p> + <p> + Witness excused and Mr. John Donaldson called. + </p> + <p> + Q. “What is your name?” + </p> + <p> + A. “John Donaldson.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Where do you live?” + </p> + <p> + A. “At the Clark ranch.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “What is your business?” + </p> + <p> + A. “You know all about me. I'm foreman of the ranch.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “I want you to tell what you know, Jack, about last night. Begin with + where you were when you heard the shot.” + </p> + <p> + A. “I was on the side porch. The billiard room opens on to it. I'd been + told by the corral boss earlier in the evening that he'd seen a man + skulking around the house. There'd been a report like that once or twice + before, and I set a watch. I put Ben Haggerty at the kitchen wing with a + gun, and I took up a stand on the porch. Before I did that I told Judson, + but I don't think he took it in. He'd been lit up like a house afire all + evening. I asked for his gun, but he said he didn't know where it was, and + I went back to my house and got my own. Along about eight o'clock I + thought I saw some one in the shrubbery, and I went out as quietly as I + could. But it was a woman, Hattie Thorwald, who was working at the ranch. + </p> + <p> + “When I left the men were playing roulette. I looked in as I went back, + and Judson had a gun in his hand. He said; 'I found it, Jack.' I saw he + was very drunk, and I told him to put it up, I'd got mine. It had occurred + to me that I'd better warn Haggerty to be careful, and I started along the + verandah to tell him not to shoot except to scare. I had only gone a few + steps when I heard a shot, and ran back. Mr. Lucas was on the floor dead, + and Judson was as the lady said. He must have gone out while I was bending + over the body.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Did you see the revolver in his hand?” + </p> + <p> + A. “No.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “How long between your warning Mr. Clark and the shot?” + </p> + <p> + A. “I suppose I'd gone a dozen yards.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Were you present when the revolver was found?” + </p> + <p> + A. “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Did you see Judson Clark again?” + </p> + <p> + A. “No, sir. From what I gather he went straight to the corral and got his + horse.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “You entered the room as Mrs. Lucas came in the door?” + </p> + <p> + A. “Well, she's wrong about that. She was there a little ahead of me. + She'd reached the body before I got in. She was stooping over it.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett looked up from his reading. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to get this, Livingstone,” he said. “How did she reach the + billiard room? Where was it in the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Off the end of the living-room.” + </p> + <p> + “A large living-room?” + </p> + <p> + “Forty or forty-five feet, about.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you draw it for me, roughly?” + </p> + <p> + He passed over a pad and pencil, and Dick made a hasty outline. Bassett + watched with growing satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Here's the point,” he said, when Dick had finished. “She was there before + Donaldson, or at the same time,” as Dick made an impatient movement. “But + he had only a dozen yards to go. She was in her room, upstairs. To get + down in that time she had to leave her room, descend a staircase, cross a + hall and run the length of the living-room, forty-five feet. If the case + had ever gone to trial she'd have had to do some explaining.” + </p> + <p> + “She or Donaldson,” Dick said obstinately. + </p> + <p> + Bassett read on: + </p> + <p> + Jean Melis called and sworn. + </p> + <p> + Q. “Your name?” + </p> + <p> + A. “Jean Melis.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Have you an American residence, Mr. Melis?” + </p> + <p> + A. “Only where I am employed. I am now living at the Clark ranch.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “What is your business?” + </p> + <p> + A. “I am Mr. Clark's valet.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “It was you who found Mr. Clark's revolver?” + </p> + <p> + A. “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “Tell about how and where you found it.” + </p> + <p> + A. “I made a search early in the evening. I will not hide from you that I + meant to conceal it if I discovered it. A man who is drunk is not guilty + of what he does. I did not find it. I went back that night, when the + people had gone, and found it beneath the carved woodbox, by the + fireplace. I did not know that the sheriff had placed a man outside the + window.” + </p> + <p> + “Get that, too,” Bassett said, putting down the paper. “The Frenchman was + fond of you, and he was doing his blundering best. But the sheriff + expected you back and had had the place watched, so they caught him. But + that's not the point. A billiard room is a hard place to hide things in. I + take it yours was like the average.” + </p> + <p> + Dick nodded. + </p> + <p> + “All right. This poor boob of a valet made a search and didn't find it. + Later he found it. Why did he search? Wasn't it the likely thing that + you'd carried it away with you? Do you suppose for a moment that with + Donaldson and the woman in the room you hid it there, and then went back + and stood behind the roulette table, leaning on it with both hands, and + staring? Not at all. Listen to this: + </p> + <p> + Q. “You recognize this revolver as the one you found?” + </p> + <p> + A. “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “You are familiar with it?” + </p> + <p> + A. “Yes. It is Mr. Clark's.” + </p> + <p> + Q. “You made the second search because you had not examined the woodbox + earlier?” + </p> + <p> + A. “No. I had examined the woodbox. I had a theory that—” + </p> + <p> + Q. “The Jury cannot listen to any theories. This is an inquiry into + facts.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to find Melis,” the reporter said thoughtfully, as he folded up + the papers. “The fact is, I mailed an advertisement to the New York papers + to-day. I want to get that theory of his. It's the servants in the house + who know what is going on. I've got an idea that he'd stumbled onto + something. He'd searched for the revolver, and it wasn't there. He went + back and it was. All that conflicting evidence, and against it, what? That + you'd run away!” + </p> + <p> + But he saw that Dick was very tired, and even a little indifferent. He + would be glad to know that his hands were clean, but against the + intimation that Beverly Carlysle had known more than she had disclosed he + presented a dogged front of opposition. After a time Bassett put the + papers away and essayed more general conversation, and there he found + himself met half way and more. He began to get Dick as a man, for the + first time, and as a strong man. He watched his quiet, lined face, and + surmised behind it depths of tenderness and gentleness. No wonder the + little Wheeler girl had worshipped him. + </p> + <p> + It was settled that Dick was to spend the night there, and such plans as + he had Bassett left until morning. But while he was unfolding the + bed-lounge on which Dick was to sleep, Dick opened a line of discussion + that cost the reporter an hour or two's sleep before he could suppress his + irritation. + </p> + <p> + “I must have caused you considerable outlay, one way and another,” he + said. “I want to defray that, Bassett, as soon as I've figured out some + way to get at my bank account.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett jerked out a pillow and thumped it. + </p> + <p> + “Forget it.” Then he grinned. “You can fix that when you get your estate, + old man. Buy a newspaper and let me run it!” + </p> + <p> + He bent over the davenport and put the pillow in place. “All you'll have + to do is to establish your identity. The institutions that got it had to + give bond. I hope you're not too long for this bed.” + </p> + <p> + But he looked up at Dick's silence, to see him looking at him with a faint + air of amusement over his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “They're going to keep the money, Bassett.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett straightened and stared at him. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be a damned fool,” he protested. “It's your money. Don't tell me + you're going to give it to suffering humanity. That sort of drivel makes + me sick. Take it, give it away if you like, but for God's sake don't shirk + your job.” + </p> + <p> + Dick got up and took a turn or two around the room. Then, after an old + habit, he went to the window and stood looking out, but seeing nothing. + </p> + <p> + “It's not that, Bassett. I'm afraid of the accursed thing. I might talk a + lot of rot about wanting to work with my hands. I wouldn't if I didn't + have to, any more than the next fellow. I might fool myself, too, with + thinking I could work better without any money worries. But I've got to + remember this. It took work to make a man of me before, and it will take + work to keep me going the way I intend to go, if I get my freedom.” + </p> + <p> + Sometime during the night Bassett saw that the light was still burning by + the davenport, and went in. Dick was asleep with a volume of Whitman open + on his chest, and Bassett saw what he had been reading. + </p> + <p> + “You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you short-lived ennuis; Ah, + think not you shall finally triumph, my real self has yet to come forth. + It shall march forth over-mastering, till all lie beneath me, It shall + stand up, the soldier of unquestioned victory.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett took the book away and stood rereading the paragraph. For the + first time he sensed the struggle going on at that time behind Dick's + quiet face, and he wondered. Unquestioned victory, eh? That was a pretty + large order. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XL + </h2> + <p> + Leslie Ward had found the autumn extremely tedious. His old passion for + Nina now and then flamed up in him, but her occasional coquetries no + longer deceived him. They had their source only in her vanity. She exacted + his embraces only as tribute to her own charm, her youth, her fresh young + body. + </p> + <p> + And Nina out of her setting of gaiety, of a thumping piano, of chattering, + giggling crowds, of dancing and bridge and theater boxes, was a queen + dethroned. She did not read or think. She spent the leisure of her + mourning period in long hours before her mirror fussing with her hair, in + trimming and retrimming hats, or in the fastidious care of her hands and + body. + </p> + <p> + He was ashamed sometimes of his pitilessly clear analysis of her. She was + not discontented, save at the enforced somberness of their lives. She had + found in marriage what she wanted; a good house, daintily served; a man to + respond to her attractions as a woman, and to provide for her needs as a + wife; dignity and an established place in the world; liberty and + privilege. + </p> + <p> + But she was restless. She chafed at the quiet evenings they spent at home, + and resented the reading in which he took refuge from her uneasy + fidgeting. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake, Nina, sit down and read or sew, or do something. + You've been at that window a dozen times.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not bothering you. Go on and read.” + </p> + <p> + When nobody dropped in she would go upstairs and spend the hour or so + before bedtime in the rites of cold cream, massage, and in placing the + little combs of what Leslie had learned was called a water-wave. + </p> + <p> + But her judgment was as clear as his, and even more pitiless; the + difference between them lay in the fact that while he rebelled, she + accepted the situation. She was cleverer than he was; her mind worked more + quickly, and she had the adaptability he lacked. If there were times when + she wearied him, there were others when he sickened her. Across from her + at the table he ate slowly and enormously. He splashed her dainty bathroom + with his loud, gasping cold baths. He flung his soiled clothing anywhere. + He drank whisky at night and crawled into the lavender-scented sheets + redolent of it, to drop into a heavy sleep and snore until she wanted to + scream. But she played the game to the limit of her ability. + </p> + <p> + Then, seeing that they might go on the rocks, he made a valiant effort, + and since she recognized it as an effort, she tried to meet him half way. + They played two-handed card games. He read aloud to her, poetry which she + loathed, and she to him, short stories he hated. He suggested country + walks and she agreed, to limp back after a half mile or so in her + high-heeled pumps. + </p> + <p> + He concealed his boredom from her, but there were nights when he lay awake + long after she was asleep and looked ahead into a future of unnumbered + blank evenings. He had formerly taken an occasional evening at his club, + but on his suggesting it now Nina's eyes would fill with suspicion, and he + knew that although she never mentioned Beverly Carlysle, she would neither + forget nor entirely trust him again. And in his inner secret soul he knew + that she was right. + </p> + <p> + He had thought that he had buried that brief madness, but there were times + when he knew he lied to himself. One fiction, however, he persisted in; he + had not been infatuated with Beverly. It was only that she gave him during + those few days something he had not found at home, companionship and quiet + intelligent talk. She had been restful. Nina was never restful. + </p> + <p> + He bought a New York paper daily, and read it in the train. “The Valley” + had opened to success in New York, and had settled for a long run. The + reviews of her work had been extraordinary, and when now and then she gave + an interview he studied the photographs accompanying it. But he never + carried the paper home. + </p> + <p> + He began, however, to play with the thought of going to New York. He would + not go to see her at her house, but he would like to see her before a + metropolitan audience, to add his mite to her triumph. There were times + when he fully determined to go, when he sat at his desk with his hand on + the telephone, prepared to lay the foundations of the excursion by some + manipulation of business interests. For months, however, he never went + further than the preliminary movement. + </p> + <p> + But by October he began to delude himself with a real excuse for going, + and this was the knowledge that by a strange chain of circumstance this + woman who so dominated his secret thoughts was connected with Elizabeth's + life through Judson Clark. The discovery, communicated to him by Walter + Wheeler, that Dick was Clark had roused in him a totally different feeling + from Nina's. He saw no glamour of great wealth. On the contrary, he saw in + Clark the author of a great unhappiness to a woman who had not deserved + it. And Nina, judging him with deadly accuracy, surmised even that. + </p> + <p> + That he was jealous of Judson Clark, and of his part in the past, he + denied to himself absolutely. But his resentment took the form of violent + protest to the family, against even allowing Elizabeth to have anything to + do with Dick if he turned up. + </p> + <p> + “He'll buy his freedom, if he isn't dead,” he said to Nina, “and he'll + come snivelling back here, with that lost memory bunk, and they're just + fool enough to fall for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I've fallen for it, and I'm at least as intelligent as you are.” + </p> + <p> + Before her appraising eyes his own fell. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I did something I shouldn't and turned up here with such a story, + would you believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. When you want to do something you shouldn't you don't appear to need + any excuse.” + </p> + <p> + But, on the whole, they managed to live together comfortably enough. They + each had their reservations, but especially after Jim's death they tacitly + agreed to stop bickering and to make their mutual concessions. What Nina + never suspected was that he corresponded with Beverly Carlysle. Not that + the correspondence amounted to much. He had sent her flowers the night of + the New York opening, with the name of his club on his card, and she wrote + there in acknowledgment. Then, later, twice he sent her books, one a + biography, which was a compromise with his conscience, and later a volume + of exotic love verse, which was not. As he replied to her notes of thanks + a desultory correspondence had sprung up, letters which the world might + have read, and yet which had to him the savor and interest of the + clandestine. + </p> + <p> + He did not know that that, and not infatuation, was behind his desire to + see Beverly again; never reasoned that he was demonstrating to himself + that his adventurous love life was not necessarily ended; never + acknowledged that the instinct of the hunter was as alive in him as in the + days before his marriage. Partly, then, a desire for adventure, partly a + hope that romance was not over but might still be waiting around the next + corner, was behind his desire to see her again. + </p> + <p> + Probably Nina knew that, as she knew so many things; why he had taken to + reading poetry, for instance. Certain it is that when he began, early in + October, to throw out small tentative remarks about the necessity of a + business trip before long to New York, she narrowed her eyes. She was + determined to go with him, if he went at all, and he was equally + determined that she should not. + </p> + <p> + It became, in a way, a sort of watchful waiting on both sides. Then there + came a time when some slight excuse offered, and Leslie took up the + shuttle for forty-eight hours, and wove his bit in the pattern. It + happened to be on the same evening as Dick's return to the old house. + </p> + <p> + He was a little too confident, a trifle too easy to Nina. + </p> + <p> + “Has the handle of my suitcase been repaired yet?” he asked. He was + lighting a cigarette at the time. