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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f3ae82 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54104 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54104) diff --git a/old/54104-0.txt b/old/54104-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 72c5b60..0000000 --- a/old/54104-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11297 +0,0 @@ -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. 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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 - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE REDEMPTION OF KENNETH GALT - </h1> - <h2> - By Will N. Harben - </h2> - <h4> - Author of “Gilbert Neal” “Abner Daniel” “The Georgians” “Ann Boyd” etc. - </h4> - <h5> - New York and London: Harper Brothers Publishers - </h5> - <h3> - M C M I X - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <h3> - TO - </h3> - <h3> - MABELLE - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_PART"> <b>PART I</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART II</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER I </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER II </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER III </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER IV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER V </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER VI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER VII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER VIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER IX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER X </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XIV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XVI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XVII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XIX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XXV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_CONC"> CONCLUSION </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - PART I - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>OUNG 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Good-morning, Dora,” he said, cheerily; and she started as, for the first - time, she noticed his presence. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Dearing heard the girl's returning step in the hallway, and then she - looked in on him. - </p> - <p> - “She is sitting up,” Dora announced. “She wants you to come to her.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, what is the matter, Mrs. Barry?” Dearing inquired, now quite grave. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That is bad,” Dearing said, sympathetically, as Mrs. Barry paused and, - covering her wrinkled face with her hands, remained silent for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>have</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>R. 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “You've been to church like a good little boy,” he laughed, as he paused - and stood cutting at the grass with his cane. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, <i>that's</i> 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?” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “Of course she <i>ought</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is Fred Walton again,” Dearing said, resignedly. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The face of the doctor clouded over. “You don't mean to say that—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “But there <i>isn't</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>You</i> are, my boy. I am proud of <i>you</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, remember what I've said,” the old soldier threw back as he turned - away. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I know she is, Marse Wynn, 'case she sent Lindy down fer some fresh col' - water not mo'n ten minutes ago.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “I don't want to disturb you, Madge,” Dearing began, “but you will have to - stop anyway soon, and get ready for dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “He is <i>childish!</i>” 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!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said, “that is <i>one</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “You have never heard <i>me</i> 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—” - </p> - <p> - “Brother, I'm not in a mood for silliness!” the girl interrupted him, - quickly, and with an impatient flush. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>think</i> they love each other, and if it does no harm - to any one <i>else</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You mean that Uncle Tom—” - </p> - <p> - “I mean this, Madge, and now I am talking to you as a physician—<i>his</i> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “I wasn't going to say a word against his <i>honor</i>, Madge,” Dearing - interrupted her, gently; “but I am going to say this: if I were in <i>his</i> - 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 <i>just as you are</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, what do you mean?” the girl asked, her lip quivering stubbornly. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>the other thing</i>, I - honestly can't see how he can talk of love and marriage to a girl like you - are.” - </p> - <p> - “What <i>other</i> thing do you mean?” Margaret demanded, pale with - suppressed emotion. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i> to reckon with, that's all—<i>me</i>, - Madge!” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>tell</i> 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 <i>now</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “There is no other way, Madge, but I'll not be rough; I pity the poor chap - too much for that.” - </p> - <p> - “When do you intend to—to see him?” She was sobbing again, her face - pressed against his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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: <i>dealt</i> with!” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think, to do Fred <i>full</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Does Margaret know you—” The General's voice failed to carry - further. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>own</i> throats cut.” - </p> - <p> - “I have always wondered what Kenneth <i>does</i> believe,” Sylvester said, - with his first smile. “He certainly is an interesting man; and he's rich, - and growing more so.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; he was well provided for at the start,” responded Dearing, “and he - has invested wisely.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>she</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>cure</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She did not return his smile, and drew back from his caress as if she half - resented it. - </p> - <p> - “Are you really going to see Fred?” she asked, falteringly, her eyes fixed - coldly, half fearfully, on his through the dim, vague starlight. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “To-night?” She breathed hard, her hand on her breast. - </p> - <p> - “Right away, sister; that is, if he is in town.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>defying you!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't tell, Madge. I may not find him at once, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Afraid of what?” he demanded, quickly. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>EAVING 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you don't owe <i>me</i> a penny, Mr. Walton.” Dearing laughed. “I - only wish you did.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “No; in fact, that's what I dropped in for. I wanted to speak to him.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>your</i> - 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 <i>mine</i>—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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I see he is not here,” Dearing said, awkwardly. “Perhaps I can find - him up-town.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Show me how to help it—show me how to <i>want</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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: - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Who is it?” - </p> - <p> - “It is I, Fred—Wynn Dearing.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - Fred Walton stared. His face was rigid; beads of sweat stood on his brow - and cheeks; the cigar in his mouth shook. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “We might walk on to my office; it is always cool. I never bother to shut - the windows, even before a rain.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, if—if you wish it, Wynn; that is, if you wish to—to see - me.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I want to talk to you, Fred.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “That's all right, Wynn, go ahead.” - </p> - <p> - “It is about you and my sister, Fred.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I have no such message as <i>that</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But she—surely she herself will tell General Sylvester that she is - willing to—forget me, and—” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>you</i>. I thought, and Uncle Tom did, too, that - under the circumstances you might, you see, rather than stand between her - and—” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Fred, surely you—” Dearing started to say, but, raising his - hand, Walton interrupted him. - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>uncursed</i> ones.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>care</i> for the cowardly cur—you, - who ought to—” - </p> - <p> - “Brother, stop!” The girl clutched his arms. She breathed hard against his - breast as she leaned close to him. “'The cowardly cur,' you say—<i>you</i>, - who have never abused him before.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, what <i>do</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Margaret sat up, and put her arms about her brother's neck. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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. - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>thief</i> as <i>I</i> am, I ought to go.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>absolutely too late?</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>eventually</i>. 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 <i>can</i> - 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, <i>do, - do</i> 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. <i>Do, do</i>, give it to me! - Good-bye. - </p> - <p> - Frederic. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He seated himself again, and wrote as follows: - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>can't</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I think this is Jack Thomas' run,” he reflected. “If it is, he will take - me aboard.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI - </h2> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “South-bound freight on time?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - The man looked at him indifferently. “I heard her blow at the crossing,” - he answered. “There! can't you hear her rumble?” - </p> - <p> - “Who's the conductor?” - </p> - <p> - “Jack Thomas, if he didn't lay over at Red Hill to spend Sunday with his - folks.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Hello, Jack!” Walton came forward. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn't trust myself with three railroad men,” Walton tried to jest, - “even if I hadn't sworn off.” - </p> - <p> - “What! again? Oh, that <i>is</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>do</i> - look kind o' bunged up. What's the matter, old chap?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm simply down and out, Jack, that's the sum and substance of it. I am - down and out. When do you start?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>is</i> a joke!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—<i>let go!</i> He shuddered, and turned cold - from head to foot. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “It couldn't be harder, Jack,” Walton said. “I am at the end of my rope.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But that's <i>your</i> bed,” Walton protested, thoughtful, even in his - misery, of his friend's comfort. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't care for it right now, Jack,” Walton returned. “I may ask for it - later. Whiskey always keeps me awake.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “All right. You are mighty good, Jack,” the wanderer said, appalled and - stupefied by his sudden awakening to the grim reality of his condition. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - Walton hesitated; a tinge of color came into his pale face. - </p> - <p> - “Ran down for a trip with Jack Thomas,” he answered; “this is his cab.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes—I see. Where <i>is</i> Jack?” - </p> - <p> - “Had to go up-town.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, I've got to hang around here for a while.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, so long!” the man said, with a backward look of perplexity, as he - moved away. “I'll see you uptown, I reckon.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Good-morning!” the man said, looking up. “You are not the conductor of - this train, are you?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” Fred answered, wonderingly; “he's just gone up-town.” - </p> - <p> - The policeman swung his club. “Got a match in your pocket? I want to smoke - so bad I can taste it.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “What sort of job is it?” Walton asked. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>this</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “They are not well treated, either, I have heard,” Walton put in. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The officer wavered; he stared, speechless, for a moment, colored high, - then shrugged his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “I reckon my duty <i>does</i> 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 <i>you</i>, 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 <i>me</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You won't take the watch, then?” Fred held the timepiece toward him, its - golden chain swinging. - </p> - <p> - “No, I don't want it. But hurry up! Get him out of the yards!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Will</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll join you,” Walton said. “I've heard of it, too. Those, new towns are - all right.” - </p> - <p> - “You didn't tell me your name,” Dick suggested. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HAT 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes.” Then, as Lassiter was softly slipping away: “But hold on, Toby! - Have you seen Fred this morning?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I've got <i>mine</i>,” 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. - </p> - <p> - “He's gone!” he gasped. “He's taken five thousand dollars of the bank's - funds, and made off!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Walton, do, <i>do</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “Am I the head of this bank or <i>you?</i>” 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!”. - </p> - <p> - “All right, Mr. Walton,” the clerk yielded, “I'll do it!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Poor Fred!” he muttered. “He's too good at heart to be treated this way, - and he's not a <i>real</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Walton wants to see you, Bill,” he said. “He's in his office in the - bank.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” he growled, impatiently. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what the devil has that got to do with <i>this?</i>” Walton - thundered. - </p> - <p> - “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—<i>ready</i> 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—” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - There was a sound of heavy steps in the corridor outside. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>S 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 <i>money?</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>discovery</i>, - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “The postman left a letter for you-all this morning, didn't he?” was a - question Mrs. Chumley had evidently been holding in reserve. - </p> - <p> - “No, there wasn't anything. Dora went out to the fence to see if he had - any mail, but he didn't.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You must be mistaken.” Mrs. Barry's face had changed. There were - splotches of pallor in her gaunt cheeks. - </p> - <p> - “No, I couldn't be. I don't make mistakes in things of that sort—not - of <i>that</i> sort.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “She came back in the house after the postman had gone on,” Mrs. Barry - faltered, “and told me there wasn't any letter.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “If she didn't show it to you, she <i>hid</i> it; I'm dead sure of that. - She <i>hid</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sure she didn't <i>get</i> any letter,” Mrs. Barry said, and she now - tore herself away, conscious of her overwhelming disadvantage in the - adroit woman's hands. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It is there all right,” the man laughed. “I gave it to Miss Dora.” - </p> - <p> - “That's what I told her. I say, Sim Carter, have they heard anything more - yet about—” But the postman was gone. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Chumley says you got a letter from the postman this morning,” Mrs. - Barry said, tremblingly. - </p> - <p> - The girl seemed to hesitate just an instant; then she nodded, mutely. - </p> - <p> - “Who was it from, daughter?” - </p> - <p> - “Mother, I don't want to say—even to you. I have reasons why—” - </p> - <p> - “It was from Fred Walton! You need not deny it.” - </p> - <p> - Dora made no protest; she simply dropped her eyes to her lap, and sat - motionless. - </p> - <p> - “You knew he had left, didn't you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, mother. I knew he was gone.” - </p> - <p> - “And while the whole town is wondering why he went, you know, I suppose?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't feel that I have the right to talk about it, mother.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I sha'n't urge you!” And the older woman shambled away, now bearing - doubts which were heavier and more maddening than ever. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Some of your art pupils came to the gate just now, didn't they?” she - inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” the girl answered. “Sally and Mary Hill wanted to know if I'd go - sketching with them to the swamp to-morrow afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “And are you going?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! <i>that</i> 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 <i>are</i> improving.” - </p> - <p> - Dora sighed, but said nothing. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - Presently Dora pushed back her chair and rose. - </p> - <p> - “I don't care for anything else,” she said, avoiding her mother's eyes. - </p> - <p> - “But you haven't eaten anything at all,” Mrs. Barry protested, anxiously. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mother, mother, how can I?” - </p> - <p> - “You are ruined!” Mrs. Barry groaned. “Tell me I am right—you are - ruined!” - </p> - <p> - With a cry, Dora turned and threw herself on the bed, and with her face - hidden in a pillow she burst into dry sobs. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Chumley suffered herself to be led to the outer door. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—<i>our</i> - 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—<i>anything</i> to help her bear her - burden! That's my prayer to you, Edwin—to you, and to God!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That's because he only knows the <i>business</i> side of me,” Galt said, - ceasing to smile, and drawing himself up. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I must be off. I see John lashing the air with his whip; he is my - time-table.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I will.” The girl rose languidly. “There are some pretty ones near - the gate.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “It may be as you say—<i>in time</i>,” 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But he told you he was going, never to come back?” the old man said, with - a touch of resentment even at the thought. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; he said positively that his conduct, whatever it was, would keep him - from ever showing his face in Stafford again.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; Fred said the old man knew, and would tell it, but it seems he has - not,” Dearing answered. - </p> - <p> - “Ashamed to let it be known, I guess,” Sylvester said. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but I know it <i>is</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “My God, the brutality of it!” the old man ejaculated. “To think it should - come to her like that!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>such</i> - a flatterer—saying that I—saying that he—” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>some</i> - folks, but not your family doctor.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “I <i>did</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “Poor child!” the young doctor said to himself. “To think that it should - come to her—to beautiful, gentle Dora, with her wonderful ideals! <i>And - he could deliberately desert her!</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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? <i>The whole town knows the - truth!</i>” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “I want to know,” he panted, “if the report is out about Fred's shortage?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Well, <i>something</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I see!” Lassiter exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “He didn't refer to - <i>the money</i>, 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>will!</i> 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 <i>that time</i>, I'll admit, but I want to know what - you think Bailey Thornton meant by what he said. Do you know?” - </p> - <p> - The clerk looked down. His face was quite grave and rigid. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm talking to you about <i>business</i> now!” Old Simon raised his voice - to a shrill cry, which, had it not stranded in his throat, would have - reached the adjoining room. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Girl? What girl?” the banker gasped. “Why do you take all day to get at a - thing?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “So you are plumb sure it wasn't the money that Thornton was talking - about!” he exclaimed, with a deep breath of relief. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ENNETH 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And the railroad is almost a certainty?” she asked, forcing a wan smile. - “You are about to have your dream realized?