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diff --git a/75309-0.txt b/75309-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfd7695 --- /dev/null +++ b/75309-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12574 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75309 *** + + + + + + PAUL RALSTON. + =A Novel.= + + BY + + MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, + + + AUTHOR OF + + “’LENA RIVERS,” “GRETCHEN,” “MARIAN GREY,” “MEADOW BROOK,” “TEMPEST AND + SUNSHINE,” ETC., ETC. + +[Illustration: [Logo]] + + NEW YORK: + _G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers_. + MDCCCXCVII. + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1896 AND 1897, + BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. + [_All rights reserved._] + + + _Paul Ralston._ + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + CHAPTER PAGE + I. Miss Phebe Hansford 7 + II. Paul Ralston 18 + III. Paul’s News 33 + IV. The Percys 39 + V. Clarice 47 + VI. Elithe’s Photograph 51 + VII. In Samona 64 + VIII. The Stranger at Deep Gulch 69 + IX. At “The Samona” 82 + X. Miss Hansford’s Letter 89 + XI. Getting Ready for Oak City 96 + XII. On the Road 101 + XIII. On the Boat 107 + XIV. In Oak City 118 + XV. Miss Hansford and Elithe 122 + XVI. The Days which Followed 129 + XVII. Getting Acquainted 139 + XVIII. Elithe and Clarice 146 + XIX. Miss Hansford in Boston 156 + XX. At the Tennis Court 164 + XXI. News from Jack 169 + XXII. The Waltz 176 + XXIII. Preparations 183 + XXIV. The Shadow Begin to Fall 186 + XXV. The Shadow Deepens 193 + XXVI. The Tragedy 202 + XXVII. Elithe and Jack Percy 210 + XXVIII. Poor Jack 218 + XXIX. Elithe’s Interview with Clarice 228 + XXX. The Funeral 237 + XXXI. The Arrest 242 + XXXII. In Prison 258 + XXXIII. Outside the Prison 270 + XXXIV. Ready for the Trial 281 + XXXV. The First Day of the Trial 291 + XXXVI. The Second Day of the Trial 303 + XXXVII. Free 325 + XXXVIII. Excitement 332 + XXXIX. Where He Was 341 + XL. Farewell 352 + XLI. Tom, You Did It! 356 + XLII. The Second Trial 363 + XLIII. After Eighteen Months 375 + XLIV. Last Glimpse of Oak City 387 + + + + + PAUL RALSTON. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + MISS PHEBE HANSFORD. + + +She was standing in the doorway of her cottage, in Oak City, one morning +in May, watching the early boat as it came slowly up to the wharf and +counting the passengers who landed from it. There were twenty in +all,—some with their bags and umbrellas, walking briskly away in +different directions, as if they knew where they were going and were in +a hurry to get there,—while a few, who evidently did not know where they +were going, stopped to parley with two or three hackmen on the stand in +front of a hotel. These were undoubtedly strangers seeking information +with regard to accommodations, and Miss Hansford decided that the season +was likely to be a good one when people began to arrive so early. By a +good season she meant her rooms full of lodgers, with plenty of money +coming to her weekly, and not as was the case the previous +summer,—barely enough to pay her taxes and insurance. As yet most of the +cottages were closed and looked gloomy and somber, with their barred +doors and boarded windows and no stir of life around them. But there +were signs of the coming summer in the warm spring air which blew up +from the sea. Crocuses and daffodils were blossoming in the borders and +hyacinths in the beds in the parks, where the grass was fresh and green, +and in a short time the place would shake off its winter lethargy and be +alive and gay once more. Like many other people, Miss Hansford’s bones +were her barometer. Whatever they indicated, whether physically or of +matters outside her own personality, was pretty sure to come to pass, +and as she counted the people crossing the pier she was conscious of a +sudden exhilaration of spirits which boded well for the future. From +living alone more than half the time she had acquired a habit of talking +to herself, and frequently indulged in long conversations of questions +and answers, in which she sometimes differed as sharply from her +imaginary interlocutor or respondent as she would have done had they +been real flesh and blood. + +Seating herself upon the piazza, which extended on three sides of her +cottage, and still watching the boat now moving out to sea, she said +aloud: “Yes, I begin to feel it in my bones that it’s going to be an +uncommon summer. Something out of the usual run. I don’t know, though, +why I need be so anxious. I’ve enough to carry me through, and more, +too, and I don’t want ’em to fight over the little there will be left +when I’m gone. There ain’t many to fight, either. The nearest of kin is +Roger, and I vowed I wouldn’t give him a thing when he married Lucy +Potter.” + +Here Miss Hansford paused in her soliloquy and changed her position a +little, moving her left knee across her right and rolling her calico +apron around her hands, which worked nervously as she recalled her old +home in Ridgefield, a pretty inland town among the New England hills. In +the cemetery there a host of Hansfords were lying,—her grandparents, her +father and mother, her brothers and sisters,—sixteen in all,—and she had +followed them one by one to their graves until there was only left her +nephew, the recreant Roger, who had married Lucy Potter. For a few +minutes Miss Hansford’s face was shadowed with memories of the +farm-house, whose windows looked across the meadow and the river to the +graves in the cemetery; then, brightening up with the thought that there +was “no use in crying for spilt milk,” she returned to her talk of the +coming season, which her bones told her was to be a profitable one. + +“If the Methodists have as big a camp-meeting as they had last year, and +the Baptists do anything at all, and the teachers come to the Institute, +and the hotels are full, things’ll be lively for a spell,” she said, +“and I wouldn’t wonder if I rented all my rooms, even to the back +chamber, where a tall body can’t stand straight except in the centre. +Folks mostly don’t take to it, because there’s no view from the windows, +except the oak woods. Can’t see the water at all; seems as if inlanders +were daft on the sea. If they had lived as long as I have, year in and +year out, in sound of its fretting and moaning, from morning till night +and night till morning; and if they could see it in winter when a storm +is raging over it and the waves break on the shore with a noise like +thunder, they’d sing another song than ‘The sea, the sea, the beautiful +sea.’ It’s pretty, though, when it’s calm and still and there’s fifty or +a hundred sails in sight, as I have counted when the yachts were +anchored near here. Oak City ain’t as fashionable as Newport or +Narragansett Pier, but it’s a mighty good place to rest in, and there +isn’t a prettier spot on the whole coast from Maine to Florida, +especially on a morning like this.” + +Miss Hansford was waxing eloquent on the subject of Oak City, and quite +forgot her rolls burning in the oven and her tea-kettle boiling dry on +the stove, as she sat enjoying the view. She had seen it hundreds of +times, but it never struck her as quite as fair as it did now, when +earth and sky seemed laughing in the brightness and warmth of early May. +The ocean was smooth as glass, with white sails dotting its surface in +the distance and looking like great wings, as they moved slowly out of +sight, or in. To her left a long, hazy line showed where the mainland +lay, and between that and the island a thin wreath of smoke told where +the boat was disappearing. In front of her, between Oceanside and the +Heights, as the two divisions of the town were called, Lake Wenona and +Lake Eau Claire sparkled in the sunshine,—the two connected by a narrow +strip of land called the Causeway, and neither of them larger than a +good-sized mill pond. She had seen them lashed into fury when a wild +storm was sweeping the Atlantic coast, and seen them again, covered with +boats filled with gay young people when the season was at its height and +the place full of visitors. There was a small skiff now on Lake Eau +Claire, rowed by a young man whose form seemed familiar to her. + +“Who in the world can that be?” she thought, regretting that she had not +on her far-seeing spectacles, which brought objects at a long distance +distinctly within her range of vision. “Land o’ Goshen!” she exclaimed, +as the boat came nearer. “I believe my soul it’s Paul Ralston. When did +he get home, I’d like to know? I was up to the Ralston house last week, +and Mrs. Drake wasn’t expectin’ the folks for some time. She was just +beginning to air and clean that queer place in the basement cellar,—the +Smuggler’s room. She said Paul was going to fit it up as a kind of +billiard and smoking room this summer, because ’twas cool and quiet. +They’ve got one room for billiards now upstairs, and I don’t see what +they want of another. I call it wicked to waste so much money on a place +to knock balls and smoke and play cards in, for it’ll come to that with +all the young bucks who go there. Oh, my land, how times has changed +since I was young, and such things as cards and billiard balls belonged +to the evil one! Now they belong to everybody,—professors and all.” + +In her lament over the degeneracy of the age, the good woman rocked back +and forth, but kept her eyes upon the boat, which was heading for the +shore. Miss Hansford was always spoken of as a _character_ and was +better known than any permanent resident in Oak City. Indeed, she was a +part of the city, and had seen it grow from a few tents clustered around +the camp grounds to its present proportions and modern usages, to which +she did not take kindly. When a girl she had come from her home in +Ridgefield with a party of young people as gay and thoughtless as +herself to attend the annual camp-meeting, which was beginning to +attract a good deal of attention. The site for the camp-meeting had been +chosen by the Methodists, partly for its delightful situation, and +partly for its entire seclusion from anything worldly which would +disturb the mind and hinder the good work. The only house then upon the +Heights was known as the Ralston House, which had been built for many +years, and, with its huge chimney and square look-out on the roof, was a +landmark for the surrounding country. Many strange stories were told of +it and its first owner, old Captain Ralston, whose ship, the Vulture, +had sailed to all parts of the world, and finally gone down in a wild +storm off the Banks of Newfoundland. The house itself was said to have +been a rendezvous for smugglers and a hiding place for their goods. But +with the sinking of the Vulture and the death of the captain, who went +down with it, the stories ceased, and when the first camp-meeting was +held the great house was occupied by the elders and those who could +afford to pay for the rooms. On the Oceanside a few straggling dwellings +were springing up near the grounds and the shore, but for the most part +the accommodations were of the crudest kind. People brought their own +provisions and beds, and camped upon the ground and under trees and felt +that they were worshiping God far more acceptably than if the blue sky +above them had been the dome of some expensive church and the hard +benches upon which they sat in its luxuriously cushioned pews. + +At first the whole thing struck Phebe as grotesque, but youth is not apt +to be very critical, especially if having a good time, and as she +usually had a good time she enjoyed everything immensely after the first +surprise wore off, and slept in a tent with the rain sometimes dripping +on her face, and ate coarse fare from board tables, and watched the +proceedings with feelings of curiosity and amusement and half contempt +for what seemed to her emotional and senseless. The church in which she +had been brought up did not worship that way, and, with something of a +Pharisaical feeling, she was one night listening to an elder noted