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have to run over to New York to-morrow. I wanted Joe to go alone, + but he thinks he needs me.” Joe was his partner. “Oh. So Joe's going?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. Joe's going was clever of him. It gave authenticity to his + business, and it kept her at home. + </p> + <p> + “How long shall you be gone?” + </p> + <p> + “Only a day or two.” He could not entirely keep the relief out of his + voice. It had been easy, incredibly easy. He might have done it a month + ago. And he had told the truth; Joe was going. + </p> + <p> + “I'll pack to-night, and take my suitcase in with me in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “If you'll get your things out I'll pack them.” She was still thinking, + but her tone was indifferent. “You won't want your dress clothes, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd better have a dinner suit.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him then, with a half contemptuous smile. “Yes,” she said + slowly. “I suppose you will. You'll be going to the theater.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced away. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. But we'll be rushing to get through. There's a lot to do. + Amazing how business piles up when you find you're going anywhere. There + won't be much time to play.” + </p> + <p> + She sat before the mirror in her small dressing-room that night, + ostensibly preparing for bed but actually taking stock of her situation. + She had done all she could, had been faithful and loyal, had made his home + attractive, had catered to his tastes and tried to like his friends, had + met his needs and responded to them. And now, this. She was bewildered and + frightened. How did women hold their husbands? + </p> + <p> + She found him in bed and unmistakably asleep when she went into the + bedroom. Man-like, having got his way, he was not troubled by doubts or + introspection. It was done. + </p> + <p> + He was lying on his back, with his mouth open. She felt a sudden and + violent repugnance to getting into the bed beside him. Sometime in the + night he would turn over and throwing his arm about her, hold her close in + his sleep; and it would be purely automatic, the mechanical result of + habit. + </p> + <p> + She lay on the edge of the bed and thought things over. + </p> + <p> + He had his good qualities. He was kind and affectionate to her family. He + had been wonderful when Jim died, and he loved Elizabeth dearly. He was + generous and open-handed. He was handsome, too, in a big, heavy way. + </p> + <p> + She began to find excuses for him. Men were always a child-like prey to + some women. They were vain, and especially they were sex-vain; good + looking men were a target for every sort of advance. She transferred her + loathing of him to the woman she suspected of luring him away from her, + and lay for hours hating her. + </p> + <p> + She saw Leslie off in the morning with a perfunctory good-bye while cold + anger and suspicion seethed in her. And later she put on her hat and went + home to lay the situation before her mother. Mrs. Wheeler was out, + however, and she found only Elizabeth sewing by her window. + </p> + <p> + Nina threw her hat on the bed and sat down dispiritedly. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose there's no news?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Nina watched her. She was out of patience with Elizabeth, exasperated with + the world. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to go on like this all your life?” she demanded. “Sitting + by a window, waiting? For a man who ran away from you?” + </p> + <p> + “That's not true, and you know it.” + </p> + <p> + “They're all alike,” Nina declared recklessly. “They go along well enough, + and they are all for virtue and for the home and fireside stuff, until + some woman comes their way. I ought to know.” + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth looked up quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Nina!” she said. “You don't mean—” + </p> + <p> + “He went to New York this morning. He pretended to be going on business, + but he's actually gone to see that actress. He's been mad about her for + months.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, wake up,” Nina said impatiently. “The world isn't made up of good, + kind, virtuous people. It's rotten. And men are all alike. Dick + Livingstone and Les and all the rest—tarred with the same stick. As + long as there are women like this Carlysle creature they'll fall for them. + And you and I can sit at home and chew our nails and plan to keep them by + us. And we can't do it.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of herself a little question of doubt crept that day into + Elizabeth's mind. She had always known that they had not told her all the + truth; that the benevolent conspiracy to protect Dick extended even to + her. But she had never thought that it might include a woman. Once there, + the very humility of her love for Dick was an element in favor of the + idea. She had never been good enough, or wise or clever enough, for him. + She was too small and unimportant to be really vital. + </p> + <p> + Dismissing the thought did no good. It came back. But because she was a + healthy-minded and practical person she took the one course she could + think of, and put the question that night to her father, when he came back + from seeing David. + </p> + <p> + David had sent for him early in the evening. All day he had thought over + the situation between Dick and Elizabeth, with growing pain and + uneasiness. He had not spoken of it to Lucy, or to Harrison Miller; he + knew that they would not understand, and that Lucy would suffer. She was + bewildered enough by Dick's departure. + </p> + <p> + At noon he had insisted on getting up and being helped into his trousers. + So clad he felt more of a man and better able to cope with things, + although his satisfaction in them was somewhat modified by the knowledge + of two safety-pins at the sides, to take up their superfluous girth at the + waistband. + </p> + <p> + But even the sense of being clothed as a man again did not make it easier + to say to Walter Wheeler what must be said. + </p> + <p> + Walter took the news of Dick's return with a visible brightening. It was + as though, out of the wreckage of his middle years, he saw that there was + now some salvage, but he was grave and inarticulate over it, wrung David's + hand and only said: + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for it, David.” And after a pause: “Was he all right? He + remembered everything?” + </p> + <p> + But something strange in the situation began to obtrude itself into his + mind. Dick had come back twenty-four hours ago. Last night. And all this + time— + </p> + <p> + “Where is he now?” + </p> + <p> + “He's not here, Walter.” + </p> + <p> + “He has gone away again, without seeing Elizabeth?” + </p> + <p> + David cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “He is still a fugitive. He doesn't himself know he isn't guilty. I think + he feels that he ought not to see her until—” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come,” Walter Wheeler said impatiently. “Don't try to find excuses + for him. Let's have the truth, David. I guess I can stand it.” + </p> + <p> + Poor David, divided between his love for Dick and his native honesty, + threw out his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand it, Wheeler,” he said. “You and I wouldn't, I suppose. + We are not the sort to lose the world for a woman. The plain truth is that + there is not a trace of Judson Clark in him to-day, save one. That's the + woman.” + </p> + <p> + When Wheeler said nothing, but sat twisting his hat in his hands, David + went on. It might be only a phase. As its impression on Dick's youth had + been deeper than others, so its effect was more lasting. It might + gradually disappear. He was confident, indeed, that it would. He had been + reading on the subject all day. + </p> + <p> + Walter Wheeler hardly heard him. He was facing the incredible fact, and + struggling with his own problem. After a time he got up, shook hands with + David and went home, the dog at his heels. + </p> + <p> + During the evening that followed he made his resolution, not to tell her, + never to let her suspect the truth. But he began to wonder if she had + heard something, for he found her eyes on him more than once, and when + Margaret had gone up to bed she came over and sat on the arm of his chair. + She said an odd thing then, and one that made it impossible to lie to her + later. + </p> + <p> + “I come to you, a good bit as I would go to God, if he were a person,” she + said. “I have got to know something, and you can tell me.” + </p> + <p> + He put his arm around her and held her close. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, honey.” + </p> + <p> + “Daddy, do you realize that I am a woman now?” + </p> + <p> + “I try to. But it seems about six months since I was feeding you hot water + for colic.” + </p> + <p> + She sat still for a moment, stroking his hair and being very careful not + to spoil his neat parting. + </p> + <p> + “You have never told me all about Dick, daddy. You have always kept + something back. That's true, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “There were details,” he said uncomfortably. “It wasn't necessary—” + </p> + <p> + “Here's what I want to know. If he has gone back to the time—you + know, wouldn't he go back to caring for the people he loved then?” Then, + suddenly, her childish appeal ceased, and she slid from the chair and + stood before him. “I must know, father. I can bear it. The thing you have + been keeping from me was another woman, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “It was so long ago,” he temporized. “Think of it, Elizabeth. A boy of + twenty-one or so.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there was?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so, at one time. But I know positively that he hadn't seen or + heard from her in ten years.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of woman?” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't think about it, honey. It's all so long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she live in Wyoming?” + </p> + <p> + “She was an actress,” he said, hard driven by her persistence. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Only her stage name, honey.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know she was an actress!” + </p> + <p> + He sighed. + </p> + <p> + “All right, dear,” he said. “I'll tell you all I know. She was an actress, + and she married another man. That's all there is to it. She's not young + now. She must be thirty now—if she's living,” he added, as an + afterthought. + </p> + <p> + It was some time before she spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she was beautiful,” she said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. Most of them aren't, off the stage. Anyhow, what does it + matter now?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that I know he has gone back to her. And you know it too.” + </p> + <p> + He heard her going quietly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Long after, he closed the house and went cautiously upstairs. She was + waiting for him in the doorway of her room, in her nightgown. + </p> + <p> + “I know it all now,” she said steadily. “It was because of her he shot the + other man, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + She saw her answer in his startled face, and closed her door quickly. He + stood outside, and then he tapped lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Let me in, honey,” he said. “I want to finish it. You've got a wrong idea + about it.” + </p> + <p> + When she did not answer he tried the door, but it was locked. He turned + and went downstairs again... + </p> + <p> + When he came home the next afternoon Margaret met him in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “She knows it, Walter.” + </p> + <p> + “Knows what?” + </p> + <p> + “Knows he was back here and didn't see her. Annie blurted it out; she'd + got it from the Oglethorpe's laundress. Mr. Oglethorpe saw him on the + street.” + </p> + <p> + It took him some time to drag a coherent story from her. Annie had told + Elizabeth in her room, and then had told Margaret. She had gone to + Elizabeth at once, to see what she could do, but Elizabeth had been in her + closet, digging among her clothes. She had got out her best frock and put + it on, while her mother sat on the bed not even daring to broach the + matter in her mind, and had gone out. There was a sort of cold + determination in her that frightened Margaret. She had laughed a good bit, + for one thing. + </p> + <p> + “She's terribly proud,” she finished. “She'll do something reckless, I'm + sure. It wouldn't surprise me to see her come back engaged to Wallie + Sayre. I think that's where she went.” + </p> + <p> + But apparently she had not, or if she had she said nothing about it. From + that time on they saw a change in her; she was as loving as ever, but she + affected a sort of painful brightness that was a little hard. As though + she had clad herself in armor against further suffering. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLI + </h2> + <p> + For months Beverly Carlysle had remained a remote and semi-mysterious + figure. She had been in some hearts and in many minds, but to most of them + she was a name only. She had been the motive behind events she never heard + of, the quiet center in a tornado of emotions that circled about without + touching her. + </p> + <p> + On the whole she found her life, with the settling down of the piece to a + successful, run, one of prosperous monotony. She had re-opened and was + living in the 56th Street house, keeping a simple establishment of cook, + butler and maid, and in the early fall she added a town car and a driver. + After that she drove out every afternoon except on matinee days, almost + always alone, but sometimes with a young girl from the company. + </p> + <p> + She was very lonely. The kaleidoscope that is theatrical New York had + altered since she left it. Only one or two of her former friends remained, + and she found them uninteresting and narrow with the narrowness of their + own absorbing world. She had forgotten that the theater was like an + island, cut off from the rest of the world, having its own politics, its + own society divided by caste, almost its own religion. Out of its + insularity it made occasional excursions to dinners and week-ends; even + into marriage, now and then with an outlander. But almost always it went + back, eager for its home of dressing-room and footlights, of stage + entrances up dirty alleys, of door-keepers and managers and parts and + costumes. + </p> + <p> + Occasionally she had callers, men she had met or who were brought to see + her. She saw them over a tea-table, judged them remorselessly, and + eliminated gradually all but one or two. She watched her dignity and her + reputation with the care of an ambitious woman trying to live down the + past, and she succeeded measurably well. Now and then a critic spoke of + her as a second Maude Adams, and those notices she kept and treasured. + </p> + <p> + But she was always uneasy. Never since the night he had seen Judson Clark + in the theater had they rung up without her brother having carefully + combed the house with his eyes. She knew her limitations; they would have + to ring down if she ever saw him over the footlights. And the season had + brought its incidents, to connect her with the past. One night Gregory had + come back and told her Jean Melis was in the balcony. + </p> + <p> + The valet was older and heavier, but he had recognized him. + </p> + <p> + “Did he see you?” was her first question. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What about it? He never saw me but once, and that was at night and + out of doors.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I think I can't stand it, Fred. The eternal suspense, the + waiting for something to happen.” + </p> + <p> + “If anything was going to happen it would have happened months ago. + Bassett has given it up. And Jud's dead. Even Wilkins knows that.” + </p> + <p> + She turned on him angrily. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't a heart, have you? You're glad he's dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. As long as he kept under cover he was all right. But if he + is, I don't see why you should fool yourself into thinking you're sorry. + It's the best solution to a number of things.