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Galt shrugged his shoulders and drew back somewhat into his habitual - mantle of reserve. “If we <i>do</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “There were many inaccuracies in the papers,” he informed her, as he stood - wondering over her evident dejection. “Did you read the articles?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You didn't? Why?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “There is one thing I am <i>now</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>any one</i>. - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “You must go—you must never come again!” she said, in a voice filled - with suffering. - </p> - <p> - The little wood-house was between them and the cottage, and some tall - trees bordering the little street threw a shadow over them. - </p> - <p> - “But, darling, what's the matter?” he cried. “What has changed you so - remarkably? Why, little girl—” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean, you haven't—haven't <i>heard?</i>” She clutched the - shawl under her marble-like chin and stared at him, her pretty lips parted - and quivering piteously. - </p> - <p> - “Heard what?” he asked. “I have heard nothing—certainly no <i>bad</i> - news. I've been away for a week, and only came home this evening.” - </p> - <p> - She lowered her head, and stood silent and motionless. He put his hand on - her shoulder and gently shook her. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me,” he urged, groping for an explanation of her agitation, “is your - mother ill again? Is she worse?” - </p> - <p> - “No, it isn't that—God knows even that would be a blessing. Kenneth, - I'm ruined!” - </p> - <p> - “You don't mean?—you <i>can't</i> mean?—” He stood aghast - before her, quivering now from head to foot. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Say of <i>you?</i>” she broke in, bitterly. “They have never mentioned - your name. Not a soul—<i>not even my mother</i>—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.” - </p> - <p> - 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—?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>you!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 - <i>haven't</i>—you simply haven't! I know you better than you know - yourself. You will not come to-morrow <i>nor any other day!</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>RAVE, 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, no. Does he want me?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>you</i> get it! - Quick!” - </p> - <p> - “No, I'll—I'll do it!” Galt gasped. “Wait, I'll be down in—in - a minute!” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>even with her</i>, 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 <i>weak</i> men. <i>Strong</i> 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>I'll actually lose her!</i> 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 <i>want</i> - her! I <i>want</i> her. With all my soul, I <i>want</i> 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: - </p> - <p> - “In the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” he cried. “Come on! You may - miss the train as it is! <i>Come on!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “We can't wait, man!” the General shouted from the walk outside. “Hurry!” - </p> - <p> - “All right, I'm ready!” and Galt strode rapidly down the stairs, sliding - his hand on the walnut railing. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>them</i> favors instead of <i>asking</i> for them. If you - don't miss connection and get there on time, you will win as sure as you - are a foot high.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Now, John,” Sylvester cried, “miss that train, and I'll break every bone - in your black hide!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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—<i>some one</i> else whom I once had as my own, but - who is now out of my life forever.” - </p> - <p> - “You mean—you mean—a sweetheart?” ventured the boy, as he put - out a sympathetic hand and touched the arm of his companion. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry,” Dick Warren said, simply, and his hand tenderly clung to the - dust-coated sleeve—“I'm sorry, Fred.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But why?” the boy asked, wonderingly. “It seems like it would be company - for you, now that you and she are—parted.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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: - </p> - <p> - “Would you like for me to say anything about her, Fred?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Was!</i>” Walton broke in. “Don't forget that, Dick.” - </p> - <p> - “I think a girl like that, with a <i>face</i> like that, would forgive - almost anything in the man she loved,” the boy went on, in a valiant - effort at consolation. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't ask for anything <i>for me</i>,” Walton said. “I'm not very hungry. - I can get along for some time yet.” - </p> - <p> - “Wait till I find out how it smells around that kitchen,” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Say, I just want to tell you fellows <i>one more thing</i>,” 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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Huh! let me see it.” The farmer's eyes gleamed avariciously as Walton - took the watch from his pocket and extended it to him. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>your</i> - market.” - </p> - <p> - “You say you 'hain't'?” Dick Warren mocked him, in fresh anger. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “He's right, Dick,” he said, and there was a pained look about his - sensitive mouth. “The circumstances are dead against us.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i>,” 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!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> SWEAR, I'd enjoy - firing <i>his</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “By George!” he exclaimed, exultantly, “we are in luck! Gee, what a - pick-up!” - </p> - <p> - “What is it, now?” Walton asked. But the boy was bounding away toward the - fence. “You wait and see—gee, what luck!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Put it back, Dick! Go put it back!” Fred said, firmly, his eyes averted. - </p> - <p> - The boy stared, a blended expression of surprise and keen disappointment - capturing his features. - </p> - <p> - “Do you really mean it, Fred?” he asked, his lip falling, the pail hanging - motionless at his side. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Huh!” he grunted, and started on without waiting to see if Fred was ready - to go. Walton followed, and presently caught up with him. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But I'm <i>starving!</i>” 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Dick, you are a bloody anarchist!” Walton laughed gently as he placed his - hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That is <i>one</i> 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: - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - The two pedestrians exchanged eager glances. - </p> - <p> - “Where is your place?” Fred asked. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “How far is it to your place?” Walton asked. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>packing</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But we are hungry and weak!” Dick Warren protested. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>business</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, we'll be there,” Walton promised. “And we will do the best we - can for your interests.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “We can make it, Dick,” Walton said, encouragingly. “Let's bend down to - it.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “They are peach-gatherers,” Walton surmised. “Come on; there are no dogs - that I can see.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” she exclaimed, as her kindly eyes fell on them. “Not more pickers, - surely?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>look</i> at 'em—Well, it ain't any of <i>my</i> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The woman laughed. “Well, you <i>must</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll see about that, old lady,” Dick challenged her, as he made a dash - for the near-by water-shelf. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It will do very well,” Fred assured her. “In fact, we would rather like - it.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm dead tired and sleepy, Fred,” Dick said, when they had left the - table. “Let's turn in.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “No; I sent the last prisoner up for life an hour ago,” the merchant - responded, jovially. “Set down, set down!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “What have you run across now?” Whipple asked, as he leaned his elbow on - his desk and rested his florid face on his hand. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Good, good!” Stephen Whipple ejaculated, his features working, his kind - old eyes twinkling. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor chaps,” the merchant sighed, “and they have evidently seen better - days.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “He's tried to find work here, then?” Stephen Whipple mused, aloud. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And to think that a fellow like <i>that</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I'll send him, Brother Whipple. God bless you, old man, you can - always be counted on!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You are very, very kind, Mr. Whipple,” Fred said, a gratified flush on - his face; “but you have had no recommendation of me, and—” - </p> - <p> - “I don't <i>want</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>talking</i> 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 - <i>mean</i> well, and that is all I ask.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, <i>that's</i> it!” Whipple said, awkwardly. “Still, you mustn't feel - that I am requiring any explanations of—of a private nature, for I - am not.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.”. . - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - PART II - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>LD 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “'You think,' he said, 'that Walton ought, even <i>now</i>, to go back and - marry her—<i>at this late date?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “'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!' - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>him</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “That she still cares for the rascal?” Dearing broke in, his face - darkening. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>low, impulsive passion</i>, and believes - that he loved her, and her alone, in a <i>pure</i> way, why—” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I'll run down,” Dearing said to his uncle. “It may not be very - serious. She is subject to such attacks.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>URRYING 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Dora sank into a chair as if utterly overcome with relief, and he stood - looking at her in blended admiration and sympathy. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “You are so kind to me, Wynn,” she said, with a faint, sad smile. “You - have always been the best friend we ever had.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You have done hundreds of thoughtful things,” she cried. “You have left - nothing undone that could possibly help us. Oh, you are <i>too</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” he exclaimed, admiringly, “that's the best you've shown me! It is - very, very good.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Then—now comes the <i>best</i> 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—<i>almost</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I see, I understand,” Dearing said, gravely; “and you'd never come back - to old Stafford again, I suppose?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh no,” she answered; “all this would have to be laid aside forever.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “Not from your big brother?” he asked, his pleading eyes on her. - </p> - <p> - “No, not even from you, you dear boy. It is <i>my</i> problem, Wynn, and I - must work it out alone—all alone.” - </p> - <p> - They had gone back to the porch, and the sight of the extensive grounds - around his house prompted him to say: - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - At this moment the boy himself came from his grandmother's room, along the - passage, and out to them. - </p> - <p> - “She is still asleep,” he announced, gravely. “I drew the netting over her - face, so that the flies won't wake her.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The boy's eyes danced as he stared eagerly. Dora was looking away, her - handkerchief pressed to her face. - </p> - <p> - Dearing saw a wave of emotion pass through her, but she remained silent. - </p> - <p> - “But I couldn't go over there!” Lionel sighed. “You are very kind, but my - mother always wants me to stay at home.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Wonderingly, the boy leaned across his mother's lap, and put his arm - around her neck. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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: - </p> - <p> - “She is crying! What did you say to her?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “If you wished me to,” the boy replied, slowly, as he still uneasily - studied her face. - </p> - <p> - “I should like it very much,” Dora said—“very, very much! You could - have such a splendid time over there.” - </p> - <p> - “Would you love me just the same—<i>just exactly</i> the same—if - I went?” the boy asked, anxiously. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - Galt nodded, and smiled tentatively. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, don't hurl that sort of thing at <i>him</i>,” 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 <i>shouldn't</i> we pet him a little when he has been away all these - years, and has come back broken down this way?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>weak</i> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “What a beautiful boy!” Galt exclaimed, beside himself in admiration. - “What a perfect figure! Whose child is it?” - </p> - <p> - The question was addressed to Margaret; but she hesitated, tightened her - lips, and looked down. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Now, see what <i>you</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester laughed reminiscently. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, he'll fall!” she cried. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Why, what is so amusing about it?” Galt questioned, fairly transported by - the boy's beauty, fearlessness, and vivacity. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don't know, but it seems funny—you down there, me up here, - and the cat above us both.” - </p> - <p> - Galt laughed till tears came into his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “I know an easier way!” the child cried. “I'll jump, and you catch me.” - </p> - <p> - “But I can't!” Galt answered. “You'd crush me to the ground, small as you - are!” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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, <i>three!</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “No, but I'm afraid you are angry with me,” the boy answered. “Are you?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “You <i>are</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” Galt felt the little, warm arm steal round his neck confidently. - “Then you really <i>do</i> 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 <i>this</i> much,” he - said: “I like <i>nearly all</i> 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Does your mamma let you drink tea?” Margaret asked, gently. . - </p> - <p> - “No, I thank you,” the child answered. “She says it's too strong a stim—stim—” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Lionel,” replied the boy. - </p> - <p> - “Well, that is pretty enough so far as it goes, but what else?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Why, I mean, what is your <i>full</i> name?” Galt said, smiling into the - rather grave faces about him. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>IX 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “This thing has hit the old man hard, Dick,” Walton said. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “What do you think is in the wind now, boys?” he gulped, as he placed an - unsteady hand on Fred's shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “I have no idea,” Fred answered. - </p> - <p> - “All the balance have combined,” Whipple groaned. - </p> - <p> - “Who?—what?—how combined?” Fred asked, wondering if his old - friend was not actually losing his reason. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “As I passed along the street just now they slunk away from their doors, - so I couldn't see 'em laugh. They call <i>themselves</i> '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.” - </p> - <p> - He turned suddenly and left them, striding on to his desk in the adjoining - room. - </p> - <p> - “Poor old fellow!” Dick said. “Nothing on earth could have cut his pride - more.” - </p> - <p> - “If he could only hit back in some substantial way,” Walton reflected, - aloud. “Think of some plan, Dick.” - </p> - <p> - “Think of nothing!” the younger man said, gloomily. “Of all things on - earth, I never could have dreamt of those fellows combining that way.” - </p> - <p> - A moment later a postman came in with a bundle of letters and handed them - to Fred. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, we'll have to wait and see,” Fred retorted, angrily. “I must give - these letters to Mr. Whipple.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Fred worked over his books and out-of-town orders till near sunset; then - he took down his coat and hat. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “No, nothing has turned up yet,” Fred told her; “but I thought I'd speak - to him before supper.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Whipple, I've been trying to think of some way to—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you <i>have?</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “Of course, I hesitate to—” Fred began modestly, but was interrupted - by Whipple. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i> to offer <i>some</i> - chance of—” - </p> - <p> - “Move? What is it? For God's sake, what is it?” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - Whipple sprang up. His eyes were dancing with delight. He leaned over - Walton and put his hands on his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “Great God, why didn't <i>I</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 <i>big</i> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - Whipple gave another whoop, and shuffled his feet thunderously. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter up there?” It was Mrs. Whipple's astonished voice from - below. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>BOUT 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. - </p> - <p> - “What is this?” the banker asked, as he examined the heavy wax seals and - reached for his paper-knife. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know, sir; it came just now,” and Toby silently withdrew. - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well, sir,” said the clerk. “I was just dictating a note to Morton - & Co., telling them that we can't possibly extend—” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind about that <i>now</i>,” 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>once</i>. But a burnt child - dreads the fire, and I've certainly been burnt.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I always thought—I mean I always <i>hoped</i>, 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you don't think—you don't actually believe that Fred—” - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>that</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think so, Mr. Walton?” Lassiter's fallen countenance sank even - lower. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>any</i> - 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 <i>do</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “So you think, Mr. Walton—you think—” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>in</i> him - to work in any capacity; but I <i>do</i> 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 <i>wanted</i> to—I could put a watch on - that cottage and nab our man in less than a month. I say, if I just <i>wanted</i> - to.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you wouldn't arrest him, Mr. Walton?” Lassiter breathed, in relief. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>H, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You could do it here, then?” said Galt, a weary look on his pale face. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Take the big chair,” Dearing said, “and open your shirt in front.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “No, one is enough,” Galt answered, with a faint, forced smile. “I can't - say that I am worrying over that.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “So you believe in rubbish of that sort,” Galt said, contemptuously. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 - <i>want</i> to live forever.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “<i>You</i> know who did it?” Galt said, facing him in surprise. “What do - you mean, Wynn. Do you really know anything about it?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>might</i> - be mistaken.” - </p> - <p> - Dearing turned from the pictures and moved toward the door. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “New York!” Galt exclaimed, in surprise. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “If I could only get <i>you</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You could? Well, that's interesting—coming from you, at least.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>one</i> - 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>I</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.” - </p> - <p> - Galt made no response. His blood seemed to turn cold in his veins as the - grimly accusing words fell from his friend's lips. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You think—you think—” Galt stammered, unable to formulate an - adequate reply. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>such</i> a child by <i>such</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Dearing had - gone blithely down the street, Galt strode up and down the veranda, hot - and cold, by turns, with fury and remorse. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Surely you are not afraid of <i>me?</i>” Galt said, reassuringly, and in - a tone which, for its unwonted gentleness, was a surprise to himself. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, may I? Thank you. You are very good, and I thought you'd be angry.” - </p> - <p> - “Angry? How absurd! What in the world could cause you to think I could be - angry with a harmless little chap like you?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>did</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You like me, and why?” Galt questioned, almost under his breath. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes, you may come—<i>now</i>, if you wish.” - </p> - <p> - “You are joking, aren't you?” Lionel asked, in surprise. - </p> - <p> - “No, I'm in earnest. Come on!” - </p> - <p> - “Really, do you mean it?