for +piety and eloquence, who was exhorting some people near her to a better +life. Considering herself as a spectator and no part of the +congregation, she did not expect to be addressed. Anxious seats and +extemporaneous prayers were not for one reared as she had been, and when +the elder, who for some time had had her in his mind, turned suddenly +towards her and asked if she were a Christian, she colored with +confusion and alarm and answered, hurriedly: “No, so; no, sir; I am an +Episcopalian.” + +Something like a smile flitted across the elder’s face, as he said: +“More’s the pity for you and your church,” and then passed on, leaving +the girl, who was not a Christian because she was an Episcopalian, to +the tender mercies of her companions. Young people are apt to be +relentless where ridicule is concerned, and Phebe was jeered at and +chaffed until in desperation she declared her intention to go forward +for prayers the next time an invitation was given. New and strange +feelings were beginning to influence her, and when at last she knelt +with others to be prayed for it was more in sober earnest than in fun. +There was something in this religion after all, and as she never did +anything by halves, she tested it until she proved its reality, and went +back to her home in Ridgefield an avowed Methodist. To the father and +mother, equally as conscientious as herself, it seemed almost sacrilege +that their daughter, born and brought up in the tenets of the church, +should embrace another faith, or at least another form of worship. But +Phebe was firm. Episcopacy, with its ritual and ceremonious dignity, +would never appeal to her again. She liked better the stir and life of +the Methodists. It was something real,—something to take hold of, and +she liked their style of dress as more consistent with a Christian life. +She could pray better in a plain gown than in a silk one, and she +stopped curling her hair and laid aside her jewelry and her ribbons, and +went every year to Oak City, where she was one of the most zealous +workers, and was known as Sister Phebe. As long as her parents lived she +stayed with them in Ridgefield, going with them occasionally to St. +John’s, which, she thanked her stars, was _low_, as she understood the +term, but going oftener to the plain wooden building on the shore of +Podunk Pond, where for many years the Methodists held their services. +When her father and mother were both dead and there was nothing to keep +her in Ridgefield, she moved to Oak City, and, building herself a +cottage on the Heights, lived mostly alone, except for the lodgers who +came to her when the camp-meeting was in progress. The religious +atmosphere of the place suited her, and, could she have had her way, +nothing more exciting than the annual camp-meeting would have found +entrance there. But the town was destined to grow, and as it increased +in size, and hotels and handsome cottages were built on the Heights and +Oceanside, and the streets were full of fashionably dressed people and +stylish turnouts, she shook her head disapprovingly. She had renounced +the world, the flesh and the devil twice, she said. Once by proxy when +baptized in infancy in the Episcopal church, and again when, not holding +her first baptism valid, she had been immersed in Podunk Pond, when the +thermometer was nearly at zero and the wind was blowing a gale. It was a +satisfaction to remember this. It seemed to make her a kind of martyr +for endurance, and to freeze out any microbes of temptation which might +assail her afterwards. + +In the sanctity of Oak City she lived a long time before the world, the +flesh and the devil came to confront her with a persistence she could +not resist. Fashion and folly, as she called every innovation upon her +ideas of right, crowded thick and fast into the pretty town, until the +camp-meeting was a secondary matter, and ignored by two-thirds of the +guests, who, if they attended the services at all, did so from +curiosity, or because it was pleasant to while away an hour or so in the +huge open tabernacle built upon the spot where the first tent had been +set up many years before for the worship of God. Miss Hansford, as one +of the oldest residents, was a power in the community, and her opinion +carried great weight in her own church, but she found herself stranded +and helpless in the society which knew not Joseph, or, knowing, did not +care. It was in vain that she lifted up her voice against the dances at +the hotels, the roller-skating at the rink, the play-acting at the +Casino, the ocean bathers in suits which she said made even her blush to +look at, and, worst of all, the band, which on Sunday afternoons gave +what was called a sacred concert in the open air,—concerts which crowds +attended, but which Miss Hansford bitterly denounced. A device of Satan, +she called them, and resolutely stopped her ears with cotton to shut out +the profane sounds which floated across Lake Wenona to where she sat +reading her Bible and deploring the sins of the times. But neither her +prayers nor her disapproval availed to stem the tide so fast setting in +towards Oak City. The dancing went on in the hotels, the skating in the +rink, the play-acting in the Casino, the flirting in the streets, while +the bathing suits of the ladies grew shorter and lower each year, until +they reminded her of a picture of a ballet girl which a mischievous boy +had once sent her as a valentine, and which she had promptly burned. + +Owing to the influence of a few New Yorkers and Bostonians, who came to +Oak City every summer, spending their money freely and introducing many +innovations in the old-established customs, the place was booming. A +little church, holding the faith in which she was reared, was built +under the shadow of one of the largest hotels. “Fashion’s Bazaar,” Miss +Hansford called it, but she watched its growth with a strange interest, +and a feeling as if something she had loved and lost were being restored +to her. Unsolicited, she gave a hundred dollars towards its erection for +the sake of her dead father and mother, and she never heard the sound of +the bell calling the people to service without a wave of memory taking +her back to the days of her childhood, and the broken bit of wall in the +apple orchard, where she used sometimes to sit and listen to the chimes +of St. John’s echoing across the river and the meadowland. Laid +carefully away in her bureau drawer was the Prayer Book her mother had +used, and, pressed between the leaves, was a rose taken from her +mother’s hand as she lay in her coffin. Miss Hansford had not seen the +book for a long time, but on the day of the consecration she took it +from its hiding place, removed the folds of tissue paper and the +handkerchief in which it was wrapped, and sat down to follow the morning +service. She had once known it by heart, and she found herself repeating +it now instead of reading it, while a feeling she had not experienced in +years came over her as her lips pronounced the familiar words. There +were passages in the book marked by her mother’s hand, and on the +margin, at the commencement of the baptismal service for infants, was +written: “June ——, 18——. Little Phebe was christened to-day. God keep +her safe in His fold.” + +On this and the marked passages and the faded rose Miss Hansford’s tears +fell like rain, and with them much of her intolerance of other people’s +opinions was washed away. When a girl she had sung in the choir, and +now, as she glanced a second time at the grand old Te Deum, she began +unconsciously to sing the opening sentence: “We praise Thee, O God; we +acknowledge Thee to be the Lord!” + +Whether she would have gone on to the end will never be known, for +suddenly there came an interruption to her devotions. She had shut the +door against any possible intruder, but the window was open, and through +it came a mocking laugh and the words, “If I’se you, I’d join the +Salvation Army, only your voice is a little cracked.” + +It was the same boy who had sent her the valentine the previous +winter,—Jack Percy, from Washington, and her special aversion. Her first +impulse was to throw her Prayer Book at him, but he was beyond her reach +and running rapidly towards the avenue, his laugh coming back to her as +he ran, and making her shake with rage. + +“May the Lord punish that boy as he deserves,” she said, as she wrapped +her book in its folds of paper and replaced it in her bureau drawer. +“He’s riled me all up, just as I was beginning to feel as if I had been +to meetin’, or church, I s’pose I ought to call it,” she continued, as +she opened her doors and went about her accustomed work. + +Whether it was the service in the Prayer Book which did it, or the sight +of her mother’s handwriting, or the faded flower, Miss Hansford +gradually grew softer, and while religiously striving to live up to her +principles, she became more tolerant of the world as she saw it around +her. She still drew the line on dancing and play-acting and cards as +emanating directly from the bottomless pit, but the sacred concerts were +less obnoxious, and, instead of stopping her ears with cotton when the +band played on Sunday, she sometimes found herself listening to it and +nodding her head to the strains if they chanced to be familiar. With all +her peculiarities, she was so thoroughly kind-hearted and loyal to her +friends, that she was generally popular with those who knew her best. A +few ridiculed her and resented her inordinate curiosity with regard to +their affairs, of which she often seemed to know more than they did +themselves. She had a wonderful faculty for remembering everybody’s age. +She knew how much they were worth; how they made their money; who they +were, and what they sprang from, and, by means of her far-seeing +spectacles, with which she attended to her neighbor’s business, and her +near-seeing ones, with which she attended to her own, she managed to +keep a pretty firm hold on the affairs and conduct of the people around +her. + +On the morning when she is first introduced to the reader she had +satisfied herself with regard to the number of passengers who came on +the boat; had decided who most of them were, and then centered her +interest on Paul Ralston, whose unexpected appearance surprised her a +little. She prided herself on her intimacy with the Ralstons, and +usually knew where they were, and what they were doing. Paul, she +supposed, was in Europe, or possibly on the ocean; yet, here he was, +fastening his boat and coming up the pathway across the park towards her +cottage. + +“For the land’s sake, I believe he’s coming here, and I looking like a +fright, with this old apron on, and my sleeves rolled up,” she +exclaimed, and, hastily entering the house, she put down her sleeves, +exchanged her calico apron for a clean white one, took her tea-kettle +off the stove, and was in the wide doorway ready to greet the young man, +who came bounding up the steps two at a time and grasped her hand warmly +with his cheery, “Hello, Aunt Phebe! How are you?” + + + + + CHAPTER II. + PAUL RALSTON. + + +He was a tall, broad-shouldered, fine-looking young man of twenty-three +or twenty-four, with a frank, open countenance and a magnetism of voice +and smile and manner which made every one his friend with whom he came +in contact. City born and proud of being a Bostonian, he was still very +fond of the country, and especially of Oak City, where he was just as +polite and kind to the poorest fisherman on the beach as to the +Governor’s son when he was there. Everybody knew him, and everybody +liked him, especially Miss Hansford, with whom he was a great favorite. +As a rule she didn’t think much of boys, and sometimes wondered why the +Lord ever made them, or having made them, why He did not keep them shut +up until they were men before turning them loose upon the community. +Naturally boys didn’t like her, and many were the pranks played upon her +by the mischief-loving lads, with Jack Percy at their head as +ringleader. Him