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-Project Gutenberg's The Redemption Of Kenneth Galt, by Will N. Harben
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world 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.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: The Redemption Of Kenneth Galt
-
-Author: Will N. Harben
-
-Release Date: February 4, 2017 [EBook #54104]
-Last Updated: April 27, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REDEMPTION OF KENNETH GALT ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-THE REDEMPTION OF KENNETH GALT
-
-By Will N. Harben
-
-Author of “Gilbert Neal” “Abner Daniel” “The Georgians” “Ann Boyd” etc.
-
-New York and London: Harper Brothers Publishers
-
-M C M I X
-
-[Illustration: 0001]
-
-[Illustration: 0008]
-
-[Illustration: 0009]
-
-
-TO
-
-MABELLE
-
-
-
-
-PART I
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I
-
-|YOUNG Doctor Dearing sat in the little church at an open window through
-which he had a partial view of that portion of old Stafford which
-stretched out desultorily toward the east. Immediately in front was a
-common fairly well covered with grass and weeds, except at the pawed and
-beaten spot where the public hitched its riding-horses, and beyond stood
-rows of old-fashioned residences of brick and stone, interspersed with
-a few modern frame cottages which, in gaudy paint, thrust themselves
-nearer the street than their more stately neighbors.
-
-It was a Sunday morning, and the smile of a balmy spring day lay over
-every visible object, filling the ambient air with a translucent message
-that no human mind could interpret. It was as though an infinite God
-were speaking to eyes and ears too coarsely fashioned to fully see and
-hear.
-
-The whole was conducive to the doctor's feeling of restfulness and
-content and good-will to every human being. He liked the young minister
-who was seated in the high-backed rosewood chair behind the white
-pulpit, holding a massive Bible on his slender knees, a look of
-consecration to a sacred cause in his brown eyes. There was an assuring
-augury that spoke well for the youth of the town in the spectacle of the
-choir--the young men in their best clothes, and the young women in their
-flower-like dresses and plumed and ribboned hats.
-
-His gaze was drawn perforce to the face of the young organist, who sat
-staring listlessly over the top of her hymn-book. She had a face and
-form of rare beauty and grace. Her features were most regular; her skin
-clear; her eyes were large, long-lashed, dreamy, and of the color of
-violets. Her hair was a living mass of silken bronze.
-
-“She looks tired and worried,” was Dearing's half-professional comment.
-“Perhaps her mother is worse, and she sat up last night. Poor Dora! she
-has certainly had a lot to contend with since her father died. I'll wait
-for her after church and ask about her mother.”
-
-The service over, he made his way through the throng down the aisle
-toward the door. He was quite popular, and there was many a hand to
-shake and many a warm greeting to respond to, but he finally succeeded
-in reaching a point in the shaded church-yard which Dora Barry would
-pass on her way home, and there he waited.
-
-For some unaccountable reason she was almost the last to leave the
-church, and the congregation had well-nigh dispersed when he saw her
-coming. He noticed that she kept her glance on the ground, and that her
-step was slow and languid; he was all but sure, too, that he heard her
-sigh, and he saw her firm round breast heave tremulously as she neared
-him.
-
-“Good-morning, Dora,” he said, cheerily; and she started as, for the
-first time, she noticed his presence.
-
-“Oh!” she exclaimed, a flush forcing itself into the pallor of her
-really exquisite face. “I thought--that is, I didn't expect to--to see
-you here, and, and--”
-
-“I have been watching you this morning instead of the preacher,” he
-said, with a boyish laugh, “and I made up my mind that I'll have to take
-you in hand. You are burning the candle at both ends, and there is a
-fire-cracker in the middle. What is the use of being your family doctor
-if I let you get down sick, when I can prevent it by raking you over the
-coals? How is your mother? You had to be up last night--I can see it by
-the streaks under your eyes.”
-
-“No, I wasn't up,” the girl answered. The color had receded from her
-cheeks, and the abstracted expression which he had noticed in the church
-began to repossess her wondrous eyes. “She is not quite well yet, but
-she did not call me at all through the night. Your last prescription did
-her good; it soothed her pain, and she rested better.”
-
-“Well, I'm going to walk home with you and stop in and see her, to make
-sure,” he answered, still lightly. “If you don't look out you will be
-down yourself. Two sick persons in a family of two wouldn't be any
-fun.” She made no response; her eyes had a far-off look in their shadowy
-depths, and as he walked along beside her he eyed her profile curiously.
-
-“Well, I declare, Dora,” he said, half jestingly, “you don't seem
-overjoyed to have a fellow's company. Of course, I'm not a ladies' man,
-and--”
-
-“Forgive me, Wynn.” She looked up anxiously, and her lip trembled as she
-suppressed another sigh. “It wasn't that I didn't want you to come. You
-know better than to accuse me of such a thing. I have always considered
-you the best, kindest, and truest friend I have.”
-
-“I was only joking,” he responded, touched by the undoubted sincerity
-of her tone and manner; “but, really, I don't like to see my little
-neighbor looking so glum, and I am going to stop in and see how your
-mother is. If she needs a trained nurse I'll get one, or come over and
-look after her myself.”
-
-They had reached the cottage where Dora lived. It was small, and stood
-in a diminutive but rather pretty flower-garden on a short, little used
-street immediately behind Dearing's home. And when he had opened the
-sagging gate in the white paling fence, she preceded him into the low,
-vine-grown porch, and narrow, box-like hallway, from which she led him
-into the parlor, the room opposite to the chamber of the sick woman.
-
-“Sit down, won't you?” Dora said, in a weary tone, as she began to
-unfasten her hat. “I'll tell her you are here.”
-
-He took a seat in the bowed window of the plainly furnished room, and
-she brought a palm-leaf fan to him. “I'm sure my mother won't keep you
-waiting long.” And with the look of abstraction deepening on her mobile
-face, she turned away.
-
-A neat matting made of green and brown straw covered the floor, on which
-were placed rugs made of scraps of silk of various colors artistically
-blended. A carved rosewood table with a white marble top stood in the
-centre of the room, and on it rested a plush-covered photograph-album,
-a glass lamp with a fluted and knotched paper shade on a frame of wire,
-and a vase of freshly cut flowers. Between the two front windows, which,
-like their fellows, were draped in white lace curtains of the cheapest
-quality, stood Dora's piano--a small, square instrument with sloping
-octagonal legs and lyre-shaped pedal-support. Against the wall near by
-leaned a time-worn easel, on which lay some torn and ragged sketches,
-a besmeared palette, and a handful of stubby, paint-filled brushes. The
-ceiling overhead was made of planks and painted light blue; the walls
-were plastered and whitewashed and ornamented by some really good family
-portraits in oil which had been done by Dora's deceased father, who had
-been the town's only artist. A Seth Thomas clock presided over a crude
-mantelpiece which was bare of any other ornament. The deep chimney was
-filled with pine-tops and cones, the uneven bricks of the hearth were
-whitewashed.
-
-Dearing heard the girl's returning step in the hallway, and then she
-looked in on him.
-
-“She is sitting up,” Dora announced. “She wants you to come to her.”
-
-As he entered the room across the hall Dora turned toward the kitchen
-in the rear, and he found himself facing her mother, a thin, gaunt woman
-about fifty years of age, who sat in a low rocking-chair near her bed,
-the latter orderly arranged under a spotlessly white coverlet and great
-snowy pillows.
-
-“This is not a professional visit, Mrs. Barry.” He smiled as he bent to
-take her thin, nervous hand, the fingers of which were aimlessly picking
-at the fringe on the arm of the chair. “Dora was headed for home, and
-so was I. The truth is, I am not half so much worried about you as I am
-about her. Your color is coming back fast enough, and you have no fever.
-You are all right, but she looks upset and nervous. It may be due to
-her highly artistic temperament, which is a thing medicine can't easily
-reach. Do you know if her appetite is good?”
-
-“Really I haven't noticed about that particularly,” the woman answered,
-in a plaintive tone. “You see, since I got down I haven't been about the
-dining-room at all. She has waited on me instead of me on her.”
-
-“Well, you'll be all right in a day or so,” Dearing said, his brows
-drawn thoughtfully, “and then you can take charge of her. She declares,
-though, that her health is tip-top.”
-
-The old patient folded her thin, blue-veined hands tightly for a moment,
-and twisted them spasmodically together; then suddenly she fixed her
-sharp, gray eyes anxiously on the young man's face, and he saw that she
-was deeply moved, for her lower lip was twitching.
-
-“I have always felt that you are the one young man whom I could
-trust--absolutely trust,” she said, falteringly. “Physicians are
-supposed to keep certain matters to themselves, anyway, but even aside
-from that, Wynn, it is hard to keep from speaking to you in a familiar
-way, having seen you grow up from babyhood right under my eyes, so I
-hope you will forgive me if--”
-
-“Oh, I wouldn't have you quit calling me that for the world!” Dearing
-flushed deeply and laughed. “I haven't grown a full beard yet to make me
-look older and wiser than I am, as many young sawbones do. I hope I'll
-always be simply Wynn Dearing to you, Mrs. Barry.”
-
-She looked as admiringly and as proudly as a mother might at the strong,
-smooth-shaved face, with its merry eyes of brown, firm chin and mouth,
-and shock of thick, dark hair, and at the tall, muscular frame and limbs
-in the neatly cut suit of brown.
-
-“Yes, I can trust you,” she muttered, her voice growing husky, “and it
-seems to me if I don't confide in some one, I may as well give up.”
-
-“Why, what is the matter, Mrs. Barry?” Dearing inquired, now quite
-grave.
-
-“Oh, it is about Dora!” The old woman sighed. “Wynn, I may as well
-confess it. My sickness is partly due to worry over her. It is not
-because she is unwell either. It is something else. I am afraid she
-has some--some secret trouble. You must not show that you suspect
-anything--that would never do; but all is not as it should be with her.
-Naturally she has as happy a disposition as any girl I ever knew. Her
-art pupils adore her, and up to quite recently she used to laugh and
-joke with them constantly; but she has altered--strangely altered. I
-catch her sitting by herself at times with the saddest, most woebegone
-expression on her face. When I try to worm it out of her, she attempts
-to laugh it off; but she can't keep up the pretense, and it is not long
-before she begins to droop again. Her room is there, you see; and as
-the partition is thin, I often wake up in the dead of night and hear her
-cautiously tiptoeing over the floor--first to the window and then back
-to her bed, as though she were unable to sleep.”
-
-“That is bad,” Dearing said, sympathetically, as Mrs. Barry paused and,
-covering her wrinkled face with her hands, remained silent for a moment.
-
-“I would like to ask you something,” the old woman continued,
-hesitatingly--“something of a personal nature. I have no earthly right
-to do such a thing, but I thought, you see, that it might help me decide
-whether I am right in something I fear. Is it true that--that your uncle
-has forbidden Fred Walton to visit your sister Margaret?”
-
-Dearing shrugged his broad shoulders and contracted his heavy brows.
-“I may as well tell you that he has, Mrs. Barry. I don't like to speak
-against another young man, and one who has never harmed me in any way;
-but I agree with my uncle that Fred is not exactly the kind of man I'd
-like to have Madge make an intimate friend of. His general character is
-not what it ought to be, and he seems to be going from bad to worse. He
-still has plenty of friends and even sympathizers, who think Fred would
-reform and settle down to business if his father were not quite so hard
-on him. Madge is one of them. She has a sort of girlish faith in the
-fellow, and the slightest word against him makes her mad.”
-
-“Well, it is about Fred Walton that I want to speak to you,” Mrs. Barry
-resumed, tremulously. “He has been coming to see Dora a good deal for
-the last year. He passes by the gate often in the afternoon, and they
-take long walks over the hills to the river. Sometimes he accompanies
-her when she goes to sketch in the woods. And now and then she slips
-out after dark, and won't say where she has been. You see, I am speaking
-very frankly. I _have_ to, Wynn, for I am in great trouble--greater
-than I ever thought could come to me at my time of life. My child is an
-orphan, and there is no one, you see, to--to protect her. It is hard to
-think that any man here at home could be so--so dishonorable, but they
-all say he is reckless, and--well, if I must say it--I am afraid she
-cares a great deal about him. I may be very wrong, and I hope I am, but
-I am deeply troubled, and need not try to hide it.”
-
-“I see how you feel,” Dearing said, his face hardening as he bit his
-lip, and a fixed stare came into his eyes, “but I am sure you have
-nothing very--very serious to fear. Dora may think she cares for him. He
-seems to have a wonderful way with women, young and old. They all stand
-by him and make excuses for his daredevil ways.”
-
-“Well, I do hope I am wrong,” Mrs. Barry said, brightening a little. “It
-has made me feel better to talk to you. We'll wait and see. As you say,
-it may be only a fancy on Dora's part, and it may all come out right. I
-have said more to you, Wynn, than I could have said to any one else in
-the world. That shows how much confidence I place in you.”
-
-“You can trust me, Mrs. Barry,” Dearing said, as he looked at his watch
-and rose to go. “I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
-
-As he was leaving, Dora stood motionless at the window of her room,
-hidden from his view by the curtains. She watched him as he passed out
-of the yard and crossed the narrow street to reach the rear gate to his
-own grounds.
-
-“If he knew the truth he'd despise me!” she moaned, as she sank into a
-chair and tensely clasped her little hands in her lap. “How can I bear
-it? I'm so miserable--so very, very miserable!”
-
-She rose, and went to her bureau, and took up a photograph of Fred
-Walton; as she gazed at it her eyes filled and her lip quivered.
-
-“Dear, dear Fred!” she said, fervently, “in spite of all the faults they
-say you have, you are the best and truest friend a poor girl ever had.
-If I'd only listened to your advice I'd never have been like this. Oh,
-what will you think when you hear the truth--the awful, awful truth!”
-
-She threw herself on her bed, and with her face covered she lay trying
-to sob, trying to shed tears, but the founts of her agony were dry.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II
-
-|DR. DEARING'S house was an old-fashioned structure built long before
-the Civil War. It fronted on the main residential street of the town,
-and was of red brick partly covered with clinging ivy. It had a colonial
-veranda with the usual tall, fluted columns, which were painted white
-and rested on square blocks of masonry. It had been the property of
-several generations of Dearings more or less distinguished in the
-history of the State, and since the death of the doctor's father, a
-prosperous merchant, slave-holder, and planter, it had been in the
-possession of the brother and sister, who, with an aged maternal uncle,
-General Sylvester, now occupied it.
-
-As Dearing entered the lower gate of the grounds he saw Kenneth Galt,
-his next-door neighbor, crossing the lawn to reach his own house just
-beyond a low hedge of well-trimmed boxwood. And hearing the clicking
-of the iron gate-latch, Galt paused, turned, and advanced toward his
-friend. He was a handsome man, tall, dark, well-built, about thirty-five
-years of age, and with a strong, secretive face--the face of a man full
-of nervous force and the never-satisfied hunger of ambition.
-
-“You've been to church like a good little boy,” he laughed, as he paused
-and stood cutting at the grass with his cane.
-
-“Yes, and it is exactly where you ought to have been,” Dearing retorted,
-with a smile. “If you would only listen to a few good sermons on the
-right line you'd burn up that free-thought library of yours, and quit
-thinking you know more than your good old Godfearing ancestors.”
-
-“I simply couldn't sit and listen to such stuff with a straight face,”
- Galt answered. “Goodness knows, I've tried it often enough. It really
-seems an insult to a fellow's intelligence. I can't agree with you that
-any man ought to try to think as his forefathers did. You don't in your
-profession, why should a man do it in more vital matters? You don't
-bleed your patients as doctors did fifty years ago, because you know
-better. I believe in evolution of mind as well as of matter. We
-are constantly advancing. Your old-time preacher, with all his good
-intentions, is a stumbling-block to intelligence. You may listen to a
-man who tells you your house is burning down over your head and urges
-you to save your life, but if you don't believe him you wouldn't care to
-have him pull you out by the heels on a cold night to convince you. But
-you don't hear what I am saying!” Galt finished, with a short laugh. “I
-am sowing my seed on stony ground. I've been in to see the General. I
-have some important letters about the railroad that he and I are going
-to get built one of these days. As a rule, he is more than eager to talk
-about it, but he was certainly out of sorts just now. I have never seen
-him so upset before. While I was talking to him he kept walking up and
-down the room, and not hearing half I was saying. He is not well, is
-he?”
-
-“No, he really is not in the best of shape,” Dearing answered, with a
-thoughtful shadow on his face; “but I think he will pull through all
-right. I see him on the porch now. I'll walk on, and talk to him.”
-
-As Dearing drew near the house General Sylvester, who was a tall,
-slightly bent old man with long gray beard and hair, came down the steps
-and walked across the grass to a rustic seat under a tree. He was about
-to sit down, but seeing his nephew approaching he remained standing, a
-gaunt hand held over his spectacled eyes to ward off the sunlight.
-
-“I have been waiting for you,” he said, in a piping, irritable voice.
-“Kenneth was in to talk business, but it seems to me that I'll never be
-interested in such things any more. What's the use? I didn't want the
-money for myself, anyway. I saw the others coming back from church some
-time ago, and couldn't imagine what delayed you. I've had another row
-with Madge, and this time it is serious--very, very serious.”
-
-“Oh, _that's_ the trouble!” Dearing cried, and he attempted to laugh.
-“Uncle Tom, in your old age you are just like a school-boy with his
-first sweetheart. You are actually flirting with your own niece. You
-and she bill and coo like doves, and then get cold as ice or as mad as
-Tucker. What's wrong now?”
-
-“Well, I think a young girl like she is ought to take the sound advice
-of a man as old and experienced as I am, and she won't do it. That's
-all--she won't do it, sir!”
-
-“Of course she _ought_ to,” Dearing said, still inclined to jest, “but
-you are wise enough to know that no woman ever took the advice of a man,
-young or old. See here, uncle, I'll bet you haven't had your medicine
-yet, and the dinner-bell will ring soon and you will have to wait
-fifteen minutes before you shall taste a bite. You and I 'll quarrel if
-you don't do as I tell you. Madge won't obey you, but you've got to get
-down on your marrow-bones and follow my orders.”
-
-“Oh, I'll take the blasted stuff in time!” the General fumed. “I don't
-want to eat now, anyway. I tell you, I'm too mad to eat.”
-
-“I suppose it is Fred Walton again,” Dearing said, resignedly.
-
-“Who else could it be?” the old man burst out. “She tries to close my
-eyes as to her doings with him; but I got it straight that he was out
-driving with her last night while you were in the country.”
-
-The face of the doctor clouded over. “You don't mean to say that--”
-
-“I mean that he was afraid to drive up to the door like a gentleman, but
-met her down-town and took her from there, and when they got back, long
-after dark, he left her at Lizzie Sloan's, to keep us from getting on to
-it. You know, folks will talk about a thing like that.”
-
-Dearing's eyes flashed, and a touch of whiteness crept into his face,
-but he said, pacifically: “Oh, there must be some mistake. I hardly
-think Madge would--”
-
-“But there _isn't_ any mistake, for she admitted it to me not ten
-minutes ago, and just as good as told me it was none of my business
-besides. Now, listen to me, my boy. I am an old man, but I am still in
-the possession of my faculties, and I know what I am talking about. I
-was in the bank yesterday, and had a talk with his father. He told me
-frankly that he intended to cut the scamp off without a penny. He gave
-the fellow a position of trust in the bank, but instead of behaving
-himself properly, he started into gambling, speculating in futures, and
-every reckless thing he could think of. He turned customers away, scared
-off depositors, who don't like to leave their money in such hands, and
-in many ways injured the business. Old Walton was so mad he could hardly
-talk to me, and when I told him right out how I felt about my niece
-going with him, he said he didn't blame me; that he wouldn't let such a
-rascal go with a servant of his, much less the acknowledged belle of the
-town, and a prospective heiress. Now, Wynn, this is what I have decided
-to do. You know that I have made my will, leaving all I have in the
-world to her.”
-
-“And it is blamed bully of you, Uncle Tom,” Dearing said, laying his
-hand on the old man's shoulder, which he could feel quivering with a
-passion not good for even a younger man. “I am sure, neither of us is
-worthy of the great interest you have always taken in us.”
-
-“_You_ are, my boy. I am proud of _you_. You are already a shining light
-in your profession, and will make all the money you'll ever need. But I
-always have worried about Madge. I want to provide well for her, and
-I haven't many years to live. Sometimes I think I may snuff out like a
-candle without a moment's notice, so I don't intend to leave my affairs
-in such a shape that Fred Walton will gloat over my demise and throw
-away my savings. No, sir. I tell you if your sister does not agree to
-give that scamp up inside of the next twenty-four hours, I will set my
-effects aside for another purpose.”
-
-“I'll see her and talk to her, Uncle Tom,” Dearing promised, gravely.
-He had never seen the General so highly wrought up, nor heard such an
-exasperated ring in his voice. “Now, you go take your medicine. Madge
-will be sensible. She loves you, I know she does.”
-
-“Well, remember what I've said,” the old soldier threw back as he turned
-away.
-
-Dearing waited till he had disappeared through the side entrance of the
-house, and then he went up the front steps, crossed the wide veranda,
-with its smooth, rain-beaten floor of ancient heart pine, and stood in
-the great hall, straw hat in hand, looking about him.
-
-“I'll see her at once,” he thought. “She must come to her senses. She is
-driving uncle to his grave with worry over her silly conduct.”
-
-“Oh, Madge!” he called out. His voice rang and echoed in the great
-opening through which the walnut stairs and polished balustrade ascended
-to the corridor and sleeping-rooms above, but there was no response.
-
-Still holding his hat, with which he fanned his heated face in an
-absent-minded, perturbed sort of way, Dearing went through all the
-lower rooms--the parlor and library and adjoining study, and even the
-dining-room and kitchen. The colored cook, old Aunt Diana, a former
-slave of the family, in white apron and turbaned head, informed him that
-his sister was in her room.
-
-“I know she is, Marse Wynn, 'case she sent Lindy down fer some fresh
-col' water not mo'n ten minutes ago.”
-
-Back to the front hall Dearing went, and thence up the stairs to his
-sister's room, adjoining his own. The door was ajar, but he stood on the
-threshold and rapped softly.
-
-“Come!” It was a sweet young voice, and belonged to a pretty girl
-seventeen or eighteen years of age, who, as Dearing entered the room,
-sat at a quaint mahogany writing-desk between two lace-curtained windows
-through which a gentle breeze was blowing. She wore a becoming wrapper,
-and her small feet were shod in dainty embroidered slippers. Her
-abundant hair was quite dark, and her eyes very blue. She had been
-writing, for on the page of tinted note-paper before her he saw an
-unfinished sentence in the round, schoolgirl hand.
-
-“I don't want to disturb you, Madge,” Dearing began, “but you will have
-to stop anyway soon, and get ready for dinner.”
-
-“I am not going down,” she told him, her glance falling to the rug at
-her feet. “I had breakfast late, and I am not a bit hungry.”
-
-“But that wouldn't be treating Uncle Tom quite right, you know,” Dearing
-gently protested, as he took a seat on the broad window-sill, swung
-his hat between his knees, and eyed her significantly. “You know how
-childish he is getting, Madge. It really upsets him not to have you at
-the table. He is old-fashioned, and was something of a beau when he was
-a young man. Making a fine lady of you and paying court to you seems to
-be about all the pleasure he gets in life. I know it must be tiresome,
-but there are many things we--”
-
-“He is _childish!_” Margaret exclaimed, her eyes flashing angrily,
-“but I bore with it because I loved him, and because mother would have
-approved it; but he is getting worse and worse. He wants me at his beck
-and call every minute in the day, and even if I go out to see one of
-my girl friends he either comes or sends one of the servants to see if
-anything has happened. Then he--he--oh, there are a lot of things a girl
-can't put up with!”
-
-“You mean his opposition to the visits of a certain friend of yours?”
- Dearing said, in a forced tone of indifference, as he glanced out at the
-window. Although his eyes were still ostentatiously averted, he saw her
-cautiously draw a blank sheet of paper over the lines she had written.
-
-“Yes,” she said, “that is _one_ thing. Fred Walton is a friend of mine,
-and for all I know his feelings may be hurt by what uncle has said and
-done. I know Fred is wild and reckless, but he has a good side to him--a
-side everybody can't see who doesn't know him intimately.”
-
-Young as he was, Wynn Dearing was wise in the ways of the world, and he
-well knew that a temperament and will like his sister's would never
-be coerced. He decided to profit by the error in the method of his
-blustering uncle.
-
-
-“You have never heard _me_ abuse Fred,” he said, gently. “Many young
-men who have wealthy parents are inclined to 'sow wild oats,' as the old
-folks say; but really, Madge”--and he was smiling now--“for an honest,
-inoffensive cereal, the 'wild oat' has to bear the burden of many a
-tough young weed. Charity is said to cover a multitude of sins, but for
-genuine selfsacrifice give me the old-fashioned, long-bearded wild oat,
-in all its verdant and succulent--”
-
-“Brother, I'm not in a mood for silliness!” the girl interrupted him,
-quickly, and with an impatient flush.
-
-“I'm not either, Madge.” He took one of his knees between his hands,
-and drew it up toward him. “The fact is, I am worried--worried like
-everything! I may not show it, but this thing has taken a deep hold on
-me. Something has got to be done, and that right away. Young folks may
-love each other, or _think_ they love each other, and if it does no harm
-to any one _else_, why, all well and good. But if their love business is
-causing suffering--yes, and positive bodily injury to another--then they
-ought to stop and ponder.”
-
-“You mean that Uncle Tom--”
-
-“I mean this, Madge, and now I am talking to you as a physician--_his_
-physician, too. The old man is actually so near the end of his
-natural life that irritation like this is apt to undermine what little
-constitution he has left. I've known old men to worry themselves into
-softening of the brain over smaller things than this. You may not think
-it would make much difference; but remember that if any act of yours and
-Fred Walton's were to cause his death, even indirectly, you could never
-outlive the reproach of your conscience. Uncle Tom is in a dangerous
-condition: his heart-action is bad, and so are his kidneys. You are too
-young a girl to take such a responsibility as that on your shoulders;
-besides, Madge, I must say that Fred--it is my duty as a brother to
-say--”
-
-“You are going to abuse him; remember, you have not done it so far!”
- Margaret broke in. “You won't gain by it, brother. The whole town has
-talked of nothing lately but him and his faults, and I appreciated your
-silence, and so does he. We were speaking about it only yesterday,
-and he praised you for it. He said you were the truest, most perfect
-gentleman he had ever known, that you knew human nature too well to
-expect young men to be absolutely perfect, and that--”
-
-“I wasn't going to say a word against his _honor_, Madge,” Dearing
-interrupted her, gently; “but I am going to say this: if I were in _his_
-place right now I'd feel that I could not conscientiously, or even quite
-honorably, continue to pay attention to a young lady situated--well,
-situated _just as you are_.”
-
-“Why, what do you mean?” the girl asked, her lip quivering stubbornly.
-
-“This, sister, and nothing else. We may say what we please about Fred's
-good qualities, his sincerity, his--his devotion to you; his plans,
-whatever they are; but a very disagreeable fact stands out like a black
-splotch on the whole business, and that is simply this: Fred really has
-failed to make good in the way a man ought to make good who aspires to
-the hand of a girl like yourself. His father gave him a splendid chance
-in the bank, but Fred's best friends admit that he hasn't profited by
-it. Instead of attending to business and helping his old daddy--who,
-harsh old skinflint though he is as to money matters, is a safe man in
-any community--instead of doing what was expected of him, Fred--well, he
-has turned his father against him, that's all. The old man swears he
-is going to cut him off without a penny, and everybody in town knows he
-means it; Fred doesn't dispute it himself. So, taking that along with
-_the other thing_, I honestly can't see how he can talk of love and
-marriage to a girl like you are.”
-
-“What _other_ thing do you mean?” Margaret demanded, pale with
-suppressed emotion.
-
-“I mean the fact that his marriage to you would cause Uncle Tom to
-disinherit you outright. A man might sink low enough to want to marry a
-girl after he himself has been disinherited for his irregular conduct,
-but no creature with a spark of manhood in him would let his act
-impoverish the woman he loves. I have said nothing against him so far,
-but when he knows what uncle has determined to do--when he is told that
-if he persists--well”--Dealing's eyes were burning now with the fire
-of genuine anger--“he'll have _me_ to reckon with, that's all--_me_,
-Madge!”
-
-Margaret stared at him for a moment, and then, with a piteous little
-sob, she covered her face with her hands. “You are going to _tell_ him!”
- she said, huskily. “Yes.” Dearing stood up and laid his hand on her
-head. “I'm going to tell him, Madge, but it will be only for his own
-good. In any case, he couldn't honorably ask you to marry him _now_, and
-the delay--if he is willing to wait--won't do either of you any harm.
-You are both young, and the world is before you. You can't realize it
-now, Madge, but this very thing may be the making of him. If he loves
-you as truly as he ought, this will be only a spur toward proving his
-worthiness.”
-
-“Brother, must you really--? oh, I can't--can't--” The girl stood
-up, her cheeks wet with tears, and clasped her hands round his
-neck appealingly. “You really must not! He is already in trouble.
-Surely--surely--”
-
-“There is no other way, Madge, but I'll not be rough; I pity the poor
-chap too much for that.”
-
-“When do you intend to--to see him?” She was sobbing again, her face
-pressed against his shoulder.
-
-“This evening, Madge, if I can find him at home. There is no other way.
-Uncle and I are the only protectors you have, and he is too angry and
-easily wrought up to be trusted with the matter. I'd better manage it;
-but you know I'll be fair.”
-
-The girl gazed fixedly at him for a moment, and then, in a storm of
-tears, she threw herself oh her bed and hid her face in a pillow.
-Glancing at her pityingly, and with moisture in his own eyes, Dearing
-turned from the room.
-
-“I am sorry for them both,” he muttered. “They are having hard luck, and
-yet Fred Walton isn't, from any point of view, worthy of her; there are
-no two ways about it. He has got himself into a terrible plight, and he
-has no right to involve my sister. No, and he sha'n't!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III
-
-|THE greater part of the ensuing afternoon was spent by Dr. Dearing in
-his musty little office on the ground-floor of a building in the central
-square of the town which was devoted to lawyers' quarters, the rooms of
-the sheriff of the county, and the council-chamber where the mayor held
-his court. He received a few patients, made some examinations, wrote
-several prescriptions, and, considering that it was Sunday, he felt that
-he was fairly well occupied. His mind, however, was constantly on the
-topic of the morning and the disagreeable task confronting him. Finally
-he turned over the placard on the door till the word “out” was exposed
-to view, and went home to supper. Here, however, he met only General
-Sylvester, who, a dejected picture of offended loneliness, sat on the
-veranda, a dry cigar between his lips.
-
-“Where is Madge?” Dearing asked, half standing, half sitting on the
-balustrade in front of the old gentleman, and assuming a casual tone
-which was far from natural.
-
-“She hasn't been down at all to-day,” the General answered, pettishly.
-“I wouldn't send for her. She knew I wouldn't knuckle like that, but she
-knows I always expect to walk with her Sunday afternoons, and she stayed
-pouting in her room. She resents what has been said about that blackleg
-gambler, and wants to show it as plainly as possible, so there won't be
-any mistake between her view and mine. She knows I don't intend to leave
-any property to her if she keeps this up, but she doesn't care a rap.
-She's dead in love with the scamp, and, bad as he is, she glories in the
-opportunity to show her contempt for me and all that pertains to me.
-She can't toss _me_ about like a ball, my boy! This thing has got to end
-right here and now, or I'll see my lawyer to-morrow and put something on
-paper that may never be wiped out while I am alive.”
-
-“Well, give her till to-morrow, then,” Dearing said, with strange,
-suppressed calmness. “Her very sullenness now may be a sign that she is
-about to give him up. I've talked to her, and, while I am not certain
-what she'll do, I have an idea that she may respect your wishes and
-abide by your judgment.”
-
-“I don't think so,” the old man said, with an anxious look into the face
-of his nephew; “that is, not so long as the rascal holds her to
-whatever understanding they may have between them. When I was a young
-man”--Sylvester clinched his fist and pounded his knee, as if to
-emphasize his words--“things like this did not hang fire. A man who
-could make no showing as to his being a proper suitor for a girl
-under age was given orders from her family to desist in his harmful
-attentions, and if he refused he was promptly dealt with--that's all:
-_dealt_ with!”
-
-“Nowadays it's different, Uncle Tom,” Dearing said, with the tone of an
-older man. “Shooting or threatening to shoot about a young woman is sure
-to cast a blight on her reputation, and there generally is some other
-method to--”
-
-“You learned that up among those Yankees!” the General said, alluding to
-the period his nephew had spent in a New York medical college. “But I am
-miserable enough as it is without wanting you to stain your hands with
-blood and have us all brought into court to justify your course. He is a
-coward, I'm sure; no man has any pride or backbone who will cling on to
-a respectable family, under the pretext of being in love, when his own
-people have cut him off. His mother belonged to a good family, but he
-hasn't inherited any refinement of feeling from that side of the house.”
-
-“I don't think, to do Fred _full_ justice,” Dearing gently urged, “that
-he quite realizes the seriousness of your objections to him. I really
-believe, when he is told of the step you are about to take, that he will
-act sensibly. He has a good side to him when he is thoroughly himself,
-and I am going to look him up after supper and lay the whole thing
-fairly before him.”
-
-“Does Margaret know you--” The General's voice failed to carry further.
-
-“Yes; I've told her what I intend to do, and I think that is one reason
-she has remained in her room. She is hard hit, Uncle Tom. Girls never
-can understand things of this sort. Their sympathies always go with
-the unfortunate, and Madge knows Fred is down, and that most people are
-against him.”
-
-“Well, I hope you will accomplish something,” General Sylvester said,
-hopefully. “You can straighten it out if any one can. I can trust you,
-Wynn, and I am proud of you--proud of you in every way. I never regret
-the loss of the old order of things when I think of what you are and
-what you are bound to become as a leader of young men of your period.”
-
-“We are certainly sharp enough to pull the wool over kind old eyes like
-yours, Uncle Tom.” Dearing laughed as he leaned forward and laid his
-hand on the old man's shoulder. “In your day young blades boasted of
-what they did under cover of the night, but we thank the darkness for
-its shelter and don't talk of our acts. Why, you old-timers didn't know
-the first principles of devilment! If it were not giving away
-professional secrets, I'd tell you things that would make your hair
-stand on end. You've heard me say I believe in the good old-time,
-psalm-singing, God-fearing religion--well, I do. The longer I live the
-more I think we need it. Look what modern thought has done for Kenneth
-Galt. He has read so much on science and philosophy that he has reduced
-us all--good, bad, and indifferent--to mere cosmic dust. According to
-him, we are simply mud babies energized by planetary force, and living
-on the pap of graft. Ask him to account for good spiritual impulses, and
-he will--if he admits there are any--show you conclusively that good
-conduct is the mere evolutionary result of communal self-interest; men
-came to believe murder was wrong only because they didn't want their
-_own_ throats cut.”
-
-“I have always wondered what Kenneth _does_ believe,” Sylvester said,
-with his first smile. “He certainly is an interesting man; and he's
-rich, and growing more so.”
-
-“Yes; he was well provided for at the start,” responded Dearing, “and he
-has invested wisely.”
-
-“I have seen him talking to Margaret several times of late,” Sylvester
-remarked. “That is one thing that irritates me. I don't care a red cent
-about his cranky religious views; they will take care of themselves, for
-he is a straight, safe, and honorable man; and if this harum-scarum Fred
-Walton had not been taking up so much of her time, why--”
-
-“You old match-maker!” Dearing laughed. “I'm going to stir up Aunt Diana
-and get something to eat. I am as hungry as a bear.”
-
-While he and his uncle sat together at the long table in the big
-dining-room, Dearing asked the cook if she had notified his sister that
-supper was served.
-
-“Yesser, Marse Wynn,” the woman answered over the coffee-tray she was
-putting down, “I sent Lindy up dar to her room, and she say young miss
-didn't want er bite. I reckon she sho' is sick. She haint tetch er
-mouthful since 'er breakfast.”
-
-“Well, let her alone,” Dearing said, as his eyes met the wavering glance
-of his uncle across the table. “She will be all right in the morning.”
-
-The gloomy meal over, the General strode back to the veranda, and Wynn
-went up to his room. He did not light the gas, as he intended doing, for
-it occurred to him that there was really no need for it, and he sat down
-in the darkness. He could see one of the windows of Margaret's room in
-the ell of the building, across the open court. A dim light was burning
-there, and the curtains were drawn.
-
-“Poor child!” he muttered; “that fellow has hit her hard. Women have
-a wonderful amount of sympathy for him. It may be that Mrs. Barry
-is correct in her fears, and that Dora may be in love with him, too.
-Beautiful, trusting Dora--even _she_ is suffering on his account. Yes,
-I must see him. There is no other way.” Dearing stood up and went to
-his bureau to get a fresh handkerchief, and while his hand was fumbling
-collars, cuffs, and neckties, it touched the cool, smooth handle of a
-revolver. He picked it up and held it for a moment reflectively, and
-then laid it down.
-
-“No, I'll not go to see him even with the thought that I may have to
-use force,” he said. “My mission in life is to _cure_ men, not to
-spill their blood. They say he sometimes goes armed, and if we met on
-that sort of level there might be trouble.”
-
-He closed the drawer, stood for a moment looking at the light in the
-window of Margaret's room, and then, shrugging his broad shoulders, he
-turned away. He met no one on the stairs, but as he passed out at the
-front door he saw the flare of his uncle's cigar and the wrinkled,
-brooding face and gray head and beard at the end of the veranda. Going
-down the wide brick walk, which was edged by rows of well-trimmed
-boxwood, he descried, near the gate, a willowy figure in white. It was
-Margaret. She looked up as he approached, and in the piteous lines of
-her face he read her final desperate appeal.
-
-“I thought you were in your room,” he said, in an effort at gentle
-deception. “Madge, old girl, I'll have to take you in hand.” He passed
-his fingers playfully under her cold chin. “You are on a direct road to
-a thirty-day course of that very tonic you despised so much last
-spring. No dinner to-day and no supper to-night. I don't get any fee
-for doctoring you, but I'm going to keep you in good shape as an
-advertisement, if for nothing else. I don't intend to have my patients
-throwing it in my face that they won't believe in me until I cure my own
-family.”
-
-She did not return his smile, and drew back from his caress as if she
-half resented it.
-
-“Are you really going to see Fred?” she asked, falteringly, her eyes
-fixed coldly, half fearfully, on his through the dim, vague starlight.
-
-“Yes, Madge,” he answered, simply. “I've thought it over deliberately
-and calmly, with no feeling of ill-will toward him, and I can't see my
-duty in any other way.”
-
-“To-night?” She breathed hard, her hand on her breast.
-
-“Right away, sister; that is, if he is in town.”
-
-She moved a little nearer to him. He saw the hand which started toward
-his arm tremble, as it diverted its course to one of the palings of the
-fence, which it clutched in visible desperation.
-
-“Do you realize,” she asked, “that to--to tell him what Uncle Tom
-intends to do in case he and I don't give each other up may insult him?
-He is not a man to care about a girl's fortune; he hasn't shown that he
-wants his father's money. He knows that I don't let such things weigh
-with me. What you are now starting out to do may be the immediate cause
-of--of our both _defying you!_”
-
-“Oh, I see,” Dearing said. “Well, in that case I shall have done all
-in my power to protect your interests. I'll tell you one thing, though,
-Madge, little girl: the matter looks black enough as it stands; but,
-really, if I felt that you were going absolutely penniless to a man who
-has shown himself as reckless of his own interests as Fred Walton has,
-I'd be blue in earnest, and--and I don't know that I'd be quite able to
-restrain my temper if such a reckless spendthrift were to thrust himself
-between you and your natural rights, boldly robbing you, blind as you
-now are, of what you ought to have, and which later in life you
-will sadly need. I am not a fighting man, but--well, he'd better not
-interfere with your material interests, that's all.”
-
-She shrank back before the force and suppressed fury in his face and
-voice, and now, her last hope gone, she simply stared, speechless. He
-had put his hand upon the iron latch of the gate when she caught his arm
-and clung to it convulsively.
-
-“Oh, brother, you don't know Fred as I do!” she wailed. “He has some
-faults, I'll admit; but he is true and noble at heart. You see, I've
-heard him talk in a confidential way and you haven't. The last time I
-met him he almost cried in telling me of his troubles. He does try very
-hard to please his father. You see, I am convinced that he has just
-reached a sort of turning-point, and I am afraid this very thing may
-make him more desperate.”
-
-“If he is sincere,” Wynn retorted, “and is any sort of man, he will
-be glad of being warned against impoverishing the girl he professes to
-love. You leave it all to me, sister. I am not going to be harsh with
-him. I don't really dislike him, and he has nothing against me.” From
-the expression of utter despair in her eyes he knew that she intended
-to resist no longer. She lowered her head to the top of the fence, and
-without looking at him, she asked, in a smothered voice: “What time do
-you think you will--will be back?”
-
-“I can't tell, Madge. I may not find him at once, you know.”
-
-“I shall wait up for you,” she gulped. “I couldn't close my eyes until I
-see you and know what he says. Oh, brother, I am afraid--”
-
-“Afraid of what?” he demanded, quickly.
-
-“I hardly know how to express it.” She looked up, and on her cheeks lay
-the damp traces of the tears she had wiped away on her sleeve. “But he
-is desperate. I am actually afraid he may try to--to do himself harm.
-It looked, the other evening, as if he were constantly on the point of
-telling me something about some crisis or other in his affairs which
-has just come up. He would start out as if about to make a disclosure of
-some horrible kind, and then he would stop and say: 'But I can't worry
-you by telling you everything. It won't help matters to talk about my
-trouble.”
-
-“Poor chap,” Dearing said. “I will not be hard on him, sister; I promise
-you that. I may find him at church; he sometimes goes to take Dora
-Barry.”
-
-“Yes; they are good friends,” Margaret said. “That is one thing I admire
-in him. She is poor, and doesn't receive much attention. Fred takes her
-to places and goes to see her out of pure kindness of heart.”
-
-“Well, I'm off,” Dearing said, as he turned to leave. “Now you go to
-bed, young lady, and forget about this disagreeable mess for to-night,
-anyway. It may be all for the best.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV
-
-|LEAVING Madge mute and motionless at the gate, staring through the
-starlight after him, Dearing strode down the street past the fine old
-home of Kenneth Galt, which was set well back in spacious grounds on
-the left. Along the way were old-fashioned houses in bad condition, old
-buildings which had been modernized, and which stood on well-kept lawns,
-and others which had no touch of antiquity. After a few minutes he
-reached a plain two-story frame house which had once been white, but
-now showed little trace of its original paint. It was the home of
-Fred Walton's father, Stafford's well-to-do banker, money-lender,
-“note-shaver,” and all-round speculator in stocks, bonds, and real
-estate.
-
-“Fred may be here,” Dearing reflected, as he paused at the ramshackle
-gate and viewed the forbidding old house as it loomed up among the
-trees, fifty yards from where he stood; “but he'd certainly be excusable
-for seeking a more cheerful place to spend an evening, considering that
-meddlesome stepmother of his.”
-
-The parsimony of old Simon Walton could not have been better illustrated
-than by the fact that not a ray of light showed itself in all the rooms
-of the house. It was said of him that, fond of smoking though he was, he
-never lighted his pipe without getting a match and tobacco from some one
-else. At all events, he was at home. And as he went up the uneven brick
-walk, Wynn saw him seated on the front porch without his coat.
-
-He was tall, lank, and raw-boned, and though nearly seventy years of
-age, his brown hair and short, scraggy whiskers were devoid of the
-slightest touch of gray. He was a man who, though outwardly sound
-of body, brain, and limb, was not without certain haunting fears of
-dissolution. He had had a slight stroke of paralysis which had left a
-numbness in his right side, and he was constantly trying to obey certain
-directions Dearing had laid down on the day his clerks had found him
-unable to rise from his desk in his bank. Dearing's skill had put him
-on his feet again, and the young doctor had tried diplomatically to show
-his patient that the cause of the trouble lay in an overworked brain too
-sharply centred on a none too worthy purpose. But in this he had failed.
-Old Simon would have believed in any lotion, any surgical operation, or
-any medicine prescribed by Dearing, no matter how costly, for that was
-in the young man's line; but he declined to listen to any hint--from
-such a source, at least--that his mental watchfulness ought to be
-curbed. He had won by his method, and that was ample proof of its
-correctness. He had risen from between the plough-handles, he told Wynn
-with a satirical laugh, and men who had advised him to think less of the
-almighty dollar and more of his God were in their mountain hovels giving
-away advice for others to live by. The wise fellows who had said in his
-youth that he was “as close as the bark on a tree” and “too mean to
-live” were now ready to beg at his feet for money to enable them to
-purchase food for their families.
-
-“Well, here you are at last!” he thundered, as Wynn approached through
-the gloom. “And it's high time, I am here to say! It doesn't take a
-man two hours to go to that bank and bring back a simple statement like
-that. I want to know to a fraction of a cent, too, just how that thing
-stands, and--”
-
-“Well, you don't owe _me_ a penny, Mr. Walton.” Dearing laughed. “I only
-wish you did.”
-
-“Oh, I thought it was Fred!” old Simon ejaculated, not a little
-chagrined by his lack of hospitality. “Me and him have had a little
-quarrel over his way of doing things, and I was looking for him to bring
-some papers from the bank. He went off with the key an hour ago, and
-hasn't showed up yet. Have you seen anything of him?”
-
-“No; in fact, that's what I dropped in for. I wanted to speak to him.”
-
-“Then I reckon he's not at your house calling on Miss Margaret. I
-thought he might be there, or gone to take that other girl, the daughter
-of that old picture-painter, to meeting. I picked up a note from her
-to him the other day, making some appointment or other. I might know he
-wasn't at _your_ house, though, after the talk I had with the General.
-Huh! your uncle needn't be mealy-mouthed with me about what he thinks of
-the scamp! In my day and time a fellow of that stripe would be egged out
-of the community he lived in. But the blamed fools here in Stafford say
-Fred's pardonable to some extent because I've saved up a few cents. Huh!
-I'll show them and I'll show him a thing or two before I am through!
-I've given him a good education at a fine, high-priced college, and put
-him in the bank in a place of trust, and he is treating it as if it was
-a front seat at a circus. Huh! they all laugh and call him the 'Stafford
-Prince'; they say he is a high-roller; that he's invented a cocktail,
-and lets bank-notes go like leaves in a high wind. They needn't say
-it is due to the little I've made, either, for there's yourself, for
-instance. You had money and property left you, but it didn't make a
-stark, staring idiot out of you. By gum! I never see you or hear of your
-fine operations without wanting to cuff that fellow behind the ear and
-kick him out into the street. Came to breakfast this morning with his
-eyes all bunged up and swollen. There is one thing about him that is to
-his credit, I'll admit, and that is he won't lie when you are looking
-him smack dab in the face, and when I asked him if he had been playing
-poker he acknowledged it. Think of that! A boy of _mine_--of Simon
-Walton's--playing cards for whopping big stakes when I have toiled and
-stinted and saved as I have to gain the little headway I've got.”
-
-“Well, I see he is not here,” Dearing said, awkwardly. “Perhaps I can
-find him up-town.”
-
-“Don't hurry; set down,” and the gaunt man stood up and pointed to
-another chair. “I clean forgot to be polite, I'm so worked up. Take a
-chair--take a chair. I simply want to see what it feels like to sit and
-talk to a decent man under thirty.”
-
-“No, I thank you, Mr. Walton, I really can't stay,” and Dearing laid his
-hand gently on the quivering shoulder of the old man. “But I want you to
-remember my warning about that little trouble of yours. You must not let
-things stir you up like this. You can't stand it, you know, as well as
-some other men can.”
-
-“Show me how to help it--show me how to _want_ to help it!” spluttered
-the banker. “I don't want to keep my temper! I don't want to hold my
-tongue! I wish the law of the land would let me take him, big as he is,
-and thrash him on the streets before the very folks that call him, as
-some have, an improvement on his stingy old daddy. Once I thought I had
-him. Once I thought I'd caught him dickering with bank funds, and I had
-started to have him put in limbo when he showed me I was wrong. That's
-the kind of man I am! I put honesty above everything else, and I won't
-hide dishonor, even in my own blood.”
-
-“Well, I'm off,” Wynn Dearing said. “I see I only keep you going on the
-very topic I have warned you against. Good-night.”
-
-As the young doctor was approaching the gate he saw a figure in gray,
-enveloped, as to head and shoulders, in an old cashmere shawl, emerge
-from a clump of plum-trees near the fence. It was Fred Walton's
-stepmother, a tall, thin woman of more than sixty years of age, and even
-dim as the starlight was he noticed the hardness of her features as she
-clutched the shawl under her chin and eagerly peered out from its folds.
-
-“Oh, we have had a day of it, Dr. Dearing!” she said, familiarly, and
-with a dry, forced laugh. “When you came in at the gate just now I made
-the same mistake Simon did--I thought it was Fred, and hung back at the
-side of the house to hear the row. I reckon the boy has decided he's
-had enough tongue-lashing for one day, and don't intend to sleep here
-to-night. I don't blame his father one bit,” she ran on, volubly, “and I
-have the first one to meet who really does. Fred certainly keeps himself
-in the public eye. There is hardly a day that some fresh report don't
-crop out as to his scrapes. And the match-makers! Great goodness! They
-have enough to keep ten towns the size of this busy. They are eager to
-see now which Fred will tie to for life: your sister, with all her money
-and fine old name, or that strip of a girl who paints and teaches for
-a bare living. Some say she is daft about him, and that if your uncle
-kicks him out he will settle on her. That's what folks say, you know.
-The truth is, I live sort of out of the way, and don't hear all that is
-going the rounds.”
-
-“That is a matter I am not posted on, Mrs. Walton,” Dearing said, as he
-opened the gate and politely raised his hat in parting. “I must hurry. I
-only wanted to see Fred a minute.”
-
-As he neared the central square of the town the rays of light from the
-church where he had that morning attended service streamed across the
-green, and he approached the little edifice, ascended the steps to the
-vestibule, and cautiously peered in at the worshippers, wondering if by
-any chance Fred Walton might be there as Dora Barry's escort. But no one
-of the numerous backs turned toward him resembled Fred's, and his glance
-moved on to the pulpit. The choir was in full view, facing the door, and
-beside the keyboard of the organ sat the girl who played it. Was it the
-shadows from the gas above her, or was the tense expression in her eyes
-and the droop to the sweet young mouth due to some trouble even greater
-than any he had yet surmised? He shuddered as he turned away and pursued
-his walk toward the square. He would look for Walton at the bank, and
-try to divest his mind of the disagreeable duty he had to perform;
-but Dora's face continued to haunt him. The mute appeal of her white,
-shapely hands patiently folded in her lap, the suggestion of utter
-despair in her whole bearing, clung to him and wrung his manly heart.
-She had been his playmate when she was a tiny girl and he an awkward boy
-in his teens. He had loved her gentle old father, with his long hair and
-high, poetic brow, and had believed for years that Dora had inherited
-his genius. The artist had gone back to Paris to study, intending to
-send for his wife and child when fortune smiled, as he was sure it
-would. But he had died there, and was buried by his fellow-students of
-the Latin Quarter. They had written the fact to the wife and orphan, but
-that was all. It was his child who was in trouble, and Dearing's heart
-ached with a dull, insistent pain.
-
-There was a light in the bank; he saw its gleam through the
-old-fashioned panes of glass in front, but it went out just as he drew
-near the door, which he saw was slightly ajar. As he stood wondering, he
-heard some one coming. It was Fred Walton; he was smoking, and the flare
-of his cigar lighted up his dark, handsome face for a bare instant. He
-was tall, well-built, and strong of physique.
-
-“Hello! Is that you, Fred?” Dealing called out. There was a pause.
-Walton seemed to shrink back into the darkness for a moment; then he
-said:
-
-“Yes. Who is it?”
-
-“It is I, Fred--Wynn Dearing.”
-
-“Oh, it is you!” Walton drew the heavy door to after him as he came
-out and locked it. Then they stood together on the sidewalk in the faint
-rays from a gaslight on the corner near by.
-
-“Yes, I've been looking for you, Fred. I went to your house; your father
-told me you might be here. Can't we go in the bank?”
-
-Fred Walton stared. His face was rigid; beads of sweat stood on his brow
-and cheeks; the cigar in his mouth shook.
-
-“It is terribly hot in there,” he said, after a pause. “I was looking
-over the books, and--almost fainted. I didn't think it worth while to
-unscrew the rear windows, and not a breath of air is stirring in the
-beastly hole.”
-
-“We might walk on to my office; it is always cool. I never bother to
-shut the windows, even before a rain.”
-
-“Yes, if--if you wish it, Wynn; that is, if you wish to--to see me.”
-
-“Yes, I want to talk to you, Fred.”
-
-They walked side by side along the pavement. Walton had his hat off, and
-was wiping his face with his handkerchief. Once his foot struck against
-some object, and he almost fell. Something like an oath of impatience
-escaped his lips as he drew himself up and caught the slow, deliberate
-step of his companion.
-
-Reaching the door of his office, Dearing unlocked it, pushed it open,
-and they entered the little reception-room in the dark. The doctor
-struck a match and lighted a lamp on a table, and pointed to a
-rocking-chair. “Take a seat, Fred.” A cold smile which gave his face
-almost a wry look lay on his firm mouth as he himself sat down near a
-table on which lay some books and magazines. He had not removed his eyes
-from his companion, who, hat in hand, was settling heavily into the big
-chair. “I've got an unpleasant duty before me, Fred--darned unpleasant,
-because we've been friends all our lives, and--”
-
-“That's all right, Wynn, go ahead.”
-
-“It is about you and my sister, Fred.”
-
-“I was afraid it was that, Wynn,” the young man muttered. “The thought
-came to me when I heard your voice in the dark just now. Well, nothing
-you can say will surprise me. I am prepared for anything--for the
-very worst; in fact, I am prepared to have Marga--pardon me, your
-sister--send me word that she herself wishes to see no more of me.”
-
-“I have no such message as _that_, Fred, but still it is my duty to lay
-the facts before you just as they are; and I am going to do it, with the
-hope, old man, that you'll be reasonable and--help me out.”
-
-In a calm voice, full of sincerity and stern conviction, Dearing then
-recounted all that had taken place between him and his uncle, ending
-with: “I give you my word, Fred, and the opinion of a physician who
-knows the case, that my uncle is not only likely to worry himself into
-the grave over the matter, but that he will absolutely, and at once, cut
-my sister out of her rightful inheritance.”
-
-“But she--surely she herself will tell General Sylvester that she is
-willing to--forget me, and--”
-
-Dearing, without looking directly at the speaker, shook his head. “It
-is only fair to her to say that she is not made that way, Fred. She
-believes in you; nothing on earth will change her; she believes you are
-the soul of honor, and is ready to throw my uncle's money into his face.
-That's why I came to you--to _you_. I thought, and Uncle Tom did, too,
-that under the circumstances you might, you see, rather than stand
-between her and--”
-
-Dearing went no further. He was interrupted by the look of agony which
-had clutched the lineaments of the listener like the throes of death.
-Walton's hands, outspread till the fingers looked like prongs of
-hard wood, rose to his face and covered it. Dearing saw a shudder of
-restrained emotion rise in the strong frame and quiver through it. A
-sound like a sob issued from the bent form. Neither spoke for more than
-a minute. The step of a passer-by rang sharply on the still night air.
-The tones from Dora Barry's organ swelled out in the distance and rolled
-toward them, followed by the singing of the choir. Suddenly Walton rose,
-and leaned on the back of his chair.
-
-“It is all up with me, Wynn!” he groaned, deeply. “After to-night you'll
-never be troubled by me in any shape, form, or fashion. I wish I could
-be man enough to make a clean breast of it all to you, but what's the
-use? It wouldn't do any good or help the matter. You'll know to-morrow,
-as all Stafford will. I'll say this, though: I am wholly unworthy of
-your sister's confidence and respect. To have paid her such attentions,
-situated as I am situated, was an insult. I have committed an offence
-known so far to no one but myself, and which can never be pardoned. I
-am at the end of my rope, old chap. If I could undo my act by ending my
-wretched life, I'd do it to-night. I love your sister as sincerely as
-a man ever loved a woman, but I have no earthly right to think of her,
-much less to consider myself a suitor for her hand. When she knows
-the truth--the whole wretched truth--she herself will turn from me in
-disgust, and blush with shame at the thought of ever having encouraged
-me. You have the right, as a man and her brother, to kick me for my
-presumption. I can't go into details. I could not bear to see your face
-as you hear it, but it will be in every one's mouth tomorrow.”
-
-“Oh, Fred, surely you--” Dearing started to say, but, raising his hand,
-Walton interrupted him.
-
-“Never mind, Wynn. I have said enough. I have no right to send your
-sister even a farewell message, certainly not to tell her what my
-feeling for her is at this moment; but it will be best for the General
-to rest assured, so you may give him my word that I'll never cross her
-path again. I am going away to-night, never to be seen here any more. I
-am not man enough to face this town after my conduct becomes public.
-I was weak. I fell--that's all. I don't know what will become of me. I
-blame no one but myself, certainly not my poor old father. You will not
-see me again. Goodbye. I need not wish you well; you will do well.
-You were marked by Fate from the start as one of the lucky, _uncursed_
-ones.”
-
-The doctor stood up and extended his hand to detain him, but Walton had
-turned hastily away. Dearing heard his dragging feet in the corridor and
-then on the sidewalk.
-
-“Poor chap! It is something very, very serious,” he mused. “Nothing
-but terrible trouble would work a man up like that. I wonder if--” He
-started and shuddered. Mrs. Barry's pale, troubled face of the morning
-came before him, then Dora's downcast attitude as he had seen her in
-the choir only a few moments before. He started, and his blood ran cold
-through his veins. Could it be possible--could any man sink low enough
-to--? No; he would not even think of it, else he would regret not having
-killed the man as he sat bowed before him. No, it wasn't that--the human
-monster did not live who could pluck and stamp upon that beautiful and
-helpless flower of maidenhood. He extinguished the lamp, went out into
-the dark street, and closed his door. The congregation was leaving
-the church as he reached it. Among the last to go was Dora. He fell
-in behind her, but made no effort to catch her up. She had shown no
-willingness to talk to him that morning, and he would not disturb her
-now. Perhaps the girl was really in love with Walton, and had gleaned
-some inkling of the young man's trouble. Yes, that would explain her
-present depression. He walked behind her till she disappeared at the
-cottage gate; then he turned and went homeward past Kenneth Galt's
-grounds. He saw a spark of fire moving about under the trees to the
-right of the gloomy-looking residence which to-night seemed devoid of
-any light, and knew that Galt was there smoking alone, as was his habit
-at that hour. Dearing put his hand out to the gate-latch. Perhaps a chat
-with his philosophic friend would help clear his brain of the maddening
-thoughts which surged about him, but he paused.
-
-“No; Madge will be up waiting for me,” he reflected. “I may as well meet
-her and let her know the worst. Poor girl, she'll have to be brave!”
-
-He moved on to his own gate. There was no one on the veranda, as
-was often the case in warm weather, but in a little pagoda-shaped
-summer-house on the lawn he descried a white object. It stirred as the
-hinges of the gate creaked, and he entered, It was Margaret, and she
-came to him like a spirit across the grass.
-
-“I told you I'd wait,” she reminded him, and her voice sounded strange
-and even harsh in its guttural tendency. “I thought you'd never come.”
-
-Through all that had passed between him and Fred Walton that night
-Dealing's anger and resentment had been held in check by sympathy for
-the man in his desperate plight and despair; but now, as he saw the
-evidences of his sister's agony written all too plainly upon her young
-being, his indignation kindled. The scoundrel, the coward, was running
-away to keep from facing public opinion, yet was leaving this poor,
-crushed girl to suffer in consequence of his conduct!
-
-“You ought not to have waited,” he reproached her, in a tone she had
-never heard him use. “Your being here now, looking like this, is an
-acknowledgment that you actually _care_ for the cowardly cur--you, who
-ought to--”
-
-“Brother, stop!” The girl clutched his arms. She breathed hard against
-his breast as she leaned close to him. “'The cowardly cur,' you
-say--_you_, who have never abused him before.”
-
-“I wonder now that I let him go with a whole bone in his body,” Dearing
-retorted, raspingly. “I didn't realize what I was doing, or I--”
-
-“Oh, what _do_ you mean?” Margaret interrupted, giving him a quick,
-impatient shake. “You needn't come here trying to make me believe vile
-slander. It is easy enough for lies to get circulated in a town noted
-for its tattling busybodies.”
-
-“I've had his own deliberate confession,” Dearing answered. “With his
-head hanging in shame and his face covered he told me he was forced by
-some dishonorable act to leave town, never to return. He didn't tell me
-what he had done; he said he'd rather not go into it, but that it would
-all be out to-morrow. Of his own accord he proposed to give you up, and
-said I might tell Uncle Tom that he'd never see or write to you again.
-Whatever it is, you ought to have sufficient pride to--”
-
-Dealing stopped short. With a low moan Margaret was reeling toward him,
-and, as he caught her to keep her from falling, he saw that she had
-fainted. Lifting her up, Dearing bore her into the house and up the
-stairs to her room. He laid her on her bed, glad that his uncle and the
-servants had not noticed the accident. He sprinkled her face with water.
-She opened her eyes as he bent over her in the darkness, and recognized
-him.
-
-“You are all right now, Madge, darling,” he said, huskily, as he fondly
-kissed her. “Be calm and go to sleep. You must not suffer on account of
-this man. He is absolutely unworthy of your regard, and that ought to
-settle it, so far as you are concerned.”
-
-Margaret sat up, and put her arms about her brother's neck.
-
-“I was afraid the other day that something was wrong--that something
-terrible was about to happen to him,” she sobbed. “He was awfully
-gloomy. He seemed to be on the point of confiding in me every minute,
-but couldn't get it out. You say you have no idea what it is?”
-
-“No; but he says it will be public property to-morrow. Try to forget it.
-You must call your pride to your aid. Uncle was right in his objections
-to him, and you were wrong. I neglected my duty in not seeing him even
-sooner than I did. Now, good-night.”
-
-Leaving her with a kiss on her cold cheek, Dearing, choking down a lump
-in his throat, went to his own room. The windows facing the south looked
-out on Kenneth Galt's grounds, and Dearing could still see his friend's
-cigar intermittently glowing as the student, philosopher, and successful
-financier strode back and forth.
-
-“Who knows? Kenneth may be right, after all,” Dearing mused, bitterly.
-“At such moments as this one wonders if there really can be a God who
-is justly ruling the universe. What has poor little Madge done, in her
-gentle purity, to merit this crushing blow? It was her very trusting
-innocence that brought it upon her.”
-
-It was one of Dealing's habits to say his prayers at night on retiring,
-and when he had disrobed he knelt by his bedside. But somehow the words
-failed to come as readily as had been their wont; he was trying to pray
-for the relief of his sister, but reason kept telling him that it was
-a futile appeal. God had not hindered the approach of the calamity;
-why should mere human appeal immediately lift it? So he said his “Amen”
- sooner than usual, and with a brain hot over the memory of Walton's
-looks and words, he rolled and tossed on a sleepless bed till far into
-the night.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V
-
-|WHEN Fred Walton left Dearing's office, he went along the street toward
-his father's home. He walked slowly, absolute despair showing itself in
-the droop of his powerful body, and in the helpless, animal glare of his
-eyes. He had reached a point from which, the street being on a slight
-elevation, he could see the old house in which he was born. He paused.
-All about him was peace, stillness, and incongruous content. The town
-clock, capping the brick stand-pipe of the waterworks, struck nine
-solemn strokes, and he could feel the after-vibrations of the mellow
-metal as the sound died away. He turned, leaving his home on the left,
-and walked on aimlessly till the houses which bordered the way became
-more scattered, and then he reached a bridge which spanned a little
-river. A full moon was rising. Through the foliage of the near-by trees
-it looked like a world of fire away off in space. Its red rays fell on
-the swiftly rushing water, throwing on its surface a path of flaming
-blood. He went out on the structure, and leaned against the iron
-railing. Just beyond the end of the bridge rose a green-clad hill.