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course. Come on!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I like you—of course I do,” Galt answered, lamely and abashed. - </p> - <p> - “Very, very much, or just a little—which is it?” - </p> - <p> - “As much as any boy I ever met; there, will that do you, little man?” - </p> - <p> - “Have you met many? That's the question,” the boy laughed out, - impulsively, and then his face settled into gravity as he eagerly waited. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “If you did like me, it looks like you would take my hand. I wish you - would.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Why, what is the matter?” Galt asked, holding him tighter. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Is that your father?” the boy leaned on the sabre to ask, as he looked up - at the portrait of the elder Galt. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Does he look like me?” Galt answered. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “'<i>Dauby</i>'? Where in the world could you have heard that word?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my mother says it often when she doesn't like one of her pictures.” - </p> - <p> - The child was now absorbed in the bronze dragon head supporting the ivory - handle of the sword. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>would</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I don't care,” he said, in his charmingly premature way, “if Grover - Weston <i>doesn't</i> like me, because you say you do. He's nothing but a - mean, horrid boy, while you are—” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And yet you <i>do</i> want other things?” Galt said, tentatively. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “You certainly do want a <i>few</i> things!” Galt tried to jest. “But we - can't have everything, you know, in this life.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “You said you liked me,” the child said, quite seriously, “but you never - have kissed me—not once.” - </p> - <p> - “But men don't kiss little boys,” Galt answered, with a start. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “And I've seen Mr. Weston kiss Grover when he runs to meet him at the - gate.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “'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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>VERYTHING 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I am certainly glad it turned out as it did,” Fred replied. “It has been - a great thing for Dick.” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I remember,” Walton returned, sympathetically. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It was sad,” Walton said, gently. “It is a pity he couldn't have been - spared to you.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I paid him, Mr. Whipple. I am still behind two thousand, with the - interest at the rate he charges his customers.” - </p> - <p> - “He's a money-lender then?” Whipple said, lifting his brows. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he—” Fred hesitated a moment, and then finished, “He is a - banker, in a small town in—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I should like it very much,” Walton said, “if you really want me to go.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>RED 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” he inquired of the porter, who had drawn his head back into - the car. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Freight-train knocked all to smash in the edge of town,” he explained. - “Nobody hurt, but it is sure to hold us here awhile.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “It looks like it now, sir,” the porter answered; and as he left, Walton - turned and saw Whipple close beside him. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>one</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “How long shall we be here?” Walton inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Till three o'clock, sir,” the conductor said, as they walked along toward - the locomotive. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Plenty, plenty,” the conductor answered. “It is only a mile or so to the - square.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Only an hour or so longer. It is past one now,” was the reply. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Is that you, Fred?” a low, anxious voice inquired, and Whipple thrust his - shaggy head out from his berth. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Whipple?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “You were afraid that in my despondency I might injure myself,” Fred broke - in; “but you needn't ever—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you'll do it,” the old man gave in, fervently. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-night, sir.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>thief</i>, and he is hiding now from you and all the - rest!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “So <i>this</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - Fred flushed modestly as he released the hand of the portly, pink-faced, - side-whiskered old merchant. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Whipple is noted for his generosity,” he said, lamely. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - When his employer had left, Fred sat down at the desk and began to write. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, thank you,” Fred answered, “it won't be necessary; I have only a few - lines to write.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - A moment later a cheery feminine voice—evidently Mrs. Marston's—sounded - in the corridor outside, where her husband stood waiting for her. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “At the end of the corridor,” Marston was heard directing her. “Now, come - on, young lady. By George, that <i>is</i> a stunning gown! The new - railroad helped pay for that, eh?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Margaret started and paled. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. <i>Spencer!</i>” she echoed, then quickly averted her face from the - inattentive glance of her host. - </p> - <p> - Walton's eyes went down as he bowed, white and quivering. He could say - nothing. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Margaret!” Walton gasped, when they were alone in the awful silence of - the room. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Spencer?—<i>Spencer?</i>” the young lady groped, as she gazed - on him in helpless wonder. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I haven't even <i>that</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - He paused, for she had collapsed limply into Marston's chair, and was - resting her white brow on her bloodless hand. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “But even <i>you</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes,” she said—“oh yes!” - </p> - <p> - “And I am not <i>wholly</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You intend to make—make reparation?” she said, raising an awful - glance to his face. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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 - <i>that!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “It is all I can do now, Margaret!” he exclaimed, as he shrank under the - unexpected severity of her words. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>full</i> duty!” - </p> - <p> - “I couldn't! I assure you, I <i>couldn't</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>all</i> your fault—that - is, not <i>all</i>. Good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - That evening, in the big drawing-room at the Marstons', General Sylvester - sat down by his niece. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, it isn't for evening wear.” Margaret smiled faintly. “Besides, do - you think we ought to stay as—long as that?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - The girl shuddered, an irrepressible sob struggled up within her, and her - head sank to her tightly clasped hands. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how <i>can</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ENNETH 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, <i>she</i> 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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>don't</i>—they don't go near her!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it seems to me, <i>you</i> are in a pretty business!” Weston - retorted, white with rage. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That's the way <i>I</i> felt about it, Weston,” Galt said, staring coldly - at the speaker. “I have nothing at all to apologize for.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “We'll let that drop, <i>too</i>, 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I see you did,” Galt responded, a lump of queer approval in his - throat. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, she really need not know,” Galt said, as the heat of his shame - mantled his face and brow. - </p> - <p> - “But she <i>will</i>,” 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?” - </p> - <p> - Galt unbuttoned the broad white collar, and drew it away from the child's - neck. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that would be a <i>fine</i> 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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “Wait, let me undress you!” the father said, as he hastily dried his - hands. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Look out, I'll duck you!” he said, jestingly, and the boy replied with a - ringing laugh which held no hint of fear. - </p> - <p> - In the water the child lay with his face smilingly upturned. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my son—yes, Lionel, some day, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - “In <i>deep</i> water—in a really-really stream that fish swim in?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Lionel.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that would be so nice! Couldn't we catch fish, too?” - </p> - <p> - “I think so—yes, of course, some day, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>that</i> child forward, acknowledge - <i>that</i> child as his own, while <i>deserting, ignoring, denying</i> - Lionel? - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “There, how will that do, Miss Particular?” Galt asked as he led the child - to a large mirror. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “What was it you said you liked me for?” his father repeated, taking the - little hand and holding it tenderly. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>him</i> how to fight.” - </p> - <p> - “You are smaller than he,” Galt said, lamely. - </p> - <p> - “Then it <i>wasn't</i> because you like me?” Galt felt the little hand - stiffen, as if some impulse of dormant confidence in the tiny palm had - forsaken it. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ORA 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I'm all right, mother,” Lionel said. “I can take care of myself; you - must never be afraid.” - </p> - <p> - “But how did you happen to be with Mr. Galt?” Mrs. Barry asked. “I didn't - know you knew him.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Let him alone, mother,” Dora said, her face rigid. “It doesn't make any - difference.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - But Dora was holding the child's head against her throbbing breast, and - she threw an almost commanding glance at her mother. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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? <i>Some</i> little boys tell fibs to their mothers, but <i>my</i> - boy has always told the truth, and mother is so glad.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “You would tell <i>your</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>mother</i>; - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Is that so, mother?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, darling,” she answered. “There can be no secrets at all between a - mother and her boy. She must tell <i>him</i> everything, and he must not - keep a thing back from <i>her</i>. How did you happen to meet—Mr. - Galt this afternoon?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>That's</i> what you want to know?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - The child was still for a moment. He folded his little arms over his knee, - clinched his hands, and sat avoiding her insistent eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Wait!” he said, finally. “I want to go to Granny.” - </p> - <p> - “You want to go to Granny, and leave your mother?” she asked, deeply - perplexed. . - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It is something you will tell her, but can't tell me!” Dora cried out, in - half-assumed reproach. “Why, <i>Lionel?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Granny!” she heard Lionel call out from the dark, doorway. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear, what is it?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “I want to come to your bed a minute—just a minute.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, come on, darling; don't stumble over anything.” - </p> - <p> - She heard him groping through the dark, and then felt his little hands on - her wrinkled face. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, darling, that would be a nice, brave little man, for you wouldn't - want to make her sad, would you?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Did Kenneth Galt tell my child that—” Dora cried out, in a rasping - undertone. “Did he dare to—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>then</i>, and - that he does <i>yet</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Does yet!</i>” 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But he <i>does</i>, 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!” - </p> - <p> - “You don't know, mother,” Dora sighed, and she stood up and moved away in - the darkness. “You don't know.” - </p> - <p> - Dora went back to her room and stood looking down at her sleeping child. - Suddenly her eyes filled and her breast heaved high. - </p> - <p> - “Mother's little champion!” she cried, and she knelt down by the bed, - covered her face, and wept. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Take a seat, sir, take a seat,” and the banker motioned to a chair near - the desk. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “You've got a hot town, sir,” Whipple said, introductively. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>personally</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Well, sir—well, sir?” he said. - </p> - <p> - “The truth of the matter is that it is of <i>such</i> 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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, Mr. Walton. There's no hurry.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir, I think so,” answered the startled Toby. “You said you thought—” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes, of course,” Walton said, pulling his whiskers with his long hand—“of - course, you naturally would.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “It is only two, according to my calculations.” Walton thought he had - tripped him up, and smiled knowingly. - </p> - <p> - “Fred said he felt that another thousand, at least, was due as interest at - the rate you usually get.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I see; he's certainly liberal.” Walton smiled at his joke, and bent - his head over his pad to hide it. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>business</i> 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 <i>bank</i>. 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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you plumb sure it ain't <i>Jenkins?</i>” the banker grinned, - significantly. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “My post-office—” Whipple hesitated. His astounded gaze went down; - he was all of a quiver, even to his bushy eyebrows. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “I think it <i>must</i> 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 <i>some</i> town, - railroad station, or cross-roads store. A word as uncommon as <i>Whipple</i> - would be hard for <i>me</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>from</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “So you don't believe what I have told you?” Whipple gasped, in - astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “No, I don't believe even <i>that</i>,” 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 <i>was</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>can</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>you</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>AKING 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: - </p> - <p> - “See if they are counterfeit. By gum!” - </p> - <p> - The clerk examined them with the glass while Walton watched him with - staring eyes. - </p> - <p> - “They seem to me to be all right, Mr. Walton,” Toby said, wonderingly, as - he laid the bills down. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” he said, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “So he's gone?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he's gone, Mr. Walton.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>he</i> had. Toby, it don't - look <i>exactly</i> 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?” - </p> - <p> - “You say you didn't get his address?” Toby inquired, as he helplessly - stroked his colorless face and sparse mustache. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>look</i> rich, covered - with dust like he was, but he <i>may</i> be—he may be all Fred has - claimed. Can you think of any way, Toby, to get a report on him?” - </p> - <p> - “I might take Bradstreet's by States,” the clerk suggested, “and run - through all the towns and cities far and near.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>has</i> built himself up, and - made good connections, and the like, why, you see, Toby, I ought not to be - the <i>first</i>—the very <i>first</i>—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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>little</i> places. If he is in the wholesale line, - he must be in a town of over ten thousand.” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “You sort o' believed in Fred all along, Toby,” the banker said, - tentatively—“that is, you used to talk him up to some extent.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>other</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, see if you can locate this Whipple,” Walton said, and, turning off, - he trudged heavily homeward through the gathering shadows. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Well, well?” Walton exclaimed, as they met face to face on the sidewalk - in the flare of a gas-light. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>some</i> 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes, if you advise it, Mr. Walton.” - </p> - <p> - “And you could go and hang about, in a quiet, know-nothing way, without - letting Fred see you, I reckon?” - </p> - <p> - “Easy enough, Mr. Walton, in a bustling place like that.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>does</i> 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 <i>might</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll do my best, Mr. Walton,” the clerk said. “Goodbye.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T 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. - </p> - <p> - “What news from New York?” he asked, as he flicked the ashes from his - cigar. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And so they are coming?” Galt said, reflectively. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, so do I,” Galt answered, and he smoked steadily, his eyes bent on - the ground. . - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” Galt asked. - </p> - <p> - “It is a slight operation I have to perform on little Lionel.” - </p> - <p> - “Operation? Lionel?” Galt started, and then checked himself and stared - blankly. “I didn't know there was anything at all wrong with him.” - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>yourself</i>, had something - of that sort, I think you told me.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “When do you think you will do the—the operation?” Galt faltered, as - he averted his shrinking glance from Dearing's face. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I remember.” Lionel passed his tapering hand over his white throat. “I - can feel them when I swallow.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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. <i>Women</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “And you think to-day is the best time?” he faltered, on the edge of - refusal. - </p> - <p> - “The very best of all, Lionel,” Dearing said, gently. “You wouldn't be - afraid of me, would you?” - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - “Come, that's a good, nice boy!” Dearing urged. “I see you are going to be - a brave little man.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not afraid it will <i>hurt</i>,” Lionel faltered, “but I don't like - to be put to—to sleep.” - </p> - <p> - “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: - </p> - <p> - “Will you come, too?” - </p> - <p> - A shock as if from some unknown force went through the man addressed, but, - seeing no alternative, he answered: - </p> - <p> - “If you wish it, yes, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “And <i>you</i> think I ought to—to do it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” Galt nodded, his head rocking like that of an automaton. “The - doctor knows best.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, I'll go,” the boy sighed, with another wistful look over the - lawn. “I'll go.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>now</i>, - are you?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Help him, Kenneth,” Dearing said. “My hands are full.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Now we are ready for you, young man,” Dearing said, lightly. “I see you - are not afraid I'll hurt you.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I know it won't <i>hurt</i>,” Lionel said, “but—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “If I shouldn't wake up—I mean if I really <i>shouldn't</i>, 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—” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, come off!” Dearing laughed, as he turned to his assistant. “Doctor, - this kid hints that we don't know our business.” - </p> - <p> - “But if I didn't wake, if I <i>didn't!</i>” 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 <i>teensy bit?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” the child exclaimed, regretfully, and averted his face, “I thought - he could stay!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “God have mercy and spare him!” the man cried out from the depths of his - agony. “Spare him, O God, spare him!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Where is Lionel—where is my child?” she panted. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you mustn't—you really mustn't!” he called out in protest, and - he put a detaining hand on her arm. - </p> - <p> - Shrinking from his touch, she stared at him piteously. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>soul!