Miss Hansford detested as much as she liked Paul +Ralston. She had known the latter since he wore wide collars and +knickerbockers and stole her one watermelon from her bit of garden at +the rear of her house. This garden was her pride, and she nursed her few +flowers and vegetables and fruits with the utmost care, contriving +various snares and traps as pitfalls for the marauding boys, who thought +her garden and its contents lawful prey, and plundered it accordingly. +Only one melon had rewarded her care, and this she watched vigilantly as +it ripened in the August sun. Jack Percy was late in coming that summer, +and to his absence she felt she owed the preservation of her cherished +melon. Jack came at last on the afternoon boat, a guest of the Ralstons, +whose acquaintance she had not then made. The next morning her melon was +gone, and in the soft, sandy soil around the bed were the marks of two +pairs of feet, and Miss Hansford had no hesitancy in fixing upon Jack +Percy as one of the culprits. She knew of his arrival, and that he was +visiting the Ralstons. Unquestionably Paul was the other delinquent. + +“Birds of a feather flock together, and I’ve no doubt one is as bad as +t’other. I wish I had ’em by the nape of the neck,” she was thinking, +when a shadow fell upon the floor, and, turning from her breakfast +table, which she was clearing, she saw a boy standing in the doorway +with an immense watermelon in his arms and a frightened look in his blue +eyes, which, nevertheless, confronted her steadily, as he said: “I am +Paul Ralston, from Boston, and I live in the Ralston House.” + +“Yes, I know you are Paul Ralston, and that you live in the Ralston +House, but I don’t know as that makes you any better than if you lived +in a hovel,” was Miss Hansford’s ungracious reply, at which the boy +colored a little, and then went on: “I don’t s’pose it does. I didn’t +tell you where I lived to make you think better of me. I only wanted you +to know who I was, for I stole your watermelon last night after you were +asleep.” + +“How d’ye know I was asleep?” Miss Hansford asked. Paul did not dare +tell her of the whispered comment of his companion: “Hear the old +she-dragon go it. A cannonade can’t wake her,” but there was a twinkle +in his eyes as he replied: “We—or I heard you snore.” + +No one likes to be told they snore, and Miss Hansford was not an +exception. With a toss of her head she replied: “A likely story. You +must have good ears. How did you get over the piece of barbed wire I put +in the grass to keep just such tramps as you out of my melon patch?” + +“I fell over it and tore my trousers; that’s the way mother found out +what I’d done. Father whaled me good,” the boy said, still holding the +melon, which Miss Hansford had not offered to take. + +“Served you right, and I s’pose he made you buy the melon and bring it +to me,” was Miss Hansford’s comment, while something in the face of the +boy appealed to her in his favor. + +“He didn’t know a thing about it,” Paul said. “I bought it with my own +money,—saved to buy me a fishing rod. I thought it out last night when I +couldn’t sleep.” + +“Your conscience troubled you, I hope,” Miss Hansford said, taking the +melon from him at last, and thinking as she did so what a fine, large +one it was. + +She was beginning to soften, and Paul knew it, and was not half as much +afraid of her as when he first came in, his knees knocking together with +fear of what might befall him. Jack Percy, his coadjutor in the theft, +had ridiculed the idea of making restitution and confession. + +“The old woman is awful,” he said, “and will thrash you worse than your +father did. I know her. She threw hot water on me once when I was tying +a piece of paper to her cat’s tail. They say she keeps red pepper and +fire crackers for dogs and boys.” + +Paul was not to be persuaded from his purpose. + +“I’ll risk her any way,” he said, while Jack rejoined: “Don’t bring me +into the scrape. She’ll never forget it, for she hates me like pizen +now.” + +Paul promised not to implicate his friend, and as soon as he thought the +fresh melons were in market he bought the finest one he could find and +took it to Miss Hansford, feeling glad now that he had done so. She had +thrown neither hot water, nor red pepper, nor fire crackers at him. Her +face was not half as vinegary as it had been at first, and when she +spoke of his conscience there was a roguish smile around his mouth as he +replied: “I s’pose it ought to have troubled me, and it did some, but +what kept me awake was the awful stomach-ache, which nearly bent me up +double. I ate too much melon, and it wasn’t very good,—wasn’t ripe, nor +half so sweet as this one I’ve brought you. I told ’em I wanted the very +best, and made ’em plug it to be sure. It’s first rate. Cut it, and +see.” + +Miss Hansford was not one to capitulate at once, and she answered, +rather stiffly: “You ought to have had stomach-ache. ’Twill teach you a +lesson, maybe. Do you go to Sunday-school?” + +“Yes’m,” Paul replied, and Miss Hansford continued: “’Piscopal, I +s’pose?” + +“Yes’m.” + +“What do you learn?” + +“Oh! my duty to my neighbor, and things,” Paul said, wondering if he was +to be put through his catechism, and how he would come out of the +ordeal. + +He believed he would rather take his chance with fire crackers. Miss +Hansford’s next remark reassured him. + +“Umph! I know all about that catechism. A deal of good your duty to your +neighbor has done you. What’s the eighth commandment?” + +Paul repeated the _seventh_; then, seeing the look of disgust in Miss +Hansford’s face, and realizing his mistake, he involuntarily began the +response: “Lord have mercy upon us!” but got no farther, for the +ludicrousness of the whole affair overcame every other feeling, and he +burst into a peal of laughter, so merry and so boyish that Miss Hansford +laughed with him in spite of herself. + +“Better go home and learn which is which of the commandments,” she said, +“but tell me first who was with you, and why he isn’t here too. I saw +his tracks,—bigger than yours. I b’lieve ’twas Jack Percy, and that he +put you up to it. Was it Jack?” + +Instantly the expression of Paul’s face changed, and was more like that +of a man of twenty than a boy of ten. + +“I can’t tell you who was with me,” he said. “I promised I wouldn’t, and +I’ve never told a lie. He didn’t put me up to it, either. He didn’t know +the melon was here till I told him. He was sick, too,—sicker than I. I’m +sorry I did it. I’m not half a bad sort of feller, and I hope you’ll +forgive me. Will you?” + +Miss Hansford had cut the melon in two, and, putting a big slice of the +red, juicy fruit on a plate, she offered it to Paul and said: “I’ll +think about it. Sit down and eat a piece.” + +“No, thanks. No more melon for me,” he replied, and, feeling sure he was +forgiven, he bade her good morning and went whistling off in the +direction of the woods, where Jack Percy was lying under a clump of +oaks, waiting to hear the result of the interview. + +“Well, what did she say? I see you have escaped alive,” he said, as Paul +joined him. “Rich, wasn’t it?” he continued, rolling in the sand and +kicking as Paul related his experience. “I don’t wonder the old lady +looked daggers at the commandment business. I wish I could have seen +her, and I did. I say, Paul,” and Jack stopped rolling, and, creeping up +under the shade of the bushes, went on, very soberly for him: “I went to +sleep while waiting for you, and had the queerest dream. I thought Miss +Hansford killed you or me,—seemed more as if it was _me_, although I +could see it all; could see the one who lay here dead, just where I am +lying, and could hear the talking ’round him, and see Miss Hansford, the +most scared of them all, trying to lift me up and saying he isn’t +dead,—he mustn’t be dead. It was _me_ then, and I woke up with a kind of +cramp in my stomach,—some of that confounded melon is there yet. Guess I +had a kind of nightmare, but it seemed awful real. I shouldn’t wonder if +she did kill me some time, she hates me so.” + +“No, she won’t; her bark is a heap worse than her bite. Why, we got to +be right chummy, and she offered me some of the melon. I really like the +old lady,” Paul said, while Jack made a grimace, and then lay perfectly +still, with his hands folded under his head, thinking of the dream which +had so impressed him. + +Meanwhile Miss Hansford, who had watched Paul until he disappeared from +sight, was talking to herself about him as she went about her morning +work. + +“That’s a fine boy,” she said, “if he did steal my watermelon, and I’d +trust him any where, if he don’t know the eighth commandment. I b’lieve +t’other one was Jack Percy,—the worst limb I ever knew. Calls the +camp-meetin’ a circus and _me_ the clown! I’d like to——” + +She jammed a griddle down hard on the stove in token of what she’d like +to do to the reprobate Jack, who had dreamed that she killed him under +the scrub oaks. Then she turned her thoughts to the Ralstons. It was +only that summer that they had taken possession of the big house on the +knoll overlooking the sea. Carpenters had been there at work early in +May, removing walls inside to throw the rooms together, cutting the +windows down to the floor, building piazzas and porches and bay windows +here and there, until the house was so changed that there was little +left of the original except the look-out on the roof and the immense +chimney, which Mrs. Ralston clung to for the sake of the fireplaces, and +because there was nothing like it on the Island. Once she thought to +tear down the inclosure to the smugglers’ room in the cellar, entrance +to which was through a concealed door under a closet stairs, but Paul, +who was with her, begged her to leave it for his play-room. He knew all +the stories of his ancestor, who was said to have filled the place from +time to time with smuggled goods, which were sold at a high price and +made the old sea captain rich. This, however, was so many years before +that the smuggler taint had died out, except as some ill-natured people +revived the story, with a sneer at the Ralston wealth, the foundation of +which was laid in the cellar of the Ralston House. Paul, boy-like, was +rather pleased with the idea of so renowned an ancestor, and, during his +stay in Oak City, while the repairs were going on, used to spend half +his time on the roof, pretending that he was watching for the Vulture +returning from its long voyage and tacking about here and there until a +white flag from the look-out told that the coast was clear. The other +half of his time he spent in the Smugglers’ room, playing at hiding from +the police, while Tom Drake, a boy about his own age, and son of the man +who had charge of the place, acted the part of policeman and thundered +for admittance against the door of the basement. Was there an influence +in the atmosphere surrounding the two boys which prompted them to play +at what in many of its details became a reality in after years. I think +so, for I believe there comes to many of us at times a glimpse of what +seems familiar, because we have been unconscious actors in something +like it before. To Paul, however, only the present was tangible, and he +enjoyed it thoroughly and played at smugglers and pirates and robbers +and prisoners, in the queer room built around the big chimney. + +For a little time the Ralstons returned to Boston, while the finishing +touches were given to the house. Then they came back for the summer and +there were signs of life everywhere around the handsome place. +Occasionally Miss Hansford met the Ralston carriage with the Judge and +his wife, a dainty little lady with a sweet, gentle face showing under +her hat, which Miss Hansford decided was too youthful for a woman of her +age to wear. As a rule, Miss Hansford did not take kindly to people who +owned houses or cottages in Oak City, and only spent a few weeks in the +summer there, bringing with them an assumption of superiority over their +neighbors in the shape