-It had a high fence around it, and a wide gateway with a white,
-crescent-shaped sign above it. It was the Stafford cemetery.
-
-“Yes, I ought to see it once more before I go,” he said. “It will be
-the last time--the very last; and surely, though I'll blush in her dead
-presence, _thief_ as _I_ am, I ought to go.”
-
-He crossed to the other side, and went into the gate of the enclosure.
-Threading his way among the monuments, his brow reverently bared to the
-solemn moonlight, he came to a square plot surrounded by an ivy-coated
-brick wall with a granite coping. It contained several graves bearing
-his name, but only one engaged his attention. He sat down on its
-footstone, and, with his head still bare, he remained motionless for a
-long time.
-
-“She didn't know the son she used to be so proud of would ever come to
-this,” he said, bitterly. “With all her hopes and prayers, she little
-knew that I'd be an outcast--actually forced to flee from the law; she
-little dreamed it would come to that when she used to talk of the great
-and good things I was to do. Poor, dear, little mother! You'd rather
-be dead than alive to-night. I wonder if it is _absolutely too late?_
-Perhaps, far away, under a new name and among strangers, I may be able
-to live differently. And if I could, she would know and be glad. Mother,
-listen, dear!” A sob rose in him, and shook him from head to foot. “The
-wrong I did was done when my brain was turned by liquor, and I did not
-realize my danger till it was too late; I swear here--right here--to
-you, dear little mother, that from this moment on I'll try to be better.
-I may fail, but I'll try. I swear, too, that from this moment on I'll
-bend every energy of my soul and body to the undoing of the thing of
-which I am guilty.”
-
-He stood up. Ten solemn strokes of the town clock rang out on the
-profound stillness. The air was vibrant with a myriad insect voices from
-the marshes along the river. Rays of lamplight shot across the shrubbery
-between the shafts and the slabs of stone. They came from a window in
-the cottage of the sexton of the cemetery. The lone visitor saw a shaggy
-head of hair, a long, ragged beard the color of the clay beneath the
-soil, and a rugged face, gashed and seamed by time. The old man was
-smoking--placidly smoking. Even a humble digger of graves could be
-content, while this young, vigorous soul was steeped in the dregs of
-despair. Walton turned away, slowly retraced his steps to the outside,
-crossed the river, and, careful to avoid meeting any one, he finally
-came again to his father's house. It was dark.
-
-“I might get in at a window and bring away a few things to wear,” he
-reflected. “But no, I must not risk it. He might meet me face to
-face and demand the truth. I'd have to tell him. Sharp of sight, and
-suspicious as he now is, he would read it in my face, and order my
-arrest. Yes, he would do it. He is my father, but he would do it.”
-
-On he went, now headed for the square. Reaching the bank, the thought
-occurred to him that, having a key, he would go in and write a note to
-his father. A moment later he had locked himself within the stifling
-place, and under a flaring gas-jet, and seated on the high office-stool
-at a desk, he wrote as follows:
-
-My Dear Father,--Surprised though you've never been at my numerous bad
-acts, you will be now at what I am about to confess. For more than a
-week I have been covering up a shortage in my account which amounts to
-more than you can afford to lose without warning. I am five thousand
-dollars behind, and am absolutely unable to replace it. I shall make no
-excuses. Being your son gave me no right to the money, but taking it
-at a time when I believed it would save me in a certain speculation in
-futures, I told myself that I had the right, as your son and heir, to
-borrow it. That I looked at it that way, and was half intoxicated at the
-time the deed was committed, is all that I can say by way of palliation
-of my offence.
-
-You once said to me that if I ever did anything of this sort that you
-would turn me over to the law exactly as you would any stranger, and
-I understand you well enough to know that you will keep your word.
-You would do it in your anger, even if you regretted it afterward; so,
-father, I am leaving home to-night, never to return. Don't think I
-am taking any more of your money, either, for I am not. I am leaving
-without a penny. I don't know where I shall go, but I am starting out
-into the world to try to begin life anew. You have always contended that
-my hopes of inheriting your savings was the prime cause of my failure,
-and that had I been forced to struggle for myself, as you had to do as
-a young man, I should have known the true value of money. I believe you
-are right, and to-night, as I am leaving, a certain hope comes to me
-that maybe there is enough of your sterling energy in me to make a man
-of me _eventually_. Perhaps it won't count much with you for me to say
-that I am going to try to be straight and honorable from now on. You
-never have had faith in my promises, but you have never seen me tried as
-I shall be tried. I know how much I owe you to a cent, and as fast as I
-earn money--if I _can_ earn any--it shall be sent back to you, and, if
-I live, I shall wipe out the debt which now stands against me. I wish
-I could put my arms round your neck to-night and beg your forgiveness
-before I go, but you'd not trust me. In your fury over your loss you'd
-not give me the chance I must have to redeem myself, and this is the
-only way. But, oh, father, _do, do_ give me this last chance! For the
-sake of my mother's memory, and your name, which I have tarnished, don't
-try to hunt me down like a common thief! I want one more opportunity.
-_Do, do_, give it to me! Good-bye.
-
-Frederic.
-
-Folding the sheets on which he had written, Walton put them into an
-envelope and placed it on his father's desk. He was now ready to go, but
-paused again.
-
-“I can't write to Margaret,” he said. “I have promised not to. Her
-brother will tell her enough, anyway, to make her ashamed that she ever
-knew me; but there is poor Dora--my dear, trusting friend. I must not go
-without a line to her.”
-
-He seated himself again, and wrote as follows:
-
-My Dear Little Friend,--You have said several times of late that you
-feared I had some burden on my mind because I was not as cheerful as
-I used to be. Well, your sharp, kindly eyes were reading a truth I
-was trying to conceal. I have got myself into most serious trouble. I
-haven't the heart to go into details over it; I need not, anyway, for
-my father will let it out soon enough. Every tongue in old Stafford will
-wag and clatter over the final finish of the town's daredevil to-morrow.
-And it will pain you, too, for of all my friends, young as you are,
-you were my soundest adviser. You used to say that I'd soon sow my wild
-oats, and settle down and make a man of myself. You used to say, too,
-that I'd finally win the girl who--but, disgraced as I am, I won't
-mention her name.
-
-I have lost her forever, dear Dora. She may have cared a little for me,
-but she won't when she knows how low I've fallen. I am going far away
-to try to hew out some sort of a new road. I may fail, as I have always
-failed, but if I do, my failure will not be added to the list of my
-shortcomings here in Stafford.
-
-Now, dear Dora, forgive me for speaking of something concerning you. For
-the last month, though I did not mention it, I have been afraid that all
-was not going quite well with you, either. You almost admitted it once
-when I caught you crying. You remember, it was the evening I met Kenneth
-Galt and you in the wood back of your house--the evening your mother,
-you remember, thought you had been out with me, and scolded us both. I
-saw plainly that you did not want her to know you had met him, and so I
-said nothing; but the thing has troubled me a great deal, I'll admit. I
-really know nothing seriously against the man, but he has queer, almost
-too modern, views in regard to love, and I think, dear Dora, that maybe
-you have imbibed some of them. Secret association like that cannot be
-best for a young girl, and so I feel that I can't go away without
-just this little warning. He is a wealthy man of the world, and his
-friendship with a sweet, pure girl like you are ought to be open and
-aboveboard. You are rarely beautiful, dear Dora. Your painting shows
-that you are a genius. You have a great future before you; don't spoil
-it all by becoming too much interested in this man. It may appeal to
-your romantic side to meet him like that, but it can't--simply _can't_
-be best. Now, you will forgive your “big brother,” won't you? I may
-never come back; I may never even write, but I shall often think
-lovingly of you, dear friend. Good-bye.
-
-When he had signed, sealed, and directed the letter, he put a stamp on
-it and went out and closed the bank, pushing the key back into the room
-through a crack beneath the shutter. He then slowly crossed the deserted
-square to the post-office on the corner and deposited the letter. After
-this he stood with his strong arms folded, looking about irresolutely.
-In front of him lay the town's single line of horse-cars, which led to
-the railway station half a mile distant. One of the cars stood in
-front of him. It had made its last slow and jangling trip to meet the
-nine-o'clock north-bound train. The track stretched out before him, the
-worn bars gleaming like threads of silver in the moonlight. Casting one
-other look about him, and heaving a deep sigh, he lowered his head and
-started for the station.
-
-“I think this is Jack Thomas' run,” he reflected. “If it is, he will
-take me aboard.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI
-
-REACHING the depot in the edge of the town where there were only
-three or four cottages, a hotel of the lowest class, and a negro
-dive masquerading as a restaurant, at which fried spring chicken, hot
-biscuits, and a cup of coffee were advertised on a crude placard for
-twenty-five cents, he met few signs of wakefulness. At a switch near a
-water-tank with a dripping spout a watchman stood with a dingy lantern.
-Walton moved over to him.
-
-“South-bound freight on time?” he asked.
-
-The man looked at him indifferently. “I heard her blow at the crossing,”
- he answered. “There! can't you hear her rumble?”
-
-“Who's the conductor?”
-
-“Jack Thomas, if he didn't lay over at Red Hill to spend Sunday with his
-folks.”
-
-“I want to speak to him. Where will his cab stop?” The man had filled
-his short pipe, and he took the globe off his lantern to light it. “The
-engine will water here at the tank,” he said, gruffly. “The cab will
-stop down near the tool-house on account of the length of the train--a
-lot of empty fruit-cars going South.”
-
-“All right; thank you.” Walton moved away, and leaned against a stack
-of cross-ties near the tool-house. He could now quite clearly hear the
-rumble of the coming train. There was a wide stretch of old cotton and
-corn fields, now barren and out of use, between him and the train, and
-across them presently shot the wavering gleam of the engine's headlight.
-On it came, growing larger and steadier till it had passed him, and with
-the harsh creaking of brakes on massive, groaning wheels the locomotive
-came to a stop. The side door of the caboose was open. A man holding
-a lantern lightly swung himself to the ground, and peered up at a
-brake-man on the roof of the car.
-
-“Unwind her, and run to the other end!” he ordered. “You needn't hang
-around my cab all night. I haven't a drop to drink.”
-
-“All right, Cap,” and, jumping from car to car on the foot-boards
-overhead, the brakeman disappeared in the cloud of steam and smoke which
-the locomotive was belching forth.
-
-“Hello, Jack!” Walton came forward.
-
-“Hello! Good Lord, Fred, what are you doing down here this time of
-night? I thought you fellows had a game on every Sunday. I was just
-wishing I had enough boodle ahead to lay over and walk away with some
-Stafford coin. I want to get even for the last hold-up you blacklegs
-gave me.”
-
-“I'm dead broke, Jack, old man,” Walton said, avoiding the eyes of
-his friend. “I want to get to Atlanta before the morning train, and I
-wondered--”
-
-“If I'd take you? Of course I will. I'm sorry to hear you are broke,
-though, for we might pass the time with a game. It's down-grade,” he
-laughed, impulsively; “we might turn old No. 12 over to the fireman, and
-get the engineer and brakeman to come in and try a round.”
-
-“I wouldn't trust myself with three railroad men,” Walton tried to jest,
-“even if I hadn't sworn off.”
-
-“What! again? Oh, that _is_ a joke!” Thomas laughed. “You Stafford chaps
-say you swear off, then practice night and day, and stick it to the
-first galoot that comes along. Oh, I am on!” There was a sound of
-rushing water from the tank ahead. In the dim light in the locomotive
-they could see the fireman on the tender astride of the swinging pipe.
-
-“I'm glad you will take me along, Jack,” Walton replied. “I want to
-get to Atlanta, and haven't a cent on earth. The truth is, I am in bad
-shape.”
-
-“I've heard you sing that song before,” the conductor replied, with an
-incredulous smile. He raised his lantern till the yellow light fell on
-Walton's face, and he stared in astonishment. “Why, really, you _do_
-look kind o' bunged up. What's the matter, old chap?”
-
-“I'm simply down and out, Jack, that's the sum and substance of it. I am
-down and out. When do you start?”
-
-“In a minute. I've got to run clean round the train and examine my
-door-seals. Climb in. I'll swing on as we leave the yard. Make yourself
-comfortable. Huh! you are done for, eh? That _is_ a joke!”
-
-Climbing the iron step, Walton found himself in the caboose. It was
-dimly lighted by a lamp in a curved tin holder on the wall over a
-crude desk with pigeonholes. Here the conductor kept a pencil tied to
-a string, and some yellow blanks for reports and telegrams. There was a
-hard, smooth, backless bench near the door, and a narrow cot with wooden
-sides and ends. On an inverted box stood a tin pitcher, a wash-basin,
-and a cake of coarse yellow soap. On a hook hung a soiled towel; a pair
-of blue overalls, a white shirt, and a tattered raincoat were suspended
-at the sport of the wind and motion of the car on other hooks along the
-wall.
-
-There was a harsh, snarling sound as the hinged water-pipe was drawn up
-on its chains; the clanging of a bell; the shriek of the locomotive's
-whistle; a quickening succession of jerks, communicated from bumper
-to bumper, and the train was off. Walton was glad to be alone with the
-desolate pain that clutched him now with renewed force. He wanted no
-human eye to witness his misery. Away off there, beyond the hills,
-in its shroud of mystic moonlight, lay the town he now loved with a
-yearning which all but tore his heart from his body. He was looking at
-the old place for the last time unless, unless--and his blood ran cold
-at the thought--unless he was brought back by the officers of the law to
-answer for his crime. Yes, that might be his fate, after all. A city so
-well policed as Atlanta would prove a poor hiding-place for a penniless
-fugitive. A telegram from Stafford would put the authorities on the
-alert, and escape would be impossible. And no sentimental reasons would
-check prompt action on the part of old Simon Walton. In his rage
-over the discovery of the unexpected loss of such a large amount of
-ever-needed cash, he would balk at nothing. Of family pride he had
-little--certainly not pride strong enough to make him a party to the
-concealment of crime, even in his own blood.
-
-“If I have to be the daddy of a thief,” Fred imagined his saying,
-“I'd rather be the daddy of one under lock and key, where he could be
-controlled like any other sort of maniac.”
-
-Yes, he must make good his escape, the young man reflected; there was
-no other way. Escape meant a chance, at least, for reformation and
-atonement, and he must reform--he must atone.
-
-The train was rounding a curve. A sudden and deeper pain shot through
-him, for on a hill, in a grove not far off, he saw the roof, gables,
-windows, and walls of a country house he well knew. It was there, at a
-house-party, that he had been thrown for the first time with Margaret
-Dearing and had learned to love her. His eyes were blinded by tears he
-could not restrain as he tried to descry the exact spot among the trees
-where he and she had sat that glorious morning in early autumn.
-
-“God have mercy!” He leaned against the side of the car and groaned.
-Even now she knew of his ruin. Her brother had already prepared her for
-the news, which would spread through the town like wild-fire. She knew,
-and her proud brow was burning under the shame of having trusted a
-coward and a knave to the extent of having had her name coupled with
-his. He stood in the centre of the car, swayed back and forth by its
-ruthless motion. Those merciless wheels, grinding so close beneath,
-would end it all. It would be an easy thing to swing himself under
-the car door till he was over the rail and then let go--_let go!_ He
-shuddered, and turned cold from head to foot.
-
-There was a thumping overhead as some one leaped from the roof of the
-car ahead to that of the caboose. There was a scraping of soles and
-heels on the tin covering, a step on the iron ladder by the door, and
-the conductor lunged into the car.
-
-“Got on by the very skin of my teeth,” he said, with a merry oath. “We
-are on the down-grade, and we started quick. But why don't you take a
-seat?” He raised his lantern, and the rays fell full on Walton's pallid
-face. “Say, old man, are you as hard hit as all that?”
-
-“It couldn't be harder, Jack,” Walton said. “I am at the end of my
-rope.”
-
-“Well, I am sorry--I'm real sorry,” the conductor declared. “I'll tell
-you what to do. It's a tough ride to Atlanta, along with our stops and
-sidings and waits on through trains. There won't be a soul in the bunk
-to-night. Throw off your things and crawl in.”
-
-“But that's _your_ bed,” Walton protested, thoughtful, even in his
-misery, of his friend's comfort.
-
-“Not for to-night it isn't,” Thomas affirmed, as he hung up his lantern
-and drew a stool to the desk. “I've got to be up till daybreak. Crawl
-in, I tell you!” Walton sat down on the edge of the cot, a trembling
-hand went to his necktie. In the rays of the yellow light he looked as
-though he were about to faint.
-
-“Hold on, wait!” Thomas chuckled. “I'll physic you all right.” He raised
-the top of his desk and drew out a flask of whiskey. “It is actually the
-smoothest article that ever slid down a human throat,” he laughed, as
-he shook the flask and extended it to his guest. “Take a pull at it, and
-you will have dreams of Paradise.”
-
-“I don't care for it right now, Jack,” Walton returned. “I may ask for
-it later. Whiskey always keeps me awake.”
-
-“Well, I've got to sit up,” the conductor said, “so here's looking at
-you. I've got the dandiest thirst that mortal ever owned. You've heard
-about the feller who told the prohibitionist that he didn't want to get
-rid of his. Well, I'm that way about mine. If a man went round paying
-for thirsts, he couldn't buy mine for all the money in the State.
-I've got it trained till it walks a chalk-line. I go without a drink
-sometimes for days at a time, just so she will get good and ripe and
-have a sort of clinging rasp on her. But no joking, old man, I don't
-like your looks. I've seen you kind of blue before, but I never saw you
-plumb flabbergasted like this. You say you are broke. I don't happen to
-have anything in my pocket right now, but I reckon I could draw a little
-pay in advance from our agent in Atlanta, and--”
-
-“I don't want to borrow any money, Jack, thank you just the same,”
- Walton said. “When I get to Atlanta I'll look around and see what will
-turn up.” And, stifling a groan of despair, he sank back on the cot.
-
-“All right, old man,” the conductor responded. “Now, go to sleep. You
-need rest.” He turned the wick of the lamp down and pushed his lantern
-into a corner, so that its light would not fall on the face of his
-guest. Then he slid the bench to the open door, lighted his pipe, and
-fell into a revery.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII
-
-|THE cot was hard and narrow, and it had sides of unpadded boards. For
-hours Fred lay pretending to be asleep, that he might shirk the sheer
-torture of conversation with his friend. Through partly closed eyelids
-he watched the railroad man as he sat in the doorway looking out at the
-rapidly shifting night view. When a station was reached the conductor
-would spring up, and with his lantern swinging in his hand he would
-descend to the ground and wave his light or call out an order to a
-switchman or the man at the brakes. Then the creaking, mechanical
-reptile would crawl along and speed away again. Several times the
-miserable passenger dozed off into most delectable dreams. In them he
-was always with Margaret in some fragrant spot among flowers, by flowing
-streams, and in wondrous sunshine. Once he saw General Sylvester and his
-grim old father in congenial converse together, while he and Margaret
-stood hand in hand near by, and then his beautiful, haughty sweetheart
-put her arms about the grizzled neck of the man who had never known
-affection and kissed him. But she was fading away, as was the erect
-old soldier, and the dreamer found himself before his father at the old
-man's desk in the bank. And now Simon Walton's face was dark as night.
-A ledger lay open before him. “Five thousand dollars of my hard-earned
-money!” the old man shrieked. “And you deliberately stole it from my
-vault! Thief! Thief! Thief!” Simon's lips continued to move, but no
-sound save a dismal, mechanical rumbling issued. There was a long scream
-of the steam-whistle, a thunderous bumping of cars one against another,
-the rasping rattle of brake-chains, a glare of yellow light, and Fred
-saw Thomas standing over him, his lantern's rays thrown downward.
-
-“In the yard at last, old chap,” the conductor said, as he took his
-lantern apart and blew out the flame, “but don't you get up. You haven't
-had enough sleep, and it is only five o'clock. You didn't rest well in
-that blamed bunk. You kept rolling and jabbering in your sleep. I've got
-to run up-town, but the cab will stand right here on the side-track all
-day, and you can leave it whenever you like. I'll be about the general
-freight-office till noon, and if you want me, look me up.”
-
-“All right. You are mighty good, Jack,” the wanderer said, appalled and
-stupefied by his sudden awakening to the grim reality of his condition.
-
-When the conductor had left, and unable, through sheer mental agony, to
-go back to sleep, Walton crawled out of the bunk and stood up. His
-legs, arms, and neck were stiff, and twinges of pain darted through his
-muscles as he moved. Standing in the open door, he looked out over
-the vast stretch of railway tracks. The gray light of dawn shrouded
-everything. Over the tops of cars, heaps of old scrap-iron, blinking
-vari-colored signal-lights, and bridges which spanned the tracks he saw
-the spectre-like outlines of the State Capitol's drab dome, and farther
-to the left the tall office-buildings in the centre of the city.
-
-Just then a man came round the end of the car, and, with a start of
-surprise, recognized him. It was a railway mail-carrier who had once
-lived at Stafford. “Why, hello, Fred!” he cried, rubbing his eyes, for
-he had just risen from his bed. “What are you doing down this way at
-break of day?”
-
-Walton hesitated; a tinge of color came into his pale face.
-
-“Ran down for a trip with Jack Thomas,” he answered; “this is his cab.”
-
-“Oh yes--I see. Where _is_ Jack?”
-
-“Had to go up-town.”
-
-“You haven't had your breakfast yet, I'll bet. Come on and take a snack
-with me. There is a good all-night eating-house up by the Viaduct.”
-
-“Thanks, I've got to hang around here for a while.”
-
-“Well, so long!” the man said, with a backward look of perplexity, as he
-moved away. “I'll see you uptown, I reckon.”
-
-Walton stood down on the ground and looked about him; then he saw
-something that drove him back into the car. It was a policeman in
-uniform a hundred yards away. He seemed to emerge from the cattle-yard
-on the left, and was walking along slowly, looking under cars and trying
-their sliding doors. He would stoop to the cross-ties and peer carefully
-at the trucks, and move on again to repeat the process at each car of
-the long train, the engine of which was fired for leaving. Walton sank
-to a seat on the cot; the man was searching for him. There would be no
-escape. Presently a feeling of relief came to him in the reflection that
-his fears were ungrounded, for his father, not having read the letter
-he had left on his desk, could not yet know of his flight. The old man
-never went to the bank earlier than eight in the morning, and it could
-not now be later than five. Yes, the officer was looking for some one
-else. The fugitive breathed more freely for a few minutes; then another
-shock quickly followed the first. It was now plain--horribly plain. His
-father, having sent him to the bank for a statement of his account the
-evening before, had waited up for him, his impatience and suspicion
-growing as the hours passed. Old Simon could not have slept while a
-matter of that nature remained unsettled. He had waited, pacing the
-floor of his room, till nine; till ten; till eleven; and then, full of
-gravest alarm as to the safety of his funds, he had gone down to the
-bank to ascertain the cause of the delay. In his mind's eye, Fred
-saw the grim old financier as he stalked muttering through the silent
-streets of the slumbering town. He saw him open the big door of the
-bank, and heard his disappointed growl as he faced the darkness. Old
-Simon, with fumbling hands, found and struck a match; then he groped his
-way back to his office and lighted the gas. Fred saw him as he stared
-round the room, and, with the gasp of an animal, pounced on the letter
-he had written; he saw, as if he had been on the spot, the distorted,
-terrified face of the bewildered old miser. Then what had he done? He
-had gone quaking and whimpering to the home of the sheriff near by; he
-had waked the officer by pounding on the door, and ordered the immediate
-pursuit of his son as an absconding thief. The telegram had left
-Stafford before midnight; it had passed the fugitive as he slept, and
-the policeman now looking under the cars was only one of scores who were
-bent upon hunting him down. Yes, it was all over. There was nothing left
-now but to be taken back to Stafford, handcuffed as a common felon. He
-crept to the car door and looked out. The policeman had paused in his
-search, and was coming directly across to him. A feeling of odd and
-almost soothing resignation came over the young man; at any rate, he
-would not hide like a coward. He was guilty, and he would take his
-punishment. So he sank upon the bench at the door and calmly eyed the
-officer as he crossed the tracks, playfully swinging the polished club
-which was strapped to his wrist.
-
-“Good-morning!” the man said, looking up. “You are not the conductor of
-this train, are you?”
-
-“No,” Fred answered, wonderingly; “he's just gone up-town.”
-
-The policeman swung his club. “Got a match in your pocket? I want to
-smoke so bad I can taste it.”
-
-Walton fumbled in his pocket and produced some matches, and, still
-wondering, he reached over and put them into the extended hand. The man
-in uniform was young, clear of skin and eye, and had a good face--a face
-which Walton no longer dreaded, which, indeed, he felt that he could
-like.
-
-“Tough job I'm on now, you can bet your life,” the policeman said, as
-he struck the match on the iron ladder of the car and applied it to a
-half-smoked cigar.
-
-“What sort of job is it?” Walton asked.
-
-“Why, you see,” the man explained, “the railroads of the State have had
-no end of trouble with hoboes here lately. The dirty tramps are forever
-stealing rides. At this time of year they are as thick as flies on the
-trucks, brakes, and bumpers. They fall off when they get to sleep, and
-are killed; they break in the cars, and steal the freight; and a gang
-of them have been known to throw rocks at the train-crew, and raise
-hell generally. So, as a last resort, the roads determined to make cases
-against every one that could be caught, and they are sending them up by
-the hundreds, and for good long terms, too. They are never able to pay
-the fines, you see, and they have to work it out in the coal-mines or
-turpentine camps. Now and then a big mistake is made, of course; for
-many a good man has been sent up for only trying to reach a place where
-he could get honest employment. But the law is no respecter of persons.
-Let a man without money to pay his fine be caught stealing a ride
-through _this_ town, and nothing in God's world will save him. The
-feathers of a jail-bird stick mighty tight, you know, and after one gets
-out he never makes any headway.”
-
-“They are not well treated, either, I have heard,” Walton put in.
-
-“You bet they are not,” the policeman said, looking across the tracks.
-“Gee! did you see that? I think I've got one now. I saw a fellow peep
-out right over there.”
-
-He darted off, club in hand, and Walton saw him disappear between two
-cars, and heard his stern voice cry: “Come out of there, young man!
-Don't make me crawl under after you! Come on, the game is up!”
-
-Walton descended to the ground and crossed over to the policeman just as
-a young man with a grimy face and tousled hair emerged from behind the
-heavy wheels. He did not appear to be more than twenty years of age, and
-his clothing, even to his hat and necktie, indicated that he was not an
-ordinary tramp. He stared in a bewildered way at the blue coat, brass
-buttons, and helmet-shaped hat.
-
-“For God's sake, don't send me up, policeman!” he pleaded, in a piteous
-tone. “I am out of money, and want to get through by way of New Orleans
-to Oklahoma. I am out of work and trying to reach Gate City, where I can
-get a job.”
-
-“I've got nothing to do with that,” the policeman said, curtly. “I'm put
-here to arrest you fellows--that's my duty, and I've caught you in the
-act.”
-
-“O God, have mercy!” Walton heard the boy muttering to himself. “I can't
-stand it! I'd rather die, and be done with it!”
-
-He looked at the officer again, and his lips seemed to be trying to
-frame some further appeal, but, as if realizing the utter futility of
-such a course, he simply hung his head and was silent.
-
-Walton, who liked the boy's looks, suddenly felt a rebellious impulse
-rise and struggle within him. It was the quality which, in spite of his
-faults, had endeared him to his many friends.
-
-“Look here, old man,” he said to the policeman, “law or no law, duty
-or no duty, you can't take the responsibility of this thing on your
-shoulders. I'm a fair judge of men, and I am sure it would be wrong to
-send this boy up. You know he is only doing what you or I would do if
-hard luck drove us to it. Say, old man, I'm dead broke myself, I haven't
-a dollar in my pocket, and I am out of a job besides; but I've got a
-good solid gold watch in my pocket, and if you will let him go I'll give
-it to you.”
-
-The officer wavered; he stared, speechless, for a moment, colored high,
-then shrugged his shoulders.
-
-“I reckon my duty _does_ allow me to sorter discriminate,” he faltered.
-“I haven't seen the chap actually riding, either. But I won't take any
-bribes--I wouldn't take one from _you_, anyway. You are about as white
-a chap as I've run across in many a day, and I'm going to drop the dang
-thing. God knows, I don't want your watch! But, say, don't get _me_ into
-trouble. I've got a family to support, and I must hold my job. Get the
-fellow out of the freight-yards before the town wakes up. There are cops
-on our force who would drag him in by the heels. Car-grease like he's
-got smeared all over him is a dead give-away. Say, young man, take a
-fool's advice: get out on the country roads. You'll make it all right
-among the farms.”
-
-“You won't take the watch, then?” Fred held the timepiece toward him,
-its golden chain swinging.
-
-“No, I don't want it. But hurry up! Get him out of the yards!”
-
-“Come on, and I'll show you the way,” Walton said to the boy, when the
-officer had gone. And without a word, so overjoyed was he by the sudden
-turn in his favor, the begrimed youth dumbly followed his rescuer across
-the tracks to a quiet little street bordered by diminutive cottages.
-
-On they trudged through street after street till, just as the first
-rays of sunlight were breaking through the clouds, they found the open
-country before them. For miles and miles it stretched away to blue hills
-in the vague, misty distance.
-
-“I can make out all right now,” the boy said, with a grateful glance at
-his rescuer, as they paused. “I don't want to take you farther out of
-your way. God knows, I'll not forget your kindness till my dying day.
-You don't know what you've saved me from. I'd have killed myself rather
-than be sent up. I've heard what those places are like. If you will tell
-me your name and where your home is, I'll write back to you.”
-
-Walton's eyes met those of his companion. “Huh!” he said, gloomily,
-“I'm as homeless as you are, my boy. The truth is, I don't know where
-to turn, myself, and really the thought of parting with you, for some
-reason or other, hurts me. I need a companion worse than I ever did in
-my life. Say, will you let me go with you?”
-
-“_Will_ I?” and the grimy face filled with emotion, the big brown eyes
-glistened with unshed tears. “God knows, I'd rather have you than any
-one else, and I certainly am lonely enough!” The blackened hand went out
-and clasped Walton's, and, face to face, these new friends in adversity
-stood and silently vowed fidelity. “What is your name?” Fred asked.
-
-“Dick Warren,” the younger said. “I am from Kentucky--Louisville. I've
-got no close kin, and no money. I was a telegraph operator in Memphis
-till a month ago, but lost my job. Long-distance telephone is killing
-my business. I heard of Gate City--they say it is booming. I want to go
-there.”
-
-“I'll join you,” Walton said. “I've heard of it, too. Those, new towns
-are all right.”
-
-“You didn't tell me your name,” Dick suggested.
-
-“Oh, I forgot; why, it's Fred--it's Frederic Spencer.” He had given
-the seldom-used part of his Christian name, that of his maternal
-grandfather. “Some day I'll tell you all about myself, but not now--not
-now. Are you hungry, Dick?”
-
-The boy nodded slowly. It looked as if he were afraid that an admission
-of the whole truth might further discommode his new friend. “A little
-bit,” he said, “but I can make out for a while.”
-
-“We'll try a farm-house farther on,” Walton said, with an appreciative
-glance at the weary face before him. “I'll have to have a cup of coffee
-or I'll drop in my tracks.”
-
-The sun, now above the tree-tops, was beginning to beat fiercely upon
-them, and threatening much in the way of heat and sultry temperature
-later in the day. The activity of his mind and sympathies in behalf
-of his companion had in a measure dulled Walton's sense of his
-own condition, but as he trudged along by his companion the whole
-circumstance of his flight and the far-reaching consequences of his act
-came upon him anew. The agony within him now seemed to ooze from his
-body like a material substance, clogging his utterance and shackling his
-feet.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII
-
-|THAT morning, about nine o'clock, old Simon Walton rode down to his
-bank in the one-horse buggy of antiquated type which had come into his
-possession years before in the foreclosure of a mortgage given by a poor
-farmer, and which, with its rusty springs and uncouth appearance, was
-quite in keeping with the character of its present owner.
-
-The bookkeepers were busy at their special duties, and scarcely gave
-him a glance over their ponderous ledgers as he came in at the front
-and walked to his desk in the rear. Hanging up his old slouch hat, and
-seating himself in his big revolving chair, his eyes fell on a stack
-of letters addressed to him. Rapidly shifting them through his stiff
-fingers, his attention was drawn to the only one which bore no stamp or
-postmark. He recognized the writing, and as he held it frowningly before
-him, his confidential clerk, Toby Lassiter, a colorless and bald young
-man of medium height, sparse mutton-chop whiskers, and soft, shrinking
-gray eyes, entered with a slip of paper.
-
-“The cotton quotations you wanted, Mr. Walton,” he said, in the discreet
-tone he used to the banker on all occasions, lest he might by accident
-expose to other ears matters his cautious master wished to be kept
-private.
-
-“Oh yes.” Then, as Lassiter was softly slipping away: “But hold on,
-Toby! Have you seen Fred this morning?”
-
-“No, sir, he hasn't been around yet. In fact, Mr. Walton, I wanted to
-ask you. Only three of us carry keys to the front door--you and me and
-Fred; and when I was opening up this morning I found that somebody had
-pushed one of them under the door.”
-
-“Well, I've got _mine_,” old Simon said, with a slow, wondering stare.
-“Oh, wait! this note is from him; maybe he--” The banker, with fumbling
-fingers, tore open the envelope and began to read. The waiting clerk
-heard him utter a gasp. It was followed by a low, subdued groan, and
-looking like a corpse momentarily electrified into a semblance of life,
-the old man rose to his feet, the half-read confession clutched in his
-sinewy fingers.
-
-“He's gone!” he gasped. “He's taken five thousand dollars of the bank's
-funds, and made off!”
-
-“Oh, Mr. Walton, do, _do_ be quiet!” Lassiter whispered, warningly, as
-he laid his hands on the arms of his employer, and gently urged him to
-sit down. The banker obeyed as an automaton might, his wrinkled face
-beneath his shaggy eyebrows wildly distorted, his lips parted, showing
-his yellow jagged teeth, his breath coming and going in spasmodic gasps.
-Every hair on his head seemed to stand dry and harsh by itself as he ran
-his prong-like fingers upward through the bushy mass.
-
-“Five thousand--five thousand--five thousand!” he groaned; “the low,
-ungrateful thief; and at a time when he knew it would hamper us and
-maybe bring on a crash. Look y' here, Toby, and be quick about it! Run
-and get the sheriff--if you can't find him fetch the deputy! Then see if
-the telegraph office is open. I'll jail that scamp before night! I want
-my money! I want my money! He's no son of mine! I gave him fair warning,
-as you know, to let up in his damnable course, and he snapped his
-card-flipping fingers in my face. Hurry up! He can't be far off; we'll
-nab him before the day is over. Run!”
-
-But the clerk lingered. “Mr. Walton,” he began, falteringly, “I
-never have refused to obey your orders, but Fred ain't quite as bad
-as--really, you oughtn't to handle the boy that way. He's been a good
-friend to me, and I'd hate to think I'd stand by and see you take a step
-like this, mad as you are, when if you'd only be calm a minute, surely
-you'd realize--”
-
-“Am I the head of this bank or _you?_” old Walton broke in, as he rose
-and stood quivering and clinging with both hands to the back of his
-unsteady chair. “Go and do as I tell you, or, by the God over our heads,
-I'll send you about your business!”.
-
-“All right, Mr. Walton,” the clerk yielded, “I'll do it!”
-
-White as death could have made him, Lassiter passed out at a door on
-the side of the building and gained the street without being seen by the
-workers in the counting-room.
-
-“Poor Fred!” he muttered. “He's too good at heart to be treated this
-way, and he's not a _real_ thief, either. Folks have told him all his
-life that he had a right to more of the old man's money than he was
-getting, and he didn't think it was stealing.”
-
-On a corner he saw Bill Johnston, the sheriff, a man about forty-five
-years of age, who wore great heavy top-boots, a broad-brimmed hat, and
-had sharp brown eyes and a waxed and twisted mustache. With considerable
-reluctance, Toby went up to him.
-
-“Mr. Walton wants to see you, Bill,” he said. “He's in his office in the
-bank.”
-
-“Well, I can't come for ten minutes yet, anyway,” the sheriff said, not
-removing his steady gaze from a group of men round a mountain wagon in
-a vacant lot across the street, where, on a high hoarding of planks,
-glaring new circus bills were posted. “The boys are about to smell out a
-keg of wild-cat whiskey in that gang of mossbacks. They may need me any
-minute. Tell the old man I'll be along as soon as I can.”
-
-Lassiter went back to the bank and gained his employer's presence
-without attracting the attention of any of the clerks. He found the
-shaggy head prone on the desk, the long arms hanging down at
-either side. For a moment Toby thought the banker was a victim of
-heart-failure, and stood stricken with horror. But he was reassured by a
-low groan from the almost inert human mass.
-
-“Good Lord,” he heard the banker praying, “scourge him! Don't heed his
-cries and promises! He has lied to me, he'll lie to you!” Therewith
-Simon raised his blearing eyes, now fixed and bloodshot in their
-sockets.
-
-“Well?” he growled, impatiently.
-
-“Johnston is coming right away,” Lassiter said, and he approached the
-old man and leaned over him. “Mr. Walton, once when you were very mad
-with the other bank, you remember, and was about to take action against
-them, I got your ear, and showed you that in a suit at court you'd
-have to make certain showings of a private nature that would injure our
-interests, and you admitted that I was right, and--and decided to let
-the matter blow over. You've said several times since then that I was
-right, and--”
-
-“Well, what the devil has that got to do with _this?_” Walton thundered.
-
-“I'll tell you, Mr. Walton--now wait one minute, just one minute,”
- Lassiter urged: “you know how excitable depositors are. Don't you see if
-the report goes out that you have actually turned Fred over to the law
-for a big defalcation that folks will get the impression that you are in
-a shaky condition? The other bank would make it appear ten times as bad
-as it is, and we might have a frightful run on us. We are all right,
-solid enough, the Lord knows, but money--_ready_ money--is hard to get.
-There never has been a time when it would be as hard to stand under a
-run as right now. We are getting ahead of the other bank, and they are
-as mad as Tucker. They wouldn't want anything better than a chance like
-this to--”
-
-“You mean?--great God, Toby, you are right! It would ruin us--absolutely
-wreck us! I see it--I see it as plain as day!”
-
-There was a sound of heavy steps in the corridor outside.
-
-“It is the sheriff,” Toby whispered, “but I didn't tell him what you
-wanted. Don't act now, Mr. Walton; for God's sake, don't!”
-
-“Tell him to wait a minute,” the banker panted. But it was too late; the
-sheriff, with his usual lack of ceremony, was already pushing the door
-open.
-
-“Hello, old man!” Johnston said, and he came in with a swinging stride.
-“I hope you are not scared about what I owe you; I'll get it up all
-right. Money is owing to me, and--”
-
-“No, it wasn't that--it wasn't that.” Walton's rigid face was forced
-into a smile that fairly distorted it and set the observant officer
-wondering. “The truth is, Johnston, I thought I needed your services,
-but I find I'm mistaken. That's all, Johnston, I was mistaken. I've
-decided to let it pass--to let it pass, you know.”
-
-“All right, old man,” the sheriff replied, as his puzzled glance swept
-the two disturbed faces before him. “I don't care just so you don't
-garnishee my salary for what I owe you.”
-
-Outside, as he joined a group of idlers on the corner, he remarked, with
-a broad, knowing smile and a twinkle of the eye: “That old note-shaver
-in there thinks he can fool me. He sent Toby Lassiter out just now as
-white as a preacher's Sunday shirt to ask me to see him. I found him
-looking like a staring idiot, and was informed that it was a false
-alarm. False nothing! I'll give you boys a tip. I'll bet that gay and
-festive Fred is up to some fresh devilment. You watch out and you'll
-hear something drop, if I am any judge. I saw Fred last night headed for
-the railroad. He didn't see me. I was hiding behind a fence, watching
-him. I think he boarded a freight-train; I am not sure.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX
-
-|AS was only natural in a town of the size of Stafford, the sudden
-departure of Fred Walton, under circumstances no one seemed able
-to explain, caused wide and growing comment. A railroad man who had
-returned from Atlanta informed an eager cluster of idlers in the big
-office of the main hotel of the place that Fred had been seen lurking
-about the freight-yards in the city at early daylight, evidently trying
-to avoid being seen. The report went out, too--and no less authority
-accompanied it than the word of Fred's stepmother, who, admitting the
-fact that she hated the young man, could not be charged with originating
-a direct lie--that Fred had gone without “a thread to wear,” except what
-he had on when leaving. The town did not need to be told that in that
-detail alone lay ample evidence of the gravity of the case, even if
-it were not said--on good authority, too--that old Simon Walton,
-immediately on discovering the flight, had called in Bill Johnston
-to consult with him. Had he taken away _money?_ That was the question
-designedly put by Walton's business rivals, and that was the question
-which one and all declared the old man and Toby Lassiter had promptly
-denied. No, it was something else; that was quite plain.
-
-Mrs. Barry heard the news at the fence the next afternoon from the
-voluble tongue of a poor washerwoman, a Mrs. Chumley, who, since the
-downfall of her only daughter, and the handsome girl's adoption of
-a life of prostitution in Augusta, had lived on alone in a cottage
-adjoining Mrs. Barry's, and who, as she cleansed the linen of her
-neighbors for a living, besmirched their characters as her only
-available solace. She was fond of hinting darkly that if disgrace had
-come to her family by _discovery_, it hovered--ready to drop at any
-minute--over the heads of people not a bit better, and who were far too
-stuck-up for their own safety.
-
-“You certainly ought to be glad the scamp's gone,” she remarked to
-Mrs. Barry, as she leaned her bare, crinkled arms on the fence when she
-unctuously told the news. “I never liked to see him hanging round Dora.
-A body would see him one day over there at that big fine house with Miss
-Margaret, whose high-priced ruffles I've got in the tub right now, and
-the next bending his head to enter your lowly door. Things as wide apart
-as them two naturally are won't hitch, neighbor, that's all--they won't
-hitch.”
-
-“Yes, I'm glad he's gone,” Mrs. Barry admitted, with the indiscretion
-most persons had under the plausible eye and guiding tone of the gossip.
-“Dora says he had a kind heart, and that she's sorry for him in all
-his ups and downs; but, as you say, no good could come of their being
-together so much, at least, and it is better to have it end.”
-
-“The postman left a letter for you-all this morning, didn't he?” was a
-question Mrs. Chumley had evidently been holding in reserve.
-
-“No, there wasn't anything. Dora went out to the fence to see if he had
-any mail, but he didn't.”
-
-“Huh, that's strange!” Mrs. Chumley's purposely averted glance came
-back to the wrinkled face of her neighbor, and remained fixed there in
-a direct and probing stare. “That's queer, for I certainly saw him hand
-her a letter over the fence as plain as I see that tub of suds. I saw
-her reading it, too.”
-
-“You must be mistaken.” Mrs. Barry's face had changed. There were
-splotches of pallor in her gaunt cheeks.
-
-“No, I couldn't be. I don't make mistakes in things of that sort--not of
-_that_ sort.”
-
-Mrs. Barry was silent. She was forced to admit that if any pair of
-earthly eyes could detect a hidden thing those eyes were now eagerly
-blinking under the sinister brows before her. As she stared into the
-reddish, freckled face, certain long-subdued fears rose within her. She
-felt faint, and had a sensation as if all visible objects were whirling
-around her. Then she became anchored by something in the gossip's glance
-which, had she has been less afraid, she would have taken as direct
-insult. It was as if the washerwoman were saying: “Well, you know I can
-sympathize with you. I have been through it all.”
-
-“She came back in the house after the postman had gone on,” Mrs. Barry
-faltered, “and told me there wasn't any letter.”
-
-The poor woman felt that her defence, if defence it might be called,
-was falling on wilfully closed ears, and again she was conscious of that
-rocking, floating sensation. The round, red visage of the washerwoman
-seemed to recede from her; there was a sound as of roaring water in
-her ears. But through it all the insistent voice of her tormentor beat
-into her consciousness.
-
-“If she didn't show it to you, she _hid_ it; I'm dead sure of that. She
-_hid_ it. I have been watching your girl, Mrs. Barry, for several weeks,
-and I'm free to say that something has gone wrong with her. A body can
-see it in the drooping way she has in moving about. The day you sent her
-over for the salt I thought, on my soul, she'd drop in her tracks before
-she left the kitchen. Maybe the letter was to tell her where the scamp
-was going, or--or--well, there could be lots a fellow like that might
-say at such a time. But I'll be bound, he was putting her off. They all
-do. It is man-nature.”
-
-“I am sure she didn't _get_ any letter,” Mrs. Barry said, and she now
-tore herself away, conscious of her overwhelming disadvantage in the
-adroit woman's hands.
-
-“Well, you'll find out I'm right,” was the shot which struck her in the
-back as she turned the corner of the cottage. “If you don't believe me,
-you can ask the postman; there he is--coming down the street right now.”
-
-But Mrs. Barry did not pause. She went into the house and closed her
-door. She stood in the middle of the room like a creature deprived of
-animation. Through the parted curtains of an open window she heard the
-washerwoman call out to the man in uniform:
-
-“I just had a bet up with Mrs. Barry, Sim Carter! She must think I'm
-blind. I told her you left a letter at her house this morning, and she
-says she never saw hair nor hide of it.”
-
-“It is there all right,” the man laughed. “I gave it to Miss Dora.”
-
-“That's what I told her. I say, Sim Carter, have they heard anything
-more yet about--” But the postman was gone.
-
-Through the window, by stooping and peering forth, Mrs. Barry could see
-him crossing the street to the next house. With a heart as heavy as
-lead she went into the parlor; Dora was not there. She passed on to the
-kitchen; no one was there, either. There was something incongruous
-in the contented aspect of the fat, gray cat lying and purring in the
-sunlight on the door-sill. Bliss like that under the coat of a mere dumb
-brute when she had this to bear--this lurking, insinuating, maddening
-thing, which had been creeping slowly upon her night and day until it
-had assumed the shape and size of a monster of mental and spiritual
-torture.
-
-She went on to Dora's room, where she found the girl seated on her bed.
-The great, long-lashed, somnolent eyes, over the exquisite beauty of
-which men and women had marvelled, were red as from weeping. She gave
-her mother, as the old woman stood in the doorway, a weary, despondent
-glance, and then, half startled, looked down. Mrs. Barry saw the charred
-remains of a sheet of writing-paper in the open fireplace, and a fresh
-pang darted through her.
-
-“Did you need me, mother?” Dora inquired, softly, in the musical voice
-so many had admired, and which to-day sounded sweeter, more appealing,
-than ever before.
-
-“Mrs. Chumley says you got a letter from the postman this morning,” Mrs.
-Barry said, tremblingly.
-
-The girl seemed to hesitate just an instant; then she nodded, mutely.
-
-“Who was it from, daughter?”
-
-“Mother, I don't want to say--even to you. I have reasons why--”
-
-“It was from Fred Walton! You need not deny it.”
-
-Dora made no protest; she simply dropped her eyes to her lap, and sat
-motionless.
-
-“You knew he had left, didn't you?”
-
-“Yes, mother. I knew he was gone.”
-
-“And while the whole town is wondering why he went, you know, I
-suppose?”
-
-“I don't feel that I have the right to talk about it, mother.”
-
-“Well, I sha'n't urge you!” And the older woman shambled away, now
-bearing doubts which were heavier and more maddening than ever.
-
-“Something's wrong--very, very wrong--or she wouldn't droop like that,”
- she said. “Oh, God have mercy, I'm actually afraid to question my own
-child! I am afraid to even do that!”
-
-The sun went down, the night came on; workingmen, women, and children
-passed along on their homeward way from the cotton and woolen mills,
-carrying their dinner-pails. The very cheerfulness of their faces,
-lightness of step, and merry jesting with one another sent shafts of
-misery to the heart of the brooding woman. When she had put the supper
-on the table she went to the daughter's room and told her it was ready.
-
-“Some of your art pupils came to the gate just now, didn't they?” she
-inquired.
-
-“Yes,” the girl answered. “Sally and Mary Hill wanted to know if I'd go
-sketching with them to the swamp to-morrow afternoon.”
-
-“And are you going?”
-
-“I told them I'd let them know in the morning.” Dora was at her place at
-the side of the table, and she felt her mother's despondent gaze turned
-on her.
-
-“You told them you'd let them know! Why, don't you know already? I
-thought you liked to go out that way. Some of your best studies were
-made at the swamp.”
-
-“I was feeling so badly,” the girl sighed, “that I didn't have the heart
-to promise. I can never work to any advantage if I am not in the mood
-for it.”
-
-“Oh! _that_ is it!” They both sat down. “You ought to fight against
-languor at this time of the year. I never let an ache or pain keep me
-from work. Sometimes merely being busy seems to help one. Your father
-used to stick at his easel as long as the light would hold out. He
-used to say the time would come when the whole world would admire your
-painting, and you really _are_ improving.”
-
-Dora sighed, but said nothing.
-
-Mrs. Barry passed her a cup of coffee. “Here, drink this down while it
-is hot,” she advised. “I made it strong. It will do you good.”
-
-“Thank you, mother, you are very kind to me.” Dora drank some of the
-coffee, and daintily munched a piece of buttered toast. In the afternoon
-light, which fell through a western window, Mrs. Barry saw a deeply
-troubled look on the wan face--a certain nervous twitching of the
-tapering fingers.
-
-Presently Dora pushed back her chair and rose.
-
-“I don't care for anything else,” she said, avoiding her mother's eyes.
-
-“But you haven't eaten anything at all,” Mrs. Barry protested,
-anxiously.
-
-“I can't eat--I simply can't,” Dora said, with strange and desperate
-frankness. “I'm too miserable. Oh, mother, mother, pity me! pity me!”
-
-Mrs. Barry sat motionless, her head, with its scant hair, now supported
-by her two sinewy hands. She saw her daughter turn away, and, with
-dragging feet, go on to her bedroom.
-
-“God, have mercy!” she moaned. “She's as good as admitted it. What else
-could she have meant? Oh, God, what else--what else? She must know what
-I am afraid of. Oh, my baby!--my poor, poor baby!”
-
-She rose from her untasted meal and followed her child, not noticing,
-in the gathering dusk, that Mrs. Chumley had entered the outer door,
-and was treading softly and with bated breath in her wake. She found the
-girl standing at a window, dumb and pale, looking out into the yard.
-
-“You must tell me everything, daughter,” Mrs. Barry said. “I can't sleep
-to-night unless you do. I am afraid I am going mad. Tell me, tell me!”
-
-“Oh, mother, mother, how can I?”
-
-“You are ruined!” Mrs. Barry groaned. “Tell me I am right--you are
-ruined!”
-
-With a cry, Dora turned and threw herself on the bed, and with her face
-hidden in a pillow she burst into dry sobs.
-
-“Make her tell you the whole thing,” Mrs. Chumley spoke up, as she stood
-in the doorway. “Have it out of her, and be done with it; that's the
-course I took.”
-
-Mrs. Barry turned upon her, but no anger or resentment over the
-intrusion stirred the dregs of her despair. A faint shock came to her
-with the thought that now all Stafford would know the truth, but it
-was followed by the realization that, after all, concealment would not
-lessen in any degree the horror of the disaster.
-
-“Come away!” she heard herself imploring the gossip. “Let her alone!
-I won't have folks bothering her. She's got enough to bear as it is,
-without having people prying. Come away, come away!”
-
-Mrs. Chumley suffered herself to be led to the outer door.
-
-“All right. I came over to return the cup of sugar you lent me; I left
-it in the kitchen. I am much obliged, and I'm as sorry for you as one
-woman could be for another. Good-night.”
-
-Mrs. Barry went to the supper-table, and, as it was growing dark, she
-lighted a lamp. She proceeded to wash and dry and put away the dishes.
-No one would have suspected that such a deadening blow had been dealt
-her to have looked in on her at this moment, as she moved dumbly about
-the room, her head and face hidden by the gingham sunbonnet she had
-put on. It was a badge of humility--a thing she vaguely fancied hid her
-maternal shame from eyes which she already felt prying.
-
-Her task finished, she stood for a moment hesitatingly; then she blew
-out the lamp and crept softly to the door of her daughter's room.
-Bending her head, she listened at the keyhole. No sound came to her
-ears, and she softly lifted the latch and went in. Dora still lay on the
-bed, her arms clutching the pillow, her face out of view in the darkened
-room.
-
-“Darling, I haven't come to scold you, don't think that,” the old woman
-said, most tenderly, as she sat down on the edge of the bed and took her
-daughter's tear-damp hand. “This calamity has fallen on both of us, just
-as the death of your dear father did so far away from home, and just as
-many other hard things have come to us. I shall stand by you through it
-all. It is not the first time a poor young girl has been misled. Nothing
-is left for us but to do our duty to the best of our ability in the
-sight of Heaven. I shall not press you to tell me a thing, either. My
-knowing particulars wouldn't better matters at all. It is done, and that
-is enough. Now, go to sleep, baby girl, and don't give way to despair.
-Good-night.”
-
-Dora sat up, extended her arms, and for a moment the two remained
-locked in a tight, sobbing embrace. Neither spoke after that. Tenderly
-releasing her daughter's twining arms, Mrs. Barry went out and softly
-closed the door. In her own room, in utter darkness, she undressed.
-Before retiring, and with the sunbonnet still on her head, she knelt
-beside a chair in the room and started to pray, but somehow the needed
-words failed to come. Prayer is born in hope in some sort of faith, at
-least, but this lone widow, brave as her front appeared, had neither.
-
-“Oh, Edwin!” she suddenly cried out, “she was your idol, your little
-pet; you used to say, as she sat on your knee in the firelight at night,
-that she was born to be lucky and happy. You said her beauty, genius,
-and gentleness would draw the world to her feet. You hoped all that for
-her, Edwin, and yet there she is bowed down in the greatest shame and
-sorrow that can fall to a young girl's lot. On the day you left never to
-return, you told me of the great Virginia family from which she was
-descended, and said that some day we'd be grandparents of children that
-would make us proud. Poor, dear Edwin!--that was only one of your pretty
-dreams--_our_ grandchild, if God lets it come, won't even have a name of
-its own, and may bear this curse through a long life to its grave. Oh,
-Edwin!--my gentle, loving husband--you are here by my side to-night,
-aren't you? You are here putting your dear spirit arms about me, trying
-to comfort me, and you will help her, too, dear husband, as you are
-helping me. Hold up the sweet, stricken child. Fill her dark life with
-your own unrealized dreams. Give her something--_anything_ to help her
-bear her burden! That's my prayer to you, Edwin--to you, and to God!”
-
-She went to her bed and threw herself down. Tears welled up in her, but
-she forced them back, and, dry-eyed and still, she lay with her wrinkled
-face near to the wall.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER X
-
-|ONE evening, two days later, General Sylvester and his niece and nephew
-sat on the front veranda to catch the cool breezes which swept across
-the town and stirred the foliage of the trees on the lawn. The old
-gentleman had been urging Margaret to go to the piano in the big
-parlor and sing for them, but she had persistently declined. Since Fred
-Walton's leaving, despite her evident efforts to appear unconcerned,
-she had not seemed to her watchful brother and uncle to be at all like
-herself, and they were constantly trying to divert her mind from the
-unpleasant matter.
-
-At this juncture Kenneth Galt's carriage and pair of spirited blacks,
-driven by John Dilk, his faithful negro coachman, came briskly down the
-street, and turned into the adjoining grounds through the gateway to the
-gravelled drive, and drew up at the steps of the house, which was not
-very different from the Dearing home in size, period, and architecture.
-
-“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” the General exclaimed, suddenly. “Galt is
-off to Atlanta, to see some more capitalists on our new railroad scheme.
-You may think lightly of it, my boy, but as sure as fate we are going to
-put that big trunk-line through--or, rather, Galt is. He thinks it is in
-good shape, and that is encouragement enough for me. He has handled my
-affairs ever since he hung out his shingle as a lawyer, and as he made
-money hand over hand for himself, he has for me too.”
-
-“Yes, he has the keenest sense of values of any man in the State,” Wynn
-agreed. “He has the full confidence of his clients, and he is not
-afraid to back up his ideas with money; that is what makes a successful
-speculator. He will put the road through if any one can. Investors will
-listen to a man who has succeeded in everything he has attempted.”
-
-The carriage was now leaving the house, and when it had regained
-the street and was about to pass, the General stood up and waved
-his handkerchief. The carriage paused at the gate, and the man under
-discussion sprang out, hat in hand, and hurried up the walk.
-
-“I have only a minute to get to the 8.40 train,” he informed them, as he
-bowed to Margaret, and smiled cordially at Dearing.
-
-Kenneth Galt was an interesting man from many points of view. His
-intimate friends liked him because, to them, he sometimes unbent and was
-himself; to strangers and mere acquaintances he was cold, formal, and
-almost painfully dignified. To his many clients he was seldom cordial or
-free, and never familiar. He had gleaned the idea somewhere, from his or
-some one else's experience, that no genuinely successful financier
-ever allowed himself to be taken lightly, so he never jested about
-his affairs nor encouraged it in others. He had set a high price upon
-himself and his chances of success in life, and he held to it the
-more tenaciously the higher he climbed. When approached for legal or
-financial advice his face was as immovable as granite, and when he gave
-an opinion it always had weight, for he was apt to be right. He was
-considered a man of wonderful ability and power among men. He couldn't
-have been a successful politician, for he could never have sufficiently
-lowered himself to the level of the common people, so it was fortunate
-for him that his ambition associated him with another and a more
-lucrative class. He was interesting as any human enigma could be which
-showed outward signs of hidden depth and strength. For an orthodox
-community like that of old Stafford, his iconoclastic views on some
-sacred subjects shocked many conservative individuals, but he was so
-firm in his philosophy and frank in his open expression of it, that
-he was forgiven where a weaker, less-important man would have been
-adversely criticized. He had convinced himself, or been convinced during
-the hours he had spent in his unique library, that there is no such
-thing as a soul or a soul's immortality, and he was proving, by his
-persistent effort to make the most of the present, that in the very
-renunciation of the dogma he had discovered the highest law of life.
-
-“Well, you are off, I see,” the General said, “and I hope the parties
-will not only be there, but with their check-books wide open.”
-
-“Yes, I'll see what can be done,” Galt answered, somewhat coldly, for it
-was against his policy to speak of business matters in any social group.
-“I happened to have the land deed you wanted in my pocket, General, and
-I thought I'd stop and hand it to you.”
-
-“Oh yes, thank you,” Sylvester said. “I knew it was all right, but I
-want to keep all my papers which you don't have need for in my safe.”
-
-“And how is Miss Margaret?” Galt now asked, as he turned the document
-over to its owner, and bent toward the wistful face of the young girl.
-
-“Oh, I'm quite well, thank you,” she responded, forcing a smile. “You
-are a fortunate man, Mr. Galt. My uncle doesn't praise many people, but
-he can't say enough in your favor.”
-
-“That's because he only knows the _business_ side of me,” Galt said,
-ceasing to smile, and drawing himself up.
-
-“Well, I must be off. I see John lashing the air with his whip; he is my
-time-table.”
-
-“Yes, you'd better not lose your train,” the General put in. “I don't
-want to be the cause of your missing that appointment. Get a rosebud for
-his buttonhole, Madge. It may bring us good luck.”
-
-“Yes, I will.” The girl rose languidly. “There are some pretty ones near
-the gate.”
-
-Galt gallantly assisted her down the steps, and, side by side, they
-moved along the wide brick walk. Dearing heard his uncle chuckling as
-the old man peered through the twilight at the couple, who now stood
-facing each other over a bush of choice roses.
-
-“Mark my words, my boy,” he said, “we may have to wait awhile for it,
-but as sure as you and I are alive, that pair will some day be more
-closely related to each other than they are now.”
-
-Dearing shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. “You don't think
-so?” the General pursued, with the eagerness of a child who has
-discovered a new toy. “They can't help it. He is much older than she
-is, but it would be an ideal match. The fellow is actually a great man.
-There is no curbing his ambition. He has accomplished wonders so far,
-and there is no telling what his particular genius will ripen into.”
-
-“It may be as you say--_in time_,” Dearing answered, after a pause; “but
-I'm afraid it will be years before Madge forgets Fred Walton, and if he
-should take a notion to come back, as such fellows always do, sooner or
-later, why, we'd only have our trouble over again.”
-
-“But he told you he was going, never to come back?” the old man said,
-with a touch of resentment even at the thought.
-
-“Yes; he said positively that his conduct, whatever it was, would keep
-him from ever showing his face in Stafford again.”
-
-“I have been wondering what he could have done,” General Sylvester said,
-musingly. “I dropped in on his father the other day for no other reason
-than that he might let out some hint of the situation, but he never said
-a word. A big change has certainly come over him. His face was haggard
-and almost bloodless, and his eyes had a queer, shifting look. I am sure
-he knows all about the affair, whatever it is.”
-
-“Yes; Fred said the old man knew, and would tell it, but it seems he has
-not,” Dearing answered.
-
-“Ashamed to let it be known, I guess,” Sylvester said.
-
-Margaret and Galt had parted, the carriage was disappearing down the
-street, and the girl was slowly strolling back. At a bed of flowers
-about ten yards from them she paused and stood looking down. Just then
-a loud, strident voice reached them from the side of the house. It was
-from Mrs. Chumley, who had brought the General's laundry home, and with
-her great empty basket was making her way across the grass toward the
-front gate, accompanied by old Diana, the colored cook.
-
-“Oh, but I know it _is_ true--every word of it!” The white woman had
-raised her voice exultantly. “I was right there at the girl's elbow, and
-heard Mrs. Barry accuse her of it. Dora admitted her ruin, and laid it
-to Fred Walton. Now, I reckon folks will know why he had to skip out by
-the light o' the moon without a bit of baggage.”
-
-Instantly the two men were on their feet, Margaret's protection foremost
-in their minds. There was no doubt that she had heard, for she was
-standing facing the two women like a figure carved from stone.
-
-“Excuse me, Miss Margaret, I didn't know you was there,” Mrs. Chumley
-said, as she walked on; “but it is the truth--the Lord knows it is the
-truth.”
-
-“My God, the brutality of it!” the old man ejaculated. “To think it
-should come to her like that!”
-
-“The scoundrel!” Dearing cried. “Now I understand fully, and if I had
-known the truth, I'd have--” But he went no further, for Margaret was
-slowly coming toward them. The grass she trod was wet with dew, and
-ordinarily she would have realized it, and lifted her skirt, but she
-now moved toward them like a somnambulist. At the bottom step her foot
-caught, and as they both sprang to her assistance she gave a forced,
-harsh laugh.
-
-“How awkward I--I am!” she stammered. “I could never da--dance the
-minuet with you now, Uncle Tom. I gave Mr. Galt a pretty bud. He is
-_such_ a flatterer--saying that I--saying that he--”
-
-She suddenly pressed her hand to her head and reeled helplessly. The
-strong arm of her brother went round her, and her head sank upon his
-shoulder. His face was wrung and dark with blended fury and anxiety, his
-strong lip was quivering.
-
-“No, she is not fainting!” He spoke to his uncle, but for her ears, with
-the intention of rousing her. “She is all right. Wake up, Madge! I'll
-slap your jaws, old girl, if you play 'possum with me. You may fool
-_some_ folks, but not your family doctor.”
-
-“No, I am not fainting. Who said I was?” and Margaret raised her head,
-and drew herself quite erect. “I--I am going in to sing for you.”
-
-She was moving toward the door when her brother, with a catch in his
-voice and a firm step after her, said: “No, not to-night, dear. Uncle
-Tom wouldn't listen, anyway. He's simply daft about the new railroad,
-and couldn't hold his tongue even for a minute. Look at those damp
-shoes. You will catch pneumonia. Run up to your room and change them at
-once!”
-
-“I _did_ get them wet, didn't I?” the girl said, glancing down at her
-feet. The next moment they heard her ascending the stairs. Her brother
-stood at the door peering after her till she was out of sight; then he
-went back to his chair, and sank into it. The General was eager to take
-up the startling topic, now that they were alone, but Dearing's ears
-were closed to what he was saying.