</i>” She - covered her tortured face with her bloodless hands and remained still, - save for the emotion which quivered through her hysterical frame. - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank God—thank God,” Dora exclaimed, “he is saved!” - </p> - <p> - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>OBY 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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, of course,” Walton said. “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>centre</i>, 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You did, eh? You say you did?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you thought that!” and Walton drew his brows together and bit his - lip. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “'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.'” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, he was all right, then!” - </p> - <p> - “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.'” - </p> - <p> - “Adopted son!” fell from the-banker's lips. “Spencer was Fred's middle - name. Great Lord, Toby, do you reckon it's true?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>did</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>reckon</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>this</i> town knows or ever <i>need</i> know, you - may have been in touch with Fred all these years. In fact, they may not - know but what the—the <i>other matter</i> was the only cause of - Fred's leaving.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “A good idea, Mr. Walton!” Toby declared, enthusiastically. “It will set - 'em wild.” - </p> - <p> - “But we'll leave the adopted-son part out, Toby.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, sir; oh yes, sir; that needn't go in!” - </p> - <p> - “We might just tell about his being a partner in the business, or - something along that line.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>have</i>, 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 <i>would</i> want to come home if he - knew there had been such an uproar.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>IMON 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: - </p> - <p> - “<i>Meet me with horse and buggy at afternoon up train</i>.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I got it all right,” the clerk responded. “Shall we drive home or to - the bank?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, of course, Mr. Walton. I suppose you saw Fred?” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>any</i> 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 <i>favor</i>; - 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 <i>both</i> - 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 <i>general</i> 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' <i>look</i> it, in cases where I was <i>dead</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I understand,” Toby said, sympathetically. “A great many folks are that - way.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't imagine, Mr. Walton,” said the clerk, deeply interested. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>one</i> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>he</i> wasn't no blood <i>kin</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You were in an embarrassing position,” Toby remarked, as he shook the - drooping lines over the plodding horse's back. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And you met him—I know you did,” Toby broke in. “I see it in your - face.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't imagine, Mr. Walton.” - </p> - <p> - “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!' - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>that</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “That certainly <i>was</i> awkward,” Toby burst out, like an enthusiast at - a play. “It was bad.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “She wouldn't be so hard on him if <i>that</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>any</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “What is it, Mr. Walton?” the clerk asked, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “They would get married, and both would prefer to live here!” Toby broke - in, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “That's the point, Toby,” Walton said. “You've hit it. Now drive me home.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Did you want to see my uncle?” she asked, sweetly. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Well, my <i>brother</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I didn't want to see him, <i>either</i>,” 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 <i>you</i>. There is a little matter I sort - o' thought you and me might talk over maybe to mutual gain and profit.” - </p> - <p> - “You want to see me, really?” Margaret started. “Well, won't you come in?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i>, but in this case, you - see, <i>I'm</i> the supplicant. Miss Margaret, I've come to see you about - my boy—about Fred.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>was</i> 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 <i>was</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “See <i>me</i> about it? I really don't understand,” the young lady - faltered. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I <i>have</i> 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 - <i>he</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That means a flat no, then,” the banker said, and with a heavy sigh he - slowly stood up. “Well, I've plead <i>his</i> case as well as I know how, - but I hain't yet touched on <i>mine</i>. 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 <i>Fred</i> that's concerned—it's me—<i>me!</i> - 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 '<i>adopted son</i>.' 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 <i>me</i>, and lean on <i>me,</i> 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 <i>him</i>, 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: - </p> - <p> - “I see; it is hard on you. It is a pity you have to suffer on account of - it.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I can promise that,” Margaret consented. “I'll stop in at the bank - and see you soon.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, that's all a body <i>could</i> ask,” Walton said, gratefully; and, - bowing low, he trudged across the grass to his horse and buggy. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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 <i>me</i> 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? <i>Can</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Where is your mother?” Margaret asked, timidly. “May I see her?” - </p> - <p> - “She is in the studio,” the child said. “She is making a picture.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, she <i>is</i> 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!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And did you really do all these?” Margaret stared in admiration. “Oh, - they are lovely, lovely!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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? - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Dora dropped her eyes in surprise, for the gaze of her haughty visitor was - full of undisguised anger. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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: - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 - <i>apologize</i>—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 <i>shame</i> - of it!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ARGARET 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “My mother sent this note,” Lionel said, when he caught her eye. - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - <i>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.</i> - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Old friend—after all these years!</i>” 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: - </p> - <p> - “Little boy! Lionel! Wait! Bring them back! I dropped them!” He turned, a - look of mystification on his face, and came back doubtfully. - </p> - <p> - “I haven't read them yet,” she explained, humbly enough, and she extended - her hand. “Let me have them.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought you were angry,” he said, staring at her. “I thought you didn't - want my mother's letter.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll read them,” she promised, tremblingly. “Wait, won't you? That's a - good boy.” - </p> - <p> - He stood beside her, studiously observant of the phenomenon of her - changeableness, while she literally devoured Fred Walton's letter. It ran: - </p> - <p> - 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. <i>Home!</i> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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— - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Margaret folded the letter in her lap and sat aflame with joy, staring - with glowing eyes at the vacant air. - </p> - <p> - “Do you like it? Is it nice, lady?” the child asked. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “You seem happy,” he said, thoughtfully, “and that is a condition that is - most rare with humankind. I certainly envy a happy individual.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am very happy,” she said—“more so than I ever was in my life - before.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Come to me, Lionel,” she said, gently. “I want you to kiss me. Won't you, - just once?” - </p> - <p> - The child stared as if scarcely believing that he had heard aright. - </p> - <p> - “What did you say, lady?” he asked, as he lingered hesitatingly. - </p> - <p> - She repeated her words more tenderly than before, and there was a mist - before her sight as he came toward her. - </p> - <p> - “Do you like me now?” he asked, wonderingly. “Yes, and love you very, very - much,” she answered, huskily. - </p> - <p> - “But you didn't ever so long at <i>first</i>; you didn't <i>yesterday</i>, - when I asked you to see my church. You didn't just <i>this minute</i>, - when I brought my mother's letter.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “They <i>all</i> like me now,” Lionel said. “She was the only one that - didn't, but she says she does <i>now</i>. She kissed me. Did you see her? - Oh, she's so pretty! She is—no, she isn't, but she is <i>nearly</i> - as pretty as my mother.” - </p> - <p> - Galt sat down and drew the boy first to a seat on his knee and then into - his arms. - </p> - <p> - “She knows the truth,” he said to himself, in a tone of desperate - indifference to fate. “Something in that letter told her.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>S she passed - through the gate at the end of the lawn, Margaret looked back and saw the - child and its father seated together. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Without any word of greeting Margaret simply ran to her and threw her arms - about her neck. “Oh, you are <i>so</i> good, <i>so</i> 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—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “There, I have made you cry!” Margaret exclaimed, regretfully. “I am so - sorry!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, no!” Dora cried out. “I couldn't think of it. What is done - must be done by <i>me</i>, by <i>my</i> brain, and by <i>my</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - She passed the stores, bowing to an acquaintance in a doorway or in a - passing carriage, and went on to Walton's bank. - </p> - <p> - “Is Mr. Walton in?” she asked Toby Lassiter, at the cashier's window in - the green wire grating. - </p> - <p> - “He has just this minute stepped out,” Toby answered. “He will be right - in. Won't you go to his office and wait?” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, yes,” she answered, and went back to the musty little room, - taking a chair near the old man's desk. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “She's waiting for you in your office, Mr. Walton,” Toby panted. - </p> - <p> - “Who?—not—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir; I told her to sit down and I'd fetch you in.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “I <i>have</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you <i>have!</i> Well, it's for you to say whether you thought best - or not. I reckon I went just a <i>little</i> mite beyond my authority up - there, in my effort to conduct Fred's affairs for him, without, you - understand—without his <i>free</i> 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 - <i>this</i> end—a sort of index of public opinion bearing on his - particular case, and—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Good gracious, Miss Margaret, you don't mean—” Simon stood up to - his full height, his old eyes blinking in astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I do, Mr. Walton. I want to see him and talk to him. I don't know - how to say it to <i>you</i>, but I am sure Fred will understand. Tell him - that I—that I kissed you for his sake, there!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - And the next instant she had floated out of the room, leaving the red-face - banker under the perplexed stare of his apologetic clerk. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it's safe in my hands, Mr. Walton,” Toby said, with unconscious - humor. “<i>I'll</i> never tell it.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>You'll</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">U</span>NDER 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “He is going away,” Galt speculated. “He looks excited. I wonder if - Margaret could have told him of her discovery?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Hello, Kenneth!” he said. “I didn't know you were at home. Otherwise, I - should have run in and said good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - “You are going somewhere, then?” Galt said. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, what's gone wrong?” Galt inquired. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I haven't heard anything out of the ordinary. You see, I am keeping - so close here at home that—” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” Galt exclaimed. But that was all he said, for Dearing went on, - angrily: - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “You? You?” Galt gasped. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “That's a fact; I must go. Good-bye, old man.” Galt held on to Dearing's - hand firmly, almost desperately. - </p> - <p> - “Wait, I have something to say,” he began—“something that simply - must be said.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>then</i> may miss your train! Hurry!” - </p> - <p> - “Wait, just a moment,” Galt implored. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But you <i>must</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>such</i> a life! - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIII - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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. - </p> - <p> - “It is glorious—glorious!” he cried, in ecstasy. “She may refuse, - but I shall never desist till I have won her forgiveness.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “She's not here. But don't stand there,” the old woman said; “somebody - might see you and wonder. Come into the parlor.” - </p> - <p> - She led the way, and he followed. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>pray</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You mean—you mean!” he exclaimed, aghast, as he bent over her chair - and stared into her calm face. “You mean that—” - </p> - <p> - “I mean that it may be too late,” she interrupted him. - </p> - <p> - “Too late?” He sank into a chair in front of her, and, pale and quivering - in every limb, swung his hat between his knees. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>human</i> 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 <i>just that way</i> 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 <i>exactly as she did</i>. 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 <i>just that sort of faith</i>.” - </p> - <p> - The light of hope had died out of Galt's parchment-like face. He dropped - his horrified gaze to the floor. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>NTO 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But she <i>wouldn't</i>,” Dora said, pale and surprised. “She knows that - I don't want to—to meet <i>any one</i> 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>I</i> shall go!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you make it so <i>hard</i> 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 <i>now!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>save your soul</i>—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.” - </p> - <p> - “I know. I know it is true so far as it touches <i>you</i>,” 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 - <i>may</i> go to Paris some day, but we don't want you with us, Kenneth. I - want to leave absolutely <i>everything</i> behind. You must be dead to us; - there is no other way—no other possible way.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” she said, coldly, and she sank back rigidly on the grass. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “'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. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I have to go away,” Galt faltered, his glance averted. “I only came - to spend a short time at Stafford.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - The eyes of the mother and father met in the strangest stare that ever - passed between two mortal creatures. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “But I want you to <i>stay!</i>” The child was crying now, with his chubby - hands to his eyes. Suddenly Dora, with a desperate movement, pressed him - to her breast. - </p> - <p> - “You must not play on his feelings that way!” she cried, fiercely, casting - a significant glance toward the town. “Go, please!” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXV - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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. - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>such</i> a man! - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly raising his eyes to the relentless blue above, he tried to frame - a prayer. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You wanted to see <i>me?</i>” he gasped. “Has anything gone wrong?” - </p> - <p> - “No, it is not <i>that</i>,” 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes,” Galt gasped, as he stared at her. “I know; I know.” - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>first</i>, he wanted a father like other children, - and, <i>next</i>, that he wanted to be where he could have playmates.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>in her way</i>; - 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—” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Undecided?</i> Did you say that?” Galt leaned forward eagerly, his - lips quivering, as he waited breathlessly. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Lionel!” Galt panted. “We must save him, and we can—we can, if - Dora could only—” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>you</i>, - and that <i>you</i> wanted <i>him</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “God bless him!” burst from the lips of the bowed man. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>me</i> 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!' - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>you</i> 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 <i>me</i>, - and I wasn't to leave <i>him</i>. Is he going, mother?' he kept asking. - </p> - <p> - “Then I heard her say, 'Yes, darling, he is going—now you can - sleep!'” - </p> - <p> - “She said that? Did she say that?” Galt cried, his whole despondent being - aflame. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; it is settled, Kenneth. Perhaps, in time, you and she will be - thoroughly happy together. I don't know, but I hope so.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>acted</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “You have come down here to see him?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>this</i>: - 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 <i>the very heart out of my life, as this one - has!</i> Now, perhaps you understand.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, brother, you mean that you love—” - </p> - <p> - He nodded, and his head sank to his chest. - </p> - <p> - “Then you must listen to <i>me!</i>” Margaret began. “But, no, you will - have to wait—I can't tell you even now—I can't explain.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Dearing took it and tore it open. The letters on the yellow sheet swam - before his eyes, but he read the words: - </p> - <p> - <i>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.</i> - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - As soon as was practicable, Fred led his father away from the clerks back - to the old man's office. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>acted</i> that made me draw my conclusions than her exact - words on <i>any</i> direct line.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, how did she <i>act?</i>” Fred inquired, despondently. - </p> - <p> - “Why, if you <i>will</i> know—” old Simon was growing red in the - face. “I had no idea of telling it even to <i>you</i>, but the truth is - she up and kissed me—so she did! She gave me a smack right on the - cheek!” - </p> - <p> - “She <i>kissed</i> you?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - At this moment a voice was heard in the corridor. It was Wynn Dearing's, - and he was asking for Fred. - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - But Wynn Dearing was brushing past the old man through the narrow doorway, - his face pale, his hand extended to Fred. - </p> - <p> - “I have done you a great wrong, old man,” he said, in a shaking voice, - “and I have come to beg your pardon.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that's all right, Wynn,” Fred gasped, in surprise. “I am sure you - have treated me no worse than I deserve.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” he said, groping for her meaning, his big, honest - eyes dilating. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You love me—you really care for me?” he said, deep in his throat. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_CONC" id="link2H_CONC"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CONCLUSION - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>him!</i>” Just then Mrs. Barry came from the luxurious suite of - state-rooms Galt had secured. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - “Bon voyage!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Who sent the flowers, darling?” Galt asked. - </p> - <p> - “There was no name attached,” she answered. “Look, Kenneth! Lionel is - trying to climb the railing—don't let him!” - </p> - <p> - Galt hurried away to do her bidding, and she gazed down into the water, - which was being churned into white foam. - </p> - <p> - “Bon voyage!” she said, bitterly. “Bon voyage!” - </p> - <h3> - THE END - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Redemption Of Kenneth Galt, by Will N. 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- <head>
- <title>The Redemption Of Kenneth Galt, by Will N. Harben</title>
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-Title: The Redemption Of Kenneth Galt
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-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- THE REDEMPTION OF KENNETH GALT
- </h1>
- <h2>
- By Will N. Harben
- </h2>
- <h4>
- Author of “Gilbert Neal” “Abner Daniel” “The Georgians” “Ann Boyd” etc.