of horses and carriages and servants and city +ways, which she did not like. They were pretty sure to be “stuck-ups” or +nobodies. + +Of the two she preferred the former. There had never been much money in +the Hansford line, but there was plenty of blood of the bluest sort. +Miss Hansford had the family tree at her fingers’ ends, and not a twig +would she lop off, much less the branches reaching back to Oliver +Cromwell and Miles Standish and a feudal lord in Scotland who held his +castle days and weeks against a besieging party. At the Ralstons she +first looked doubtfully. The old smuggler, whose bones were whitening +off the Banks of Newfoundland, was not a desirable appendage, but to +offset him was an ancestor who had heard the Indian war cry and helped +to empty the chests of tea into the ocean on the night of the Boston Tea +Party, while another had died at the battle of Bunker Hill, and these +two atoned for shiploads of contraband goods and made the Ralstons +somebody. Paul Miss Hansford had scarcely seen, except as he galloped +down the avenue on his pony, until he came to ask forgiveness and make +restitution. Then she was surprised to find how her heart went out to +the boy, and after he was gone she began to consider the propriety of +calling upon his mother. + +“I don’t s’pose she cares whether I call or not,” she thought, “but I am +about the oldest settler on the Island, and then if Miss Ralston returns +it, it’ll be something to tell Mrs. Atwater, who has so much to say +about her friends in Hartford.” + +With all her war against the flesh, Miss Hansford had her weaknesses and +ambitions, and one of the latter was to know and be known by Mrs. +Ralston. This was an easy matter, for there was not a kinder-hearted or +more genial woman in the world, and when she heard from her maid that +Miss Phebe Hansford was in the drawing-room she went at once to meet +her, and by her graciousness of manner put her at her ease and disarmed +her of all prejudice there might have been against her. Miss Hansford +was taken over the house to see the improvements and given a cup of tea +and treated, as she told Mrs. Atwater when describing her call, “as if +she and Miss Ralston were hand and glove.” The watermelon was not +mentioned until just before Miss Hansford left, when Paul came in, +accompanied by Jack Percy, who at sight of the woman sitting up so prim +in a high-backed chair, with her far-seeing spectacles on, slunk out of +sight. Paul, on the contrary, came forward, and, doffing his cap, +offered her his hand. + +“You have seen my son before?” Mrs. Ralston said, in some surprise, when +Paul left the room. + +“Why, yes. Didn’t he tell you about the melon he brought in place of the +one——,” she was going to add “——he stole,” but something in Mrs. +Ralston’s manner checked the harsh word before it was uttered. + +Mrs. Ralston, however, understood, and her face flushed slightly as she +replied: “I knew he took your melon, but not that he carried you +another. I am very glad. Paul means to be a good boy. I hope you forgave +him?” + +“I did,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, “and I like him, too. I’m +cross-grained, I know, but I’ve a soft spot somewhere, and your boy’s +touched it and brought me here to see his mother. I hope we’ll be +friends. I am a homely old woman with homely ways, and I hain’t anything +like this,” glancing around the elegantly furnished drawing-room, “but +I’ll be glad to see you any time.” + +“I will surely come,” Mrs. Ralston said, offering her white hand covered +with rings such as Miss Hansford considered it wicked to wear. + +They did not look quite so sinful on Mrs. Ralston, who ever after was a +queen among women as Paul was a king among boys. When Jack Percy’s +mother came to the seashore and took him home Paul and Miss Hansford +became fast friends. He called her “Aunt Phebe” and ate her ginger +cookies and fried cakes and apple turnovers and huckleberry pies, and +raced through her yard, and sometimes through her house, with his dog, +Sherry, at his heels, upsetting things generally and seldom stopping to +put in its place the stone tied in one corner of the netting which was +tacked over the door to keep the flies out. This was a fashion followed +by many of the cottagers whose doors were too wide to admit of screens. +But Paul in his haste did not often think of it, and after a few +attempts to make him remember the stone Miss Hansford gave it up and +only held her breath when he came in like a whirlwind and out again as +rapidly. + +“Bless the boy, he goes so fast that the flies are blown away before +they have a chance to get in,” she would say after one of his raids, as +she put the netting back and picked up the books and papers, and +sometimes things of more value which Sherry’s bushy tail had brushed +from the table in his rapid transit through her rooms. Neither Paul nor +Sherry could do wrong, and she waited anxiously for his coming to Oak +City in the summer, and said good-bye to him with a lump in her throat +when he went away. + +Once by special invitation she spent a week with the Ralstons in Boston. +“The tiredest week she ever knew,” she said to Mrs. Atwater after her +return. “Kept me on the go all the time,—to Bunker Hill Monument, up +which I clum every step,—then to Mt. Auburn and Harvard, where Paul is +to go to college; then to the Old South Church, and the Picture Gallery, +and if you’ll b’lieve it,” she added in a whisper, “they wanted me to go +to a play at the Boston Museum Theatre, where they said everybody went, +church members and all.” + +“I hope you resisted,” Mrs. Atwater said in an awful tone of voice. + +“No, I didn’t. I went,” Miss Hansford replied. “’Twas ‘Uncle Tom’ they +played, and I was that silly that I cried when little Eva died, and I +wanted to kill Legree. ’Twas wrong, I know, and I mean to confess it +next class meetin’.” + +“You or’to,” Mrs. Atwater said, with a great deal of dignity as she left +the house. + +Miss Hansford did confess it in a speech so long and so descriptive of +the play that the people sitting in judgment upon her forgot their +censure in the interest with which they listened to her. + +“I’ve made a clean breast of it, and you can do what you like,” she +said, as she finished and sat down. + +They did nothing except to express disapproval of such things in general +and to hope the offense would not be repeated, as it was a bad example +for the young when a woman of her high religious principles went to a +theatre. Paul, who happened to be in Oak City, was sitting by her, his +face a study as he listened to what was a revelation to him. In a way +they were censuring Miss Hansford, and just before the close of the +meeting he startled them all by rising to his feet and saying: “You +needn’t blame her. I teased her to go, and it isn’t wicked either to see +‘Uncle Tom.’ Everybody goes,—father and mother and everybody,—and they +are good and pray every day.” + +No one could repress a smile at the fearlessness of the boy in defending +Miss Hansford, whose eyes were moist as she laid her hand on his head +and whispered: “Hush, Paul; you musn’t speak in meeting.” + +“Why not?” he answered aloud. “The rest do, and I’m going to stand up +for you through thick and thin.” + +He was only a boy, but he represented the Ralstons. To attend a theatre +under their auspices was not so very bad, and the good people absolved +their sister from wrongdoing and shook hands heartily with her champion +when the services were over. After that Miss Hansford’s devotion to Paul +was unbounded, and she watched him lovingly and proudly as he grew to +manhood and passed unscathed through college, leaving a record blackened +with only a few larks such as any young man of spirit might have, she +said, when comparing him with Jack Percy, who was with him in Harvard +for a while, and then quietly sent home. Paul’s vacations were mostly +spent in Oak City, until he was graduated. He then went abroad with his +father and mother for a year, and the house on the Island was closed, +except as the rear of it was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Drake, who looked +after the premises in the absence of the family. Miss Hansford, who +missed him sadly, was anticipating his coming again much as a mother +anticipates the return of her son. She did not, however, expect him so +soon, as no news had been received of his arrival in New York, and she +was surprised and delighted when he came upon her so early and so +suddenly,—taking her breath away, she told him, as she led him into the +house, looking at him to see if foreign travel had changed him any. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + PAUL’S NEWS. + + +He had grown broader and handsomer and looked a trifle older, with that +brown beard on his chin, she thought, but otherwise he was the same Paul +as of old, with his sunny smile, his friendly manner and his +unmistakable joy at seeing her again. She made him sit down in the best +rocking chair,—took his hat, and smoothed his hair caressingly, and +forgot that she had not breakfasted and that her rolls were still +blackening in the oven. + +“How did you get here?” she asked. “Nobody knew you had landed or was on +the way even.’ + +“I should suppose your bones would have warned you of our arrival. I +hope they haven’t ceased to do duty,” Paul answered, and then explained +that they had changed their plans and sailed from Havre a week earlier +than they had intended. Some of their friends were coming on the Ville +de Paris and among them Mrs. Percy and Clarice. + +The name of Jack Percy was to Miss Hansford much like a red flag to a +bull, while that of any member of his family was nearly as bad. Now, +however, she only straightened her back a little with an ominous “Ugh,” +which Paul did not notice, so absorbed was he in the great good news he +had come to tell her. But first he must answer her numberless questions +as to what he had seen and where he had been. + +“Been everywhere and seen everything, from Queen Victoria to the Khedive +of Egypt. Been on the top of Cheops, and inside of him, too,—and up the +Nile to Assouan and Philae and Luxor, and seen old Rameses,—frightful +looking old cove, too, with his tuft of hair and his one tooth showing,” +he said, rattling on about places and people of whom Miss Hansford knew +nothing. + +Luxor and Assouan and Cheops were not familiar to her, but when he said, +“I tell you what, the very prettiest place in all Europe is Monte +Carlo,” she was on the alert in a moment. She looked upon Monte Carlo as +a pool of iniquity, and she said to the young man, “Paul, you didn’t +gamble there!” + +Paul answered laughingly, “They don’t call it gambling; they call it +play.” + +“Well, play, then. You didn’t play? I know you didn’t, for when I heard +you was there I wrestled in prayer three times a day that God would keep +you unspotted, and he did, didn’t he?” + +She had her hand on his shoulder and was looking into his face with such +faith and trust in her kind old eyes that it was hard to tell her the +truth. But the boy who had never told a lie when he stole the melon had +not told one since, and would not do so now, even if he lost some of the +good woman’s opinion. + +“I’m afraid you didn’t wrestle enough,” he said, “for I did play.” + +“Oh, Paul,” and Miss Hansford drew a long breath, which hurt the young +man some, but he went on unfalteringly, “I didn’t mean to, but when I +saw how easy it was to put down a piece of money and double it I tried +and made quite a lot at first; then I began to lose and quit.” + +“Thank God!” came with great fervor from Miss Hansford, while Paul +continued, “It beats all what a fascination there is about it, and what +luck some people have. There was Clarice, won straight along till she +made two or three hundred dollars.” + +“Clarice! oh, she was there, was she?” Miss Hansford asked, her tone +indicating that she knew now perfectly well why Paul played and in a +measure exonerated him. + +Had Paul been less in love than he was, or