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose brought Jean Melis here?” + </p> + <p> + “What? To see the best play in New York. Besides, why not allow the man a + healthy curiosity? He was pretty closely connected with a hectic part of + your life, my dear. Now buck up, and for the Lord's sake forget the + Frenchman. He's got nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “He saw me that night, on the stairs. He never took his eyes off me at the + inquest.” + </p> + <p> + She gave, however, an excellent performance that night, and nothing more + was heard of the valet. + </p> + <p> + There were other alarms, all of them without foundation. She went on her + way, rejected an offer or two of marriage, spent her mornings in bed and + her afternoons driving or in the hands of her hair-dresser and manicure, + cared for the flowers that came in long casket-like boxes, and began to + feel a sense of security again. She did not intend to marry, or to become + interested in any one man. + </p> + <p> + She had hardly given a thought to Leslie Ward. He had come and gone, one + of that steady procession of men, mostly married, who battered their heads + now and then like night beetles outside a window, against the hard glass + of her ambition. Because her business was to charm, she had been charming + to him. And could not always remember his name! + </p> + <p> + As the months went by she began to accept Fred's verdict that nothing was + going to happen. Bassett was back and at work. Either dead or a fugitive + somewhere was Judson Clark, but that thought she had to keep out of her + mind. Sometimes, as the play went on, and she was able to make her solid + investments out of it, she wondered if her ten years of retirement had + been all the price she was to pay for his ruin; but she put that thought + away too, although she never minimized her responsibility when she faced + it. + </p> + <p> + But her price had been heavy at that. She was childless and alone, + lavishing her aborted maternity on a brother who was living his + prosperous, cheerful and not too moral life at her expense. Fred was, she + knew, slightly drunk with success; he attended to his minimum of labor + with the least possible effort, had an expensive apartment on the Drive, + and neglected her except, when he needed money. She began to see, as other + women had seen before her, that her success had, by taking away the + necessity for initiative, been extremely bad for him. + </p> + <p> + That was the situation when, one night late in October, the trap of + Bassett's devising began to close in. It had been raining, but in spite of + that they had sold standing room to the fire limit. Having got the + treasurer's report on the night's business and sent it to Beverly's + dressing-room, Gregory wandered into his small, low-ceiled office under + the balcony staircase, and closing the door sat down. It was the interval + after the second act, and above the hum of voices outside the sound of the + orchestra penetrated faintly. + </p> + <p> + He was entirely serene. He had a supper engagement after the show, he had + a neat car waiting outside to take him to it, and the night's business had + been extraordinary. He consulted his watch and then picked up an evening + paper. A few moments later he found himself reading over and over a small + notice inserted among the personals. + </p> + <p> + “Personal: Jean Melis, who was in Norada, Wyoming, during the early fall + of 1911 please communicate with L 22, this office.” + </p> + <p> + The orchestra was still playing outside; the silly, giggling crowds were + moving back to their seats, and somewhere Jean Melis, or the friends of + Jean Melis, who would tell him of it, were reading that message. + </p> + <p> + He got his hat and went out, forgetful of the neat car at the curb, of the + supper engagement, of the night's business, and wandered down the street + through the rain. But his first uneasiness passed quickly. He saw Bassett + in the affair, and probably Clark himself, still living and tardily + determined to clear his name. But if the worst came to the worst, what + could they do? They could go only so far, and then they would have to + quit. + </p> + <p> + It would be better, however, if they did not see Melis. Much better; there + was no use involving a simple situation. And Bev could be kept out of it + altogether, until it was over. Ashamed of his panic he went back to the + theater, got a railway schedule and looked up trains. He should have done + it long before, he recognized, have gone to Bassett in the spring. But how + could he have known then that Bassett was going to make a life-work of the + case? + </p> + <p> + He had only one uncertainty. Suppose that Bassett had learned about + Clifton Hines? + </p> + <p> + By the time the curtain rang down on the last act he was his dapper, + debonair self again, made his supper engagement, danced half the night, + and even dozed a little on the way home. But he slept badly and was up + early, struggling with the necessity for keeping Jean Melis out of the + way. + </p> + <p> + He wondered through what formalities L 22, for instance, would have to go + in order to secure a letter addressed to him? Whether he had to present a + card or whether he walked in demanded his mail and went away. That thought + brought another with it. Wasn't it probable that Bassett was in New York, + and would call for his mail himself? + </p> + <p> + He determined finally to take the chance, claim to be L 22, and if Melis + had seen the advertisement and replied, get the letter. It would be easy + to square it with the valet, by saying that he had recognized him in the + theater and that Miss Carlysle wished to send him a box. + </p> + <p> + He had small hope of a letter at his first call, unless the Frenchman had + himself seen the notice, but his anxiety drove him early to the office. + There was nothing there, but he learned one thing. He had to go through + with no formalities. The clerk merely looked in a box, said “Nothing + here,” and went on about his business. At eleven o'clock he went back + again, and after a careful scrutiny of the crowd presented himself once + more. + </p> + <p> + “L 22? Here you are.” + </p> + <p> + He had the letter in his hand. He had glanced at it and had thrust it deep + in his pocket, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He wheeled and faced + Bassett. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I recognized that back,” said the reporter, cheerfully. “Come + over here, old man. I want to talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + But he held to Gregory's shoulder. In a corner Bassett dropped the + friendliness he had assumed for the clerk's benefit, and faced him with + cold anger. + </p> + <p> + “I'll have that letter now, Gregory,” he said. “And I've got a damned good + notion to lodge an information against you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what you're talking about.” + </p> + <p> + “Forget it. I was behind you when you asked for that letter. Give it here. + I want to show you something.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, with the letter in his hand, Bassett laughed and then tore it + open. There was only a sheet of blank paper inside. + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't sure you'd see it, and I didn't think you'd fall for it if you + did,” he observed. “But I was pretty sure you didn't want me to see Melis. + Now I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I didn't,” Gregory said sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, I expect to see him. The day's early yet, and that's not a + common name. But I'll take darned good care you don't get any more letters + from here.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think Melis can tell you, that you don't know?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll explain that to you some day,” Bassett said cheerfully. “Some day + when you are in a more receptive mood than you are now. The point at this + moment seems to me to be, what does Melis know that you don't want me to + know? I suppose you don't intend to tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not here. You may believe it or not, Bassett, but I was going to your + town to-night to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Bassett said sceptically, “I've got your word for it. And I've got + nothing to do all day but to listen to you.” + </p> + <p> + To his proposition that they go to his hotel Gregory assented sullenly, + and they moved out to find a taxicab. On the pavement, however, he held + back. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a right to know something,” he said, “considering what he's done + to me and mine. Clark's alive, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “He's alive all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll trade you, Bassett. I'll come over with what I know, if you'll + tell me one thing. What sent him into hiding for ten years, and makes him + turn up now, yelling for help?” + </p> + <p> + Bassett reflected. The offer of a statement from Gregory was valuable, + but, on the other hand, he was anxious not to influence his narrative. And + Gregory saw his uncertainty. He planted himself firmly on the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “How about it?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you this much, Gregory. He never meant to bring the thing up + again. In a way, it's me you're up against. Not Clark. And you can be + pretty sure I know what I'm doing. I've got Clark, and I've got the report + of the coroner's inquest, and I'll get Melis. I'm going to get to the + bottom of this if I have to dig a hole that buries me.” + </p> + <p> + In a taxicab Gregory sat tense and erect, gnawing at his blond mustache. + After a time he said: + </p> + <p> + “What are you after, in all this? The story, I suppose. And the money. I + daresay you're not doing it for love.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett surveyed him appraisingly. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't understand my motives if I told you. As a matter of fact, he + doesn't want the money.” + </p> + <p> + Gregory sneered. + </p> + <p> + “Don't kid yourself,” he said. “However, as a matter of fact I don't think + he'll take it. It might cost too much. Where is he? Shooting pills again?” + </p> + <p> + “You'll see him in about five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + If the news was a surprise Gregory gave no evidence of it, except to + comment: + </p> + <p> + “You're a capable person, aren't you? I'll bet you could tune a piano if + you were put to it.” + </p> + <p> + He carried the situation well, the reporter had to admit; the only + evidence he gave of strain was that the hands with which he lighted a + cigarette were unsteady. He surveyed the obscure hotel at which the cab + stopped with a sneering smile, and settled his collar as he looked it + over. + </p> + <p> + “Not advertising to the world that you're in town, I see.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll do that, just as soon as we're ready. Don't worry.” + </p> + <p> + The laugh he gave at that struck unpleasantly on Bassett's ears. But + inside the building he lost some of his jauntiness. “Queer place to find + Judson Clark,” he said once. + </p> + <p> + And again: + </p> + <p> + “You'd better watch him when I go in. He may bite me.” + </p> + <p> + To which Bassett grimly returned: “He's probably rather particular what he + bites.” + </p> + <p> + He was uneasily conscious that Gregory, while nervous and tense, was + carrying the situation with a certain assurance. If he was acting it was + very good acting. And that opinion was strengthened when he threw open the + door and Gregory advanced into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Clark,” he said, coolly. “I guess you didn't expect to see me, did + you?” + </p> + <p> + He made no offer to shake hands as Dick turned from the window, nor did + Dick make any overtures. But there was no enmity at first in either face; + Gregory was easy and assured, Dick grave, and, Bassett thought, slightly + impatient. From that night in his apartment the reporter had realized that + he was constantly fighting a sort of passive resistance in Dick, a + determination not at any cost to involve Beverly. Behind that, too, he + felt that still another battle was going on, one at which he could only + guess, but which made Dick somber at times and grimly quiet always. + </p> + <p> + “I meant to look you up,” was his reply to Gregory's nonchalant greeting. + </p> + <p> + “Well, your friend here did that for you,” Gregory said, and smiled across + at Bassett. “He has his own methods, and I'll say they're effectual.” + </p> + <p> + He took off his overcoat and flung it on the bed, and threw a swift, + appraising glance at Dick. It was on Dick that he was banking, not on + Bassett. He hated and feared Bassett. He hated Dick, but he was not afraid + of him. He lighted a cigarette and faced Dick with a malicious smile. + </p> + <p> + “So here we are, again, Jud!” he said. “But with this change, that now + it's you who are the respectable member of the community, and I'm the—well, + we'll call it the butterfly.” + </p> + <p> + There was unmistakable insult in his tone, and Dick caught it. + </p> + <p> + “Then I take it you're still living off your sister?” + </p> + <p> + The contempt in Dick's voice whipped the color to Gregory's face and + clenched his fist. But he relaxed in a moment and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry, Bassett,” he said, his eyes on Dick. “We haven't any reason + to like each other, but he's bigger than I am. I won't hit him.” Then he + hardened his voice. “But I'll remind you, Clark, that personally I don't + give a God-damn whether you swing or not. Also that I can keep my mouth + shut, walk out of here, and have you in quod in the next hour, if I decide + to.” + </p> + <p> + “But you won't,” Bassett said smoothly. “You won't, any more than you did + it last spring, when you sent that little letter of yours to David + Livingstone.” + </p> + <p> + “No. You're right. I won't. But if I tell you what I came here to say, + Bassett, get this straight. It's not because I'm afraid of you, or of him. + Donaldson's dead. What value would Melis's testimony have after ten years, + if you put him on the stand? It's not that. It's because you'll put your + blundering foot into it and ruin Bev's career, unless I tell you the + truth.” + </p> + <p> + It was to Bassett then that he told his story, he and Bassett sitting, + Dick standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece, tall and weary and almost + detached. + </p> + <p> + “I've got to make my own position plain in this,” he said. “I didn't like + Clark, and I kept her from marrying him. There was one time, before she + met Lucas, when she almost did it. I was away when she decided on that + fool trip to the Clark ranch. We couldn't get a New York theater until + November, and she had some time, so they went. I've got her story of what + happened there. You can check it up with what you know.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Dick for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “You were drinking pretty hard that night, but you may remember this: She + had quarreled with Lucas at dinner that night and with you. That's true, + isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She went to her room and began to pack her things. Then she thought it + over, and she decided to try to persuade Lucas to go too. Things had begun + all right, but they were getting strained and unpleasant. She went down + the stairs, and Melis saw her, the valet. The living-room was dark, but + there was a light coming through the billiard room door, and against it + she saw the figure of a man in the doorway. He had his back to her, and he + had a revolver in his hand. She ran across the room when he heard her and + when he turned she saw it was Lucas. Do you remember, Jud, having a + revolver and Lucas taking it from you?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Donaldson testified I'd had a revolver.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's how we figure he'd got the gun. She thought at once that + Lucas and you had quarreled, and that he was going to shoot. She tried to + take it from him, but he was drunk and stubborn. It went off and killed + him.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + “That's straight, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm telling you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why in God's name didn't she say that at the inquest?” + </p> + <p> + “She was afraid it wouldn't be believed. Look at the facts. She'd + quarreled with Lucas. There had been a notorious situation with regard to + Clark. And remember this. She had done it. I know her well enough, + however, to say that she would have confessed, eventually, but Clark had + beaten it. It was reasonably sure that he was lost in the blizzard. You've + got to allow for that.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett said nothing. After a silence Dick spoke: + </p> + <p> + “What about the revolver?” + </p> + <p> + “She had it in her hand. She dropped it and stood still, too stunned to + scream. Lucas, she says, took a step or two forward, and fell through the + doorway. Donaldson came running in, and you know the rest.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was the first to break the silence. + </p> + <p> + “She will be willing to testify to that now, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “And stand trial?” + </p> + <p> + “Not necessarily. Clark would be on trial. He's been indicted. He has to + be tried.” + </p> + <p> + “Why does he have to be tried? He's free now. He's been free for ten + years. And I tell you as an honest opinion that the thing would kill her. + Accident and all, she did it. And there would be some who'd never believe + she hadn't tired of Lucas, and wanted the Clark money.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a chance she'll have to take,” Bassett said doggedly. “The only + living witness who could be called would be the valet. And remember this: + for ten years he has believed that she did it. He'll have built up a story + by this time, perhaps unconsciously, that might damn her.” + </p> + <p> + Dick moved. + </p> + <p> + “There's only one thing to do. You're right, Gregory. I'll never expose + her to that.” + </p> + <p> + “You're crazy,” Bassett said angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. I told you I wouldn't hide behind a woman. As a matter of + fact, I've learned what I wanted. Lucas wasn't murdered. I didn't shoot + him. That's what really matters. I'm no worse off than I was before; + considerably better, in fact. And I don't see what's to be gained by going + any further.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of his protests, Bassett was compelled finally to agree. He was + sulky and dispirited. He saw the profound anticlimax to all his effort of + Dick wandering out again, legally dead and legally guilty, and he swore + roundly under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he grunted at last. “I guess that's the last word, Gregory. + But you tell her from me that if she doesn't reopen the matter of her own + accord, she'll have a man's life on her conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not tell her anything about it. I'm not only her brother; I'm her + manager now. And I'm not kicking any hole in the boat that floats me.” + </p> + <p> + He was self-confident and slightly insolent; the hands with which he + lighted a fresh cigarette no longer trembled, and the glance he threw at + Dick was triumphant and hostile. + </p> + <p> + “As a man sows, Clark!” he said. “You sowed hell for a number of people + once.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett had to restrain an impulse to kick him out of the door. When he + had gone Bassett turned to Dick with assumed lightness. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “here we are, all dressed up and nowhere to go!” + </p> + <p> + He wandered around the room, restless and disappointed. He knew, and Dick + knew, that they had come to the end of the road, and that nothing lay + beyond. In his own unpleasant way Fred Gregory had made a case for his + sister that tied their hands, and the crux of the matter had lain in his + final gibe: “As a man sows, Clark, so shall he reap.” The moral issue was + there. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the Hines story goes by the board, eh?” he commented after a + pause. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Except that I wish I'd known about him when I could have done + something. He's my half-brother, any way you look at it, and he had a + rotten deal. Sometimes a man sows,” he added, with a wry smile, “and the + other fellow reaps.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett went out after that, going to the office on the chance of a letter + from Melis, but there was none. When he came back he found Dick standing + over a partially packed suitcase, and knew that they had come to the end + of the road indeed. + </p> + <p> + “What's the next step?” he asked bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “I'll have to leave here. It's too expensive.” + </p> + <p> + “And after that, what?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll get a job. I suppose a man is as well hidden here as anywhere. I can + grow a beard—that's the usual thing, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Bassett made an impatient gesture, and fell to pacing the floor. “It's + incredible,” he said. “It's monstrous. It's a joke. Here you are, without + a thing against you, and hung like Mahomet's coffin between heaven and + earth. It makes me sick.” + </p> + <p> + He went home that night, leaving word to have any letters for L 22 + forwarded, but without much hope. His last clutch of Dick's hand had a + sort of desperate finality in it, and he carried with him most of the way + home the tall, worn and rather shabby figure that saw him off with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + By the next afternoon's mail he received a note from New York, with a few + words of comment penciled on it in Dick's writing. “This came this + evening. I sent back the money. D.” The note was from Gregory and had + evidently enclosed a one-hundred dollar bill. It began without + superscription: “Enclosed find a hundred dollars, as I imagine funds may + be short. If I were you I'd get out of here. There has been considerable + excitement, and you know too many people in this burg.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett sat back in his chair and studied the note. + </p> + <p> + “Now why the devil did he do that?” he reflected. He sat for some time, + thinking deeply, and he came to one important conclusion. The story + Gregory had told was the one which was absolutely calculated to shut off + all further inquiry. They had had ten years; ten years to plan, eliminate + and construct; ten years to prepare their defense, in case Clark turned + up. Wasn't that why Gregory had been so assured? But he had not been + content to let well enough alone; he had perhaps overreached himself. + </p> + <p> + Then what was the answer? She had killed Lucas, but was it an accident? + And there must have been a witness, or they would have had nothing to + fear. He wrote out on a bit of paper three names, and sat looking at them: + </p> + <p> + Hattie Thorwald + </p> +<p> +Jean Melis +</p> +<p> +Clifton Hines + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLII + </h2> + <p> + Elizabeth had quite definitely put Dick out of her heart. On the evening + of the day she learned he had come back and had not seen her, she + deliberately killed her love and decently interred it. She burned her + notes and his one letter and put away her ring, performing the rites not + as rites but as a shameful business to be done with quickly. She tore his + photograph into bits and threw them into her waste basket, and having thus + housecleaned her room set to work to houseclean her heart. + </p> + <p> + She found very little to do. She was numb and totally without feeling. The + little painful constriction in her chest which had so often come lately + with her thoughts of him was gone. She felt extraordinarily empty, but not + light, and her feet dragged about the room. + </p> + <p> + She felt no sense of Dick's unworthiness, but simply that she was up + against something she could not fight, and no longer wanted to fight. She + was beaten, but the strange thing was that she did not care. Only, she + would not be pitied. As the days went on she resented the pity that had + kept her in ignorance for so long, and had let her wear her heart on her + sleeve; and she even wondered sometimes whether the story of Dick's loss + of memory had not been false, evolved out of that pity and the desire to + save her pain. + </p> + <p> + David sent for her, but she wrote him a little note, formal and + restrained. She would come in a day or two, but now she must get her + bearings. He was to know that she was not angry, and felt it all for the + best, and she was very lovingly his, Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + She knew now that she would eventually marry Wallie Sayre if only to get + away from pity. He would have to know the truth about her, that she did + not love any one; not even her father and her mother. She pretended to + care for fear of hurting them, but she was actually frozen quite hard. She + did not believe in love. It was a terrible thing, to be avoided by any one + who wanted to get along, and this avoiding was really quite simple. One + simply stopped feeling. + </p> + <p> + On the Sunday after she had come to this comfortable knowledge she sat in + the church as usual, in the choir stalls, and suddenly she hated the + church. She hated the way the larynx of Henry Wallace, the tenor, stuck + out like a crabapple over his low collar. She hated the fat double chin of + the bass. She hated the talk about love and the certain rewards of virtue, + and the faces of the congregation, smug and sure of salvation. + </p> + <p> + She went to the choir master after the service to hand in her resignation. + And did not, because it had occurred to her that it might look, to use + Nina's word, as though she were crushed. Crushed! That was funny. + </p> + <p> + Wallie Sayre was waiting for her outside, and she went up with him to + lunch, and afterwards they played golf. They had rather an amusing game, + and once she had to sit down on a bunker and laugh until she was weak, + while he fought his way out of a pit. Crushed, indeed! + </p> + <p> + So the weaving went on, almost completed now. With Wallie Sayre biding his + time, but fairly sure of the result. With Jean Melis happening on a + two-days' old paper, and reading over and over a notice addressed to him. + With Leslie Ward, neither better nor worse than his kind, seeking + adventure in a bypath, which was East 56th Street. And with Dick wandering + the streets of New York after twilight, and standing once with his coat + collar turned up against the rain outside of the Metropolitan Club, where + the great painting of his father hung over a mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + Now that he was near Beverly, Dick hesitated to see her. He felt no + resentment at her long silence, nor at his exile which had resulted from + it. He made excuses for her, recognized his own contribution to the + catastrophe, knew, too, that nothing was to be gained by seeing her again. + But he determined finally to see her once more, and then to go away, + leaving her to peace and to success. + </p> + <p> + She would know now that she had nothing to fear from him. All he wanted + was to satisfy the hunger that was in him by seeing her, and then to go + away. + </p> + <p> + Curiously, that hunger to see her had been in abeyance while Bassett was + with him. It was only when he was alone again that it came up; and + although he knew that, he was unconscious of another fact, that every + word, every picture of her on the great boardings which walled in every + empty lot, everything, indeed, which brought her into the reality of the + present, loosened by so much her hold on him out of the past. + </p> + <p> + When he finally went to the 56th Street house it was on impulse. He had + meant to pass it, but he found himself stopping, and half angrily made his + determination. He would follow the cursed thing through now and get it + over. Perhaps he had discounted it too much in advance, waited too long, + hoped too much. Perhaps it was simply that that last phase was already + passing. But he felt no thrill, no expectancy, as he rang the bell and was + admitted to the familiar hall. + </p> + <p> + It was peopled with ghosts, for him. Upstairs, in the drawing-room that + extended across the front of the house, she had told him of her engagement + to Howard Lucas. Later on, coming back from Europe, he had gone back there + to find Lucas installed in the house, his cigars on the table, his + photographs on the piano, his books scattered about. And Lucas himself, + smiling, handsome and triumphant on the hearth rug, dressed for dinner + except for a brocaded dressing-gown, putting his hand familiarly on + Beverly's shoulder, and calling her “old girl.” + </p> + <p> + He wandered into the small room to the right of the hall, where in other + days he had waited to be taken upstairs, and stood looking out of the + window. He heard some one, a caller, come down, get into his overcoat in + the hall and go out, but he was not interested. He did not know that + Leslie Ward had stood outside the door for a minute, had seen and + recognized him, and had then slammed out. + </p> + <p> + He was quite steady as the butler preceded him up the stairs. He even + noticed certain changes in the house, the door at the landing converted + into an arch, leaded glass in the dining-room windows beyond it. But he + caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and saw himself a shabby contrast + to the former days. + </p> + <p> + He faced her, still with that unexpected composure, and he saw her very + little changed. Even the movement with which she came toward him with both + hands out was familiar. + </p> + <p> + “Jud!” she said. “Oh, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + He saw that she was profoundly moved, and suddenly he was sorry for her. + Sorry for the years behind them both, for the burden she had carried, for + the tears in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Dear old Bev!” he said. + </p> + <p> + She put her head against his shoulder, and cried unrestrainedly; and he + held her there, saying small, gentle, soothing things, smoothing her hair. + But all the time he knew that life had been playing him another trick; he + felt a great tenderness for her and profound pity, but he did not love + her, or want her. He saw that after all the suffering and waiting, the + death and exile, he was left at the end with nothing. Nothing at all. + </p> + <p> + When she was restored to a sort of tense composure he found to his + discomfort that woman-like she intended to abase herself thoroughly and + completely. She implored his forgiveness for his long exile, gazing at him + humbly, and when he said in a matter-of-fact tone that he had been happy, + giving him a look which showed that she thought he was lying to save her + unhappiness. + </p> + <p> + “You are trying to make it easier for me. But I know, Jud.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm telling you the truth,” he said, patiently. “There's one point I + didn't think necessary to tell your brother. For a good while I didn't + remember anything about it. If it hadn't been for that—well, I don't know. + Anyhow, don't look at me as though I willfully saved you. I didn't.” + </p> + <p> + She sat still, pondering that, and twisting a ring on her finger. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean to do?” she asked, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. I'll find something.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't go back to your work?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see how I can. I'm in hiding, in a sort of casual fashion.” + </p> + <p> + To his intense discomfiture she began to cry again. She couldn't go + through with it. She would go back to Norada and tell the whole thing. She + had let Fred influence her, but she saw now she couldn't do it. But for + the first time he felt that in this one thing she was not sincere. Her + grief and abasement had been real enough, but now he felt she was acting. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we don't go into that now,” he said gently. “You've had about all + you can stand.” He got up awkwardly. “I suppose you are playing to-night?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, looking up at him dumbly. + </p> + <p> + “Better lie down, then, and—forget me.” He smiled down at her. + </p> + <p> + “I've never forgotten you, Jud. And now, seeing you again—I—” + </p> + <p> + Her face worked. She continued to look up at him, piteously. The appalling + truth came to him then, and that part of him which had remained detached + and aloof, watching, almost smiled at the irony. She cared for him. Out of + her memories she had built up something to care for, something no more + himself than she was the woman of his dreams; but with this difference, + that she was clinging, woman-fashion, to the thing she had built, and he + had watched it crumble before his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Will you promise to go and rest?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If you say so.” + </p> + <p> + She was acquiescent and humble. Her eyes were soft, faithful, childlike. + </p> + <p> + “I've suffered so, Jud.” + </p> + <p> + “I know.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't hate me, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? Just remember this: while you were carrying this burden, I + was happier than I'd ever been. I'll tell you about it some time.” + </p> + <p> + She got up, and he perceived that she expected him again to take her in + his arms. He felt ridiculous and resentful, and rather as though he was + expected to kiss the hand that had beaten him, but when she came close to + him he put an arm around her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Bev!” he said. “We've made pretty much a mess of it, haven't we?” + </p> + <p> + He patted her and let her go, and her eyes followed him as he left the + room. The elder brotherliness of that embrace had told her the truth as he + could never have hurt her in words. She went back to the chair where he + had sat, and leaned her cheek against it. + </p> + <p> + After a time she went slowly upstairs and into her room. When her maid + came in she found her before the mirror of her dressing-table, staring at + her reflection with hard, appraising eyes. + </p> + <p> + Leslie's partner, wandering into the hotel at six o'clock, found from the + disordered condition of the room that Leslie had been back, had apparently + bathed, shaved and made a careful toilet, and gone out again. Joe found + himself unexpectedly at a loose end. Filled with suppressed indignation + he commenced to dress, getting out a shirt, hunting his evening studs, and + lining up what he meant to say to Leslie over his defection. + </p> + <p> + Then, at a quarter to seven, Leslie came in, top-hatted and + morning-coated, with a yellowing gardenia in his buttonhole and his shoes + covered with dust. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Les,” Joe said, glancing up from a laborious struggle with a stud. + “Been to a wedding?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You look like it.” + </p> + <p> + “I made a call, and since then I've been walking.” + </p> + <p> + “Some walk, I'd say,” Joe observed, looking at him shrewdly. “What's + wrong, Les? Fair one turn you down?” + </p> + <p> + “Go to hell,” Leslie said irritably. + </p> + <p> + He flung off his coat and jerked at his tie. Then, with it hanging loose, + he turned to Joe. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to tell you something. I know it's safe with you, and I need + some advice. I called on a woman this afternoon. You know who she is. + Beverly Carlysle.” + </p> + <p> + Joe whistled softly. + </p> + <p> + “That's not the point,” Leslie declaimed, in a truculent voice. “I'm not + defending myself. She's a friend; I've got a right to call there if I want + to.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure you have,” soothed Joe. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know the situation at home, and who Livingstone actually is. + The point is that, while that poor kid at home is sitting around killing + herself with grief, Clark's gone back to her. To Beverly Carlysle.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Know? I saw him this afternoon, at her house.” + </p> + <p> + He sat still, moodily reviewing the situation. His thoughts were a chaotic + and unpleasant mixture of jealousy, fear of Nina, anxiety over Elizabeth, + and the sense of a lost romantic adventure. After a while he got up. + </p> + <p> + “She's a nice kid,” he said. “I'm fond of her. And I don't know what to + do.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Joe grinned. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said. “And you can't tell her, or the family, where you saw + him!” + </p> + <p> + “Not without raising the deuce of a row.” + </p> + <p> + He began, automatically, to dress for dinner. Joe moved around the room, + rang for a waiter, ordered orange juice and ice, and produced a bottle of + gin from his bag. Leslie did not hear him, nor the later preparation of + the cocktails. He was reflecting bitterly on the fact that a man who + married built himself a wall against romance, a wall, compounded of his + own new sense of responsibility, of family ties, and fear. + </p> + <p> + Joe brought him a cocktail. + </p> + <p> + “Drink it, old dear,” he said. “And when it's down I'll tell you a few + little things about playing around with ladies who have a past. Here's to + forgetting 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Leslie took the glass. + </p> + <p> + “Right-o,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He went home the following day, leaving Joe to finish the business in New + York. His going rather resembled a flight. Tossing sleepless the night + before, he had found what many a man had discovered before him, that his + love of clandestine adventure was not as strong as his caution. He had had + a shock. True, his affair with Beverly had been a formless thing, a matter + of imagination and a desire to assure himself that romance, for him, was + not yet dead. True, too, that he had nothing to fear from Dick + Livingstone. But the encounter had brought home to him the danger of this + old-new game he was playing. He was running like a frightened child. + </p> + <p> + He thought of various plans. One of them was to tell Nina the truth, take + his medicine of tears and coldness, and then go to Mr. Wheeler. One was to + go to Mr. Wheeler, without Nina, and make his humiliating admission. But + Walter Wheeler had his own rigid ideas, was uncompromising in rectitude, + and would understand as only a man could that while so far he had been + only mentally unfaithful, he had been actuated by at least subconscious + desire. + </p> + <p> + His own awareness of that fact made him more cautious than he need have + been, perhaps more self-conscious. And he genuinely cared for Elizabeth. + It was, on the whole, a generous and kindly impulse that lay behind his + ultimate resolution to tell her that her desertion was both wilful and + cruel. + </p> + <p> + Yet, when the time came, he found it hard to tell her. He took her for a + drive one evening soon after his return, forcibly driving off Wallie Sayre + to do so, and eying surreptitiously now and then her pale, rather set + face. He found a quiet lane and stopped the car there, and then turned and + faced her. + </p> + <p> + “How've you been, little sister, while I've been wandering the gay white + way?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I've been all right, Leslie.” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite all right, I think. Have you ever thought, Elizabeth, that no + man on earth is worth what you've been going through?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right, I tell you,” she said impatiently. “I'm not grieving any + more. That's the truth, Les. I know now that he doesn't intend to come + back, and I don't care. I never even think about him, now.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said. “Well, that's that.” + </p> + <p> + But he had not counted on her intuition, and was startled to hear her say: + </p> + <p> + “Well? Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, go on?” + </p> + <p> + “You brought me out here to tell me something.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. I simply—” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he? You've seen him.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to meet her eyes, failed, cursed himself for a fool. “He's alive + and well, Elizabeth. I saw him in New York.” It was a full minute before + she spoke again, and then her lips were stiff and her voice strained. + </p> + <p> + “Has he gone back to her? To the actress he used to care for?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, but he knew he would have to go on. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to tell you something, Elizabeth. It's not very creditable to + me, but I'll have to trust you. I don't want to see you wasting your life. + You've got plenty of courage and a lot of spirit. And you've got to forget + him.” + </p> + <p> + He told her, and then he took her home. He was a little frightened, for + there was something not like her in the way she had taken it, a sort of + immobility that might, he thought, cover heartbreak. But she smiled when + she thanked him, and went very calmly into the house. + </p> + <p> + That night she accepted Wallie Sayre. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLIII + </h2> + <p> + Bassett was having a visitor. He sat in his chair while that visitor + ranged excitedly up and down the room, a short stout man, well dressed and + with a mixture of servility and importance. The valet's first words, as he + stood inside the door, had been significant. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know, first, if I am talking to the police.” + </p> + <p> + “No—and yes,” Bassett said genially. “Come and sit down, man. What I + mean is this. I am a friend of Judson Clark's, and this may or may not be + a police matter. I don't know yet.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a friend of Mr. Clark's? Then the report was correct. He is still + alive, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The valet got out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He was clearly moved. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of that. Very glad. I saw some months ago, in a newspaper—where + is he?” + </p> + <p> + “In New York. Now Melis, I've an idea that you know something about the + crime Judson Clark was accused of. You intimated that at the inquest.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Lucas killed him.” + </p> + <p> + “So she says,” Bassett said easily. + </p> + <p> + The valet jumped and stared. + </p> + <p> + “She admits it, as the result of an accident. She also admits hiding the + revolver where you found it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you do not need me.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not so sure of that.” + </p> + <p> + The valet was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to think back, Melis. You saw her go down the stairs, sometime + before the shot. Later you were confident she had hidden the revolver, and + you made a second search for it. Why? You hadn't heard her testimony at + the inquest then. Clark had run away. Why didn't you think Clark had done + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I thought she was having an affair with another man. I have + always thought she did it.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so. What made you think that?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you. She went West without a maid, and Mr. Clark got a Swedish + woman from a ranch near to look after her, a woman named Thorwald. She + lived at her own place and came over every day. One night, after Mrs. + Thorwald had started home, I came across her down the road near the + irrigator's house, and there was a man with her. They didn't hear me + behind them, and he was giving her a note for some one in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not for one of the servants?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I thought then, sir. It wasn't my business. But I saw the + same man later on, hanging about the place at night, and once I saw her + with him—Mrs. Lucas, I mean. That was in the early evening. The + gentlemen were out riding, and I'd gone with one of the maids to a hill to + watch the moon rise. They were on some rocks, below in the canyon.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you see him?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it was the same man, if that's what you mean. I knew something + queer was going on, after that, and I watched her. She went out at night + more than once. Then I told Donaldson there was somebody hanging round the + place, and he set a watch.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine. Now we'll go to the night Lucas was shot. Was the Thorwald woman + there?” + </p> + <p> + “She had started home.” + </p> + <p> + “Leaving Mrs. Lucas packing alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I hadn't thought of that. The Thorwald woman heard the shot and came + back. I remember that, because she fainted upstairs and I had to carry her + to a bed.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Now about the revolver.” + </p> + <p> + “I located it the first time I looked for it. Donaldson and the others had + searched the billiard room. So I tried the big room. It was under a chair. + I left it there, and concealed myself in the room. She, Mrs. Lucas, came + down late that night and hunted for it. Then she hid it where I got it + later.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I knew, Melis, why you didn't bring those facts out at the + inquest.” + </p> + <p> + “You must remember this, sir. I had been with Mr. Clark for a long time. I + knew the situation. And I thought that he had gone away that night to + throw suspicion from her to himself. I was not certain what to do. I would + have told it all in court, but it never came to trial.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was satisfied and fairly content. After the Frenchman's departure + he sat for some time, making careful notes and studying them. Supposing + the man Melis had seen to be Clifton Hines, a good many things would be + cleared up. Some new element he had to have, if Gregory's story were to be + disproved, some new and different motive. Suppose, for instance... + </p> + <p> + He got up and paced the floor back and forward, forward and back. There + was just one possibility, and just one way of verifying it. He sat down + and wrote out a long telegram and then got his hat and carried it to the + telegraph office himself. He had made his last throw. + </p> + <p> + He received a reply the following day, and in a state of exhilaration + bordering on madness packed his bag, and as he packed it addressed it, + after the fashion of lonely men the world over. + </p> + <p> + “Just one more trip, friend cowhide,” he said, “and then you and I are + going to settle down again to work. But it's some trip, old arm-breaker.” + </p> + <p> + He put in his pajamas and handkerchiefs, his clean socks and collars, and + then he got his revolver from a drawer and added it. Just twenty-four + hours later he knocked at Dick's door in a boarding-house on West Ninth + Street, found it unlocked, and went in. Dick was asleep, and Bassett stood + looking down at him with an odd sort of paternal affection. Finally he + bent down and touched his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Wake up, old top,” he said. “Wake up. I have some news for you.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLIV + </h2> + <p> + To Dick the last day or two had been nightmares of loneliness. He threw + caution to the winds and walked hour after hour, only to find that the + street crowds, people who had left a home or were going to one, depressed + him and emphasized his isolation. He had deliberately put away from him + the anchor that had been Elizabeth and had followed a treacherous memory, + and now he was adrift. He told himself that he did not want much. Only + peace, work and a place. But he had not one of them. + </p> + <p> + He was homesick for David, for Lucy, and, with a tightening of the heart + he admitted it, for Elizabeth. And he had no home. He thought of Reynolds, + bent over the desk in his office; he saw the quiet tree-shaded streets of + the town, and Reynolds, passing from house to house in the little town, + doing his work, usurping his place in the confidence and friendship of the + people; he saw the very children named for him asking: “Who was I named + for, mother?” He saw David and Lucy gone, and the old house abandoned, or + perhaps echoing to the laughter of Reynolds' children. + </p> + <p> + He had moments when he wondered what would happen if he took Beverly at + her word. Suppose she made her confession, re-opened the thing, to fill + the papers with great headlines, “Judson Clark Not Guilty. A Strange + Story.” + </p> + <p> + He saw himself going back to the curious glances of the town, never to be + to them the same as before. To face them and look them down, to hear + whispers behind his back, to feel himself watched and judged, on that far + past of his. Suppose even that it could be kept out of the papers; Wilkins + amiable and acquiescent, Beverly's confession hidden in the ruck of legal + documents; and he stealing back, to go on as best he could, covering his + absence with lies, and taking up his work again. But even that uneasy road + was closed to him. He saw David and Lucy stooping to new and strange + hypocrisies, watching with anxious old eyes the faces of their neighbors, + growing defiant and hard as time went on and suspicion still followed him. + </p> + <p> + And there was Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + He tried not to think of her, save as of some fine and tender thing he had + once brushed as he passed by. Even if she still cared for him, he could, + even less than David and Lucy, ask her to walk the uneasy road with him. + She was young. She would forget him and marry Wallace Sayre. She would + have luxury and gaiety, and the things that belong to youth. + </p> + <p> + He was not particularly bitter about that. He knew now that he had given + her real love, something very different from that early madness of his, + but he knew it too late... + </p> + <p> + He looked up at Bassett and then sat up. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of news?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep. + </p> + <p> + “Get up and put some cold water on your head. I want you to get this.” + </p> + <p> + He obeyed, but without enthusiasm. Some new clue, some hope revived only + to die again, what did it matter? But he stopped by Bassett and put a hand + on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you do it?” he asked. “Why don't you let me go to the devil in my + own way?” + </p> + <p> + “I started this, and by Heaven I've finished it,” was Bassett's exultant + reply. + </p> + <p> + He sat down and produced a bundle of papers. “I'm going to read you + something,” he said. “And when I'm through you're going to put your + clothes on and we'll go to the Biltmore. The Biltmore. Do you get it?” + </p> + <p> + Then he began to read. + </p> + <p> + “I, the undersigned, being of sound mind, do hereby make the following + statement. I make the statement of my own free will, and swear before + Almighty God that it is the truth. I am an illegitimate son of Elihu + Clark. My mother, Harriet Burgess, has since married and is now known as + Hattie Thorwald. She will confirm the statements herein contained. + </p> + <p> + “I was adopted by a woman named Hines, of the city of Omaha, whose name I + took. Some years later this woman married and had a daughter, of whom I + shall speak later. + </p> + <p> + “I attended preparatory school in the East, and was sent during vacations + to a tutoring school, owned by Mr. Henry Livingstone. When I went to + college Mr. Livingstone bought a ranch at Dry River, Wyoming, and I spent + some time there now and then. + </p> + <p> + “I learned that I was being supported and sent to college from funds + furnished by a firm of New York lawyers, and that aroused my suspicion. I + knew that Mrs. Hines was not my mother. I finally learned that I was the + son of Elihu Clark and Harriet Burgess. + </p> + <p> + “I felt that I should have some part of the estate, and I developed a + hatred of Judson Clark, whom I knew. I made one attempt to get money from + him by mail, threatening to expose his father's story, but I did not + succeed. + </p> + <p> + “I visited my mother, Hattie Thorwald, and threatened to kill Clark. I + also threatened Henry Livingstone, and his death came during a dispute + over the matter, but I did not kill him. He fell down and hit his head. He + had a weak heart. + </p> + <p> + “My foster-sister had gone on the stage, and Clark was infatuated with + her. I saw him a number of times, but he did not connect me with the + letter I had sent. My foster-sister's stage name is Beverly Carlysle. + </p> + <p> + “She married Howard Lucas and they visited the Clark ranch at Norada, + Wyoming, in the fall of 1911. I saw my sister there several times, and as + she knew the way I felt she was frightened. My mother, Hattie Thorwald, + was a sort of maid to her, and together they tried to get me to go away.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Up to that point,” he said, “I wrote it myself before I saw him.” There + was a note of triumph in his voice. “The rest is his.” + </p> + <p> + “On the night Lucas was killed I was to go away. Bev had agreed to give me + some money, for the piece had quit in June and I was hard up. She was + going to borrow it from Jud Clark, and that set me crazy. I felt it ought + to be mine, or a part of it anyhow. + </p> + <p> + “I was to meet my mother in the grounds, but I missed her, and I went to + the house. I wasn't responsible for what I did. I was crazy, I guess. I + saw Donaldson on the side porch, and beyond him were Lucas and Clark, + playing roulette. It made me wild. I couldn't have played roulette that + night for pennies. + </p> + <p> + “I went around the house and in the front door. What I meant to do was to + walk into that room and tell Clark who I was. He knew me, and all I meant + to do was to call Bev down, and mother, and make him sit up and take + notice. I hadn't a gun on me. + </p> + <p> + “I swear I wasn't thinking of killing him then. I hated him like poison, + but that was all. But I went into the living-room, and I heard Clark say + he'd lost a thousand dollars. Maybe you don't get that. A thousand dollars + thrown around like that, and me living on what Bev could borrow from him. + </p> + <p> + “That sent me wild. Lucas took a gun from him, just after that, and said + he was going to put it in the other room. He did it, too. He put it on a + table and started back. I got it and pointed it at Clark. I'd have shot + him, too, but Bev came into the room. + </p> + <p> + “I want to exonerate Bev. She has been better than most sisters to me, and + she has lied to try to save me. She came up behind me and grabbed my arm. + Lucas had heard her, and he turned. I must have closed my hand on the + trigger, for it went off and hit him. + </p> + <p> + “I was in the living-room when Donaldson ran in. I hid there until they + were all gathered around Lucas and had quit running in, and then I got + away. I saw my mother in the grounds later. I told her where the revolver + was and that they'd better put it in the billiard room. I was afraid + they'd suspect Bev. + </p> + <p> + “I have read the above statement and it is correct. I was legally adopted + by Mrs. Alice Ford Hines, of Omaha, and use that signature. I generally + use the name of Frederick Gregory, which I took when I was on the stage + for a short time. + </p> + <p> + “(Signed) Clifton HINES.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett folded up the papers and put them in the envelope. “I got that,” + he said, “at the point of a gun, my friend. And our friend Hines departed + for the Mexican border on the evening train. I don't mind saying that I + saw him off. He held out for a get-away, and I guess it's just as well.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at Dick, lying still and rigid on the bed. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” he said. “I think a little drink won't do us any harm.” + </p> + <p> + Dick refused to drink. He was endeavoring to comprehend the situation; to + realize that Gregory, who had faced him with such sneering hate a day or + so before, was his half-brother. + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil!” he said at last. “I wish to God I'd known. He was right, you + know. No wonder—” + </p> + <p> + Sometime later he roused from deep study and looked at Bassett. + </p> + <p> + “How did you get the connection?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw Melis, and learned that Hines was in it somehow. He was the + connecting link between Beverly Carlysle and the Thorwald woman. But I + couldn't connect him with Beverly herself, except by a chance. I wired a + man I knew in Omaha, and he turned up the second marriage, and a daughter + known on the stage as Beverly Carlysle.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was in high spirits. He moved about the room immensely pleased + with himself, slightly boastful. + </p> + <p> + “Some little stroke, Dick!” he said. “What price Mr. Judson Clark + to-night, eh? It will be worth a million dollars to see Wilkins' face when + he reads that thing.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no mention of me as Livingstone in it, is there?” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't necessary to go into that. I didn't know—Look here,” he + exploded, “you're not going to be a damned fool, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to revive Judson Clark, Bassett. I don't owe him anything. + Let him die a decent death and stay dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, piffle!” Bassett groaned. “Don't start that all over again. Don't + pull any Enoch Arden stuff on me, looking in at a lighted window and + wandering off to drive a taxicab.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Dick laughed. Bassett watched him, puzzled and angry, with a sort + of savage tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “You're crazy,” he said morosely. “Darned if I understand you. Here I've + got everything fixed as slick as a whistle, and it took work, believe me. + And now you say you're going to chuck the whole thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” Dick replied, with a new ring in his voice. “You're right. + I've been ten sorts of a fool, but I know now what I'm going to do. Take + your paper, old friend, and for my sake go out and clear Jud Clark. Put up + a headstone to him, if you like, a good one. I'll buy it.” + </p> + <p> + “And what will you be doing in the meantime?” + </p> + <p> + Dick stretched and threw out his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Me?” he said. “What should I be doing, old man? I'm going home.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLV + </h2> + <p> + Lucy Crosby was dead. One moment she was of the quick, moving about the + house, glancing in at David, having Minnie in the kitchen pin and unpin + her veil; and the next she was still and infinitely mysterious, on her + white bed. She had fallen outside the door of David's room, and lay there, + her arms still full of fresh bath towels, and a fixed and intense look in + her eyes, as though, outside the door, she had come face to face with a + messenger who bore surprising news. Doctor Reynolds, running up the + stairs, found her there dead, and closed the door into David's room. + </p> + <p> + But David knew before they told him. He waited until they had placed her + on her bed, had closed her eyes and drawn a white coverlet over her, and + then he went in alone, and sat down beside her, and put a hand over her + chilling one. + </p> + <p> + “If you are still here, Lucy,” he said, “and have not yet gone on, I want + you to carry this with you. We are all right, here. Everybody is all + right. You are not to worry.” + </p> + <p> + After a time he went back to his room and got his prayer-book. He could + hear Harrison Miller's voice soothing Minnie in the lower hall, and + Reynolds at the telephone. He went back into the quiet chamber, and + opening the prayer-book, began to read aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them + that slept—” + </p> + <p> + His voice tightened. He put his head down on the side of the bed. + </p> + <p> + He was very docile that day. He moved obediently from his room for the + awful aftermath of a death, for the sweeping and dusting and clean + curtains, and sat in Dick's room, not reading, not even praying, a lonely + yet indomitable old figure. When his friends came, elderly men who creaked + in and tried to reduce their robust voices to a decorous whisper, he shook + hands with them and made brief, courteous replies. Then he lapsed into + silence. They felt shut off and uncomfortable, and creaked out again. + </p> + <p> + Only once did he seem shaken. That was when Elizabeth came swiftly in and + put her arms around him as he sat. He held her close to him, saying + nothing for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “I was feeling mighty lonely, my dear,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He was the better for her visit. He insisted on dressing that evening, and + on being helped down the stairs. The town, which had seemed inimical for + so long, appeared to him suddenly to be holding out friendly hands. More + than friendly hands. Loving, tender hands, offering service and affection + and old-time friendship. It moved about sedately, in dark clothes, and + came down the stairs red-eyed and using pocket-hand-kerchiefs, and it + surrounded him with love and loving kindness. + </p> + <p> + When they had all gone Harrison Miller helped him up the stairs to where + his tidy bed stood ready, and the nurse had placed his hot milk on a + stand. But Harrison did not go at once. + </p> + <p> + “What about word to Dick, David?” he inquired awkwardly, “I've called up + Bassett, but he's away. And I don't know that Dick ought to come back + anyhow. If the police are on the job at all they'll be on the lookout now. + They'll know he may try to come.” + </p> + <p> + David looked away. Just how much he wanted Dick, to tide him over these + bad hours, only David knew. But he could not have him. He stared at the + glass of hot milk. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I can fight this out alone, Harrison,” he said. “And Lucy will + understand.” + </p> + <p> + He did not sleep much that night. Once or twice he got up and tip-toed + across the hall into Lucy's room and looked at her. She was as white as + her pillow, and quite serene. Her hands, always a little rough and twisted + with service, were smooth and rested. + </p> + <p> + “You know why he can't come, Lucy,” he said once. “It doesn't mean that he + doesn't care. You have to remember that.” His sublime faith that she heard + and understood, not the Lucy on the bed but the Lucy who had not yet gone + on to the blessed company of heaven, carried him back to his bed, + comforted and reassured. + </p> + <p> + He was up and about his room early. The odor of baking muffins and frying + ham came up the stair-well, and the sound of Mike vigorously polishing the + floor in the hall. Mixed with the odor of cooking and of floor wax was the + scent of flowers from Lucy's room, and Mrs. Sayre's machine stopped at the + door while the chauffeur delivered a great mass of roses. + </p> + <p> + David went carefully down the stairs and into his office, and there, at + his long deserted desk, commenced a letter to Dick. + </p> + <p> + He was sitting there when Dick came up the street... + </p> + <p> + The thought that he was going home had upheld Dick through the days that + followed Bassett's departure for the West. He knew that it would be a + fight, that not easily does a man step out of life and into it again, but + after his days of inaction he stood ready to fight. For David, for Lucy, + and, if it was not too late, for Elizabeth. When Bassett's wire came from + Norada, “All clear,” he set out for Haverly, more nearly happy than for + months. The very rhythm of the train sang: “Going home; going home.” + </p> + <p> + At the Haverly station the agent stopped, stared at him and then nodded + gravely. There was something restrained in his greeting, like the voices + in the old house the night before, and Dick felt a chill of apprehension. + He never thought of Lucy, but David... The flowers and ribbon at the door + were his first intimation, and still it was David he thought of. He went + cold and bitter, standing on the freshly washed pavement, staring at them. + It was all too late. David! David! + </p> + <p> + He went into the house slowly, and the heavy scent of flowers greeted him. + The hall was empty, and automatically he pushed open the door to David's + office and went in. David was at the desk writing. David was alive. Thank + God and thank God, David was alive. + </p> + <p> + “David!” he said brokenly. “Dear old David!” And was suddenly shaken with + dry, terrible sobbing. + </p> + <p> + There was a great deal to do, and Dick was grateful for it. But first, + like David, he went in and sat by Lucy's bed alone and talked to her. Not + aloud, as David did, but still with that same queer conviction that she + heard. He told her he was free, and that she need not worry about David, + that he was there now to look after him; and he asked her, if she could, + to help him with Elizabeth. Then he kissed her and went out. + </p> + <p> + He met Elizabeth that day. She had come to the house, and after her custom + now went up, unwarned, to David's room. She found David there and Harrison + Miller, and—it was a moment before she realized it—Dick by the + mantel. He was greatly changed. She saw that. But she had no feeling of + pity, nor even of undue surprise. She felt nothing at all. It gave her a + curious, almost hard little sense of triumph to see that he had gone pale. + She marched up to him and held out her hand, mindful of the eyes on her. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so very sorry, Dick,” she said. “You have a sad home-coming.” + </p> + <p> + Then she withdrew her hand, still calm, and turned to David. + </p> + <p> + “Mother sent over some things. I'll give them to Minnie,” she said, her + voice clear and steady. She went out, and they heard her descending the + stairs. + </p> + <p> + She was puzzled to find out that her knees almost gave way on the + staircase, for she felt calm and without any emotion whatever. And she + finished her errand, so collected and poised that the two or three women + who had come in to help stared after her as she departed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose she's seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “She was in David's room. She must have.” + </p> + <p> + Mindful of Mike, they withdrew into Lucy's sitting-room and closed the + door, there to surmise and to wonder. Did he know she was engaged to + Wallie Sayre? Would she break her engagement now or not? Did Dick for a + moment think that he could do as he had done, go away and jilt a girl, and + come back to be received as though nothing had happened? Because, if he + did... + </p> + <p> + To Dick Elizabeth's greeting had been a distinct shock. He had not known + just what he had expected; certainly he had not hoped to pick things up + where he had dropped them. But there was a hard friendliness in it that + was like a slap in the face. He had meant at least to fight to win back + with her, but he saw now that there would not even be a fight. She was not + angry or hurt. The barrier was more hopeless than that. + </p> + <p> + David, watching him, waited until Harrison had gone, and went directly to + the subject. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever stopped to think what these last months have meant to + Elizabeth? Her own worries, and always this infernal town, talking, + talking. The child's pride's been hurt, as well as her heart.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I'd better not go into that until after—until later,” he + explained. “The other thing was wrong. I knew it the moment I saw Beverly + and I didn't go back again. What was the use? But—you saw her face, + David. I think she doesn't even care enough to hate me.” + </p> + <p> + “She's cared enough to engage herself to Wallace Sayre!” + </p> + <p> + After one astounded glance Dick laughed bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “That looks as though she cared!” he said. He had gone very white. After a + time, as David sat silent and thoughtful, he said: “After all, what right + had I to expect anything else? When you think that, a few days ago, I was + actually shaken at the thought of seeing another woman, you can hardly + blame her.” + </p> + <p> + “She waited a long time.” + </p> + <p> + Later Dick made what was a difficult confession under the circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “I know now—I think I knew all along, but the other thing was like + that craving for liquor I told you about—I know now that she has + always been the one woman. You'll understand that, perhaps, but she + wouldn't. I would crawl on my knees to make her believe it, but it's too + late. Everything's too late,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Before the hour for the services he went in again and sat by Lucy's bed, + but she who had given him wise counsel so many times before lay in her + majestic peace, surrounded by flowers and infinitely removed. Yet she gave + him something. Something of her own peace. Once more, as on the night she + had stood at the kitchen door and watched him disappear in the darkness, + there came the tug of the old familiar things, the home sense. Not only + David now, but the house. The faded carpet on the stairs, the old + self-rocker Lucy had loved, the creaking faucets in the bathroom, Mike and + Minnie, the laboratory,—united in their shabby strength, they were + home to him. They had come back, never to be lost again. Home. + </p> + <p> + Then, little by little, they carried their claim further. They were not + only home. They were the setting of a dream, long forgotten but now vivid + in his mind, and a refuge from the dreary present. That dream had seen + Elizabeth enshrined among the old familiar things; the old house was to be + a sanctuary for her and for him. From it and from her in the dream he was + to go out in the morning; to it and to her he was to come home at night, + after he had done a man's work. + </p> + <p> + The dream faded. Before him rose her face of the morning, impassive and + cool; her eyes, not hostile but indifferent. She had taken herself out of + his life, had turned her youth to youth, and forgotten him. He understood + and accepted it. He saw himself as he must have looked to her, old and + worn, scarred from the last months, infinitely changed. And she was young. + Heavens, how young she was!... + </p> + <p> + Lucy was buried the next afternoon. It was raining, and the quiet + procession followed Dick and the others who carried her light body under + grotesquely bobbing umbrellas. Then he and David, and Minnie and Mike, + went back to the house, quiet with that strange emptiness that follows a + death, the unconscious listening for a voice that will not speak again, + for a familiar footfall. David had not gone upstairs. He sat in Lucy's + sitting-room, in his old frock coat and black tie, with a knitted afghan + across his knees. His throat looked withered in his loose collar. And + there for the first time they discussed the future. + </p> + <p> + “You're giving up a great deal, Dick,” David said. “I'm proud of you, and + like you I think the money's best where it is. But this is a prejudiced + town, and they think you've treated Elizabeth badly. If you don't intend + to tell the story—” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” Dick announced, firmly. “Judson Clark is dead.” He smiled at + David with something of his old humor. “I told Bassett to put up a + monument if he wanted to. But you're right about one thing. They're not + ready to take me back. I've seen it a dozen times in the last two days.” + </p> + <p> + “I never gave up a fight yet.” David's voice was grim. + </p> + <p> + “On the other hand, I don't want to make it uncomfortable for her. We are + bound to meet. I'm putting my own feeling aside. It doesn't matter—except + of course to me. What I thought was—We might go into the city. + Reynolds would buy the house. He's going to be married.” + </p> + <p> + But he found himself up against the stone wall of David's opposition. He + was too old to be uprooted. He liked to be able to find his way around in + the dark. He was almost childish about it, and perhaps a trifle terrified. + But it was his final argument that won Dick over. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you'd found out there's nothing in running away from trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Dick straightened. + </p> + <p> + “You're right,” he said. “We'll stay here and fight it out together.” + </p> + <p> + He helped David up the stairs to where the nurse stood waiting, and then + went on into his own bedroom. He surveyed it for the first time since his + return with a sense of permanency and intimacy. Here, from now on, was to + center his life. From this bed he would rise in the morning, to go back to + it at night. From this room he would go out to fight for place again, and + for the old faith in him, for confiding eyes and the clasp of friendly + hands. + </p> + <p> + He sat down by the window and with the feeling of dismissing them forever + retraced slowly and painfully the last few months; the night on the + mountains, and Bassett asleep by the fire; the man from the cabin caught + under the tree, with his face looking up, strangely twisted, from among + the branches; dawn in the alfalfa field, and the long night tramp; the boy + who had recognized him in Chicago; David in his old walnut bed, shrivelled + and dauntless; and his own going out into the night, with Lucy in the + kitchen doorway, Elizabeth and Wallace Sayre on the verandah, and himself + across the street under the trees; Beverly, and the illumination of his + freedom from the old bonds; Gregory, glib and debonair, telling his lying + story, and later on, flying to safety. His half-brother! + </p> + <p> + All that, and now this quiet room, with David asleep beyond the wall and + Minnie moving heavily in the kitchen below, setting her bread to rise. It + was anti-climacteric, ridiculous, wonderful. + </p> + <p> + Then he thought of Elizabeth, and it became terrible. + </p> + <p> + After Reynolds came up he put on a dressing-gown and went down the stairs. + The office was changed and looked strange and unfamiliar. But when he + opened the door and went into the laboratory nothing had been altered + there. It was as though he had left it yesterday; the microscope screwed + to its stand, the sterilizer gleaming and ready. It was as though it had + waited for him. + </p> + <p> + He was content. He would fight and he would work. That was all a man + needed, a good fight, and work for his hands and brain. A man could live + without love if he had work. + </p> + <p> + He sat down on the stool and groaned. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLVI + </h2> + <p> + One thing Dick knew must be done and got over with. He would have to see + Elizabeth and tell her the story. He knew it would do no good, but she had + a right to the fullest explanation he could give her. She did not love + him, but it was intolerable that she should hate him. + </p> + <p> + He meant, however, to make no case for himself. He would have to stand on + the facts. This thing had happened to him; the storm had come, wrought its + havoc and passed; he was back, to start again as nearly as he could where + he had left off. That was all. + </p> + <p> + He went to the Wheeler house the next night, passing the door twice before + he turned in and rang the bell, in order that his voice might be calm and + his demeanor unshaken. But the fact that Micky, waiting on the porch, knew + him and broke into yelps of happiness and ecstatic wriggling almost lost + him his self-control. + </p> + <p> + Walter Wheeler opened the door and admitted him. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you might come,” he said. “Come in.” + </p> + <p> + There was no particular warmth in his voice, but no unfriendliness. He + stood by gravely while Dick took off his overcoat, and then led the way + into the library. + </p> + <p> + “I'd better tell you at once,” he said, “that I have advised Elizabeth to + see you, but that she refuses. I'd much prefer—” He busied himself + at the fire for a moment. “I'd much prefer to have her see you, + Livingstone. But—I'll tell you frankly—I don't think it would + do much good.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down and stared at the fire. Dick remained standing. “She doesn't + intend to see me at all?” he asked, unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “That's rather out of the question, if you intend to remain here. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + An unexpected feeling of sympathy for the tall young man on the hearth rug + stirred in Walter Wheeler's breast. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, Dick. She apparently reached the breaking point a week or two + ago. She knew you had been here and hadn't seen her, for one thing.” He + hesitated. “You've heard of her engagement?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't want it,” her father said drearily. “I suppose she knows her own + business, but the thing's done. She sent you a message,” he added after a + pause. “She's glad it's cleared up and I believe you are not to allow her + to drive you away. She thinks David needs you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I'll have to stay, as she says.” + </p> + <p> + There was another uncomfortable silence. Then Walter Wheeler burst out: + </p> + <p> + “Confound it, Dick, I'm sorry. I've fought your battles for months, not + here, but everywhere. But here's a battle I can't fight. She isn't angry. + You'll have to get her angle of it. I think it's something like this. She + had built you up into a sort of superman. And she's—well, I suppose + purity is the word. She's the essence of purity. Then, Leslie told me this + to-night, she learned from him that you were back with the woman in the + case, in New York.” + </p> + <p> + And, as Dick made a gesture: + </p> + <p> + “There's no use going to him. He was off the beaten track, and he knows + it. He took a chance, to tell her for her own good. He's fond of her. I + suppose that was the last straw.” + </p> + <p> + He sat still, a troubled figure, middle-aged and unhandsome, and very + weary. + </p> + <p> + “It's a bad business, Dick,” he said. + </p> + <p> + After a time Dick stirred. + </p> + <p> + “When I first began to remember,” he said, “I wanted whisky. I would have + stolen it, if I couldn't have got it any other way. Then, when I got it, I + didn't want it. It sickened me. This other was the same sort of thing. + It's done with.” + </p> + <p> + Wheeler nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I understand. But she wouldn't, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I don't suppose she would.” + </p> + <p> + He went away soon after that, back to the quiet house and to David. + Automatically he turned in at his office, but Reynolds was writing there. + He went slowly up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Ann Sayre was frankly puzzled during the next few days. She had had a week + or so of serenity and anticipation, and although things were not quite as + she would have had them, Elizabeth too impassive and even Wallie rather + restrained in his happiness, she was satisfied. But Dick Livingstone's + return had somehow changed everything. + </p> + <p> + It had changed Wallie, too. He was suddenly a man, and not, she suspected, + a very happy man. He came back one day, for instance, to say that he had + taken a partnership in a brokerage office, and gave as his reason that he + was sick of “playing round.” She rather thought it was to take his mind + off something. + </p> + <p> + A few days after the funeral she sent for Doctor Reynolds. “I caught cold + at the cemetery,” she said, when he had arrived and was seated opposite + her in her boudoir. “I really did,” she protested, as she caught his eye. + “I suppose everybody is sending for you, to have a chance to talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Just about.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't blame us. Particularly, you can't blame me. I've got to know + something, doctor. Is he going to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't he going to explain anything? He can't expect just to walk back + into his practise after all these months, and the talk that's been going + on, and do nothing about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see what his going away has to do with it. He's a good doctor, + and a hard worker. When I'm gone—” + </p> + <p> + “You're going, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I may live here, and have an office in the city. I don't care for + general practise; there's no future in it. I may take a special course in + nose and throat.” + </p> + <p> + But she was not interested in his plans. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know something, and only you can tell me. I'm not curious like + the rest; I think I have a right to know. Has he seen Elizabeth Wheeler + yet? Talked to her, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. I'm inclined to think not,” he added cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that he hasn't?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Mrs. Sayre. You've confided in me, and I know it's important + to you. I don't know a thing. I'm to stay on until the end of the week, + and then he intends to take hold. I'm in and out, see him at meals, and + we've had a little desultory talk. There is no trouble between the two + families. Mr. Wheeler comes and goes. If you ask me, I think Livingstone + has simply accepted the situation as he found it.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn't going to explain anything? He'll have to, I think, if he expects + to practise here. There have been all sorts of stories.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Mrs. Sayre.” + </p> + <p> + “How is Doctor David?” she asked, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Better. It wouldn't surprise me now to see him mend rapidly.” + </p> + <p> + He met Elizabeth on his way down the hill, a strange, bright-eyed + Elizabeth, carrying her head high and a bit too jauntily, and with a sort + of hot defiance in her eyes. He drove on, thoughtfully. All this turmoil + and trouble, anxiety and fear, and all that was left a crushed and tragic + figure of a girl, and two men in an old house, preparing to fight that one + of them might regain the place he had lost. + </p> + <p> + It would be a fight. Reynolds saw the village already divided into two + camps, a small militant minority, aligned with Dick and David, and a + waiting, not particularly hostile but intensely curious majority, who + would demand certain things before Dick's reinstatement in their + confidence. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth Wheeler was an unconscious party to the division. It was, in a + way, her battle they were fighting. And Elizabeth had gone over to the + enemy. + </p> + <p> + Late that afternoon Ann Sayre had her first real talk with Wallie since + Dick's return. She led him out onto the terrace, her shoulders militant + and her head high, and faced him there. + </p> + <p> + “I can see you are not going to talk to me,” she said. “So I'll talk to + you. Has Dick Livingstone's return made any change between Elizabeth and + you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “She's just the same to you? You must tell me, Wallace. I've been building + so much.” + </p> + <p> + She realized the change in him then more fully than ever for he faced her + squarely and without evasion. + </p> + <p> + “There's no change in her, mother, but I think you and I will both have to + get used to this: she's not in love with me. She doesn't pretend to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me it's still that man!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” He took a turn or two about the terrace. “I don't think it + is, mother. I don't think she cares for anybody, that way, certainly not + for me. And that's the trouble.” He faced her again. “If marrying me isn't + going to make her happy, I won't hold her to it. You'll have to support me + in that, mother. I'm a pretty weak sister sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + That appeal touched her as nothing had done for a long time. “I'll help + all I can, if the need comes,” she said, and turned and went heavily into + the house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLVII + </h2> + <p> + David was satisfied. The great love of his life had been given to Dick, + and now Dick was his again. He grieved for Lucy, but he knew that the + parting was not for long, and that from whatever high place she looked + down she would know that. He was satisfied. He looked on his work and + found it good. There was no trace of weakness nor of vacillation in the + man who sat across from him at the table, or slammed in and out of the + house after his old fashion. + </p> + <p> + But he was not content. At first it was enough to have Dick there, to stop + in the doorway of his room and see him within, occupied with the prosaic + business of getting into his clothes or out of them, now and then to put a + hand on his shoulder, to hear him fussing in the laboratory again, and to + be called to examine divers and sundry smears to which Dick attached + impressive importance and more impressive names. But behind Dick's surface + cheerfulness he knew that he was eating his heart out. + </p> + <p> + And there was nothing to be done. Nothing. Secretly David watched the + papers for the announcement of Elizabeth's engagement, and each day drew a + breath of relief when it did not come. And he had done another thing + secretly, too; he did not tell Dick when her ring came back. Annie had + brought the box, without a letter, and the incredible cruelty of the thing + made David furious. He stamped into his office and locked it in a drawer, + with the definite intention of saving Dick that one additional pang at a + time when he already had enough to hear. + </p> + <p> + For things were going very badly. The fight was on. + </p> + <p> + It was a battle without action. Each side was dug in and entrenched, and + waiting. It was an engagement where the principals met occasionally the + neutral ground of the streets, bowed to each other and passed on. + </p> + <p> + The town was sorry for David and still fond of him, but it resented his + stiff-necked attitude. It said, in effect, that when he ceased to make + Dick's enemies his it was willing to be friends. But it said also, to each + other and behind its hands, that Dick's absence was discreditable or it + would be explained, and that he had behaved abominably to Elizabeth. It + would be hanged if it would be friends with him. + </p> + <p> + It looked away, but it watched. Dick knew that when he passed by on the + streets it peered at him from behind its curtains, and whispered behind + his back. Now and then he saw, on his evening walks, that line of cars + drawn up before houses he had known and frequented which indicated a + party, but he was never asked. He never told David. + </p> + <p> + It was only when the taboo touched David that Dick was resentful, and then + he was inclined to question the wisdom of his return. It hurt him, for + instance, to see David give up his church, and reading morning prayer + alone at home on Sunday mornings, and to see his grim silence when some of + his old friends were mentioned. + </p> + <p> + Yet on the surface things were much as they had been. David rose early, + and as he improved in health, read his morning paper in his office while + he waited for breakfast. Doctor Reynolds had gone, and the desk in Dick's + office was back where it belonged. In the mornings Mike oiled the car in + the stable and washed it, his old pipe clutched in his teeth, while from + the kitchen came the sounds of pans and dishes, and the odor of frying + sausages. And Dick splashed in the shower, and shaved by the mirror with + the cracked glass in the bathroom. But he did not sing. + </p> + <p> + The house was very quiet. Now and then the front door opened, and a + patient came in, but there was no longer the crowded waiting-room, the + incessant jangle of the telephone, the odor of pungent drugs and + antiseptics. + </p> + <p> + When, shortly before Christmas, Dick looked at the books containing the + last quarter's accounts, he began to wonder how long they could fight + their losing battle. He did not mind for himself, but it was unthinkable + that David should do without, one by one, the small luxuries of his old + age, his cigars, his long and now errandless rambles behind Nettie. + </p> + <p> + He began then to think of his property, his for the claiming, and to + question whether he had not bought his peace at too great a cost to David. + He knew by that time that it was not fear, but pride, which had sent him + back empty-handed, the pride of making his own way. And now and then, too, + he felt a perfectly human desire to let Bassett publish the story as his + vindication and then snatch David away from them all, to some luxurious + haven where—that was the point at which he always stopped—where + David could pine away in homesickness for them! + </p> + <p> + There was an irony in it that made him laugh hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + He occupied himself then with ways and means, and sold the car. Reynolds, + about to be married and busily furnishing a city office, bought it, had it + repainted a bright blue, and signified to the world at large that he was + at the Rossiter house every night by leaving it at the curb. Sometimes, on + long country tramps, Dick saw it outside a farmhouse, and knew that the + boycott was not limited to the town. + </p> + <p> + By Christmas, however, he realized that the question of meeting their + expenses necessitated further economies, and reluctantly at last they + decided to let Mike go. Dick went out to the stable with a distinct + sinking of the heart, while David sat in the house, unhappily waiting for + the thing to be done. But Mike refused to be discharged. + </p> + <p> + “And is it discharging me you are?” he asked, putting down one of David's + boots in his angry astonishment. “Well, then, I'm telling you you're not.” + </p> + <p> + “We can't pay you any longer, Mike. And now that the car's gone—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not thinking about pay. I'm not going, and that's flat. Who'd be + after doing his boots and all?” + </p> + <p> + David called him in that night and dismissed him again, this time very + firmly. Mike said nothing and went out, but the next morning he was + scrubbing the sidewalk as usual, and after that they gave it up. + </p> + <p> + Now and then Dick and Elizabeth met on the street, and she bowed to him + and went on. At those times it seemed incredible that once he had held her + in his arms, and that she had looked up at him with loving, faithful eyes. + He suffered so from those occasional meetings that he took to watching for + her, so as to avoid her. Sometimes he wished she would marry Wallace + quickly, so he would be obliged to accept what now he knew he had not + accepted at all. + </p> + <p> + He had occasional spells of violent anger at her, and of resentment, but + they died when he checked up, one after the other, the inevitable series + of events that had led to the catastrophe. But it was all nonsense to say + that love never died. She had loved him, and there was never anything so + dead as that love of hers. + </p> + <p> + He had been saved one thing, however; he had never seen her with Wallie + Sayre. Then, one day in the country while he trudged afoot to make one of + his rare professional visits, they went past together in Wallie's bright + roadster. The sheer shock of it sent him against a fence, staring after + them with an anger that shook him. + </p> + <p> + Late in November Elizabeth went away for a visit, and it gave him a + breathing spell. But the strain was telling on him, and Bassett, stopping + on his way to dinner at the Wheelers', told him so bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “You look pretty rotten,” he said. “It's no time to go to pieces now, when + you've put up your fight and won it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right. I haven't been sleeping. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “How about the business? People coming to their senses?” + </p> + <p> + “Not very fast,” Dick admitted. “Of course it's a little soon.” + </p> + <p> + After dinner at the Wheelers', when Walter Wheeler had gone to a vestry + meeting, Bassett delivered himself to Margaret of a highly indignant + harangue on the situation in general. + </p> + <p> + “That's how I see it,” he finished. “He's done a fine thing. A finer thing + by a damned sight than I'd do, or any of this town. He's given up money + enough to pay the national debt—or nearly. If he'd come back with + it, as Judson Clark, they wouldn't have cared a hang for the past. They'd + have licked his boots. It makes me sick.” + </p> + <p> + He turned on her. + </p> + <p> + “You too, I think, Mrs. Wheeler. I'm not attacking you on that score; it's + human nature. But it's the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “They'll drive him to doing it yet. He came back to make a place for + himself again, like a man. Not what he had, but what he was. But they'll + drive him away, mark my words.” + </p> + <p> + Later on, but more gently, he introduced the subject of Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + “You can't get away from this, Mrs. Wheeler. So long as she stands off, + and you behind her, the town is going to take her side. She doesn't know + it, but that's how it stands. It all hangs on her. If he wasn't the man he + is, I'd say his salvation hangs on her. I don't mean she ought to take him + back; it's too late for that, if she's engaged. But a little friendliness + and kindness wouldn't do any harm. You too. Do you ever have him here?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I, as things are?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, be friendly, anyhow,” he argued. “That's not asking much. I suppose + he'd cut my throat if he knew, but I'm a straight-to-the-mark sort of + person, and I know this: what this house does the town will do.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll talk to Mr. Wheeler. I don't know. I'll say this, Mr. Bassett. I + won't make her unhappy. She has borne a great deal, and sometimes I think + her life is spoiled. She is very different.” + </p> + <p> + “If she is suffering, isn't it possible she cares for him?” + </p> + <p> + But Margaret did not think so. She was so very calm. She was so calm that + sometimes it was alarming. + </p> + <p> + “He gave her a ring, and the other day I found it, tossed into a drawer + full of odds and ends. I haven't seen it lately; she may have sent it + back.” + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth came home shortly before Christmas, undeniably glad to be back + and very gentle with them all. She set to work almost immediately on the + gifts, wrapping them and tying them with methodical exactness, sticking a + tiny sprig of holly through the ribbon bow, and writing cards with + neatness and care. She hung up wreaths and decorated the house, and when + she was through with her work she went to her room and sat with her hands + folded, not thinking. She did not think any more. + </p> + <p> + Wallie had sent her a flexible diamond bracelet as a Christmas gift and it + lay on her table in its box. She was very grateful, but she had not put it + on. + </p> + <p> + On the morning before Christmas Nina came in, her arms full of packages, + and her eyes shining and a little frightened. She had some news for them. + She hadn't been so keen about it, at first, but Leslie was like a madman. + He was so pleased that he was ordering her that sable cape she had wanted + so. He was like a different man. And it would be July. + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth kissed her. It seemed very unreal, like everything else. She + wondered why Leslie should be so excited, or her mother crying. She + wondered if there was something strange about her, that it should seem so + small and unimportant. But then, what was important? That one got up in + the morning, and ate at intervals, and went to bed at night? That children + came, and had to be fed and washed and tended, and cried a great deal, and + were sick now and then? + </p> + <p> + She wished she could feel something, could think it vital whether Nina + should choose pink or blue for her layette, and how far she should walk + each day, and if the chauffeur drove the car carefully enough. She wished + she cared whether it was going to rain to-morrow or not, or whether some + one was coming, or not coming. And she wished terribly that she could care + for Wallie, or get over the feeling that she had saved her pride at a cost + to him she would not contemplate. + </p> + <p> + After a time she went upstairs and put on the bracelet. And late in the + afternoon she went out and bought some wool, to make an afghan. It eased + her conscience toward Nina. She commenced it that evening while she waited + for Wallie, and she wondered if some time she would be making an afghan + for a coming child of her own. Hers and Wallace Sayre's. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she knew she would never marry him. She faced the future, with + all that it implied, and she knew she could not do it. It was horrible + that she had even contemplated it. It would be terrible to tell Wallie, + but not as terrible as the other thing. She saw herself then with the same + clearness with which she had judged Dick. She too, leaving her havoc of + wrecked lives behind her; she too going along her headstrong way, raising + hopes not to be fulfilled, and passing on. She too. + </p> + <p> + That evening, Christmas eve, she told Wallie she would not marry him. Told + him very gently, and just after an attempt of his to embrace her. She + would not let him do it. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what's come over you,” he said morosely. “But I'll let you + alone, if that's the way you feel.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, Wallie. It—it makes me shiver.” + </p> + <p> + In a way he was prepared for it but nevertheless he begged for time, for a + less unequivocal rejection. But he found her, for the first time, + impatient with his pleadings. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to go over and over it, Wallie. I'll take the blame. I + should have done it long ago.” + </p> + <p> + She was gentle, almost tender with him, but when he said she had spoiled + his life for him she smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “You think that now. And don't believe I'm not sorry. I am. I hate not + playing the game, as you say. But I don't think for a moment that you'll + go on caring when you know I don't. That doesn't happen. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what I think?” he burst out. “I think you're still mad about + Livingstone. I think you are so mad about him that you don't know it + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + But she only smiled her cool smile and went on with her knitting. After + that he got himself in hand, and—perhaps he still had some hope. It + was certain that she had not flinched at Dick's name—told her very + earnestly that he only wanted her happiness. He didn't want her unless she + wanted him. He would always love her. + </p> + <p> + “Not always,” she said, with tragically cold certainty. “Men are not like + women; they forget.” + </p> + <p> + She wondered, after he had gone, what had made her say that. + </p> + <p> + She did not tell the family that night. They were full of their own + concerns, Nina's coming maternity, the wrapping of packages behind closed + doors, the final trimming of the tree in the library. Leslie had started + the phonograph, and it was playing “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht.” + </p> + <p> + Still night, holy night, and only in her was there a stillness that was + not holy. + </p> + <p> + They hung up their stockings valiantly as usual, making a little ceremony + of it, and being careful not to think about Jim's missing one. Indeed, + they made rather a function of it, and Leslie demanded one of Nina's baby + socks and pinned it up. + </p> + <p> + “I'm starting a bank account for the little beggar,” he said, and dropped + a gold piece into the toe. “Next year, old girl.” + </p> + <p> + He put his arm around Nina. It seemed to him that life was doing + considerably better than he deserved by him, and he felt very humble and + contrite. He felt in his pocket for the square jeweler's box that lay + there. + </p> + <p> + After that they left Walter Wheeler there, to play his usual part at such + times, and went upstairs. He filled the stockings bravely, an orange in + each toe, a box of candy, a toy for old time's sake, and then the little + knickknacks he had been gathering for days and hiding in his desk. After + all, there were no fewer stockings this year than last. Instead of Jim's + there was the tiny one for Nina's baby. That was the way things went. He + took away, but also He gave. + </p> + <p> + He sat back in his deep chair, and looked up at the stockings, ludicrously + bulging. After all, if he believed that He gave and took away, then he + must believe that Jim was where he had tried to think him, filling a + joyous, active place in some boyish heaven. + </p> + <p> + After a while he got up and went to his desk, and getting pen and paper + wrote carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest: You will find this in your stocking in the morning, when you get + up for the early service. And I want you to think over it in the church. + It is filled with tenderness and with anxiety. Life is not so very long, + little daughter, and it has no time to waste in anger or in bitterness. A + little work, a little sleep, a little love, and it is all over. + </p> + <p> + “Will you think of this to-day?” + </p> + <p> + He locked up the house, and went slowly up to bed. Elizabeth found the + letter the next morning. She stood in the bleak room, with the ashes of + last night's fire still smoking, and the stockings overhead not festive in + the gray light, but looking forlorn and abandoned. Suddenly her eyes, dry + and fiercely burning for so long, were wet with tears. It was true. It was + true. A little work, a little sleep, a little love. Not the great love, + perhaps, not the only love of a man's life. Not the love of yesterday, but + of to-day and to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + All the fierce repression of the last weeks was gone. She began to suffer. + She saw Dick coming home, perhaps high with hope that whatever she knew + she would understand and forgive. And she saw herself failing him, cold + and shut away, not big enough nor woman enough to meet him half way. She + saw him fighting his losing battle alone, protecting David but never + himself; carrying Lucy to her quiet grave; sitting alone in his office, + while the village walked by and stared at the windows; she saw him, + gaining harbor after storm, and finding no anchorage there. + </p> + <p> + She turned and went, half blindly, into the empty street. + </p> + <p> + She thought he was at the early service. She did not see him, but she had + once again the thing that had seemed lost forever, the warm sense of his + thought of her. + </p> + <p> + He was there, in the shadowy back pew, with the grill behind it through + which once insistent hands had reached to summon him. He was there, with + Lucy's prayer-book in his hand, and none of the peace of the day in his + heart. He knelt and rose with the others. + </p> + <p> + “O God, who makest us glad with the yearly remembrance of the birth of Thy + Son—” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLVIII + </h2> + <p> + David was beaten; most tragic defeat of all, beaten by those he had loved + and faithfully served. + </p> + <p> + He did not rise on Christmas morning, and Dick, visiting him after an + almost untasted breakfast, found him still in his bed and questioned him + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right,” he asserted. “I'm tired, Dick, that's all. Tired of + fighting. You're young. You can carry it on, and win. But I'll never see + it. They're stronger than we are.” + </p> + <p> + Later he elaborated on that. He had kept the faith. He had run with + courage the race that was set before him. He had stayed up at night and + fought for them. But he couldn't fight against them. + </p> + <p> + Dick went downstairs again and shutting himself in his office fell to + pacing the floor. David was right, the thing was breaking him. Very + seriously now he contemplated abandoning the town, taking David with him, + and claiming his estate. They could travel then; he could get consultants + in Europe; there were baths there, and treatments— + </p> + <p> + The doorbell rang. He heard Minnie's voice in the hail, not too friendly, + and her tap at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Some one in the waiting-room,” she called. + </p> + <p> + When he opened the connecting door he found Elizabeth beyond it, a pale + and frightened Elizabeth, breathless and very still. It was a perceptible + moment before he could control his voice to speak. Then: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you want to see David. I'm sorry, but he isn't well to-day. He + is still in bed.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't come to see David, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot think you want to see me, Elizabeth.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, if you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + He stood aside then and let her pass him into the rear office. + </p> + <p> + But he was not fooled at all. Not he. He had been enough. He knew why she + had come, in the kindness of heart. (She was so little. Good heavens, a + man could crush her to nothing!) She had come because she was sorry for + him, and she had brought forgiveness. It was like her. It was fine. It was + damnable. + </p> + <p> + His voice hardened, for fear it might be soft. + </p> + <p> + “Is this a professional visit, or a Christmas call, Elizabeth? Or perhaps + I shouldn't call you that.” + </p> + <p> + “A Christmas call?” + </p> + <p> + “You know what I mean. The day of peace. The day—what do you think + I'm made of, Elizabeth? To have you here, gentle and good and kind—” + </p> + <p> + He got up and stood over her, tall and almost threatening. + </p> + <p> + “You've been to church, and you've been thinking things over, I know. I + was there. I heard it all, peace on earth, goodwill to men. Bosh. Peace, + when there is no peace. Good will! I don't want your peace and good will.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him timidly. + </p> + <p> + “You don't want to be friends, then?” + </p> + <p> + “No. A thousand times, no,” he said violently. Then, more gently: “I'm + making a fool of myself. I want your peace and good will, Elizabeth. God + knows I need them.” + </p> + <p> + “You frighten me, Dick,” she said, slowly. “I didn't come to bring + forgiveness, if that is what you mean. I came—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me you came to ask it. That would be more than I can bear.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you listen to me for a moment, Dick? I am not good at explaining + things, and I'm nervous. I suppose you can see that.” She tried to smile + at him. “A—a little work, a sleep, a little love, that's life, isn't + it?” + </p> + <p> + He was watching her intently. + </p> + <p> + “Work and trouble, and a long sleep at the end for which let us be duly + thankful—that's life, too. Love? Not every one gets love.” + </p> + <p> + Hopelessness and despair overwhelmed her. He was making it hard for her. + Impossible. She could not go on. + </p> + <p> + “I did not come with peace,” she said tremulously, “but if you don't want + it—” She rose. “I must say this, though, before I go. I blame + myself. I don't blame you. You are wrong if you think I came to forgive + you.” + </p> + <p> + She was stumbling toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Elizabeth, what did bring you?” + </p> + <p> + She turned to him, with her hand on the door knob. “I came because I + wanted to see you again.” + </p> + <p> + He strode after her and catching her by the arm, turned her until he faced + her. + </p> + <p> + “And why did you want to see me again? You can't still care for me. You + know the story. You know I was here and didn't see you. You've seen Leslie + Ward. You know my past. What you don't know—” + </p> + <p> + He looked down into her eyes. “A little work, a little sleep, a little + love,” he repeated. “What did you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + “Just that,” she said simply. “Only not a little love, Dick. Maybe you + don't want me now. I don't know. I have suffered so much that I'm not sure + of anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Want you!” he said. “More than anything on this earth.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett was at his desk in the office. It was late, and the night editor, + seeing him reading the early edition, his feet on his desk, carried over + his coffee and doughnuts and joined him. + </p> + <p> + “Sometime,” he said, “I'm going to get that Clark story out of you. If it + wasn't you who turned up the confession, I'll eat it.” + </p> + <p> + Bassett yawned. + </p> + <p> + “Have it your own way,” he said indifferently. “You were shielding + somebody, weren't you? No? What's the answer?” + </p> + <p> + Bassett made no reply. He picked up the paper and pointed to an item with + the end of his pencil. + </p> + <p> + “Seen this?” + </p> + <p> + The night editor read it with bewilderment. He glanced up. + </p> + <p> + “What's that got to do with the Clark case?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Nice people, though. Know them both.” + </p> + <p> + When the night editor walked away, rather affronted, Bassett took up the + paper and reread the paragraph. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. and Mrs. Walter Wheeler, of Haverly, announce the engagement of their + daughter, Elizabeth, to Doctor Richard Livingstone.” + </p> + <p> + He sat for a long time staring at it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Breaking Point, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BREAKING POINT *** + +***** This file should be named 1601-h.htm or 1601-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/1601/ + +Produced by Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteers, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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