- </h4>
- <h5>
- New York and London: Harper Brothers Publishers
- </h5>
- <h3>
- M C M I X
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <h3>
- TO
- </h3>
- <h3>
- MABELLE
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_PART"> <b>PART I</b> </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART II</b> </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER I </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER II </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER III </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER IV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER V </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER VI </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER VII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER IX </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER X </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XI </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XVIII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XX </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXIII </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XXV </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XXVI </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_CONC"> CONCLUSION </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- PART I
- </h2>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER I
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>OUNG 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-morning, Dora,” he said, cheerily; and she started as, for the first
- time, she noticed his presence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dearing heard the girl's returning step in the hallway, and then she
- looked in on him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is sitting up,” Dora announced. “She wants you to come to her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, what is the matter, Mrs. Barry?” Dearing inquired, now quite grave.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is bad,” Dearing said, sympathetically, as Mrs. Barry paused and,
- covering her wrinkled face with her hands, remained silent for a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>have</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER II
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>R. 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You've been to church like a good little boy,” he laughed, as he paused
- and stood cutting at the grass with his cane.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, <i>that's</i> 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course she <i>ought</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose it is Fred Walton again,” Dearing said, resignedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The face of the doctor clouded over. “You don't mean to say that—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But there <i>isn't</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>You</i> are, my boy. I am proud of <i>you</i>. 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, remember what I've said,” the old soldier threw back as he turned
- away.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know she is, Marse Wynn, 'case she sent Lindy down fer some fresh col'
- water not mo'n ten minutes ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't want to disturb you, Madge,” Dearing began, “but you will have to
- stop anyway soon, and get ready for dinner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is <i>childish!</i>” 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she said, “that is <i>one</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have never heard <i>me</i> 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Brother, I'm not in a mood for silliness!” the girl interrupted him,
- quickly, and with an impatient flush.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>think</i> they love each other, and if it does no harm
- to any one <i>else</i>, 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mean that Uncle Tom—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mean this, Madge, and now I am talking to you as a physician—<i>his</i>
- 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wasn't going to say a word against his <i>honor</i>, Madge,” Dearing
- interrupted her, gently; “but I am going to say this: if I were in <i>his</i>
- 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 <i>just as you are</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, what do you mean?” the girl asked, her lip quivering stubbornly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>the other thing</i>, I
- honestly can't see how he can talk of love and marriage to a girl like you
- are.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What <i>other</i> thing do you mean?” Margaret demanded, pale with
- suppressed emotion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i> to reckon with, that's all—<i>me</i>,
- Madge!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>tell</i> 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 <i>now</i>, 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is no other way, Madge, but I'll not be rough; I pity the poor chap
- too much for that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “When do you intend to—to see him?” She was sobbing again, her face
- pressed against his shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER III
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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: <i>dealt</i> with!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't think, to do Fred <i>full</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Does Margaret know you—” The General's voice failed to carry
- further.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>own</i> throats cut.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have always wondered what Kenneth <i>does</i> believe,” Sylvester said,
- with his first smile. “He certainly is an interesting man; and he's rich,
- and growing more so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; he was well provided for at the start,” responded Dearing, “and he
- has invested wisely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>she</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>cure</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She did not return his smile, and drew back from his caress as if she half
- resented it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you really going to see Fred?” she asked, falteringly, her eyes fixed
- coldly, half fearfully, on his through the dim, vague starlight.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To-night?” She breathed hard, her hand on her breast.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Right away, sister; that is, if he is in town.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>defying you!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't tell, Madge. I may not find him at once, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Afraid of what?” he demanded, quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>EAVING 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you don't owe <i>me</i> a penny, Mr. Walton.” Dearing laughed. “I
- only wish you did.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; in fact, that's what I dropped in for. I wanted to speak to him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>your</i>
- 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 <i>mine</i>—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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I see he is not here,” Dearing said, awkwardly. “Perhaps I can find
- him up-town.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Show me how to help it—show me how to <i>want</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Who is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is I, Fred—Wynn Dearing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Fred Walton stared. His face was rigid; beads of sweat stood on his brow
- and cheeks; the cigar in his mouth shook.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We might walk on to my office; it is always cool. I never bother to shut
- the windows, even before a rain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, if—if you wish it, Wynn; that is, if you wish to—to see
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I want to talk to you, Fred.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's all right, Wynn, go ahead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is about you and my sister, Fred.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have no such message as <i>that</i>, 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But she—surely she herself will tell General Sylvester that she is
- willing to—forget me, and—”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>you</i>. I thought, and Uncle Tom did, too, that
- under the circumstances you might, you see, rather than stand between her
- and—”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Fred, surely you—” Dearing started to say, but, raising his
- hand, Walton interrupted him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>uncursed</i> ones.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>care</i> for the cowardly cur—you,
- who ought to—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Brother, stop!” The girl clutched his arms. She breathed hard against his
- breast as she leaned close to him. “'The cowardly cur,' you say—<i>you</i>,
- who have never abused him before.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, what <i>do</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Margaret sat up, and put her arms about her brother's neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER V
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>thief</i> as <i>I</i> am, I ought to go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>absolutely too late?</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>eventually</i>. 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 <i>can</i>
- 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, <i>do,
- do</i> 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. <i>Do, do</i>, give it to me!
- Good-bye.
- </p>
- <p>
- Frederic.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He seated himself again, and wrote as follows:
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>can't</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think this is Jack Thomas' run,” he reflected. “If it is, he will take
- me aboard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VI
- </h2>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “South-bound freight on time?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- The man looked at him indifferently. “I heard her blow at the crossing,”
- he answered. “There! can't you hear her rumble?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who's the conductor?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jack Thomas, if he didn't lay over at Red Hill to spend Sunday with his
- folks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hello, Jack!” Walton came forward.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wouldn't trust myself with three railroad men,” Walton tried to jest,
- “even if I hadn't sworn off.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What! again? Oh, that <i>is</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>do</i>
- look kind o' bunged up. What's the matter, old chap?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm simply down and out, Jack, that's the sum and substance of it. I am
- down and out. When do you start?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>is</i> a joke!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—<i>let go!</i> He shuddered, and turned cold
- from head to foot.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It couldn't be harder, Jack,” Walton said. “I am at the end of my rope.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But that's <i>your</i> bed,” Walton protested, thoughtful, even in his
- misery, of his friend's comfort.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't care for it right now, Jack,” Walton returned. “I may ask for it
- later. Whiskey always keeps me awake.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right. You are mighty good, Jack,” the wanderer said, appalled and
- stupefied by his sudden awakening to the grim reality of his condition.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Walton hesitated; a tinge of color came into his pale face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ran down for a trip with Jack Thomas,” he answered; “this is his cab.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh yes—I see. Where <i>is</i> Jack?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Had to go up-town.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thanks, I've got to hang around here for a while.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, so long!” the man said, with a backward look of perplexity, as he
- moved away. “I'll see you uptown, I reckon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-morning!” the man said, looking up. “You are not the conductor of
- this train, are you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” Fred answered, wonderingly; “he's just gone up-town.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The policeman swung his club. “Got a match in your pocket? I want to smoke
- so bad I can taste it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What sort of job is it?” Walton asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>this</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are not well treated, either, I have heard,” Walton put in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The officer wavered; he stared, speechless, for a moment, colored high,
- then shrugged his shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I reckon my duty <i>does</i> 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 <i>you</i>, 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 <i>me</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You won't take the watch, then?” Fred held the timepiece toward him, its
- golden chain swinging.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I don't want it. But hurry up! Get him out of the yards!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Will</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll join you,” Walton said. “I've heard of it, too. Those, new towns are
- all right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You didn't tell me your name,” Dick suggested.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VIII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HAT 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh yes.” Then, as Lassiter was softly slipping away: “But hold on, Toby!
- Have you seen Fred this morning?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I've got <i>mine</i>,” 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's gone!” he gasped. “He's taken five thousand dollars of the bank's
- funds, and made off!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Mr. Walton, do, <i>do</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Am I the head of this bank or <i>you?</i>” 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!”.
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right, Mr. Walton,” the clerk yielded, “I'll do it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor Fred!” he muttered. “He's too good at heart to be treated this way,
- and he's not a <i>real</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Walton wants to see you, Bill,” he said. “He's in his office in the
- bank.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?” he growled, impatiently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what the devil has that got to do with <i>this?</i>” Walton
- thundered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—<i>ready</i> 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a sound of heavy steps in the corridor outside.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IX
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>S 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 <i>money?</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>discovery</i>,
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The postman left a letter for you-all this morning, didn't he?” was a
- question Mrs. Chumley had evidently been holding in reserve.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, there wasn't anything. Dora went out to the fence to see if he had
- any mail, but he didn't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must be mistaken.” Mrs. Barry's face had changed. There were
- splotches of pallor in her gaunt cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I couldn't be. I don't make mistakes in things of that sort—not
- of <i>that</i> sort.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She came back in the house after the postman had gone on,” Mrs. Barry
- faltered, “and told me there wasn't any letter.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If she didn't show it to you, she <i>hid</i> it; I'm dead sure of that.
- She <i>hid</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sure she didn't <i>get</i> any letter,” Mrs. Barry said, and she now
- tore herself away, conscious of her overwhelming disadvantage in the
- adroit woman's hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is there all right,” the man laughed. “I gave it to Miss Dora.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's what I told her. I say, Sim Carter, have they heard anything more
- yet about—” But the postman was gone.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mrs. Chumley says you got a letter from the postman this morning,” Mrs.
- Barry said, tremblingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl seemed to hesitate just an instant; then she nodded, mutely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who was it from, daughter?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mother, I don't want to say—even to you. I have reasons why—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was from Fred Walton! You need not deny it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dora made no protest; she simply dropped her eyes to her lap, and sat
- motionless.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You knew he had left, didn't you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, mother. I knew he was gone.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And while the whole town is wondering why he went, you know, I suppose?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't feel that I have the right to talk about it, mother.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I sha'n't urge you!” And the older woman shambled away, now bearing
- doubts which were heavier and more maddening than ever.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Some of your art pupils came to the gate just now, didn't they?” she
- inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” the girl answered. “Sally and Mary Hill wanted to know if I'd go
- sketching with them to the swamp to-morrow afternoon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And are you going?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! <i>that</i> 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 <i>are</i> improving.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dora sighed, but said nothing.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently Dora pushed back her chair and rose.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't care for anything else,” she said, avoiding her mother's eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you haven't eaten anything at all,” Mrs. Barry protested, anxiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, mother, mother, how can I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are ruined!” Mrs. Barry groaned. “Tell me I am right—you are
- ruined!”