less blinded with his great +happiness, he would have interpreted her manner aright. But he was +blind, and he was in love, and he replied, “Why, yes; didn’t you know +that Mrs. Percy and Clarice were with us in Italy and Switzerland and in +Paris, and on the same ship with us? That’s why we came a week earlier. +We wanted to be with them.” + +“I see, but I didn’t know as Miss Percy was able to go scurripin’ all +over the world,” was Miss Hansford’s comment, to which Paul did not +reply. + +He was thinking how he should tell her what he had come to tell and what +seemed very easy when he was by himself. If Miss Hansford had not been +sitting up quite so straight and prim and looking at him so sharply +through her spectacles, which he knew were her near-seers, and which +nothing could escape, he would have been less nervous. + +“You see,” he began at last, “we were together in Switzerland last +summer,—met quite by accident at Chamonix,—and then at Geneva and +Lucerne, and we walked up the Rigi together and got lost in a fog and +stumbled around half the night. It was great fun and she was awfully +plucky.” + +Here Paul stopped to recall the fun it was to be lost in a fog with a +pretty girl, who clung so closely to him for protection that he +sometimes had to hold her hand in his when she was very nervous and +timid, and sometimes had his arm around her waist to keep her from +falling when the way was rough and steep. Miss Hansford was still +looking at him, and when she thought he had waited long enough she +brought him back from his blissful reminiscence by asking, “Who walked +up the Rigi with you, and got lost in the fog, and stumbled round half +the night, and was awfully plucky? Your mother?” + +“Mother!” Paul repeated. “Mother walk up the Rigi! Great Scott! She was +at the hotel, wild because we didn’t come. They had sent out two or +three guides to look for us, and Mrs. Percy was in high hysterics when +we finally reached the hotel. It was Clarice who was with me.” + +“Oh!” and Miss Hansford’s mouth was puckered into the perfect shape of +the letter O, and kept its position as Paul went on: “Clarice took a +severe cold and was ill for a week at the Schweitzerhoff, in Lucerne. We +left them there, but they were with us again in Monte Carlo and Florence +and Rome—and—” + +He hesitated, wishing Miss Hansford would say something to help him +along. But she sat as rigid as a stone, while he floundered on until the +climax was reached in Paris, where he asked Clarice to be his wife. + +“I always thought she was a nice girl when I used to see her here,” he +said, “but I didn’t know half how bright and pretty she was till—er—” + +“Till you got lost with her in a fog on the Rigi,” Miss Hansford +suggested grimly. + +It was something to have her speak at all, and Paul answered briskly, “I +guess that’s about the truth. I couldn’t forget her after that, you +know, and so we are engaged. I wanted to tell you and came this way from +New York last night on purpose to see you. I hope you are glad.” + +Miss Hansford was not glad. She had never thought of Paul’s marrying for +a long time,—certainly not that he would marry Clarice Percy, whom she +disliked almost as much as she did her half brother, Jack. As Paul +talked he had left the rocking chair and seated himself on the door +step, with the netting thrown back, letting in a whole army of flies. +But Miss Hansford did not notice them. She was trying to swallow the +lumps in her throat and wondering what she could say. She could not tell +him that she was sorry, and with a gasp and a mental prayer to be +forgiven for the deception, she said, “Of course, I’m glad for anything +which makes you happy. I never thought of you and Clarice. I s’posed she +was after that snipper-snapper of an Englishman who was once here.” + +She could not resist this little sting, which made Paul wince and fan +himself with his hat. + +“Oh! you mean Fenner, who has a title in his family. There’s nothing in +that. Why, he hasn’t a dollar to his name.” + +“And you have a good many dollars,” Miss Hansford rejoined; then added, +as she saw a flush on Paul’s face and knew her shaft had hit, “You seem +too young to get married.” + +“Why, Aunt Phebe,” Paul exclaimed, “I am twenty-three, and Clarice is +twenty-one. I look like a boy, I know, but this will age me some,” and +he stroked the soft brown mustache, of which he was rather proud. “This +was Clarice’s idea. I believe she thinks I look younger than she does, +but I don’t. We are neither of us children. Some fellows are married +when they are twenty. I shall be twenty-four, for we do not intend to be +married until the middle of October. I mean to have you come to the +wedding with mother. You have never been in Washington and you’ll like +it. I shall have you stop at Willard’s. Mrs. Percy does not live far +from there. You’ve heard of Willard’s?” + +“I’d smile if I hadn’t,” Miss Hansford said, while Paul began to open a +paper box which he had brought with him. + +“You see,” he continued, as he untied the cords, “I wanted to bring you +something from Europe. I found a creamy kind of shawl in Cairo,—the real +thing, and no sham,—and after I was engaged I felt so happy that I +wanted to give you something more to wear to my wedding, so I thought of +a silk dress. Clarice picked it out for me at the Louvre in Paris. Here +it is,” and he unrolled a pattern of grey silk, whose texture and +quality Miss Hansford appreciated, although not much accustomed to +fabrics like this. “Clarice said the color would be becoming to you and +was just the thing. She knows what’s what,” he continued, gathering up +the silk material in folds, just as the salesman had done at the Louvre. + +He did not explain that when he spoke of inviting Miss Hansford to his +wedding Clarice had at first objected and only been won over when she +saw how much he wished it. It was not necessary to tell this, and he +kept quoting Clarice, as if she had been prime mover in the matter. No +woman is proof against a silk such as Paul was displaying, and Miss +Hansford was not an exception. + +“Oh, Paul,” she said, laying her hand upon the heavy folds which would +almost stand alone, “what made you do this for an old woman like me, who +never had but two silk gowns in her life, and both of ’em didn’t cost +half as much as this, I know. It was kind in you and Clarice, too, I’m +sure. Tell her I thank her, and I hope you will be happy.” + +Her manner certainly had changed, mollified by the dress and the part +Clarice had in it, and when Paul, emboldened by the change, ventured to +say, “Clarice thinks you should have some little lace thingembob for +your head such as mother wears,” she didn’t resent it, but replied, “I +can find that in Boston. Neither you nor Clarice shall be ashamed of me +if I go.” + +“Of course, you’ll go,” Paul said, dropping the silk and throwing around +her shoulders the shawl which had been his choice in Cairo. “Look in the +glass and see if it isn’t a beauty.” + +Miss Hansford admitted that it was a beauty, but on a very homely old +stick, and Paul knew by her voice that the chords which had been a +little out of tune were in harmony again. Suddenly it occurred to her +that as she had not breakfasted, probably Paul had not either, and she +urged him to stay, but he declined. He was to leave on the next boat, +and there were some things he must attend to at the house. He should +come to Oak City again in a few days, he said, and then bade her +good-bye, while she folded up the shawl and dress, admiring the latter +greatly, wondering if it were quite right for one who professed what she +did to wear so expensive a silk, and if she were not backsliding a +little. She did a good many things now which she would not have done +when she first became a resident of the place. The world and the flesh +were crowding her to the wall, and the devil, too, she sometimes feared, +but she would keep her silk gown in spite of them all, and as she put it +away in her bureau drawer she thought that as none of her immediate +friends had anything like it they might disapprove. + +“I don’t care much if they do. They haven’t chances to see things as I +have,” she said, with a degree of complacency which would have amused +one who knew that her superior chances “to see things” were comprised in +the week she had spent in Boston years ago, and her frequent visits to +the Ralston House, where, on Paul’s account, she was always a welcome +guest. + +And now the good days were drawing to a close, for Paul was going to be +married. This in itself was bad enough, for with a wife he could never +be the same to her, but worse than that, he was to marry Clarice Percy. +This tarnished the lustre of the grey silk from Paris and marred the day +she had thought so bright in the early morning. + +“I’ve lost my boy,” she said, sadly, as she watched the boat which was +taking Paul away, and on the upper deck of which he stood waving his +umbrella towards her. + +She didn’t wave back, but raised her hands in a kind of benediction and +looked after him with an indefinable yearning until he was hidden from +view. Her bones were in full swing this morning, and as she resumed her +work she soliloquized, “I don’t know what ails me, but I feel that +something bad will come of this marriage. How can it be otherwise? I +know it is mean, and may be wicked, but I can’t abide the Percys.” + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + THE PERCYS. + + +They were a very old Virginian family whose line of ancestry stretched +backward quite as far as that of Miss Hansford, and touched the days of +Cromwell, when white people were sent to Virginia and sold as slaves for +a longer or shorter period of years. Among them came Samuel Percy, a +Royalist, transported for some offense against the government and +condemned to servitude for five years. Just what he did during the five +years was not certainly known. Some said he was a blacksmith, some a +tailor, and others a common field laborer, or at best an overseer of the +negroes. That he was a bondman was sure and he worked out his time and +then, unbroken in spirit, resolved to make for himself a name and a +fortune and a family. With the latter he succeeded admirably, for the +descendants of his five sons were scattered all over the South, each +generation forgetting more and more that the root of the family tree in +America had been a slave, and growing more and more proud of its English +ancestry. + +When the civil war broke out old Roger Percy owned a few negroes, a +worn-out plantation and a big, rambling house in Virginia, just across +the border of Maryland. Proud, morose and contrary, he seldom agreed +with the people with whom he came in contact. His opinion was always the +better one. With the Confederates he was a Federal,—with the Federals a +Confederate, hurling anathemas at the heads of each and ordering them +from his premises. As he was near the frontier he was visited at +intervals by detachments from both armies, who, as he said, squeezed him +dry, and at the close of the war he found himself alone, with his wife +dead, his negroes gone, his house a ruin, or nearly so, and his land +good for nothing. Too proud and indolent to work, he might have starved +but for his only son, James, who, scoffing at a pride which would +neither feed nor clothe him, found a position in the Treasury Department +in Washington and offered his father a home. Grumblingly the old man +accepted it, cursing the government and his small quarters and his +dinners and black Sally, who waited upon him, and who, of all his +negroes, had come back to him when peace was restored. Sometimes he +cursed his son for being willing to take a subordinate position and work +like a dog under somebody. This was what galled the worst,—working under +somebody, and doing it willingly. + +“I believe you have some of your great-great-grandfather’s blood in +you,” he would say. “He hadn’t pluck enough to cut his master’s throat +and run away. By the lord, I’d have done it.” + +“I’m proud of