-
-“Poor child!” the young doctor said to himself. “To think that it should
-come to her--to beautiful, gentle Dora, with her wonderful ideals! _And
-he could deliberately desert her!_ He could look another man in the face
-and confess that he was without the courage to lift a woman up after he
-had knocked her down.”
-
-Leaving his uncle, he went up to his room and sat alone in the darkness
-before an open window. Across the lawn he saw a solitary light in Mrs.
-Barry's cottage. It was from the window of Dora's room, and for an hour
-he sat watching it. He kept his eyes on it till it went out; then he
-rose, and began to undress.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XI
-
-|A FEW days after the report of Dora Barry's fall had permeated Stafford
-from the town's centre to its scattering outskirts, and the beautiful
-girl's disgrace had been duly recorded as the now certain explanation of
-Fred Walton's flight, it came to his father's ears in a rather indirect
-manner. Old Simon was erroneously supposed to have learned the truth,
-even before it became town-talk; for it was vaguely whispered that
-the banker had been so moved by Mrs. Barry's personal appeal to him
-in behalf of her daughter that he had called in the sheriff with the
-intention of having his son held to honor by sheer force, but for some
-reason had refrained from taking action.
-
-There are individuals in every community, too, who are bold enough to
-mention a delicate topic even to those most sensitively concerned, and
-as old Walton was going to the bank on the morning in question Bailey
-Thornton, a man of great size, who kept a grocery where the banker
-bought his supplies, essayed a jest as he passed the old man's morning
-cigar to him over the showcase. The bystanders thoroughly understood
-what was meant, as was evinced by the hearty laugh which went round, but
-the old man didn't.
-
-“Don't be hard on the boy, Mr. Walton,” Thornton added, and he smiled
-broadly enough to explain any ordinary innuendo. “Remember your own
-young days. I'll bet Fred came by it honestly. The whole town knows the
-truth; there is no good in trying to hide it. Tell him it is all right,
-and make him come back home.”
-
-Old Simon grunted and walked on, flushing under the irritating chorus of
-laughter which followed him out of the store. “Come by it honestly!” he
-repeated. “What could the meddling fool mean? _The whole town knows the
-truth!_”
-
-He fell to quivering, and almost came to a dead halt in the street.
-Surely the circumstance of the bank's loss was not leaking out, after
-all his caution? He decided that he would at once sound Toby Lassiter.
-Perhaps Fred had confided in others. The bare chance of the shortage
-being known and used against him by the rival bank alarmed him. In fancy
-he saw the report growing and spreading through the town and country
-till an army of half-crazed depositors, egged on by his enemies, was
-clamoring at the door, and demanding funds which had been put out on
-collateral security, and could not be drawn in at a moment's notice.
-
-As he was passing along the corridor by the counting-room, where,
-beyond the green wire grating, the bookkeepers were at work, he
-caught Lassiter's glance, and with a wild glare in his eyes he nodded
-peremptorily toward the rear. He had just hung up his old slouch hat and
-seated himself in his chair when the clerk joined him, a look of wonder
-in his mild eyes.
-
-“Say, Toby, sit down--no, shut the door!” Simon ordered; and when the
-clerk had obeyed and taken a chair near the desk, the banker leaned
-toward him.
-
-“I want to know,” he panted, “if the report is out about Fred's
-shortage?”
-
-“Why, no, Mr. Walton,” the clerk said, astonished in his turn; “that is,
-not to my knowledge. I haven't heard a word that would indicate such
-a thing. In fact, they all seem so busy with--” But Lassiter colored
-deeply, and suddenly checked himself.
-
-“Well, _something_ is in the wind, I know,” Simon went on, his lip
-quivering. “It may be that Thornton only had reference to the boy's
-general extravagance, or he may have heard false reports about my own
-bringing-up; but I am not sure, Toby, but that the thing we are trying
-to hide is out.” Thereupon old Simon, his anxious eyes fixed on the
-face of his clerk, recounted in detail all that the grocer had said, and
-exactly how it had come up.
-
-“Oh, I see!” Lassiter exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “He didn't refer
-to _the money_, Mr. Walton. He meant--” It was loyalty to his absent
-friend which again checked the conscientious Toby, who was trying to
-reconcile two adverse duties, and now sat twirling his thumbs in visible
-embarrassment.
-
-“You see what?” old Simon demanded, fiercely. “Don't you begin shifting
-here and there, and keeping things from me. I want to know what's took
-place, and I _will!_ You and I have always got on harmoniously, but I
-don't like your shillyshallying whenever that boy's name is mentioned.
-The other day, when I sent for the sheriff--well, you happened to be
-right in stopping me _that time_, I'll admit, but I want to know what
-you think Bailey Thornton meant by what he said. Do you know?”
-
-The clerk looked down. His face was quite grave and rigid.
-
-“Mr. Walton,” he faltered, “I don't like to carry tales about matters
-which don't concern me, and when a nasty report gets in the air I try to
-keep from having anything to do with it.”
-
-“I'm talking to you about _business_ now!” Old Simon raised his voice
-to a shrill cry, which, had it not stranded in his throat, would have
-reached the adjoining room.
-
-“The report touches on my affairs here in this house, and if you don't
-tell me, if you don't aid me with whatever knowledge you may have run
-across, you can draw your pay and quit.”
-
-Lassiter saw the utter futility of remaining silent longer, and with a
-desperate look on his face he answered: “I didn't want to make the
-poor boy's case any worse, Mr. Walton, and so I hoped it would turn
-out untrue before it got to you; but they say the girl admits the whole
-thing. The minister of the church where she plays the organ told me it
-was true.”
-
-“Girl? What girl?” the banker gasped. “Why do you take all day to get at
-a thing?”
-
-Then, as Lassiter told the story which was on every tongue, old Simon
-stared, his mouth falling open and his unlighted cigar seesawing between
-his jagged stumps of teeth.
-
-“So you are plumb sure it wasn't the money that Thornton was talking
-about!” he exclaimed, with a deep breath of relief.
-
-“Yes, I am sure of that, Mr. Walton. They have been so full of chatter
-about the girl that not a word has been said about money, although some
-think you actually furnished the ready cash for him to get away on.” The
-two sat silent for several minutes; then, shaking his tousled head and
-shrugging his gaunt shoulders in his faded black alpaca coat, the banker
-said, with grim finality of tone: “He's a bad egg, Toby. That fellow is
-rotten to the core. This last discovery really helps us hide the other
-matter, but the two of them put together will wipe his name off the
-slate of this town forever. He'll never dare to show his face here
-again. He might have tried to get around me and live down the shortage,
-but I reckon both things coming to a head at once kind o' broke his
-courage, and he decided to skedaddle. I have no pity for the girl
-neither--not a smidgin; a woman that would give in to a scamp like him
-don't deserve any man's pity. Say, Toby, I'm a peculiar in some ways:
-as long as I felt that I owed something to that boy as his father
-his doings kind o' lay on my mind, but he has plumb cancelled that
-obligation. I can get along without worry over him if he is put clean
-out of my calculations, so after this I don't want no human being to
-mention his name to me. I'll let 'em know that they can't joke with
-me about it on the street. I want you to go this minute to Bailey
-Thornton's store and ask him for my account up to date. Then I'll send
-him my check, and do my trading with Pete Longley. He will be trotting
-in to apologize, but keep him away from me. Huh! he can't sneer at me as
-I walk along the public highways of this town; his account with us isn't
-worth ten cents a month, and he's shaky, anyway. I wish I'd hit him in
-the mouth as he stood there gloating over his dirty joke!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XII
-
-|KENNETH GALT came back from Atlanta at the end of the week. John Dilk
-drove down, and brought him up from the station at dusk. Galt had just
-alighted at his front steps, and the carriage had gone round the house
-toward the stables in the rear, when he saw Margaret Dearing among the
-flowers on the lawn adjoining. Through an open window, in the glow of
-gas-light, he could see the supper-table waiting for him, and knew that
-his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, had all in readiness for his evening meal.
-He knew, too, that she was most particular about having his favorite
-dishes served while they were hot, and yet he could not resist the
-temptation to exchange greetings with this fair young girl whose genial
-friendship and interest in his affairs had always appealed to him. The
-prospects were very bright for success in his plan of building a railway
-from Stafford to the sea, and he was still young enough to want to warm
-himself in the smile of the girl's approval.
-
-“Oh, you are back!” she said, cordially, as he strode across the grass,
-and lightly vaulted over the row of boxwood which divided the two
-properties. “Uncle Tom will be delighted.”
-
-“Yes, and I am very tired,” he answered. He paused and shook her hand,
-experiencing a decided shock as he noticed the unexpected pallor of
-her face and the dark splotches beneath her eyes. “I was on my feet all
-morning in Atlanta. I made a speech to-day at a luncheon, and then had
-to ride up on a slow train.”
-
-“And the railroad is almost a certainty?” she asked, forcing a wan
-smile. “You are about to have your dream realized?”
-
-“Almost,” he answered, modestly. “I think we may count on most of the
-subscribers for the stock throughout the South, and the farmers who
-have agreed to donate the right of way through their lands still seem
-enthusiastic. The only thing we lack is the support of a certain group
-of New York capitalists who are to put up the bulk of the funds and are
-now considering our final proposition. If they should go in the road
-would be a certainty.”
-
-“My uncle is sure they can be counted on,” the girl went on,
-sympathetically. “He declares no one but you could have won the
-confidence of all those prim, old-fashioned ladies and pious elders, who
-have never been willing to invest their savings before.”
-
-Galt shrugged his shoulders and drew back somewhat into his habitual
-mantle of reserve. “If we _do_ put it through,” he said, “they won't
-regret it. Thorough confidence in an enterprise like this is necessary,
-of course, and I am glad they trust me.”
-
-“All Stafford was reading the articles in the Atlanta papers yesterday
-about it,” Margaret said. “Uncle says when it is settled beyond a doubt
-the town will give a torch-light procession in your honor.”
-
-“There were many inaccuracies in the papers,” he informed her, as he
-stood wondering over her evident dejection. “Did you read the articles?”
-
-“Did I? Twice--once for myself and again for Uncle. I am sure he had
-already been over them, but, like the child he is, he wanted to hear the
-glorious news coming from the lips of some one else. I didn't like the
-pictures of you, though--not a bit.”
-
-“You didn't? Why?”
-
-“Because they don't do you justice; they were so harsh and fierce. They
-made your mouth look--what shall I say?--cruel?--yes, cruel and utterly
-heartless. And we all know you are not so. Wynn says you have the
-greatest fondness for children of any man he knows, and surely that is a
-sign of a good heart.”
-
-“There is one thing I am _now_ showing an extravagant fondness for,”
- Galt said, with a cynical laugh, “and that is, hearing you sound praises
-that aren't deserved. So I am going to tear myself away from them and
-run in to supper.”
-
-“Poor girl!” he mused, as he walked away. “She looks pale and troubled,
-and talks as if she were trying to hide something. She has altered,
-even in the last week. I wonder if she really cared for Fred Walton? Who
-knows? Women often like unworthy men. God knows, I ought to understand
-that.”
-
-After supper Galt went up to his sumptuous quarters on the floor above,
-and, lighting a cigar, he threw himself into an easy-chair and began to
-smoke.
-
-“Yes, I must see her to-night,” he said, almost aloud. “I can't wait
-longer. It has been more than a month now, and not a line from her. I am
-winning the fight of my life, and I want to see her glorious face light
-up as I tell her about it. She is the sweetest, dearest girl in the
-world. Her great dreamy eyes haunt me night and day. I love her, God
-knows I do. But it mustn't get out yet--not yet; not, at least, till my
-road is built. We have a right to our secret, the sweetest that ever a
-love-mad pair held between them. She trusts me, and for the present
-no one need dream of our intimacy. The last time I saw her the little
-darling had all sorts of fears in her dear little head, but such fancies
-are only natural. I'll kiss them away, once she is nestling in my arms.
-The dear little thing is jealous--actually jealous--of my success. She
-said once that she believed I would desert her if it would serve my
-ambition to do so. She doesn't know me. She has a wonderful brain, but
-she reads me wrongly.”
-
-The hours went by. The old grandfather clock in the hall below struck
-nine and then ten, and he rose and slipped down the stairs into the
-grounds below. Stafford was a town which went early to bed as a rule,
-and Galt found a vast stillness all about him out under the mystically
-shimmering stars. Softly treading the grass and furtively looking about,
-he went down to a gate near his stables, passed through and closed it
-without sound. Again looking up the little street cautiously, he went
-on till he reached the rear gate of Mrs. Barry's cottage. Going in, he
-walked through the widow's vegetable garden till he stood behind the
-little coal-and-wood house not ten feet from the open window of Dora's
-room. Here he paused, holding his breath in suspense. There was a light
-in the room as from a low-burning gas-jet at the bureau in the corner,
-and against the white window-curtain he saw the shadow of some one bowed
-over a table. The outlines of the silhouette were familiar, and they,
-set his heart to beating rapidly. Picking up some small particles of
-coal, he shot them at the window from his closed hand with the nail of
-his thumb. Sometimes they would fall short of the mark, but now and then
-one would strike the glass and produce a faint clicking sound. The trick
-was successful, as it had been before. The crouching shadow straightened
-up, the distinct profile of Dora's face appeared for an instant, and
-then lost its exquisite outlines in a blur of black which elongated
-itself upward as the girl rose to her feet. The curtain was drawn, and
-Dora, fully dressed, peered out. Stepping into open view, Galt signalled
-with his hand for her to come out. He saw her shake her head excitedly
-and stand motionless.
-
-He signalled again and again, showing his impatience by the growing
-rapidity of his gestures and the impassioned movement of his mute lips.
-He heard her sigh, and then she nodded resignedly and retreated into the
-room. Her light went out. She was coming; he knew she would join him if
-her mother was asleep. And yet that sigh! What could it mean from her
-who had always come so joyfully, so full of love and faith? Ah, he
-had it! The gentle girl, not having seen him for several weeks, was
-genuinely jealous of the weighty affairs which had recently absorbed so
-much of his attention. All the uproar over his prospective success in
-the papers, the graphic accounts of his high position, had made her
-fancy, in her artistic sensitiveness, that circumstances were separating
-them. Ah, yes, that was it! But he would set her right on that score,
-as he always had done. He would convince her that their sweet secret was
-their own, and assure her that it need not be long now before they could
-announce their love to the world. Where could he look for a better or a
-truer mate? The secret of their present, and perhaps imprudent, intimacy
-would never be known. But for the time being, of course, he could not
-think of marrying _any one_. Much depended, right now, on his remaining
-exactly as he was--the suave bachelor whom certain prim and accurate
-maiden ladies had intrusted with the management of their finances, and
-reserved a right to decide, as members of some churches do in the cases
-of their unmarried pastors, what manner of woman their paragon was to
-choose, if any, as his partner in life. They would be unanimous in their
-verdict against the artist's beautiful daughter, not being able to see
-her worth and charm as he could see them. And to announce at the present
-crisis that he had chosen such a wife would certainly be inadvisable.
-He had become their idol, and his judgment told him he must retain their
-good-will in all things--at least, till he was independent of their
-support.
-
-There was a low, creaking sound from the rusty hinges of the rear door
-of the cottage, followed by profound stillness, and he knew she had
-paused on the steps to see if her mother would wake. Then he breathed
-in vast relief, for he saw her coming. She had thrown a light shawl
-over her head, and as she passed from under the intervening arbor of
-grape-vines and the moonlight fell upon her partly exposed face, he was
-struck by its pallor, and by the desperate gleam in the eyes so steadily
-fixed on him.
-
-“Thank God, I see you at last, darling!” he exclaimed, passionately, as
-he held out his arms. But to his amazement she drew back, warding off
-his embrace with a hand that was firm, strong, and cold as ice.
-
-“You must go--you must never come again!” she said, in a voice filled
-with suffering.
-
-The little wood-house was between them and the cottage, and some tall
-trees bordering the little street threw a shadow over them.
-
-“But, darling, what's the matter?” he cried. “What has changed you so
-remarkably? Why, little girl--”
-
-“Do you mean, you haven't--haven't _heard?_” She clutched the shawl
-under her marble-like chin and stared at him, her pretty lips parted and
-quivering piteously.
-
-“Heard what?” he asked. “I have heard nothing--certainly no _bad_ news.
-I've been away for a week, and only came home this evening.”
-
-She lowered her head, and stood silent and motionless. He put his hand
-on her shoulder and gently shook her.
-
-“Tell me,” he urged, groping for an explanation of her agitation, “is
-your mother ill again? Is she worse?”
-
-“No, it isn't that--God knows even that would be a blessing. Kenneth,
-I'm ruined!”
-
-“You don't mean?--you _can't_ mean?--” He stood aghast before her,
-quivering now from head to foot.
-
-“Yes, there is no doubt of it. Mother suspected it, and was so miserable
-that I had to admit the truth. It almost drove her crazy. She was
-talking to me about it when that meddlesome woman, Mrs. Chumley, came
-in and overheard it. She lost no time in spreading the report broadcast
-over town. Everybody has known it for several days.”
-
-“Oh, my God!” Galt pronounced the words in his throat. This thing, of
-all unexpected things, had burst upon him at the very crisis of his
-triumph, and it would ruin him--there was no denying that; it would ruin
-him! In his fancy he saw his hitherto irreproachable character torn to
-shreds by the men and women who, till now, had stood behind him. The
-dream of his life might be carried out some day, but not by a man of
-his stamp. He groaned aloud. For the moment it was impossible for him to
-show sympathy where sympathy most belonged. He stood as a man stands who
-loves life, and yet has been condemned to death. Love and the capacity
-for self-sacrifice in Kenneth Galt were best nourished by hope and
-happiness, and of these things he was now bereft.
-
-“Well,” his quivering lips finally produced, “we must make the best of
-it. We've only done what millions before us have done for love of each
-other. And what do they say of me? I suppose they think I won't act the
-part of an honorable man; but, Dora darling--”
-
-“Say of _you?_” she broke in, bitterly. “They have never mentioned your
-name. Not a soul--_not even my mother_--dreams that I ever met you in
-secret. You are the last human being on earth that would be--be accused.
-Oh, you are safe! And I'd die ten thousand lingering deaths rather than
-drag you into it! Oh no, you are absolutely safe. I know full well what
-such an exposure would mean to you.”
-
-A sense of unaccountable lightness possessed him; a vague sort of relief
-seemed to hover over him; the blood packed in his heart by horror
-now began to flow warm and free. “They haven't mentioned--you
-say--You--didn't tell your mother--that I--?”
-
-“No, I'd cut out my tongue rather than let her know. You told me when we
-last met that even a bare report of our engage--our love for each other
-right now would harm your plans. Do you think that I'd let a horror like
-this come up against you? Even if you declared it was true, I'd say it
-was a lie! I'd say I cared for some one else. They declare it was
-Fred Walton, anyway, because he left so suddenly. I've told them it
-wasn't--told them and told them, but they won't believe me. They may
-think what they please, but they sha'n't say it was _you!_”
-
-“Fred Walton!” Galt's mind galloped on. “They blamed it on that
-reckless, devil-may-care fellow, and it would be like Dora's magnanimity
-to deny the truth for all time. But should he let her?” A storm of
-incongruous tenderness now swept over him as he stood in the coign of
-immunity she had preserved for him and regarded the sweet, stricken
-creature before him. He laughed aloud in sheer derision of the escape
-she was offering him, and for one blind instant he actually believed in
-his own manhood.
-
-“Leave you?” he said, warmly, and he took her hands into his, and,
-although she firmly resisted, he drew her into his arms and tenderly
-kissed her cold, flower-like lips. “Let another man, and a scamp like
-Fred Walton, have his name coupled in that way with yours? Never! I want
-you, Dora. I'd be a miserable dog, even if I succeeded with my paltry
-enterprise by leaving you! No, I'll come here to-morrow and we'll be
-married, as we ought to have been months and months ago. Now, go to bed,
-and let me see roses on your pretty cheeks in the morning.”
-
-“You are speaking without thought--without knowledge of yourself.” The
-girl sighed as she drew away from his embrace and forcibly put down his
-detaining hands. “You see, I know you, Kenneth, better than you know
-yourself. You love me in a way, I am sure; but when it was all over, and
-you'd paid the debt you think you owe me, you'd blame me for being the
-blight to your prospects that I would be. Listen! What is done is done.
-Because I am disgraced is no reason you should be. You are a man whose
-ambition is his life. Married to me, and hampered by the name I now
-bear, you'd not only fail in your present enterprise, but you would be
-held down to the end of life. Oh, I know you so well--so very well! The
-praise and adulation of the prominent men and women whose friendship
-you have are the very life-blood of your being. I've known you had
-this weakness for a long time, but I had to bear with it as a natural
-shortcoming.”
-
-“How absurdly you talk!” he cried out, in dull, crushed admiration for
-such logic in one so young and frail. “But I assure you, Dora, I'll not
-listen to such silly stuff for a minute. You are going to be my wife.
-Do you hear me?--my wife! We will let the blamed railroad go. I'll tell
-General Sylvester in the morning that we are off for our honeymoon. Of
-course he'll drop me like a hot potato, but he may do it for all I care.
-You are more to me, darling, than he and all the trunk-lines in the
-world. Yes, I am coming for you to-morrow--to-morrow afternoon at three
-o'clock! Remember that--at three, sharp, and I'll--I'll bring a--a
-preacher and--everything necessary.”
-
-“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Dora said, firmly. “You think at this
-moment that you have the courage to do what you propose, but, Kenneth,
-you _haven't_--you simply haven't! I know you better than you know
-yourself. You will not come to-morrow _nor any other day!_ I'll never
-see you again, nor do I want to. I had a kind of love for you that only
-a woman could understand; you have had quite another sort for me. You
-think yours is still alive, but it died of paltry fear, stifled by
-avarice; mine was a girlish dream. I am awake now. Leave me, and don't
-approach me again. I swear to you that your secret is safe.”
-
-She moved away. He tried to stop her; but, with a warning finger on her
-lips, she eluded his grasp, and hurried into the house.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIII
-
-|BRAVE, very brave, and sweet and noble!” he said to himself, as he
-walked back toward the gate of his grounds; “but she certainly sha'n't
-have her way. I'm not low enough for that, thank God! She is the only
-creature I ever loved or could love, and she is mine by all the laws
-of heaven and earth. She looked like a young goddess as she stood there
-with that fire in her suffering face, and calmly consigned herself to
-disgrace and oblivion that my sordid schemes might prosper. I am not
-poor. I can make a living somehow, somewhere, if not in this sleepy old
-town; and with her always by my side, why--” Across the lawn he saw a
-light in a window of the Dearing house. It was in General Sylvester's
-room. The old gentleman retired earlier than this as a rule, and Galt
-told himself that his being up now was due to the almost child-like joy
-over the encouraging condition of their joint enterprise. He saw the old
-soldier's shadow as it flitted across the window, and knew that he was
-walking about, as was his habit under stress of excitement.
-
-“Poor old man!” Galt, now in his own grounds, leaned against the wall
-of a rustic summer-house. A thought had struck him like a blow from the
-dark. What would Sylvester say when he was told the truth? Galt saw the
-look of sheer, helpless incredulity on the high-bred, war-scarred face
-as the revelation was made, and watched it glow and flame into that
-of anger, contempt, and bitter disappointment. The mere confession of
-wrong-doing he might accept as frankly as it was offered, but that the
-young man should allow such a mishap to drag his own proud name into
-the mire and wreck the greatest enterprise that had ever blessed a
-down-trodden community--well, he couldn't have believed such a thing
-possible.
-
-Heavily laden now with the fires of a purer passion burning low under
-the shadow of his impending ruin, Kenneth Galt dragged himself slowly
-along the walk toward his house. He was turning the corner to enter at
-the front when he saw a carriage and pair at the gate. The moon had gone
-under a thin cloud and the view was vague, but surely they were his
-own horses, and the man on the driver's seat certainly looked like
-John Dilk. Wonderingly, Galt went down to the gate. The negro was fast
-asleep; his massive head had fallen forward, and the hands which held
-the reins were inert. The gate rattled as Galt touched the iron latch,
-and the man woke and looked about him.
-
-“Oh, is dat you, Marse Kenneth?” he asked, sleepily. “Yes,” Galt
-answered, rather sharply. “What are you doing with the horses out at
-this time of night?”
-
-“Oh! oh! Le' me see, suh!” The negro's wits were evidently scattered.
-“I sw'ar I dunno, Marse Kenneth. Bless my soul, you jump on me so sudden
-dat I can't, ter save my life, tell you--Oh yes, now I know, suh! Why,
-ain't you seed de Gineral since you got home, Marse Kenneth?”
-
-“Why, no. Does he want me?”
-
-“Yasser, yasser, he sho' do,” the negro answered, now thoroughly
-himself. “He been searchin' fer you high and low, Marse Kenneth. He went
-all thoo yo' house. He got some'n 'portant ter tell you. He ordered me
-ter hurry an' get out de team, an' have it raidy fer you'n him. He just
-run in his house er minute ago. Dar he is comin' now. He's dat excited
-an' worried about not findin' you he can't hardly hold in.”
-
-General Sylvester, as he stepped from the veranda, recognized Galt,
-and hurried toward him, pulling out his watch and looking at it in the
-doubtful light.
-
-“Great heavens!” he cried, “we haven't a minute to lose. You've only got
-twenty minutes to catch the 11.10 North-bound train! Run up and get your
-bag! I saw it there, still unpacked, and you needn't waste a minute.
-I've glorious, glorious news from New York--a wire from Alberts, Wise
-& Co. They have got the right men for our deal, and with dead loads of
-money. They are ripe for the thing, and the brokers wire that if you can
-be there day after to-morrow morning you can close it. They say if you
-are not there then that the money may be diverted to other deals, and
-they advise all possible haste. So hurry. You must not miss the train.
-Everything depends on it. Run, get the bag! John, _you_ get it! Quick!”
-
-“No, I'll--I'll do it!” Galt gasped. “Wait, I'll be down in--in a
-minute!”
-
-“Then hurry. We can talk on the way to the station. My boy, we are
-simply going to land it! The blessings of the widows and orphans, whose
-property is going to bound up in value, will be on your plucky young
-head. Hurry up!”
-
-Galt moved away, as weak in action as a machine run by a spring of such
-delicacy that it could be broken by the breath of an insect or the fall
-of an atom. It struck him as ridiculous that he should be going for
-his bag if he did not intend to use it; and to confess even now that he
-couldn't make the trip would seem queer and cowardly, for he ought to
-have explained at once. Ascending the stairs, he reached his room. He
-turned up the gas, and his image in the big pier-glass between the two
-end windows looked like that of a dead man energized by electricity.
-There lay the bag by the bed, the black letters “K. G.,” on the
-end, blandly staring at him. Galt looked at it, and then back to his
-reflection in the mirror.
-
-“My God!” he cried out, suddenly, “if I go to-night I'll be deserting
-her forever, and she will have read me rightly! She would keep the
-secret; no human power could wrench it from her. She would keep it; and
-I--I, who have led her to her ruin, would be deserting her as only a
-coward could! I am beneath contempt. And yet what am I to do? I am what
-I am--what the damnable forces within me and my ancestors have made me.
-Napoleon loved, and put aside and cast down for his ambition, and have I
-not the same right for mine? I am not an emperor, but my ambition,
-such as it is, is as sweet to me as his was to him. As she says--as the
-gentle wilting flower says--I'd be miserable, _even with her_, under the
-wreckage of all these hopes. She knows me; child though she is, she is
-my superior in many things. She knows that the loss of this thing--now
-that I've tasted the maddening cup of success, now that the poison of
-fame and public approval is rioting in my blood--would damn me forever!
-Accidents of this sort have ruined _weak_ men. _Strong_ men have lived
-to smile back upon such happenings as the inevitable consequence of
-the meeting of flame and powder, and have gone to their graves without
-remorse. I've known such men. I've heard them say that no matter how
-heavily nature may scourge the conscience of man for theft, for murder,
-for any other misdeed, it yet deals lightly with this particular
-offence. And why? Because there can be no charge of deliberation in an
-act to which passionate youth is led by the very sunshine and music of
-heaven. And yet I'll lose her. Great God, _I'll actually lose her!_ I
-can never look into her sweet face again, or kiss the dear lips ever
-whispering their vows of undying faith until hell opened her eyes to--to
-my frailty. No, no, I can't desert her; I can't--I simply can't! I
-_want_ her! I _want_ her. With all my soul, I _want_ her!” There was a
-step in the hall below, and General Sylvester's excited old voice rose
-and rang querulously through the still space below:
-
-“In the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” he cried. “Come on! You may
-miss the train as it is! _Come on!_”
-
-“One second, General!” Galt cried out. “Wait!” He had not yet decided,
-he told himself, and yet his cold hand had clutched the handle of his
-bag. He lifted it up, swung it by his side, and, stepping out into the
-corridor, peered over the balustrade down the stairs.
-
-“We can't wait, man!” the General shouted from the walk outside.
-“Hurry!”
-
-“All right, I'm ready!” and Galt strode rapidly down the stairs, sliding
-his hand on the walnut railing.
-
-“Why, what is the matter with you?” Sylvester peered at him anxiously
-in the moonlight as he emerged from the doorway. “You look white and
-worried. You've done too much in Atlanta, with all those receptions and
-banquets. Let's call a halt on the social end of the business till we
-have clinched the thing good and tight. Put this New York deal through,
-and we can dance and sing and cut the pigeon-wing as much as we please.
-But you will pull it through, my boy, my prince of promoters, with that
-wonderful say-little air you have. You are the man to make that crowd
-of Yankees think we are granting _them_ favors instead of _asking_ for
-them. If you don't miss connection and get there on time, you will win
-as sure as you are a foot high.”
-
-The General was pushing him into the carriage, and John Dilk, with whip
-poised in the air, and a tight, wide-awake grip on the reins showed
-readiness for his best speed record.
-
-“Now, John,” Sylvester cried, “miss that train, and I'll break every
-bone in your black hide!”
-
-The negro laughed good-naturedly. It was exactly the sort of command he
-loved to get from the old man who had done him a hundred services.
-
-“You watch me, Marse Gineral,” he said, with a chuckle; “but you better
-keep yo' mouf closed. Ef you don't, dis hoss in de lead will fill it wid
-clay. He's de beatenes' animal ter fling mud I ever driv.”
-
-On they sped, cutting the warm, still air into a sharp, steady current
-against them. The General babbled on enthusiastically, but Galt failed
-to catch half he was saying. To all outward appearances, he was being
-hurtled on to triumph; in reality, he was leaving the just-filled grave
-of his manhood. Before his humiliated sight stood a wonderful face
-written full of knowledge of himself--a knowledge more penetrating than
-that of the world-wise men who bowed before his prowess; a face, the
-beauty and tenderness of which were ever to remain stamped on his
-memory; a face wrung by a storm of agony, contempt, and--martyrdom!
-And he was striking it! The pleading eyes, scornful nose, quivering,
-drooping mouth were receiving the brunt of all his physical force! He
-knew the cost, and was going to abide by it. A believer in the eternal
-existence of the human soul might have paused, but Galt had always
-contended that nothing lay beyond a man's short material life. And that
-being his view, how could he suffer material glories like these to slip
-through his fingers for the sake of a mere principle--a transient dream
-of the senses? Yes, yes; and yet the pain, the crushing agony, the
-maddened thing within him which all but tempted him to clutch the
-chattering old tempter at his side by the neck and hurl him to the
-earth!
-
-And yet he nodded and said he was glad that the General had been so
-thoughtful as to telephone the station-agent to secure the drawing-room
-on the Pullman.
-
-“We must not do things by halves,” the old soldier crowed. “The man who
-is to have his own private car as the president of the great S. R. and
-M. must not be seen, even by a negro porter, crawling into an upper
-berth. Your plan of living high in order to be on a high level is fine
-business policy. You haven't spared expense in Atlanta; you mustn't
-in New York, either. Dine 'em, wine 'em; throw wads of cash at the
-servants--do anything! They know who the Gaits of Charleston and
-Savannah were before the War: let 'em see that the old blood is still
-alive.”
-
-They had been at the station only a minute when the train arrived. John
-Dilk brushed by the porter at the step of the long sleeper, and proudly
-bore his master's bag into the drawing-room. There was a hurried shaking
-of hands between Galt and the General, and the train smoothly rolled
-away.
-
-Alone in the luxurious compartment, Galt sank down. The obsequious
-porter stood awaiting orders, but the passenger scarcely saw him or
-heard what he was saying. Galt was now fairly stupefied by the magnitude
-of his crime. It flashed upon him as actually an incredible thing--his
-leaving Dora with so much to bear!
-
-He had taught her that their love, like that of their favorite English
-novelist, had lifted them above mere conventional rules and ceremonies,
-and rendered them a law unto themselves. But the awakening had come. She
-had seen him in the garish light with which Truth had pierced his outer
-crust and revealed his quaking, cringing soul. She would despise him,
-the very murmuring of the ponderous wheels beneath him told him that,
-and from now on he must avoid her. To offer her financial aid in her
-coming trial would only be adding insult to injury, knowing her as
-he knew her; so even that must be omitted--even that, while he was
-accepting the price of her misery.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIV
-
-|THE morning sun beat fiercely down on Fred Walton and his new friend as
-they trudged along the dusty road. The pangs of hunger had seized them,
-and no way seemed open to obtain food short of begging it at one of the
-farmhouses which they were passing, and that Fred shrank from doing.
-
-“If I could have stopped in Atlanta long enough to have sold my watch
-we could have paid our way for awhile,” he told his companion, “but I
-thought we ought to be on the move.”
-
-“Yes, of course,” the younger agreed, with a slow, doubtful look into
-the other's face. “Will you tell me--I give you my word you can trust
-me,” he went on--“if you have any reason, except for my sake, in getting
-away from the city?”
-
-“Yes, I have, Dick,” Walton replied. “I may as well admit it. I am in a
-pretty tight place. Things are done by telegraph these days, and I don't
-feel entirely safe, even here in the country.”
-
-“Ah, I'm sorry, Fred!” the boy declared. “You have been so good to me
-that it doesn't look right for anybody to be running you down like a
-common--”
-
-“Thief!” Walton supplied the word in a tone of bitterness. “That's
-exactly what some would call it. But you mustn't be afraid of me, Dick.
-I went wrong, and lost a good home and many friends by it. I've lost
-something else, too, Dick--_some one_ else whom I once had as my own,
-but who is now out of my life forever.”
-
-“You mean--you mean--a sweetheart?” ventured the boy, as he put out a
-sympathetic hand and touched the arm of his companion.
-
-Walton nodded. He had averted his eyes, that his companion might not see
-the tears which blurred his sight, but no word escaped his lips.
-
-“I'm sorry,” Dick Warren said, simply, and his hand tenderly clung to
-the dust-coated sleeve--“I'm sorry, Fred.”
-
-“I wish you knew her, Dick,” Walton went on, reminiscently. “If you did,
-I reckon you'd pity your pal. Here I am, a tramp, an outcast in dirty
-clothing, and no money in my pocket. If you'd ever seen her, you'd never
-dream that such a girl could have actually cared for a man like me. I've
-got her photograph in my pocket. It is in an envelope. I have not looked
-at it once since I left her. I may never again on earth.”
-
-“But why?” the boy asked, wonderingly. “It seems like it would be
-company for you, now that you and she are--parted.”
-
-“She gave it to me in trust and confidence,” Walton answered, his dull
-gaze still averted. “She wouldn't want me to have it now. I shall keep
-it--I simply can't give it up; but I shall not insult her purity by
-looking at it. I must harden myself, and forget--forget thousands of
-things. You may see it if you wish.” Walton drew the envelope from his
-pocket and extended it to his companion. “I'll walk ahead, and when
-you've looked at it put it back in the envelope.”
-
-“All right; thank you, Fred.” The boy fell back a few steps, and with
-his eyes straight in front of him Walton trudged on stolidly. The boy
-gazed at the picture steadily for several minutes, and then caught up
-with his companion and returned the envelope. He was silent for a moment
-then he said, with a slight huskiness in his young voice:
-
-“Would you like for me to say anything about her, Fred?”
-
-“Yes, I think I should,” Walton responded, slowly, as he thrust the
-envelope back into his pocket. “Yes, Dick, I'd like to hear what you
-think of her.”
-
-“She is so sweet and gentle looking--so good--so very, very pretty! Oh,
-Fred, I understand now how you feel! I don't think I ever saw a face
-that I liked better. It may be because she is your--”
-
-“_Was!_” Walton broke in. “Don't forget that, Dick.”
-
-“I think a girl like that, with a _face_ like that, would forgive almost
-anything in the man she loved,” the boy went on, in a valiant effort at
-consolation.
-
-“If she still loved him, perhaps; but she could no longer love him,”
- Walton sighed. “She belongs to a proud family, Dick, not one member of
-which was ever guilty of such conduct as mine. She would shudder at the
-sight of me, she would blush with shame for having cared for me. That's
-why I came away. If I had not loved her, I'd have stayed and faced
-my punishment.” After this talk the two trudged on through the garish
-sunshine without exchanging a word for several miles. It was noon. They
-had come to the gate of a farmhouse which bore the look of prosperity,
-and they paused in the shade of a tree.
-
-“We can't go farther without eating,” the boy said. “You don't like to
-beg, but I don't care; I've done it hundreds of times, and don't feel
-ashamed of it. I'm going to put on a bold front and tackle the kitchen
-in the rear.”
-
-“Don't ask for anything _for me_,” Walton said. “I'm not very hungry. I
-can get along for some time yet.”
-
-“Wait till I find out how it smells around that kitchen,”
-
-Dick laughed. “I'm nearly dead.” The boy had opened the gate, and was
-walking briskly toward the house, which stood back about a hundred yards
-from the road. Walton saw him meet a great lazy-looking dog near the
-steps and pat the animal on the head. Then the dog and boy went
-round the building toward the kitchen. A moment later Walton saw Dick
-returning, a flush on his face and empty handed. The dog paused near the
-front steps, wagging a cordial if not, indeed, a regretful tail.
-
-“The dirty red-faced scamp ordered me to move on!” Dick cried, angrily.
-“He says the country is overrun with tramps, who won't work and who
-expect to live on the toil of honest men.”
-
-“Did he say that?” and Walton's eyes flashed. “I'd like to prove to him
-that I'm no--But what's the use?”
-
-“Look, he's coming!” the boy said, eagerly. “Maybe he's changed his
-mind. A woman was listening to what he said. Perhaps she's told him
-to call us back.” The fat, middle-aged farmer, bald, perspiring, and
-without hat or coat, strode down to them, and languidly opened the gate.
-
-“Say, I just want to tell you fellows _one more thing_,” he panted, as
-he wiped his bearded chin with his pudgy hand, “and that is this: We may
-look like a lot of galoots just out of an asylum along this here road,
-but most of us have a grain of sense. Back here a piece a neighbor of
-mine sent two able-bodied men like you two about their business a month
-ago, and that night his barn was fired. Now, if you fellows try any game
-of that sort on me, I'll--”
-
-“Dry up!” Walton cried, as he suddenly faced him. “I wasn't begging of
-you. I only let this boy go up to you because he is nearly starved. You
-can't insult me--I won't have it! I am not a tramp. As proof of it, I
-have a good solid gold watch here that I am willing to sell you or any
-one else at any fair price you may put on it.”
-
-“Huh! let me see it.” The farmer's eyes gleamed avariciously as Walton
-took the watch from his pocket and extended it to him.
-
-The man tested the weight of the timepiece by tossing it lightly in his
-palm, and then he pried the case open with the stiff nail of his thumb,
-and, with a critical eye, examined the works.
-
-“Full-jewelled and good make,” he said; and then he gave it back. “I'm a
-trader,” he went on. “I make money buying and selling any old thing from
-a pickaxe to a piano, from a pet cat to a blooded horse; but I hain't in
-_your_ market.”
-
-“You say you 'hain't'?” Dick Warren mocked him, in fresh anger.
-
-“No, I hain't,” the obtuse farmer repeated. “I did a fool thing like
-that when I was a boy. I bought a bay mare from a man who rid up to my
-daddy's barn without a saddle, blanket, or bridle--had just a heavy hemp
-rope round her neck. I bit, and chuckled all that day as I rid about,
-showing the gals how bright I'd been. Then the sheriff of the county
-hove in sight, and--well, my daddy had to pay out a hundred-dollar
-lawyer's fee to prove that I wasn't of age, never had had any sense, and
-couldn't have knowed the mare was stolen property. So, you see, when a
-fellow comes hiking along here without a nickel to buy a loaf of
-bread, and lookin' like he's been wading through swamps and sleeping in
-haystacks, and has a gold ticker that is good enough fer the vest-pocket
-of Jay Gould, why, I feel like pullin' down the left-hand corner of
-my right eye an' axin' him ef he hain't got a striped suit under his
-outside one, hot as the weather is.”
-
-“You blamed old--” Dick Warren began, threateningly, as he bristled up
-to the farmer, his fists drawn; but Walton put out his hand and stopped
-him.
-
-“He's right, Dick,” he said, and there was a pained look about his
-sensitive mouth. “The circumstances are dead against us.”
-
-“Yes, I reckon they are, gents,” grinned the man at the gate. “Anyways,
-I don't think you will find a buyer fer that timepiece. Good-day. There
-ain't nothing in all this palaver fer _me_,” and his eye twinkled as he
-finished. “My wife's got dinner waitin' for me: a good fat hen, baked
-to a turn, with rich corn-meal stuffin', an' hot biscuits, coffee,
-string-beans, and fried ham--the country-cured sort that you've read
-about!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XV
-
-|I SWEAR, I'd enjoy firing _his_ barn!” Dick fumed, as the two friends
-walked on through the beating sun. “I don't think I can stand much more
-of it, Fred. I'm all gone inside. The lining of my stomach has folded
-over.” They were passing the corner of a field where, in the distance,
-they could see two men at work digging ditches to drain the boggy land,
-and they paused again to rest under the shade of a tree.
-
-“I guess they will stop soon and go home to a square meal,” Dick said,
-bitterly; and then his roving glance fixed itself on a spot in the
-corner of the snake-fence near by.
-
-“By George!” he exclaimed, exultantly, “we are in luck! Gee, what a
-pick-up!”
-
-“What is it, now?” Walton asked. But the boy was bounding away toward
-the fence. “You wait and see--gee, what luck!”
-
-Walton stood and watched him as he climbed over the fence, dived into
-the thick underbrush, and reappeared with a covered tin pail in his
-hands. As he came back he unfastened the lid and laughed loud and long.
-“Full to the brim!” he chuckled. “Meat, bread, pie, and a bottle of
-fresh milk. We can leg it along the road a piece and sit down to it, or
-stow it away as we walk. My dinner-bell's rung, old man.”
-
-“Put it back, Dick! Go put it back!” Fred said, firmly, his eyes
-averted.
-
-The boy stared, a blended expression of surprise and keen disappointment
-capturing his features.
-
-“Do you really mean it, Fred?” he asked, his lip falling, the pail
-hanging motionless at his side.
-
-“Yes, it is not ours,” the other said. “Put it back before they see you,
-and then I'll--I'll try to explain what I mean.”
-
-The boy swore under his breath, and for a moment he stood gloweringly
-sullen, but at the third command of his companion he retreated to the
-fence and dropped the pail into its place. Then he came back, his head
-hanging, his face still dark with disappointment.
-
-“Huh!” he grunted, and started on without waiting to see if Fred was
-ready to go. Walton followed, and presently caught up with him.
-
-“I'm not a preacher, Dick,” he began, with a forced laugh, which was
-intended as an opening wedge to the boy's displeasure, “I'm not one bit
-better than you are. I've stolen a farmer's watermelons by the light of
-the moon, and climbed his June apple-trees, and filled my pocket with
-his prize fruit, and heartily enjoyed it; but somehow I feel differently
-now. Dick. I'm older than you are, and reckless living has got me down
-and stamped all hope out of me. I'm fighting for my life. I'm swimming
-in a strange, swift stream, and my strength is almost gone, but I have
-grasped at a straw; it may hold me up, it may not; but I hope it will.
-That straw is the determination to live right--absolutely right--from
-now on, no matter what it costs. I've done great wrong, and I'm sick
-with the very thought of it. I want to try to do what is right, and if
-I could influence you to feel as I feel about these things, I'd like it
-mightily; it would strengthen me in my course. Two can succeed better,
-even at a thing like that, than one.”
-
-“But I'm _starving!_” the boy whimpered. “The world wasn't made for
-anybody to starve in. The birds up there in the trees don't starve, and
-God gave them as good right to live as you or me. Huh! when that beefy
-chump back there sows his wheat they watch him with their keen eyes from
-their nests in the trees, and when his hulking back is turned they chirp
-with glee and pounce down on his seed and take it and flutter away with
-it in the sunshine.”
-
-“Dick, you are a bloody anarchist!” Walton laughed gently as he placed
-his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
-
-“I don't know whether I am or not,” Warren retorted, still ruffled. “But
-the blamed bucket of grub may stay where it is. I wanted it for your
-sake as much as mine, but I sha'n't ask you to sit down to other men's
-dinner if you are going to ask the blessing over it. But you are too
-dang particular. At least, I've got as much right to the stuff as they
-have, for they can go home and get more, and I can't.”
-
-“That is _one_ way to look at it,” Walton said, quietly, “and I thought
-as you do once, but I don't now.” After this they trudged along for
-several minutes in silence. The boy did not raise his eyes from the
-dusty ground, but he put his hand on Walton's arm, and there was a catch
-in his young throat as he said:
-
-“Fred, somehow you make me think of my mother, When she was alive she
-was always wanting me to be good. She used to talk to me when I was
-a little tiny fellow. It was always that one thing over and over: 'My
-little boy is not going to be a bad man when he grows up, is he?' That's
-what she said time after time, and in a thousand ways she tried to
-impress it on me. She worried a lot about me just before she died. You
-see, my father--well, he didn't care what became of me, or her,
-either. He drank like a fish, and went with idle men about the
-loafing-places--in fact, he was shot and killed in a bar-room. I've
-tried pretty hard to have faith in what my mother used to say about
-God's mercy and all that stuff, but, Fred, God never answered her
-prayers to look after _me_. If I haven't had to go it blind, I don't
-want a cent. Selling papers on the street at night till nearly morning,
-sometimes sleeping in a stairway, outhouse, or stable. Then I was a
-messenger boy, for a little better wages, in a dead boy's uniform, and
-finally became a tramp telegraph operator. But, Fred, you are true blue.
-I don't want a better pal. The way you yanked out that watch and offered
-it to keep me out of jail when it was the last thing you had in your
-pocket--well, you can count on me, that's all. I won't try to stuff
-another man's grub down your throat, either.”
-
-A man was coming toward them on horseback, and as he drew near he reined
-in and leaned forward on the neck of his horse. “Gentleman,” he began,
-as he pulled at his scraggy beard and kicked his feet more firmly into
-his wooden stirrups, “I don't know whether you fellows are interested
-in the like or not, but I'm riding round here and yon trying to drum up
-hands to gather and crate and ship my crop of early peaches. There is
-such a demand for labor of that sort all through the peach section that
-we are powerful short on help.”
-
-The two pedestrians exchanged eager glances.
-
-“Where is your place?” Fred asked.
-
-“Why, it's a few miles to the right, over them hills,” the rider said.
-“It's the Womack farm. That's my name. I've got a hundred acres of
-dandy Elbertas, and they are ripening as fast as chickens in a
-hatching-machine. They are a thing that has to be picked an' got off in
-cold-storage cars at exactly the right minute or they ain't worth the
-nails in the crates when they get to market. They say if all us early
-fellows can manage to hit New York just right this year, we'll get three
-dollars a crate, an' that will pay big, as times are now.”
-
-“How far is it to your place?” Walton asked.
-
-“Why, it's a little better than seven mile--on a beeline; but I reckon
-by the nighest road it's a matter of ten or thereabouts. You fellers
-look a little mite tired, but by stiff walking you could get there by
-sundown. You can make good wages in a pinch like this if you will buck
-down to it--I calculate three plunks a day for each of you.”
-
-“And how long would the work last?” inquired Fred, as he and Warren
-looked at each other, their pulses quickening, their eyes beginning to
-glow.
-
-“Well, I could hold you down for two weeks at least, for mine don't all
-ripen at once; but after you was through on my land you could go farther
-north and get more to do.”
-
-“I think we'd better take you up,” Warren said. “I'd like that sort of
-work.” He winked at his friend and rubbed his stomach. “I see myself
-_packing_ good, ripe, juicy peaches right now, but not in crates. The
-truth is, farmer, we are mighty hungry, and that is a long walk. Now,
-if you had fifty cents about you that you'd be willing to let go in an
-advance, why we'll buy a snack at some farm-house, and go right on to
-you.”
-
-The horseman's shrewd face fell. He leaned forward and ran his gnarled
-fingers through the mane of his horse, and avoided the pair of anxious
-eyes fixed on his. “I don't want to be blunt and hurt your feelings,
-fellers,” he said. “But we never come together before--we are plumb
-strangers, I might say; and, well, to tell the truth, last year I
-started out on this same business, and to my certain knowledge not a
-man, woman, gal, boy, nor baby that I advanced money to ever got to my
-place, while all the others who wasn't paid was there bright and early.”
-
-“But we are hungry and weak!” Dick Warren protested.
-
-“Well, some o' them that I failed to get told the selfsame tale. One
-said if I'd pay off the mortgage on his land, he'd bring his entire
-family; but that wasn't _business_, and I refused. I'm making you
-fellows a fair open-and-shut proposition. You hit my place before dark
-to-night and tell my wife to give you a square meal--tell her I've hired
-you to pick and pack, and that I said to stow you away somewhere for
-the night. She will make room for you. Now, I hope I'll see you there.
-That's as good as I can offer, as I look at it.”
-
-“All right, we'll be there,” Walton promised. “And we will do the best
-we can for your interests.”
-
-“Very well, gentlemen, I'll expect to see you there when I get back.
-So long.” And with his legs jogging the flanks of his mount, the farmer
-rode away.
-
-“We can make it, Dick,” Walton said, encouragingly. “Let's bend down to
-it.”
-
-“The thought of that meal is enough to keep me going,” the boy replied.
-“What do you reckon she will give us? But stop! My mouth is watering at
-such a rate that I believe I'll try not to think of it.”
-
-It was long after sundown when the wayfarers reached the farm in
-question. The house was a rambling, one-story, frame structure which
-originally had been painted, afterward whitewashed, and rain and storm
-beaten till not a trace of any sort of coating remained on the bare,
-fuzzy, gray boards. At the gate, or bars, of the snake-fence, in front,
-they paused, faint and exhausted, wondering if they would be bitten by
-watch-dogs if they entered unannounced. On the grass under the trees in
-the front yard a group of twenty or more young women and young men were
-singing plantation melodies, and here and there couples were sitting
-alone or strolling about, their heads close together.
-
-“They are peach-gatherers,” Walton surmised. “Come on; there are no dogs
-that I can see.”
-
-Crawling through the bars, they went to the house. There was no light in
-the front part, but a yellow glow shone from a window against the dark
-foliage of the trees in the rear, and thither the wanderers directed
-their lagging steps. Looking in at the open door of the kitchen, they
-saw the portly form of the farmer's wife at a table washing dishes in
-the light of a smoking brass lamp which had no chimney.
-
-“Oh!” she exclaimed, as her kindly eyes fell on them. “Not more pickers,
-surely?”
-
-“That's what we are, and as good as you ever laid eyes on,” Dick told
-her. “Mr. Womack said you'd give us something to eat. We haven't had a
-bite since yesterday.”
-
-“Well!” The woman drew her hands from the big dish-pan and dried them
-on her apron as she looked them over doubtfully. “Pete Womack goes crazy
-every year at picking-time. He's filled the house, barn, and yard with
-hooting and singing gals and boys, and furnished nobody to wait on 'em
-but me. The gals all say they are too fagged out at night to lay their
-hands to cooking or dish-washing, and yet, if you'll just listen and
-watch, you'll see that they are all able to gallivant with the men about
-the yard. Six couples met here for the first time last summer and got
-married. They say there's some progress being made right now between
-three or four, an' picking's just set in. I tell Pete he ought to start
-a marrying-agency and take out a license to preach, so he can tie 'em on
-the spot and collect two fees. Some of 'em are respectable and mean all
-right, but Pete is so anxious to get his crop off on time that he's got
-women in that bunch that--to _look_ at 'em--Well, it ain't any of _my_
-business! I ain't set up as a judge, and as the saying is, I won't throw
-no stones. But you say you are hungry, and I don't see how I could give
-you a thing hot at this time of night. My fires are out, and--”
-
-“Hot!” Dick shouted. “Why, I've got such a big storage capacity that I'd
-be afraid to take it hot. It might generate steam and explode.”
-
-The woman laughed. “Well, you _must_ be hungry,” she said. “Come on in
-the dining-room and I'll lay it out in a minute. There is plenty of cold
-stuff. I cook a lot ahead. You have to feed pickers like kings or they
-won't stay. It won't take long to heat the coffee. But I reckon you want
-to wash and wipe. You'll find pans and water on the shelf in the entry,
-and a clean towel on the roller. I'll be ready when you are.”
-
-“I'll see about that, old lady,” Dick challenged her, as he made a dash
-for the near-by water-shelf.
-
-Two minutes later the two wanderers sat down at a long, improvised
-table, made of unplaned planks, in the dining-room. In the light of a
-guttering home-made tallow dip the farmer's wife spread before them the
-best meal that famished men ever feasted on. They saw roast chicken with
-dressing, fried chicken with cream gravy, country-smoked ham in a great
-platter of eggs; butter, hard and cold, from the spring-house; great,
-snow-capped pound-cakes, biscuits, apple-sauce, jellies, jams, cold
-buttermilk, and hot coffee.
-
-“I don't know where I'm going to bunk you boys,” Mrs. Womack said, in a
-motherly tone, as she stood behind their chairs, and, with unsuppressed
-delight, watched them eat. “The women and gals have got every bed in the
-house; and every spot on the floor, even to the kitchen, has been staked
-off by the men.”
-
-“What's the matter with the barn?” Dick mumbled, with his mouth full. “I
-wouldn't want a better place this time of year than a sweet-smelling bed
-of fresh hay or fodder.”
-
-“There's plenty of room in the loft down there,” the woman replied; “but
-somehow I hate to see nice-looking young men like you put in a place
-like that.”
-
-“It will do very well,” Fred assured her. “In fact, we would rather like
-it.”
-
-“Well, a little later, if you decide to stay, I may fix you a place in
-the house,” the woman said; “but you got in too late to-night.”
-
-“I'm dead tired and sleepy, Fred,” Dick said, when they had left the
-table. “Let's turn in.”
-
-Directed by Mrs. Womack, they went down to the barn, and from the big
-cattle-room on the ground they climbed a ladder to the loft above. A
-startled hen flew from her nest with a loud cackling as they crawled
-through the hay and husks and leaves of corn to a square, shutterless
-door, through which the hay was loaded to wagons below. They threw off
-their coats and vests, and made pillows of them; then took off their
-shoes, and lay down and stretched out their tired limbs.
-
-Through the doorway they saw the fathomless sky filled with mysterious
-stars. The chirping of some chickens, as they jostled one another on the
-roost below, came up to them; the champing of the teeth of a horse, as
-he gnawed his wooden trough; the snarling of a tree-frog; the far-off
-and dismal howling of a dog, and--they were asleep.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVI
-
-|IT was not till early autumn that the two friends reached their far-off
-destination. Fred's watch had been sold; they had saved the greater part
-of their earnings from the various odd jobs at which they had worked,
-and had made of their journey by rail. It was Walton's idea that they
-must put their best foot to the front in Gate City, and start out with
-a good appearance in their new home, and so the most of their funds were
-promptly invested in new clothing. Notwithstanding their spick-and-span
-appearance, however, luck seemed against them, for every application
-they made for work--Dick as a telegraph operator and Fred as an
-accountant--was refused them.
-
-The city was a bustling new place with prosperity and activity in its
-very air. There were great railway-shops, factories of several kinds,
-and various other enterprises. It was a typical Western “boom” town.
-Its buildings were modern, its streets regular and well-paved. Men and
-women, as they drove through the streets in their carriages, thought
-nothing of it if a mounted horde of yelling cow-boys galloped past with
-their revolvers playfully flourished, nor saw anything unusual in
-the gangs of blanket-draped Indians who hung about the bar-rooms,
-dance-halls, or gambling-houses. The new-comers liked the place; Dick
-believed they would eventually secure work, and Fred had the first sense
-of security which had come to him since leaving Stafford. Here, under
-his new name, in this remote place, he was sure he would meet with no
-familiar face, nor catch any discordant echoes of the life he had left
-behind him, and which he was trying to banish from his memory.
-
-There was in the town a certain Stephen Whipple, a man about sixty-five
-years of age, who had come from one of the Southern States shortly after
-the Civil War. He had established himself, first, as a small grocer,
-but, having acquired considerable wealth, he was now the owner of the
-only wholesale grocery store in the place, an establishment which was
-known for miles around.
-
-He was an earnest member of the Presbyterian church of the town, and its
-chief pride, owing to his influence in the community. It had been his
-money which had built the church to which he belonged, and it was said
-that he practically paid the salary of its eloquent young preacher.
-
-In his great red-brick, four-story business-house on the main street
-Stephen Whipple had his private office. It was in the rear of the
-counting-room and was of unusual size, and by many deemed a curious
-place. Indeed, it was put to strange, unbusiness-like uses, for it was
-here that the owner of the establishment personally received all sorts
-of applications for aid. There were half a dozen plain chairs in the
-bare, uncarpeted room, and the Rev. Luke Matthews, who had the entrée to
-the office at any moment, often found a motley gathering of supplicants
-on hand, each patiently awaiting his turn to be beckoned to the seat
-close to the portly, shaggy-browed merchant. There were individuals who
-called the old man a deep-dyed hypocrite, for they held that no really
-self-sacrificing toiler in the Lord's vineyard could have amassed the
-great wealth old Whipple was known to possess. But this was disputed by
-all the men in his employment, at least, for they were ready to attest
-that Whipple had often held over important business matters till the
-case of some suffering applicant could be investigated and relief
-supplied. There were other uses to which this room was put. Old Whipple,
-in order to render his pet church more attractive to the public,
-selected and paid out of his own pocket the salaries of the best choir
-in town. He was no expert musician, but he had them meet in his office
-and practise on every Saturday afternoon, and he was always present,
-seeing to it that refreshments were served and the singers made
-comfortable.
-
-It was one morning when Dick Warren and Fred Walton had been in the town
-for a month, and had reached the lowest ebb of their resources, that the
-minister dropped in to see the merchant. The Rev. Luke Matthews was of
-unusual height, measuring six feet four, very slender in build, and of
-markedly nervous temperament. He was under thirty, unmarried, wore his
-black hair long enough to touch his shoulders, and had the thin-lipped,
-unbearded face of an Edwin Booth. It was said of him that he couldn't
-keep a coin in his pocket--that it was promptly given to the first
-beggar he met.
-
-“Well, brother, how are your bones?” was the halfjesting greeting he
-gave the old man, as he bustled in, buttoning and unbuttoning his long
-black coat and swinging his broad-brimmed hat at his side. “Not holding
-court this morning?” He laughed as he looked over the empty chairs.
-
-“No; I sent the last prisoner up for life an hour ago,” the merchant
-responded, jovially. “Set down, set down!”
-
-The long-legged man with the poetic face complied. “Well,” he said,
-“you'll have to be a judge in that sort of tribunal so long as you
-inhabit this globe.” He smiled, showing two fine rows of white teeth.
-“It looks like the Lord is pushing you on to unlimited prosperity,
-and your work for humanity will increase instead of letting up.
-Say, brother, I know the sort of thing you glory in, and I've had
-an experience--the sort of experience that makes a fellow feel like
-preaching is worth while. It was exactly the kind of thing you are
-interested in yourself.”
-
-“What have you run across now?” Whipple asked, as he leaned his elbow on
-his desk and rested his florid face on his hand.
-
-“The genuine thing, brother--a genuine reformation in a young chap
-hardly out of his teens. He's been coming to my special meetings for
-young men, and, as I'm a close observer, I was attracted by his face.
-It interested me more than that of any boy's I ever saw. Finally, I
-ventured to approach him. I never scare them off if I can help it, but I
-singled him out from the rest last Thursday evening and spoke to him. I
-saw that he was greatly moved, and I invited him into my study, and we
-had a good long heart-to-heart talk. Brother Whipple, I never felt the
-glory of God bearing down on me in my life as I did while that boy was
-talking--while he was telling me his past history. Crying like his heart
-would break, he confessed to having been almost everything a boy could
-be--a thief, a tramp, and an all-round, good-for-nothing idler, from his
-childhood up to his sudden awakening to what was right.”
-
-“Good, good!” Stephen Whipple ejaculated, his features working, his kind
-old eyes twinkling.
-
-“But now comes the climax to my experience,” the minister went on.
-“You and I meet a converted person now and then, but we don't often run
-across individuals in private life who are leading lives which convert.
-The boy went on to tell me, brother, how he was rescued from arrest by
-a young man who was a tramp like himself. They began searching for work
-side by side. The boy told me how his new friend--without ever saying a
-word that was preachy--gradually won him from his ingrained tendencies
-and taught him the difference between right and wrong. He gave me scores
-of touching and inspiring incidents that had happened between them
-during their wanderings here and there, trying to get work. Somehow I
-became even more deeply interested in the fellow I hadn't met than the
-one I had in tow, and so I asked the boy if he would introduce me to his
-friend. He hesitated for a while, and then finally agreed to take me to
-the room they had together. It was away over beyond the railroads, in
-the slums of our 'tenderloin' district. It seemed to be the only room
-whose price they could afford, and they were unwilling to contract for
-what they could not pay. It was an awful place, brother, up a narrow
-flight of shaky stairs, in the attic of a negro shoemaker's house, in
-the worst part of 'Dive-town.' The man, this Fred Spencer, when we came
-in, was seated at the little dingy window reading a newspaper. He seemed
-very much surprised, and flushed red as he stood up and shook hands. He
-was fine-looking--strong and tall, well-clad and neat from his feet to
-his carefully combed hair, but his great big sad eyes haunted me long
-after I left him, and when he spoke his voice seemed to come from a
-proud spirit that was crushed and broken. He began by saying that his
-friend had spoken to him of my meetings, and that he was exceedingly
-grateful for my interest and courtesy in calling. He tried to apologize
-for the appearance of the room, and insisted on my taking the only chair
-while he and his room-mate sat on the bed, which, by the way, was unfit
-for a convict to sleep on. They used it together, and yet it was barely
-wide enough for one. The straw in the mattress was crumbling to powder
-and falling to the floor.”
-
-“Poor chaps,” the merchant sighed, “and they have evidently seen better
-days.”
-
-“Spencer, the older one, has decidedly,” the minister answered. “He is
-evidently Southern, for he has the soft accent of Virginia, I should
-say, and the manner of the old aristocracy. I told him that I had heard
-of his good influence over the boy, and he got redder than ever,
-and tried to make light of what he had done, endeavored, in fact, to
-convince me that the boy had only spoken as he had out of personal
-friendship. Finally I offered my assistance toward finding employment
-for them both, and Spencer showed real embarrassment--as if he did not
-want to put me to any trouble in the matter.”
-
-“He's tried to find work here, then?” Stephen Whipple mused, aloud.
-
-“Yes, and been turned down on all sides. He has tried till he has lost
-hope. He likes Gate City, but is afraid they will be driven to the road
-again.”
-
-“And to think that a fellow like _that_ can't find work,” Whipple
-cried, indignantly, “when the world is full of grafters and panhandlers!
-Brother Matthews, I am interested in those fellows, especially the
-oldest one. My list is full, as you know, but I can manage to find
-places for the right sort. Couldn't you send him to me right away? I'll
-be here to-night after closing time. There won't be anybody else about,
-and me and him can talk undisturbed. I'd like to help a chap like that.
-You have got me interested. The world is too full of bad men who are
-prospering for his sort to go unrewarded.”
-
-“Well, I'll send him, Brother Whipple. God bless you, old man, you can
-always be counted on!”