- </p>
- <p>
- With a cry, Dora turned and threw herself on the bed, and with her face
- hidden in a pillow she burst into dry sobs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Chumley suffered herself to be led to the outer door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—<i>our</i>
- 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—<i>anything</i> to help her bear her
- burden! That's my prayer to you, Edwin—to you, and to God!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER X
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's because he only knows the <i>business</i> side of me,” Galt said,
- ceasing to smile, and drawing himself up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I must be off. I see John lashing the air with his whip; he is my
- time-table.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I will.” The girl rose languidly. “There are some pretty ones near
- the gate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It may be as you say—<i>in time</i>,” 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But he told you he was going, never to come back?” the old man said, with
- a touch of resentment even at the thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; he said positively that his conduct, whatever it was, would keep him
- from ever showing his face in Stafford again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; Fred said the old man knew, and would tell it, but it seems he has
- not,” Dearing answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ashamed to let it be known, I guess,” Sylvester said.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but I know it <i>is</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My God, the brutality of it!” the old man ejaculated. “To think it should
- come to her like that!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>such</i>
- a flatterer—saying that I—saying that he—”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>some</i>
- folks, but not your family doctor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I <i>did</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor child!” the young doctor said to himself. “To think that it should
- come to her—to beautiful, gentle Dora, with her wonderful ideals! <i>And
- he could deliberately desert her!</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XI
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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? <i>The whole town knows the
- truth!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to know,” he panted, “if the report is out about Fred's shortage?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, <i>something</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I see!” Lassiter exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “He didn't refer to
- <i>the money</i>, 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>will!</i> 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 <i>that time</i>, I'll admit, but I want to know what
- you think Bailey Thornton meant by what he said. Do you know?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The clerk looked down. His face was quite grave and rigid.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm talking to you about <i>business</i> now!” Old Simon raised his voice
- to a shrill cry, which, had it not stranded in his throat, would have
- reached the adjoining room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Girl? What girl?” the banker gasped. “Why do you take all day to get at a
- thing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you are plumb sure it wasn't the money that Thornton was talking
- about!” he exclaimed, with a deep breath of relief.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ENNETH 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the railroad is almost a certainty?” she asked, forcing a wan smile.
- “You are about to have your dream realized?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Galt shrugged his shoulders and drew back somewhat into his habitual
- mantle of reserve. “If we <i>do</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There were many inaccuracies in the papers,” he informed her, as he stood
- wondering over her evident dejection. “Did you read the articles?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You didn't? Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is one thing I am <i>now</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>any one</i>.
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must go—you must never come again!” she said, in a voice filled
- with suffering.
- </p>
- <p>
- The little wood-house was between them and the cottage, and some tall
- trees bordering the little street threw a shadow over them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, darling, what's the matter?” he cried. “What has changed you so
- remarkably? Why, little girl—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean, you haven't—haven't <i>heard?</i>” She clutched the
- shawl under her marble-like chin and stared at him, her pretty lips parted
- and quivering piteously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Heard what?” he asked. “I have heard nothing—certainly no <i>bad</i>
- news. I've been away for a week, and only came home this evening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She lowered her head, and stood silent and motionless. He put his hand on
- her shoulder and gently shook her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me,” he urged, groping for an explanation of her agitation, “is your
- mother ill again? Is she worse?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, it isn't that—God knows even that would be a blessing. Kenneth,
- I'm ruined!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't mean?—you <i>can't</i> mean?—” He stood aghast
- before her, quivering now from head to foot.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say of <i>you?</i>” she broke in, bitterly. “They have never mentioned
- your name. Not a soul—<i>not even my mother</i>—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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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—?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>you!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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
- <i>haven't</i>—you simply haven't! I know you better than you know
- yourself. You will not come to-morrow <i>nor any other day!</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>RAVE, 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, no. Does he want me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>you</i> get it!
- Quick!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I'll—I'll do it!” Galt gasped. “Wait, I'll be down in—in
- a minute!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>even with her</i>, 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 <i>weak</i> men. <i>Strong</i> 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>I'll actually lose her!</i> 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 <i>want</i>
- her! I <i>want</i> her. With all my soul, I <i>want</i> 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “In the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” he cried. “Come on! You may
- miss the train as it is! <i>Come on!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We can't wait, man!” the General shouted from the walk outside. “Hurry!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right, I'm ready!” and Galt strode rapidly down the stairs, sliding
- his hand on the walnut railing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>them</i> favors instead of <i>asking</i> for them. If you
- don't miss connection and get there on time, you will win as sure as you
- are a foot high.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, John,” Sylvester cried, “miss that train, and I'll break every bone
- in your black hide!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—<i>some one</i> else whom I once had as my own, but
- who is now out of my life forever.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mean—you mean—a sweetheart?” ventured the boy, as he put
- out a sympathetic hand and touched the arm of his companion.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm sorry,” Dick Warren said, simply, and his hand tenderly clung to the
- dust-coated sleeve—“I'm sorry, Fred.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But why?” the boy asked, wonderingly. “It seems like it would be company
- for you, now that you and she are—parted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you like for me to say anything about her, Fred?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Was!</i>” Walton broke in. “Don't forget that, Dick.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think a girl like that, with a <i>face</i> like that, would forgive
- almost anything in the man she loved,” the boy went on, in a valiant
- effort at consolation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't ask for anything <i>for me</i>,” Walton said. “I'm not very hungry.
- I can get along for some time yet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait till I find out how it smells around that kitchen,”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say, I just want to tell you fellows <i>one more thing</i>,” 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Huh! let me see it.” The farmer's eyes gleamed avariciously as Walton
- took the watch from his pocket and extended it to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>your</i>
- market.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You say you 'hain't'?” Dick Warren mocked him, in fresh anger.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's right, Dick,” he said, and there was a pained look about his
- sensitive mouth. “The circumstances are dead against us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i>,” 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> SWEAR, I'd enjoy
- firing <i>his</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By George!” he exclaimed, exultantly, “we are in luck! Gee, what a
- pick-up!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is it, now?” Walton asked. But the boy was bounding away toward the
- fence. “You wait and see—gee, what luck!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Put it back, Dick! Go put it back!” Fred said, firmly, his eyes averted.
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy stared, a blended expression of surprise and keen disappointment
- capturing his features.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you really mean it, Fred?” he asked, his lip falling, the pail hanging
- motionless at his side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Huh!” he grunted, and started on without waiting to see if Fred was ready
- to go. Walton followed, and presently caught up with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I'm <i>starving!</i>” 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dick, you are a bloody anarchist!” Walton laughed gently as he placed his
- hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is <i>one</i> 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i>. 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The two pedestrians exchanged eager glances.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where is your place?” Fred asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How far is it to your place?” Walton asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>packing</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But we are hungry and weak!” Dick Warren protested.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>business</i>, 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right, we'll be there,” Walton promised. “And we will do the best we
- can for your interests.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We can make it, Dick,” Walton said, encouragingly. “Let's bend down to
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are peach-gatherers,” Walton surmised. “Come on; there are no dogs
- that I can see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh!” she exclaimed, as her kindly eyes fell on them. “Not more pickers,
- surely?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>look</i> at 'em—Well, it ain't any of <i>my</i>
- 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman laughed. “Well, you <i>must</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll see about that, old lady,” Dick challenged her, as he made a dash
- for the near-by water-shelf.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It will do very well,” Fred assured her. “In fact, we would rather like
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm dead tired and sleepy, Fred,” Dick said, when they had left the
- table. “Let's turn in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVI
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; I sent the last prisoner up for life an hour ago,” the merchant
- responded, jovially. “Set down, set down!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What have you run across now?” Whipple asked, as he leaned his elbow on
- his desk and rested his florid face on his hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good, good!” Stephen Whipple ejaculated, his features working, his kind
- old eyes twinkling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor chaps,” the merchant sighed, “and they have evidently seen better
- days.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's tried to find work here, then?” Stephen Whipple mused, aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And to think that a fellow like <i>that</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I'll send him, Brother Whipple. God bless you, old man, you can
- always be counted on!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are very, very kind, Mr. Whipple,” Fred said, a gratified flush on
- his face; “but you have had no recommendation of me, and—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't <i>want</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>talking</i> 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
- <i>mean</i> well, and that is all I ask.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, <i>that's</i> it!” Whipple said, awkwardly. “Still, you mustn't feel
- that I am requiring any explanations of—of a private nature, for I
- am not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”. .
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- PART II
- </h2>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER I
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>LD 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'You think,' he said, 'that Walton ought, even <i>now</i>, to go back and
- marry her—<i>at this late date?</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'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!'
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>him</i>. 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That she still cares for the rascal?” Dearing broke in, his face
- darkening.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>low, impulsive passion</i>, and believes
- that he loved her, and her alone, in a <i>pure</i> way, why—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I'll run down,” Dearing said to his uncle. “It may not be very
- serious. She is subject to such attacks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER II
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>URRYING 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dora sank into a chair as if utterly overcome with relief, and he stood
- looking at her in blended admiration and sympathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are so kind to me, Wynn,” she said, with a faint, sad smile. “You
- have always been the best friend we ever had.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have done hundreds of thoughtful things,” she cried. “You have left
- nothing undone that could possibly help us. Oh, you are <i>too</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” he exclaimed, admiringly, “that's the best you've shown me! It is
- very, very good.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then—now comes the <i>best</i> 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—<i>almost</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I see, I understand,” Dearing said, gravely; “and you'd never come back
- to old Stafford again, I suppose?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh no,” she answered; “all this would have to be laid aside forever.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not from your big brother?” he asked, his pleading eyes on her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, not even from you, you dear boy. It is <i>my</i> problem, Wynn, and I
- must work it out alone—all alone.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They had gone back to the porch, and the sight of the extensive grounds
- around his house prompted him to say:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At this moment the boy himself came from his grandmother's room, along the
- passage, and out to them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is still asleep,” he announced, gravely. “I drew the netting over her
- face, so that the flies won't wake her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy's eyes danced as he stared eagerly. Dora was looking away, her
- handkerchief pressed to her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dearing saw a wave of emotion pass through her, but she remained silent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I couldn't go over there!” Lionel sighed. “You are very kind, but my
- mother always wants me to stay at home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wonderingly, the boy leaned across his mother's lap, and put his arm
- around her neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is crying! What did you say to her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you wished me to,” the boy replied, slowly, as he still uneasily
- studied her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should like it very much,” Dora said—“very, very much! You could
- have such a splendid time over there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you love me just the same—<i>just exactly</i> the same—if
- I went?” the boy asked, anxiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER III
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Galt nodded, and smiled tentatively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, don't hurl that sort of thing at <i>him</i>,” 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 <i>shouldn't</i> we pet him a little when he has been away all these
- years, and has come back broken down this way?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>weak</i>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a beautiful boy!” Galt exclaimed, beside himself in admiration.
- “What a perfect figure! Whose child is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The question was addressed to Margaret; but she hesitated, tightened her
- lips, and looked down.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, see what <i>you</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sylvester laughed reminiscently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, he'll fall!” she cried.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, what is so amusing about it?” Galt questioned, fairly transported by
- the boy's beauty, fearlessness, and vivacity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I don't know, but it seems funny—you down there, me up here,
- and the cat above us both.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Galt laughed till tears came into his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know an easier way!” the child cried. “I'll jump, and you catch me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I can't!” Galt answered. “You'd crush me to the ground, small as you
- are!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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, <i>three!</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, but I'm afraid you are angry with me,” the boy answered. “Are you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You <i>are</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh!” Galt felt the little, warm arm steal round his neck confidently.
- “Then you really <i>do</i> 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 <i>this</i> much,” he
- said: “I like <i>nearly all</i> 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Does your mamma let you drink tea?” Margaret asked, gently. .
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I thank you,” the child answered. “She says it's too strong a stim—stim—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lionel,” replied the boy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, that is pretty enough so far as it goes, but what else?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, I mean, what is your <i>full</i> name?” Galt said, smiling into the
- rather grave faces about him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>IX 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This thing has hit the old man hard, Dick,” Walton said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you think is in the wind now, boys?” he gulped, as he placed an
- unsteady hand on Fred's shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have no idea,” Fred answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “All the balance have combined,” Whipple groaned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who?—what?—how combined?” Fred asked, wondering if his old
- friend was not actually losing his reason.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “As I passed along the street just now they slunk away from their doors,
- so I couldn't see 'em laugh. They call <i>themselves</i> '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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned suddenly and left them, striding on to his desk in the adjoining
- room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor old fellow!” Dick said. “Nothing on earth could have cut his pride
- more.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If he could only hit back in some substantial way,” Walton reflected,
- aloud. “Think of some plan, Dick.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Think of nothing!” the younger man said, gloomily. “Of all things on
- earth, I never could have dreamt of those fellows combining that way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment later a postman came in with a bundle of letters and handed them
- to Fred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, we'll have to wait and see,” Fred retorted, angrily. “I must give
- these letters to Mr. Whipple.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Fred worked over his books and out-of-town orders till near sunset; then
- he took down his coat and hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, nothing has turned up yet,” Fred told her; “but I thought I'd speak
- to him before supper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Whipple, I've been trying to think of some way to—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you <i>have?</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, I hesitate to—” Fred began modestly, but was interrupted
- by Whipple.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i> to offer <i>some</i>
- chance of—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Move? What is it? For God's sake, what is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- Whipple sprang up. His eyes were dancing with delight. He leaned over
- Walton and put his hands on his shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Great God, why didn't <i>I</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 <i>big</i>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Whipple gave another whoop, and shuffled his feet thunderously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the matter up there?” It was Mrs. Whipple's astonished voice from
- below.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER V
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>BOUT 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is this?” the banker asked, as he examined the heavy wax seals and
- reached for his paper-knife.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know, sir; it came just now,” and Toby silently withdrew.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well, sir,” said the clerk. “I was just dictating a note to Morton
- & Co., telling them that we can't possibly extend—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never mind about that <i>now</i>,” 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>once</i>. But a burnt child
- dreads the fire, and I've certainly been burnt.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I always thought—I mean I always <i>hoped</i>, 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you don't think—you don't actually believe that Fred—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>that</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think so, Mr. Walton?” Lassiter's fallen countenance sank even
- lower.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>any</i>
- 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 <i>do</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you think, Mr. Walton—you think—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>in</i> him
- to work in any capacity; but I <i>do</i> 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 <i>wanted</i> to—I could put a watch on
- that cottage and nab our man in less than a month. I say, if I just <i>wanted</i>
- to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you wouldn't arrest him, Mr. Walton?” Lassiter breathed, in relief.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VI
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>H, 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You could do it here, then?” said Galt, a weary look on his pale face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take the big chair,” Dearing said, “and open your shirt in front.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, one is enough,” Galt answered, with a faint, forced smile. “I can't
- say that I am worrying over that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you believe in rubbish of that sort,” Galt said, contemptuously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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
- <i>want</i> to live forever.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>You</i> know who did it?” Galt said, facing him in surprise. “What do
- you mean, Wynn. Do you really know anything about it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>might</i>
- be mistaken.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dearing turned from the pictures and moved toward the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “New York!” Galt exclaimed, in surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I could only get <i>you</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You could? Well, that's interesting—coming from you, at least.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>one</i>
- 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>I</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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Galt made no response. His blood seemed to turn cold in his veins as the
- grimly accusing words fell from his friend's lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You think—you think—” Galt stammered, unable to formulate an
- adequate reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>such</i> a child by <i>such</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Dearing had
- gone blithely down the street, Galt strode up and down the veranda, hot
- and cold, by turns, with fury and remorse.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Surely you are not afraid of <i>me?</i>” Galt said, reassuringly, and in
- a tone which, for its unwonted gentleness, was a surprise to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, may I? Thank you. You are very good, and I thought you'd be angry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Angry? How absurd! What in the world could cause you to think I could be
- angry with a harmless little chap like you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>did</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You like me, and why?” Galt questioned, almost under his breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, yes, you may come—<i>now</i>, if you wish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are joking, aren't you?” Lionel asked, in surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I'm in earnest. Come on!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really, do you mean it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course. Come on!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I like you—of course I do,” Galt answered, lamely and abashed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very, very much, or just a little—which is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As much as any boy I ever met; there, will that do you, little man?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you met many? That's the question,” the boy laughed out,
- impulsively, and then his face settled into gravity as he eagerly waited.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you did like me, it looks like you would take my hand. I wish you
- would.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, what is the matter?” Galt asked, holding him tighter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is that your father?” the boy leaned on the sabre to ask, as he looked up
- at the portrait of the elder Galt.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Does he look like me?” Galt answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'<i>Dauby</i>'? Where in the world could you have heard that word?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my mother says it often when she doesn't like one of her pictures.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The child was now absorbed in the bronze dragon head supporting the ivory
- handle of the sword.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>would</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't care,” he said, in his charmingly premature way, “if Grover
- Weston <i>doesn't</i> like me, because you say you do. He's nothing but a
- mean, horrid boy, while you are—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And yet you <i>do</i> want other things?” Galt said, tentatively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You certainly do want a <i>few</i> things!” Galt tried to jest. “But we
- can't have everything, you know, in this life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You said you liked me,” the child said, quite seriously, “but you never
- have kissed me—not once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But men don't kiss little boys,” Galt answered, with a start.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I've seen Mr. Weston kiss Grover when he runs to meet him at the
- gate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VIII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>VERYTHING 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am certainly glad it turned out as it did,” Fred replied. “It has been
- a great thing for Dick.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I remember,” Walton returned, sympathetically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was sad,” Walton said, gently. “It is a pity he couldn't have been
- spared to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I paid him, Mr. Whipple. I am still behind two thousand, with the
- interest at the rate he charges his customers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's a money-lender then?” Whipple said, lifting his brows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, he—” Fred hesitated a moment, and then finished, “He is a
- banker, in a small town in—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should like it very much,” Walton said, “if you really want me to go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IX
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>RED 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is it?” he inquired of the porter, who had drawn his head back into
- the car.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Freight-train knocked all to smash in the edge of town,” he explained.