old Sam Percy’s grit,” James would reply, “and if I knew +just where he was buried I’d raise him a monument. I’m not ashamed to +work, or to have some one over me.” + +“I’m ashamed for you, and you a Percy,” his father would growl, +forgetting that without the work he so despised he would be homeless and +almost a beggar. + +The climax came when James brought home a wife,—a clerk like himself in +the Treasury Department. This was the straw too many and the bridal was +soon followed by a funeral, the old man saying he was glad to go where +the Percys could not be disgraced. Had he lived a few months longer he +would have seen his son’s wife an heiress in a small way. A maiden aunt, +for whom she was named and who all her life had hoarded her money earned +in the cotton mills of Lowell, died and left her niece ten thousand +dollars. This was a fortune to the young couple, who left their cramped +quarters for a larger house, where, with the father-in-law gone and a +sturdy baby boy in the cradle, they were perfectly happy for a time. +Then, with scarcely an hour’s warning, the wife was taken away, stricken +with cholera, and James was alone with Sally and his boy, the notorious +John, or Jack, the terror of Oak City and of every neighborhood he +frequented. + +Jack was bright and handsome, but proud and rebellious, and learned very +soon that the woman his father married within two years of his wife’s +death was not his own mother. She was pretty and indolent and +easy-going, and could no more cope with her step-son’s will than she +could stem Niagara. She disliked him and he disliked her for no reason +except that she was his stepmother, and when Clarice was born the breach +widened between them, although the boy showed affection for his little +sister. + +When she was five years old and Jack was ten their father died, leaving +to his widow the house in which they lived and a few thousand dollars, +besides the small fortune she had brought him as the result of her +father’s speculations. To Jack was left his mother’s ten thousand +dollars intact. Had Jack chosen he could have won his mother then when +her heart was sore and aching for some one to comfort her, if it were +only a boy. But he didn’t choose; he was wayward and headstrong, and +always an anxiety and trouble to her. With many good qualities, Mrs. +Percy was a weak woman and talked a great deal of her husband’s family +and the old Virginia homestead and the ancestral hall in England. On +this point she was a little shaky in her own mind, as the ancestral hall +was only a tradition; but it was a fine thing to talk about and no one +could dispute it. The Virginia homestead stood not many miles from what +is known as Cabin John. It had been partly repaired by her husband, and +some of the rooms made habitable for the time his family spent there. +Beechwood it was called, and to those who never saw it Mrs. Percy talked +of it as her country house, to which she went every summer for quiet and +rest from the fatigue of society, and because it was so lovely. In +reality she went there to economize, and not because she cared for the +great bare rooms, the leaky roof and decaying timbers, which let one end +of the broad piazza drop half a foot lower than the other. Economy was a +necessity if she made any show in Washington, where she struggled hard +to be recognized among the first and the best. A friend of hers, who +knew her circumstances, incidentally spoke to her of Oak City as a +change from Beechwood. It was, she said, one of the pleasantest and +cheapest watering places on the New England coast. + +“Are there any nice people there? Anything but a camp-meeting?” Mrs. +Percy asked, and was assured that while the camp-meeting was a feature +of the place and an attraction, too, there were many nice people there +from the adjacent cities. + +Satisfied on this point, Mrs. Percy concluded to try it, and took with +her Jack and Clarice and black Sally, who clung to this remnant of her +former master’s family with a pertinacity peculiar to the negro race. +Sally was both waiting maid and nurse, and from this Miss Hansford at +once decided that Mrs. Percy was airy, wondering why an able-bodied +woman like her should need a waiting maid, or a child as old as Clarice +a nurse. Still, as the lady was boarding near her, she made up her mind +to call, and, to her horror, found Mrs. Percy playing whist! + +“I hadn’t seen a pack of cards before in years, and the sight of them +nearly knocked me down,” she said to her friend and confidante, Mrs. +Atwater, when recounting her experience. “Cards in broad daylight, for +it wasn’t four o’clock. She kept ’em in her hands all the time I was +there as if she wished I’d go, and, if you’ll believe it, she asked me +if I’d like to play a game! I didn’t stay long after that. Clarice was +playing with her. Fine way to bring up a child!” + +Miss Hansford’s call was not returned, and through some channel it +reached her that Mrs. Percy did not care to make mixed acquaintances +which she could not recognize at home. After this there was war in Miss +Hansford’s heart against the Percys, and the feeling increased as time +went on. Mrs. Percy’s affairs were more freely discussed than would have +pleased her had she known it. Black Sally, who was loquacious, familiar +and communicative, went frequently to Miss Hansford’s cottage for water, +which was said to be the best on the Heights. Naturally, Miss Hansford +talked with her, and, although she would have repudiated with scorn a +charge that she was prying into her neighbor’s business, she managed to +learn a good deal about Mrs. Percy, and to know how she lived at home, +where Sally was cook, laundress, and maid of all work, as they kept no +other servant. + +“My land!” ejaculated Miss Hansford, “I s’posed you kept a retinue.” + +“No, Missus, we never had nobody by that name,” Sally said, seating +herself upon the doorstep, while Miss Hansford stood on the other side +of the netting, wiping her dishes. “We ain’t rich folks, and Miss Percy +has to save every way she can so’s to come here.” + +“Why, how you talk,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, putting down the plate she +had polished a full two minutes in absorbed interest. “I s’posed she was +in society.” + +“To be sho’ she is,” Sally rejoined. “Eberybody is in some kind of +society in Wassinton if they wants to be. A heap of receptions is free. +Dar’s de Presidents, and de Cabinet’s wives, and right smart more o’ de +big bugs, whar any body can go, and dar’s ways of getting noticed in de +papers and havin’ you close described ef you wants to. Wassinton is a +great place!” + +“I should say so,” Miss Hansford rejoined, more convinced than ever that +Mrs. Percy was airy. + +The next time Sally came for water she said that Mas’r James had been +clerk in the Treasury when he married Jack’s mother, who was also a +clerk in the same department. + +“Well, if I ain’t beat. I s’posed Mr. Percy was the Great Mogul of the +city from the airs his widder puts on,” Miss Hansford thought. “I dare +say she was a clerk, too.” + +Finally she put the question to Sally. + +“I’se do’ know, but s’pecs not. She was bawn in Wassinton. T’other one +was from de Noff,—a mighty nice woman, too, but she had a hard time wid +ole Mar’s Roger, cussin’ at de house, and de dinners, and me, and de +President, and all hands, and twittin’ Mar’s James for being like de +fust Percy, who was a slave like de balance of us.” + +“What are you talking about?” Miss Hansford almost screamed. “Was he a +black man?” + +“No, bless you; white as you is,” Sally answered, and Miss Hansford +continued, “But there never was any white slaves.” + +“Yes, thar was, way back, most to de flood, I reckon. I heard Mas’r +James splainin’ to Miss’s onct after de ole Mas’r had been cussin’ bout +him. It’s true’s you bawn, but mebby I didn’t orter speak of it,” and, +picking up her pail of water, Sally hurried away, thinking that she had +told too much and beginning to wish she had said nothing. + +After that she was very reticent with regard to the family. But Miss +Hansford had heard enough. Ordinarily, she would not have cared for the +clerkship. She respected a man and woman who earned their own living if +circumstances required it, but there had come to her rumors of Mrs. +Percy’s remarks about the F. F. V.’s, and English ancestors, and now all +this had resolved itself into Treasury clerks and white slaves. She did +not believe the latter, but she never rested until she learned that +white people _had_ been sold into slavery in Virginia under Cromwell and +the Stuarts, and then she did not doubt that the original stock of the +Percys had been among these bondmen. She was honorable enough to keep +her knowledge to herself, and only shut her lips a little closer when +she came in contact with the lady who had not returned her call because +she did not care for mixed acquaintances whom she could not recognize in +Washington. + +This was Mrs. Percy’s first season in Oak City, and before the Ralstons +came there. The following winter the two families met in Florida and in +Washington and became quite friendly, for Mrs. Percy was very pleasant +to those whom she considered her equals. She was ambitious and managing, +and knew how to get desirable acquaintances and invitations. She did not +intend to go to Oak City very early that summer, and as Jack wanted to +go, and she wanted to be rid of him, she contrived to have him invited +to spend a short time with the Ralstons when they were fairly settled. +And this was how he chanced to be at the Ralston House with Paul when +the watermelon was stolen. That summer Mrs. Percy rented a cottage on +the Oceanside and Miss Hansford saw little or nothing of her. Jack, +however, was a constant source of annoyance and seldom let an +opportunity pass to worry her. She had not forgotten his jeer at her +singing, and advice to join the Salvation Army the previous summer, nor +the valentine sent to her in February, but the crowning insult was given +the only time she ever went bathing at the fashionable hour. + +“She didn’t believe in spoiling her clothes with salt water, nor in +showing her arms and legs to Tom, Dick and Harry,” she said, and, +habited in white knit stockings, a faded calico skirt, woolen sacque, +and a dilapidated hat, left with her by a former lodger, she presented a +startling appearance as she went into the water, treading very gingerly +over the stones and trying in vain to keep her dress from floating +around her like a balloon. + +Paul, who had urged her coming, could not repress a smile, but when a +big wave came rolling in and nearly knocked her down, he went to her at +once and said, “Let me help you. The sea is rough this morning. Come out +where it is deeper and away from the stones. I won’t let you fall.” + +He led her out to where the water came nearly to her waist, and then, +holding both her hands in his, danced her up and down, she protesting +that he was beating the breath out of her body, while the dog, Sherry, +who always took his bath with his master, swam around them in circles, +barking furiously and making occasional dashes at Miss Hansford’s dress, +which still floated in spite of Paul’s efforts to keep it down. +Everybody stood still to watch the proceeding and everybody laughed. +Jack Percy, who was near her on a raft, ready to dive, called out, “Go +it, old gal. You waltz first rate. Where did you get your hat and +what’ll you take for it?” + +Then, with a whoop, he made the plunge and sent great splashes of water +into the face of the indignant woman, who hurried to the shore and, +divesting herself of her wet clothes, went home so enraged with Jack +that she never forgave him until years after, when she wiped the death +sweat from his face and felt that she would almost give her own life to +save his. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + CLARICE. + + +The next summer Mrs. Percy bought a pretty little cottage on Oceanside, +which she occupied season after season, while Jack grew to manhood and +Clarice to a brilliant, beautiful girl. Mrs. Percy was a delicate woman, +and, aside from the cheapness of the place compared with more +fashionable resorts, the quiet and rest suited her, and she found her +pleasant, airy cottage a delightful change from her rather stuffy house +in Washington, with negro huts crowded close to it in the rear. Clarice, +on the contrary, detested it and the people, and took no pains to +conceal her dislike. She was a haughty girl, with all the pride of the +Percys, from the bondman down to old Roger, her grandfather, who, up to +the last, wore his dress suit to dinner when there was nothing better +than bacon and eggs. She gloried in such pride as that, she said, and +respected him far more than if he had sat down to his bacon and eggs in +his shirt sleeves. She knew her father had been a Treasury clerk, but he +was a Percy and a gentleman, and she had no fault to find with him +except that he did not leave more money. She wanted to be rich and live +in the style of rich people. She would like to have had a large +establishment, with housekeeper and butler and maids and horses and +carriages, and she meant to have all this some time, no matter at what +sacrifice. Given her choice between a man she loved who was poor, and a +man she didn’t love who was rich and not obnoxious to her, she would +unhesitatingly have taken the latter and overlooked any little escapades +of which he might be guilty, provided he gave her all the money she +wanted. In marrying Paul Ralston she was getting everything she +desired,—family, position, love and money. She had had Paul in her mind +for some time as a most desirable _parti_, provided one more desirable +was not forthcoming. In Washington, where her beauty attracted a great +deal of attention, she was much sought after by men who, while pleasing +her in many respects, lacked the one thing needful. + +In Oak City, to which she always went unwillingly, she frequently met +men of her style,—_class_ she called it,—and in this class Paul stood +pre-eminent. With Ralph Fenner, whom Miss Hansford had designated as a +snipper-snapper, she had flirted outrageously, but with no serious +intent. He was too poor, and, although there was a title in his family, +there were three lives between it and himself. To marry him would not +pay, and over and above any other reasons which might influence her, she +had a genuine liking for Paul, and when he asked her to be his wife she +unhesitatingly answered yes. + +After the betrothal there was no happier man in Paris than Paul Ralston. +He went everywhere Clarice wished to go, from the Grand Opera House to +the Champs d’Elysees, where Jenny Mills delighted a not very select +audience with her dancing. He accompanied her and her mother on their +shopping expeditions for the bridal trousseau, most of which was to be +made in Paris. It was on one of these occasions that he thought of Miss +Hansford and suggested getting her a dress to wear to his wedding. + +“Do you propose to invite _her_?” Clarice asked, in some surprise, and +he replied, “Certainly. She is one of my best friends. I wouldn’t slight +her for the world.” + +“An announcing card will answer every purpose,” was Clarice’s next +remark. + +Paul did not think it would. He wanted Miss Hansford to see him married. +It would please her, and she had always been so kind to him. Clarice +made a little grimace and said, “Let’s get her a dress, then, by all +means. I want her to look decent if she comes,” and she selected the +grey silk at his request, and made some additions to it in the way of +laces and gloves, which last he forgot to take with him when he carried +the dress to Miss Hansford. + +Clarice could scarcely have given any good reason for her antipathy to +Miss Hansford except on general principles. She did not like Oak City +and would never have come there from choice. It was not gay enough, nor +fashionable enough to suit her. She called Miss Hansford a dowdy and a +crank and included her in the category of second-class people who were +no society for her. All this was repeated to Miss Hansford by her +colored factotum, Martha Ann, who had taken Sally’s place at the Percys, +and, after a few weeks, had left because she was not allowed to +entertain her young men on the steps of the dining room, and had been +told she talked and laughed too loud for a servant. Her next place was +with Miss Hansford, to whom she retailed all she had heard and seen at +Mrs. Percy’s, with many additions. Miss Hansford knew it was not good +form to listen to the gossip, but when she became mixed with it +curiosity overcame her sense of propriety, and she not only listened but +questioned, while her wrath waxed hotter and hotter with what she heard. + +“Said you’s a second-class and a crank, and she didn’t see why Miss +Ralston could make so much of you,” was Martha Ann’s last item, and then +Miss Hansford, who had never forgotten Mrs. Percy’s slight in not +returning her call, lost her temper entirely. + +She had heard herself called a crank before, and, looking in the +dictionary, had found so many definitions to the word that she felt a +little uncertain as to which applied to herself. + +“I s’pose I am queer and different from folks like the Percys, and I +thank the Lord I am,” she thought, but to the “second-class” she +objected. + +She, whose lineage went back to Oliver Cromwell and Miles Standish and a +Scotch lord, she to be called second-class by Clarice Percy was too +much. Who were the Percys? she’d like to know. “Nobodies! Sprung from a +white slave! Talk to me of F. F. V.’s, as if I didn’t know all about +’em. Second-class, indeed! It makes me so mad!” and Miss Hansford banged +the door so hard that Martha Ann, who had evoked the storm and was +washing dishes in the sink, dropped a china saucer in her fright and +broke it. + +After this, Miss Hansford’s antipathy to the Percys increased, and not +even the grey silk Clarice had selected mollified her completely. Still, +it did a good deal towards it, and she gradually became more reconciled +to the thought of the engagement. + +“I s’pose Paul must marry sometime,” she said, “and if it was anybody +but Clarice, I’d try to be glad, but try as I will I can’t abide the +Percys.” + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + ELITHE’S PHOTOGRAPH. + + +The May days were growing longer and warmer. Many of the cottages were +open and there was a feeling of summer everywhere, when suddenly the +weather changed. The sea looked green and angry, the wind blew cold +across it from the east, bringing a drenching rain which, beginning in +the early morning, lasted through the day with a persistency which +precluded anything like intercourse with the outside world unless it +were necessary. Miss Hansford had been alone all day, with no one to +speak to but her cat, Jim. To him and to herself she had talked a good +deal of the past, the present and the future. The present was dreary +enough, with the thick fog on the water and the steady fall of rain, +which increased rather than diminished as the night came on. It was some +little diversion to carry pans and pails to places where the roof +leaked, and to crowd bits of sacking against the doors, under which +pools of water were finding their way. When this was done and darkness +had settled down and her lamp was lighted, she began to wonder what she +should do next to pass the time. + +“I ain’t hungry, but it’ll take my mind if I get myself and Jim some +supper. I b’lieve I’ll make griddle cakes. Paul used to be so fond of +’em when he was a boy. I wish he was here to-night,” she said, as she +replenished her fire in her small kitchen and busied herself with her +preparations for her evening meal. “I shall sit here by the stove where +I can lift the cakes from the griddle to my plate and save steps,” she +thought, and, bringing a small round table or stand from the dining +room, she covered it with a towel, placed upon it a plate, a cup and a +saucer and a dish of milk for Jim, who was badly spoiled, and was to +take his supper with her. + +The cakes were ready to bake and still she sat in her rocking chair, +with her feet on the stove hearth and her head thrown back, listening to +the rain beating dismally against the windows and wondering why she was +so much more lonesome than common. + +“I don’t know what’s come over me,” she said. “I actually feel as +homesick as I did the first night I staid away from mother when I was a +little girl. Maybe it’s Roger’s letter taking me back to when his father +and I were young and lived on the farm at home. That’s fifty years ago, +and John is dead. Everybody is dead but Roger and me, and he might +almost as well be dead as to be buried alive in that heathenish country +among miners and the dear knows what. Poor as Job’s turkey, five +children, six hundred a year, with now and then a missionary box full of +half-worn truck, catechisms, and old Churchmans I’ll warrant, though +Roger didn’t say so. Queer that he would be a minister after all I said +to him about going into business, offering to set him up and all that. +But no; he must be a ’Piscopal minister and go out as a missionary to +the West and marry Lucy Potter. I told him she was shiftless, and she +was. I told him she’d be weakly, and she is. He said he didn’t care how +shiftless or weakly she was, he should marry her. I wonder what he +thinks now; five children, six hundred a year, and she not very strong, +that’s the way he put it. I was glad to hear from him again, and to get +Elithe’s picture.” + +Taking from her pocket a letter received the previous day from her +nephew, who was bravely doing his Master’s work among the mountains and +mines of Montana, she read for a second time: + + + “Samona, May ——, 18——. + + “My Dear Aunt— + + “It is a long time since I have heard from you, and for the last few + days I have been thinking a great deal about you and the old times + when I was a boy and you were so kind to me. It is more than twenty + years since you saw me and I wonder if you would know me now. Lucy + says I am growing old, but I feel as young as ever, except, perhaps, + when I have had a long ride of twenty or thirty miles on horseback and + am very tired. I like my work and I think I have done some good among + the people here. They are not all miners, and we have in our little + town several good families from the East and from England. We are all + poor, and that is a bond between us. I have six hundred dollars a + year, which is a pretty good salary for this vicinity. Then we + frequently get a missionary box and that helps wonderfully. You should + be here when we open one and hear the expressions of delight as + article after article is taken out,—not all new, of course, nor the + best fit, but the neighbors come in and help cut and make them over, + and we feel quite in touch with the world in our finery. I have five + children, four of them sturdy boys, healthy as little bears and, I am + sometimes fearful, almost as savage, brought up, as they are, just on + the verge of civilization. Our eldest child and only daughter, Elithe, + is nineteen, and as lovely a flower as ever blossomed in the wilds of + the West. Lucy is not strong, and Elithe is our right hand and left + hand, and both hands in one. I send you her photograph, taken by an + inferior artist compared with those you have East, but still a very + good likeness. There is something in her face which reminds me of you + as you looked many years ago when I was a little boy and you came to + my father’s one day, wearing a white dress, and your long curls tied + with a red ribbon. That’s the way I often think of you now, although I + know you must have changed. I should like to see you again and the old + places of my childhood, but I fear I never shall. With my family and + salary there is little surplus for travelling, and then I am trying + hard to save something for my boys’ education when they are older. + Elithe has studied with me since leaving the only school we have here, + and I think her a fair scholar. She would like so much to go East. + Please God, she may sometime. I have just been sent for to go to the + mines twelve miles away to see a young man who they think is very ill. + Elithe is going with me, as she often does on my visits to the sick, + and I verily believe the sound of her voice and the sight of her + bright face does more for them than many doctors can do. The horses we + are to ride are at the door, and I must say good-bye, with love from + us all. + + “Your affectionate nephew, + + “ROGER HANSFORD.” + + “P. S.