-
-That evening the merchant sat in the light of his green-shaded gas-lamp
-at his desk waiting for the expected caller. The outer door of the great
-building, which opened on the main street, was ajar, and was plainly
-visible to the merchant from his seat. Now, as he heard his visitor
-coming, he rose to his feet, pushed his desk-chair back with his
-ponderous calves, and stood smiling cordially. As the young man entered,
-politely removing his hat, Whipple grasped Walton's hand and shook it
-warmly.
-
-“I'm powerfully glad to know you, Mr. Spencer,” he said, “I am, indeed.
-I'm told you are a newcomer to our brag town, and as I'm one of the
-pioneers, so to speak, I take a personal pride in the place, and I
-want to see everybody that drifts this way anchored here for life. It
-certainly is the town for fresh young blood. Even old men can make money
-here, and I know the young can. Set down, set down! I'm glad you ran
-across my long-legged jumping-jack of a preacher. He is a wheel-horse,
-I am here to state. If all the churches in the world were led by men of
-his stamp, infidelity would die of the dry rot or burn up with shame.
-
-“I built Matthews' meeting-house, and if I hadn't found a man like him
-to fill the pulpit I'd have turned the blamed thing into a warehouse to
-store groceries in. But I found him, and he's doing mighty well--mighty
-well! He isn't any of your ranting trance religionists; he's practical,
-and, in one way, the funniest cuss you ever laid eyes on. Me and him
-have big times in our way. He looks after the souls of men while I
-sometimes help a little in patching up their bodies. He tells me that
-you and a friend of yours haven't made any business connection yet. My
-house is pretty well supplied, but this is our best season of the year,
-and a good man always comes in handy. You look like you've got a good
-head on them broad shoulders, and I want to give you a start, so if you
-will show up here in the morning with your friend, I'll put you to work
-in the office and stow him away somewhere.”
-
-“You are very, very kind, Mr. Whipple,” Fred said, a gratified flush on
-his face; “but you have had no recommendation of me, and--”
-
-“I don't _want_ none,” the merchant said, firmly. “You see, I've already
-heard about you. Long before me and you met you had cast your bread on
-the water, and it has already come back. I've heard about you. Anybody
-these days can bring a scrap of paper with indorsements scribbled on
-it, but the best recommendation is the sort that crawls along ahead of
-a fellow. Yes, I've heard about you, and, to be plain, that's why I sent
-for you. Even if I didn't have no opening right now, it would pay me to
-rub against men that--well, that believe like you do and act like you
-have acted.”
-
-“I suppose you mean”--Walton was quite embarrassed now--“I suppose
-Mr. Matthews has been speaking of what my friend told him of our
-ups-and-downs together; but really I couldn't let that sort of
-thing stand as an indorsement of me, Mr. Whipple. Dick is young and
-enthusiastic. It seems that he has never had a close friend before, and
-he naturally exaggerates my--”
-
-“Say, look here,” the merchant broke in, with a smile, “you really
-don't know how funny that sounds. In this day and time, when a man in
-my position has to set and listen to folks spout for the hour about how
-good and worthy they are, why--well, to see a chap actually denying the
-favorable things which have been said behind his back is a downright
-curiosity. Why, the very fact that you are _talking_ this way shows
-plain enough what you are. Along with what I've picked up about you and
-the--the general look of you, now that you are at close range--why, if
-you was to lay down a whole batch of written recommendations I'd chuck
-'em in that stove. I'm a judge of human faces and of men, and I know you
-_mean_ well, and that is all I ask.”
-
-“It is very good of you, Mr. Whipple,” Walton said, his glance on the
-floor. “I feel like we could get on together. I know I'd do my best to
-please you.”
-
-“Well, then, there is nothing more to be said,” old Whipple answered.
-“Bring that boy in to-morrow morning, and we'll make some sort o' a
-start.”
-
-Fred sat silent. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the
-genial face in the green light. “I must be frank and open with a man
-as generous as you are, Mr. Whipple. If I am to work here we ought to
-understand each other thoroughly. There are some things which you must
-know about me, or I cannot consent to enter your employment, for it
-would be deceiving you.”
-
-“Oh, _that's_ it!” Whipple said, awkwardly. “Still, you mustn't feel
-that I am requiring any explanations of--of a private nature, for I am
-not.”
-
-“You ought to know more than you do know about me, at all events,”
- Walton went on. “I'd feel better if nothing at all was hidden from your
-knowledge. I haven't lived right, Mr. Whipple. I went wrong--frightfully
-wrong. I got in debt--it is worse than that. I misappropriated a
-considerable sum of money belonging to my father. He is a stern, hard
-man, and demanded as much of me as he would have done of a stranger. I
-left home to escape arrest. You may think I ought to have submitted to
-the law. I simply couldn't, for I felt that my father, when his passion
-cooled, would regret his step, and, moreover, I felt that, with my
-freedom, I could apply myself and eventually restore the loss.”
-
-“Merciful Father!” Whipple exclaimed, fervently. “Lord have mercy! To
-think of a man blessed with a son holding the law over his repentant
-head and chasing him from spot to spot over God's green earth! The child
-he brought into the world and saw cooing in the cradle, a little, tiny
-sprout of his own flesh and blood, made in the image of the Lord God of
-Hosts! My boy,” the old man leaned forward, “shake hands with me. I've
-often wanted to help young men in my stormy life, but, God knows, I
-never felt the desire as strong as I do now. Just in this little talk
-I've been drawn more closely to you than I ever was to a human being
-before. You are the right sort, the genuine thing; if I was to turn you
-adrift, I'd never get over it. I had a boy once, and I doted on him.
-He died when he was a little toddling fellow, and since then I have
-never been consoled. But his loss, and the memory of him, has warmed my
-heart to young men wherever I meet them. You must come to me, my boy. I
-feel sure we'll pull together. In fact, I'd want you at hand, for I'd
-grieve to see you falter in your noble undertaking. God will bless your
-effort as sure as the stars are shining up there in the heavens
-to-night.”
-
-“I haven't told you quite all yet,” Walton added, in a low tone. “To
-protect myself, I took another name. My real name is--”
-
-“Stop! Don't tell me. That won't make one bit of difference to me,”
- Whipple answered, with a sigh, as if he were thinking more of the young
-man's former revelations than the one just made. “No doubt it is best.
-You say you have determined to make good the loss, and if bearing
-another name will help you out, then it can't be wrong. Go ahead, I'll
-be your friend; I'll stick to you. I'm glad we came together to-night.
-It makes me feel better. I've seen many sorts of human struggles, but
-I never saw one that touched me down deep like yours does. Wait, let me
-lock up, and I'll walk along a piece with you.”
-
-Outside, after he had closed the heavy door, the merchant put his hand
-on the arm of his companion, and they moved on down the street together.
-Suddenly they paused. Whipple swept his fat hand in a slow gesture
-toward the skies.
-
-“My boy,” he said, fervently, “this is a wonderful, wonderful old world.
-Life seems hard and harsh at times, but when the soul is right a man can
-conquer anything. I have my fight to make; you have yours--stick to it,
-and may the Lord be with you! Goodnight.”. .
-
-PART II
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I
-
-|OLD Stafford had changed wonderfully in the six years which passed
-after Fred Walton's flight. The building of President Galt's trunk-line
-to the sea had marked the turning-point in the town's career. The older
-portion of the place remained quite as it was, but new suburbs and new
-centres of commerce had sprung up beyond the old incorporated limits.
-Where farms, fields, and pastures had once been, now lay even,
-well-graded, and electric-lighted streets. No small city in the South
-had a better freight-rate to all points, and this had brought about the
-establishment of various manufacturing enterprises which had greatly
-increased the population. The clang and clatter of new growth was in the
-air; speculation in building-sites was rife. The modest price of one day
-was the jest of the next. Owning a great deal of the land along the new
-railway, General Sylvester was now more wealthy than ever, and the new
-interest in life had given him back his youth and health.
-
-As for Kenneth Galt, he had scarcely spent a day in the town of his
-birth since his hurried journey to New York to meet the capitalists
-whose co-operation had made the road a certainty. His explanation to
-Sylvester was that other points on the long line constantly demanded
-his attention. His old home was still cared for by Mrs. Wilson as
-housekeeper and John Dilk as gardener, and now and then a false
-report had emanated from these proud and worshipful menials that the
-distinguished owner was coming back to reside there permanently. Indeed,
-he had promised General Sylvester to do so time after time, only to make
-more delays and more excuses.
-
-“He's coming this time sure,” the old soldier said to his nephew on the
-veranda one day in the early part of the present summer. “I had a letter
-from him this morning, in which he promised to come and spend the hot
-weather here and take a good long rest. Mrs. Wilson said, also, that he
-had written her about renovating his rooms, so I reckon it is settled.
-And when he comes you will see that I was right about my prophecy
-concerning him and Madge. He's a woman-hater, they say--won't have a
-thing to do with society; and, quiet and reserved as your sister is, the
-two will naturally drift together. I'll be glad to have him back. That
-shady old place, with its early associations, will fairly make him over.
-When I spent that week with him in Savannah I naturally expected to find
-him at the top of the social heap, but he went nowhere at all, and even
-seemed to shun the men who extended courtesies to him. He's had too big
-a load on him; his face shows wrinkles, and his hair is turning at the
-temples.”
-
-“Yes, he is a strange chap,” Dearing answered. “I have been thrown with
-him in Atlanta several times of late, and while he really seemed glad
-to see me, and was cordial enough, in a way, I couldn't exactly make him
-out. As usual, I found him moping over his favorite books, and every
-bit as anxious, as of old, to prove that the grave ends everything. That
-will ruin any man, Uncle Tom. When a fellow actually gets to fighting
-the belief that we are more than sticks and stones he can't rise very
-high in any spiritual sense. Why, Kenneth has even reached the point of
-defending some of the lowest things that men do. He and I were walking
-away out in the outskirts of the city one night. He had asked me to
-go, because he wanted to avoid some clubmen who were bent on having
-him preside at a banquet given by the Chamber of Commerce. We were all
-alone, and it was dark. He had asked me, I remember, if any news had
-come as to the whereabouts of Fred Walton, and I had told him that
-nothing at all had been heard except that his father had cut him off
-forever. To my astonishment, Kenneth actually sighed. Then I distinctly
-heard him muttering to himself: 'Poor fellow. Poor chap! He's been
-treated like a dog!”' “Huh, the idea!” Sylvester broke in. “Well, that's
-like Kenneth. He is always ready to take up for somebody or something
-that no one else believes in.”
-
-“Well, feeling as I did, and knowing what I do of the case,” Dearing
-continued, warmly, “I couldn't hold my tongue. I didn't leave a grain
-of sand for Fred Walton to stand on, and it made me hot for Galt not to
-agree with me. He made some weak remark about men obeying natural laws,
-and being cursed with uncontrollable passions, and the like; but
-I flatter myself that I silenced him. I gave him a picture of that
-beautiful girl's isolated life with her son and old mother, wholly
-ostracized in the only community they had ever known or loved. I saw,
-then, that I had touched his sympathies in another direction.
-
-“'You think,' he said, 'that Walton ought, even _now_, to go back and
-marry her--_at this late date?_”
-
-“I told him that I had grave doubts as to whether a woman who had
-suffered as she had at a man's hands would ever want to see her betrayer
-again, and he answered that he felt sure she wouldn't. Then he asked
-about the boy. You know, he was always fond of children--that is
-one redeeming quality he has, and it makes me hope that he isn't so
-heartless as he would have us believe. He listened attentively to all I
-said about Lionel, even asking me questions as to how the child looked
-and how he amused himself. When I told him that the little fellow was
-completely cut off from other children, and that his association only
-with his mother and grandmother had made him act and speak more like an
-older person than a child, he seemed actually shocked.”
-
-“'You don't mean to tell me,' he said, 'that the people of old Stafford
-would turn against a helpless child because of any fault or mistake of
-its parents!'
-
-“I explained to him that it was mostly due to the pride of his mother,
-and to the natural fear that such an intelligent boy, and one so
-sensitive and observant as he is, might learn of his misfortune and
-suffer from it. That conversation raised Kenneth Galt in my estimation,
-Uncle Tom. I know now that he has true feeling and sympathy for the
-unfortunate, and that his ambition is not all there is to him.”
-
-“I must confess that the child has greatly interested me,” the General
-said. “From my window I can see him playing in that narrow yard, always
-dressed neatly, and as strong and straight as an Indian in his bearing.
-I have never seen him outside the fence. I have stopped to speak to him
-once or twice in passing, and have been actually charmed by his face
-and manner. I don't think I ever heard of a case exactly like his.
-Of course, there have been thousands of children born like that in
-straitlaced communities, but I never heard of one being brought up in
-that prison-like way. It surely is wrong, and it will make the truth all
-the harder to bear when it does come out, as it must sooner or later.
-She is a wonderful woman--I started to say girl, for she seems almost
-like a child to me with that sad, young face, and wistful, artistic
-beauty. I have met her mother on the street a few times, her old face
-thickly veiled, but I have not seen Dora or the child away from the
-cottage.”
-
-“As their family doctor,” said Dearing, “I urged Dora to go out herself
-for exercise and to take the boy with her. At first she flatly refused.
-I frightened her, however, by saying that the constant confinement would
-injure Lionel's health. Since then she has taken him with her in fine
-weather when she goes sketching in the woods and swamp back of the
-cottage, but she is as shy as a fawn about it. I venture to say that no
-one has ever met her on those excursions. I've seen mother-love, Uncle
-Tom, in all its phases. I've met it at the death-beds of scores of
-children, but the love between that unfortunate mother and child is the
-prettiest thing on earth. No pair of lovers were ever more constant and
-affectionate. Lionel is really a sort of psychological oddity in his
-way. I have a theory that the mother's morbid suffering was in some
-prenatal way stamped on her offspring.' He is queerly supersensitive for
-one so young, and seems constantly afraid that he won't be liked. He
-is rather fond of me--perhaps it is because I'm the only visitor at
-the house; and when I take him in my lap to hold him, I can see that he
-enjoys it as if it were an unusual luxury. He closes his eyes sometimes
-and smiles, and says he wants to go to sleep that way. Then he will ask
-me over and over again if I love _him_. After being told that I do, he
-will detect some slight change in my face or voice and cry out, 'Now,
-you don't like me--do you?' I am not sentimental, Uncle Tom, but that
-little chap's condition has worried me a lot. I pity him as I've never
-pitied a human being before.”
-
-“I have often wondered whether Madge has taken notice of him,” General
-Sylvester remarked, reflectively. “A woman is hard to read on the
-surface, and while Madge never mentions Fred Walton's name any more than
-if he were dead, I've been afraid that the mere sight of his child might
-keep the old memory alive. Do you know, my son, a woman will condone
-exactly that failing in a man more quickly than any other? I suppose
-they lay most of the blame on the woman in the case. A high-strung
-creature like your sister wouldn't for a moment consider herself a rival
-of a fallen woman, and it may be that the explanation of her never
-having shown interest in other men is that--”
-
-“That she still cares for the rascal?” Dearing broke in, his face
-darkening.
-
-“Yes, and that she still clings to some sort of faith in his constancy,”
- the General added. “You can't crush love in a woman's heart so long as
-she believes she is loved by a man who is longing for her and is kept
-away by adverse circumstances. You see, if our dear girl attributes
-Walton's predicament to a simple act of _low, impulsive passion_, and
-believes that he loved her, and her alone, in a _pure_ way, why--”
-
-“I see, I see, and I am afraid you may be right,” Dearing said,
-bitterly. “And instead of curing her, the scoundrel's absence is only
-making the thing worse. Did you tell her about Kenneth's coming?”
-
-“Yes, only an hour ago, and it seemed to me that she was rather pleased.
-She remarked that she was glad John Dilk had kept up the place so well,
-and that the flowers would gratify him. I really fancied that she was
-more pleased by the news than she was willing to show, for she changed
-the subject by offering to play for me.”
-
-At this juncture a woman came round the house hurriedly, wiping her red,
-bare arms, and trying to adjust the damp dress she wore. It was Mrs.
-Chumley, the washerwoman. Her tawny hair was disarranged, and her fat,
-freckled face flushed with an excitement that was almost pleasurable.
-
-“Oh, here you are, Doctor Wynn!” she panted. “I hain't been told to
-come; in fact, them highfalutin' neighbors of mine never let a body know
-anything they can get out of. But Mrs. Barry is having another of her
-falling spells. She was on the side porch brushing little Lionel's head
-when I heard her cry out to Dora for help, and then she struck the floor
-of the kitchen with a thump you could have heard up here if you'd been
-listening.”
-
-“Well, I'll run down,” Dearing said to his uncle. “It may not be very
-serious. She is subject to such attacks.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II
-
-|HURRYING down through the grounds, and vaulting over the low boundary
-fence, Dearing approached the gate of the Barry cottage just as Dora
-came out. Pretty as she had been in girlhood, she was rarely beautiful
-as a fully developed woman. And to-day, as ever, Dearing stood before
-her in absolute awe of her rare, exquisite, and appealing personality.
-
-“She's had another attack, Wynn!” Dora said, with a brave effort to
-steady her faltering voice. “I really thought she was dying, and I
-suppose I screamed. She looked so bad for a few moments! Her face turned
-purple, and she lost consciousness. She came to herself a moment ago,
-and is still awake. Will you see her?”
-
-He went to the sick woman's room on tiptoe. Seated in a chair at the
-head of the bed, and waving a palm-leaf fan to and fro, to keep the
-flies from his grandmother's face, was Lionel, his great, serious eyes,
-so like his mother's, filled with anxiety. He rose as Dearing entered,
-and moved round to the other side of the bed, but he still waved the fan
-and stood staring anxiously.
-
-“I thought I was gone that time, Doctor Wynn,” Mrs. Barry said, with a
-wan smile, as he took her hand to test her pulse.
-
-“Well, you certainly are far from it now,” he laughed, reassuringly. “I
-believe it would take a regiment of soldiers to put you out of business.
-That was only a fainting spell brought on by too close confinement to
-the house. You must get out more; that's all you need. Now, take a good
-nap and you will be all right.” He nodded and smiled reassuringly at
-Dora, who stood at the foot of the bed. She followed him from the room,
-seeing that he wished to speak to her.
-
-“She is all right now,” he told her. “She is doing very well. It is only
-a sluggish liver, due to lack of exercise. Let her sleep as long as she
-will now, and I'll send you a tonic which will brace her up. There is
-nothing really to fear. She has a splendid constitution in all other
-respects.”
-
-Dora sank into a chair as if utterly overcome with relief, and he stood
-looking at her in blended admiration and sympathy.
-
-Aside from her beauty of face and form, there was a ripeness of
-intellect and character in her face, which had come to her from the
-years of isolated suffering which she had undergone.
-
-“You are so kind to me, Wynn,” she said, with a faint, sad smile. “You
-have always been the best friend we ever had.”
-
-“Why, what are you talking about?” Dearing said, lightly and with a
-flush. “Any other jack-leg country doctor would have taken care of you
-fully as well.”
-
-“You have done hundreds of thoughtful things,” she cried. “You have left
-nothing undone that could possibly help us. Oh, you are _too_ good! You
-haven't allowed my poor mother to pay you one penny for your services
-in all these years. She has tried and tried to make you take it till she
-has almost given up in despair.”
-
-“I haven't done anything really worth while, Dora,” he said, lightly.
-“You see, you live right at hand, too, and it is no trouble at all to
-jump over your fence and mine. I couldn't take money from a next-door
-neighbor under those circumstances. You just wait until you really need
-a doctor, and then I'll send in a bill as long as my arm.”
-
-“You can't help being good,” Dora said, feelingly, her wonderful violet
-eyes filling. “Your great heart simply went out to us in our trouble,
-and you have determined to help us in every way possible. Mother thinks
-all the world of you, and Lionel actually believes you are some sort of
-god.”
-
-“Well, he's badly fooled, I tell you!” Dearing laughed. “But speaking of
-him, I must lecture you good and hard. You are not treating the child at
-all right. He oughtn't to be cooped up here in this little yard like he
-is. It is too small. A growing boy like that needs room, and plenty of
-it.”
-
-“Oh, you don't understand!” Dora sighed, while a look of deepest pain
-tortured her mobile face. “I couldn't bear to have him running around
-a neighborhood as--as heartless as this one is. He is so observant,
-and has such an inquiring mind, and people are so--so cruel, so utterly
-unforgiving. But you are trying to change the subject. You think I have
-no money with which to pay a doctor's bill.” She laughed suddenly and
-mysteriously as she went on: “I believe I'll let you into a secret. I'll
-show you something. Come into the parlor.”
-
-She led him, with graceful step and bearing, through the little central
-passage of the cottage to the parlor door, and they entered together.
-She laughed like a merry child; it was the sweet, rippling laugh he
-remembered so well as belonging to his youth and hers, as she pointed
-to the easel before a window. On it was a good water-color picture of a
-child at play on the grass near a stream, with a pastoral scene sketched
-in the background.
-
-“Oh,” he exclaimed, admiringly, “that's the best you've shown me! It is
-very, very good.”
-
-“That's only one of many,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I wanted
-something to occupy my mind after I gave up music, and I began these
-studies merely as an experiment. I worked for a year while Lionel was
-a baby just to--you know, Wynn--just to forget!” He was silent, being
-unable to formulate any reply that was appropriate to the delicate
-situation, and she went on simply, and still in the winsome tone which
-had always appealed to him so strongly.
-
-“Then--now comes the _best_ part--one day I happened to read the
-advertisement of an Atlanta dealer who was in need of such things, and
-I forwarded some sketches I had done. They were bad--oh, so bad--and he
-wrote that he would not offer them to his customers, but he encouraged
-me to keep on. Then I worked harder, and finally I sent him some
-pictures of children--little pickaninnies, brown as chestnuts, little
-white ragamuffins, babies in old-fashioned, crude, box-cradles like the
-mountain people have, and he sold them. Think of that! He actually sold
-them! I have not signed any of them. He has written me several times
-begging that I should do so, but I have always refused. He has agreed
-not to use my name at all, and I believe he has kept his word. The whole
-thing has made me--_almost_ happy. Wynn, I saw your face after your
-first successful operation, and didn't understand then what it meant
-to you, but I do now. The day that dealer's letter came, and his money
-followed by express, in a big wax-sealed envelope--well, it was the
-happiest moment of my life-I sang; I talked to myself; I danced. I
-told Baby all about it as I hugged him in my arms. I had, as they say,
-discovered myself. Here I was, cut off from intercourse with everybody
-in my home town, but God hadn't wholly forsaken me. He had given me
-something to make up for what I'd lost--a way of speaking to the big
-outer world.”
-
-“I see, and I congratulate you with all my heart,” Dearing said, as he
-stood watching the shifting tones in her expressive face. “I understand
-you better now. I got in the habit of listening for your piano at night,
-when everything was still, and I fancied I could read your various
-moods. A long time ago you played too sadly; really it used to get next
-to me, and make me worry about you; but of late there has been more
-hope and cheerfulness in your music, and it did me a lot of good. I
-understand you better now. I have always thought that creative work was
-the most satisfying and uplifting occupation possible, and now I am sure
-of it.”
-
-“And I am getting better and better prices, too,” Dora said, modestly.
-“My agent sends my things everywhere, even to far-off New York and
-Boston. I don't do them so fast now, for I try harder and I think they
-are better. Now, you will send me your bill, won't you?”
-
-“I shall certainly be hoping that somebody will get really sick under
-this roof,” he laughed, evasively, “for I'd like to get a whack at your
-roll of cash, but so far my dealings have been only with your mother,
-and she doesn't make it interesting. She was good to me when I was a
-boy. I used to crawl over the back fence when she was making jelly and
-jam in the kitchen, and I collected some fees then that did me more
-good than any I have since received. She performed the first surgical
-operation on me, too, that I ever had. I was barefoot, and while trying
-to hide from some other boys I stuck a rusty nail through my big toe.
-She heard me yelling and came to my assistance. She extracted the nail,
-washed out my wound, filled it with turpentine--the only household
-antiseptic used in that day--and bound it up for me. I have always
-believed that she saved me from lockjaw.”
-
-“The opportunity to earn money means more to me than you might think,
-Wynn,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Do you know what my dream of
-dreams is? It is to be able to go to Paris, and take Lionel and my
-mother. She has always wanted to go, because papa was buried there. Do
-you know, I feel that away off in a free, art-loving country like France
-I could rear my child to manhood without his ever knowing about his--his
-history. It seems to me that God has given me this talent for that
-particular purpose. The only trouble is the delay. You see, it may be
-years before I can save enough, and then it might be too late.”
-
-“I see, I understand,” Dearing said, gravely; “and you'd never come back
-to old Stafford again, I suppose?”
-
-“Oh no,” she answered; “all this would have to be laid aside forever.”
-
-“I shouldn't like to see you go,” he said. “I have--you see, I have
-become attached to Lionel--he and I are great chums. But if you have
-decided, and wish it so very much, why not? Look here, Dora, I have
-money lying idle in the bank. I have absolutely no need for it, and--”
-
-“Oh no!” she cried. “It is lovely of you to offer it, but I couldn't
-think of taking it. I couldn't--I really-couldn't!”
-
-“Not from your big brother?” he asked, his pleading eyes on her.
-
-“No, not even from you, you dear boy. It is _my_ problem, Wynn, and I
-must work it out alone--all alone.”
-
-They had gone back to the porch, and the sight of the extensive grounds
-around his house prompted him to say:
-
-“I know now why you don't realize Lionel's need for more fresh air. You
-have that absorbing occupation, and it keeps you from putting yourself
-in the boy's place, as you might otherwise do.”
-
-“Do you think so?” she asked, quite gravely. “It may be true, Wynn,
-and yet what am I to do? I really can't bear to have him running about,
-meeting other children. I could never answer his questions--never,
-never! Some one would have to watch him, and mother and I both shrink
-from going out in--in public.”
-
-“I was thinking of that, too,” Dearing replied, “and that is why a
-certain plan occurred to me. There is that big lot of mine right over
-the fence. Nothing could possibly happen to him there. It is quiet, and
-there are many things he could amuse himself with. It is really like
-a little farm, you know. We have chickens, ducks, turkeys, puppies,
-kittens, pigs, and horses, and even a cow and a calf about the barn,
-to say nothing of the pigeons that nest in the hay-loft. To a child,
-judging by my own memory of boyhood, it would be a regular paradise.”
-
-“You don't mean that you would allow--that you would--” There was a
-catch in the young mother's voice; a tinge of anxious pallor crept into
-her appealing face. “Oh, Wynn, you are too kind! You are thinking only
-of helping me. There is your uncle and your sister--I could not bear to
-trust my darling where he might not be--wanted.”
-
-“I know my uncle and sister better than you do,” Dearing said. “Margaret
-has never seen Lionel that I know of, but she would love to make him
-happy. As for my uncle, he greatly admires the little fellow, and would
-be delighted to have him come and romp over the place to his heart's
-content.”
-
-“Oh, how you tempt me!” Dora cried, covering her face with her shapely
-hands. “Of all things, I can think of nothing right now that I'd like
-better than that. I have been trying to forget Lionel's confinement in
-this little yard and house--trying to convince myself that he is wholly
-happy only with mother and me, but it is no use. It is really pitiful to
-think of. He has a wonderful imagination, and he sometimes sits here on
-the porch and tries to picture to himself what the inside of a big house
-like yours is. He thinks you all must be kings and princes like those in
-the fairy-tales we read to him. He asked me one day if we'd ever have a
-home like yours, and when I told him I didn't think so, he answered,
-'Then God isn't so very good, after all, is He?' I tried to get him to
-explain what he meant, but he only shook his head and went to play in
-the yard.”
-
-At this moment the boy himself came from his grandmother's room, along
-the passage, and out to them.
-
-“She is still asleep,” he announced, gravely. “I drew the netting over
-her face, so that the flies won't wake her.”
-
-“That's right--that's a good boy.” Dearing rested his strong hand on the
-golden head and looked down into the child's face, and then he laughed
-as he caught the boy's arm and taught him how to contract his muscles.
-
-“You'll be able to protect yourself, young man,” he said. “You have a
-splendid arm and fist already. I'd hate to have those knuckles try to
-knock a fly off my nose and miss the fly. Say, kid, do you see that big
-lot of mine beyond the fence? Well, you are going to play over there
-from morning to night: climb the trees, build houses out of that pile of
-old bricks. I'm going to have a swing put up for you to the highest limb
-of that big oak, and I'll make you a see-saw and a flying-jinny, and you
-may feed my puppies and cats.”
-
-The boy's eyes danced as he stared eagerly. Dora was looking away, her
-handkerchief pressed to her face.
-
-Dearing saw a wave of emotion pass through her, but she remained silent.
-
-“But I couldn't go over there!” Lionel sighed. “You are very kind, but
-my mother always wants me to stay at home.”
-
-“She is going to let you come, because I asked it as a special favor to
-me,” Dearing answered. “I'm the doctor, you know, and my orders go on
-this ranch.”
-
-Wonderingly, the boy leaned across his mother's lap, and put his arm
-around her neck.
-
-“Is he joking, mother dear?” he inquired, and he held his breath in
-visible suspense. “Does he really mean that I may play over there?”
-
-“Would you like it, darling boy?” Dora asked. There was a tremolo in
-her voice, and she kept her handkerchief to her eyes. The child started,
-looked suspiciously at Dearing, and then, leaning toward his mother,
-he firmly uncovered her face. He saw traces of tears, and stood erect.
-There was a fierce, angry flare in his eyes, his lower lip quivered, as
-he turned upon Dearing and blurted out:
-
-“She is crying! What did you say to her?”
-
-“Oh, I see!” Dearing jested. “You want to have it out with me, do you?
-Well, you pick your weapons, old chap, and I'll be your man. I won't
-take a dare from you or anybody else.”
-
-Dora's arms enfolded her child and pressed his hot cheek passionately to
-hers. “Yes, I was crying, my baby,” she gulped, “but it is because I
-am so happy. It is very good of Doctor Wynn to ask you to go. Would you
-like it?”
-
-“If you wished me to,” the boy replied, slowly, as he still uneasily
-studied her face.
-
-“I should like it very much,” Dora said--“very, very much! You could
-have such a splendid time over there.”
-
-“Would you love me just the same--_just exactly_ the same--if I went?”
- the boy asked, anxiously.
-
-“Just exactly the same.” Dora laughed as she caught Dearing's glance,
-and remarked to him, in an undertone: “He is such a strange child!
-Mother says she has never seen one so peculiarly sensitive and concerned
-over trifles. He often comes in from his play for nothing else than to
-ask me if I still love him. The slightest change in my manner or tone of
-voice always brings out that one question. It is the last thing at night
-and the first thing in the morning. If I am at all impatient with him,
-when I am absorbed in my work, he will come and sit on the floor at my
-feet, and nothing will satisfy him till I have taken him in my arms and
-said over and over again that I love him.”
-
-“It is his nature,” Dearing said, as he was turning to leave. “Well,
-remember, my boy, that my gate is not locked, and if you don't come
-over in my big lot, I'll come and ride you there on my back, like a
-two-legged horse; and I might get scared and kick up my heels and dump
-you over on your head.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III
-
-|ONE warm, fair afternoon in May, Kenneth Galt, at the earnest
-solicitation of General Sylvester, came home. Under big captions the
-Stafford papers had proudly given the particulars to the public. The
-great man was slightly run down from the enormous duties which had
-pressed upon him since the very beginning of his giant enterprise, and
-was to take a long and much-needed rest in the town of his birth and
-in the quiet old house where he had spent his boyhood. The mayor and
-aldermen and a brass-band had met him as he stepped from his private car
-at the station, and he was welcomed with spirited music and a short but
-ponderous speech on the part of the mayor. Then John Dilk, in a new suit
-of clothes and a much-worn silk top-hat, haughtily drove his master and
-the doting General through the streets, across the square, and on to the
-old Galt mansion.
-
-The crowd which had followed the carriage from the station to the square
-gradually dispersed, and the two friends were alone when they alighted
-at the gate.
-
-“Do you see those chairs and that table under the oaks on our lawn?”
- Sylvester asked, with the bubbling pride of a boy in a victorious ball
-game, as they were strolling up the wide moss-grown brick walk.
-
-Galt nodded, and smiled tentatively.
-
-“Madge is going to give us a cup of tea outdoors,” Sylvester explained.
-“It was her own idea. It is warm inside, and that is the shadiest,
-coolest spot in Stafford. The tea will refresh us. Shall we go now, or
-do you want to nose over the old house first?”
-
-“I see Mrs. Wilson looking out from a window,” Galt answered. “I think
-I'd better go in for a moment, anyway. The good old soul is in her best
-bib and tucker, and might feel hurt.”
-
-“Right you are!” the General said, approvingly. “You haven't risen
-too high, my boy, to think of those dependent on you. Run in and take
-possession, and I'll stir Madge up. A cup of tea of my particular blend
-will do you good after your dusty ride.”
-
-His niece was coming across the grass as the old gentleman reached the
-tea-table. Her arms were full of fresh-cut roses, which she proceeded
-to arrange in an old-fashioned silver punch-bowl in the centre of the
-table.
-
-“I suppose you heard the band and cheering?” the old man said, as he
-stood watching her and rubbing his thin hands together in suppressed
-delight.
-
-“Oh yes,” Margaret laughed; “and from my window I saw you and your
-conquering hero drive up in state. Well, did he accept our invitation or
-shirk it, as they say he usually does with everything of the sort?”
-
-“On the contrary, he seemed glad to be asked,” returned the General. “In
-fact, it looks to me like he's happy to be home again, though one can
-never tell. The active life of great success in any line estranges
-men from the simpler things. Just think of it! The fellow has lived in
-hotels, clubs, and that private car of his for the last six years. He
-has not, if I remember correctly, been once inside his old home since
-the night I sent him whizzing like a shot to New York. I do hope it
-won't become irksome to him. He needs rest and quiet badly, as you will
-see when he comes over. His face has a few new lines, and his eyes have
-a shifting, restless look which they didn't use to show. Where are you
-going to have him sit?” The old man was looking over the cluster of
-chairs and cushioned stools.
-
-“Oh, his lordship may take his high and mighty choice!” Margaret
-laughed, teasingly. “Perhaps he'll unbend and sit on the grass like a
-school-boy. He is, after all, only flesh and blood, dear uncle, odd as
-the fact may seem to you.”
-
-“Well, don't hurl that sort of thing at _him_,” Sylvester retorted,
-rather testily. “After all, a man not much over forty, who succeeds in
-an enterprise which belongs to the history of the land, and at the same
-time puts money into your pocket and mine in big lumps and rolls, does
-deserve consideration. Why, he has made you rich, Madge! He could have
-located his terminal shops and round-house at the other end of town just
-as well, but he put them on our land and asked no questions about the
-price. By George, why _shouldn't_ we pet him a little when he has been
-away all these years, and has come back broken down this way?”
-
-“Oh, well, I don't think he needs it, that's all,” the young lady said,
-pacifically. “A man like that is neither sugar nor salt. Only _weak_ men
-want to be pampered and cajoled. Your railway magnate will take care of
-himself.” Her eyes were resting on the figure of a child in a big swing
-which Doctor Dearing had hung from the lower branch of a tall oak a few
-yards away. It was Dora Barry's son. He was standing on the board
-seat clasping the stout hemp ropes with his little hands and “pumping”
- himself into motion by alternately bending and straightening his lithe
-body. His beautiful golden hair swung loose in the breeze, there was a
-glow of health in his pink cheeks, and he was neatly dressed in white
-duck, a flowing necktie, and tan slippers and short stockings which
-exposed his perfect calves and trim ankles.
-
-“Oh,” Margaret suddenly exclaimed, “I'm afraid he will fall! Wynn is
-always doing such absurd things; the child is not old enough to take
-such risks as that with no one to watch him.”
-
-“I agree with you,” the General said, and he went to the swing and
-persuaded Lionel to sit down. Then he pushed him forward, and left him
-swinging gently.
-
-“Just think of it!” Sylvester said, as he came back to his niece,
-who sat now with her glance on the grass. “Time certainly flies. That
-specimen of humanity has come into existence and grown to that size
-since Kenneth was here. I don't think he ever knew the poor girl very
-well before her misfortune, but he is sorry for her. I remember speaking
-to him of her in New York one day, and I could see that he was quite
-interested.”
-
-“I think I see him coming now,” Margaret said, biting her lip. It was
-the way she had always avoided any conversation which touched upon the
-one sore spot of her life, and her uncle refrained, as he had always
-done, from carrying the topic further.
-
-“Yes, he is coming,” and Sylvester stood up and waved his handkerchief.
-“Come and take the place of honor,” he said, picking up a downy pillow
-and laying it in the big chair next to Margaret's. “I am glad there
-never was a fence between your place and ours, for we can mix and mingle
-as we did when your father and I were young bloods. I've made a mistake
-many a night in having my horse put up in his stable after the dumb
-brute had brought me home from a dance in the country with more
-intelligence than I possessed.”
-
-Galt laughed appreciatively as he bent over the fair hand of his hostess
-and received her simple and yet cordial greeting. He had admired her
-as a girl, and now in her ripened beauty, added grace, and dignified
-bearing he found nothing lacking. As he watched her deftly lighting the
-spirit-lamp under the swinging teakettle he recalled, with a certain
-sense of delectation, a hint her uncle had given him in a jesting tone
-and yet with a serious look.
-
-“I may have you in my family one day, young man,” the General had said,
-in some talk over their common business interests, “and in that case
-I'll rule you with a rod of iron.”
-
-After all, it would be nice, Galt reflected to-day, and a step of that
-sort might ultimately quiet the dull aching of heart which had been
-his for so many years. Few men had ever had to such a marked degree the
-pronounced yearning toward paternity as had come to the lonely bachelor
-since the chief mistake of his life. His love for children was more like
-that of a woman who has tasted and lost the joys of motherhood than that
-of a man of the world. He never saw a pretty child without looking at
-its father with a sort of envious curiosity. Was the remainder of his
-life to be passed without his possessing that for which he yearned more
-than for any other earthly thing? He had heard, of course, of the birth
-of Dora's child, but he had so persistently fought off the thought of it
-and its attendant remorse that, like many another man so situated, his
-sense of responsibility in the matter had become somewhat dulled.
-
-He now ventured, during the General's jovial chatter, to glance across
-the lawn toward the cottage below. It was there in the starlight that
-he had seen the brave young girl for the last time. It was there. And
-he shuddered under the scourging lash of the words with which she had
-prophesied that he would fail to stand by her--fail to rescue her from
-the abyss into which he had plunged her. He shuddered again. Hero as he
-was in the sight of many, in Dora's eyes, at least, he could never be
-aught but despicable. She had gauged his weakness better than he could
-have done it himself. He had made a choice between honor and ambition,
-and he had abided by it. Other men had cast such memories to the winds
-of oblivion. Why had his clung to him with such damning tenacity? There
-was never any satisfactory answer to the question, and now and then a
-thought as from infinite space was hurled upon him with the force of
-a catapult--it was the conviction that, girl though she had been, Dora
-Barry's equal, in the intellectual and womanly things he admired, was
-not to be found among all the women he had known. What was she like now?
-What havoc had the tragedy and succeeding time wrought in the fair being
-whom he had left stranded and storm-swept on that eventful night? Under
-the low roof and in the tiny yard of the cottage just across the way she
-and his child, according to Wynn Dearing's report, had been imprisoned
-all those years. What a rebuke to his boundless egotism! He might remain
-there for years, and neither of the two would intrude themselves upon
-him. Oh yes, he told himself, he was safe enough on that score. She had
-kept her vow of secrecy so far, and would do so to the end.
-
-At this juncture there was a rippling scream of childish delight behind
-him, and, turning, he saw Lionel, his face flushed, his great eyes full
-of excitement, as he eagerly chased a black kitten round and round a bed
-of rose-bushes.
-
-“What a beautiful boy!” Galt exclaimed, beside himself in admiration.
-“What a perfect figure! Whose child is it?”
-
-The question was addressed to Margaret; but she hesitated, tightened her
-lips, and looked down.
-
-“Oh, it is one of our neighbor's,” the General skilfully interjected,
-as he leaned forward and tried ineffectually to give his guest a warning
-glance. “Wynn is a great hand at amusing the little ones. He thought
-this child needed more exercise and fresh air, and he asked his mother
-to let it play here.”
-
-Galt was now watching the boy, and so intently that he only half heard
-what the General said and quite failed to notice that his question had
-embarrassed his hostess. “Catch it! Run round the other way, little
-man!” he cried out, leaning forward with his cup in his hand. “There!
-there it goes!” The child paused just an instant, and raised his
-appealing, long-lashed eyes to the speaker; as he did so the kitten
-bounded like a rabbit across the grass and up a tree a few yards away.
-
-“Now, see what _you_ did!” Lionel cried, disappointedly, as he stood
-panting, his silken tresses tossed about his face. “You let him get
-away. I'd have had him if you hadn't spoken. But I don't care, I can get
-him!” And he was off like the wind toward the tree, on a lower bough of
-which the kitten was perched, blandly eying his pursuer.
-
-“You are as fond of children as ever,” the General remarked, “and it
-proves that your heart is in the right spot. Show me a man who has no
-use for little tots, and I'll show you a man who will cheat you in a
-transaction.”
-
-“It certainly is a good quality,” Margaret said, as she proffered sugar
-for his tea. “We naturally expect it of women, but it always seems
-exceptional in men, especially men who have their time fully occupied.”
-
-Sylvester laughed reminiscently.
-
-“I've seen Kenneth stop on the street to chat with a dirty-faced newsboy
-when the general superintendent of his road was waving an important
-telegram at him; and I've seen the boy walk off with a quarter for a
-penny paper, too.”
-
-“I seem to be getting my share of compliments, at any rate,” Galt
-laughed. “I'd call it flattery if I could accuse your hospitality of
-anything not wholly genuine.”
-
-“Uncle Tom certainly means what he says,” Margaret affirmed. Her glance
-drifted in the direction the sporting child had taken, and she uttered a
-sharp, startled scream.
-
-“Oh, he'll fall!” she cried.
-
-Following her eyes, the others saw that Lionel, still chasing the
-kitten, had climbed the tree to its lower boughs ten or twelve feet
-from the ground, and, with the prize still above him, sat in a decidedly
-perilous position on a bending branch so intent on reaching the animal
-that he was oblivious of his danger.
-
-“Don't be frightened, I'll get him down,” Galt assured her, with an
-easy laugh, and he sprang up and ran across the grass, saying, under his
-breath: “Plucky little scamp! He'll break his neck!”
-
-“Come down from there!” he called out, a queer recurrence of his own
-childhood on him as he viewed the muscular boy and the plump, bare
-calves above his short stockings. He was breathing freely now, for he
-felt that in case of a fall he could catch the youngster in his arms.
-
-“Oh, do let me get him!” Lionel cried, looking down appealingly, and
-speaking with the accent which had always impressed hearers as so quaint
-and odd in a child.
-
-“No, you mustn't go a bit higher!” Galt said, assuming a youthful tone
-of comradery that his words might not have any semblance of command.
-“You are a dandy climber--almost as good as the cat, but he is lighter
-than you are. You'll break that limb in a minute, and down you will
-tumble!”
-
-The boy looked at the bending bough and shrugged his square shoulders.
-“I don't know but what you are right,” he said, with a wry face. “I
-declare, I wasn't looking where I was going. I'm almost afraid to
-move now.” Then he burst into a merry laugh as he glanced first at his
-would-be rescuer and then up at the cat.
-
-“Why, what is so amusing about it?” Galt questioned, fairly transported
-by the boy's beauty, fearlessness, and vivacity.
-
-“Oh, I don't know, but it seems funny--you down there, me up here, and
-the cat above us both.”
-
-Galt laughed till tears came into his eyes.
-
-“You are certainly a marvel,” he said. “But you must come down. Slide
-carefully toward the trunk of the tree and catch hold of it firmly.
-You'll tear your clothes, but it is better that than--”
-
-“I know an easier way!” the child cried. “I'll jump, and you catch me.”
-
-“But I can't!” Galt answered. “You'd crush me to the ground, small as
-you are!”
-
-“No, I wouldn't!” Lionel laughed, with thorough confidence. “Doctor Wynn
-caught me the other day when I jumped from the roof of the wagon-shed,
-and you are stronger than he is. You are taller, anyway. Look, I am
-coming!”
-
-Fascinated by the child's voice and manner, and unable to protest
-quickly enough, Galt braced himself, fearing that the swaying child
-would fall. “One, two, _three!_ Lionel counted, and the little
-white-clothed figure left the bough, shot through the sunlight, and
-alighted in Galt's outstretched arms. There was a scream from Margaret,
-the General stood up, a startled look on his gashed and seamed face. The
-child's arms went round Galt's neck; his soft, warm cheek was pressed
-against his, and, scarcely knowing why he did it, Galt embraced him in
-a veritable qualm of relief. He put the boy down, but took his hands in
-his and held them. He admired and loved children, but he had never been
-so drawn to one before.
-
-“He's all right!” he called out, reassuringly, to the others. “He didn't
-get a scratch, but it's a wonder he wasn't lamed for life. He jumped
-before I could stop him.”
-
-Looking into the child's sensitive face, Galt noted, with surprise
-and concern, that it was clouded over. “What's the matter?” he asked,
-anxiously. “Did you hurt yourself? Did it jar you too much?”
-
-“No, but I'm afraid you are angry with me,” the boy answered. “Are you?”
-
-“Well, not exactly, but, you see, my boy--” Galt checked himself, for
-the corners of the little fellow's mouth were drawn down and his eyes
-were filling.
-
-“You _are_ angry, and you don't like me a bit.” A sob rose in the breast
-of the child and struggled outward. He drew his little hands from Galt's
-detaining clasp and looked down. “I am very sorry; I'll never, never
-do it again. I was bad. You told me not to jump, but I did. I am always
-disobeying somebody. When Doctor Wynn told me a great, smart, rich man
-was coming who had built a railroad, miles and miles through the woods
-and under mountains and over rivers, I told him I'd be good and make you
-think I was a nice boy, so that you'd like me; but now, you see, I went
-and made you angry at the very start.”
-
-“Well, what if I tell you this, you dear little chap,” and Galt paused
-and took him into his arms again; “what if I tell you that it was
-because I liked you very, very much that I tried to stop you? You see,
-I was afraid you'd get hurt, and I liked you so much that I wanted to
-prevent it. Will that satisfy you?”
-
-“Oh!” Galt felt the little, warm arm steal round his neck confidently.
-“Then you really _do_ like me, after all.” Galt laughed; he could hardly
-understand the emotion that welled up in him--he laughed that he might
-hide it even from himself. “I'll tell you _this_ much,” he said: “I
-like _nearly all_ little boys, but on my honor I never liked a boy, on a
-short acquaintance, in my life, so much as I do you. There, now, come on
-and get a cup of tea!”
-
-With Lionel in his arms, he went back to the table and sat down, keeping
-him in his lap. There was a sensitive shadow on Margaret's features and
-a certain awkward look of sympathy for her on her uncle's strong face,
-but Galt failed to remark them.
-
-“Does your mamma let you drink tea?” Margaret asked, gently. .
-
-“No, I thank you,” the child answered. “She says it's too strong a
-stim--stim--”
-
-“Stimulant.” Galt supplied the word with a hearty laugh of amusement. “I
-declare, for a child, you have the largest vocabulary--if you know what
-that is--that I ever ran across. By-the-way”--and he drew the boy's
-head down against his breast and ran his hand through the soft, scented
-tresses--“you haven't told me your name yet. What is it?”
-
-“Lionel,” replied the boy.
-
-“Well, that is pretty enough so far as it goes, but what else?”
-
-“What do you mean by 'what else'?” The child had hold of Galt's
-disengaged hand, and was toying with it as if admiring its strength and
-size, and he paused to look up into the dark face bending over him.
-
-“Why, I mean, what is your _full_ name?” Galt said, smiling into the
-rather grave faces about him.
-
-“Lionel--just Lionel, that's all,” the child said, and he raised Galt's
-hand in both of his own and pressed it. “Most people have two names,
-but I've never had but one. I don't know why. Do you? I asked my mother
-about it one day when Mrs. Chumley was talking mean to her about me, and
-mamma went off to her room and cried. Grandmother told me never to speak
-of it to her again. My mother has two names--Dora Barry.”
-
-Kenneth Galt felt as though his soul had suddenly died within him. The
-bonny head of his own child lay on his breast, its throbbing warmth
-striking through to his pulseless heart. Margaret sat rigid and
-speechless, and General Sylvester, in his desire to shield her, began
-chattering irrelevantly.
-
-The long shadows of the descending sun crawled across the grass toward
-the hill in the east. The golden head remained where it lay, the tiny
-and yet vigorous fingers twined themselves about the larger inanimate
-ones. The eyelids over the boy's big, dreamy orbs wavered and drooped.
-He was tired and sleepy. He heaved a long, fragrant sigh and nestled
-more snugly into the arms that held him. A great, voiceless yearning
-born of the long-buried paternal instinct fired the dry tinder--the
-driftwood of years of misguided loneliness--in the man's being. A great
-light seemed to burst and blaze above him. He sat with his gaze on the
-old man's face, but in fancy he felt himself kissing the parted lips of
-that marvel of creation--Dora's child and his.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV
-
-|SIX years had wrought a wonderful change in Gate City. It had increased
-in size and importance. Stephen Whipple was still the only wholesale
-grocer of the place, and Fred Walton had become his chief assistant. He
-was known to be the old man's special favorite, and was living on the
-footing of a son in the Whipple household.
-
-On the day that Kenneth Galt had returned to Stafford, Fred and his
-employer were seated in the old man's private office. Whipple had opened
-his heart to him in regard to a certain financial development which had
-gone against his interests. The old grocer's pride had been wounded as
-it had never been wounded before. Since the starting of the business he
-had been specially proud of the fact that he had been able to supply
-the retail dealers of Gate City with the groceries consumed by their
-customers as cheaply as any of the far-off markets could do, even with
-the freight cost added.
-
-But in competing with his rivals for the patronage of the town, an
-ambitious retail dealer--a certain J. B. Thorp--to cut at Whipple, who
-had refused him further credit, owing to Thorp's unwillingness to
-meet his bills when due, began to advertise that the reason he could
-undersell his rivals was that he didn't stop at home to buy his
-supplies. This had evoked a sharp retort in “a card” in the town papers
-from the offended Whipple, and it had brought out further and more
-sarcastic allusions from Thorp. He said that it was as plain as the nose
-on anybody's face that a man could not have waxed so rich as the money
-king of Gate City had done except at the expense of the public, and he
-scored a commercial triumph by giving therewith a list of his retail
-prices for that day, which, on staple wares at least, were really as low
-as Whipple's salesmen could give their customers at wholesale.
-
-The publicity of the whole thing had a bad effect on the old man's
-clientèle. The shrewd retailer chuckled with gratified revenge as he
-saw the public fairly streaming his way. The stores which were being
-supplied by Whipple were absolutely inactive. The clerks stood on the
-sidewalk ruefully regarding the human current, and, by way of amusement,
-laying wagers on the outgoings of Thorp's loaded delivery wagons, each
-of which now bore an American flag, with a motto in big black letters:
-“Live and Let Live! Down with the Money God of Gate City!”
-
-Whipple's salesmen made their usual rounds among his patrons, only to
-meet with utter stagnation on every hand, and returned with long faces
-to report few if any sales. Consumers, quick to secure even an ephemeral
-advantage, were easily convinced that Thorp was working for their
-interests, and they stood by him.
-
-“Oh, I reckon we can make shift some way, my boy,” the old man sighed;
-“for our business out of town is widening and growing; but in all my
-life I never was hit under the belt as bad as this, for I did want to
-hold my own here at home. And to think that I am done, and done good, by
-that measly Thorp, simply because we pinned down on him and forced him
-to pay up. It hurts like salt rubbed in a sore to be treated this way,
-after all I've done for the town. The boys say our best customers are
-paying more money than we ask right now in the Eastern markets in the
-effort to counteract Thorp's trickery. Do you know, I'd draw my check
-this minute for ten thousand round dollars and pay it to anybody who
-will show me a way to crush that sneaking scamp. Put the boys on their
-mettle, Fred; tell 'em I said fresh ideas are better than stale ones,
-and the man that helps me out of this tight hole will be well paid for
-his trouble.”
-
-“I was hoping that it would die out in a few days,” said Walton, “but
-it has only grown worse. Thorp has got the upper hand, and the more we
-fight him the bigger advertisement he gets out of it. Johnston and Wells
-say they can't possibly make the payment they promised this month, owing
-to the big slump in their sales.”
-
-“Well, I didn't expect it!” Whipple groaned, his head resting on his
-fat hand. “And the trouble is, the thing may drive many of our customers
-clean to the wall. Thorp would sell groceries for no profit at all for
-twelve months to swamp the others. The public are getting low prices,
-the Lord knows, but it means the ruin of regular trade and the
-desperation of good, energetic business men. Look here, Fred, we must
-down that rascal, I tell you. Start the boys to thinking. Surely among
-us we can turn up some plan or other.”
-
-“I'll do what I can, Mr. Whipple,” Walton promised, as he stood up and
-opened the door for the old man, who had desperately snatched his hat
-from its hook on the wall and was ponderously striding out.
-
-When he had left the store, Fred called Dick Warren to him from his high
-stool in the counting-room. With his increased years and regular life
-Dick had vastly improved in appearance. He hadn't risen so rapidly as
-his friend, but he was a capable bookkeeper, a fine salesman, and a
-steady, accurate worker, who earned a good salary.
-
-“This thing has hit the old man hard, Dick,” Walton said.
-
-“Anybody can see it by the way he walks with his head down like
-that,” Dick returned. “The house can stand it, of course, with all its
-out-of-town support, but Gate City trade was the old man's pet, and I'll
-be blamed if it doesn't look like he'll never get any more of it. It
-actually gives a store a black eye to have any of our brands on sale.
-Jim Wilson said just now that he'd take a keg of our soda if we'd scrape
-our name off of it. I gave him a piece of my mind, but he said we were
-looking to our interests and he was looking to his. I had no idea the
-people of this town could be such blasted fools!” and, considerably
-disgruntled, Dick went back to his post.
-
-Several days passed. The situation was no better. Thorp had induced one
-of the railroads to build a sidetrack from the main line to a platform
-in the rear of his store, and Eastern goods were being unloaded in
-wholesale quantities right on the premises. He was also advertising for
-a vacant house in which to accommodate the overflow of his business.
-The only available one on the street belonged to Whipple, and that, of
-course, he couldn't rent at any price.
-
-Among those most concerned, though rather indirectly, was the Rev. Luke
-Matthews. He was seeing his rich patron in a new light, for, now that he
-was in trouble, old Whipple had less time to devote to the uplifting of
-humanity, either spiritually or materially, and he often denied himself
-to the minister's frequent calls.
-
-“Just wait till I get my head above water,” Whipple said once, when
-Matthews clutched his arm and essayed to speak of a matter concerning
-the church. “I reckon I'm worldly minded, Brother Matthews, but a man
-has to be tainted that way to fight worldly matters. Right now I am as
-full of Old Nick as I ever was in my worst days. I know it; I feel it;
-but, by gum! I am not ashamed. Day and night prayers wouldn't move a
-rascally skunk like Thorp. He was my friend as long as he could suck my
-blood, and now he is my worst enemy because I wouldn't let him.”
-
-As the weeks passed, matters only grew worse for the wholesale store.
-Its town customers dropped off till local business amounted to nothing
-at all. One morning the merchant walked the full length of the main
-street. He went up one side to the court-house at the far end, and then
-slowly returned on the other side. On the way he met Matthews, who told
-him something he had not heard, and he walked on, now more slowly than
-ever. As he was passing through the counting-room on his way to his
-private office he paused between the stools on which Fred and Dick were
-seated. His face was ashen in color, his lower lip was quivering like
-that of a weeping child.
-
-“What do you think is in the wind now, boys?” he gulped, as he placed an
-unsteady hand on Fred's shoulder.
-
-“I have no idea,” Fred answered.
-
-“All the balance have combined,” Whipple groaned.
-
-“Who?--what?--how combined?” Fred asked, wondering if his old friend was
-not actually losing his reason.
-
-“Why, all the other retailers have formed a pool to beat Thorp, and in
-doing it they have knifed me. They have formed a combine to buy their
-stuff in St. Louis and New York in order to get car-load rates. They had
-a caucus last night in the rear end of Thompson & White's shebang, and
-the last one signed up. They don't buy a thing from us--the man who
-spends a nickel at this house loses his membership. They are a lot of
-sneaking curs, to pull me down and stamp on me just because that scamp's
-upset business, but they done it. The thing will spread all over the
-State, and I'll be laughed at as a doddering old idiot. Folks like
-nothing better than to see a successful man get it in the neck.
-
-“As I passed along the street just now they slunk away from their doors,
-so I couldn't see 'em laugh. They call _themselves_ 'wholesale men'
-now, and say they are going to oust me and Thorp both--make us count
-cross-ties out of town. I've had insults in my time, but being yoked
-with that skunk is a dose I can't swallow. I'm beat, and beat bad. If
-there was a loophole to crawl out at--if I could take one single step to
-defend myself--I'd give away half I've accumulated to be able to do it.
-My money paid for two-thirds of the Belgian-block pavement around
-the park; I gave more than half that was subscribed to the girls'
-school-building, and paid, entire, for the wall round the graveyard, to
-say nothing of what I put in the fire company, and new engines at the
-gas-works. I done those things, boys, for the town they live in, and yet
-they can drag my name in the mire and throw mud and slime on me.”
-
-He turned suddenly and left them, striding on to his desk in the
-adjoining room.
-
-“Poor old fellow!” Dick said. “Nothing on earth could have cut his pride
-more.”
-
-“If he could only hit back in some substantial way,” Walton reflected,
-aloud. “Think of some plan, Dick.”
-
-“Think of nothing!” the younger man said, gloomily. “Of all things on
-earth, I never could have dreamt of those fellows combining that way.”
-
-A moment later a postman came in with a bundle of letters and handed
-them to Fred.
-
-“Looks like they are getting you fellows in the nine hole at last,” he
-said, with a laugh. “Every grocer on the street is putting out a big
-sign. One of them has got a picture of the old man with a handkerchief
-to his eyes standing in a store without a single customer, while all the
-crowd is headed for another place.”
-
-“Oh, we'll have to wait and see,” Fred retorted, angrily. “I must give
-these letters to Mr. Whipple.”
-
-As he went in the old man's office, he found the grocer pacing up and
-down, his hat in his hand, his brow dark with passion. He waved the
-letters from him.
-
-“Open 'em yourself,” he said. “I'm going home. I feel like a candidate
-on election night who didn't get a vote in his own precinct. I don't
-intend to stay down here where everybody can pick at me. I heard what
-that whelp said to you and Dick. They are all gloating over me like
-buzzards over a dead ox. When you come up to supper, bring the night
-mail with you.”
-
-He strode from the room, and Fred heard his despondent step on the
-resounding floor all the way to the rear door of the long house.
-
-Fred worked over his books and out-of-town orders till near sunset; then
-he took down his coat and hat.
-
-“It might work,” he mused. “At any rate, there can be no harm in asking
-him about it.” He went out, and, turning into a quiet side-street, he
-walked up to the comfortable home of his employer, which stood on a
-slight elevation among the best houses of the place.
-
-It occupied a small lot, as did its neighbors, and there were no grass
-or flowers about it. It was built of yellow bricks, and had a porch in
-front, against which, on a lattice, some vines were growing.
-
-As he entered the gate an elderly woman approached the front door and
-stood waiting for him. It was Stephen Whipple's wife, a gaunt woman in
-a simple black dress without ornament, and wearing her iron-gray hair
-brushed smoothly over her brow.
-
-“You are earlier than usual,” she said. “I hope you have good news. I
-don't think he can stand it much longer. I have never seen him so
-much troubled in my life. His pride is cut to the quick. He has always
-thought he could cope with trickery in any form, and being helpless
-this way under the taunts of those men is fairly killing him. If he was
-thoroughly at himself he might hold his own, but he is getting old, and
-being mad this way really keeps him from using his best judgment.”
-
-“No, nothing has turned up yet,” Fred told her; “but I thought I'd speak
-to him before supper.”
-
-“Well, he'll be glad to see you, anyway,” the woman said, plaintively.
-“He thinks a lot of you, Fred--in fact, we both do. He has often said he
-blesses the day you came to him. He is lying down on the lounge in your
-room. Some of the neighbors were in just now chattering about the thing,
-and he slipped up there to keep from hearing what was said.”
-
-Fred found his employer stretched out at full length on a lounge in the
-big, light room which he had occupied for over two years.
-
-“Oh,” Whipple said, “it's you! Well, has anything turned up--I mean--but
-I know nothing has. Nothing can succeed against a gang of plotting,
-ungrateful dogs like they are. I've boosted 'em up through every panic
-and hard spell that come, keeping some of 'em afloat when they didn't
-have a dollar in their pockets, and now they not only knife me, but they
-make a public joke of it.”
-
-“Mr. Whipple, I've been trying to think of some way to--”
-
-“Oh, you _have?_ Well, spit it out!--spit it out!” And the merchant
-suddenly threw his feet around and sat up, clutching the edge of the
-lounge with his big hands, while he stared anxiously from dilating eyes
-that were all but bloodshot.
-
-“Of course, I hesitate to--” Fred began modestly, but was interrupted by
-Whipple.
-
-“Hesitate!--hesitate the devil! It is always that way with you, although
-you've got the safest, soundest judgment of any young man in the West.
-You hesitated to tell me you thought San Antonio would be a good place
-to put an agent, and it has proved the biggest opening we ever had. You
-hesitated before advising me against that Eastern salt company that
-had been sucking my blood for years before you came and smelt out their
-thievery. You hesitated to--but, darn it, quit hesitating! This is no
-time to hesitate; we are in a dirty fight, and twenty yellow dogs are on
-top of us gnawing the meat from our bones.”
-
-“Well, I've been thinking over it all, Mr. Whipple--” Fred was slightly
-flushed--“and there is only one way I can see to make any move at all;
-but that really does seem to _me_ to offer _some_ chance of--”
-
-“Move? What is it? For God's sake, what is it?”
-
-“Why, you know you own the large retail store building which was vacated
-when Stimpson Brothers gave up, and you have not found a suitable
-tenant, there being no one but Thorp who wants it. It is in the very
-heart of the retail section, and the best-furnished building in town,
-with the best show-windows, and--”
-
-“Yes, yes; but what of that?” Whipple burst out, impatiently. “I don't
-care a snap for the rent of a mere house when I am being literally
-choked to death by a mob of devils.”
-
-“It wasn't that,” Walton said; “but there are hundreds of your personal
-friends in town who would gladly buy their home supplies from you if you
-would only accommodate them. There are many first-class wholesale houses
-which conduct retail stores in the towns they are in, and, you know,
-none of them ever had a better reason for doing it than you now have. It
-wouldn't hurt your trade out of town a bit, for your customers are not
-concerned in this fight; and a big, first-class, up-to-date retail store
-in the centre of town, supplied from our stock, would--”
-
-Whipple sprang up. His eyes were dancing with delight. He leaned over
-Walton and put his hands on his shoulders.
-
-“Great God, why didn't _I_ think of that?” he chuckled. “My boy, you are
-a dandy!--you are a wheel-horse! It will work like a charm. The thing
-advertises itself. We'll make 'em quake in their socks. They will laugh
-on the other sides of their faces now. And the beauty of it is, we can
-flaunt the thing on the public ten days before they can receive their
-first shipment; we'll bill the town in the morning, and cover the front
-of the new store with black letters. Whoopee! whoopee!” And in his heavy
-boots old Whipple actually executed a clumsy clog-dance. “And we'll
-let Dick manage it,” he went on, as he paused panting. “That sort of
-promotion would be a feather in his cap. As for you, you've got to pilot
-the _big_ ship, my boy. A head like yours needs big things to deal with.
-Lord, I see Thorp's face now, and, as for that other gang of cutthroats,
-they will actually die of dry rot!”
-
-Whipple gave another whoop, and shuffled his feet thunderously.
-
-“What is the matter up there?” It was Mrs. Whipple's astonished voice
-from below.