- “Nobody hurt, but it is sure to hold us here awhile.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It looks like it now, sir,” the porter answered; and as he left, Walton
- turned and saw Whipple close beside him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>one</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How long shall we be here?” Walton inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Till three o'clock, sir,” the conductor said, as they walked along toward
- the locomotive.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Plenty, plenty,” the conductor answered. “It is only a mile or so to the
- square.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only an hour or so longer. It is past one now,” was the reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is that you, Fred?” a low, anxious voice inquired, and Whipple thrust his
- shaggy head out from his berth.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Whipple?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You were afraid that in my despondency I might injure myself,” Fred broke
- in; “but you needn't ever—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you'll do it,” the old man gave in, fervently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-night, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>thief</i>, and he is hiding now from you and all the
- rest!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER X
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So <i>this</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Fred flushed modestly as he released the hand of the portly, pink-faced,
- side-whiskered old merchant.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Whipple is noted for his generosity,” he said, lamely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When his employer had left, Fred sat down at the desk and began to write.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, thank you,” Fred answered, “it won't be necessary; I have only a few
- lines to write.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment later a cheery feminine voice—evidently Mrs. Marston's—sounded
- in the corridor outside, where her husband stood waiting for her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At the end of the corridor,” Marston was heard directing her. “Now, come
- on, young lady. By George, that <i>is</i> a stunning gown! The new
- railroad helped pay for that, eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Margaret started and paled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. <i>Spencer!</i>” she echoed, then quickly averted her face from the
- inattentive glance of her host.
- </p>
- <p>
- Walton's eyes went down as he bowed, white and quivering. He could say
- nothing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Margaret!” Walton gasped, when they were alone in the awful silence of
- the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Spencer?—<i>Spencer?</i>” the young lady groped, as she gazed
- on him in helpless wonder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I haven't even <i>that</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He paused, for she had collapsed limply into Marston's chair, and was
- resting her white brow on her bloodless hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But even <i>you</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, yes,” she said—“oh yes!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I am not <i>wholly</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You intend to make—make reparation?” she said, raising an awful
- glance to his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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
- <i>that!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is all I can do now, Margaret!” he exclaimed, as he shrank under the
- unexpected severity of her words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>full</i> duty!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I couldn't! I assure you, I <i>couldn't</i>, 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>all</i> your fault—that
- is, not <i>all</i>. Good-bye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- That evening, in the big drawing-room at the Marstons', General Sylvester
- sat down by his niece.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, it isn't for evening wear.” Margaret smiled faintly. “Besides, do
- you think we ought to stay as—long as that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl shuddered, an irrepressible sob struggled up within her, and her
- head sank to her tightly clasped hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how <i>can</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XI
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ENNETH 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, <i>she</i> 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?
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>don't</i>—they don't go near her!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, it seems to me, <i>you</i> are in a pretty business!” Weston
- retorted, white with rage.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's the way <i>I</i> felt about it, Weston,” Galt said, staring coldly
- at the speaker. “I have nothing at all to apologize for.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We'll let that drop, <i>too</i>, 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I see you did,” Galt responded, a lump of queer approval in his
- throat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, she really need not know,” Galt said, as the heat of his shame
- mantled his face and brow.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But she <i>will</i>,” 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Galt unbuttoned the broad white collar, and drew it away from the child's
- neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that would be a <i>fine</i> 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait, let me undress you!” the father said, as he hastily dried his
- hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look out, I'll duck you!” he said, jestingly, and the boy replied with a
- ringing laugh which held no hint of fear.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the water the child lay with his face smilingly upturned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, my son—yes, Lionel, some day, perhaps.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In <i>deep</i> water—in a really-really stream that fish swim in?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, Lionel.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that would be so nice! Couldn't we catch fish, too?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think so—yes, of course, some day, perhaps.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>that</i> child forward, acknowledge
- <i>that</i> child as his own, while <i>deserting, ignoring, denying</i>
- Lionel?
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There, how will that do, Miss Particular?” Galt asked as he led the child
- to a large mirror.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What was it you said you liked me for?” his father repeated, taking the
- little hand and holding it tenderly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>him</i> how to fight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are smaller than he,” Galt said, lamely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then it <i>wasn't</i> because you like me?” Galt felt the little hand
- stiffen, as if some impulse of dormant confidence in the tiny palm had
- forsaken it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ORA 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I'm all right, mother,” Lionel said. “I can take care of myself; you
- must never be afraid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how did you happen to be with Mr. Galt?” Mrs. Barry asked. “I didn't
- know you knew him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let him alone, mother,” Dora said, her face rigid. “It doesn't make any
- difference.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Dora was holding the child's head against her throbbing breast, and
- she threw an almost commanding glance at her mother.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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? <i>Some</i> little boys tell fibs to their mothers, but <i>my</i>
- boy has always told the truth, and mother is so glad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would tell <i>your</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>mother</i>;
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is that so, mother?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, darling,” she answered. “There can be no secrets at all between a
- mother and her boy. She must tell <i>him</i> everything, and he must not
- keep a thing back from <i>her</i>. How did you happen to meet—Mr.
- Galt this afternoon?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>That's</i> what you want to know?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The child was still for a moment. He folded his little arms over his knee,
- clinched his hands, and sat avoiding her insistent eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait!” he said, finally. “I want to go to Granny.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You want to go to Granny, and leave your mother?” she asked, deeply
- perplexed. .
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is something you will tell her, but can't tell me!” Dora cried out, in
- half-assumed reproach. “Why, <i>Lionel?</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Granny!” she heard Lionel call out from the dark, doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, dear, what is it?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to come to your bed a minute—just a minute.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right, come on, darling; don't stumble over anything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She heard him groping through the dark, and then felt his little hands on
- her wrinkled face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, darling, that would be a nice, brave little man, for you wouldn't
- want to make her sad, would you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did Kenneth Galt tell my child that—” Dora cried out, in a rasping
- undertone. “Did he dare to—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>then</i>, and
- that he does <i>yet</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Does yet!</i>” 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But he <i>does</i>, 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don't know, mother,” Dora sighed, and she stood up and moved away in
- the darkness. “You don't know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dora went back to her room and stood looking down at her sleeping child.
- Suddenly her eyes filled and her breast heaved high.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mother's little champion!” she cried, and she knelt down by the bed,
- covered her face, and wept.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take a seat, sir, take a seat,” and the banker motioned to a chair near
- the desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You've got a hot town, sir,” Whipple said, introductively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>personally</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, sir—well, sir?” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The truth of the matter is that it is of <i>such</i> 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right, Mr. Walton. There's no hurry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir, I think so,” answered the startled Toby. “You said you thought—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh yes, of course,” Walton said, pulling his whiskers with his long hand—“of
- course, you naturally would.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is only two, according to my calculations.” Walton thought he had
- tripped him up, and smiled knowingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fred said he felt that another thousand, at least, was due as interest at
- the rate you usually get.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I see; he's certainly liberal.” Walton smiled at his joke, and bent
- his head over his pad to hide it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>business</i> 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 <i>bank</i>. 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you plumb sure it ain't <i>Jenkins?</i>” the banker grinned,
- significantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My post-office—” Whipple hesitated. His astounded gaze went down;
- he was all of a quiver, even to his bushy eyebrows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think it <i>must</i> 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 <i>some</i> town,
- railroad station, or cross-roads store. A word as uncommon as <i>Whipple</i>
- would be hard for <i>me</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>from</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you don't believe what I have told you?” Whipple gasped, in
- astonishment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I don't believe even <i>that</i>,” 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 <i>was</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>can</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>you</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>AKING 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “See if they are counterfeit. By gum!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The clerk examined them with the glass while Walton watched him with
- staring eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They seem to me to be all right, Mr. Walton,” Toby said, wonderingly, as
- he laid the bills down.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?” he said, eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So he's gone?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, he's gone, Mr. Walton.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>he</i> had. Toby, it don't
- look <i>exactly</i> 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You say you didn't get his address?” Toby inquired, as he helplessly
- stroked his colorless face and sparse mustache.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>look</i> rich, covered
- with dust like he was, but he <i>may</i> be—he may be all Fred has
- claimed. Can you think of any way, Toby, to get a report on him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I might take Bradstreet's by States,” the clerk suggested, “and run
- through all the towns and cities far and near.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>has</i> built himself up, and
- made good connections, and the like, why, you see, Toby, I ought not to be
- the <i>first</i>—the very <i>first</i>—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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>little</i> places. If he is in the wholesale line,
- he must be in a town of over ten thousand.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You sort o' believed in Fred all along, Toby,” the banker said,
- tentatively—“that is, you used to talk him up to some extent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>other</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, see if you can locate this Whipple,” Walton said, and, turning off,
- he trudged heavily homeward through the gathering shadows.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, well?” Walton exclaimed, as they met face to face on the sidewalk
- in the flare of a gas-light.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>some</i> 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, yes, if you advise it, Mr. Walton.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you could go and hang about, in a quiet, know-nothing way, without
- letting Fred see you, I reckon?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Easy enough, Mr. Walton, in a bustling place like that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>does</i> 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 <i>might</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll do my best, Mr. Walton,” the clerk said. “Goodbye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What news from New York?” he asked, as he flicked the ashes from his
- cigar.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And so they are coming?” Galt said, reflectively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, so do I,” Galt answered, and he smoked steadily, his eyes bent on
- the ground. .
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is it?” Galt asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a slight operation I have to perform on little Lionel.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Operation? Lionel?” Galt started, and then checked himself and stared
- blankly. “I didn't know there was anything at all wrong with him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>yourself</i>, had something
- of that sort, I think you told me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “When do you think you will do the—the operation?” Galt faltered, as
- he averted his shrinking glance from Dearing's face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I remember.” Lionel passed his tapering hand over his white throat. “I
- can feel them when I swallow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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. <i>Women</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you think to-day is the best time?” he faltered, on the edge of
- refusal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The very best of all, Lionel,” Dearing said, gently. “You wouldn't be
- afraid of me, would you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come, that's a good, nice boy!” Dearing urged. “I see you are going to be
- a brave little man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm not afraid it will <i>hurt</i>,” Lionel faltered, “but I don't like
- to be put to—to sleep.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you come, too?”