-
-“Matter nothing!” her husband replied, as he leaned over the balustrade
-in the corridor and looked down. “Put the best supper you can rake up on
-the table. Kill the fatted calf, and don the royal purple! Me and this
-boy is going to celebrate. He has saved the ship! Get out a bottle of
-that grape wine, and let joy be unconfined. We're in the fight to stay
-now, and we're going to have a feast--a regular war-feast!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V
-
-|ABOUT ten days after the happenings recorded in the foregoing chapter
-old Simon Walton sat alone in his office. A typewriter was clicking in
-the counting-room adjoining, its sound deadened by the closed door
-and thin partition through which it passed. With noiseless tread Toby
-Lassiter, now older, more careworn, more machine-like than ever, entered
-and laid a bulky express envelope before his employer.
-
-“What is this?” the banker asked, as he examined the heavy wax seals and
-reached for his paper-knife.
-
-“I don't know, sir; it came just now,” and Toby silently withdrew.
-
-Walton clipped the twine, pried under the seals, and tore open the thick
-paper. It contained money. Six five-hundred-dollar bills were drawn out
-and laid on the desk. Wondering what it meant, the old man looked into
-the envelope. There was a letter, and it covered several pages of paper.
-A glance at the writing caused him a dull thrill of surprise. There was
-no address from which it was written, and it bore no date. It ran as
-follows:
-
-My dear Father,--I am sure you will be surprised to hear from me. I
-would have written before this if it could have done either of us any
-good. As I wrote you when I left, I had determined to turn over a new
-leaf, if such a thing were possible. It was an awful fight against big
-odds.
-
-Finally, however, I happened to meet--and it was when I had almost given
-up--a rich man with a good heart who befriended me, and offered me a
-position in his big wholesale store. I had a struggle with myself as to
-what I ought to do in regard to revealing my past life, but I finally
-decided to tell him the truth, and I am glad to say he overlooked it all
-and became my friend and benefactor. I never knew it, when I was a wild,
-headstrong boy, bent on ruining myself and you, but I now realize that
-every growing soul needs some sort of incentive to endeavor, and I have
-found two which have helped me a lot. The first was to refund by honest
-earnings what I took from you, the next to prove my worthiness of the
-trust my employer placed in me when all hope was lost. I see now that I
-never could have overcome my bad habits if I had stayed on in Stafford.
-It was getting out into the world and learning what it means to fight
-adversity, with no one to lean on, that helped me. When I think over
-what you, yourself, had to go through with to get your start in life,
-and remember that I was deliberately throwing away the hard-won rewards
-of your efforts, the blood of shame fairly boils in my veins.
-
-I am sending herewith three thousand dollars, which are my savings up to
-date. I had got together only twenty-five hundred, but when my employer,
-at my suggestion, succeeded in putting a certain deal through the other
-day which he considered advantageous to his interests, he insisted on
-adding five hundred dollars to the amount which I had told him was going
-to you. I am sending the money by express instead of by draft on
-any bank, for I would still prefer for you not to know where I am at
-present. When I have made the last payment on my debt (if you will let
-me call it that), I may feel differently, but until I am able to clear
-it all up I shall still hide from you and everybody who knew me in the
-past. I do hope you will read these lines kindly. I have wronged you
-(terribly wronged you), dear father, but I am trying now to live
-right, and surely you will be glad to know that, even at this late day.
-Concealing my whereabouts may anger you, I am well aware of that; but
-the good man for whom I am working thinks it is best--for a while, at
-any rate. Of course, if I could have a talk with you, I'd know
-better how you look at the matter, but being so far away leaves me
-no alternative than to let things remain as they are. Good-bye, dear
-father. It has taken six years to get together the money I am sending,
-but if I live and keep my health I feel reasonably sure that I can send
-the balance, including the interest, within the next two years, for I am
-doing much better than I was.
-
-When he had finished reading the letter, Simon Walton laid it on the
-desk before him and sat in deep thought for several minutes. Then, with
-no visible trace of emotion on his wrinkled face, he took the money in
-his hands, laid it on the letter, and rose and went to the door opening
-into the counting-room. He stood looking at the workers for several
-minutes, and then, happening to catch the glance of Toby, who was
-dictating to a stenographer, he signalled him to approach. Handing him
-the letter and the bills, he said, curtly:
-
-“Credit the money on my private account, then read that letter carefully
-and bring it back to me. Don't let anybody see it. It's private.”
-
-“Very well, sir,” said the clerk. “I was just dictating a note to Morton
-& Co., telling them that we can't possibly extend--”
-
-“Never mind about that _now_,” Walton ordered, sharply. “Do as I tell
-you!” And he turned back into his office, where he sat slowly nodding
-his great, shaggy head, as was his habit when making up his mind over
-any matter of importance.
-
-“Huh!” he said, suddenly and with a sneer, “that's it! I can see through
-a millstone if it has a big enough hole in it. Huh, yes, that's it! I'd
-bet a yearling calf to a pound of butter that I am onto the game, and it
-is one, too, that would take in nine men out of ten.” He tapped his brow
-with his pencil and smiled craftily. “Deep scheme; good scheme; bang-up
-idea! Might have pulled the wool over my eyes _once_. But a burnt child
-dreads the fire, and I've certainly been burnt.”
-
-The door creaked. Toby Lassiter, with the letter quivering in his
-excited hand, approached. His lethargic face was filled with emotion;
-his mild eyes were glowing ecstatically.
-
-“I always thought--I mean I always _hoped_, Mr. Walton--that it would
-turn out this way.” He started to say more, but checked himself as his
-glance fell on the parchment-like face craftily upturned to his.
-
-“Yes, I know, Toby!” Simon snarled, as he took the letter and put it
-into his desk drawer. “You always thought the scamp had sprouting wings,
-and now you are sure they are full size. That is why you have never
-risen higher in life, Toby. Your eyes are too easily closed. Leave it to
-you, and we'd never foreclose a mortgage on a widow with a full stocking
-hid away under her hearth. Believing in heaven on earth has held many a
-man back from prosperity.”
-
-“Then you don't think--you don't actually believe that Fred--”
-
-“Set down in that chair, Toby. Me and you are the only folks in Stafford
-that know how that boy buncoed me, and I reckon it's only natural for me
-to be willing to talk about it when there is anything to say. I endured
-several years of that fellow's devilment, and I'm not calculated to be
-fooled as easily as others might who never had him on their hands. You
-see,” the banker went on, as his clerk lowered his thin person timidly
-into a chair and leaned forward--“you will note that he writes that he's
-got a good, substantial job with a rich man, who, while he knows all
-about the boy's devilment here at Stafford, has completely overlooked
-it. Huh! we all know the world is full of men of capital who are ready
-to take in a runaway thief and hand over three thousand cool plunks to
-him just to show good-will and the like! To begin with, Toby, _that_
-is an underhanded slap at me; it is saying, in a roundabout way, that
-a plumb stranger is giving a son of mine a chance that he never had at
-home. But the tale, from start to finish, is a lie out of whole cloth,
-as I have good and private reason to know.”
-
-“Do you think so, Mr. Walton?” Lassiter's fallen countenance sank even
-lower.
-
-“Of course I think so, or I wouldn't be sitting here telling you about
-it. I haven't been idle on this thing, Toby, though I never let anybody
-know what I was up to. You see, I am an old man now, and in law I never
-had but one heir to my effects, outside of my present wife, and it
-struck me as pretty queer for that heir, disinherited on paper or not,
-to keep absolutely out of sight and sound all these years when as big a
-plum as I am supposed to be is still aboveground. You see, the scamp
-has got what some folks would call a 'natural expectancy,' even on the
-chance of breaking any will I might make, and you can bet there are
-plenty of men slick enough to speculate on such chances, slim as they
-might look to me or you. So you see, Toby, knowing all that, I kept a
-sharp lookout for developments. I decided first of all to keep a watch
-on the young woman he left high and dry and in such a miserable
-plight. I used to sort o' saunter by her mammy's house once in a while.
-Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of the girl by accident, but she kept as
-well hid as any mole that ever burrowed in the ground. Sometimes I'd
-see her--when she was to be seen at all--daubing away at some picture
-or other on a peaked frame, and I must say that every time I'd see her
-looking so neat and pretty, with her fine head of hair flowing over her
-brow in that easy, fluffy sort of way, and them big, deep, babyish eyes
-of hers--well, to come to the point, I began to think that it wasn't
-quite natural for _any_ fellow to go clean off and leave such a
-creature behind for good and all. You see, she's too good-looking, too
-attractive, for any man to drop once he was favored, and--well, it made
-me suspicious, to say the least. Then I begun to notice the child, who
-was always hemmed up in that little pen of a yard, and never allowed
-to stick his head out or have any playmates. I saw that he was always
-rigged up as fine as a fiddle, looking as if he'd just come out of a
-bandbox; and as I knew, from personal knowledge, that the old lady had
-no income to speak of, except the rent on her barren little farm, I used
-to wonder where the cash was coming from. Now and then I'd see Watts &
-Co.'s delivery wagon leaving groceries at the back door, and I found out
-through them, on the sly, that the grub bills was always paid. Then what
-do you think I did? I did some bang-up, fine detective work, if I _do_
-say it. I nosed around until I found out, through a clerk in the express
-office here, that packages of money were coming pretty regularly to the
-sly little lassie from somebody in Atlanta who called himself 'F. B.
-Jenkins.' Whoever it was, was using the express to hide his tracks,
-instead of sending bank-checks, which might come to my attention, as
-Fred well knew.”
-
-“So you think, Mr. Walton--you think--”
-
-“I think Fred's letter is a lie out of whole cloth,” old Simon blurted
-out. “I don't think he is at work; I don't think it was ever _in_ him
-to work in any capacity; but I _do_ believe he has set out to make good
-that shortage for a deep-laid reason. Some sharper or money-shark may be
-backing him, or he may have had a temporary streak of luck at poker or
-cotton futures, and has decided to invest something in me, as too big
-a fish to remain unhooked. I don't swallow one word of his mealymouthed
-tale. I'd bet my last dollar he's this F. B. Jenkins, and that he has
-been hanging around Atlanta all these years, keeping himself out of
-sight, and, like as not, coming here now and then under cover of night
-to see that woman. That's why she has kept so close at home. They have
-guarded the child, too, so that he wouldn't let the cat out of the bag.
-Toby, if I wanted to--if I just _wanted_ to--I could put a watch on that
-cottage and nab our man in less than a month. I say, if I just _wanted_
-to.”
-
-“Then you wouldn't arrest him, Mr. Walton?” Lassiter breathed, in
-relief.
-
-“Well, not now, at any rate,” Walton said, grimly. “We are too solid in
-every way now for such a thing to do us any great financial damage, but
-I don't fancy the idea of stirring up the stench again. He has put in a
-pretty big amount to start with, and he won't lie idle after that. Mark
-my words, we'll hear from Atlanta, and it will be apt to come through
-the fellow that calls himself F. B. Jenkins.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI
-
-|OH, here you are, you old agnostic!” Wynn Dearing called out jovially
-to Galt, one afternoon when he found the railroad president walking to
-and fro on the veranda of the latter's home. “If you say so, we'll go in
-the house, and I'll make that examination here and save you the trouble
-of coming down to my pigpen of an office.”
-
-“You could do it here, then?” said Galt, a weary look on his pale face.
-
-“Easy enough; I've got my stethoscope in this satchel. I've just been
-across the street to see a negro with a whiskey liver. He is a goner, I
-guess, but I have more hopes of you. Your trouble may be found in those
-cigar boxes your railroad friends are sending you. If it is that, I'll
-cut you down to one a day, and smoke the rest myself.”
-
-They had gone into the big library, the walls of which were hung with
-family portraits in oil, and lined with long, low cases filled with
-Galt's favorite books.
-
-“Take the big chair,” Dearing said, “and open your shirt in front.”
-
-Galt tossed his half-smoked cigar through an open window and complied.
-The examination was made, and questions in regard to diet and habits
-were asked and answered. Dearing said nothing as he put his instrument
-into the satchel and closed it. He stood over his patient, eying him
-critically.
-
-“It looks to me like you are fundamentally as sound as a dollar,” he
-said, his fine brow furrowed, “but your case puzzles me a lot. To be
-frank, you are entirely too thin, your cheeks are sunken, your skin is
-dry, and your eye dull. You are very nervous, and are growing gray
-hairs as fast as crab-grass. Somehow, I don't think you need any sort of
-medicine. Now, if you were not absolutely the luckiest man in Georgia,
-I'd think you had something to worry about. Worry has killed more men
-than all the plagues on earth; but that can't be your trouble, for every
-good thing in life has come your way. You had a great ambition a few
-years ago, but you gratified it; surely you don't want to own any more
-railroads.”
-
-“No, one is enough,” Galt answered, with a faint, forced smile. “I can't
-say that I am worrying over that.”
-
-“Well, the condition of the minds of patients,” said Dearing, “is the
-biggest thing doctors have to tackle. We can hold our own with a disease
-of the body, because we can see it and, at least, experiment with it for
-good or bad; but when the seat of the thing is in a man's soul, and he
-won't uncover it, but keeps fooling himself and his doctor by looking
-for it under his hide or in his blood or bones, why, we are at a
-standstill. I had a patient once who certainly had me at my wit's end.
-He was sound as you are physically, but he was restless, dissatisfied,
-morbid, lonely, and utterly miserable. I exhausted every resource
-on him. I sent him to specialists all over America, but they were as
-helpless as I was. Finally, in sheer desperation, I took the bull by
-the horns and asked him if he had anything on his mind of a disagreeable
-nature. He hung his head, and I knew then that something was wrong. I
-pumped him adroitly, assuring him that all private matters were held in
-confidence by a physician, and he finally made a clean breast of it.
-He was a rich man, but every dollar he owned had been accumulated from
-money stolen from another man, and a man who had failed in life and died
-in abject poverty.”
-
-“Ah, I see!” Galt sat more erect, his eyes fixed on Dearing's face.
-“That was his trouble; and what did he do about it?”
-
-“Died hugging the rotten thing to his breast,” the doctor said; “and
-that is the way with most of them. He couldn't face the music--he
-couldn't confess to the puny little world around him that he wasn't what
-it had always thought him. Perhaps he had gone too far to believe in the
-cure that God has made possible for every poor devil in toils of that
-sort. That's the trouble. Spirituality has to be practised to be a
-reality. Faith cures of all sorts have their place in the world, for a
-sick soul will certainly make a sick body.”
-
-“So you believe in rubbish of that sort,” Galt said, contemptuously.
-
-“To the extent I have indicated, yes,” Dearing replied. “I think I could
-demonstrate scientifically that health of body and faith in something
-higher than mere matter go hand in hand. Tell a weak man that his
-body is sound, and he will gain strength; convince a man that he is
-hopelessly old, and he will no longer be buoyed up by the hope of
-life. Show him his grave, and he will begin to measure himself for it.
-Therefore--and here is where I am going to hit you, you old atheist,”
- Dearing continued, half jestingly--“let a man constantly argue
-to himself that life ends here on earth, and he will wither away
-physically, as he already has spiritually; for what would be the
-incentive to live if death ends all? I meet all sorts of men and women,
-and the healthiest old codgers I run across are the old chaps who
-believe they are sanctified. They may be as close as the bark of a tree,
-absolutely proof against any sort of charitable impulse, but the belief
-of their immortality keeps them pink and rosy to their graves; half of
-them die only because they want a change of residence, and expect to own
-a corner lot on the golden streets of the New Jerusalem. The preachers
-teach us that we've got to go through a lot of red-tape to be saved, but
-I believe the time will come when immortality will be demonstrated as
-plainly as the fact that decayed matter will reproduce life in a plant.”
-
-“Oh, life is too short to argue on these things,” Galt said, wearily.
-“You have always seen the thing one way, and I another. I am in good
-company. The greatest minds of the world have believed as I do. I can't
-say that I _want_ to live forever.”
-
-“Well, I do--I do,” returned Dearing. “There was a time, thanks to my
-early association with you, by-the-way, when I doubted; but I always had
-a frightful pang at the thought that the wonderful mystery of life must
-continue to be a closed book to me. I fought it, Kenneth, old man--I
-fought that thought day and night, because my soul was so enamoured
-with the great secret that I could not give it up; and now--well, on
-my honor, the faith in it has become my very existence. Without that
-prospect I'd stop right here. I'd not care to move an inch. I'd as
-soon cut your throat as to treat you as a friend. But I didn't come to
-preach. What is that you've got stacked up on the table--drawings for
-another trunk-line?”
-
-“No.” Galt rose languidly and smiled. “I'll show you something very
-pretty. You know I am fond of good pictures, and I flatter myself that
-I have discovered a genius. There is an art dealer, F. B. Jenkins, in
-Atlanta, whom I know pretty well, and he called me in the other day to
-show me some water-color pictures by a young girl, who, it seems, is too
-modest to allow her name to be used. Then, too, I think he regards her
-as his find, and doesn't want other dealers to know about her. I bought
-these.”
-
-Galt opened a big portfolio, and began taking out the pictures one by
-one. “Where has any one ever seen a child more lifelike than that one?
-Why, it is actually walking away from the paper; and look at that one on
-the fence, and this boy with the top and string!”
-
-“Why, good gracious!” Dearing cried out, impulsively, as he stood
-transfixed by surprise, “I know who did that work--I--” But he checked
-himself suddenly.
-
-“_You_ know who did it?” Galt said, facing him in surprise. “What do you
-mean, Wynn. Do you really know anything about it?”
-
-“I spoke without thinking,” Dearing said, awkwardly. “You know, a
-physician sometimes runs across matters which he is obliged to regard as
-confidential, and, since the--the lady doesn't want to be known, I
-could not feel free to mention her name; besides, you know, I _might_ be
-mistaken.”
-
-Dearing turned from the pictures and moved toward the door.
-
-“I am satisfied that you could tell more about it if you would,” Galt
-said. “I really would like to know, for I have never run across pictures
-I liked so well. And to think they are done by some young woman who may
-not know how good her work really is!”
-
-“I know nothing--absolutely nothing,” Wynn said, with a non-committal
-smile. “But, if I did, I wouldn't trust it to you or any other man, so
-there you are. Why haven't you been over? Uncle Tom and Madge look for
-you every afternoon to join them at tea. You'd better come soon; they
-are off for New York in a few days.”
-
-“New York!” Galt exclaimed, in surprise.
-
-“Yes; you know they go up there every summer for a ten days' stay,
-visiting the Marstons. Old Marston was a colonel under my uncle in the
-war. He went to New York after peace was declared and invested all he
-had left. He is now a big tea-and-coffee importer, and worth a lot of
-money. Mrs. Marston likes Madge, and gives her a big time once a year.
-It is always a picnic for uncle and her. They start off like jolly
-school-children. They have the time of their lives from the moment they
-leave till they get back all tired out and coated with dust. Now, you
-look after your health, Kenneth. Lie around this quiet old house and
-take a good rest. Keep those bookcases with their lying contents closed,
-and read sound, hopeful literature, and I'll see that you stay above
-ground for a good many years to come.”
-
-“If I could only get _you_ to read those books, instead of the
-namby-pamby stuff issued by the Sunday-schools for the edification of
-children who still believe in Santa Claus, you'd be a wiser man,” Galt
-said, good-naturedly, as he accompanied Dearing to the door. “But, then,
-I'd not have the fun of arguing with you.”
-
-“I could put up as good an argument, even on your own side, as you can,”
- Dearing said, half seriously. “I could give one illustration which would
-prove to men like you, at least, that the whole world is topsy-turvy,
-and the Creator, if there is such a thing, more heartless than any man
-alive.”
-
-“You could? Well, that's interesting--coming from you, at least.”
-
-“It was this,” Dearing went on, now quite serious, as he stood facing
-Galt, swinging his satchel in his hand: “As I came in just now I saw
-about thirty children--little boys and girls--over on Lewis Weston's
-lawn. They were all rigged out in their Sunday clothes and playing
-games, just as you and I did on the same spot when we were kids. It was
-little Grover Weston's birthday, and his daddy, being our Congressman,
-the undersized 'four hundred' were doing honors to the occasion.
-Even from where I stood I could see the toys, wagons, tricycles, and
-hobby-horses which had been presented to the little Georgia lord, and he
-was strutting about thoroughly enjoying the limelight that was on him.
-That was _one_ side of the picture. The other side was this: Down at
-the lower end of our place stood a solitary little figure. Not one among
-them all could hold a candle to him in looks or brightness of mind. You
-know who I mean; it was the little chap you took a fancy to the other
-day when he jumped into your arms from that tree. There he stood, his
-bat and ball idle at his feet, watching every movement of the gay little
-crowd across the way. I couldn't know what his thoughts were, but, as I
-stood looking at him, I wondered what I should have thought at his age.
-Was his growing and supersensitive mind already struggling with the
-question of inequality? I remember that I, at his age, felt a slight
-keenly, and if _I_ did, with my many advantages as a child, what must he
-feel? There is an argument for you, Kenneth. The next time you want to
-prove the utter heartlessness and aimlessness of God and His universe,
-just paint that picture.”
-
-Galt made no response. His blood seemed to turn cold in his veins as the
-grimly accusing words fell from his friend's lips.
-
-“But that is not the way I'm going to let the story end, in my fancy,
-at least,” Dearing continued, after a pause. “Kenneth, old chap, I see
-a silver lining peeping out from beneath even that poor child's cloud. I
-see the hidden hand of God following the father who deserted his duty
-to flee to some far-off hiding-place. I see that man hungering for
-spiritual rest; I see his very crime humbling and sweetening his soul
-and causing him to long for what he has left behind him. I see the
-fortune that avarice is piling up in his father's coffers being
-turned to good account. In short, I see that boy and his beautiful
-child-mother, who never had a fault but that of blindly trusting, taken
-away somewhere to ultimate happiness.”
-
-“You think--you think--” Galt stammered, unable to formulate an adequate
-reply.
-
-“I think the man does not live who could have been loved and trusted by
-Dora Barry and ever forget her. The man does not live who could be the
-father of _such_ a child by _such_ a mother--such as she has grown to be
-since her great misfortune--and not fight for her and her child with his
-last breath.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII
-
-|WHEN Dearing had gone blithely down the street, Galt strode up and down
-the veranda, hot and cold, by turns, with fury and remorse.
-
-“To think that any man could lecture me like that, while I have had to
-stand and take it like a sneaking coward!” he fumed. “I am not a jot
-worse than thousands of others who were led astray by passion. I had to
-do as I did. I couldn't give up what I had sought so long, and fought
-for so fiercely. She knew it; she admitted there was nothing else to
-do. All these years she has not once reproached me, and she has kept her
-word--the secret is ours. Wynn says she has advanced, that her solitary
-life has only ripened her beauty of mind and body, and she is the mother
-of my child--the little fellow I held in my arms the other day, the
-outcome of a marriage as sacred under high heaven as any ever solemnized
-at an altar.” He groaned as he remembered how he and Dora used to boast
-that their superior mental attitude, and the height and glory of their
-troth, as compared to the dull code of the vulgar herd, had made them
-a law unto themselves. He had sown the seeds of such logic in the rich
-soil of her trusting, girlish inexperience. He had led her, as a candle
-leads a moth, on to the yawning brink of the abyss; he had closed her
-gentle mouth, even as it uttered words of love and fidelity, and then,
-by sheer brute force, he had flung her down to darkness and despair.
-That was the truth he had not fully allowed himself to face in those
-years of gratified ambition which had followed, and it was the truth
-that Wynn Dearing, with his maddening manliness, had hurled into his
-face to-day. And Dearing had argued that the end was not yet--that the
-earthly struggle wasn't all there was to man--that to eat, procreate,
-and live a certain span of years was not the solution of the problem of
-existence. How utterly absurd! And yet what was his present ailment? It
-was not of the body, as he had well known when Dearing was speaking of
-his condition; and since it was not so, what was it? What force known to
-science had kindled the raging fires within him, made him desire to
-shim his own kind, and hate the success which, like a hellish
-will-o'-the-wisp, had once blazed over him. There was nothing to do, of
-course, but to continue the fight on his own lines, by the light of the
-reason born in him. Of course, a man could be sad and gloomy over an old
-love affair if he continued to brood over it--if he continued to allow
-it to dominate him. Dora had accepted the inevitable, as any sensible
-woman would have done, and it was left for him to go on his way
-unmolested--free! General Sylvester wanted him to marry his niece;
-she was his social equal, and in time would be as well off in point of
-fortune. She was a beautiful, imposing, gracious woman, and would make a
-wife any man would be proud of. Yes, his duty to himself was clear, and
-dreams like young Dearing indulged in would have to be banished for ever
-and ever. Yes, he would marry Margaret Dearing, and he and she would
-travel the world over. He was ready to resign the active management of
-the big enterprise he had created, and he would be free in every sense.
-Yes, he would be free--just as other men were free.
-
-He had stepped down on the grass of the lawn and strolled round
-the house. Shouts and peals of childish laughter came from the yard
-adjoining his on the left, and on the grass, engaged in a joyous game
-of hide-and-seek, twoscore boys and girls ran merrily about. Galt walked
-farther down toward the lower boundary of his premises, seeking with his
-eyes an object he would not have confessed to himself that he desired to
-see--the child Dearing had mentioned. Now he saw the boy, but he was not
-within the Dearing grounds; Lionel had crossed over to Galt's land, and
-stood shielded from the view of the merrymakers by a hedge of boxwood.
-Galt saw him peering cautiously over the hedge, now stealthily lowering
-his head, now eagerly raising it. He was neatly dressed in white, as
-when his father had first seen him; there was a jaunty grace about the
-flowing necktie and low, broad collar which could have been accounted
-for only by the taste of an artistic mother. He held his broad-brimmed
-straw hat in his hand, and the breeze swept his tresses back from his
-fine brow.
-
-Why he did it Galt could not have explained, especially on top of the
-resolutions just formed, but he went down to him. Lionel's face
-was averted, and he was not aware of his father's approach till his
-attention was attracted by Galt's step on the grass. Then he started,
-flushed, and with alarm written in his face he made a movement as if to
-run away.
-
-“Surely you are not afraid of _me?_” Galt said, reassuringly, and in a
-tone which, for its unwonted gentleness, was a surprise to himself.
-
-“I have no right to be on your land,” the boy faltered, his great,
-startled eyes downcast. “Doctor Wynn said I must never leave his place.
-But there wasn't any fence, and I--I saw the children playing over
-there, and I wanted to get a little closer.”
-
-“Well, you needn't be afraid; you have done no wrong,” Galt heard
-himself saying, as undefined pangs and twinges shot through him. “You
-may come here whenever you wish.”
-
-“Oh, may I? Thank you. You are very good, and I thought you'd be angry.”
-
-“Angry? How absurd! What in the world could cause you to think I could
-be angry with a harmless little chap like you?”
-
-“I don't know; but I did. I was sure at first that you liked me. You
-know the day I almost went to sleep in your lap, when the pretty lady
-and the old gentleman were at the tea-table? Well, I _did_ think you
-liked me then, at first, you know, but when the doctor came and said it
-was late for children to be out, you put me down quick, and got red in
-the face, and never looked at me again.”
-
-There was a rustic bench near by, and Galt sat down on it. He found
-himself unable to formulate a satisfactory reply, and he was going
-to let the remark pass unnoticed, but Lionel came forward now more
-confidently, and sat on the end of the bench. A thrill akin to that
-which he had felt when he discovered the identity of the child passed
-over Galt. There was an indescribable something in the boy's great eyes
-so like his mother's, in the artistic slenderness of his hands, in his
-exquisite profile, that dug deep into the soul of the man who sat there
-self-convicted of the crime of wilful desertion.
-
-“Yes, I'm sure something was wrong that day,” Lionel said, tentatively.
-“I can always 'tell when mamma is angry at me, and I knew you were, for
-you didn't say good-bye. The others didn't, either, but I didn't care
-for them. I like Doctor Wynn, and I like you, but that is all, except
-Granny and my mother.”
-
-“You like me, and why?” Galt questioned, almost under his breath.
-
-“Oh, I don't know, but I do. I did when I first saw you looking up at me
-in that tree, and then when you held me in your lap. I wanted to go to
-sleep there, it felt so good--your arms are so fine and strong. Doctor
-Wynn says your father was a great soldier, and that you have his sword
-and a picture of him. Oh, I should love to see them! I'd like to be a
-soldier. Some day, if I am a good boy, will you let me see the sword?”
-
-“Why, yes, you may come--_now_, if you wish.”
-
-“You are joking, aren't you?” Lionel asked, in surprise.
-
-“No, I'm in earnest. Come on!”
-
-“Really, do you mean it?”
-
-“Why, of course. Come on!”
-
-They started toward the house side by side. Suddenly Lionel remarked,
-timidly, “You haven't said you like me yet, but I suppose you do, or you
-wouldn't let me go with you in your house.”
-
-“Yes, I like you--of course I do,” Galt answered, lamely and abashed.
-
-“Very, very much, or just a little--which is it?”
-
-“As much as any boy I ever met; there, will that do you, little man?”
-
-“Have you met many? That's the question,” the boy laughed out,
-impulsively, and then his face settled into gravity as he eagerly
-waited.
-
-“Yes, a great many,” Galt answered, as he wondered over the child's
-peculiar persistency. Dearing had said he was supersensitive. Could
-the trait be an unremovable birth-mark of the mother's unhappiness when
-overwhelmed with the sense of utter desertion? If so, then there was
-physical proof of the Biblical statement that the sins of fathers were
-visited on their children. Galt shuddered and avoided the appealing face
-upturned to his. Again he heard the musical voice, so like an echo out
-of the dreamy, accusing past, rising to him.
-
-“If you did like me, it looks like you would take my hand. I wish you
-would.”
-
-“There!” Galt forced a laugh as he took the soft, pulsating little
-fingers into his. As flesh touched flesh a thrill as of new life
-throbbed and bounded through him, and again he had the yearning to clasp
-his son to his breast as a woman would have done. As it was, no lover
-could have felt the touch of the hand of his mistress with keener, more
-awed delight. At one time, in a talk with Bearing, Galt had argued that
-even parental love was merely a physical function, like hunger for food,
-but that had been before this perplexing awakening. They had reached the
-front steps of the great house. An impulse he could not have analyzed
-led Galt to think of lifting the boy from the ground to the floor of
-the veranda, and he held out his arms. The child Sprang into them; his
-little arm went round the man's neck, and thus the steps were ascended.
-Was it a lingering pressure of affection in Lionel's arm that kept Galt
-from lowering him to the carpet when they had entered the great hall? He
-was sure he would put him down as they entered the library, but again
-he refrained, for the magnitude and splendor of the room had actually
-startled the child.
-
-“Oh!” Lionel exclaimed, his eyes first on the great crystal chandelier,
-then on the gilt-framed pier-glass reaching from the floor to the
-ceiling.
-
-“Why, what is the matter?” Galt asked, holding him tighter.
-
-“I did not know it was so beautiful, so grand!” Lionel cried. “This room
-alone is as large as our whole house. Ah! is that the sword your father
-killed men with? And will you please let me see it? Could I hold it,
-just once?”
-
-“I am afraid it is too heavy for you,” Galt said, as he reached for the
-heavy sabre in its carved brass scabbard and took it down from a hook
-under his father's portrait. “It wasn't made for little hands like
-yours. You'd have to grow a lot before you could use it.”
-
-Lionel stood down on the floor as the sword was put into his hands. He
-made a valiant effort to flourish the unwieldy blade as he thrust and
-lunged at an imaginary enemy. “Boom! Boom!” he cried, his eyes flashing,
-“Boom! t-r-r-r boom!”
-
-“Oh, you've killed them--they are as dead as doornails!” Galt laughed,
-impulsively. “Now your men will have a pretty time picking all those
-corpses up in an ambulance.”
-
-“Is that your father?” the boy leaned on the sabre to ask, as he looked
-up at the portrait of the elder Galt.
-
-“Yes. Does he look like me?” Galt answered.
-
-“A little bit, maybe”--the child had his wise-looking head tilted to
-one side as he had seen his mother stand in criticising one of
-her pictures--“but I don't like it much. It is full of cracks, and
-so--dauby.”
-
-“'_Dauby_'? Where in the world could you have heard that word?”
-
-“Oh, my mother says it often when she doesn't like one of her pictures.”
-
-The child was now absorbed in the bronze dragon head supporting the
-ivory handle of the sword.
-
-“I see; perhaps you'd like pictures of children better,” Galt said,
-and he took up one of the water-color sketches he had shown to Dearing.
-“Here, look at this little boy.”
-
-“Oh yes, that's me! Mamma says it is hard to keep them from all looking
-alike. Sometimes I'm a boy--then I'm a girl, and even a baby--but they
-are all me. Mamma says I'm her bread and butter. But I don't like to sit
-for them; it is too tiresome to stay still so long. Sometimes she lets
-me play in the yard, and watches me through the window; then I don't
-mind it.”
-
-“Do you mean to say”--Galt was grave, and his hands trembled as he
-picked up another picture, this time the sketch of a boy riding on a
-spring-board supported in the middle by a saw-horse, and fastened at the
-end to a crude rail-fence--“do you mean that your mother really painted
-this?” And as he spoke Galt recalled Dearing's evident recognition of
-the work, and his prompt reservation in regard to it.
-
-“Yes, and stacks and stacks of others,” the child said, abstractedly,
-his little fingers toying with the handle of the sword again. “Is it
-sharp enough to cut a man's head off?”
-
-“Yes, yes.” Galt sat down in a chair, his mind now full of startled
-memories--Dora's wonderful artistic taste, her early love of music,
-books on art, and the drawings which she had spoken of timidly, but
-never shown him. And this was her work--the pictures he had seen groups
-of people admiring, as they hung in the shop-window in Atlanta--and
-which he knew was the work of actual creative genius. And it had
-come from the spirit he had crushed, exiled from humanity, and left
-destitute! His ambition had won its sordid goal through the darkness of
-damnation, while hers--unconscious of its own deity--was growing toward
-the outer light, like a flower in a dungeon. And this was his child and
-hers! Compounded in the winsome personality of the boy was all that
-was good and noble of her, all that was bad and despicable of him, and
-Dearing would say that it was not going to end with the temporary breath
-which had been blown into the little form. The child was to live on and
-perpetuate the qualities he had inherited. He was like a little God now,
-in the likeness of the child-mother who had borne him, but 'the time
-might come when he would take on to himself the cringing, soul-lashed
-features of his father--be guilty of the same crimes against virtue
-and eternal justice, and fight the same cruel battle between spirit and
-flesh, between the forces of light and darkness. God forbid! “God!”--had
-he actually used the word? Was there such a Being? He had sneered at the
-thought all his life, but now the bare possibility cowed him.
-
-Lionel, astride the sheathed sword, now half boy, half prancing steed,
-came to him. “Whoa! Can't you stand still, sir? Watch him kick up! Look
-out!” as he pirouetted about, “he'll get you with his hind heels! He
-wants to run; something has scared him! Look how he's trembling!”
-
-Galt laid his hand on the sunny curls, and drew the excited little
-horseman to him, gazing into the dreamy, fathomless eyes so accusingly
-like Dora's.
-
-“I think I'd better hold you both,” he said, in an attempt at
-playfulness. He had heard sordid business men who had children say that
-there was no love like that of a man for an eldest son. This was his
-eldest son, if not by the writs of man, by the mandates of something
-infinitely higher.
-
-“I wish I had a really-really horse,” Lionel ran on, plaintively.
-“Grover Weston has a pony, but mamma says he can have everything because
-his father is rich. I don't like him. He threw my ball back over the
-fence the other day and called me names. I don't know what he meant by
-them, but my mother said they were not nice, and told me not to remember
-them. I've already forgot what he said. It was bas--bast--How funny! I
-knew it once.”
-
-Galt's inner being seemed to shrink and wither. Already the world's
-persecution of the innocent had begun, and the sensitive, poetic,
-imaginative child would grow up to a full realization of his social
-shame. Nurtured in gentleness and refinement, he was yet to have the
-scales which hid his humiliation from from his sight, and then he would
-see; he would understand; he would know who to blame. And he _would_
-blame, poignantly and justly. The time might come when this tender sprig
-of himself, grown strong, and yet galled by his burden, might face his
-father as the cowardly churl who had stamped the unbearable stigma upon
-him and her. This child might live to curse him and spit upon him. The
-world might forgive in the glow of his power and gold, but the one he
-yearned for now, as he had yearned for nothing before, would go over his
-infamous past as minutely as an ant over the bark of a rotten tree.
-
-The child had put down the weapon of his honored ancestor, and now stood
-with his little hands on the knee of his father, another side of his
-personality uppermost.
-
-“I don't care,” he said, in his charmingly premature way, “if Grover
-Weston _doesn't_ like me, because you say you do. He's nothing but a
-mean, horrid boy, while you are--”
-
-“I am what, Lionel?” Galt's voice was stayed by huskiness in his throat,
-and he put an unsteady arm round the little form, resisting the yearning
-to clasp him tightly.
-
-“Oh, you are everything--everything in the world. Doctor Wynn says you
-are very, very rich, and that you love all little boys--that's why I
-jumped that day. I wouldn't be afraid to jump from a higher tree than
-that if you were there to catch me. Oh, I like to have people love me! I
-like it better than anything.”
-
-“And yet you _do_ want other things?” Galt said, tentatively.
-
-“Oh yes.” The child, guided by the gentle pressure round him, slid
-between his father's knees, and, putting his arm confidingly about
-Galt's neck, he drew himself to a seat in the man's lap, and laughed.
-“Mamma says I want the whole earth. I want a bicycle; and a gun; and a
-pony; and roller-skates; and--”
-
-“You certainly do want a _few_ things!” Galt tried to jest. “But we
-can't have everything, you know, in this life.”
-
-“Not unless we are rich; and we are very poor at our house; but when the
-expressman brings the money for the pictures we are very glad. Then
-we have a good dinner. Last time Granny got a dress, and I got several
-suits like this one. Mother says some day we may go away off to another
-country where I'll have children to play with. I think that would be
-nicer than having toys.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” Galt responded, from the depths of a new and rasping
-remorse, as the boy reclined on his arm and stretched out with a
-delicious sigh.
-
-“You said you liked me,” the child said, quite seriously, “but you never
-have kissed me--not once.”
-
-“But men don't kiss little boys,” Galt answered, with a start.
-
-“Oh, yes they do; Doctor Wynn has often kissed me, and hugged me, so!”
- Lionel put his arms round Galt's neck, pressed his soft, warm cheek
-against the cold, rough one, and kissed it, once, twice, three times.
-
-“And I've seen Mr. Weston kiss Grover when he runs to meet him at the
-gate.”
-
-“We've known each other such a short time,” Galt apologized, lamely, as
-the hot blood coursed through his veins, and the child released him and
-lay staring at him from his great, reproachful eyes.
-
-“I don't care, you'd kiss me if you loved me as--as much as I do you.
-Won't you, just one time? Then I'll go.”
-
-“Yes, I'll kiss you--there!” Galt said, as he folded the child in his
-arms and pressed his lips to the warm, pink brow.
-
-“I had to make you!” Lionel said, as he stood down on the floor. “That
-is the way I do when my mother is angry. I keep begging her to kiss me
-till she does; then she laughs and hugs me tighter than ever. Granny
-says I know how to manage a woman. Good-bye. I thank you for bringing me
-to your house. Now I am sure you like little boys.”
-
-After the child had gone, Galt walked up and down the veranda, his mind
-upon problems he had never faced before. He was interrupted by General
-Sylvester, who hurried across the lawn to speak to him on his way
-down-town.
-
-“I've only a bare minute,” the old gentleman said. “I suppose you know
-we are off for New York. You'd better come along and help us have a good
-time.”
-
-“I am afraid Wynn would hardly prescribe a remedy so strenuous as that
-in my case,” Galt returned. “You see, I was tied down there recently,
-and got enough of it for a man who is said to need quiet and a change of
-scene.”
-
-“That's true,” Sylvester admitted. “It was only because we'd like to
-have you so much that I mentioned it. But we'll take you in hand when we
-get back. So you be ready, young man.”
-
-When the old gentleman had walked away, with his springy, boyish step,
-and the gate-latch had clicked behind him, Galt went back into the
-library. He gathered up Dora's pictures with reverent hands, and took
-them up to his bedroom. He arranged them in good positions, and stood
-looking at them steadily.
-
-“Yes, she's in them all,” he said. “Her weeping soul speaks out from
-every one. She has done those things in spite of the disgrace and misery
-that my cowardice has heaped upon her. What must she think of me--of me,
-whom she once placed upon such a pinnacle? Her own purity created the
-place for me in her heart which I once held, and from which her contempt
-has long since banished me. I've lost her. I owe her the world, and can
-pay her nothing--absolutely nothing!”
-
-His attention was attracted to the children on Weston's lawn. They were
-loudly laughing, shouting, and singing. He went to the window and looked
-out.
-
-“'King William was King James's son,'” they sang, as hand in hand they
-circled round on the grass. Galt's eyes rested only momentarily on
-the players. He was searching for some one else. Finally he espied the
-object of his quest. Lionel--his son, a full-blooded Galt, and, for
-aught he knew, the flower of the race--was hidden behind a tree peering
-out like a half-starved urchin at a window filled with sweets. He stood
-erect and motionless, as if hardly daring to breathe lest he be seen by
-his social superiors.
-
-“He is waking!” Galt exclaimed. “He is wondering and pondering. The time
-will come when he will understand and remember, perhaps, that I kissed
-him with the lips of Judas--I, who should have been his mainstay and
-supporter--kissed him as he lay in my arms, conscious of my love and
-ignorant of my weakness. No, I can't help him. Drawn to him as I am by
-every fibre of my being, still I must deny him. The man does not live
-who, in the same circumstances, could act otherwise. I haven't the moral
-backbone. I simply haven't.”
-
-Leaving the window, and sinking into a chair, Galt bent forward, locked
-his cold hands together, and wrung them as a man might in the agony of
-death.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII
-
-|EVERYTHING is as merry as a marriage bell, and the goose hangs high!”
- Stephen Whipple quoted, with a hearty laugh, as he and Fred Walton sat
-on the old man's veranda after breakfast one Sunday morning. “And I'm
-a-thinking, my boy, that the suspended fowl is none other than our
-fellow citizen, J. B. Thorp. He is as mad as a wet hen. He had us plumb
-down, and, like the bully he is, was pounding the blood out of us with
-no thought of letting up. Then the rest of the hungry pack of wolves
-piled on top, and began to get in their work. I was so crazy I didn't
-know my hat from a hole in the ground. Then your keen young brain turned
-the trick, and here we are. Dick has got the dandiest retail store that
-ever saw the light in a Western town, and it is literally packed and
-jammed with customers.”
-
-“I am certainly glad it turned out as it did,” Fred replied. “It has
-been a great thing for Dick.”
-
-The merchant was silent for a moment, and Fred saw him twirling his
-heavy thumbs as he often did when embarrassed. Finally, after clearing
-his throat and rather awkwardly crossing his legs, he said:
-
-“I've got a silly sort of confession to make, Fred. I reckon nobody is,
-on the outside, exactly what they are within, and I've got my faults
-like other fellows. On the outside I'm as strait-laced as a hard-shell
-Baptist, but I've always hankered after a periodical lark of some sort.
-Once in a great while I've taken trips just for the pure fun' of the
-thing. During the Centennial at Philadelphia I laid down everything and
-went. I stayed a week, put up at a fine hotel, and lived as high as I
-knew how. I saw all that there was to see. Then I struck work at one
-time and went to the Mardi-gras at New Orleans, and then another time I
-hiked off to the Cotton Exposition in Atlanta. I don't know why I'm that
-way, but I am. It is my periodical spree, I reckon. You remember I told
-you about my boy--the little fellow that passed away?”
-
-“Yes, I remember,” Walton returned, sympathetically.
-
-“Well, as he was growing up, I used to love, above all things, for
-just me and him--just me and him, you know--to go to places together.
-Sometimes it was a ride in the country, or fishing, or to do something
-a little boy would like, but I always sort o' kept the thought before
-me that when he'd reached man's estate, me and him would do some
-sure-enough 'bumming,' as I used to call it--bumming to New York City,
-where we could take in all the sights like two boys. It may sound silly,
-but that was one thing I always had to look forward to; but then he took
-sick and died, and it was out of the question. Since then I've never
-counted on the New York trip.”
-
-“It was sad,” Walton said, gently. “It is a pity he couldn't have been
-spared to you.”
-
-“Yes, but he wasn't,” the merchant sighed. “He wasn't, and this is what
-I started out to say: Of all folks I have ever known since my boy's
-death, you come nearer filling his place than any one else. No”--and
-Whipple held up his broad hand--“don't stop me! I don't know how it
-was, but in our first talk that night you kind o' got hold of my
-heart-strings. I pitied you as I had never pitied a young fellow before
-because of the fight you were making. I got interested in it, and
-determined to help you win. I prayed for you. You were on my mind the
-last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. You'd said you
-wanted the money just to pay off the debt you owed your father, and I
-would have planked the cash right down many and many a time if I hadn't
-been afraid I'd spoil a thing that seemed to be of God's own making.
-I used to sneak and look at your bank-account. That was mean, but I
-couldn't help it. I saw your savings piling up week after week until
-I forced that five hundred on you, and knew you had three thousand in
-hand. Then, all at once, it sunk to nothing. Fred, my boy, I went home
-that night, hugged the old lady, and cried. You needn't tell me what
-became of that money. It went to your old daddy as fast as the trains
-could take it.”
-
-“Yes, I paid him, Mr. Whipple. I am still behind two thousand, with the
-interest at the rate he charges his customers.”
-
-“He's a money-lender then?” Whipple said, lifting his brows.
-
-“Yes, he--” Fred hesitated a moment, and then finished, “He is a banker,
-in a small town in--”
-
-“Don't--don't tell me!” Whipple broke in. “Don't tell me a thing about
-him! I'm human to the core. I don't know why it is, but for a long time
-I have been jealous of his blood claim on you. He throwed you off, and I
-want to think that I have some sort of right to you. He never loved you
-as a natural father should, or he couldn't have driven you to the
-wall like he did, forcing you to live off among strangers, away from
-home-ties and all the associations of your young days. Oh, I know I have
-your good-will, my boy! I heard about the way you stood up for me during
-the strike my men tried to get up. One of the clerks told me of the
-nightmeeting that was held, and how you sprang into their midst like
-an infuriated tiger, and of the ringing speech you made about me and my
-fair treatment of them, and how they finally begged you not to report
-the matter and slunk away like egg-sucking dogs. You never would have
-mentioned it, but it got to me--it got to me.”
-
-“Oh, I only did my duty, Mr. Whipple.” Fred's face was dyed red. “I
-thought they were unreasonable, and could not help putting in a word of
-protest.”
-
-“You were the only one in the entire bunch that did it, all the same,”
- Whipple said, huskily. “Oh, I know they poke fun at me and laugh at
-my peculiarities, but I don't believe you ever did. I am coarse and
-awkward--I don't have to be told that; but I try to be genuine and fair
-to all mankind. But I've got away off from what I started to say. Fred,
-there never was a time when I felt more like one of my periodical sprees
-than right now. I have never been to New York, and I can't get over
-wanting to take it in. My wife don't care to go. She says such trips
-tire the very life out of her. She is younger than I am in years,
-but she ain't in spirit. I want you to lay off work for a week and go
-bumming with me. Somehow, I feel like if you'll go, it will be as if my
-own boy had lived and grown up and was taking the trip with me. I want
-to go by New Orleans and spend a day there, and then on to the East,
-through Georgia, Tennessee, and Virginia. What do you say, Fred? The
-expense is nothing. I want to celebrate. For a week I want to be a new
-man, and have a high old time.”
-
-“I should like it very much,” Walton said, “if you really want me to
-go.”
-
-“Well, pack your grip, and we'll be off day after tomorrow. We'll tell
-the boys that we have to see our New York importers and our sugar men in
-New Orleans, and they can guess the rest. Now, I'm going up to tell the
-old lady that it is settled, and she can sleep or do any other old thing
-she likes till, we come back. We'll have a rip-roaring time, Fred. We'll
-go all the gaits, even if we get put in the lock-up.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX
-
-|FRED and his jovial employer spent a ===day and night at New Orleans,
-and early the following morning took a fast train for New York.
-Ensconced in the luxurious Pullman, which contained few other
-passengers, Fred felt that by remaining close in the car as it passed
-through Georgia he would run little risk of being recognized by any
-acquaintance or friend of the past. Nevertheless, as the train was
-leaving Atlanta and speeding toward Stafford, he was literally besieged
-with gloomy memories. Every station or familiar landmark along the
-way brought back with crushing force occurrences he had completely
-forgotten. Once or twice he fancied that Whipple was watching him with
-an unusually sympathetic eye, but he put the thought from him. Never
-having been told of the fact, how could the old man even suspect that he
-was nearing the home of his childhood--the spot of his dreams? He had a
-yearning to confide more fully to his kindly companion, but the thought
-came to him that such a disclosure just now might throw a damper upon
-a journey which he had determined should contain nothing but joy to his
-benefactor.
-
-It was six o'clock when Cherry Hill was reached. Only seven rapidly
-shortening miles lay between him and his old home. Fred sat at a window,
-pretending to read a newspaper. It struck him as highly incongruous that
-Whipple should think no more of that particular town than of any of the
-others through which they had passed when it means so much--so very
-much--to him. The time-table told him that the train stopped only a few
-minutes at Stafford, and he was both glad and disappointed--glad that
-the short stop would render his detection the more remote, and sad that
-he was not to see with his actual eyes the spot dearer to him than any
-other. There was a prolonged scream from the locomotive's whistle at the
-extreme end of the train. Could it be that the station was reached? No,
-for through the gathering dusk Fred could see that the suburbs of the
-town, as indicated by the electric lights in the distance, were still
-half a mile away. Perhaps it was to take on water, he thought; but that
-couldn't be the explanation, for the porter of the car had thrown up a
-window and was looking out inquiringly.
-
-“What is it?” he inquired of the porter, who had drawn his head back
-into the car.
-
-“I don't know, sir,” the negro answered. “Something must be wrong ahead.
-We never slow up till we get to the crossing.” He hurriedly left the
-car, and Fred followed. Outside there was a rushing to and fro of
-trainmen with flags and lanterns, a jumble of calls in stentorian tones,
-the slow clanging of the locomotive's bell, the exhausting of steam. The
-porter ran to the porter of the car ahead, and came back to where Walton
-stood waiting on the step.
-
-“Freight-train knocked all to smash in the edge of town,” he explained.
-“Nobody hurt, but it is sure to hold us here awhile.”
-
-“We'll have to stop, then!” Fred exclaimed, fearing a vague something
-which seemed to hover, like a threat, in the air about him. At that
-moment he gave way to the superstitious feeling that it was the direct
-hand of Providence which had delayed him there, of all spots on the long
-journey.
-
-“It looks like it now, sir,” the porter answered; and as he left, Walton
-turned and saw Whipple close beside him.
-
-“Why, it won't make any difference to us,” the old man said, in evident
-wonder over his protégé's disappointment. “We'll be sound asleep in
-our berths. I don't know but what I'd kind o' like _one_ night's rest
-without so much jostle and motion. We can get a good breakfast in the
-dining-car in the morning, and go on our way as smooth as goose-grease.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” Fred said. But the thought had come to him that they might
-be delayed till the next morning, and the idea of passing through his
-old home in the broad light of day was far from pleasant. What if he
-should actually meet his father or some officer of the law whose duty
-it would be to arrest him, right when he had begun to hope that he might
-ultimately earn his freedom?
-
-Fred went back into the car, followed by the drowsy Whipple, and took
-a seat by a window. It was open, and by leaning out he could see the
-lights of Stafford. Under the skies he had known as a child, on the
-same hillsides, they blazed and beckoned. Suppressing a groan, he told
-himself that he would go to bed and try to sleep; but he delayed, held
-in his place by some weird charm. At ten o'clock, when Whipple was
-stowed away, Fred went out of the car once more. On the sidetrack he met
-the conductor.
-
-“How long shall we be here?” Walton inquired.
-
-“Till three o'clock, sir,” the conductor said, as they walked along
-toward the locomotive.
-
-“I wonder if I'd have time to walk to town and look around,” Fred said.
-“I don't feel like turning in right now.”
-
-“Plenty, plenty,” the conductor answered. “It is only a mile or so to
-the square.”
-
-“Then I'll go,” Walton said, and he walked away, thankful that the night
-was cloudy. On he went down the railway, in the streaming glare of the
-locomotive's headlight, till he reached the first street leading into
-Stafford. Ahead, in the light of many lanterns, a throng of trackmen
-were at work on the wreck.
-
-How changed was the landscape he had once known so well! Spots which had
-been old barren fields, dismantled brick-yards, and stretches of
-forest, were now, thanks to the enterprise of Kenneth Galt, filled with
-cottages, cotton factories, iron-foundries, and other industries. To the
-right, on a common, which used to be the ball-ground where the team, of
-which Fred had been the popular captain, had played in his schooldays,
-the round-house and machine-shops of the S. R. & M. had risen. New
-thoroughfares had been opened, natural elevations graded away, and
-uncouth gullies filled.
-
-Taking the darker and quieter streets by choice, Walton strode onward,
-headed toward the old part of town, his heart wrung with a pain more
-poignant than any he had ever felt. Once, as he was passing through a
-cluster of small houses which seemed inhabited by negroes, he saw a few
-dusky faces he had known, and recognized some familiar voices coming
-from the unlighted porches and open windows. On trudged the wayfarer,
-his step slow, his feet heavy. Presently he came to a stone and iron
-bridge which spanned a small arm of the river, and, crossing to the
-other side, he ascended a slight elevation from which he had a view of
-the entire town. It was a lonely, unimproved spot, where a few scrubby
-pines grew and some gray primitive bowlders lay half embedded in the
-ground. Farther along the brow of the narrow hill stood the old brick
-school, which, as a boy, he had attended. A thousand memories flogged
-his quickened brain--memories of those lost days, when his gentle mother
-had dressed him and sent him off with a kiss and the admonition to be
-a good boy. She was dead, she was gone forever, and her prayers in his
-behalf had fallen on the deaf ear of Infinite Providence. He had not
-been a good boy, and she had prayed in vain. Her grave was there beyond
-the town's lights on another hill, and he who had been the sole hope
-of her motherhood was an alien. He stifled a cry of sheer agony. In his
-active life in the West he had, in a measure, dulled his senses to much
-of the past, but here, in view of all he had lost, it was upon him like
-a monster as long and broad as the universe, with a million sinister
-claws sunken into his being. There below was the home which might have
-been his; there, veiled from his sight by the kindly pall of night,
-lived the men and women who might still have been his friends; there,
-too, lived the girl, the one girl in all the earth, who--He groaned,
-and, throwing himself on the ground, he folded his arms and sobbed. How
-long he remained there he hardly knew, but it was late, for the lights
-in the houses below were blinking and going out one by one. He was
-tempted to steal down the hillside, now that deeper darkness offered
-shelter, and wander through the streets he had loved so well--to wander
-on till he could see his father's house. Perhaps he might even pass
-Margaret's home without detection. It would be a risk, an awful risk,
-he told himself, for he might be recognized, pursued, and even arrested.
-His hungry heart told him to take the chance, his inbred caution warned
-him strongly to return to the car without delay, and yet he lingered. He
-fancied he could see, as his blurred eyes strove to probe the curtain of
-darkness, the very spot his old home stood upon. Yes, he would risk it.
-He had been away for years, and he might never return to the old town
-again. Providence itself had caused the accident to which he owed the
-opportunity.
-
-Down the incline he went, into the quiet street below, and along it to
-another which led toward his father's house. Once he saw a man and woman
-approaching, and he stepped behind a high fence in the grounds of an old
-mill. He crouched down, and heard their voices as they went by, but they
-sounded strange to him. He followed now in their wake, and saw them turn
-in another direction. Then he saw a man approaching, but he walked from
-side to side of the pavement, as if he were intoxicated, and Walton
-avoided him by crossing the street and pursuing his way on the other
-side.
-
-At last he was at his old home. The grounds were the same in size, but
-the old house had been repainted, and trees which had been small and
-slender were now large and dense. There was a heartless alteration in
-the appearance of it all. The white paint on the house somehow made it
-seem a veritable ghost of its former self; its whole aspect was cold and
-forbidding. He opened the gate and entered. He was not afraid, for as
-a boy he had gone into the grounds at any hour he liked; he had even
-raised an unfastened window in the old dining-room, when he had mislaid
-his key, and climbed in long after midnight.
-
-There was a light in his father's room on the ground floor, but the
-blind was drawn down. Fred could not look in from where he stood, so he
-crept up close to the wall, and moved noiselessly along against it till
-he could peer through the crack between the window-sill and the blind.
-He started back, for in the light of the green-shaded lamp he saw his
-father seated at a table reading a paper. How strange it seemed to see
-him after all those years! And yet the banker had changed very little.
-It was the same harsh, imperturbable face. In it lay no sign of concern
-over the absence of the son who now loved him with a woman's tenderness.
-
-“Poor, poor father!” the young man said, in his heart. “I never
-understood you. I didn't know what life meant then as I do now. You are
-living according to your lights. It was I who was wrong--wofully wrong.
-God help me!”
-
-With a low groan he crept away. Out into the street he went. He must
-hurry now, for his time was limited. There must be no mistake about the
-train. He must not let his employer suspect this stolen excursion of
-his, for it would mar the pleasure of the old man's journey.
-
-Fred now met and had to avoid few passers-by, and he hurried on to
-Margaret's home, thankful that it lay in the direction of the waiting
-train. The great structure was wholly dark, and there was no sign of
-life about it. That was her window; he could plainly see it as he stood
-at the fence. But what, after all, could it matter to him? Perhaps she
-had not occupied the room for years. His heart seemed turned to stone as
-the new fear sank into him that she might have married and moved away.
-She had loved him once; he was as sure of that as he was of her honesty.
-Yes, she had loved him! She had told him so with her arms tightly
-clasped about his neck. His shameful conduct had separated them--that
-and nothing else. With his head lowered he turned away, wholly
-indifferent now as to whether he was seen or not.
-
-Almost before he realized it the wrecked freight-cars were before him;
-the track was being rapidly cleared; the headlight of the train that was
-to bear him away was streaming on him with insistent fierceness.
-
-“How long will you keep us waiting?” he asked the foreman of the gang,
-who, in greased and blackened overalls, stood near an overturned truck.
-
-“Only an hour or so longer. It is past one now,” was the reply.
-
-The Pullman was dimly lighted from the overhead lamps which were turned
-low, but the outer door was open, and, passing the porter half asleep in
-the smoking-room, Fred went to his berth, drew the curtains aside, and
-began to undress.
-
-“Is that you, Fred?” a low, anxious voice inquired, and Whipple thrust
-his shaggy head out from his berth.
-
-“Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Whipple?”
-
-“No; that is--” The curtains slowly parted, and the old man came out,
-completely dressed, save for the absence of his coat, collar, and
-cravat. He looked around cautiously, and seemed relieved to find that
-they were the only passengers awake. He sank into a seat opposite Fred's
-berth and sighed. “I've been awfully worried,” he said. “You see, my
-boy, I missed you. I waited and waited and couldn't sleep a wink, and
-the longer you stayed away the worse I got. You see, I have my clothes
-on. I got up, and went out to the wreck, and tried to find you. I don't
-know what got into me. I was worried--worried like rips.”
-
-“I felt restless and--went for a walk,” Walton explained, lamely. “I
-didn't know it was so late; besides, I thought you'd be sound asleep and
-not miss me.”
-
-“I reckon I'm old and childish,” Whipple said, with a forced laugh. “The
-fact is, Fred, if the truth must be told, I reckon I feel powerful close
-to you. I didn't know the thing had taken such a deep hold on me. I
-reckon it is this trip with just you and me off together like two boys.
-I've got so I think I can detect when you are happy and when you ain't
-over your old trouble, and ever since morning I sort o' fancied you
-looked uneasy and downhearted. Then when you went off, leaving me away
-out here all by myself, why, somehow, I was afraid--actually afraid
-that--”
-
-“You were afraid that in my despondency I might injure myself,” Fred
-broke in; “but you needn't ever--”
-
-“I wasn't afraid of any such thing!” Whipple threw in, almost
-indignantly. “I knew there was no such danger when you had fought the
-fight you have for six years hand-running, and got as high up as you
-have; but I was a little afraid--well, to be honest--I was afraid you
-might have seen somebody on the train who you wanted to avoid on account
-of matters long past and buried, and that you thought it might be
-advisable to--to keep out of sight, that's all.”
-
-“It wasn't that, Mr. Whipple, I assure you,” Walton answered, in a husky
-voice, and he sat down opposite his friend and laid his hands firmly on
-the old man's knees. “The time has come, Mr. Whipple, when I must
-tell you more about my past life. After I have done so, you will fully
-understand how I--”
-
-“No, no, I won't listen!” Whipple raised his hands in protest. “I don't
-want to hear a word. It wrings my silly old heart, anyway, to think of
-what may lie away back there before you come to me. You seem to be a son
-of my own, born to me in your terrible trouble, and I want to think of
-you that way. I thought, at first, that it would be a pretty thing to
-let you pay back the debt hanging over you with just your own earnings;
-but I don't think so now. That amount of money would be nothing to me,
-and you know it. You've seen me donate more than that to causes that
-didn't interest me one-hundredth part as much as this does. My boy, when
-we get to New York I'll draw the money, and you must take it and clear
-yourself. I'll never rest till you do.”
-
-“I can't do that, Mr. Whipple,” Walton said, in a grateful tone. “When
-I left home I told my father the money should be replaced by my own
-earnings, and it must be that way.”
-
-“You can't keep me from raising your salary if I see fit and proper,”
- Whipple argued. “You are the best man I ever employed from any
-standpoint, and you don't draw pay enough--not half enough.”
-
-“I can't let you do it,” Walton said, with a grateful smile. “I am
-already paid more than any other man in my position. To give me more
-would be charity, and I don't want that. I want to pay my way out, Mr.
-Whipple.”
-
-“Well, you'll do it,” the old man gave in, fervently.
-
-“If you was to be hampered now, my brave boy, I'd actually lose faith in
-God and the hereafter. I honestly believe you'll get your reward, and
-be reinstated in all you ever wanted. Now, good-night. Sleep sound, and
-let's not allow this to spoil our good time. I reckon this trip has sort
-o' turned your thoughts onto bygone days, but we'll have other things to
-think of in New York. Good-night, my son, good-night.”
-
-“Good-night, sir.”
-
-The heavy curtains hid the portly old man, and Walton proceeded to
-undress and lie down. But he could not sleep. What human being with a
-normal heart could have done so under like circumstances? An hour later
-the dull, rumbling movement of the car told him that they were off.
-There was no stop at the station, but Walton propped himself upon his
-elbow and raised the little window-shade and peered out as they passed
-through the switch-yard of the town. On the platform a night-watchman
-stood swinging a lantern. In the rapidly shifting glare of light Fred
-recognized him. It was Dan Smith, a faithful negro who used to work
-about the bank and whom Fred had known from childhood up.
-
-“Poor old Uncle Dan!” the outcast said, bitterly, as the kindly features
-were spirited away in the distance.' “You know why 'Marse Freddie'
-had to leave, don't you? It was because he was a thief, Uncle Dan. The
-little fellow you used to carry on your shoulders and be so proud of
-grew up to be a thief--a _thief_, and he is hiding now from you and all
-the rest!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER X
-
-|THE two friends had been in New York five days, and in the continual
-round of theatres, and in sight-seeing, with occasional call at some
-establishment with which Whipple had dealings, they spent the time very
-pleasantly. The pain caused by Fred's secret visit to his old home was,
-in a measure, assuaged by his constant effort to be cheerful for the
-sake of his benefactor's enjoyment. He felt that he was succeeding,
-and the realization of the fact buoyed him up to further activity in
-self-obliteration. On occasion, Whipple acted like a college boy off
-on a lark. He passed funny criticisms on the persons they saw on the
-streets and in the cars, and at the table of the café where they got
-their meals he purposely blundered over the French words on the menu, to
-the great mystification of the polite waiter, who found it impossible to
-reconcile actual ignorance with the costly clothing Whipple wore and his
-extravagant tips and liberal orders.
-
-On the sixth morning of their stay in the metropolis they went down to
-pay a promised visit to Lewis Marston, the importer of teas and coffees
-from whom Whipple had received many a shipment and had met once or twice
-in New Orleans.
-
-“So _this_ is the Mr. Spencer you've written me about so often?” Marston
-smiled cordially as he was introduced to Fred, and begged them to take
-seats in the spacious office of which he was the only occupant. “Young
-man, as we used to say in the South, your ears ought to burn, for your
-boss has written me lots of good things about you. I remember he wrote
-last winter that his business was growing out of all bounds, owing to
-the fresh blood and modern ideas you had put into it.”
-
-Fred flushed modestly as he released the hand of the portly, pink-faced,
-side-whiskered old merchant.
-
-“Mr. Whipple is noted for his generosity,” he said, lamely.
-
-“Well, you are the only one of his force he has mentioned to me, at any
-rate,” the importer said, persistently, “and I know he means it, for a
-man who has ability and can be thoroughly trusted is hard to find these
-days.”
-
-The three sat and chatted for an hour, Marston being interrupted now and
-then by a telegram or a question asked by some clerk who came from an
-adjoining room, where there was a din of clicking typewriting machines.
-
-“Now we'll have to go,” Whipple said, as he arose. “Fred has got some
-letters of instructions to write home, and I'm due in Wall Street at
-this very minute.”
-
-“To write letters!” Marston cried. “Well, he needn't go away to do
-that. Do you see that desk at the window? It is for the sole use of our
-customers. There is plenty of stationery. Sit down, Mr. Spencer. I'll
-have to leave soon myself. My wife is coming to get me to help her
-select some Persian rugs, and you'll have the whole office to yourself.”
-
-“A good plan, Fred,” Whipple exclaimed; “then we could meet at the Astor
-House and take lunch together at one o'clock. I want to see what the old
-place is like. My daddy stopped there once before the war.”
-
-“That's the idea!” the importer chimed in. “Make yourself thoroughly at
-home, Mr. Spencer. If you need anything, just tap that bell and the boy
-will attend to you.”
-
-When his employer had left, Fred sat down at the desk and began to
-write.
-
-“Oh, I forgot,” Marston said, apologetically, as he looked up from the
-letter he was writing. “I will call a stenographer, if you'd like to
-dictate your correspondence.”
-
-“Oh, thank you,” Fred answered, “it won't be necessary; I have only a
-few lines to write.”
-
-He had completed the task before him, and was waiting for an opportunity
-to leave without interrupting the merchant, who was busily writing at
-his desk, when an office-boy came and spoke to Marston in an undertone.
-
-“Oh, she's not alone, then!” the merchant said aloud, as he pushed back
-his chair. “Send them up. I am not quite ready yet, and they will have
-to wait.”
-
-A moment later a cheery feminine voice--evidently Mrs.
-Marston's--sounded in the corridor outside, where her husband stood
-waiting for her.
-
-“Well, I'm glad you came along, too, Miss Margaret,” Fred heard the old
-man saying. “You must sit down in my dusty office for a moment.” He made
-an effort at lowering his voice, but it was still audible. “There
-is only one man there, but he is young and decidedly good-looking.
-By-the-way, he is that Mr. Spencer, the phenomenal young business man I
-told you about. Come in, and I'll let you entertain him till I can get
-away. I've got to run down to the main salesroom.”
-
-“And I've got to telephone the cook.” It was evidently Mrs. Marston's
-voice again. “We are going back to lunch. The General has promised to
-meet us there. Where is the booth?”
-
-“At the end of the corridor,” Marston was heard directing her. “Now,
-come on, young lady. By George, that _is_ a stunning gown! The new
-railroad helped pay for that, eh?”
-
-The thin canvas door was pushed open. Fred stood up; his eyes dilated;
-his blood ran cold. It was Margaret Dearing to whom the voluble merchant
-was casually introducing him.
-
-Margaret started and paled.
-
-“Mr. _Spencer!_” she echoed, then quickly averted her face from the
-inattentive glance of her host.
-
-Walton's eyes went down as he bowed, white and quivering. He could say
-nothing.
-
-“Now, I'll leave you two to get acquainted,” Marston said, quite
-unconscious that anything unusual had happened, and, gathering up some
-sheets of paper from his desk, he hastened away.
-
-“Margaret!” Walton gasped, when they were alone in the awful silence of
-the room.
-
-“Mr. Spencer?--_Spencer?_” the young lady groped, as she gazed on him in
-helpless wonder.
-
-“God forgive me, I had to change my name!” he panted, as he stood white
-as death could have made him under her timid, almost frightened stare.
-“I had no other reason than that I wanted to live down my disgrace, and
-it looked like it would be impossible otherwise. I was a drowning
-man, Margaret, grasping at a straw; a new life opened out to me, and I
-entered it with the hope that--”
-
-“I understand!” the girl gasped, and she drew herself up in pained
-haughtiness and twisted her gloved hands tightly in front of her. “But
-need we--talk about it?”
-
-“No, I haven't even _that_ right,” Walton declared, as he looked at
-the woman, grown infinitely more beautiful and graceful than even her
-girlhood had foreshadowed. “I promised Wynn the night I left that I'd
-never insult you by coming in contact with you again, or even addressing
-a line to you. I knew we had to part--that I could best serve you by
-going away never to return. Your brother was right. He acted only as any
-honorable man should in talking to me as he did. I was insane to aspire
-to your friendship with that thing hanging over me; but it was the
-insanity of love, Margaret--a love that never can die. I ought not to
-say it now, but what does it matter? I am not fit for you to wipe your
-feet on. I am still a fugitive from justice--a criminal living under an
-assumed name.”
-
-He paused, for she had collapsed limply into Marston's chair, and was
-resting her white brow on her bloodless hand.
-
-“Oh, don't--it is--is killing me!” she cried. “I had thought we might
-never meet again. I was beginning to hope that, in time, the memory
-of--of it all would be less painful, but it is revived again. Oh, it is
-unbearable!” He took a deep, trembling breath, and moved a step nearer
-to her.
-
-“But even _you_ will grant that, by continued effort, I may purge my
-soul of it--at least, in the eyes of God,” he said. “I don't mean that
-I could ever ask you to receive me openly as an equal after what has
-happened, but you will, at least, be glad that I am honestly striving to
-lead a better life.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” she said--“oh yes!”
-
-“And I am not _wholly_ living under false colors,” he went on,
-anxiously. “I have confessed the worst to my employer, and he is doing
-all he can to help me. He trusts me. I don't like to say these things in
-my own behalf, and yet surely you will forgive me for saying that I am,
-at least, not living as I used to live.”
-
-“You intend to make--make reparation?” she said, raising an awful glance
-to his face.
-
-“Of course. I have sent back all my savings so far--every dollar I could
-get together; and before another year is past I hope to send enough, at
-least, to--”
-
-“Money!” she cried, almost in a tone of disgust--and as she spoke she
-had a picture of a golden-haired child with a sunny face playing on the
-lawn at her home--“money! As if that would count in a matter like--like
-_that!_”
-
-“It is all I can do now, Margaret!” he exclaimed, as he shrank under the
-unexpected severity of her words.
-
-“I presume so,” she answered, coldly, even sternly, and she fixed an
-unreadable stare on his blighted face; “and yet if you could be back
-at home, and see what I have seen, perhaps you'd realize that there are
-things mere money cannot restore. I can't blame you wholly--to save my
-life, I can't! The temptation was deliberately put in your track;
-you were not born with the power to resist, and so you fell like many
-another man has fallen, but you ought to have stayed on at Stafford and
-done your duty--your _full_ duty!”
-
-“I couldn't! I assure you, I _couldn't_, Margaret!” he went on, almost
-piteously, his lips quivering under stress of the vast emotion let
-loose within him. “My father would have punished me by law--would have
-deprived me of every chance to atone in the way that I am now trying
-to atone. But I have no right to talk to you this way. I am breaking
-my promise to Wynn. By my own act, I have banished myself from you
-forever.”
-
-“Yes, forever!” she admitted, as her proud head went down. “There is
-nothing either of us can do. We must try not to meet again, even by
-accident. I must join Mrs. Marston now. I hear her in the corridor. You
-are very pale, and she might wonder and imagine all sorts of things. I'd
-have to introduce you, and I can't even remember your--your new name. I
-will tell no one at home that I have seen you. You may trust that to me.
-Your secret is safe. I can't recall the name of the place you live in. I
-sha'n't try. I never have believed it was _all_ your fault--that is, not
-_all_. Good-bye.”
-
-“Good-bye,” he repeated, huskily; and he saw her rise, and, without
-extending her hand, or giving him another glance, she moved unsteadily
-toward the door.
-
-When she was gone he sat down at the desk and took up his pen, and with
-an inanimate hand began to address one of his letters, wondering dumbly
-that such mere details as a street and number and a man's initials could
-rise to his memory at such a moment.
-
-That evening, in the big drawing-room at the Marstons', General
-Sylvester sat down by his niece.
-
-“You look tired,” he said. “I think you show it more than usual; being
-on one's feet all day is no little tax on the energy. By-the-way, we are
-invited to a big reception for next Wednesday evening at the Langleys'.
-It is given to some foreign statesman or other. I have the card
-somewhere. You must look your prettiest and wear the dandy gown I
-selected.”
-
-“Why, it isn't for evening wear.” Margaret smiled faintly. “Besides, do
-you think we ought to stay as--long as that?”
-
-“As long as that?” he exclaimed. “Are you really thinking of going home?
-Of course, it lies with you, dear. As far as I am personally concerned,
-it doesn't matter one way or the other. Say, little girl, are you really
-homesick?”
-
-“I think I am, Uncle Tom.” She avoided his eyes, which were so
-solicitously bearing down on her from beneath their heavy brows. “I
-presume the novelty of this sort of thing soon wears off, and our home
-is so soothing and restful.”
-
-“Ah, I smell a rat!” the General said, teasingly. “I forgot about that
-lonely bachelor neighbor of ours. We were to look after him, weren't we?
-Well, we'll go back, and you'll encourage him a little more, won't you?”
-
-The girl shuddered, an irrepressible sob struggled up within her, and
-her head sank to her tightly clasped hands.
-
-“Oh, how _can_ you say such a thing?” she asked, under her breath. “I
-don't love him. I know I can never do so now, and to think of what you
-want is--horrible!” To the old man's utter bewilderment she rose, placed
-her handkerchief to her lips, and left the room.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XI
-
-|KENNETH GALT was now living the life of a recluse in his old home.
-The tendency to this sort of existence belongs to rare and exceptional
-temperaments. He kept assuring himself that it was to be only for a
-time, that when Sylvester returned with his stately niece he would crawl
-out of his morbid husk and bask in their genial hospitality. Of course,
-he told himself, this gloomy period of solitary self-accusation simply
-must not continue. He had taken steps which no living man could retrace
-in his decision in regard to Dora's fate and the fate of her child, and
-there was nothing left for him to do but to try to forget his part in
-the tragedy. If he now feared that he might never again have complete
-peace of mind in regard to the girl's condition, it was due to his
-present unwise proximity to her, and to his queer, almost ecstatic,
-pride in his son. Some men are coarse enough to have a contempt for
-the rights, social and otherwise, of their own children of illegitimate
-birth; but Kenneth Galt, in despising many of the laws of man, gave
-little Lionel the credit of being the product of a law he himself had
-made, and which, therefore, was worthy of consideration. In some States
-the declaration by a pair that they intend to live together constitutes
-a legal marriage, and it was with that broad view that Dora, blinded
-by faith in the superior knowledge of her lover, had unquestioningly
-delivered herself. He shuddered as the conviction struck into him that,
-under the same temptation that had swerved him from fidelity to their
-pact, _she_ would have remained firm. She was scarcely more than a child
-when he deserted her. What, he asked himself, had she developed into?
-Dearing said she was more beautiful than ever, and as for her advance
-in strength of mind and soul, there were her pictures to witness. And as
-he looked at them day after day their subtle, creative depth grew upon
-him. He had made a fair financial success; but what he had done, he now
-told himself, was only what butchers and cobblers had accomplished. What
-she was doing, in her exile from her kind, was the work of deathless
-inspiration. Dearing had once aptly said that God used Evil as the
-fertilizer to the soil of Good, and if so, to carry the analogy further,
-Galt, in his craving for the praise of the world, and in his cowardly
-shrinking from Right, was the impure soil in which the flower of Dora's
-genius was being nurtured. Yes, there was no denying it. Fate was
-playing a sardonic game with him. Dora, cloaked in suffering frailty,
-and championed by Truth and Spirit, was pitted against him, the carping,
-sourfaced apostle of man's puny material rights; she would go on, and he
-would go on. What would be the goal, and which the ultimate winner? He
-had argued that the grave and nothingness comprised the pot of dross
-at the end of every life's rainbow; but was he right? Could that
-mysterious, compelling sense of fatherhood; the thrill of boundless
-ecstasy, when he held Lionel in his arms; the awful brooding over the
-boy's future; the infinite rebuke of the child's fathomless eyes--could
-such things be mere functions of matter?
-
-He was in his library when these reflections were passing through his
-brain, and his attention was attracted by children's voices somewhere
-outside raised to a high pitch of anger. Stepping to a window, he looked
-out toward the house of his neighbor, Congressman Weston. He was just in
-time to see Weston's son, Grover, climb over the low paling fence, and,
-with a loud and abusive threat, approach Lionel, who was shorter by a
-head.
-
-“You said I shouldn't say it again,” he cried, “but I do! She is not fit
-for anybody to go with. My mother wouldn't notice her, and no other nice
-lady would. People _don't_--they don't go near her!”
-
-Galt's blood was shocked to stillness in his veins, and then, as if by
-reactionary process, it began to boil. He saw the erect figure of his
-son stand as if stunned for an instant, and then, like a young tiger,
-Lionel sprang at the other boy, his little hands balled. Galt heard the
-blows as they fell on young Weston's fat cheeks, and he chuckled and
-ground his teeth in blended satisfaction and rage. He sprang through the
-open window to the grass, and hurriedly skirted a clump of boxwood just
-in time to see Grover Weston recovering from the unexpected onslaught
-and beginning to rain blow after blow upon Lionel's white face. The
-contest was close, despite the inequality in ages and sizes; but the
-nameless scion of the Gaits, unconscious of his heritage of bravery, was
-unconquerable. He was there to fight, justly roused as he was, to his
-last breath. For one instant Grover tore himself from Lionel's bear-like
-clutch, and stood glowering in sheer astonishment from his battered and
-bruised face.
-
-“You little bastard, I'll--” And he suddenly hurled his fist into
-Lionel's face with all his force. It was a staggering blow, but Lionel
-met it without a whimper or the loss of a breath. He sprang again at his
-assailant, and, catching him around the neck with his strong left arm,
-he battered the other boy's face with blow after blow.
-
-“Hit him--that's right, hit him, Lionel!” Galt cried out, in utter
-forgetfulness of his own incongruous position. “Beat his nasty face to
-a pulp while you've got him! If you don't do it now, he'll down you when
-he gets free. Give him his medicine, and give him a full dose. That's
-the thing--trip him up!”
-
-Without sparing an instant to look, but having recognized Galt's voice,
-Lionel bent his wiry body toward accomplishing the trick advised. The
-two combatants swung back and forth, still bound together by Lionel's
-clutch, till finally they went down side by side. And then ensued
-another struggle as to which should get on top.
-
-“Throw your leg over!” Galt cried out. “Ah, that's a beauty! Now, beat
-him till he takes it back!” Lionel needed no such advice. His little
-fists moved like the spokes of a turning wheel. A shrill howl of defeat
-rose from the conquered bully, and he uttered a prolonged scream of
-genuine alarm. Then emerged from a side door of the Weston house no less
-a personage than the Congressman himself, and he ran across the grass,
-taking flower-pots and beds of roses at long leaps.
-
-Reaching the fighters, he grasped Lionel by the collar of his blouse and
-drew him off of his cowering son. And as he held him, squirming like a
-cat, he turned on Galt. “Damn it, man!” he cried, in breathless fury,
-“what do you mean by standing here and encouraging this brat to fight my
-boy?”
-
-“Why, I only wanted to see fair play, that's all,” Galt replied, a
-dangerous gleam in his eyes. “I happened to hear your big bully of a son
-dare the little one to fight him, and he brought it on by insulting
-the little fellow's mother. God bless him, he didn't need my advice.
-He could whip two such whelps as yours, and never half try! He hasn't a
-cowardly bone in his body! He was all there!”
-
-“Well, it seems to me, _you_ are in a pretty business!” Weston retorted,
-white with rage.
-
-“I might be even more active than I am, Weston,” Galt said, with cold
-significance, “and if you are not satisfied with the part I have taken,
-you only have to say the word. You know that well enough.”
-
-The Congressman was taken aback. There was something in the unruffled
-tone and meaning stare of his neighbor's eyes that perplexed and quelled
-him. He now turned upon his sniffling offspring.
-
-“You go in the house!” he said, angrily. “You are always picking at
-some child under your size. I have noticed it.” Weston was a politician
-before anything else, and the thought of turning against him a man who
-controlled as many votes as did the president of the greatest railway in
-the State was not particularly inviting.
-
-“I didn't mean to offend you, Galt,” he said, as his boy limped away,
-still mopping his eyes with his fists. “I reckon I got hot because
-it was my own flesh and blood. Of course, it was natural for you to
-sympathize with the smaller of the two.”
-
-“That's the way _I_ felt about it, Weston,” Galt said, staring coldly at
-the speaker. “I have nothing at all to apologize for.”
-
-“Well, I'll see that Grover behaves himself better in future,” the
-Congressman said, still with his political eye open to advantages. “Of
-course, it would be natural for a child like mine to pick up remarks
-floating about among older people in regard to the mother of--”
-
-“We'll let that drop, _too_, Weston!” Galt snarled. His lip quivered
-ominously as he glanced significantly at Lionel, who was listening
-attentively, the blood from a bruised nose trickling down to his chin
-and neck.
-
-“All right, I understand,” the Congressman said; and he moved awkwardly
-away, wondering what manner of man the frigid and reticent Galt was,
-after all.
-
-“I suppose I've got myself in a pretty mess,” Lionel remarked, ruefully,
-when Weston had left him and his father together. “My mother has made me
-promise time after time not to fight; but, you see, I did.”
-
-“Yes, I see you did,” Galt responded, a lump of queer approval in his
-throat.
-
-“I couldn't help it--I really couldn't,” Lionel said, with a rueful look
-at his hands, which were covered with the blood of his antagonist.
-“I must be a bad boy; but oh, I couldn't let him say my beautiful
-mother--my sweet mo--” He choked up. “I couldn't--I simply couldn't! She
-is so sweet and good! I couldn't help it!”
-
-“Of course not, but don't worry about it,” Galt said, sunken to depths
-of shame he had never reached before. “You must try to forget it--forget
-the whole thing.”
-
-“I am afraid my mother will find out about it, and, you know, she
-mustn't,” the child said, his great eyes filled with concern. “She would
-ask what the boy said, and Granny says she must never be told nasty
-things children say to me. Such things make her sad and keep her from
-painting. She must not find out about this--this fight.”
-
-“Well, she really need not know,” Galt said, as the heat of his shame
-mantled his face and brow.
-
-“But she _will_,” Lionel insisted, gloomily, “for she is sure to see
-this blood on me. It is on my neck, and running down under my collar. Do
-you suppose I could get it off without soiling my waist?”
-
-Galt unbuttoned the broad white collar, and drew it away from the
-child's neck.
-
-“It hasn't touched it yet,” he said. “Wait a moment!” And he adroitly,
-and yet with oddly quivering fingers, inserted his own handkerchief
-between the collar and the trickling blood. “Now come into the house,
-and I'll fix you up. Your clothes are a little rumpled, but when I have
-washed the blood off no one need know about your fight.”
-
-“Oh, that would be a _fine_ idea!” Lionel exclaimed, joyfully. He put
-his little hand into his father's, and together they went into the
-house. “She won't know, will she?”
-
-“No, she need not know,” Galt said aloud; but in his thought he added:
-“Lionel, you are a little gentleman. You are a living proof that blood
-will tell.”
-
-The lonely man's heart was warmed by an inward glow of pride which was
-quickly succeeded by an icy breath of despair that seemed to blow over
-him. This, he reflected, was only the introductory part of the vast soul
-tragedy he himself had put on the stage of existence. The trials he had
-encountered through young manhood were naught to those foreshadowed in
-the unsuspecting and trusting face at his side.
-
-“Here is the bath,” he said, as they reached the white-tiled room on the
-second floor. “Now go in, and be careful to take off your blouse without
-getting it bloody. If we are going to work this thing we must work it
-right. Perhaps you'd better strip and bathe all over. It will make you
-feel good anyway, after that fierce round of yours. Let me fill the
-tub.”
-
-“I think I'd better, maybe,” acquiesced Lionel. “Well, be careful,”
- Galt warned him, as he turned on the two streams of water and tested the
-blending temperature.
-
-“I really can't unbutton this collar behind,” Lionel said, with a touch
-of manly shame over the confession. “My mother always does it. She has
-never let me learn. I am big enough, gracious knows!”
-
-“Wait, let me undress you!” the father said, as he hastily dried his
-hands.
-
-“I wish you would, if you'll be so kind,” Lionel said, in a tone of
-reliance, which somehow reached an hitherto untouched fount of feeling
-in the breast of his companion.
-
-As the child stood before him, Galt, with throbbing pulse and reverent
-fingers, found himself doing the duties of a mother to his offspring.
-The flowing necktie and collar were removed; next the blouse and
-underbody. Then a vision of inexplicable and awe-inspiring beauty
-greeted the senses of the beholder, as the symetrical form, a veritable
-poem in flesh and blood, stood bared to his sight. He laid the still
-unsoiled garments on a chair, and lifted the boy in his arms to put him
-into the water. The warm, smooth cheek touched his own; a tingling throb
-of paternity--of starving, yearning fatherhood--shot through him as he
-held the boy across his arms like a baby and lowered him slowly to the
-water.
-
-“Look out, I'll duck you!” he said, jestingly, and the boy replied with
-a ringing laugh which held no hint of fear.
-
-In the water the child lay with his face smilingly upturned.
-
-“Ugh!” he exclaimed, “it feels good. This tub is big enough to swim
-in--a little bit, anyway. Will you show me how to swim some day?”
-
-“Yes, my son--yes, Lionel, some day, perhaps.”
-
-“In _deep_ water--in a really-really stream that fish swim in?”
-
-“Yes, Lionel.”
-
-“Oh, that would be so nice! Couldn't we catch fish, too?”
-
-“I think so--yes, of course, some day, perhaps.”
-
-But would those delights, conceived for the first time to-day, ever be
-realized? Galt asked himself, as keen pangs from some unknown source
-darted through him. Sick unto death of the vapid adulation of narrow men
-and women, would he ever experience the transcendental joy of intimate
-and daily companionship with this human wonder, such as other fathers
-enjoyed with their sons?
-
-No, the question was already answered. The bliss--the queer,
-Heaven-tending bliss of the present moment--was merely stolen. Was it
-likely that any son at all would ever come to him--a son which he could
-father in the broadest, holiest sense? No; and he started and fell to
-quivering superstitiously. Even if he were married and another son was
-given to him in lawful wedlock, could he dare--in the face of Infinite
-Justice--dare to put _that_ child forward, acknowledge _that_ child as
-his own, while _deserting, ignoring, denying_ Lionel?
-
-“Great God!” his quaking soul cried out in sheer anguish. “Lionel,
-my son; my boy, made in the image of her and me, he who trusts and so
-innocently loves me! And yet it must be. Fate has ordained it. I have
-his faith and love now, but later he may turn on me like an avenging
-angel.”
-
-“My mother soaps me all over before I get out. Must I do it?” the child
-asked, as his merry, haunting eyes smiled up through their long, wet
-lashes.
-
-“It won't be necessary this time,” Galt said. “The blood is entirely
-washed off. Get out and let me dry you with this big towel.”
-
-“Ugh! it is cold.” The boy shuddered, as he stood out on the rug and
-allowed himself to be enveloped from head to foot in the big Turkish
-towel. He was soon dry, and as he stood, his soft skin flushed as
-delicately pink as the inside of a sea-shell, Galt, making many an
-awkward mistake, proceeded to dress him.
-
-“Now let me brush your hair; at least, I know how to do that, young
-man,” the father said, “but I think it ought to be wet more.”
-
-“Oh no; it is too wet now!” the child declared, as he shook his locks,
-the ends of which had been under water. “My mother combs it dry.”
-
-“There, how will that do, Miss Particular?” Galt asked as he led the
-child to a large mirror.
-
-“I don't know; it looks funny, somehow”--Lionel made a grimace at his
-image in the glass--“but it will have to do. I'd better hurry home. They
-might miss me, and find out about the fight. I like you for that.”
-
-“For what?” Galt followed him to the door, and as they started across
-the grass toward the cottage he felt Lionel timidly reaching out for his
-hand. He had evidently not heard Galt's half-whispered question.
-
-“What was it you said you liked me for?” his father repeated, taking the
-little hand and holding it tenderly.
-
-“Oh, because you wanted me to whip him. He's rich and has everything,
-and Granny says his father is a great man. I suppose if you liked Grover
-the best you would have told _him_ how to fight.”
-
-“You are smaller than he,” Galt said, lamely.
-
-“Then it _wasn't_ because you like me?” Galt felt the little hand
-stiffen, as if some impulse of dormant confidence in the tiny palm had
-forsaken it.
-
-“Yes, it was because I like you,” Galt said, warmly, and, obeying a
-desire he refused to combat, he raised the boy in his arms and held him
-tight against his breast. “If he had hurt you, Lionel, I don't know what
-I should have done.”
-
-“Then I'm glad I made him bellow,” the boy said, with a little laugh, as
-he got down to the ground. “Something had to be done, you know, after he
-said that about my mother.”
-
-Yes, something had to be done, Kenneth Galt told his tortured inner
-self, as he stood and watched the boy trip lightly homeward--some one
-had to fight and struggle and smart as a consequence of the wrong that
-had been done, and the duty had fallen on a little child. Through the
-slow, weary years of perhaps a long life the fight just beginning would
-go on, and the chief cause of it must shirk it all. Galt groaned,
-and clinched his hands, and turned back to his desolate home. He had
-contended that there was no such thing as spirit, and yet this remorse
-raging like a tempest within him certainly had naught to do with matter.
-He had argued that man, born of the flesh, could gratify all animal
-desires and suffer no ill effects except those excited by physical fear;
-but there was nothing to fear in this case. Dora's lips were sealed;
-no one else knew the truth, or ever would know, and yet the very skies
-above seemed turning to adamant and closing in around him.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XII
-
-|DORA BARRY sat at her easel absorbed in the painting of a picture,
-though the afternoon light was fading from her canvas in a way that made
-the work difficult, when her mother came to the door and glanced in.
-
-“I have kept a lookout for fully an hour,” she announced, “but I haven't
-once seen Lionel. I am getting old and silly, I suppose, but I can't
-keep from worrying.”
-
-Dora got up quickly, her face full of alarm, and the two went to the
-window of the dining-room and stood looking out for a moment.
-
-“There! Isn't that--I see him!” Mrs. Barry cried out in relief. “Why,
-he is with Kenneth Galt! He has him in his arms. There!--don't you
-see?--just beyond the row of cedars. Thank Heaven! we had our scare for
-nothing.”
-
-But Dora, wide-eyed and astonished, was silent; her face was very grave.
-Her mother ran eagerly to the door to meet the child, but Dora remained
-as if rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the receding form of Galt.
-
-“Why did he have him?” she whispered to herself. “What can it mean? He
-was treating him kindly, and gently, too. I could see it in his face. It
-was glowing as it used to glow when he was true to himself and to me. It
-looked like Lionel's arm was round his neck. What can it mean?”
-
-When the child had come in, Dora sat down and drew him into her lap
-and held him fondly to her breast. “Mother was frightened,” she said,
-cooingly, her lips on his brow. “She missed her little boy, and was
-afraid something had happened to him.”
-
-“Oh, I'm all right, mother,” Lionel said. “I can take care of myself;
-you must never be afraid.”
-
-“But how did you happen to be with Mr. Galt?” Mrs. Barry asked. “I
-didn't know you knew him.”
-
-“Why, why--” but Lionel went no further. He had never lied, and the
-plan his sense of honor had laid for him was difficult to execute. His
-grandmother repeated her question in more positive tones, but, with eyes
-downcast, he refused to answer.
-
-“Let him alone, mother,” Dora said, her face rigid. “It doesn't make any
-difference.”
-
-“It doesn't, eh?” the old woman exclaimed, in surprise. “Well, I think
-you both are acting queerly. There is no reason why Lionel should not
-tell us when and how he met Mr. Galt. I can see by his face that he is
-keeping something back.”
-
-But Dora was holding the child's head against her throbbing breast, and
-she threw an almost commanding glance at her mother.
-
-“Let him alone now,” she said, firmly, and with such a sharp tone of
-finality that her mother stared at her in surprise and left the room.
-
-That evening Dora prepared the child for bed. As she undressed him she
-scanned each piece of his clothing most carefully. She found a green
-smudge made from strong pressure against the turf in a most unexpected
-place, high up on the child's back; she discovered the imprint of soiled
-fingers on the broad white collar, and remarked the inconsistency of
-this with Lionel's immaculately clean hands; the necktie had been loose
-and awkwardly retied; and, most conspicuous of all, was the uncouth way
-the golden hair was dressed. She noted all these things without comment;
-but when the white bed-covers were turned down, and Lionel had said his
-prayers and crawled in, Dora lowered the lamp and reclined beside him.
-Outwardly she was calm. To the child's observation, no new thing had
-happened in her even life, and yet her whole being was aflame, her soul
-panting in suspense.
-
-“Mother's little boy never has told her a story in all his life,” she
-began, as soothingly as if she were crooning him to sleep. “Isn't that
-nice? _Some_ little boys tell fibs to their mothers, but _my_ boy has
-always told the truth, and mother is so glad.”
-
-Lionel lay still. She kissed him softly and waited. At any other time
-his little arms and lips would have responded, and she marked well the
-change to-night. Lionel did not move or speak, but simply lay with his
-old-young gaze gravely fixed on the ceiling where the lamp-chimney had
-focussed a ring of light.
-
-“You would tell _your_ mother everything that ever happened to you,
-wouldn't you, darling?” she said, shyly pressing her cheek against his.
-She felt him nod impulsively, but second thought seemed to seal his
-lips. His was a tender age at which to begin the defence of a wronged
-parent by pretext and concealment, but the burden was on his shoulders,
-and little Lionel was manfully doing his best.
-
-“There are two kinds of stories, and they are both bad,” Dora went on,
-desperate over the delay of the divulgence which she thought could mean
-so little to the child and yet so very much to her. “It is bad to tell
-a lie, and it is bad to keep back anything at all from your mother,
-because she is more to you than all the rest of the world. She is your
-_mother_; she works for you; she loves you; she would die for you; and
-if anybody--no matter who it is--were to want you to keep a secret from
-her, it would be wrong--very, very wrong. It would make your mother very
-unhappy; it would make her cry long after you were asleep to know that
-her little son was keeping anything from her.”
-
-She felt the little white-robed figure quiver. He raised himself on his
-elbow and slowly sat up; his young face, in the dim light, was full of
-struggle.
-
-“Is that so, mother?” he asked.
-
-“Yes, darling,” she answered. “There can be no secrets at all between a
-mother and her boy. She must tell _him_ everything, and he must not
-keep a thing back from _her_. How did you happen to meet--Mr. Galt
-this afternoon?”
-
-“_That's_ what you want to know?”
-
-“Yes, dear--that's all. Surely, there can be no reason why your own
-dear mother should not know a little thing like that. Surely he--Mr.
-Galt--couldn't have told you not to tell me?”
-
-The child was still for a moment. He folded his little arms over his
-knee, clinched his hands, and sat avoiding her insistent eyes.
-
-“Wait!” he said, finally. “I want to go to Granny.”
-
-“You want to go to Granny, and leave your mother?” she asked, deeply
-perplexed. .
-
-“Just a minute,” he said, as he crawled over her and got down on the
-floor. “I'll be back. I'll be right back, mother, dear.”
-
-“It is something you will tell her, but can't tell me!” Dora cried out,
-in half-assumed reproach. “Why, _Lionel?_”
-
-“I'll be back,” he said, evasively. “There is no hurry.” And she heard
-the patter of his bare feet along the corridor to his grandmother's
-room.
-
-Mrs. Barry always retired early, and she was now in her bed, but very
-wide awake. Something in the incident had set her to thinking on new
-lines. “Can it be? Can it be?” she kept asking herself, in great
-excitement. “Why didn't I think of it?”
-
-“Granny!” she heard Lionel call out from the dark, doorway.
-
-“Yes, dear, what is it?” she asked.
-
-“I want to come to your bed a minute--just a minute.”
-
-“All right, come on, darling; don't stumble over anything.”
-
-She heard him groping through the dark, and then felt his little hands
-on her wrinkled face.
-
-“Granny,” he said, a tremor in his voice, “you told me if anybody ever
-said anything mean about my mother, that I must not let her know about
-it--never at all.”
-
-“Yes, darling, that would be a nice, brave little man, for you wouldn't
-want to make her sad, would you?”
-
-“Well, I had a terrible fight with Grover Weston over in Mr. Galt's
-yard. Grover said a nasty, mean thing about her. You told me not to let
-her know anything like that, and so did Mr. Galt, but mamma is begging
-me so hard.”
-
-“Oh!” The old woman lifted the boy over her into the bed, and put her
-arms about him tenderly. “You can tell Granny about it, and then if she
-thinks best perhaps you may tell your mother.”
-
-He complied, and the wondering old woman, as she lay with the child
-in her arms, heard the whole beautiful story in every detail, even to
-Galt's display of affection, and as she listened cold tears welled up in
-her old eyes and trickled down the furrows of her cheeks to her pillow.
-When it was over, she led the child back to his mother.
-
-“Don't ask him any more about it. Wait,” she said, in an undertone, and
-with a significant gesture in the direction of her room. “Don't spoil a
-beautiful thing. God bless him! he is right--young as he is, he is
-right! The very angels of heaven are closing his sweet lips to-night.
-Don't bother him.”
-
-When Lionel was asleep Dora anxiously crept into her mother's room. A
-lamp was now burning on a table, but Dora blew it out, and went and sat
-on the edge of her mother's bed.
-
-“I know your secret now,” Mrs. Barry faltered, with a suppressed sob in
-her pillow. “All these years I have wondered over your great trouble,
-and why you were not more open with me about it, but Lionel has made it
-clear. I understand now.”
-
-“Did Kenneth Galt tell my child that--” Dora cried out, in a rasping
-undertone. “Did he dare to--”
-
-“No, no, not that!” the old woman corrected. “He simply betrayed himself
-in his conduct toward the boy. Listen! Lionel need never suspect
-that you know what he did, but you must be told the truth. It is too
-beautiful for you to miss.”
-
-She told the whole story as it had come from the child's lips, together
-with other things she had culled as to happenings between him and his
-father on former occasions.
-
-“Let them both alone,” she added, fervently, as she concluded. “The
-little fellow, nameless and cast out as he is, has of himself won the
-love God gave him the right to. It is his. Let him keep it, and I
-pray Heaven that it may drag that haughty spirit down into the mire of
-repentance. I've thought it all over. I remember the date well. I know
-now why he deserted you; he couldn't face public exposure just at that
-particular time. His temptation was great, and he fell. I believe he
-loved you _then_, and that he does _yet_.”
-
-“_Does yet!_” Dora sneered, and she put a protesting hand out to
-her mother's as it lay on the coverlet. “Don't say that. He couldn't
-now--after all this time.”
-
-“But he _does_, he does--a thousand times more than he did, too,” the
-old woman insisted. “He hasn't married; he is leading a lonely,
-morbid life. He-is longing for you--though he may still dread public
-opinion--and is adoring the child. He may resist longer, but in the end
-he will succumb and crawl to your feet and beg for forgiveness. Watch my
-prophecy. He'll do it!--he'll do it!”
-
-“You don't know, mother,” Dora sighed, and she stood up and moved away
-in the darkness. “You don't know.”
-
-Dora went back to her room and stood looking down at her sleeping child.
-Suddenly her eyes filled and her breast heaved high.
-
-“Mother's little champion!” she cried, and she knelt down by the bed,
-covered her face, and wept.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIII
-
-|THE July sun beat fiercely on the tin slate roofs of the houses forming
-square of Stafford. It was noon, business was at a standstill. The
-clerks and typewriters in Walton's bank yawning and fanning themselves
-heat. The only occupied individual in the building was the banker
-himself, who was crouched over his desk in his little office making
-calculations on a pad of paper with a pencil. Toby Lassiter was at
-the window of the receiving-teller when an old man came in at the
-folding-screen door and asked if he might see Mr. Walton personally. It
-was Stephen Whipple, and he carried a travelling-bag in his hand; he was
-covered with dust, and marked in the creases of his face by drifts of
-fine cinders.
-
-“I'll see, sir, if you'll wait a minute,” Toby answered, with his best
-window-manners; then he went to his employer, and returned to pilot the
-caller back to the office.
-
-“Stranded on a trip and wants a check cashed without identification,”
- was Toby's mental comment as he led the way. “Well, he's come to the
-wrong man, as he will mighty soon find out.”
-
-Whipple gave a searching glance at the man who was rising from the desk
-with impatiently lifted brows. He put his bag down at his feet, but
-failed to extend his hand, as Walton evidently expected him to do.
-
-“Take a seat, sir, take a seat,” and the banker motioned to a chair near
-the desk.
-
-“Thanks.” The Westerner kicked his bag along toward the chair, and
-sat down rather clumsily. He took out an enormous handkerchief, also
-considerably begrimed, and mopped his perspiring face.
-
-“You've got a hot town, sir,” Whipple said, introductively.
-
-“Some say so, and some say not,” Walton replied, succinctly. “Well,
-sir,” he continued, “is there anything I can do for you? The reason I
-make so bold as to ask is because my clerk said you wanted to see me
-_personally_.”
-
-“Yes, it is of a sort of personal nature; at least, I reckon, you might
-call it that,” and the merchant reached down and caught the handle of
-his bag for no obvious reason than that he wanted to move it to a point
-equidistant between his two splaying feet. Then he looked up, and there
-was a decided flush of embarrassment in his face, which extended down
-to the soiled collar on his pudgy neck. The banker, ever quick at
-the reading of countenances, came to the conclusion that some sort of
-unbusiness-like request in regard to needed funds was forthcoming, and
-he was already framing his refusal.
-
-“Well, sir--well, sir?” he said.
-
-“The truth of the matter is that it is of _such_ a personal nature that
-it is purty hard to know how to get started at it,” Whipple finally got
-out. “Of course, I am a stranger to you, and I've come, too, without any
-letters of introduction or papers of identification, and--is there any
-danger of anybody listening?”
-
-“None whatever--none on earth!” Walton sniffed, impatiently. “You can
-talk at the top of your voice if you want to; the walls are thick;
-besides, I don't have secrets, and I don't know as I am in the market
-for any.”
-
-“No, of course not, Mr. Walton.” The flush in the visitor's face was
-dying out and giving place to an expression of rather anxious rigidity.
-“Well, I am glad we won't be overheard, at any rate, for I want to talk
-to you in behalf of your son.”
-
-“Oh, that's it, huh? I see! I see!” And Walton swept the form before
-him with eyes in which the lights of anger were slowly but positively
-kindling. “It is about him, is it? Well, wait till I send this letter to
-the mail. I'll be back, sir. I'll be back.”
-
-“All right, Mr. Walton. There's no hurry.”
-
-With the letter in his hand the banker rose as if from the sheer heat of
-the growing anger within him and went out. Standing in the door of
-the main counting-room he caught Lassiter's eye and signalled him to
-approach. Giving him the letter, Walton said: “Mail that, and then come
-back and keep a peeled eye on that fat chap at my desk. Do you remember
-what I said when that three thousand dollars came from nowhere in
-particular by express awhile back, along with the mealy-mouthed yarn
-from Fred about changing his ways, and all that gush?”
-
-“Yes, sir, I think so,” answered the startled Toby. “You said you
-thought--”
-
-“That it was a deep-laid plan amongst him and some other sharpers to
-hoodwink me; and I told you, Toby, that I'd be willing to bet money that
-it wouldn't be many days before somebody would hike along this way to
-talk it over--some go-between, you understand. Well, he's in there now,
-setting humped over his satchel like a spider watching a fly. He thinks
-I'm the fly. I want to know what he's got to say. I want to see his
-hand, you know, and I come out here to take a whiff of air and steady
-myself so I wouldn't blurt out what I thought too quick and drive him
-away. Keep your eye on him after he leaves me, Toby, and see which way
-he goes. He looks to me like some shyster lawyer who has taken up the
-matter and thinks he is smart enough to fool me. Somebody has invested
-three thousand in this scheme, and the deal is to be clinched this
-morning. Huh! I'll sorter tote 'im along, Toby, and see if I can get
-onto his game,” and, with a sly and yet nervous wink, Walton turned
-away.
-
-“Yes, sir; all right now, sir,” he said, breezily, as he returned to
-his desk and lowered himself into his chair. “We've got this room all to
-ourselves, and are as snug as a bug in a rug, as the fellow said. Now,
-fire ahead.”
-
-“Of course, it must be a sort o' disagreeable subject for you to talk
-about,” Whipple began, awkwardly, “and I'll admit to you, Mr. Walton,
-that I thought over it a powerful long time before I finally made up my
-mind to come.”
-
-“Oh yes, of course,” Walton said, pulling his whiskers with his long
-hand--“of course, you naturally would.”
-
-“Especially as Fred had no idea of what I had in view,” the Westerner
-said. “You see, I had to act wholly on my own responsibility.”
-
-“Yes, I see--I see, sir.” It was only by an effort that Walton kept a
-sarcastic ring of irritation out of his voice, and he stroked into
-the roots of his beard a smile of contempt at such puerile attempts to
-deceive.
-
-“And that's what makes the whole thing so hard on me,” the merchant
-went on. “You see, I took it on myself to act for Fred in, I might say,
-actual opposition to his wishes and judgment.”
-
-Whipple then proceeded to give a full and accurate account of his first
-introduction to Fred and all that had happened to him since, withholding
-only his own name and the name of the town he was from. And while he
-talked, pausing to wipe his wet brow at times, or to clear his shaky
-voice, the banker watched him as a cat might a mouse. He held a pencil
-in his long, steady fingers, and kept the point of it on a pad of paper,
-raising his shrewd glance and lowering it as suited his fancy. Had he
-been an artist, old Simon might have sketched what to his understanding
-was the most subtly designing face he had ever seen. Here was a man, he
-told himself, who resorted even to the emotional methods of a ranting
-revivalist to gain his nefarious aims. It was a wonderful conception,
-but it wofully missed its mark, for it was being applied to a man who
-had no emotions. It was being applied to a man, too, who was as eagerly
-on the lookout for new tricks as a biologist for a new species of
-insect. What a weakling the fellow was, for a man of that age, and what
-fun it would be to suddenly undeceive him--let him know the manner of
-man he was attempting, in such a shallow way, to bunco!
-
-“Yes, I decided not to wait longer,” Whipple concluded, with a sigh. “I
-didn't intend to act till the remaining three thousand was paid; but, as
-I say, I--”
-
-“It is only two, according to my calculations.” Walton thought he had
-tripped him up, and smiled knowingly.
-
-“Fred said he felt that another thousand, at least, was due as interest
-at the rate you usually get.”
-
-“Oh, I see; he's certainly liberal.” Walton smiled at his joke, and bent
-his head over his pad to hide it.
-
-“As I say,” the merchant resumed, “I intended to wait till the debt was
-entirely paid, but things took a sudden turn that I didn't expect. I
-offered to advance the money to Fred, but he wouldn't take it.”
-
-“Oh, he wouldn't take it!” Walton said, with a hurried regret that Toby
-was not present to enjoy the feast of stupidity being spread before
-him. “I see; he didn't want it. That's a little bit like him.” Simon's
-amusement showed itself now in his voice rather than in the visage which
-he managed to keep unruffled. “But you say things had sorter taken a
-twist around?”
-
-“Yes; he was brave enough, and bearing up mighty well till me and him
-took a trip, as much for pleasure as anything else, to New York, and we
-passed through this very town, and--”
-
-“So you passed through here?” Walton interrupted, and then to himself
-he added: “I knew it. I knew Fred was hanging about Atlanta and sending
-money to that woman. Huh, his fat agent is certainly giving the snap
-away!”
-
-“Yes, we passed through here one night, and, as our train was delayed
-below town by a wreck ahead of us, Fred got out and walked around. He
-was gone till after midnight, and when he came back to the Pullman where
-I was I noticed that he was powerfully upset, and begun to suspect that
-maybe this was his old home. He started to tell me about it then, but
-I stopped him, and it was not till we had been to New York and got back
-home that he finally told me your name and where you lived. As I said,
-he has not been the same since then, and, to be honest with you, Mr.
-Walton, I don't know of anything in the world that will restore his
-peace of mind, except--”
-
-“Except having me send for him,” Simon suddenly let himself go, “and
-kill the fatted bull-yearling, and put a dinky-dinky cap on his brow,
-and give him a key to the vault, and start in, hit or miss, exactly
-where me and him left off!”
-
-“You are hard on him, Mr. Walton,” Whipple gasped, fairly staggered by
-the unexpected retort--“much harder, I must say, than I had hoped
-to find you. He declared that you wasn't the sort that would forgive
-easily, but, having been a father once myself, I didn't believe you
-would, after hearing about your boy's life since he left you, refuse
-to--”
-
-“See here!” Walton interrupted, laying down his pencil and staring at
-the visitor from eyes which fairly snapped with blended triumph and
-rage, “you've held the floor long enough; now step aside and let me
-take it. I don't know as I ever had the luck to run across just such
-a specimen as you are. You've evidently had very little to do with
-_business_ men. You seem to have as little common sense as a mountain
-school-teacher or a young preacher on his first circuit. Here you come
-with a long, roundabout, hatched-up tale that is so thin and full of
-holes that a body could throw a straw hat through it. I'd have you
-understand that this here house is a _bank_. My own granddaddy would
-have to be identified, if he was alive, before he could cash a check
-at that front window, and yet here you come--pitapat, pitapat, as
-unconcerned as a house-cat looking for a place to lie down--back into
-my private quarters, and propose something that may, or may not, involve
-every dollar I own on the top-side of the earth. You do all that without
-even taking the trouble to hint at who you are or where you hail from,
-and--”
-
-“I'm not afraid to give you my name!” the merchant gasped, taken
-wholly off his guard by the withering attack. “It is Stephen Whipple,
-sir--W-h-i-double p-l-e, Whipple!” he spelled, and he leaned forward
-and pointed a stiff finger at Walton's pad. “Write it down. It might get
-away from you.”
-
-“Are you plumb sure it ain't _Jenkins?_” the banker grinned,
-significantly.
-
-“No; nor Jones, nor Smith, nor Brown. It's Whipple--Stephen Whipple. Put
-it down on your paper. Huh, I'm not ashamed of it!”
-
-“All right, there you are, in big letters.” Walton laughed, still
-victoriously, as he pencilled the name on the pad. “Now, one other
-formality, please--your postoffice address?”
-
-“My post-office--” Whipple hesitated. His astounded gaze went down; he
-was all of a quiver, even to his bushy eyebrows.
-
-“Why, it's this way--this way--” he stammered, and, raising his helpless
-eyes to the banker's taunting ones, he came to a dead halt.
-
-“I think it _must_ be,” Walton chuckled. “In fact, it mighty nigh always
-is that way when a feller gits in a corner. But surely, out of all the
-places in the United States, you could think of _some_ town, railroad
-station, or cross-roads store. A word as uncommon as _Whipple_ would be
-hard for _me_ to think of in a pinch. It seemed to come handy to you.
-Maybe you've used it before, or had some dead friend by that name.”
-
-“You are not fair, sir!” The merchant was becoming exasperated by the
-human riddle before him. “I told you I had come against your son's
-knowledge or wish. He has kept his whereabouts from you up to now, and I
-have no moral right to let it out. I reckon he is afraid you will hound
-him down before he has a chance to pay back what he owes you. The Lord
-knows, he has plenty of reason for being cautious, for, if I am any
-judge, you are as hard and unforgiving as a stone wall.”
-
-“I haven't seen any reason to forgive him, or bother one way or another
-about it,” old Simon hurled into the flushed face before him. “I don't
-see any difference between the way me and him stand now and six years
-ago. I reckon he thinks I'm on my last legs, and that the three thousand
-he got by some hook or crook--or _from_ some crook--would be well
-invested as a gum-stickum plaster to put over my eyes before I am
-put under ground. After he had staked that much, he thought some
-oily-tongued friend of his might come and reconnoitre and report
-favorable. Well, you've reconnoitred, Mr.--Mr. Whipstock, and you can
-go back to Atlanta and tell him it is no go. You may tell him I am much
-obliged to you all--whoever your gang is--for the three thousand on
-account. I may be making a mistake now by shooting off my mouth so
-quick, for if I had worked my cards right I might have secured another
-payment by dropping a tear or two; but it is worth something to say what
-I've said in the way I've said it.”
-
-“So you don't believe what I have told you?” Whipple gasped, in
-astonishment.
-
-“Not a blessed word--not a syllable,” Walton laughed, and he threw
-himself back in his chair in sheer enjoyment of his visitor's
-discomfiture.
-
-“You don't believe he is in my employment--you don't believe he earned
-the money by faithful work which he sent you--you don't believe--”
- Whipple paused, at the end of his resources.
-
-“No, I don't believe even _that_,” Walton jested. “But I'll tell you one
-thing, and I mean it. I don't intend to have you coming around bothering
-me with this matter any more at all. It is strictly my affair, anyway.
-That boy was a bad egg when he was here, and from the looks of you and
-your game I can't see that he has improved a dang bit. I don't say I'd
-arrest him, neither; half the debt has been paid, if it _was_ paid for a
-sneaking reason, and he can rove where he will. He is a good riddance. I
-used to bother about what might become of him, but I don't now.”
-
-“Say, look me in the eye!” Whipple suddenly demanded, and with a
-fierceness that almost sent a shock of surprise through the banker.
-“You've not believed what I have told you, it seems, because you thought
-I was after your dirty money. Hard cash is the only thing you _can_
-believe in, I see, and so I am going to use some of it to convince you.
-You have no faith in your son--the only child God gave you, and who is
-now honoring your gray hairs as they don't deserve to be honored, but,
-thank Heaven! I believe in him from head to foot. Before I left Atlanta,
-this morning, I prepared myself for some sort of emergency like this.”
-
-Whipple took out a long envelope and threw it on the desk under the
-banker's eyes. “That contains three thousand dollars--six bills of five
-hundred each. Take them! Your boy's debt is paid in full. I may have
-spoiled his chances with _you_ by coming here against his knowledge, but
-he shall not lose by it. If I live to get back home I shall provide for
-him in my will. I may look like a faker, but I flatter myself--from all
-I have heard of you--that I am worth more to-day in the financial world
-than you could be if you could live another twenty-five years. Good-day,
-sir.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIV
-
-|TAKING up his satchel, the merchant strode heavily from the room.
-Doubting if he had heard aright, Walton tore open the envelope and
-took out the bills. He spread them on the desk; he fumbled them with
-quivering fingers; he took out a big magnifying glass and essayed to
-examine them one by one, but his excitement and perturbation rendered
-it impossible. Dropping his hand on his call-bell, he gave a sharp ring,
-and Toby Lassiter came in quickly. Brushing the money toward his clerk,
-Walton said:
-
-“See if they are counterfeit. By gum!”
-
-The clerk examined them with the glass while Walton watched him with
-staring eyes.
-
-“They seem to me to be all right, Mr. Walton,” Toby said, wonderingly,
-as he laid the bills down.
-
-“I reckon they are--my Lord, I reckon they are!” the banker said, in his
-throat. “Credit it on my private account, Toby. Credit me with three--my
-Lord, I didn't think--I had no idea that the dang fellow--no, I'll
-attend to the money. Toby, you run out and see where he goes. He may
-make for a hotel, or he may--but hurry!”
-
-Twenty minutes later Toby came back and found Walton still at his desk,
-the money before him; his face had taken on an ashen tinge, the eye he
-raised had a lacklustre expression.
-
-“Well?” he said, eagerly.
-
-“I missed him for the first few minutes,” the clerk said. “He was on the
-way to the train. I took the belt-line down. He was on the car ahead. I
-was just in time to see him board the Atlanta special.”
-
-“So he's gone?”
-
-“Yes, he's gone, Mr. Walton.”
-
-The old man stared helplessly for a minute into the puzzled face of his
-clerk, and then he drew the pad to him on which he had written the name
-of his caller.
-
-“Me 'n' him had a tiff,” he said. “We had a sort o' tiff--I reckon you
-might call it that--after he had told me a long cock-and-bull tale about
-Fred reforming, and I laughed at him. I reckon I was rough. Then he
-threw this money at me all in a chunk to settle off the boy's account,
-and said it might talk plainer than _he_ had. Toby, it don't look
-_exactly_ like a fake. Fakes ain't worked that way. You see, it was all
-up between me and him, and there wasn't a thing he could gain by it, and
-yet he yanked out this wad and threw it at me like so much waste paper.
-He refused to say where he lives, but here's his name. Fred wrote that
-the fellow he was with was a merchant, and a big one at that. I wonder
-if there is any way of finding out just who and what the dang fool is?”
-
-“You say you didn't get his address?” Toby inquired, as he helplessly
-stroked his colorless face and sparse mustache.
-
-“No.” The banker uttered something like a moan of self-disgust. “He
-intimated that he kept it back to keep me from running the boy down.
-I reckon I made a big fool of myself in the presence of a man that may
-have unlimited capital for all I know. That's where my judgment slipped
-a cog for once, I reckon. I set in to believe he was out after my money,
-and went a little mite over the limit. He didn't _look_ rich, covered
-with dust like he was, but he _may_ be--he may be all Fred has claimed.
-Can you think of any way, Toby, to get a report on him?”
-
-“I might take Bradstreet's by States,” the clerk suggested, “and run
-through all the towns and cities far and near.”
-
-“It would take a month to go through that big book,” Walton said,
-dejectedly, “and I want to know to-day, right off. If--if I've made
-a break as big as that, and--and gone and insulted a man who has
-befriended my boy, and one who, in fact, says he intends to provide for
-him liberally, why, it would be nothing but good business to make what
-amend lies in my power. If the boy really _has_ built himself up, and
-made good connections, and the like, why, you see, Toby, I ought not to
-be the _first_--the very _first_--to--to damage his interests. What I
-said, in my rough way, you see, might have a tendency to sort o' make
-this Whipple--if he is all right--think twice before helping out the son
-of a man who rode as high a horse as I was astride of just now. I must
-have a report on him, I tell you.”
-
-“I'll go through the book, Mr. Walton,” the clerk said. “It wouldn't
-take so awful long. I would only have to run through the W's, you know,
-and needn't look in the _little_ places. If he is in the wholesale line,
-he must be in a town of over ten thousand.”
-
-“That's a fact, that's a fact,” Walton agreed. “I reckon he didn't think
-of that when he gave me his name, though I acknowledge I kinder gouged
-it out of him when he was good and hot. Go bring the book here and set
-at my desk. I'll not let the rest bother you. My Lord! my Lord! What a
-mess!”
-
-All that afternoon the clerk bent over the huge volume with its
-closely printed columns on very thin paper. The closing hour came. The
-typewriters and clerks went home and the front door was shut, but still
-Toby read, patiently running the point of his pencil down column after
-column. Night came on, and less than half of the book still remained to
-be scanned.
-
-“Go home to supper and come back,” Walton said, a strange light burning
-in his shrewd eyes. “I'll meet you here. I want this thing settled. I
-don't believe I could sleep with the doubt on my mind as to whether that
-man was fooling me or not. It is a big thing--a powerful big thing. If
-Fred has made himself of enough importance to have a man like that come
-a long distance in his behalf, why, you see, I ought to know about it,
-that's all--I ought to know about it.”
-
-“Yes, you ought to know, Mr. Walton,” Lassiter said, as he laid a
-blotter between the pages and reached for his hat. They went out
-together and walked side by side to the corner, where the clerk had to
-turn off.
-
-“You sort o' believed in Fred all along, Toby,” the banker said,
-tentatively--“that is, you used to talk him up to some extent.”
-
-“I thought he was in earnest about what he wrote in that last good-bye
-letter, Mr. Walton. It made a deep impression on me. It sounded
-perfectly straight. And awhile back, when his _other_ letter came,
-bringing all that cash, I was more sure than ever. Even when you said
-you believed it was a trick, somehow I couldn't exactly look at it that
-way.”
-
-“Well, see if you can locate this Whipple,” Walton said, and, turning
-off, he trudged heavily homeward through the gathering shadows.
-
-He was on his way back to the bank about nine o'clock when he saw Toby
-coming toward him. The clerk was walking rapidly, swinging his long arms
-to and fro like pendulums.
-
-“Well, well?” Walton exclaimed, as they met face to face on the sidewalk
-in the flare of a gas-light.
-
-“I have found him!” Toby chuckled. “There is no mistake. Stephen Whipple
-is a whopping big wholesale grocer at Gate City, Oklahoma. He's rated at
-over a million, with credit at the top notch.”
-
-“You don't say!” A negro laborer with a bag of flour on his shoulder was
-passing close by, and Walton laid his hand warmingly on the arm of his
-clerk and drew him slowly along.
-
-“You don't say!” he repeated, under his breath, as he clutched Toby's
-thin arm, “and I talked to him like a dog--like a hound-dog. I did that,
-when he could buy and sell me over and over. I sneered at him, and just
-as good as called him a thief, when he was right then befriending the
-son I'd cast off. Say, Toby, you've got a sight more sense than I have;
-what do you think I ought to do about it?”
-
-“I really don't know, Mr. Walton,” Toby replied, awkwardly. “Maybe it
-would be a good idea for you to go out there. From the way Fred wrote,
-it stands to reason he'd be glad to see you, anyway, and--”
-
-“I couldn't do that, Toby,” Walton said, under his breath. “After the
-stand I took and have held all these years, I couldn't go running after
-him. I could do _some_ things, but I couldn't do that. Besides, you
-see, Whipple would know we'd looked up his standing, and think I'd come
-because he was rich. But, say, I have an idea, Toby. Don't you think you
-could get on the train and go out there and take a look around?”
-
-“Why, yes, if you advise it, Mr. Walton.”
-
-“And you could go and hang about, in a quiet, know-nothing way, without
-letting Fred see you, I reckon?”
-
-“Easy enough, Mr. Walton, in a bustling place like that.”
-
-“Well, then, I'll tell you what you do. Pack your grip to-night,
-and take the eight-thirty train in the morning. Put up at some
-out-of-the-way hotel, and lie low and pick up what information you can.
-Don't go about Whipple's place of business; if Fred saw you, it would
-spoil it all. I'll defray your expenses. You deserve a trip, anyway.
-Of course, even if the boy has made such a good, comfortable nest for
-himself out there, that woman business is still hanging over him, and he
-wouldn't feel exactly like facing Stafford folks right now. But I reckon
-he's been doing an honest man's part by her along with his rise. He's
-been providing for her and the child pretty well, I'll be bound. And in
-case he _does_ come back, even on a visit, we'll help him smooth over
-the matter as far as is in our power. He ain't the first young chap
-that's let his blood get the upper hand. Some of the great men of
-history have made like slips along at the start. Yes, we'll try to
-manage that some way. We might even get her and her mother to move
-off somewhere. I don't know--I only say it _might_ be done. Folks in
-a plight of that sort will do most anything when they are paid, and it
-looks like Fred won't go a-begging. Now, good-bye, Toby. You've got a
-job of detective work before you, but I believe you'll be smart enough
-to put it through.”
-
-“I'll do my best, Mr. Walton,” the clerk said. “Goodbye.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XV
-
-|IT was a delightfully cool and crisp morning for midsummer, and Doctor
-Dearing was on the lawn between his house and Galt's, when he noticed
-that the railroad president had come out into his own grounds for a
-smoke. The two exchanged greetings through cordial signals, and Galt
-crossed over and joined his friend.
-
-“What news from New York?” he asked, as he flicked the ashes from his
-cigar.
-
-“They will be here to-morrow,” Dearing replied. “Madge has been homesick
-for fully two weeks; but Uncle Tom made her stay longer, hoping that
-she would become more interested in what was going on. They have had all
-sorts of attentions paid them, but he writes me that he has never been
-worried so much in his life over her. He says she enjoyed the first two
-weeks thoroughly, but lately she has been actually depressed. He tried
-everything imaginable, but home was what she wanted and would have.”
-
-“And so they are coming?” Galt said, reflectively.
-
-“Yes, they are on the way now. After all, what better could one ask for
-than a snug retreat like this in hot weather? Madge is fond of home.
-She doesn't care for giddy social things among a lot of money-spending
-Yankees, and I admire her taste.”
-
-“Yes, so do I,” Galt answered, and he smoked steadily, his eyes bent on
-the ground. .
-
-“I have an unpleasant job on hand,” Dearing remarked. “I have delayed
-it several times, but I have decided to do it to-day and have it over
-with.”
-
-“What is it?” Galt asked.
-
-“It is a slight operation I have to perform on little Lionel.”
-
-“Operation? Lionel?” Galt started, and then checked himself and stared
-blankly. “I didn't know there was anything at all wrong with him.”
-
-“Oh, it is only a slight and common thing with children,” Dearing
-explained. “Enlarged tonsils and adenoidal growth which must be removed.
-Outwardly the little chap is as sound as a dollar, and, so far, his
-wonderful strength has fought the thing off; but for a child so nervous
-as he is, and high strung and imaginative, it might, later on affect him
-seriously. Neglected cases have brought on permanent deafness and lung
-trouble. It is inherited, as a rule; you, _yourself_, had something of
-that sort, I think you told me.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” Galt replied. Deep down within him something seemed to
-clutch his vitals. In the ear of his naked soul an accusing voice was
-sounding: “Inherited! Inherited!” The word rang out like a threat from
-the Infinite--from the vast mystery of life which had of late been so
-tenaciously closing around him. Even the pain Lionel was to undergo was
-the outcome of another's sin.
-
-“Oh, it is a very simple operation,” Dearing went on, “and in any
-ordinary case I shouldn't give it a second thought; but, by George, I
-have become attached to that little chap. He is the pluckiest little man
-I ever knew. I had an exhibition of his grit one day that was ahead of
-anything I ever saw in a child. He had fallen, and his upper teeth had
-cut a deep gash in his tongue. They sent for me, and I saw that I'd have
-to take a stitch in it to close the ugly gap. It was a ticklish job, and
-I hardly saw how I could do it, for I didn't want to use an anaesthetic.
-But I talked to him just as I would to a man, and he promised me he
-wouldn't cry. He didn't. I give you my word, old man, he didn't whimper
-as the needle went through, and even while I was tying the thread; but
-I could see from his big, strained eyes that it hurt him like rips.
-A child with grit like that, Kenneth, is bound to make a stir in the
-world. I have noticed that you like him too, and I am glad you do. The
-truth is, darn you, you are taking my place! I'm jealous; he thinks you
-are a regular king. He is always talking about you.”
-
-“When do you think you will do the--the operation?” Galt faltered, as he
-averted his shrinking glance from Dearing's face.
-
-“Why, I want to do it right off. It is like this: his mother knows it
-has to be done, and has agreed to leave it entirely to me; but she is
-very nervous over it. She has a vein of morbid superstition running
-through her. She fancies that some disaster is bound, sooner or later,
-to happen to him--in fact, as she has often put it to me, she hardly
-believes that a just God would allow such a sensitive and ambitious
-child to grow up to a full comprehension of his humiliation.
-
-“I see--I see what you mean,” Galt managed to say, and his soul seemed
-to writhe anew as he stood trying to make his words sound casual.
-
-“So I thought,” the doctor went on, “that I'd like, if possible, to
-get it over without her knowledge, or without her mother knowing of it.