- </p>
- <p>
- A shock as if from some unknown force went through the man addressed, but,
- seeing no alternative, he answered:
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you wish it, yes, of course.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And <i>you</i> think I ought to—to do it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” Galt nodded, his head rocking like that of an automaton. “The
- doctor knows best.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, I'll go,” the boy sighed, with another wistful look over the
- lawn. “I'll go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>now</i>,
- are you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Help him, Kenneth,” Dearing said. “My hands are full.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now we are ready for you, young man,” Dearing said, lightly. “I see you
- are not afraid I'll hurt you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I know it won't <i>hurt</i>,” Lionel said, “but—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I shouldn't wake up—I mean if I really <i>shouldn't</i>, 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, come off!” Dearing laughed, as he turned to his assistant. “Doctor,
- this kid hints that we don't know our business.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But if I didn't wake, if I <i>didn't!</i>” 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 <i>teensy bit?</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” the child exclaimed, regretfully, and averted his face, “I thought
- he could stay!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “God have mercy and spare him!” the man cried out from the depths of his
- agony. “Spare him, O God, spare him!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where is Lionel—where is my child?” she panted.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you mustn't—you really mustn't!” he called out in protest, and
- he put a detaining hand on her arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- Shrinking from his touch, she stared at him piteously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>soul!</i>” She
- covered her tortured face with her bloodless hands and remained still,
- save for the emotion which quivered through her hysterical frame.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank God—thank God,” Dora exclaimed, “he is saved!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVI
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>OBY 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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, of course,” Walton said. “Well?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>centre</i>, 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You did, eh? You say you did?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you thought that!” and Walton drew his brows together and bit his
- lip.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'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.'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, he was all right, then!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Adopted son!” fell from the-banker's lips. “Spencer was Fred's middle
- name. Great Lord, Toby, do you reckon it's true?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>did</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>reckon</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>this</i> town knows or ever <i>need</i> know, you
- may have been in touch with Fred all these years. In fact, they may not
- know but what the—the <i>other matter</i> was the only cause of
- Fred's leaving.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A good idea, Mr. Walton!” Toby declared, enthusiastically. “It will set
- 'em wild.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But we'll leave the adopted-son part out, Toby.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, sir; oh yes, sir; that needn't go in!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We might just tell about his being a partner in the business, or
- something along that line.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>have</i>, 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 <i>would</i> want to come home if he
- knew there had been such an uproar.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>IMON 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Meet me with horse and buggy at afternoon up train</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I got it all right,” the clerk responded. “Shall we drive home or to
- the bank?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, of course, Mr. Walton. I suppose you saw Fred?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>any</i> 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 <i>favor</i>;
- 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 <i>both</i>
- 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 <i>general</i> 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' <i>look</i> it, in cases where I was <i>dead</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I understand,” Toby said, sympathetically. “A great many folks are that
- way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't imagine, Mr. Walton,” said the clerk, deeply interested.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>one</i>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>he</i> wasn't no blood <i>kin</i>. 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You were in an embarrassing position,” Toby remarked, as he shook the
- drooping lines over the plodding horse's back.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you met him—I know you did,” Toby broke in. “I see it in your
- face.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't imagine, Mr. Walton.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!'
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>that</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That certainly <i>was</i> awkward,” Toby burst out, like an enthusiast at
- a play. “It was bad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She wouldn't be so hard on him if <i>that</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>any</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is it, Mr. Walton?” the clerk asked, eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They would get married, and both would prefer to live here!” Toby broke
- in, eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's the point, Toby,” Walton said. “You've hit it. Now drive me home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVIII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you want to see my uncle?” she asked, sweetly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, my <i>brother</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn't want to see him, <i>either</i>,” 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 <i>you</i>. There is a little matter I sort
- o' thought you and me might talk over maybe to mutual gain and profit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You want to see me, really?” Margaret started. “Well, won't you come in?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i>, but in this case, you
- see, <i>I'm</i> the supplicant. Miss Margaret, I've come to see you about
- my boy—about Fred.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>was</i> 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 <i>was</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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..
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “See <i>me</i> about it? I really don't understand,” the young lady
- faltered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I <i>have</i> 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
- <i>he</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That means a flat no, then,” the banker said, and with a heavy sigh he
- slowly stood up. “Well, I've plead <i>his</i> case as well as I know how,
- but I hain't yet touched on <i>mine</i>. 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 <i>Fred</i> that's concerned—it's me—<i>me!</i>
- 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 '<i>adopted son</i>.' 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 <i>me</i>, and lean on <i>me,</i> 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 <i>him</i>, 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I see; it is hard on you. It is a pity you have to suffer on account of
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I can promise that,” Margaret consented. “I'll stop in at the bank
- and see you soon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, that's all a body <i>could</i> ask,” Walton said, gratefully; and,
- bowing low, he trudged across the grass to his horse and buggy.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIX
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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 <i>me</i> 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? <i>Can</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where is your mother?” Margaret asked, timidly. “May I see her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is in the studio,” the child said. “She is making a picture.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, she <i>is</i> 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And did you really do all these?” Margaret stared in admiration. “Oh,
- they are lovely, lovely!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dora dropped her eyes in surprise, for the gaze of her haughty visitor was
- full of undisguised anger.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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
- <i>apologize</i>—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 <i>shame</i>
- of it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XX
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ARGARET 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My mother sent this note,” Lionel said, when he caught her eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>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.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Old friend—after all these years!</i>” 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Little boy! Lionel! Wait! Bring them back! I dropped them!” He turned, a
- look of mystification on his face, and came back doubtfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I haven't read them yet,” she explained, humbly enough, and she extended
- her hand. “Let me have them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought you were angry,” he said, staring at her. “I thought you didn't
- want my mother's letter.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll read them,” she promised, tremblingly. “Wait, won't you? That's a
- good boy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood beside her, studiously observant of the phenomenon of her
- changeableness, while she literally devoured Fred Walton's letter. It ran:
- </p>
- <p>
- 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. <i>Home!</i>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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—
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Margaret folded the letter in her lap and sat aflame with joy, staring
- with glowing eyes at the vacant air.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you like it? Is it nice, lady?” the child asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You seem happy,” he said, thoughtfully, “and that is a condition that is
- most rare with humankind. I certainly envy a happy individual.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I am very happy,” she said—“more so than I ever was in my life
- before.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come to me, Lionel,” she said, gently. “I want you to kiss me. Won't you,
- just once?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The child stared as if scarcely believing that he had heard aright.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What did you say, lady?” he asked, as he lingered hesitatingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She repeated her words more tenderly than before, and there was a mist
- before her sight as he came toward her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you like me now?” he asked, wonderingly. “Yes, and love you very, very
- much,” she answered, huskily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you didn't ever so long at <i>first</i>; you didn't <i>yesterday</i>,
- when I asked you to see my church. You didn't just <i>this minute</i>,
- when I brought my mother's letter.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They <i>all</i> like me now,” Lionel said. “She was the only one that
- didn't, but she says she does <i>now</i>. She kissed me. Did you see her?
- Oh, she's so pretty! She is—no, she isn't, but she is <i>nearly</i>
- as pretty as my mother.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Galt sat down and drew the boy first to a seat on his knee and then into
- his arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She knows the truth,” he said to himself, in a tone of desperate
- indifference to fate. “Something in that letter told her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXI
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>S she passed
- through the gate at the end of the lawn, Margaret looked back and saw the
- child and its father seated together.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Without any word of greeting Margaret simply ran to her and threw her arms
- about her neck. “Oh, you are <i>so</i> good, <i>so</i> 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There, I have made you cry!” Margaret exclaimed, regretfully. “I am so
- sorry!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, no, no!” Dora cried out. “I couldn't think of it. What is done
- must be done by <i>me</i>, by <i>my</i> brain, and by <i>my</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- She passed the stores, bowing to an acquaintance in a doorway or in a
- passing carriage, and went on to Walton's bank.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is Mr. Walton in?” she asked Toby Lassiter, at the cashier's window in
- the green wire grating.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He has just this minute stepped out,” Toby answered. “He will be right
- in. Won't you go to his office and wait?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you, yes,” she answered, and went back to the musty little room,
- taking a chair near the old man's desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She's waiting for you in your office, Mr. Walton,” Toby panted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who?—not—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir; I told her to sit down and I'd fetch you in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I <i>have</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you <i>have!</i> Well, it's for you to say whether you thought best
- or not. I reckon I went just a <i>little</i> mite beyond my authority up
- there, in my effort to conduct Fred's affairs for him, without, you
- understand—without his <i>free</i> 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
- <i>this</i> end—a sort of index of public opinion bearing on his
- particular case, and—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good gracious, Miss Margaret, you don't mean—” Simon stood up to
- his full height, his old eyes blinking in astonishment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I do, Mr. Walton. I want to see him and talk to him. I don't know
- how to say it to <i>you</i>, but I am sure Fred will understand. Tell him
- that I—that I kissed you for his sake, there!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And the next instant she had floated out of the room, leaving the red-face
- banker under the perplexed stare of his apologetic clerk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, it's safe in my hands, Mr. Walton,” Toby said, with unconscious
- humor. “<i>I'll</i> never tell it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>You'll</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">U</span>NDER 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is going away,” Galt speculated. “He looks excited. I wonder if
- Margaret could have told him of her discovery?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hello, Kenneth!” he said. “I didn't know you were at home. Otherwise, I
- should have run in and said good-bye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are going somewhere, then?” Galt said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, what's gone wrong?” Galt inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I haven't heard anything out of the ordinary. You see, I am keeping
- so close here at home that—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh!” Galt exclaimed. But that was all he said, for Dearing went on,
- angrily:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You? You?” Galt gasped.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a fact; I must go. Good-bye, old man.” Galt held on to Dearing's
- hand firmly, almost desperately.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait, I have something to say,” he began—“something that simply
- must be said.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>then</i> may miss your train! Hurry!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait, just a moment,” Galt implored.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you <i>must</i> 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>such</i> a life!
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXIII
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is glorious—glorious!” he cried, in ecstasy. “She may refuse,
- but I shall never desist till I have won her forgiveness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She's not here. But don't stand there,” the old woman said; “somebody
- might see you and wonder. Come into the parlor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She led the way, and he followed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>pray</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mean—you mean!” he exclaimed, aghast, as he bent over her chair
- and stared into her calm face. “You mean that—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mean that it may be too late,” she interrupted him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Too late?” He sank into a chair in front of her, and, pale and quivering
- in every limb, swung his hat between his knees.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>human</i> 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 <i>just that way</i> 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 <i>exactly as she did</i>. 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 <i>just that sort of faith</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The light of hope had died out of Galt's parchment-like face. He dropped
- his horrified gaze to the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXIV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>NTO 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But she <i>wouldn't</i>,” Dora said, pale and surprised. “She knows that
- I don't want to—to meet <i>any one</i> 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>I</i> shall go!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you make it so <i>hard</i> 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 <i>now!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>save your soul</i>—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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know. I know it is true so far as it touches <i>you</i>,” 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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
- <i>may</i> go to Paris some day, but we don't want you with us, Kenneth. I
- want to leave absolutely <i>everything</i> behind. You must be dead to us;
- there is no other way—no other possible way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you,” she said, coldly, and she sank back rigidly on the grass.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I have to go away,” Galt faltered, his glance averted. “I only came
- to spend a short time at Stafford.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The eyes of the mother and father met in the strangest stare that ever
- passed between two mortal creatures.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I want you to <i>stay!</i>” The child was crying now, with his chubby
- hands to his eyes. Suddenly Dora, with a desperate movement, pressed him
- to her breast.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must not play on his feelings that way!” she cried, fiercely, casting
- a significant glance toward the town. “Go, please!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXV
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>such</i> a man!
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly raising his eyes to the relentless blue above, he tried to frame
- a prayer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You wanted to see <i>me?</i>” he gasped. “Has anything gone wrong?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, it is not <i>that</i>,” 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, yes,” Galt gasped, as he stared at her. “I know; I know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>first</i>, he wanted a father like other children,
- and, <i>next</i>, that he wanted to be where he could have playmates.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>in her way</i>;
- 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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Undecided?</i> Did you say that?” Galt leaned forward eagerly, his
- lips quivering, as he waited breathlessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, Lionel!” Galt panted. “We must save him, and we can—we can, if
- Dora could only—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>you</i>,
- and that <i>you</i> wanted <i>him</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God bless him!” burst from the lips of the bowed man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>me</i> 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!'
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>you</i> 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 <i>me</i>,
- and I wasn't to leave <i>him</i>. Is he going, mother?' he kept asking.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then I heard her say, 'Yes, darling, he is going—now you can
- sleep!'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She said that? Did she say that?” Galt cried, his whole despondent being
- aflame.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; it is settled, Kenneth. Perhaps, in time, you and she will be
- thoroughly happy together. I don't know, but I hope so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXVI
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>acted</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have come down here to see him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>this</i>:
- 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 <i>the very heart out of my life, as this one
- has!</i> Now, perhaps you understand.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, brother, you mean that you love—”
- </p>
- <p>
- He nodded, and his head sank to his chest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you must listen to <i>me!</i>” Margaret began. “But, no, you will
- have to wait—I can't tell you even now—I can't explain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dearing took it and tore it open. The letters on the yellow sheet swam
- before his eyes, but he read the words:
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>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.</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- As soon as was practicable, Fred led his father away from the clerks back
- to the old man's office.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>acted</i> that made me draw my conclusions than her exact
- words on <i>any</i> direct line.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, how did she <i>act?</i>” Fred inquired, despondently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, if you <i>will</i> know—” old Simon was growing red in the
- face. “I had no idea of telling it even to <i>you</i>, but the truth is
- she up and kissed me—so she did! She gave me a smack right on the
- cheek!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She <i>kissed</i> you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At this moment a voice was heard in the corridor. It was Wynn Dearing's,
- and he was asking for Fred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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—”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Wynn Dearing was brushing past the old man through the narrow doorway,
- his face pale, his hand extended to Fred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have done you a great wrong, old man,” he said, in a shaking voice,
- “and I have come to beg your pardon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that's all right, Wynn,” Fred gasped, in surprise. “I am sure you
- have treated me no worse than I deserve.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't understand,” he said, groping for her meaning, his big, honest
- eyes dilating.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You love me—you really care for me?” he said, deep in his throat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_CONC" id="link2H_CONC"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CONCLUSION
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>him!</i>” Just then Mrs. Barry came from the luxurious suite of
- state-rooms Galt had secured.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bon voyage!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who sent the flowers, darling?” Galt asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There was no name attached,” she answered. “Look, Kenneth! Lionel is
- trying to climb the railing—don't let him!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Galt hurried away to do her bidding, and she gazed down into the water,
- which was being churned into white foam.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bon voyage!” she said, bitterly. “Bon voyage!”
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE END
- </h3>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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