-Nervous people standing around, half frightened out of their wits, at
-such a time, unsteady my hand and upset me generally. Now, as I have
-everything in readiness up-stairs, I think, when Lionel comes over this
-morning, as I've asked him to do, I'll talk him into it. Young Doctor
-Beaman, my new assistant, is up-stairs sterilizing my instruments, and
-he will give the chloroform. You see, it would be a pleasant surprise
-and a relief to those doting women to suddenly find out that the thing
-they have made such a fuss about is over and no harm done.” Galt made no
-reply. He had seen a trim little figure darting across the lower end of
-the lawn, and saw a flash of golden tresses in the sunlight, and knew
-that Lionel was coming--and to what? Galt suppressed an inward groan.
-The unsuspecting child was bounding along, joyous and full of life, to
-the grim, inexplicable snare which had been set for him. Young as he
-was, he was to be asked to be firm and brave, that his little form might
-take on the semblance of death and submit to the knife, a thing at the
-thought of which even strong men had quailed. And what might, after all,
-be the as yet unrevealed outcome? One case in every ten thousand, at
-least, failed to survive the artificial sleep, owing to this or that
-overlooked internal defect. Would this child of malignant misfortune be
-that one?
-
-Lionel drew near, sweeping the two men with merry eyes of welcome.
-There was an instant's hesitation as to which to greet first, and then
-instinct seemed to swerve him toward Galt, his hand outstretched. With
-a queer throb of appreciation, the father took it and felt it pulsate in
-his clasp.
-
-“Come here, Lionel, my boy,” Dearing said, with affected lightness of
-manner. “You remember what I said one day about those ugly lumps down
-there in your little throat which are going to get bigger and bigger,
-till after a while you can't eat any jam and cake? You wouldn't like
-that, would you?”
-
-“I remember.” Lionel passed his tapering hand over his white throat. “I
-can feel them when I swallow.”
-
-“And that is why you have those bad dreams, and jump in your sleep, and
-think you are falling,” Dearing added, adroitly. “You know you promised
-to let me get them out.”
-
-“Oh, not to-day!” the boy protested, throwing a wistful glance up at the
-unclouded sky. “I was going to build a really-really house out of the
-bricks at the barn. I have a stove-pipe for a smoke-stack. I'll show you
-both. Come with me! Oh, it's great!”
-
-“Not to-day. Lionel, listen.” Dearing drew the boy close to him, and
-tenderly stroked back his hair from his fine brow. “Mamma, you know, is
-terribly nervous about it. _Women_ are that way, aren't they? Men and
-boys, like us, know better. She can hardly sleep at night for thinking
-about it--even a little thing like that. We can do it now, and I can
-run over and tell her you are sleeping like a kitten in my big bed
-up-stairs, and she and Granny will be so glad. It won't hurt a bit, you
-know, for the medicine will make you sleep through it all.” A shadow of
-deep disappointment came into Lionel's expressive eyes. The warm color
-of life in his face faded into tense gravity, and they saw him clasp his
-little hands and wring them undecidedly.
-
-“And you think to-day is the best time?” he faltered, on the edge of
-refusal.
-
-“The very best of all, Lionel,” Dearing said, gently. “You wouldn't be
-afraid of me, would you?”
-
-The child stared dumbly. To Galt's accusing sense the world had never
-held a more desolate sentient being than this incipient repetition of
-himself. The child had proved that he knew no physical fear. To what,
-then, did he owe this evident clutch of horror? Could it be due to
-some psychic warning of approaching danger, or was the sensitive child
-telepathically governed by the morbid fears which, at that moment, were
-raging in the heart of his father?
-
-“Come, that's a good, nice boy!” Dearing urged. “I see you are going to
-be a brave little man.”
-
-“I'm not afraid it will _hurt_,” Lionel faltered, “but I don't like to
-be put to--to sleep.”
-
-“But it must be so, my boy,” the doctor said. “Come on. Mamma will see
-us in a minute and smell a mouse.” For a moment yet the child stood
-undecided, his gaze alternately on the two faces before him. Suddenly,
-while they waited and his eyes were resting in strange appeal on Galt,
-he asked:
-
-“Will you come, too?”
-
-A shock as if from some unknown force went through the man addressed,
-but, seeing no alternative, he answered:
-
-“If you wish it, yes, of course.”
-
-“And _you_ think I ought to--to do it?”
-
-“Yes,” Galt nodded, his head rocking like that of an automaton. “The
-doctor knows best.”
-
-“Well, then, I'll go,” the boy sighed, with another wistful look over
-the lawn. “I'll go.”
-
-As they were entering the house, by some strange mandate of fate or
-instinct the boy again took his father's hand, and Galt held it as they
-began to ascend the broad, walnut stairs. Argue as he would that the
-operation was only a most ordinary thing, to Galt's morbid state of mind
-it assumed the shape of a tragedy staged and enacted by the very imps of
-darkness.
-
-On the way up the boy tripped on the stair-carpeting and slipped and
-fell face downward. He was unhurt, but Galt raised him in his arms and
-bore him up the remainder of the steps into a big, light room off the
-corridor.
-
-“Here we are, Doctor Beaman!” Dearing cheerily called out to a slender,
-beardless young man, who, with a towel in hand, was bending over some
-polished instruments on the bureau. “This is the little chap who never
-cries when he is hurt. He is a regular soldier, I tell you!”
-
-“No, I'm not afraid,” the boy said, as he stood alone in the centre
-of the room; but still, as his father noted, there was a certain
-contradictory rigidity of his features which he had never remarked
-before.
-
-Galt told himself that the child's evident dread, vague as it was, was
-also an inheritance; for he recalled how he himself had once taken ether
-to have a slight operation performed. He had been a man in years at the
-time, and yet the effect on his mind as to what might be the outcome had
-been most depressing. That day, as he was doing now, he had looked upon
-the drug-induced sleep as a dangerous approach to death; and now, as
-then, he gravely feared that the tiny thread of reduced vitality might
-be torn asunder. He stood dumb with accusing horror as the two doctors
-hastily made their grewsome arrangements, such as securing warm water,
-fresh towels and sheets, which, in their very whiteness, suggested a
-shroud.
-
-The noise made as they drew a narrow table across the resounding floor
-into the best light between the two windows jarred harshly on his tense
-nerves. These things were grim enough, but the wan isolation of the
-waiting child, as he stood with that war against fear and shame of
-fear going on in his great, fathomless eyes, so like those of his
-artist-mother--that appealing little figure, nameless, disowned among
-men, was stamped on the retina of Galt's eye for the remainder of his
-life.
-
-“Now, take off your waist and collar and necktie,” Dearing said to
-Lionel--“that will be enough. We'll have you all right in a jiffy. You
-are not afraid _now_, are you?”
-
-Galt's heart sank like a plummet, for the child's lips moved, but no
-sound issued. The little fellow turned his face away as he began to
-undress. He removed the flowing necktie, but his little fingers could
-not unfasten the stiff linen collar.
-
-“Help him, Kenneth,” Dearing said. “My hands are full.”
-
-Galt obeyed, his fingers coming into contact with the cold chin of the
-child and the soft flesh of his neck. He felt like snatching the boy
-from the damnable spot, as a mother might her young from the claws of
-a wild beast. Yet, outwardly calm, he drew the sleeves of the child's
-blouse off and laid it on a chair.
-
-“Now we are ready for you, young man,” Dearing said, lightly. “I see you
-are not afraid I'll hurt you.”
-
-“No, I know it won't _hurt_,” Lionel said, “but--”
-
-“Don't you begin butting me,” Dearing laughed. “You are not a goat like
-the one that butted Grover Weston heels over head the other day.”
-
-“If I shouldn't wake up--I mean if I really _shouldn't_, you know,”
- Lionel finished, with a faint effort to smile at the doctor's jest,
-“won't you please not tell my mother too quick? She gets frightened so
-easily, and, you see, if I didn't wake up--if I never woke again--”
-
-“Ah, come off!” Dearing laughed, as he turned to his assistant. “Doctor,
-this kid hints that we don't know our business.”
-
-“But if I didn't wake, if I _didn't!_” Lionel insisted, “you'd not scare
-her, would you? And--and”--his lower lip quivered--“wouldn't you tell
-her that I wasn't a bit afraid, and that I didn't cry, and--wait! wait!
-Won't you tell her that it didn't hurt a single bit, not even a little
-_teensy bit?_”
-
-“Yes, yes,” Dearing said, and, considerably taken aback, he stared at
-Galt rather than at the insistent speaker. “I'll tell her you are the
-best boy in the world--the best, the bravest, and the sweetest. And God
-knows I'll mean it,” he finished, in a lower tone to Galt. “I've seen
-thousands of kids, Kenneth, but this one gets nearer me than all the
-rest put together. I swear I am almost tempted to throw the darn job up.
-But, you see, it has to be done. Doctor,” turning to his assistant, “put
-him on the table, and I'll tickle his nose and make him laugh. We'll
-make him have the funniest dreams he ever had.”
-
-Doctor Beaman went to the boy and held out his arms, and Lionel was
-lifted to the table and stretched out on the crisp sheet which had been
-spread over it. Just then, happening to look round, Dearing saw Galt's
-face, and hastily stepped to his side. “My Lord!” he whispered, “I see
-this thing is going against you, old man. You are nauseated; you look
-faint. Many men are that way--young students sometimes have to give up
-surgery for that reason. It is nothing to be ashamed of. You like the
-little chap, and your sympathies are worked up, that's all. But, really,
-I don't think you ought to stay. I become nervous if others are, and I
-must have a free hand. Besides, if you were to keel over in a faint
-at an important moment I couldn't look after you. You'd better run
-down-stairs and take a whiff of air. I'll call you when it is over.”
-
-“Is he going?--must he go?” Lionel asked, as he turned his head and saw
-Galt moving to the door. “Yes,” Dearing said, “but only down-stairs.”
-
-“Oh,” the child exclaimed, regretfully, and averted his face, “I thought
-he could stay!”
-
-Down into the still silence of the great hall Galt went. There was
-something heartlessly maddening in the calm, yellow sunlight on the
-grass, which he could see through the doorway. The birds in the trees,
-as they flitted about with twigs in their mouths and chirped in glee,
-seemed mocking voices of despair from the deliberate tyranny of the
-universe.
-
-“God have mercy and spare him!” the man cried out from the depths of his
-agony. “Spare him, O God, spare him!”
-
-Unconscious of the incongruous prayer which had fallen from his lips, he
-turned into the drawing-room, on the left of the hall, and sank into an
-easy-chair, covering his face with his stiff hands. Suddenly he heard a
-light step on the veranda, and, raising his eyes, he saw Dora standing
-in the hall, glancing wildly and excitedly about her. Possessed by the
-fear that she might call out, and thus make her presence known at that
-most crucial moment, he rose and hastened to her. She did not see him
-till he was close at her side, and then she turned and their eyes met.
-
-“Where is Lionel--where is my child?” she panted.
-
-He stood staring at her, unable to formulate a reply, and, brushing past
-him with an air of contempt, which he read all too clearly, she turned
-to the stairs, and started to ascend.
-
-“Oh, you mustn't--you really mustn't!” he called out in protest, and he
-put a detaining hand on her arm.
-
-Shrinking from his touch, she stared at him piteously.
-
-“Then they really are doing it!” she cried. “They are up there operating
-on my child! I knew it when Doctor Beaman drove up, and Doctor Wynn came
-and asked Lionel to play over here.”
-
-Galt made no denial. He stood beside her, swept out of himself by the
-sheer power of her astounding beauty, as he now beheld it for the first
-time since their parting. In his wildest stretch of fancy as to what
-the years might have brought her, he had not dreamed that she had become
-such a flower among women. There was a seductive maturity of intellect
-in her faultless face. The strange, appealing, and yet unreadable lights
-of genius were burning in her dark, mystic eyes. He stood before her
-with the smitten humility, the cringing shame, of a subject rebuked by
-his queen.
-
-“Yes, I am sure of it!” she moaned, and she lowered her glorious head to
-the newel of the stairs and shuddered. “They are cutting my darling,
-and I can't go to him. Doctor Wynn thought he'd spare my feelings--as if
-that counted.”
-
-She suddenly looked him squarely in the face, and he shrank before the
-calm penetration of her stare. “We'll never see him alive again,” she
-said, in a low, husky voice--“never again on earth!”
-
-“Oh no, don't say that!” he cried, finding his submerged voice in the
-agony produced by her suggestion. “God wouldn't be so unmerciful--the
-child has harmed no one!”
-
-“You speak of God,” she suddenly retorted, standing farther from him and
-drawing herself erect. “The word was a joke with you once,” she added,
-with a bitter sneer. “And I believed your puny theories, and blindly
-followed out the deductions you made with your nose in the earth during
-our vain dream of intellectual supremacy. But a change was wrought in
-me. Into my wretched darkness Lionel came, and I saw and was convinced.
-He was my living, pulsating, immortal link to the Infinite. But he is
-not for the earth. He is above it. God allowed Christ to suffer the
-pangs of a material existence for the salvation of the world, but He
-is too merciful to let my sensitive darling face what he would have to
-face. Lionel was sent to lift me, with his tiny hands, from the slough
-into which I had fallen, but his mission is over--oh, God, it is
-over! How can I bear it--how can I live without him? He is my life,
-my _soul!_” She covered her tortured face with her bloodless hands
-and remained still, save for the emotion which quivered through her
-hysterical frame.
-
-Galt stood gazing at her for a moment, an almost uncontrollable yearning
-on him to clasp her in his arms and beg her forgiveness. He might have
-done so but for the fear of offending her. He glanced up the stairs. How
-still it was above! How like death! In his alarmed fancy he saw the two
-doctors standing aghast over the still, senseless form of his child.
-They had miscalculated! The physical examination had misled them; ether
-should have been the drug employed rather than chloroform!
-
-Uncovering her face, Dora read his thoughts. She uttered a low,
-despairing wail, and they stood looking into each other's eyes. There
-was a sound of sudden movement on the floor above. Some one was raising
-a window-sash at the top of the stairs.
-
-“I am sweating like an ox!” they heard Dearing say; and--could they
-believe their ears?--he was actually laughing, and calling out to
-Lionel: “I told you you'd not know when it was done. Now, lie down and
-go to sleep. You are as sound as a silver dollar. It may sting just a
-little tiny bit when you swallow, but that will be gone by to-morrow. Go
-to sleep, and when you wake I'll have that tricycle ready.”
-
-“Thank God--thank God,” Dora exclaimed, “he is saved!”
-
-She started up the stairs, and in desperation Galt caught her arm. “Wait
-one moment, Dora,” he implored, “I have something to say. You must hear
-me. I am--”
-
-“Don't stop me!” She shook his hand loose from her sleeve, and the
-haughty look of contempt he had noticed before rose into her fathomless
-eyes as she glanced back at him. “I am going up to him. I won't waken
-him. I'll be very quiet, but I must be near him.”
-
-Standing at the foot of the stairs, he saw her ascend and disappear
-above. How beautiful she was! How rare and exquisite--how infinitely
-removed from her kind. And that was Dora--the Dora of all that was good
-and pure of his past, the guileless victim of all that was low, sordid,
-and unworthy within him!
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVI
-
-|TOBY LASSITER returned from the West one sultry evening at dusk, and
-went straight to the house of his employer. He found the banker seated
-on the front porch without his coat, and cooling himself with a big
-palm-leaf fan. “So you are back?” he said, casting a furtive glance over
-his shoulder into the unlighted hall. “Get that chair and pull it up
-close. If my wife happens to come out while you are talking, sort o'
-switch off to something else--the market reports--anything under high
-heavens except what you went off for. She never took to Fred noway, and
-anything in his favor or otherwise sets her tongue going. She thinks
-he is plumb out of my present calculations, and any hint that he was
-getting on his feet would give her tantrums. She is back in the kitchen,
-seeing to the supper things. She is as close as the bark of a tree, and
-is afraid that nigger woman will lug off supplies. I took her because
-she was stingy. I sort o' admired it at first, but it ain't as becoming
-in a woman as it is in a man. I don't know why, but it ain't. Well, fire
-away. What did you do?”
-
-“I went straight out to Gate City, Mr. Walton,” the clerk began, in the
-tone of a man full of an experience. “I would have written home, but
-I didn't get on to much of importance the first three days, and then I
-knew I could get back about as quick as a letter could.”
-
-“Yes, of course,” Walton said. “Well?”
-
-“I found it about the most hustling town I ever struck, Mr. Walton. It
-is wide open, I tell you. Of course, it isn't anything like as big, but
-it was as busylooking on the main streets as Atlanta or Nashville. I
-thought best not to be seen about the very _centre_, you know, so I took
-board in a little hotel in what they call 'Railroad Town,' on the east
-side, among the machine-shops. I pretended to be looking for a job.”
-
-“You did, eh? You say you did?”
-
-“Yes, sir; and I found that it was a pretty good trick, for it set folks
-to chatting about the different enterprises in town. You may think it is
-funny,” Toby laughed, impulsively--“I know I did when I finally got the
-key to it--but I could hardly start any sort of talk with anybody who
-didn't sooner or later ring in the wonderful rise of a certain fellow by
-the name of 'Spencer,' who was in this same Whipple's employ. They all
-said he'd come there without a cent--a ragged tramp, in fact; but that
-he had taken hold in Whipple's big store, and forged ahead till he was
-the old man's mainstay and chief manager. They told about all sorts of
-deals that this 'Spencer' had helped Whipple put through. I got kind
-o' tired of it all, and would every now and then ask if there wasn't
-a young fellow by the name of 'Walton' working there; but they said if
-there was they had never heard of him, and went on about Spencer. I was
-beginning to think there might be something crooked in that fat man's
-tale to you, and at one time I laid awake all night troubled powerfully.
-You see, the fellow who called here and paid the three thousand might
-have been just using Whipple's name and reputation to help him work some
-scheme.”
-
-“Oh, you thought that!” and Walton drew his brows together and bit his
-lip.
-
-“Yes; but not for long, Mr. Walton. The next day I ventured closer in to
-the centre of the town, and was looking about on the main street at the
-up-to-date improvements on all sides, when I saw a fellow thumping along
-the sidewalk that looked so much like our man that I dodged into the
-front part of a bar-room and waited till he went by. Then I pointed him
-out to a policeman, and asked him who it was.
-
-“'Why, that,' said the cop--'that is our big grocery king, Stephen
-Whipple. He is a self-made man, and as rich as goose-grease. He built us
-a fine church, a library out of white marble, and donated the land for a
-city park, and done a lot of other things.'”
-
-“Oh, he was all right, then!”
-
-“Yes, sir, as I substantiated later,” Toby ran on, enthusiastically.
-“But the best thing is to be told, Mr. Walton. A few minutes after that
-who should I see but Fred himself rushing along the street with some
-account-books under his arm, as if he was in a great hurry. He was
-dressed as fine as a fiddle, and folks all along the street was bowing
-to him as if he owned the town. I dodged back into the bar and let him
-pass, and when I slipped out a minute later the same policeman nabbed me
-and pointed Fred out as he was walking on. 'That,' said the policeman,
-'is Mr. Spencer, the old man's adopted son--the young man he has just
-taken into partnership. They are hanging a new sign down at the store
-now.'”
-
-“Adopted son!” fell from the-banker's lips. “Spencer was Fred's middle
-name. Great Lord, Toby, do you reckon it's true?”
-
-“True as gospel, Mr. Walton. I heard a lot about it on all sides, but I
-saw enough with my own eyes to convince me that there was no mistake. I
-went out to where the Whipples live one dark, cloudy night, and walked
-clean round the house. I could see into the sitting-room, for it was
-lighted up bright. Whipple was there, and a gray-haired, kind-looking
-old lady that was his wife, I reckon, and Fred. They were all sitting
-round a green lamp on a table. From where I stood, of course, I couldn't
-hear a word that was said, but it seemed like Fred was telling some
-funny yarn or other, like he used to do here at home, you know, and
-both the old folks were laughing. I don't know when anything ever has
-affected me as much as that sight did. I reckon I was homesick myself,
-away out there playing the sneak, like I was, and it made me awful blue.
-You know, sir, I always _did_ like Fred, and I don't believe many folks
-ever knew how much he missed his mother. And somehow, when I saw him in
-an entirely new home like that, away off from old ties, why--well--it
-sort o' got the best of me. Maybe, as I say, it was because I was
-homesick, but I never wanted to speak to anybody in all my life as much
-as I did to him at that minute.”
-
-The head of the banker went down, his chin rested on his breast, and
-he was silent for a few minutes. Then he looked up, threw a cautious,
-half-fearful glance back into the house, and rose to his feet.
-
-“Let's walk down to the gate,” he said, in a low, unsteady voice. “I
-want to talk, Toby, and yet I don't hardly know what a body could say.
-I have faced lots of criticism and slurs in my day and time, and never
-cared much what was said; but, between me and you, this thing strikes
-me down deep. You see, it is pretty tough the way it turned out--this
-having other folks give a body's son a home, and all that, and I hate
-to think that folks here in Stafford will get onto it and chatter. I
-understand 'em well enough to know, in advance, what they will say.
-I don't care what they think about me losing money, and the like, for
-that's just business. But the other thing cuts--it cuts deep. I reckon
-the boy didn't get any too much attention at home after I married
-the last time, and I reckon, if the truth was known, I was influenced
-against him some by his stepmother's constant nagging about his ways. I
-say I _reckon_ I was influenced, for I hardly think I'd have been quite
-as tight on the boy if there had been just me and him left at home after
-his mother died. My first wife was a good woman, Toby. I never knew how
-good and loving she was till she was put away forever. But the town will
-talk now good fashion. They will say Fred served me' right to go off and
-get appreciated and loved by folks that was no blood kin, but who simply
-took him on merits I was too mean to see. They will have the laugh on
-me. They will call me an old hog, and I reckon I deserve it. You know,
-yourself, that I come within an inch of clapping handcuffs on him. I'd
-actually have done it if you hadn't shown me that it would go against my
-pocket.”
-
-“I think you look at it too seriously, Mr. Walton,” Toby ventured to
-say, as the two leaned on the gate and looked down the gas-lighted
-street. “You mustn't forget that Fred has been longing for your
-forgiveness all these years. What he did was wrong, it is true, and at
-present it may be the chief bar to his content. Besides, me and you are
-the only persons who know about his shortage. You have never been a man
-to talk of your private affairs, and, for all _this_ town knows or ever
-_need_ know, you may have been in touch with Fred all these years. In
-fact, they may not know but what the--the _other matter_ was the only
-cause of Fred's leaving.”
-
-“Toby, you are a good un! You'll do, you'll do! Of course, the woman
-business is bad, but the world somehow don't condemn it as heavy as some
-other things. No, you are right; this blasted town needn't know about
-the trouble between me and him. He won't want to come back here nohow
-till the other matter is arranged some way, and, between me and you, we
-can sort o' spring his big success on the town--kind o' off-hand, you
-know, as if it ain't nothing to wonder at.”
-
-“A good idea, Mr. Walton!” Toby declared, enthusiastically. “It will set
-'em wild.”
-
-“But we'll leave the adopted-son part out, Toby.”
-
-“Of course, sir; oh yes, sir; that needn't go in!”
-
-“We might just tell about his being a partner in the business, or
-something along that line.”
-
-“Of course, sir.”
-
-“And I'll go out there, Toby. It will be like pulling eye-teeth, but
-I'll go. I'll knuckle, too, I reckon, to that fat chump. I'll make my
-will in the boy's favor and show it to Whipple, with an itemized list
-of my holdings, here and there. He won't sneer then, I reckon. Besides,
-Fred won't go back on me. Blood's thicker than water, and if I have been
-harsh--well, even if I _have_, my money will be as acceptable as that
-old skunk's. Yes, I'll run out in a day or so. And, Toby, I'll not even
-touch on the woman-and-child affair. He may think it never got out; he
-may believe she's kept it quiet. In the letters he wrote me, he never
-once alluded to it, and that shows he is not ready to admit it, anyway.
-No, we won't push that on him at such a time; he never _would_ want to
-come home if he knew there had been such an uproar.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVII
-
-|SIMON WALTON had been away a week, and the force at the bank had not
-heard from him, when one morning Toby received a telegram from him dated
-that day in Atlanta. The carefully chosen ten words ran as follows:
-
-“_Meet me with horse and buggy at afternoon up train_.”
-
-So Toby went down to the old man's house, and, unassisted, got out the
-gaunt animal and the time-worn vehicle with the dilapidated leather
-hood, and drove to the station. He was in a fine glow of appreciation of
-the compliment implied by the telegram's being addressed solely to him,
-and by the additional fact that on returning from former journeys Walton
-had either walked home or taken the cars. Toby told himself, with no
-little unction, that it meant that his employer had something of a
-confidential nature to impart.
-
-The train had scarcely come to a standstill when Simon, who was on the
-front platform of the first passenger-coach, sprang down, valise in
-hand, and, looking much the worse for the dust and fine cinders that lay
-on him like frost of the infernal regions, walked stiffly toward Toby
-and the buggy.
-
-“Well, I see you got my wire,” was his greeting, as he relinquished the
-valise and allowed Toby to put it behind the seat in the buggy.
-
-“Yes, I got it all right,” the clerk responded. “Shall we drive home or
-to the bank?”
-
-Walton waited till Toby was in the seat beside him; then he replied:
-“Well, we may as well head for home, though I reckon we could take a
-sort o' roundabout direction through the edge of town. I want to tell
-you what I did out there, and we might not have as good a chance later.
-My wife will be nagging the life out of me for particulars, and while
-there are no particulars in this thing that she has any concern in, if I
-was to be cornered somewhere with you right at the start she'd think it
-strange. Then, on the other hand, if me and you slid off together the
-very minute I got to the bank, the rest might think I was partial, and
-so I thought this slow ride was the very idea.”
-
-“Yes, of course, Mr. Walton. I suppose you saw Fred?”
-
-“Oh yes, but not the first shot out of the box.” Walton took off his hat
-and wiped the perspiration from his brow, upon which lay the red imprint
-of his hatband, and smiled sheepishly. “The truth is, Toby, the nigher I
-got to that blamed town the sillier I felt, till by the time I was there
-and duly quartered at what they told me was their best hotel I hardly
-knew my hat from a hole in the ground. You see, my predicament was
-peculiar, and would have been odd to _any_ man in the plight I was in. I
-didn't know but two souls in the town. One of 'em was not only the great
-high mucky-muck of the place, but a man I'd called a thief and a
-liar and kicked plumb out of my sanctum when he had called to do me a
-_favor_; and the other was--well, he was my only son, who I had treated
-like a yellow dog. You see, I knew that downright apologies was what I
-owed _both_ of 'em; but, Toby, let me tell you something odd--I don't
-know how to account for it: but, as just and upright as I've always been
-in my dealings in a _general_ way, I never, in so many plain words, ever
-told a human being I was sorry. I have been that way, and was willing
-to try to sort o' _look_ it, in cases where I was _dead_ wrong; but I'd
-rather take a thousand lashes on my bare back any day than come right
-out and beg a fellow's pardon.”
-
-“I understand,” Toby said, sympathetically. “A great many folks are that
-way.”
-
-“Well, I don't think I'm like a great many folks,” Walton replied, as
-his eyes rested on the back of his horse, “but I couldn't swallow that
-pill. So there I was, registered at that fine joint, with a front room
-all to myself, overlooking the street, and the clerks and nigger porters
-looking at me, same as to say, 'Well, what is your game? Are you a
-whiskey drummer, bank-examiner, detective, stock-drover, or escaped
-convict?' I was like a fish out of water. I didn't know what to do or
-how to make any sort of start. I sat round the office half the time, and
-the rest I was flopping about in my room. The first day passed that way,
-and the next night, in which I had hardly got a wink of sleep. There
-was a bar-room and gambling-hell right under me, and I could hear some
-whizzing thing and balls rolling, and a deep voice calling out in some
-game or other. It was a gay town, and I was in the middle of it. The
-next morning I determined I'd write Fred a note and let him know where
-I was at, but I'd no sooner got it ready and backed and sealed than I
-recalled that Fred wasn't using his own name, and that a note addressed
-to him in the old style might cause talk, and so I tore it up. Then
-I ventured out and, half-scared to death, actually walked by the big
-store--on the opposite side of the street, though--and peeped in through
-the windows. It was as busy as a beehive during a swarm, but I couldn't
-see head nor tail of Fred. All at once I took the bit in my mouth and
-started across the street to go in, but was stopped short. And what do
-you reckon done it, Toby?”
-
-“I can't imagine, Mr. Walton,” said the clerk, deeply interested.
-
-“Toby, it was that new sign you spoke about--'Stephen Whipple & Son.' It
-was on the front of the big red building, and seemed to me to be just so
-many long, black letters stalking clean across the sky. 'Stephen Whipple
-& Son,' and the last word, small as it was, overtopped all the rest.
-The thing simply knocked me silly. Wasn't it Saint Paul (it was _one_ of
-them fellows in the good Book) that fell down in some great light that
-blazed out over him? Mine wasn't a light; it wasn't wind; it wasn't
-a kick in the jaw from an army mule, but it hit me like all three
-combined. I was mad; I was sorry; I was ashamed; but I couldn't walk
-under that dad-blasted sign. It hung over them doors like a long white
-sword of an enemy ready to chop me into halves.
-
-“I whirled about and went back to my room and actually hid the rest of
-the day, wondering how on earth I was going to do the job. Once I packed
-up my valise and started down to pay my bill, with the intention of
-shirking the whole thing; but I saw that wouldn't do. So I passed
-another day. I read my Bible a little, and I reckon I prayed some. I
-don't know, Toby, but I would have bowed down before a heathen idol to
-have got help out of my predicament. I remembered what you said about
-seeing Fred at Whipple's house, and the next night I went out and
-inquired the way to his place. I found it, and, having nothing better
-to do, I walked clean around it like you did. Nobody was in sight, but
-I could see lights inside, and then the thought came to me that Fred, my
-son, maybe, was at that very minute in there keeping company with that
-old man and woman, and that made me feel as bad as the sign had. I tried
-to argue that I'd been right in pinning down on the boy for what he had
-done; but I knew there was no stability to my point, for that fat chap
-had secured better results through a different method, and _he_ wasn't
-no blood _kin_. So I went back to the hotel, and made another night of
-it. I wasn't like you. I couldn't talk to strangers in an off-hand way
-about it. I tried once to the clerk behind the counter, but I couldn't
-make it go. He looked at me mighty curious, and I changed the subject. I
-think I asked him if that State wa'n't heavy on hog-raising.”
-
-“You were in an embarrassing position,” Toby remarked, as he shook the
-drooping lines over the plodding horse's back.
-
-“I never would have got out of it if it hadn't been by pure accident,”
- Walton said. “The office of the hotel was a sort of meeting-place for
-the young men of the town of an evening, and there was a little smoking
-and writing room off of it. I was sitting there on the third evening,
-and the office was thronged with young chaps. Some sort of entertainment
-was on hand at the opera-house across the street, for a band was playing
-outside, and the young men in their best outfits were smoking and
-chatting in the office, when who should I see come in but Fred. He came
-in at the front door in a swallowtail suit with a light overcoat on his
-arm, and I tell you the crowd all made way for him. Toby, I am an old
-man; I've been through the rubs; I've seen near and dear comrades
-shot down at my side on the field of battle; I have had all sorts of
-experiences; but the sight of my boy there looking so much older and
-more dignified than when I last saw him--a sort of king among his
-kind--with this one and that one giving him the glad hand, and hailing
-him right and left with words and smiles of welcome while I was slinking
-off there--well, Toby, I don't want to live that over again; I don't;
-as God is my Creator, I don't! I sat there watching him through the door
-like--well, you'll have to imagine it, and draw your own conclusions; I
-can't tell you how I felt. I was dumb; I was speechless. It was like
-a double nightmare. I haven't shed enough tears in my life to drown a
-gnat, but I wanted to cry good and hearty then.”
-
-“And you met him--I know you did,” Toby broke in. “I see it in your
-face.”
-
-“Yes, as luck would have it, by accident; he left the others and come
-right into the room, and I saw that he'd recognized me, for he turned
-pale as death, and stopped in front of me. Then I saw him steady
-himself, and a pitiful, resigned look come over him. If I live through
-eternity, I'll never forget his first words. What do you think he said?”
-
-“I can't imagine, Mr. Walton.”
-
-“Toby, he said this--he said this, and the words will haunt me to my
-grave. They will go with me into the very depths of my last abode. He
-said: 'Oh, father, you have caught me! You have come to take me back!
-Well, I am ready!'
-
-“Toby Lassiter, talk about your--your hells on earth; talk about your
-flames of despair, the worm that dieth not, and the like. I had 'em all.
-I couldn't speak. I didn't even have the sense or power to shake hands,
-and the poor boy misunderstood even that. He pulled up a chair, shaking
-like a leaf. Nobody was in the room but us two. Then somehow I managed
-to say that he was mistaken, and that I hadn't come there for _that_
-reason. I wanted to talk to the point and justify myself, but I was
-worse than a stuttering idiot at a spelling-bee. Like a fool, I started
-in to say that I had heard a lot about the progress of the town, and he
-thought I had some speculation on foot and had run on him by accident.
-I no sooner saw that he thought that than I got tangled up worse
-than ever. Nothing short of begging his forgiveness would set things
-straight, and I couldn't have got that out to have saved my soul from
-perdition.”
-
-“That certainly _was_ awkward,” Toby burst out, like an enthusiast at a
-play. “It was bad.”
-
-“I reckon we never would have understood each other, Toby, but we
-started to walk out together, and went along to a side street that run
-into a park where it wasn't so light. Somehow we went inside, and before
-I knew it I had laid my hand on his arm. I never had done a thing like
-that in all my life, and all of a sudden we stopped and he looked right
-in my face. It was too much for me, Toby. I couldn't hold in any longer.
-But it didn't do any harm, for I saw he understood me, and that was
-enough. He was the happiest creature I ever laid eyes on; he laughed and
-cried and petted me, and said that he loved me a hundred times more than
-he did old Whipple and his wife. Then we sat down on a bench under the
-trees and talked it all over. He talked to me more openly than he ever
-did before. He wanted to come home above all things, but he wanted to
-put it off awhile. He told me about him and Margaret Dearing. She was
-the only real sweetheart he'd ever had, he said, and he could never care
-for anybody else. It seems that they met by accident awhile back in New
-York, and she gave him to understand that she didn't care any more for
-him. He said it was because she knew of his shortage at the bank. But I
-told him how you and me had kept that quiet, and not to let that bother
-him. But he told me something that we didn't know: he said he had
-confessed it to her brother the night he left. He said a woman as
-high and proud as she was never could overlook anything bordering on
-dishonesty, no matter how much it was atoned for.”
-
-“She wouldn't be so hard on him if _that_ was all, Mr. Walton,” Toby
-said. “But, of course, she heard about the other thing; in fact, the
-girl and the child are right there under her eyes.”
-
-“That occurred to me while me and him was talking,” Walton said; “but
-I simply couldn't bring up a nasty thing like that at such a time.
-I thought that might as well rest; in fact, it looked to me like he
-thought his name had never been mixed up with it. You see, Toby, maybe
-the woman promised that it shouldn't get out, and has kept him from
-knowing of the report in order to bleed his pocket. At any rate, he
-don't seem to suspect what folks are saying here at home. I know he
-wants to keep _me_ in the dark, for he boldly asked me about Dora Barry,
-among other inquiries. I was astonished at it, but he wanted to know if
-she'd ever got married, and when I told him no, he went on to say that
-she was the best friend he'd ever had among the home girls, and that she
-had a beautiful character, and the like. He went on to say that she was
-the finest painter of pictures he had ever seen, and that when he left
-he was sure she would make a great artist out of her turn that way. He
-asked me if she had put her talent to any use, and I told him if she had
-I hadn't heard about it. Then he said--he did--that he was going to sit
-down and write her a friendly letter, and tell her where he was at, now
-that me and him had made up. I thought he was piling it on pretty heavy,
-you know, but I never let on.”
-
-“That was best, of course,” Toby opined, reflectively. “Folks are not
-apt to throw up a thing like that to a man who has turned over a new
-leaf, and it may be many a year before he discovers how much has really
-been talked on that line. But you didn't tell me, Mr. Walton. Did you
-see Fred's--did you see Mr. Whipple?”
-
-“It went powerfully against the grain, but I had to,” the banker said,
-gruffly. “I was in for making a beeline back home without having to
-swallow that dose, but Fred wouldn't hear to it. He said the old skunk
-would feel hurt. I didn't care a dad-dratted cent whether he felt hurt
-or not; in fact, I felt hurt to have him dragged in at all. I'm glad the
-boy has landed in such a pile of clover, but I don't like Whipple any
-too much, and I reckon that dang sign of his was my Belshazzar's warning
-on the wall. But it is this way--well, you know what I mean. I reckon a
-body can look at it from any direction--level, sink, or angle--and the
-fact will still stick out that the boy is divided, and will have to
-remain divided from now on. That ain't usual, Toby; it is crooked. It
-sort o' gives the lie to my success as a father. I won't go into it any
-further. The whole thing out there, though, would have gone off smooth
-enough if that old cuss hadn't been in it. He had a slobbery way of
-talking to Fred, and put his hands on him every chance he got. They
-asked me out to dinner at Whipple's house to meet the old woman, but I
-drew the line at that. I was sure she'd act the fool as bad, or worse,
-than Whipple had, and so I wouldn't go. I never was mushy in that way
-myself, and I can't stomach them that are. Whipple is going to leave him
-all he's got, and I want Fred to get all he can of the good things in
-life, but I'll be dad-blamed if I wanted 'em to come exactly that way.
-
-“Whipple set there in his office and made out a list of his possessions,
-and it looked to me like he was making everything look as big as he
-could out of pure spite. Not once did he say--Toby, he didn't say a
-single time that I had _any_ sort of justification in pinning down on
-the boy like I did. He might have done it, but he didn't. He always
-cocked himself up and talked in a roundabout, sneaking fashion, like he
-was giving underhanded digs. Toby, I want the boy back here, that's
-all. I want him back here in the bank to take my place after I'm gone.
-I don't think I could stand it to be beat to a cold, dead finish by that
-old chump in a fight of exactly this kind. Whipple said Fred could sort
-o' play between the two places--stay awhile here and awhile there, but
-I want to tie him down good and tight to old Stafford. I've got an idea
-how to do it, Toby, and it ain't a bad one.”
-
-“What is it, Mr. Walton?” the clerk asked, eagerly.
-
-“Why, Toby, I ain't much at match-making, but I am going to try my
-hand at the game. Now, if I could only persuade Margaret Dearing to be
-sensible, like most women always have been in regard to the early slips
-of the men they marry--if I could persuade her to overlook the only
-thing that now remains against the boy--”
-
-“They would get married, and both would prefer to live here!” Toby broke
-in, eagerly.
-
-“That's the point, Toby,” Walton said. “You've hit it. Now drive me
-home.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVIII
-
-|ONE afternoon, three days after this, Simon Walton drove down the
-street to Dearing's, and, alighting at the front gate, he carefully
-haltered his horse to the hitching-post with a rope he always carried
-under the buggy-seat. Then he opened the gate and trudged up the walk to
-the door.
-
-Margaret saw him from the window of her room upstairs, and, thinking
-that he had called to see her uncle or her brother, she hurried
-down-stairs.
-
-“Did you want to see my uncle?” she asked, sweetly.
-
-“No, I didn't, Miss Margaret.” Walton had taken off his broad-brimmed
-felt hat, and stood shifting it awkwardly from one hand to the other, a
-look at once grave and agitated on his gaunt face.
-
-“Well, my _brother_ is at his office,” the girl threw tentatively into
-the pause that had ensued; “at least, he said he was going there when he
-left here about two o'clock.”
-
-“I didn't want to see him, _either_,” and the old man tried to smile,
-but the effort was a grim failure. “The truth is, Miss Margaret, if I
-may make so bold, I wanted to see _you_. There is a little matter I sort
-o' thought you and me might talk over maybe to mutual gain and profit.”
-
-“You want to see me, really?” Margaret started. “Well, won't you come
-in?”
-
-Walton glanced into the wide hall doubtfully and fanned himself with his
-hat. “I don't know; it must be kind o' stuffy inside on a sweltering day
-like this, ain't it?” he said, awkwardly. “Ain't there a place out under
-the trees somewhere where we could set a minute? I was here one day with
-the General, and round that way--” Walton nodded his shaggy head to the
-right and broke off helplessly.
-
-“Oh yes, and there are some chairs there, too,” Margaret answered. She
-was now quite grave, and she led the way with a certain erectness of
-carriage and with an air of restraint that was visible even to the crude
-sensibilities of her caller.
-
-The chairs under the trees were reached. Walton seized the most
-comfortable-looking one, and for no obvious reason settled it firmly on
-the sod. “Now,” he said, and with bended body he waited for her to take
-it. When she had complied, he took a seat himself, dropping his hat on
-the grass beside him, only to recover it without delay, that it might
-rest on his sharp, unsteady knee. He looked up at the unclouded sky, at
-the overhanging boughs of the big oaks under which they sat. He cleared
-his throat, looked at Margaret, and then glanced over his shoulder at
-the roof and gables of the old house.
-
-“You said, I think, that you came to see me,” Margaret reminded him,
-with as much voice as she could command, for all sorts of bewildering
-possibilities were flitting through her brain.
-
-“Yes, I did, Miss Margaret,” he said, with a slight start. “If you was a
-man, now, I think we could get this thing over with in a short time;
-but I never had much dealings with women--that is, except in a purely
-business way. I can tell a woman she is over-checking, or offering me
-bad security, or needs better identification than a pair of bright eyes
-and rosy cheeks will furnish; but this thing that's riz between me and
-you is plumb different. In the bank they come to _me_, but in this case,
-you see, _I'm_ the supplicant. Miss Margaret, I've come to see you about
-my boy--about Fred.”
-
-“Oh, you want to find him, and you think that perhaps I--” She went no
-further. Her first impulsive thought was that Walton had in some way
-heard of her meeting with Fred in New York and had come to obtain
-information as to his address.
-
-“Oh no; I know where he is well enough.” The way seemed easier to the
-old man now, and he went on rapidly. “He is at Gate City, Oklahoma, Miss
-Margaret. He has been there all this time, and is doing mighty well; in
-fact, he has gone and got rich. You know the West is a powerful field
-for fresh, young blood to forge ahead in, and Fred struck it just right.
-He is a partner in a whopping big wholesale business there. He has been
-writing to me--that is, off and on. There _was_ a little cash difference
-between his account and mine, and he finally made it good out of his
-earnings. I--I never was much of a hand to talk my business, you know,
-so I've never let on here at Stafford exactly how he _was_ making out,
-but a time has come when I want to set him as nigh straight as possible
-before the community he was born and raised in; in fact, I want him to
-come home.”
-
-“Yes, of course.” Margaret's cold, pale lips formally dropped the words
-as her visitor paused and wiped his perspiring brow and fanned himself
-with his hat..
-
-“Yes, I've just been out there to sort o' settle up a little deal
-betwixt me and the man--twixt me and Fred's business partner, and I must
-say the whole outlook was good. You know I reckon that everybody in this
-town sort o' thought before Fred went off that he never would amount to
-much in a business way, but he is all right now. So, having nothing much
-to do at the bank this hot day, why, I thought I'd drive up here and see
-you about it.”
-
-“See _me_ about it? I really don't understand,” the young lady faltered.
-
-“Well, to come right to the point, Miss Margaret”--Walton avoided her
-wavering glance for a moment as he kicked the toe of his boot into an
-unoffending tuft of grass and fairly uprooted it--“out there in Gate
-City one night me and Fred had a sort o' confidential talk about old
-times, and one thing or other, and finally he broke down and told me how
-much attached he had always been to you--never had cared for no other
-woman, nor never would as long as the sun shone on the earth, and other
-things to that effect.”
-
-“Oh, Mr. Walton, please don't!” Margaret cried out; but there was a glow
-of irrepressible delight rising in her face, and her beautiful eyes were
-sparkling. “I don't think I want to talk about it.”
-
-“I _have_ to,” the banker insisted, firmly. “I want him back here, Miss
-Margaret; and, as it stands now, I'm afraid he never will come unless
-you yield a point or two. He said his one and only spur to making a man
-of himself had been the hope that--seeing that you hadn't yet chosen
-a partner--that you might some day or other consider his proposal. He
-says, though, that he met you in New York, awhile back, and that you
-deliberately turned him down. He said he couldn't blame you, after all
-that had happened, but he couldn't help thinking that maybe it would be
-as well for him never to come nigh you again. That was the way, I say,
-that _he_ looked at it, blue and down-in-the-mouth, as the poor fellow
-was during our confab; but I threw out a straw to him, so I did, Miss
-Margaret. I cited numbers and numbers of cases where young men had
-eventually lived down early mistakes, and finally been reinstated,
-to become, in the end, an honor to the land of their birth. He didn't
-think, after the way you acted in New York, that there was any chance
-for him at all, but, being anxious to make headway, I told him I was
-sure you was too much of a Christian at heart to refuse a request like
-his, offered in the spirit it is offered in. He's sorry for many things
-that's he done, and wants to wipe 'em out.”
-
-Old Walton's eyes shifted almost significantly from her face to the
-low roof of Mrs. Barry's cottage, and instinctively Margaret's glance
-followed; then, becoming conscious of the fact, she quickly looked down,
-and a tinge of color climbed into her pale cheeks.
-
-“I think we'd better not say any more about that, Mr. Walton,” she said,
-more firmly than she had spoken since his arrival. “I am sure your son
-understands how I feel.”
-
-“That means a flat no, then,” the banker said, and with a heavy sigh he
-slowly stood up. “Well, I've plead _his_ case as well as I know how, but
-I hain't yet touched on _mine_. Miss Margaret, you could do me a big,
-lasting favor if you'd let this thing go through. I'm a plain man. Folks
-hain't never said I was much of a hand to show affection, and they are
-right, I reckon; but the way matters stand now is getting me down, and
-if you don't extend a helping hand I'm afraid I'll feel bad the rest of
-my life. It ain't just _Fred_ that's concerned--it's me--_me!_ As long
-as a father can make himself believe he is treating his son justly, he
-can hold his head up and meet the eye of the world; but, if the truth
-must be told, I reckon I didn't give Fred a good enough show. I driv'
-him off, with threats of the law, and away off in a strange land, under
-a new name, he forged ahead. He made friends by the stack, and the old
-man--his partner that I told you about--loves him like he was his own;
-in fact, he calls him his '_adopted son_.' Think of that! The only
-child the Lord ever give me is now claimed by a blamed old cuss that
-understood him better than I ever did! He has willed him all he's got,
-and he's got plenty, too--a sight more than I'll ever have if I keep
-on till the end of the chapter. I want to hold my own, Miss Margaret. I
-hain't never been clean beat yet, and this, somehow, would be the worst
-fall I ever had. I just can't stomach the idea! I want my boy to love
-_me_, and lean on _me,_ and not on a fat, pudgy old idiot that never had
-a thing to do with his baby days. I want that worse than I ever wanted
-anything, and I don't see how I'm going to get it if you don't help a
-little. If your pride won't let you do it for _him_, maybe it will for
-an old chap like me, that is begging for one more throw of the dice. I
-simply want him back, and he won't come unless you will let bygones be
-bygones.” He paused. Something very much like strong emotion was in his
-whole dejected attitude as he stood bowed before her. She started to
-speak, but stopped, clasping her delicate hands undecidedly in front of
-her. She stood silent for a moment, and then she said, softly:
-
-“I see; it is hard on you. It is a pity you have to suffer on account of
-it.”
-
-“Promise me this, Miss Margaret.” Old Walton leaned forward eagerly.
-“Promise that you will think it over for a day or so. It ain't a thing,
-anyway, to be decided in a second, like buying a hat or a pair of gloves
-of such and such a color or material. If you have to go plumb against
-the boy, do it after mature deliberation. Won't you study over it a day
-or two?”
-
-“Yes, I can promise that,” Margaret consented. “I'll stop in at the bank
-and see you soon.”
-
-“Well, that's all a body _could_ ask,” Walton said, gratefully; and,
-bowing low, he trudged across the grass to his horse and buggy.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIX
-
-|WHEN he had disappeared down the street, Margaret sat staring at the
-ground, her color still high, her eyes holding a delicate, spiritual
-effulgence, her breast rising and falling under stress of fiercely
-contending impulses, my Christian duty to forgive,” she argued. “I know
-he has repented, and he couldn't have been wholly to blame. His grosser
-nature was tempted. He fell, but he loved _me_ in a different way. He
-loves me still, or he wouldn't want me now. He showed it in New York. He
-has suffered enough, and I ought to take him back. But can I? _Can_ I?
-How could I forget, with her and his child right under my eyes? Perhaps,
-if I went to see her, that might help me decide. I ought to have gone,
-anyway. She really has had a hard life.”
-
-With her hand on her breast, as though the thought had given her actual
-physical pain, she bowed for a few minutes; then she calmly rose,
-fastened the strings of her graceful hat under her pretty chin, and
-walked deliberately down to Mrs. Barry's. Lionel was playing with some
-colored building-blocks on the porch, and looked up in vast surprise.
-
-“Where is your mother?” Margaret asked, timidly. “May I see her?”
-
-“She is in the studio,” the child said. “She is making a picture.”
-
-At this moment Dora stepped out into the hall from a room on the right,
-and with a look of undisguised and almost perturbed surprise she came
-forward.
-
-“Oh, she _is_ beautiful--beautiful!” ran like a dart through the
-visitor's brain. “She is a thousand times more now than she used to
-be; she has grown, developed. Such hair, such eyes, such color, such a
-perfect figure!”
-
-“I think I heard you asking for me,” Dora said, calmly,
-something--perhaps it was the sheer immunity of genius and conscious
-purity of purpose--lifting her above the embarrassment of the situation.
-
-“Yes, I came to see you,” Margaret said, bewildered by Dora's appearance
-and the growing sense of her wonderful and forceful personality. “I
-ought to have come before, I am well aware; but I hope you won't turn me
-away.”
-
-“Why should I, Margaret?” Even in the unruffled voice of the recluse
-there was a mellow hint of oblivion to the social degradation the
-outside world had draped her with. “Would you mind coming into my
-workroom? It is about as cheerful as our stuffy little parlor.”
-
-“Oh, you still paint?” Margaret cried, as she stood in the doorway
-and saw the pictures leaning here and there and tacked to the wooden
-partition.
-
-“Yes, I had to have some occupation,” Dora responded, quite frankly,
-“and I took it up. I think I should have died but for my art.”
-
-“And did you really do all these?” Margaret stared in admiration. “Oh,
-they are lovely, lovely!”
-
-“I'm glad you like them,” Dora said, appreciatively. “I am sorry I
-happen to have only these. Just last week I sent a box of the best away.
-I may as well tell you that I sell them--or, rather, have them sold for
-me.”
-
-“Oh, you do, really? How nice!--how very nice!” Margaret sat down almost
-in utter bewilderment. The whole thing was like a dream--the wonderful
-intellectual poise of the girl-like artist; her beauty; her charm;
-the far-away look of almost conscious superiority in the long-lashed,
-indescribable eyes. “And you intend to go on with your art?”
-
-“Oh yes, to the end--to the very end of life, and beyond, too, perhaps,”
- answered Dora, with a merry, philosophical laugh. “I am working toward
-a glorious goal. Far-off Paris beckons me, Margaret, even in my sleep.
-Mother and I read of nothing else now, and think of nothing else. We
-study French in our poor way, and speak it together. Even Lionel lisps a
-word of it now and then. Yes, Paris and my boy mean all to me now. This
-has been a prison for our little family, but there the breath of art
-animates all life. The people are not narrow; they rank essential purity
-above the sordid hypocrisy of mere convention. There my boy might grow
-up unconscious of--but you know what I mean.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” Margaret said, a vast womanly sympathy springing up within
-her that fairly swept her from the condemnatory position she had so long
-held.
-
-“And we hope to manage it very soon now,” the artist continued. “We are
-hoarding up my earnings for that, and nothing else. Lionel has the soul
-of a poet, artist, or musician, and in Paris he can grow and expand,
-and there--there he will not have to face what would inevitably be his
-portion if he remained here. His misfortune, if it can be called that,
-was not of his making, and God will help me to wipe it out of his
-consciousness--to blot it from his fair young soul.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” Margaret said, helplessly, and she rose to go. There was
-nothing she could say. Dora, in some unaccountable way, seemed beyond
-her mental reach, a glorious, sublimated creature more of spirit than
-of matter. The things she had striven for in her solitude had raised her
-higher than her surroundings. From a narrow point of view she had
-lost, from a higher and broader she had gained; she was the youthful
-forerunner of a future army of women who would be judged by the radiance
-of their souls rather than by the shadows of their bodies.
-
-Dora seemed to feel her sudden nearness in spirit to her old friend. For
-a moment she was silent. There was a clatter of blocks on the floor of
-the porch, followed by the soft click-click of the pieces of wood as the
-child put them together again from the heap into which they had fallen.
-
-“I have always wanted to have a good, long talk with you about Fred,”
- Dora suddenly began, “but I hardly knew how to propose it to you
-after--at least, after he went away so suddenly. I felt that I ought
-to see you personally, and yet my pride would not let me. He had
-his faults, Margaret, but there were many beautiful things in his
-character.”
-
-“I know, I know.” Margaret's heart fairly froze, and she stared coldly
-and held herself quite erect. Was it possible that the woman would dare
-to intimate that she cared to hear about that shameful intimacy? Had
-her ideas of art, her dreams of France and bohemian freedom from
-conventional laws, led her into the error of thinking that she, Margaret
-Dearing, would for a moment listen to such a confidence?
-
-“Only to-day I received a long letter from him,” Dora went on,
-unobservant of the change that had come over her visitor. “Let me get
-it. I am sure you will think more kindly of him when you have read
-what he writes. His father has been out to see him, and they are quite
-reconciled now. It has made Fred very happy. You see, there is no reason
-now why he may not come home. I want you to see the letter, for he
-mentions you in it, and I am sure, seeing how sweet and kind you are to
-me, that--”
-
-“I don't care to see it!” Margaret broke in, frigidly. “Please don't ask
-me. I am just going. I only had a few moments. I thank you very much for
-showing me your pictures.”
-
-Dora dropped her eyes in surprise, for the gaze of her haughty visitor
-was full of undisguised anger.
-
-“I didn't mean to offend you,” she said, humbly, “and I hope you will
-pardon me. I was only trying to do Fred a good turn, and I suppose I did
-it awkwardly. It is very good of you to come. Good-bye.”
-
-“Good-bye.” And Margaret swept from the room. As she crossed the porch
-and passed the little architect of a church of no mean design, he raised
-his eyes and said:
-
-“Look, lady; that is the tower for the big bell (ding-dong!), and this
-is the door--” But she paid no heed to him, as, with a shrug, almost of
-disdain, she passed on to the gate.
-
-“He is writing to her; he has been writing to her all these years,” she
-said within herself. “Perhaps he has even met her--she may have been to
-see him in other places. That is why she's lived so quietly--it gave her
-the chance to go and come as she liked. Perhaps he has put those ideas
-of Paris and free-love into her head. When he talked to me in New York
-he didn't mean that--that he cared for me deeply. He meant only that he
-wanted me and the rest of us here to overlook what he had done. When he
-told his silly old father that he would not come back unless I forgave
-him, he meant--he thought--he was trying to apologize--actually
-_apologize_--for having made love to me. I have lowered myself by going
-to her. It gave her that sly chance to stab me. She thinks I care. She
-thinks that I have been crying my eyes out about him. They have talked
-me over time after time. Oh, the shame of it--the utter _shame_ of it!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XX
-
-|MARGARET DEARING passed a restless, tumultuous night following the
-disturbing visit to Dora. In the evening she had joined her uncle at a
-game of whist in a nervous, abstracted way; she had played the piano in
-a spiritless fashion for her brother, who had come in tired from a long
-drive into the country, where he had performed a successful surgical
-operation; and then she had gone up to her bedchamber and thrown off the
-mask. She kept it off, for there was only the starlight to witness her
-white, blank face and piteously staring eyes as she sat at her window
-looking out. From the stretch of darkness below only one salient feature
-presented itself: it was the steadily burning light in Dora Barry's
-window. In her fancy Margaret saw the beautiful young mother bending
-over a table writing--writing to Fred Walton in answer to the last
-letter he had written. She rose suddenly, exasperated beyond endurance,
-and threw herself on her bed.
-
-She rose late the next morning and breakfasted in the big, sombre
-dining-room after the General and Wynn had gone to town. The servant
-said something she hardly heard, to the effect that Wynn had received
-a letter which called him to Augusta, and that he might be absent for
-several days. Breakfast over, Margaret strolled down to a favorite
-seat of hers on the lawn. Why was it, she asked herself, with poignant
-chagrin, that she welcomed the position as putting her into the full
-view of any one chancing to look from Dora Barry's cottage? Had she been
-very subtle in self-analysis and very frank touching her own desires,
-she would have admitted the subtle suggestion of her attitude, her
-apparent absorption in the magazine that she held in hand; must it not
-convey to her watching neighbor a conviction that the conversation of
-the afternoon just passed had been of no possible moment to her--that
-it had, in fact, caused no ripple in the even current of her satisfied
-existence.
-
-Indeed, the pages of the magazine were held so firmly before her
-unshifting eyes that she failed to notice that Lionel had crossed over
-the fence and was coming toward her holding an envelope in his little
-hand. He was dressed in a becoming gray suit, and his yellow, carefully
-brushed tresses caught the morning sunlight till they seemed a mass of
-delicate golden flames. The grass he daintily trod was wet with dew, and
-opalescent jewels seemed to blaze and fall at his feet. Margaret saw him
-from the corner of her eye as he timidly paused near her, and yet she did
-not at first deign to look up. The grim thought fastened itself on her
-distorted imagination that Dora was now watching, if at no other moment,
-so she lowered the magazine to her lap, taking studied care to turn down
-a leaf before glancing at the child.
-
-“My mother sent this note,” Lionel said, when he caught her eye.
-
-She took the envelope and opened it. It contained two separate
-communications. The first was to her from Dora. The other was in Fred
-Walton's well-remembered hand. Dora's note ran:
-
-_Dear Margaret,--I want you to do poor Fred the simple justice of
-reading his letter to me. I saw yesterday that you were angered by my
-mentioning him, and I don't believe you could have been so if you had
-the faith in him which he deserves. You may doubt him, for some reason
-or other, but I am sure you could do so no longer if you would only read
-the tender things he has written about you. Sincerely, Dora Barry._
-
-Margaret read and reread the note. Her prejudice was still playing riot
-with her better judgment, and, feeling sure that Dora's eyes were on
-her, she scornfully swept both the communications from her lap to the
-grass at her feet and turned to her magazine.
-
-Lionel stared, a pained expression slowly capturing his mobile features
-as he stood in rigid indecision for a moment; then, with a sigh, he
-stooped down and picked up the sheets of paper which were being blown
-about on the grass. The first page of Fred Walton's letter to Dora was
-the last he secured, and, just as he was picking it up, Margaret, almost
-against her will, dropped her glance upon it, reading the introductory
-line at the top of the sheet.
-
-“My dear old friend,” she saw quite plainly, in Fred's bold writing,
-“You will be surprised to hear from me for the first time after all
-these years--”
-
-“_Old friend--after all these years!_” Those words, so contradictory to
-what she expected, remained before Margaret's sight even after the child
-had gathered the sheets in his offended arms and was turning away. What
-could they mean? Surely that was not the way a man would begin a letter
-to the woman he had betrayed and deserted. There must be some mystery,
-and the child was bearing its solution away. Her desire to know more was
-too strong to be resisted. Impulsively she cried out:
-
-“Little boy! Lionel! Wait! Bring them back! I dropped them!” He turned,
-a look of mystification on his face, and came back doubtfully.
-
-“I haven't read them yet,” she explained, humbly enough, and she
-extended her hand. “Let me have them.”
-
-“I thought you were angry,” he said, staring at her. “I thought you
-didn't want my mother's letter.”
-
-“I'll read them,” she promised, tremblingly. “Wait, won't you? That's a
-good boy.”
-
-He stood beside her, studiously observant of the phenomenon of her
-changeableness, while she literally devoured Fred Walton's letter. It
-ran:
-
-My dear old friend,--You will be surprised to hear from me for the first
-time after all these years, and I have no valid excuse to offer. You may
-or may not have received the letter I wrote you telling you that I was
-leaving old Stafford forever. My bad conduct had driven my father to
-desperation, and I had grave reasons to believe that he would actually
-enforce the law against me. I had made up my mind to turn over a new
-leaf and fight it out on new lines at home, when the last straw came to
-break my purpose. Dear Dora, her brother Wynn approached me that very
-night and told me that her uncle intended positively to disinherit her
-if she kept faith in me. What was there for me to do? God knows I was
-unworthy of her, and the next morning was to bring things to light which
-would make her despise me; so I promised him then and there to go away
-and never communicate with her again. No human being ever suffered more
-keenly than I did at losing her, but I determined to fight my way to
-reformation, and by my own toil to restore to my father the funds I had
-misappropriated. After years of strife and hardship I have done it, and
-he has fully forgiven me. He has forgiven me and wants me to come home.
-_Home!_ Just think of it! To me old Stafford would be a heaven on earth.
-I think I could fall face downward in the dear old streets and kiss the
-very pavement. But I may not come yet. Somehow I can't, Dora. I believe
-most of the old town will forgive me, but she won't. I know she won't.
-Her ideas of honor are too high for that. The reason I am so sure is
-that I met her by chance in New York not long ago, and she gave me
-clearly to understand that I need never expect to regain her respect. I
-made my own case out pretty black to her brother, and I suppose he gave
-me my full dues in telling her about it. To my astonishment, my father
-told me that he had not spoken of my shortage at the bank, and that
-nothing had been said about it at home, but her brother told her.
-She got the confession straight from me, and there could be no better
-authority. I love her still, dear Dora, and more than ever. The very
-gulf between her and me has only made her the dearer.
-
-But I mustn't write so much about myself. My father says you are still
-unmarried. He couldn't tell me whether you had carried your painting
-further. I was sure it would do great things for you, and it is not too
-late, even yet.
-
-Another thing--I have always felt that I may have hurt your feelings
-past forgiveness by advising you as I did in that last letter not to
-trust too fully the man whom I mentioned. I now see that I had no right
-to go so far. You were hardly more than a child then, but you knew how
-to take care of yourself even with a man of the world like him, and I
-had no right to warn you. But I was going away, dear Dora, and I was so
-miserable about myself that I exaggerated your danger. I have seen
-by the papers that he has made a great success in life, and that old
-Stafford is very proud of him--
-
-*****
-
-Margaret folded the letter in her lap and sat aflame with joy, staring
-with glowing eyes at the vacant air.
-
-“Do you like it? Is it nice, lady?” the child asked.
-
-“Yes, very nice, and I thank you,” she answered. The child said
-something, but she did not hear it. The pent-up ecstasy within her was
-like physical pain; she could have screamed to give it an outlet. She
-felt a womanly yearning to embrace the boy, and would have opened
-her arms to him had she not heard steps behind her. Looking over her
-shoulder, she saw Kenneth Galt approaching.
-
-“I dropped in at the front to see you,” he said, with a bow. “They told
-me you were out here.” His eyes fell on the child, and a strange flare
-of inexpressible tenderness lighted his lack-lustre eyes as he drew a
-chair forward and sat down.
-
-“Yes, I like it here,” she intoned, and her voice, in her own ears,
-sounded far off, and as if it had taken on the timbre of a new and
-exalted existence. She half feared that Galt would note it.
-
-“You seem happy,” he said, thoughtfully, “and that is a condition that
-is most rare with humankind. I certainly envy a happy individual.”
-
-“Yes, I am very happy,” she said--“more so than I ever was in my life
-before.”
-
-“I certainly envy you,” he repeated, gloomily. “I have given up all hope
-of even touching the hem of the good dame's garment.” The boy had gone
-to him, and stood with his little hand on his father's knee, looking
-with trustful adoration into the dark, saturnine face above him.
-Something in the child's profile, now that Margaret held the glass of
-revelation to her eyes, showed kinship to its paternal prototype, and a
-dazzling dart of conviction flashed through her. At that instant she had
-a motherly instinct to draw the child from the contaminating touch of
-the man who had disowned it. His attitude of denial was a desecration to
-the holiness of parenthood, and in her soul she resented it.
-
-“Come to me, Lionel,” she said, gently. “I want you to kiss me. Won't
-you, just once?”
-
-The child stared as if scarcely believing that he had heard aright.
-
-“What did you say, lady?” he asked, as he lingered hesitatingly.
-
-She repeated her words more tenderly than before, and there was a mist
-before her sight as he came toward her.
-
-“Do you like me now?” he asked, wonderingly. “Yes, and love you very,
-very much,” she answered, huskily.
-
-“But you didn't ever so long at _first_; you didn't _yesterday_, when
-I asked you to see my church. You didn't just _this minute_, when I
-brought my mother's letter.”
-
-“But I do now, ever and ever so much,” she said, adopting his tone, and,
-taking him into her arms, she pressed him passionately to her breast
-and kissed him on his brow, on his cheeks, and on his red lips. Then,
-holding him in her arms, and with no word of explanation to Galt, she
-rose. “Put your arms close around my neck,” she said, “and hug me tight.
-I am going to run over and see your mother.”
-
-The child complied, timidly, a delicate flush of appreciation on his
-mobile face. Then she put him down, and, still not looking at Galt, she
-said:
-
-“No, you needn't come, Lionel; I'll only be there a minute to return the
-letter. You may stay here and entertain your--your good friend.”
-
-Galt, who had risen, stood looking after her for a moment, his
-countenance dark with the ever-constant despair within him. He felt the
-tiny, confident hands of his child as they pressed against his legs, and
-looked down into the sweetly smiling, upturned face.
-
-“They _all_ like me now,” Lionel said. “She was the only one that
-didn't, but she says she does _now_. She kissed me. Did you see her? Oh,
-she's so pretty! She is--no, she isn't, but she is _nearly_ as pretty as
-my mother.”
-
-Galt sat down and drew the boy first to a seat on his knee and then into
-his arms.
-
-“She knows the truth,” he said to himself, in a tone of desperate
-indifference to fate. “Something in that letter told her.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXI
-
-|AS she passed through the gate at the end of the lawn, Margaret looked
-back and saw the child and its father seated together.
-
-“Yes, he is the one,” she mused. “He of all men! And yet I might have
-known it; he has adored the child since the moment he first saw it there
-on the lawn.”
-
-Dora saw her coming from her easel near the window of her studio, and
-stood in the hall awaiting her. Her face was aglow with expectation.
-
-Without any word of greeting Margaret simply ran to her and threw her
-arms about her neck. “Oh, you are _so_ good, _so_ noble!” she cried.
-“I see it all now, and I have been wofully wrong. Oh, Dora, I could
-not have treated you as I have all these miserable years if I had not
-thought--I actually thought--”
-
-“I know now what you thought,” Dora broke in, a pained expression
-clutching her lips, as she drew Margaret into the studio. “I don't
-know why I did not think of it sooner, but I didn't. Away back when
-my trouble was blackest I heard that Fred's name had been coupled with
-mine. I denied it then, and thought that was the end of it. After that,
-you see,” she went on, with a shudder of repugnance to the topic, “I
-buried myself here so completely that no outside gossip reached my ears.
-I had to guard my own secret, and I was afraid that even the slightest
-agitation of the matter might disclose the truth. I--I would have died
-rather than have had it known--all of it, I mean.”
-
-“And yet you sent me this letter?” Margaret laid it on a table and stood
-staring gratefully into the beautiful face. “You sent it, although you
-knew that it might--at least--lead me to--to wonder who--”
-
-“Yes, I had to do it,” the young artist interrupted, her glance averted.
-“I could not bear to have you think Fred was anything but noble and true
-and good. Margaret, I cried for joy over the fine news in his letter. I
-couldn't believe you had snubbed the poor boy in New York for nothing.
-I was puzzled for a while, and then the horrible truth dawned on me.
-I hope he will never learn that he was so terribly misjudged. It would
-hurt him more than all else that has happened to him. They said he was
-bad, Margaret--wild, and a gambler, and all that; but to me he was like
-a sweet, thoughtful brother. If I'd only listened to his advice, I'd
-never have been situated like this; but I didn't. I thought I was very
-wise then. I have Lionel now, of course. He seemed to come to me like an
-angel of light out of a black sky of infinite pain. But if God will only
-show me a way to save him from future trouble, I--I--”
-
-“There, I have made you cry!” Margaret exclaimed, regretfully. “I am so
-sorry!”
-
-“I don't give way often.” Dora brushed the tears from her eyes. “It
-is only when I think of what may come to my little darling. Perhaps we
-shall get to Paris before he is old enough to understand, and then all
-this will fade from his childish memory.”
-
-“Yes, yes, you must go to Paris,” Margaret said. “I have more money than
-I need. Dora, surely you would not refuse to let me--”
-
-“Oh, no, no, no!” Dora cried out. “I couldn't think of it. What is done
-must be done by _me_, by _my_ brain, and by _my_ hands. God will surely
-let me atone in that way for my mistake. It is what I have prayed for
-night and day all these years, and the reward surely can't be far off.”
- She forced a wan smile to her rigid face, and added: “Then, like the
-Arabs, some night we'll fold our tents and silently steal away from old
-Stafford. Only the grocer-boy and the postman will know, at first, and
-then the last chapter of our life here will be written. It seems sad,
-doesn't it?--but it is sweet, so very, very sweet and soothing.”
-
-Margaret was crying. Without a word, she kissed Dora and went out. But
-she did not return home at once. She kept on down the little street
-on which the cottage stood till she came to another which led to the
-square.
-
-She passed the stores, bowing to an acquaintance in a doorway or in a
-passing carriage, and went on to Walton's bank.
-
-“Is Mr. Walton in?” she asked Toby Lassiter, at the cashier's window in
-the green wire grating.
-
-“He has just this minute stepped out,” Toby answered. “He will be right
-in. Won't you go to his office and wait?”
-
-“Thank you, yes,” she answered, and went back to the musty little room,
-taking a chair near the old man's desk.
-
-Without a moment's delay, Toby grabbed his hat and went out in the
-street. He found the banker lounging around Pete Longley's grocery
-store, where he had an attentive audience. Toby knew better than to
-interrupt the old man when he was talking, so he waited for Walton to
-finish his remarks, which, judging by the steady gleam of the banker's
-eye, had some underlying motive; and, considering the fact that Pete
-was a noted gossip, Toby decided that his employer was simply and
-deliberately setting afloat certain reports that would be on every lip
-before nightfall.
-
-“Oh yes,” Toby heard him saying, “I never was a man to let my right hand
-know what my left was doing in any deal whatsoever, and so, all this
-time, I have kept my own counsel in regard to where Fred was at, and
-why--why I sent him out there. He invested some of the scads that is
-coming to him in that big boom town and turned his money over as fast as
-a dog can trot. Boys, I'm actually ashamed to tell you fellows how rich
-he really is. I reckon you'd get an idea of how he's fixed if I was
-to say he has made more since he left here than I've raked and scraped
-together all my life.”
-
-“You don't say!” Pete Longley exclaimed. “Well, that certainly is fine.
-I reckon he did it through his popularity. I never knew a chap that had
-as many friends.”
-
-“Well, he'll be back to shake hands with you all very soon now,” Walton
-said, gratified at the way his fuse had ignited. “I've been out to see
-him a time or two, but he has always been too busy to come this way;
-but he'll get here--he'll lay everything down and head this way some day
-before long.”
-
-Just then Walton caught sight of the breathless Toby at his elbow; he
-stepped out to the edge of the sidewalk, and bent down to hear what his
-clerk had to say.
-
-“She's waiting for you in your office, Mr. Walton,” Toby panted.
-
-“Who?--not--”
-
-“Yes, sir; I told her to sit down and I'd fetch you in.”
-
-“Oh, Lord, I reckon I'll get it in the neck, Toby!” Walton's face was a
-veritable mask of gravity and concern. “I reckon she's come to give the
-boy his walking-papers. I have thought it over till my head swims. No
-woman of her station and pride would ever let a man come back to her
-while a thing like that is hanging over him. If the woman and the child
-was dead and under ground, it might be different. She's come too quick
-to bear good news--a woman would tussle over a thing like that for a
-good month, and then ask for more time. No, the jig is up! I deserve it
-for the string of lies I was wrapping round that gang to make my case as
-good as possible.”
-
-He moved slowly into the bank, hung up his hat in the little hallway
-deliberately, and quite after the manner in which he went to meet
-business proposals, with his rough face grimly set against rejections
-and compromises. She was going to cast him down, but he'd show her that
-he was game. She had practically closed the matter during his interview
-with her, and had only delayed longer at his earnest request. No, she
-shouldn't chuckle over his defeat. He didn't know but what he'd throw
-out a hint that Fred wasn't really so very “rampageous” in the matter,
-after all.
-
-“Oh, how do you do?” he said, as he went in. She started to hold out
-her hand, but, not looking for such a movement, he failed to see it, and
-lunged toward his desk, where he sat and took up a pen.
-
-“Well, I reckon,” he began, awkwardly, “you've' come to see me about--to
-say whether or not--that is, you remember, I said if you finally
-decided--”
-
-“I _have_ decided, Mr. Walton.” She rose and came and stood over him.
-Her voice was quivering; there was a blaze of burning joy in her face
-and eyes, but he did not see it.
-
-“Oh, you _have!_ Well, it's for you to say whether you thought best or
-not. I reckon I went just a _little_ mite beyond my authority up
-there, in my effort to conduct Fred's affairs for him, without, you
-understand--without his _free_ consent. I only thought, maybe, if you
-would signify your willingness to overlook certain rather shady things,
-Fred might take it as a sort o'--sort o' all-round sign from _this_
-end--a sort of index of public opinion bearing on his particular case,
-and--”
-
-“Yes, I have decided, Mr. Walton,” Margaret broke in. “I have come to
-ask you to write to him. Tell him, please, that I'd like to see him.
-I feel sure that when he gets home he and I will fully understand each
-other.”
-
-“Good gracious, Miss Margaret, you don't mean--” Simon stood up to his
-full height, his old eyes blinking in astonishment.
-
-“Yes, I do, Mr. Walton. I want to see him and talk to him. I don't know
-how to say it to _you_, but I am sure Fred will understand. Tell him
-that I--that I kissed you for his sake, there!”
-
-And before Simon could avoid it she had thrown her arms around his
-neck and actually pressed her lips to his grizzled cheek. To add to his
-confusion, Toby hastily entered the room just as she was releasing her
-dumfounded captive.
-
-“Oh!” Toby gasped, his face ablaze with embarrassment, “I didn't mean
-to; but the General is at the door in his carriage, and asked if you
-were in here. Of course, Miss Margaret, I hadn't the least idea but--”
-
-“Well, don't let it get out, for all you do, Toby,” Margaret laughed,
-merrily. “Don't forget, Mr. Walton; by to-night's mail, sure!”
-
-And the next instant she had floated out of the room, leaving the
-red-face banker under the perplexed stare of his apologetic clerk.
-
-“She oughtn't to have done that!” Walton growled, as he brushed the
-shoulders of his coat where her gloved hands had rested and stroked his
-tingling cheek. “She had no business going as far as that. Women are
-such dad-dratted galoots when they get wound up in any matter. She seems
-willing for him to come. I'm not able to understand it, and I don't
-intend to try. They won't be long getting hitched if she goes at him in
-a whirlwind like that. Good Lord, I wouldn't have my wife know what she
-done just now for any man's pile! She'd make a scandal out of it, or
-break her neck trying.”
-
-“Well, it's safe in my hands, Mr. Walton,” Toby said, with unconscious
-humor. “_I'll_ never tell it.”
-
-“_You'll_ never tell it? Who the devil asked you to hide it?” Walton
-stormed. “But I reckon she meant it to sort o' seal what she'd made up
-her mind to agree to, and she really is swallowing a pill, Toby, from
-any point of view. But it will make the boy powerful happy, and he
-will be on the wing as soon as he gets my report. Huh! I see his old
-stepdaddy's face now. He may try to keep him; but, shucks! I've got the
-old duck where the feathers are short. I've started a bang-up report in
-the boy's favor, Toby, and you can sort o' kick the ball along whenever
-it comes your way. We needn't mention that nasty business to him,
-neither; if Margaret can let bygones be bygones, surely the rest of us
-can.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXII
-
-|UNDER a growing weight of uneasiness, combined with a sense of utter
-discontent with himself, Galt put Lionel down when he had half listened
-to his accusing prattle for an hour, and sought the shadowy solitude of
-his great house.
-
-Yes, Margaret Dealing knew, he told himself. That was plain from her
-change of manner. She knew the truth at last, and was now heaping upon
-him the silent, womanly contempt which he so eminently deserved.
-
-He sat at his open window and watched the shadows fall and sullenly
-creep across the lawn as the sunbeams receded, and the twilight of
-a close, sultry evening came on. He went down to supper when he was
-called, but he ate little and his loneliness seemed more oppressive
-there in the open gas-light, under the gaze of the observant and
-solicitous attendants. Taking a cigar, he went outside and began to walk
-up and down on the grass, now grimly fighting against the fate which,
-like some grim sea-monster, was clutching him with a million penetrating
-tentacles, and coiling round him as might some insidious reptile bent
-upon retributive torture. How had he dared to question the predominance
-of spirit over matter when this piteous appeal for the peace of his soul
-was oozing from the very fibre of his being?
-
-Presently he saw Wynn Dearing emerge from the front door of his home,
-carrying a traveller's bag. Dearing rested the bag on the walk at his
-feet and stood looking down the street. Then, with his arms folded, he
-began to walk nervously to and fro.
-
-“He is going away,” Galt speculated. “He looks excited. I wonder if
-Margaret could have told him of her discovery?”
-
-Galt stood still, held to the ground by the sheer horror of the thought.
-Of all possible happenings, he had most dreaded his best friend's
-discovery of that particular thing. The young doctor had turned toward
-him and was approaching. He now held his head down and had clasped his
-hands tensely behind him. Suddenly, when quite near, he raised his eyes
-and recognized Galt.
-
-“Hello, Kenneth!” he said. “I didn't know you were at home. Otherwise, I
-should have run in and said good-bye.”
-
-“You are going somewhere, then?” Galt said.
-
-“To Augusta for a few days,” Dearing replied. “I got a letter offering
-me a chance to do an important operation. I shall be glad to get away,
-even for so short a time as that. I almost wish, old man, that I could
-stay away forever. I used to love this town, but I hate it now. I hate
-anything that is heartless and totally blinded by money and power to all
-sense of justice and common decency.”
-
-“Why, what's gone wrong?” Galt inquired.
-
-“Wrong? The place is rotten to the core!” Dearing burst out. “Kenneth,
-a thing is going to be countenanced by the citizens of this town that
-would stain the character of the Dark Ages. Haven't you heard the news
-that has set every tongue to wagging like a thousand bell-clappers?”
-
-“No, I haven't heard anything out of the ordinary. You see, I am keeping
-so close here at home that--”
-
-“Well, old man, the lowest, poorest excuse for a man that old Stafford
-ever produced is coming back,” Dearing broke it, furiously. “Fred
-Walton, I mean. I didn't think he'd have the effrontery to show his face
-here again, but he has decided to do it.”
-
-“Oh!” Galt exclaimed. But that was all he said, for Dearing went on,
-angrily:
-
-“Yes, and the dastardly thing--the most outrageous fact about it all--is
-that every soul in the place is ready to receive him with open arms.
-He has made lots of money; he is rich; he has reformed, they say, and,
-idiots that they are, they have forgiven him. I have heard his return
-spoken of by a score of our very best citizens, and not one of them has
-even mentioned the crime that lies at his door--the crime that stands
-out to-day in a more damning light than it ever did. The brave, patient,
-suffering little woman--who is as high above him intellectually,
-morally, and every other way as the stars are above the earth--and that
-glorious child are to have another slap from his dirty, egotistical
-paw. He put her into prison and made her an exile with his nameless
-offspring, and yet he comes back like a royal prince. 'Wild oats,' they
-call his vile conduct, and they are ready to wipe it off his record.
-That is modern mankind for you, and, Kenneth, this one circumstance has
-come nearer to shaking my faith than anything that ever happened to me.
-If God can allow an insult like that to come to Dora Barry now, after
-all she has borne so sweetly, silently, and bravely, He can be no God of
-mine. I'll be through with the creeds, I tell you. I'll join your gang
-of scoffers and trot along wherever your black philosophy leads. Even my
-uncle has no protest to make, nor my sister, who I thought had given the
-scamp up in disgust. By George, she even looks happy over it! I don't
-want to meet him face to face. I don't know that I could control myself.
-She has given me no right to act as her defender; if she had,
-Kenneth, I'd take up her cause if it ended my career here forever!”
-
-“You? You?” Galt gasped.
-
-“Yes, I. Listen, old man. You are my best friend, and I feel like
-telling some one. I feel that it would be a sort of tribute of respect
-to her worthiness. I presume you, like all the rest, think that I never
-have had any preference for any particular woman, but I have had, and I
-am not ashamed of it.
-
-“When I was a boy of thirteen or so, and Dora was about eight, we used
-to play together. Even at that age I had an eye for beauty, and she was
-the prettiest child that ever lived. We called ourselves sweethearts.
-Her old father used to get us to sit for him in his studio, and he would
-talk to us as only such a beautiful soul could to children. He used
-to sigh and say that she would be a pauper, and that I would grow up a
-prince, for an artist could not leave his daughter money, and my
-father was said to be well-to-do. Even at that early age I denied the
-possibility of such a thing making any difference between her and me,
-and when she grew up into such beautiful girlhood, and was studying art
-under her father, I determined to make something of myself, aside from
-the inheritance which was to come to me. So I went in for medicine and
-surgery, and she kept to art, saying that she would earn a living for
-her parents when they became old. But he died away off in Paris, whither
-his dreams led him, while I was at college, and when I came home I found
-that she had grown away from me. It was a great blow, for I had been
-constantly thinking of her. To me she was the very glory of her sex,
-and it was mostly her influence that made me what I am. I have seen many
-women since then, but never her equal from any point of view. I went
-with her occasionally after that, but it was more to become accustomed
-to her loss than in the hope of winning her regard. Then the awful,
-unmentionable thing came out. You know what I mean. That man had won her
-confidence, won her heart--how, God only knows, but he had--and dealt
-her a back-handed blow, and left her helpless, miserable. I tried then,
-harder than ever, to tear her image out of my heart, but I couldn't. My
-professional duties called me into the saddened home to which no other
-soul was admitted. I saw that even in her blighted womanhood she was
-fulfilling every promise given by her youth. Instead of sinking lower,
-she was blooming like a flower under snow. I suppose I shall go through
-the rest of my life with her personality woven into the very warp and
-woof of my being. But knowing her has strengthened and broadened me. She
-is beautiful, pure, and spiritual--God's denial of the social law held
-over her. Only shallow men judge women by physical mistakes made in the
-unselfish purity of over-confidence. She will never call on me for
-the aid I'd gladly give, and I can't insult her strange widowhood by
-offering it. She has her heart set on going to Paris to live and study,
-as her father did. She thinks she can bury herself there before Lionel
-is old enough to realize his condition, and that he may never know the
-truth. It is a beautiful dream, but it can never be realized.”
-
-A horse and buggy stopped at the gate, and Doctor Beaman, who was
-driving, leaned over and called out, excitedly: “I'm fifteen minutes
-late, Wynn; you may miss the train. Hurry! hurry!”
-
-“That's a fact; I must go. Good-bye, old man.” Galt held on to Dearing's
-hand firmly, almost desperately.
-
-“Wait, I have something to say,” he began--“something that simply must
-be said.”
-
-“Good gracious, Wynn, hurry, hurry!” Doctor Beaman was heard calling
-out, impatiently. “You don't want to lie over in Atlanta. I'll have to
-go in a gallop, and _then_ may miss your train! Hurry!”
-
-“Wait, just a moment,” Galt implored.
-
-“Oh, I know you are sympathetic.” Dealing, misunderstanding, ran for
-his bag, with the wordless Galt shambling along at his side. “I couldn't
-have told you all that if you hadn't taken such a liking for the poor
-little kid. Good-bye, good-bye, only don't join the gang of fools that
-will laud that scamp to the skies when he comes--that is all I ask.”
-
-“But you _must_ listen!” Galt cried out. “I must tell you now that--”
- But Dearing had darted away. The gate closed after him, and Galt saw him
-climbing into the buggy even while it was in motion.
-
-“Well, he'll know it soon enough,” the lonely man thought. “The facts
-will come out now. Walton will hear the report when he gets back, and
-Dora will declare him innocent.”
-
-Galt went into the dimly lighted hallway of his house and ascended the
-stairs. There was nothing to do now, he told himself. The world that had
-admired him, the men and women who had entrusted him with the investment
-of their savings in his various schemes, would stare and doubt their
-senses. They would shun him--one and all they would shun him as they
-would some loathsome thing; he had used their money well, but their
-profit had been made by a man who had known no honor.
-
-He entered his room, turned up the light, and critically examined his
-ghastly image in the mirror on his bureau. What a gashed and blearing
-mask to all that lay behind it! How could it go on? How could he bear
-with it another day? Even if he could lay it aside in sleep to-night,
-the heartless dawn would reveal it all the more relentlessly. Suddenly
-out of the turmoil of his emotions a grim resolve rose and fastened
-itself on him. His suicide would be his confession--his belated
-exoneration of the man who so long had borne the stigma in his stead. In
-a small drawer in the bureau lay a revolver. It was loaded in all of its
-six chambers, and as he took the weapon out he almost fondled it in his
-clammy hand. In the morning his servants would find his body, and
-the truth would be out. He would close the door and windows that the
-revolver's report might be smothered. But he started; there was the
-child, his helpless child, to whom he had given life--and _such_ a life!
-
-“Lionel, Lionel!” he said, aloud. “My son, my son, my beautiful brave
-boy, who loves me in spite of what I have done against him! Will he
-grow up and understand? Will he pardon his misguided father, or blush
-for shame at the thought of him?”
-
-With the revolver still in his hand, he sank into a chair near a window
-and gazed out into the star-filled sky. Suddenly he started. Whence had
-come the thought? He could not tell, but a new and dazzling conviction
-was on him like light streaming through the gates of Paradise. Kill
-himself? How absurd the thought! He might dash his bleeding, lifeless
-body to the earth, but he, himself, would remain a deathless witness
-to the act. Nothing in the shape of matter, no force known to science,
-could possibly put out of existence the yearning for atonement within
-him. Nothing so divine as that could die. Such a thing was from the
-Eternity that had created Eternity. He threw the revolver on his bed,
-and drew a deep, delectable breath. His now entranced vision seemed to
-extend further out into the world-filled void above him. He stood up,
-panting from the sheer ravage his new hope had wrought upon him.
-
-“Eternity! Eternity!” he whispered, in reverential awe. “Now I
-see--the scales have fallen from my sight. I see! Thank God, I see! I
-understand!”
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXIII
-
-|WHEN Kenneth Galt waked the next morning it was with the new sense of
-having slept long and restfully for the first time in years. The sun
-was streaming into his windows from the golden east; the cool air seemed
-crisp and invigorating; in the boughs of the trees close by birds were
-flitting about and singing merrily. The dew-wet sward, bespangled with
-a myriad of sun-born gems, stretched away into the gauzy mist which hung
-over the town.
-
-“It is glorious--glorious!” he cried, in ecstasy. “She may refuse, but I
-shall never desist till I have won her forgiveness.”
-
-After he had breakfasted in the big dining-room, now no longer solitary,
-sombre, or accusing, he went directly down to Mrs. Barry's cottage.
-With a strange, buoyant lightness of step he entered the little gate,
-fastened the latch with a calm hand, and went up the steps and rapped on
-the closed door, seeing, as he stood waiting, the face of Mrs. Chumley,
-as the washerwoman peered curiously over the fence at him from her
-wood-pile, where she was wielding a gapped and dull-edged axe. The door
-was opened by Mrs. Barry, who could not disguise her surprise.
-
-“I have come to see your daughter, Mrs. Barry,” he said, humbly, as
-he stood uncovered before her. “I hope she will receive me; I have
-something important to say.”
-
-“She's not here. But don't stand there,” the old woman said; “somebody
-might see you and wonder. Come into the parlor.”
-
-She led the way, and he followed.
-
-“No, she is not here,” she repeated, when they were in the simply
-furnished room. “She and Lionel went very early to the swamp over the
-hill near the river. She had some sketching to do, and he wished to go
-along. You say you want to see her. Of course, you understand that such
-a request is unexpected, to say the least, and, as I am her mother--”
- The speaker seemed at a loss for words to express her meaning, and
-paused helplessly.
-
-“I am glad of this opportunity to see you first,” Galt said, humbly.
-“Mrs. Barry, I've come to beg her, on my knees if need be, to be my
-wife. Perhaps you may understand; I hope you do.”
-
-“Oh!” And the old woman sank into a rocking-chair and stared up at him.
-“Oh!” she exclaimed again, her wrinkled hand pressed against her
-thin breast. “You mean that, do you, Kenneth Galt? Well, I have never
-mentioned it to her, but I thought it might come. I read faces fairly
-well, and I saw, even at a distance, the spiritual despair in yours.
-Knowing what you were responsible for, I felt that your solitary life
-in your lonely house would bring results, for good or bad. At first I
-thought you might resume--might make dishonorable proposals; but when I
-saw you and Lionel together so often I began to count on other things--I
-began to _pray_ for other things. You don't look like a mean man,
-Kenneth Galt; and I can't find it in my heart to reproach you. Besides,
-it is pitiful to think about, considering the child's future; but she
-may have you now right where you had her once.”
-
-“You mean--you mean!” he exclaimed, aghast, as he bent over her chair
-and stared into her calm face. “You mean that--”
-
-“I mean that it may be too late,” she interrupted him.
-
-“Too late?” He sank into a chair in front of her, and, pale and
-quivering in every limb, swung his hat between his knees.
-
-“Yes; she is my daughter, but she is above me in a thousand ways. She
-suffered untold agonies after you desert--after you left Stafford, and
-all through her trouble; but when the baby came, and we were all shut up
-here away from human sight, the choicest blessings from on high seemed
-to fall on her. With her close work in her studio, and her devotion
-to the child, she grew into something more of heaven than of earth. I
-suppose there is such a thing as rising too high to love, in a _human_
-sort of way, and I tremble when I think of how she may now take your
-proposal. I want her to be sensible and think of the boy's interests,
-but the idea of helping him in _just that way_ may be--be repulsive to
-her. She's done without your aid all these years, you see, Kenneth Galt.
-She has leaned on a Higher Power than any earthly one, and has already
-received her reward. You knew her as she was once, but not as she is
-now. She was hardly more than a child then. Her father used to say she
-would be a great genius, and I think she really is. Her isolation
-from mankind has done her more good in one way than harm. It has put
-something into her work that couldn't have got there any other way.
-Only yesterday a letter came from a high authority on art--But I have no
-right to speak of her private affairs. If she sees fit to tell you about
-it she may. That's another matter. She has never been ashamed, as this
-town, no doubt, thinks she is. She looked on what passed between you and
-her before the trouble as a true marriage in the sight of God. It wasn't
-the way persons generally look at such matters, but she wasn't a common,
-ordinary person, and she didn't think the man she loved was--that is, I
-mean she thought you looked at it _exactly as she did_. She took you
-at your word. If what I say pains you, I'm sorry. I must be blunt to
-express what is in me, for I have long ago justified her. If she had
-been worldly minded, back there when she was glorying in the secret
-between you and her, she would have had worldly caution and forethought.
-You may get forgiveness even from her, Kenneth Galt, in time, but there
-can be nothing quite as unforgivable in the sight of God, it seems to
-me, as taking advantage of _just that sort of faith_.”
-
-The light of hope had died out of Galt's parchment-like face. He dropped
-his horrified gaze to the floor.
-
-“I see,” he groaned. “I am too late!” and sat as if stunned. “I was
-never up to her level. It was only her girlish fancy that told her I
-was.”
-
-“Oh, I don't know!” Mrs. Barry said, almost sympathetically. “Now that
-you feel as you do, her old trust might come back. There is one thing
-that has touched her, I'll tell you that much, for certain, and that has
-been your love for Lionel. One day I caught her shedding tears over it
-as she stood concealed by the window-curtain watching you play with him
-in the swing. If anything ever brings her back to you, it will be that
-one thing. He loves you, too; he is always talking of you, and, if I am
-any judge, she rather likes to hear it. It may be that--it may not; I
-never can be sure I am reading her right.”
-
-He rose. “I am going to find her now,” he said. “At any rate, she shall
-know how I feel. She may spurn me, but from this day on I shall devote
-my life to her interests and those of our child.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXIV
-
-|INTO the wood, a wild, unbrageous tract of land lying back of the
-cottage, he strode, full of ponderous fears as to the outcome of his
-undertaking, and yet vaguely buoyed up by the natural beauty on all
-sides. Soon the town lay behind him; only the low hum of its traffic,
-the occasional clanging of a locomotive's bell, the whistle of an engine
-at a factory, the clatter of a dray followed him. The reverent, almost
-peaceful thought was borne in upon him that the meandering, little-used
-path he was pursuing had been traversed many times by Dora. In that
-secluded and picturesque spot she had breathed in the inspiration which
-had lifted her far above those by whom she had been misunderstood and
-traduced. Along that path she and his child, perchance, had plucked
-flowers through the years in which he had shunned them--denied them
-before the world, whose good opinion he had coveted to his moral
-undoing.
-
-Half a mile from the cottage the path began to descend to the river
-valley, a vast swampy tangle of dense undergrowth. Here in the marshes,
-impassable during the overflow of winter and spring, but now dank, cool,
-and seductive, were many nooks of indescribable beauty. Here moss-grown
-willows bowed over seeping, crystal pools and silently trickling water.
-There were the armies of cattails, the solitary clumps of broom-sedge,
-the banks of delicate ferns, and the pond-lilies which had formed the
-background of her pictures. There she had found the wild rose-bushes,
-the papaw, the sumac, and the mazes of grape and muscadine vines into
-the reproduction of which she had poured her crushed and yet awakening
-soul.
-
-Presently he came upon her seated on a mossy bank, her closed
-sketch-book on her knee. She was not working, but, with the end of her
-pencil at her parted lips, she sat watching Lionel, whom he could see
-plucking flowers and colored leaves not far away.
-
-“Now, don't go any farther, darling boy!” he heard her call out, in
-tones the mellow sweetness of which shot through him like a delectable
-pain. “You might wander away, and then mother's boy would be lost.”
-
-Sheltered from her view by hanging vines and the lowering branches of
-a beech-tree, Galt peered out at her. How could he have been so
-blinded?--so densely unappreciative of her? Where in all his experience
-had he known a creature so beautiful in soul, mind, and body? And yet
-he had thrown her down and trampled on her and left her covered with
-the mire and slime of his own making. He smothered a groan of blended
-self-contempt and despair. Her mother had doubted his ever regaining
-her regard, and Mrs. Barry knew her best. The girl had been at his mercy
-once, and he had not hesitated to strike; now she had the upper hand.
-What would she do? How would she receive his proposal?--what would she
-say? Would her soulful eyes blaze under the fires of just retaliation?
-Would her magnetic voice ring with the contempt she must so long have
-felt?
-
-[Illustration: 0008]
-
-Noiselessly treading the dank, green moss which lay between him and
-her, he was close to her before she was aware of his presence. Then she
-glanced up and saw him; there was a fluttering, shrinking look in her
-long-lashed eyes, in which he read the hurried hope that the meeting
-was purely accidental; to his horror, he also read in the simple act of
-reaching for her hat, which lay by her side, that she intended to avoid
-any sort of intercourse with him.
-
-With the agony of this fear sounding in his voice, he cried,
-imploringly: “Please don't run away! I have been to your house to see
-you; your mother told me you were here.”
-
-“But she _wouldn't_,” Dora said, pale and surprised. “She knows that I
-don't want to--to meet _any one_ here. It isn't fair, Kenneth--you know
-it isn't! It is taking a mean, low advantage of me, after all that
-has happened. It is cowardly, and I won't stand it. You will leave me
-instantly, or _I_ shall go!”
-
-“God forgive me, you are right, Dora!” he cried, in dismay. “But there
-is something I must say, and even your mother thought I might venture to
-see you.”
-
-“If it is to offer me money for my boy, as you did in the contemptible
-letter I burned unanswered, soon after his birth, you will be wasting
-time,” she said, wrathful, in her cold, unrelenting beauty. “I can't
-accept money, even for him, which was earned as the price of his
-mother's public disgrace. He is mine, and he shall be mine to the end.
-I can work for him till he is old enough to work for me. We don't need
-you--neither of us do, Kenneth.”
-
-“I have made you angry,” he said, quivering from head to foot, his
-anguished eyes fixed on hers. “Listen, Dora. Last night I planned to
-kill myself to get out of the agony into which my awakened love for you
-and my new love for Lionel has drawn me. I was ready to do it, for to
-that moment I had no fear of God or eternity; but a change came over me.
-Hope dawned; I don't know why, but it did, and I made a determination to
-spend the remainder of my life in your service, and in that of my child,
-for he is mine as much as he is yours.
-
-“Then my new hope seemed to fairly set the world on fire. It was showered
-down from heaven like the forgiveness of God upon a blinded creature
-buried in the mire of sin. Ever since I sold my honor the night my
-ambition conquered me, I have been a cursed, isolated soul. It must have
-been the hand of God that led me back here to Stafford. I love Lionel
-with all my heart, and I know now, in spite of my contradictory conduct,
-that I have loved you all this time. Last night Wynn Dearing told
-me that it is your wish to go to Paris--you, your mother, and the
-child--and the thought came to me that if you would be my wife we could
-go and remain there a few years, and return here to spend the rest of
-our lives, and thus regain the happiness we've lost. Oh, don't turn from
-me, Dora! You must, oh, you must give me a chance! God knows it is my
-duty, and you must not stand between me and that. I can wait for the
-return of your respect, even if it is for years. But give me a chance!”
-
-She had turned her face from him, and he could not tell what effect his
-appeal had had upon her; but he saw that her soft, white fingers were
-clinched tightly on her knee. Suddenly she looked him squarely in the
-face.
-
-“Oh, you make it so _hard_ for me!” she said, gently. “I knew you were
-not a happy man. I saw the shadow of spiritual death in your countenance
-the day I met you at Dearing's. Yes, the child is yours, as well as he
-is mine. God has made him a part of you, as he is a part of me. And he
-loves you, Kenneth, he loves you--and admires you above all men. Young
-as he is, it would actually pain him to be separated from you. And you
-are asking me to be your wife!” She shrugged her shoulders, her proud
-lip quivered, and she looked away. “You are asking me, and _now!_”
-
-“Yes, Dora, to be my wife before the world, as you have been in God's
-sight all these years. I am willing to crawl in the dust at your feet.
-You are far above me. You were that when I blindly deserted you, and I
-can never be worthy of your forgiveness, but I would die for a chance to
-serve you.”
-
-“How sad it all is!” she sighed, her glance on the ground. “What a mere
-blown-about straw I have been! What a grim thing for a proud woman to
-decide! You deserted me once to save a paltry sum of money--a worldly
-ambition; you want me back to _save your soul_--that expresses it,
-Kenneth. But I can't consent. I am simply human--and a woman. My pride
-won't let me--the pride that every woman has who holds herself erect.
-You sold yourself once, and you are now asking me to do the same. Your
-price was a successful railroad and the plaudits of a few people--the
-price paid to me would be the future welfare of my child. I am expected
-to salve the wounds of a torn and mangled womanhood with the realization
-that I am providing for my boy. There is no pain keener than the fear
-that one's offspring may suffer what we ourselves have been through, and
-I'd give my soul to see Lionel happy in the time to come, but I can't
-bring it about in the way you ask. I simply can't! I loved you, Kenneth,
-before that unspeakable cloud fell between us, but I was only a girl
-then, and during all the years that have passed since I have given
-you no place at all in my heart. We are, in fact, meeting to-day as
-strangers.”
-
-“I know. I know it is true so far as it touches _you_,” he said, with a
-deep sigh, “for your love died with your respect for me, but my love
-has never died, Dora. I smothered it for a time, in my mad ambition, but
-there was no act of yours to weaken it, and so it lived and grew till it
-has overpowered me. I love you now, strange as it may sound to you, ten
-thousand times more than I ever did. You may turn from me with a shudder
-and as a thing to be loathed; but I shall never cease to watch over you
-and strive to protect you.”
-
-“I can't say any more,” she said, as she tied the tape round her
-portfolio and gathered up her pencils. “I don't want to pain you; but
-I can't do what you ask, even--even for Lionel's sake. He and I and
-his granny _may_ go to Paris some day, but we don't want you with us,
-Kenneth. I want to leave absolutely _everything_ behind. You must be
-dead to us; there is no other way--no other possible way.”
-
-He turned his fixed gaze away, that she might not see the look of agony
-which had overspread his face. She sat still and silent for several
-minutes; then he saw her draw herself up excitedly, look about
-anxiously, and rise to her feet.
-
-“Oh, where is Lionel?” she cried. “He was there in the bushes when you
-came. Oh, he may have wandered off and be lost! There are some very
-dangerous places along the river-bank!”
-
-“I see him! Don't be alarmed!” Galt said, indicating a spot beyond a
-clump of bushes. “He's all right; I'll bring him to you.”
-
-“Thank you,” she said, coldly, and she sank back rigidly on the grass.
-
-He returned a moment later with Lionel in his arms. She could see, as
-she swept them with a hurried glance, that Galt was pressing the child
-close against his breast with a look of despair in his white face.
-Reaching Dora, Galt was lowering the child to the ground when Lionel
-clung tightly round his neck, pressing his little hand against his
-cheek.
-
-“What is the matter?” Lionel asked, anxiously. “Mamma, he can't talk. He
-tries, but he can't; he is trembling all over; he is about to cry. What
-is the matter with him?”
-
-Reaching up, and without a word, Dora took the child into her arms, and,
-holding him across her lap as if he had been an infant, she bent over
-his face to kiss him. Presently she looked up at Galt, and her proud lip
-trembled as she said:
-
-“Oh, Kenneth, fate is handling us strangely. I spoke harshly just now,
-for I can see that you are suffering. I wish I could be less human.
-After all my dreams, I am of the earth, earthy. I am no higher than a
-worm of this soil, after all the heights I thought I had climbed. But
-I can't help myself. I could never forget. I might try throughout
-eternity, but I'd never, never forget--forget that I offered myself
-wholly, body and soul, and that you refused to--to take me when I was
-in trouble. It may be sinful to look at it so, but I simply can't see it
-otherwise. You must really go now. Good-bye!”
-
-“Good-bye,” he echoed, in his throat. “I am going away to-morrow, and I
-promise never to intrude myself upon either of you again.”
-
-“'Good-bye?'--you said 'good-bye!'” Lionel suddenly sat up in his
-mother's lap and stared from his great, startled eyes, his beautiful
-mouth puckered up and quivering.
-
-“Yes, I have to go away,” Galt faltered, his glance averted. “I only
-came to spend a short time at Stafford.”
-
-“But you told me you never would go away from me,” the child persisted.
-“Don't you remember the day I fell and hurt my knee, and you washed it
-and put the medicine on it? Don't you remember you kissed me, and hugged
-me, and wanted me to kiss you, and said if I'd promise to be your little
-boy you would always stay with me? How can I be your little boy if--if
-you go off?”
-
-The eyes of the mother and father met in the strangest stare that ever
-passed between two mortal creatures.
-
-“I can always love you if I can't be with you,” Galt faltered, conscious
-of the emptiness of his words. “I can always love you and think what
-a plucky little boy you are, and--and--” His voice trailed away into
-nothingness. A sob rose in his throat and choked him.
-
-“But I want you to _stay!_” The child was crying now, with his chubby
-hands to his eyes. Suddenly Dora, with a desperate movement, pressed him
-to her breast.
-
-“You must not play on his feelings that way!” she cried, fiercely,
-casting a significant glance toward the town. “Go, please!”
-
-He bowed low, a look of death on his face. She pressed the head of the
-sobbing child to her breast, and firmly held it there with her beautiful
-white hand. “Good-bye,” she said, with the dignity and calmness of an
-offended queen. “Good-bye--forever!”
-
-He turned and moved away. A few paces from her, before the trees had
-obscured her from his sight, he looked back and saw her with Lionel in
-her arms. Her exquisite face was pressed consolingly against the golden
-head. She was whispering to the child and rocking back and forth, as if
-he were a babe on her breast.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXV
-
-|ON his left, farther away from the town, and about a mile distant,
-stood a small mountain. Dark-red as to soil, bristling with sandstone
-bowlders, sparcely grown with pines and thorny locust-trees, and gashed
-by rain-washed gullies, it rose majestically against the cloud-flecked
-blue of infinite space beyond.
-
-Hardly knowing why he did so, Galt turned his face toward it and strode
-on, vaguely conscious that he was battling against the soul-calamity
-which had beset him as a dumb beast might fight for its physical life.
-Around the sloping base of the mountain lay old worn-out fields, now
-given over to the riotous possession of anything which would take
-root upon its soil. There was no path leading to the seldom visited
-elevation, but with his eyes constantly on the solitary finger of earth
-he climbed over the old rail-fence encompassing the land, and forged
-his way through the dense undergrowth, now ploughing his feet through
-a matting of heather and dewberry-vines, or plunging unexpectedly into
-some weed-hidden spring or fresh-water stream. Between him and the
-mountain ran a creek, and he suddenly found himself at a spot on the
-banks of it, where, as a boy, home on his vacations, he used to fish.
-But it had changed, he told himself, as everything else had changed--he
-was a man now, but _such_ a man!
-
-Crossing the creek on a foot-log formed from the fallen corpse of a
-giant oak he had once known, he walked onward. The land was now sloping
-sharply upward, and his way was less impeded. The air was becoming more
-rarefied, the view on either side and behind him was unfolding more
-rapidly in the hazy distance. The sun, which had been beating on him
-mercilessly, was now behind a drifting cloud, and the cool breezes of a
-higher altitude fanned his flushed face.
-
-Finally he reached a flat, jutting bowlder near the top, and, exhausted
-from the inconsiderate tax on his muscles, he sank down panting. There
-lay old Stafford nearest at hand, and beyond stretched out the new
-town under its web of smoke, the besmudged handwriting of mercantile
-progress. His brain had fostered the idea, and made it practicable.
-Reaching out southward, in the sunlight, like two threads of silver,
-lay the great steel highway which his foresight and ambition had brought
-into existence. His fancy pictured with lightning flashes the growing
-villages and towns, as he had seen them on the opening day when he,
-like an emperor of a conquered territory, had been escorted over it. The
-moment had given him the thrill of gratified avarice and the empty glory
-of conquest, but the eyes of the eager throngs which had gazed upon him
-in wonder and envy that day saw nothing of the cancer which even
-then was eating into the vitals of his higher nature. Then--But why
-contemplate it? The juggernaut of relentless Right had ground him under
-its wheels.
-
-He locked his arms over his knees, lowered his head, and groaned in
-sheer despair. If Dora had only given him a bare chance! But she hadn't,
-and now, loved as woman never was loved before, desired in spirit and
-body as woman never was desired by man, she had coldly, firmly put him
-from her. The sight of her as she sat holding his child in her arms,
-and spurning him as was her right to spurn him, would haunt him into and
-through the Eternity which had now become such a hopeless reality.
-
-Suddenly raising his eyes to the relentless blue above, he tried to
-frame a prayer.
-
-“O God, have mercy!” he cried. “Show me, a sinner, a way out of the
-darkness of my damnation. Give them to me, that I may atone by my
-conduct to them throughout my life. Soften her heart, O God, and open
-her eyes to the depths of my woe! I have suffered, I will suffer on to
-the end, but give me my wife and child!”
-
-Noon came and passed, but he had no thought of thirst or of hunger. He
-remained there on the rock and watched the sun go down, and saw the soft
-veil of coming darkness thicken over the earth. Now old Stafford lay
-in darkness, save for the dazzling circles of light where the arc-lamps
-swung across the streets and were grouped like a constellation in the
-square. He waited till the town clock had struck nine; then, still
-without sense of fatigue or hunger, he went down, now with considerable
-difficulty, owing to the darkness of the incline.
-
-He managed to reach his front gate without meeting any one, and was
-entering when he saw the figure of a woman emerge from the veranda and
-come slowly down the walk. Could it be one of the servants? he asked
-himself. But his answer was the recognition of the woman herself. It was
-Mrs. Barry. She paused, unable, it seemed, to formulate what she had to
-say, so sudden was the meeting, and his heart sank lower, as the thought
-came to him that something might have happened to Dora or the child.
-
-“I came to see you,” she began, pushing back the bonnet which had
-partially obscured her face. “Your servants told me they didn't know
-where you were.”
-
-“You wanted to see _me?_” he gasped. “Has anything gone wrong?”
-
-“No, it is not _that_,” the woman said, leading the way toward a clump
-of cedars on the grass, as if from the sensitive fear of meeting some
-one on the walk. “My daughter and the child came home at noon. I saw
-from her looks that she was troubled over something, and that Lionel had
-been crying, from the marks on his face; but I did not question either
-of them. All this afternoon she did not speak of you, but to-night,
-after she had put the boy to sleep, she came into my room and sat down
-near me. I knew she was in awful struggle over something. She began
-telling me, in a slow, halting voice, of all that you had said. She is
-my only child, Kenneth Galt, but I don't understand her any better than
-if she were not of my flesh and blood. I never fully understood her
-father. I suppose no practical-minded person can comprehend those who
-live in the imagination, surrounded by ideals which become real to them.
-She began to go over the whole history of her trouble from the very
-first, and she never left out a single detail. She summed it all up
-in the most marvellous manner. My heart ached for her as it never had
-before. She wants to do right, she says, and she knows what would be
-right and self-sacrificing on her part, but she says she simply can't
-conquer the offended pride within her. She has had trouble and we are
-poor, but there never was born a queen with more pride of womanhood.”
-
-“Yes, yes,” Galt gasped, as he stared at her. “I know; I know.”
-
-“Then I tried to advise her,” Mrs. Barry went on. “At first it was like
-talking to a person born deaf, but finally she began to listen, for, as
-a last resort, I was holding up the child's interests. I spoke of what
-a glorious thing a trip to Paris would be--to stay there as long as we
-liked, and to be able to come home again, for we do love it here, and
-I am sure the people would be kind in their view of it. I reminded her
-that once, when we asked Lionel what he had rather have than anything
-on earth, he had said that, _first_, he wanted a father like other
-children, and, _next_, that he wanted to be where he could have
-playmates.”
-
-“Oh, I can't bear it, Mrs. Barry!” Galt groaned. “If there is anything
-under high heaven I could do to rectify my mistake, I'd give my life to
-do it.”
-
-“I know it, Kenneth, and I am going to say something that may surprise
-you. I don't harbor any ill-feeling toward you. I simply can't. Living
-so close with Dora has lifted me up in spiritual things. I can't have
-anything but pity for the consequences of sin and temptation. What you
-did wasn't a proof that you didn't love my child. It only proved that
-the temptation you had, at the moment of your fall, kept you from
-realizing what you would lose. That's all. I believe you loved her then,
-that you did even after you left her, and I am sure that you do now more
-than ever; in fact, I made that plain to her. I think she sees it, too,
-_in her way_; but it doesn't help her overcome her pride. I am sorry
-for her--more so than I ever imagined I could be for a woman under any
-trial. She is pulled many ways by duty, and she is fairly in an agony,
-undecided as to--”
-
-“_Undecided?_ Did you say that?” Galt leaned forward eagerly, his lips
-quivering, as he waited breathlessly.
-
-“Yes, she is undecided. You see, things have come to such a focus that
-we must leave here. She has just learned that Fred Walton has been
-falsely accused by many persons, and she always liked him. He is coming
-back home, and she wants to clear his name, and yet she shrinks from
-having her private affairs brought in public view again. She said,
-herself, that if she could get her own consent to become your wife, then
-everybody would understand the truth, and not blame him. Then there is
-the child--”
-
-“Yes, Lionel!” Galt panted. “We must save him, and we can--we can, if
-Dora could only--”
-
-“She knows that full well,” the woman said, passing her gaunt hand over
-her withered mouth and swallowing the rising lump in her throat. “If
-you only could have--have heard what I did to-night it would have wrung
-tears from your eyes. Lionel had waked up, and she had to go to him. He
-couldn't sleep for what was on his mind. Kenneth Galt, that little
-angel was simply begging his mother not to let you go away--think of it,
-actually pleading for you! He had heard you say you were going, and, in
-some way, he fancied Dora could persuade you to stay. He cried till his
-little pillow was wet. He told her he loved you, that you had said he
-was your little boy, and that he wanted to be with you always. I heard
-her pleading with him and arguing, but through it all his little voice
-would continue to cry out that it should not be so--that he wanted
-_you_, and that _you_ wanted _him_.”
-
-“God bless him!” burst from the lips of the bowed man.
-
-“Finally he dropped to sleep,” Mrs. Barry went on, “and slept, still
-sobbing, as children do when wrought up high, and she left him and came
-again to me. Poor thing! She was simply undone--conquered! She put her
-head in my lap and burst out crying. She sobbed and sobbed a long time,
-and then I asked her if she would let _me_ manage it. She knew what I
-meant--exactly what I meant, for she became like a lump of clay in my
-lap. For a long time she lay like that, hardly breathing. Then I told
-her of what a wonderful influence she had been to me in opening my eyes,
-old as I am, to the beauty of a higher, spiritual life, and that in
-holding back, as she was now doing, and refusing to pardon a repentant
-man, even when the happiness of her own child was at stake, she was
-going backward instead of forward. She seemed to realize it. She sat up
-straight, and the old light of sweetness and gentleness seemed to
-dawn in her face. 'I'll simply put myself in your hands, mother,' she
-said--'in your hands!'
-
-“I broke down and cried in pure joy, Kenneth Galt. Then what do you
-think? I heard her go back to her room, and knew that the child had
-waked. I am not sure; but I think she waked him purposely, for she never
-could bear to have him go to sleep unhappy. I heard her telling him
-about the beauty of Paris--about its streets, its boulevards, and its
-parks; its buildings; its statuary and pictures, and of the pretty
-children who were to be his friends. She laughed like a happy
-child--they were always like two children, anyway--when she told him
-about crossing the ocean in a great ship, and of the high waves, deep
-water, and big fish. But he stopped her with a question. What do you
-think it was, Kenneth? He wanted to know if _you_ were going? I knew she
-hesitated, her pride closing her lips, even there alone with her child.
-She wouldn't answer his question. Then I heard Lionel say plainly, and
-there was a strange sort of stubborness in his little voice: 'Well, I
-don't want to go; he would not want me to leave him; he said so once;
-he said he would never leave _me_, and I wasn't to leave _him_. Is he
-going, mother?' he kept asking.
-
-“Then I heard her say, 'Yes, darling, he is going--now you can sleep!'”
-
-“She said that? Did she say that?” Galt cried, his whole despondent
-being aflame.
-
-“Yes; it is settled, Kenneth. Perhaps, in time, you and she will be
-thoroughly happy together. I don't know, but I hope so.”
-
-“Thank God!” Galt said, fervently, and, taking the old woman's hand, he
-wrung it in an ecstasy of delight. “I only wanted a chance, Mrs. Barry.
-I shall devote my life to all of you, and we can be happy--gloriously
-happy over there. She shall be our queen, and Lionel our little prince.
-I'll have this old house kept in order, and some day we'll come back to
-it.”
-
-“Then here is my plan,” Mrs. Barry said. “Meet us in Atlanta the day
-after to-morrow, and we shall be ready to sail. I'll let you know what
-hotel we go to. The news will come back from there, but we sha'n't be
-here during the reception of it. Now, I'm glad, for your sake as well
-as ours, that it is all going to turn out well. I want to see you happy.
-You have suffered enough, and so has she. As for me, I never was so
-happy in my life. I want to go to Paris for a while. My husband is
-buried there, you know.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXVI
-
-|ON the morning of the fourth day after the meeting of Dora and Kenneth
-Galt, old Stafford was stirred to its outskirts by the return of the
-most popular young man who had ever lived in the town. Fred Walton got
-in an hour or so before noon.
-
-He had sent a telegram to his father announcing his coming, but had
-failed to mention the hour of his arrival, and so there was no special
-conveyance at the station to meet him, though old Simon, in his Sunday
-frock-suit and a fresh collar, with a five-cent shoe-shine and a
-ten-cent shave at the barber-shop adjoining the bank, sat in the
-counting-room waiting, not sure whether his son would get in during the
-morning or by the afternoon train.
-
-He was not long kept in doubt, for the electric trolley-car that whizzed
-up from the station was fairly packed with individuals of both sexes and
-all classes, who, it seemed, had ridden up chiefly that they might be
-among the first to pay tribute to their old favorite and hear him talk.
-
-It was all joyous and reassuring enough to Fred at first, and might have
-continued so had the car not stopped at a crossing half-way between the
-station and the square, and taken on Wynn Dearing, who, having returned
-home, had been visiting a patient near by. The eyes of the two met. Fred
-colored high; but with a hard, grave countenance Dearing simply turned
-to the conductor, paid his fare, and sat down near a window, through
-which he stared stonily all the way to the square.
-
-The heart of the returning exile sank into a veritable slough of
-despair. His admirers, packed about him, were stilled for a moment by
-the “cut” he had received, and then, not being able to interpret it,
-they valiantly passed it over, and showed by their excessive cordiality
-that if one of his old companions had been coarse enough to snub him on
-that day of all days, they remained true.
-
-But the light and joy of it all was blotted out for the one most
-concerned. He sat trying to answer the innumerable questions, trying to
-return humorous sallies and references to the gay old days with smiles
-that would reflect their good-will, but it was a poor effort at best.
-He endeavored, in a miserable maze, to recall the exact words of his
-father's hurried letter ordering him home, and his spirits sank lower
-and lower as he made the effort. After all, he told himself, he had
-misunderstood Margaret's message--the message which had raised him to
-the very skies of delight. The letter, which he had read hundreds of
-times, was in the pocket of his coat, and he could feel its now grim and
-satirical pressure against his breast.
-
-“She told me she wanted to see you,” old Simon had written, “and for me
-to write you so. She said she was sure when you and her got together you
-and her would understand each other perfectly. She was powerful flushed
-and excited, and I could hardly make out just what she did or did not
-mean. It was the way she _acted_ more than what she actually said in so
-many plain words that made me believe she had concluded to let bygones
-be bygones. So, if I was you, Fred, and still thought she would be a
-proper mate, why, I should lay business aside and make hay for a while.
-The sun seems shining up this way for you right now, and so, as I say, I
-would come right on before some other cloud rises. Women are changeable,
-and she may be no exception to the rule. I can't quite understand why
-she shut off my proposition in your behalf when I went up to see her,
-and then come down all in a tilt and hustle the next day, and did what
-she did, and talked like she did. I am too much of a business man by
-habit, I reckon, to encourage anybody in a deal that ain't fully closed,
-signed, sealed; and delivered; so, you see, all I can say is to come on
-and work out your own salvation.”
-
-Now, sure that he had made a grave mistake, and with the heaviest of
-hearts, Fred left the car at the postoffice, noting that Wynn Dearing,
-with a hard, set face, was striding across the street to his office with
-never another look in his direction.
-
-“He is furious because I have come back,” Fred said to himself. “I
-promised him I'd stay away, and I have broken my word. General Sylvester
-is as much against me as ever, and so is Wynn. It is all up. I'll never
-live it down. These persons who seem glad to see me have nothing at
-stake, or they would snub me too. My father has forgiven me, but
-that has nothing to do with Margaret. After he wrote as he did, I
-hoped--hoped--well, I was a fool! I hoped too much. I'll go back West
-and stay there. I'll see Wynn Dearing and tell him of my mistake. Surely
-that will justify me if my--my presumption ends there.”
-
-As he neared the bank he saw his father standing in the door, backed up
-by all his clerks. The gaunt, grizzled visage of the old man, under its
-half-sheepish look, was lighted up as it had never been in his son's
-memory, and the faces around him were wreathed in welcoming smiles, but
-it was a hand of lead that Fred extended, a smile that was dead lay on
-his handsome face.
-
-Dearing, to his surprise, on reaching his office after leaving the car,
-found Margaret waiting for him. He stared at her almost fiercely for a
-moment; then, as she avoided his eyes and was silent, he broke out:
-
-“You have come down here to see him?”
-
-“Yes, brother,” she answered, simply. “I want to be among the first to
-welcome him home. He has suffered enough, and has proved his genuine
-nobility. I can't explain everything just now, for I have no right to;
-but you will know all that I know very, very soon.”
-
-“I know this, Madge,” he said, and he sat down before her, looking like
-a figure carved in stone, so ghastly pale and rigid was he. “I know
-_this_: if you pardon that man for what he has done, I'll never speak to
-you again. I can stand some things, but I can't stand that. No man can
-marry my sister who has stamped _the very heart out of my life, as this
-one has!_ Now, perhaps you understand.”
-
-“Oh, brother, you mean that you love--”
-
-He nodded, and his head sank to his chest.
-
-“Then you must listen to _me!_” Margaret began. “But, no, you will have
-to wait--I can't tell you even now--I can't explain.”
-
-At this juncture there was a step on the floor of the front room. Some
-one was approaching. It was a messenger boy with a telegram.
-
-Dearing took it and tore it open. The letters on the yellow sheet swam
-before his eyes, but he read the words:
-
-_Kenneth and I are married; now you will understand everything. We are
-all going to New York, then to Paris for a while. With love from mamma,
-Lionel, and myself, good-bye. Dora._
-
-Margaret had read the telegram over her brother's shoulder, and with a
-woman's tact she signed the boy's book and led him to the outer door.
-She stood there alone for several minutes, looking out into the street.
-There was no sound in the office. She waited ten minutes, and then, with
-a tear of sympathy in her eye, she went back to her brother and put her
-arms about his bowed form.
-
-As soon as was practicable, Fred led his father away from the clerks
-back to the old man's office.
-
-“Wynn Dearing refused to speak to me on the car as we came up,” he said.
-“Father, I am afraid I misunderstood your letter, and have made an awful
-fool of myself by coming. He will think, and his sister will think--”
- But Fred could go no further. He sank into a seat near the desk, and the
-banker slowly lowered himself into his revolving chair.
-
-“You say Wynn--you say her brother wouldn't speak to you,” he faltered.
-“Now, I wonder if--I--I wonder--You see, I hardly knew what to think
-when she popped in here like she did that day. What she said was all
-so jumbled and roundabout that, as I wrote you, it was more the way she
-_acted_ that made me draw my conclusions than her exact words on _any_
-direct line.”
-
-“Well, how did she _act?_” Fred inquired, despondently.
-
-“Why, if you _will_ know--” old Simon was growing red in the face. “I
-had no idea of telling it even to _you_, but the truth is she up and
-kissed me--so she did! She gave me a smack right on the cheek!”
-
-“She _kissed_ you?”
-
-“That's what she did, by gum! And Toby come in just in time to make
-her let go of my neck. So, you see, after I thought it all over, why, I
-thought that maybe she regarded me as being a kin to her in some shape
-or other, and meant that as a sort o' hint of what she was willing to
-do.”
-
-At this moment a voice was heard in the corridor. It was Wynn Dearing's,
-and he was asking for Fred.
-
-“I wonder if he's come here to pick a row,” old Simon asked, as his
-startled eyes bore down on the face of his son. “If he has, I reckon we
-can accommodate him. I ain't no fighter, but you are my own flesh and
-blood, and considering the time you've been away, and what you have
-accomplished, he hain't treated you right. Toby”--raising his voice and
-going to the door and looking out--“show that fellow back here. Nobody
-ain't hiding in this shebang, I am here to say, and if folks ain't
-satisfied all round--clean all round--why--”
-
-But Wynn Dearing was brushing past the old man through the narrow
-doorway, his face pale, his hand extended to Fred.
-
-“I have done you a great wrong, old man,” he said, in a shaking voice,
-“and I have come to beg your pardon.”
-
-“Oh, that's all right, Wynn,” Fred gasped, in surprise. “I am sure you
-have treated me no worse than I deserve.”
-
-“Oh yes, I have, Fred. I have worked against you ever since you left,
-and I now find that you are wholly innocent of what I accused you of.
-Let me talk it over with your father. Margaret is waiting at my office
-to see you. I promised I'd send you to her.”
-
-As if in a dream, Fred hastened out of the bank and went down to
-Dearing's office. No one was in the front, but he found Margaret in the
-back room standing at a window, looking out. She turned as he entered
-and gave him both her hands.
-
-“Oh, I'm so glad--so glad!” she cried, and he saw tears on her lashes,
-and the handkerchief she held in one of her hands was damp. “Oh, Fred,
-we have all treated you so badly, so cruelly, so unjustly, when you were
-striving so hard! A great mistake was made. If I had known what I now
-know when we met in New York, I would never have treated you as I did.
-You were thinking of one thing and I of another.”
-
-“I don't understand,” he said, groping for her meaning, his big, honest
-eyes dilating.
-
-“And I can't explain,” she said. “It really doesn't matter, anyway. I
-don't want even to think about it--at least to-day, when I am so happy.
-But I want you to know one thing: you see, Dora Barry showed me the
-letter you wrote her, and I want you to know that I love you. I have
-loved you every day, every minute, since you left.”
-
-“You love me--you really care for me?” he said, deep in his throat.
-
-“Yes; but come walk home with me, dear,” she said. “I want you all to
-myself. I shall never get my own forgiveness for allowing myself to
-misjudge you as I did. Let's not talk about it, but come on. Wynn may be
-back in a moment, and I don't want any explanations now, anyway. I want
-you wholly to myself.”
-
-As they walked down the quiet street side by side he tried to speak, but
-the happiness within him had risen to a storm, and he could only stare
-at her in silent wonder, as if doubting his own good-fortune.
-
-CONCLUSION
-
-|ONE of the great ocean bound steamships was ready for sailing from the
-New York harbor. On the deck, near the stern, somewhat removed from the
-others and leaning against the railing, stood a man and a child and a
-young woman so beautiful and so richly clad that the eyes of many of
-the passengers and their friends, who had massed themselves on the pier
-below, were fixed upon her admiringly.
-
-“It is going to be a glorious voyage, darling,” Kenneth Galt said, as
-he stroked the golden hair of the child. “The bay is as smooth as glass.
-Look how the people are staring at you! You cannot dream how beautiful
-you are. Are you happy, Dora?”
-
-She looked down at the water, put her hand against the cheek of the
-child, and smiled, a far-off look in her eyes. “Think, oh, think of what
-it means to _him!_” Just then Mrs. Barry came from the luxurious suite
-of state-rooms Galt had secured.
-
-“Some one has sent a great bunch of flowers,” she said to her daughter.
-“They were addressed to you. I asked the florist's man who sent them. He
-said he didn't know, but that it was a telegraphic order from somewhere.
-Go see them; they are simply beautiful. They perfume the whole place.”
-
-Leaving the three together, Dora went to the suite of rooms. In the
-one reserved for her, on a table, she found a great mass of damp, fresh
-roses. The card accompanying the gift had slipped down between the
-stems. She drew it out and read:
-
-“Bon voyage!”
-
-That was all. She sat down at the table, gathered a bunch of the flowers
-in her hands, and buried her flushed face in them.
-
-“Oh!” she cried, and then she burst into tears. “Bon voyage! bon voyage!
-From you--dear, dear, dear Wynn! I know. I understand. I have known and
-understood for years. I shall know and understand--always!”
-
-The signal for leaving had sounded. She felt the ponderous throb of
-the ship under her. She dried her eyes and walked out on the deck. Her
-husband came to meet her. He took her arm, and they leaned over
-the railing and looked down into the multitude of waving hats and
-handkerchiefs.
-
-“Who sent the flowers, darling?” Galt asked.
-
-“There was no name attached,” she answered. “Look, Kenneth! Lionel is
-trying to climb the railing--don't let him!”
-
-Galt hurried away to do her bidding, and she gazed down into the water,
-which was being churned into white foam.
-
-“Bon voyage!” she said, bitterly. “Bon voyage!”
-
-THE END
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-End of Project Gutenberg's The Redemption Of Kenneth Galt, by Will N. Harben
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