—I need not tell you how glad I shall be to hear from you. + Letters are like angels’ visits.” + + +This was Roger’s letter, and as Miss Hansford read it for the second +time, the tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped into her lap. The +storm raging without was forgotten; the kitchen in which she sat in her +loneliness vanished, and she was living forty-five years in the past, +when she wore the white gown and her hair was bound with a crimson +ribbon. She remembered the day so well and the little boy who had called +her his pretty Auntie and played with her long curls, making lines of +them while she was the horse to be driven. + +“Who would believe I ever wore a white gown and red ribbon?” she said, +looking down at her plain calico dress and gingham apron, and thinking +of her grey hair, combed back from her face as smoothly as she could +comb it, for, in spite of her efforts, it had a trick of twining around +her forehead and only needed a little coaxing to curl again as it once +had done. + +She thought curls a device of Satan, and when she put him behind her she +cut them off and burned them. It seemed to her now that she could smell +the scorched hair blackening on the hearth, while she looked on with a +feeling that, in some small degree, she was a martyr and doing God +service. + +“Maybe I was morbid and went too far, but I want to do right in that and +in everything else,” she said, and then her mind recurred again to Roger +and his letter and what he had said of Elithe, who reminded him of her. + +Reading between the lines, she fancied that she detected a wish that she +would invite Elithe to visit her. “But, my land!” she said, “what would +I do with a girl singing and whistling and, maybe, dancing around the +house, tramping the streets, racing outdoors and in at all hours, never +putting the stone in its place and letting in the flies. No, I couldn’t +stand it in Lucy Potter’s girl, any way. I dare say she is nice, and +she’s handsome, too, if she is like her picture, but as to looking like +me,—oh, my!—” and she laughed at the absurdity, but was conscious of a +little stir of pleasure at the thought that she was ever at all like +Elithe, or any young girl with pretense to beauty. + +By this time Jim had become impatient for his supper, and from giving +her sundry soft pats with his paws, had jumped into her chair and from +thence on to her shoulder, where he sat coaxing and purring, in imminent +danger of falling into her lap. She took him down at last, gave him his +milk, and was putting a cake for herself upon the griddle, when on the +steps outside there was a stamping of feet, followed by a knock upon the +door, and Paul Ralston came in with pools of water dripping from his +umbrella. + +“Isn’t this a corker for a storm?” he said. “I went to the front door +first and banged away. I knew you must be home, and so came round here.” + +He was shutting his umbrella as he talked and removing his wet coat, +while Miss Hansford looked wonderingly at him. + +“Where upon earth did you come from?” she asked. + +“I’ll tell you as soon as I get to the fire and that cake, which smells +awfully good. Don’t you remember how I used to like them when I was a +boy and happened in at supper time? Flap-jacks you called them, or +something like that.” + +She did remember and she hastened to fill the griddle and brought an +extra plate and cup. + +“Now for it,” he said, as she heaped his plate with the nicely browned +cakes and covered them with maple syrup. “I’ve been to Washington,—sent +for by telegram. The bottom has fallen out.” + +“No, really! You haven’t broke with Clarice?” Miss Hansford asked +eagerly, her countenance brightening and then falling at Paul’s answer. + +“Not a bit of it. Why should I? It’s that rascally Jack. He’s gone to +the bad entirely.” + +“I knew he would. I always felt it in my bones. What’s he been up to +now?” Miss Hansford asked, and Paul replied: “Drinks like a fish. He’s +managed to get rid of most of his own money and has used some of +Clarice’s that she gave him to invest and supposed he had, for he paid +her the interest regularly until lately. He went West while Mrs. Percy +and Clarice were in Europe, and they have heard nothing from him since +February. Clarice’s interest was due the first of April, and as it +didn’t come and she didn’t know where he was, she wrote to the firm in +Denver, and they replied that it had been invested in his name and he +had collected it and skipped. Naturally this cramps her, as they spent a +lot in Europe and Clarice was depending upon a part of the Denver money +to defray the expenses of her wedding in Washington. Meant to make a +splurge, you know, but can’t now, and has decided to be married in Oak +City the last of August. That suits me. I’d rather be married here, but +I offered to pay for the wedding in Washington if Clarice would let me. +She wouldn’t do it. Said she’d some pride left. She’s all broke up about +Jack, for scamp as he is, she has some affection for him. She +telegraphed to me to come and talk it over, and has finally settled upon +almost as big a spread here as she meant to have had in Washington. We +shall send out a great many invitations, and probably rent rooms in some +of the cottages as well as at the hotels. I thought of you, and instead +of going straight through to Boston from New York came here to ask you +not to engage your rooms after the last of July. We shall have a lot of +people at our house, and some of them must sleep elsewhere. I thought +the boat would never reach the wharf, the waves were so high, and when +it did it stormed so that I came here before going to the house, and am +glad I did. These cakes are first rate.” + +As he talked he was eating, and Miss Hansford was baking, wondering how +many his stomach would hold, and if the batter would hold out. He was +satisfied at last, and, taking Jim in his lap and stroking his soft fur +with one hand, with the other he drew from his pocket a package, which +he handed to Miss Hansford, saying: “I have brought you a present, +Clarice’s photograph and mine, taken in Washington. Hers was so good I +wanted you to have it. Isn’t she a stunner?” + +He had opened the Turkish morocco case and was looking admiringly at the +beautiful face of the girl who was to be his wife. Miss Hansford +admitted that she was a stunner and asked how she was, and thanked Paul +for the picture. Then she said: “I seem to have a run on pictures. This +is the second I have had in two days.” + +Going into the next room, she returned with something carefully wrapped +in tissue paper. + +“Maybe you didn’t know I had a nephew Roger, a ’Piscopal minister in +Montana?” she said. + +“Never knew you had a relation in the world,” Paul replied, and Miss +Hansford continued: “Well, I have—plenty of ’em somewhere; none very +near, though. Roger’s the nearest. His father was my brother John, and I +quarrelled with him,—Roger I mean,—because, in spite of all I could say, +he would marry Lucy Potter, a pretty little helpless thing, with no sort +of get up in her. Her folks lived in Ridgefield same as we did. +Respectable enough, but shiftless,—let things go to rack and ruin. The +front gate hung on one hinge, the fence lopped over, the blinds swung +loose, and for months there was a broken window light in the +garret,—sometimes with paper pasted over it and sometimes an old shawl +sticking out of it. That’s who the Potters were. Went everywhere and +everybody liked ’em, but, my land, how Roger, who wouldn’t drink from a +glass some one else had drank from, could marry one of ’em I don’t know. +She was just a China doll, and her beauty took him. I guess he’s paid +for it. I’ve no doubt her house looks like bedlam, and he so neat and +particular! There was some French blood in old Miss Potter ’way back, +and her sister, Lucy’s aunt, was on the stage,—an actress!” + +Miss Hansford whispered the last word as if afraid the furniture in the +room would hear and rise in judgment against her. Paul did not seem at +all disturbed, and she continued: “Roger and Lucy went to hear her when +she was in Boston, and tried to have me go. Think of it! I in such a +place! I went with your folks, I know, to see ‘Uncle Tom,’ but that was +different. This play the Potter woman was in was about Lady somebody, +who put her husband up to kill somebody.” + +“Lady Macbeth?” Paul suggested, and Miss Hansford replied: “Yes, that’s +the one. A blood and thunder play. Why, I’d as soon go to Purgatory as +to see it. I’ve never told a living soul before that we had an actress +in the family. I’m so ashamed I hope you’ll keep it to yourself. I +shouldn’t like to have Elder Atwater’s wife know it. She has never quite +got over my going to see ‘Uncle Tom.’” + +Paul did not share Miss Hansford’s prejudice against theatres and +actresses, but he promised that neither Elder Atwater’s wife nor any +other elder’s wife should ever hear from him of the disgrace attaching +to Miss Hansford because her nephew’s wife’s aunt, dead years ago, had +been an actress. Miss Hansford had handed him the picture, saying as she +did so: “It’s Roger’s girl. He sent it in a letter. He thinks she looks +like me.” + +“By George, she’s a beauty, if she does; but what’s her name?” Paul +said, bending close to the lamp and looking at the word “Elithe” written +with very pale ink. + +“I don’t wonder you ask,” Miss Hansford replied. “Such an outlandish +name. I told you her great-grandmother was French, and they called the +girl for her and that aunt on the stage. That’s the worst of it. Named +for an actress! It’s pronounced _A-l-double e-t-h_.” + +“Yes, I know—_Aleeth_. It’s a pretty name, and she is pretty, too,” Paul +said, admiring the picture, whose large brown eyes looked at him as +steadily and intelligently as if they were living eyes and could read +his thoughts. + +Some of the great-grandmother’s French blood had been transmitted to her +descendant, who showed it in her features and in the pose of her head, +covered with short curls, which made her look younger than she was. The +nose was slightly retroussé and the mouth rather wide, but taken as a +whole the face was charming. The dress was countrified and +old-fashioned, and you knew at a glance that the artist was countrified, +too, and not at all like the one to whom Clarice had sat. Every curve +and line of her graceful figure showed to advantage, while Elithe’s +position was cramped and awkward. Her hands were placed just where they +looked large and stiff. Her boots, which showed under her short dress, +were square-toed instead of pointed like those of Clarice, who was +standing with her hands behind her in an attitude “for all the world +like a play-actor,” Miss Hansford thought, mentally giving the +preference to Elithe. Unconsciously Paul did the same. He did not think +of Elithe’s boots or dress or hands. He saw only the lovely face, which +held and mastered him with a power he could not define. + +“Elithe,” he said, as if speaking to her in the flesh. “I know you are a +nice girl with no nonsense in you.” Then to Miss Hansford: “Why don’t +you have her come here to visit you?” + +“It’s too expensive, for I should have to pay carfare both ways,” Miss +Hansford replied; “and then she can’t be spared. There’s four more +children, all boys,—little savages, I dare say. Lucy is weakly and the +brunt of everything falls on Elithe, who works like a dog.” + +“More reason why she should have an outing. Poor little Elithe! Let’s +see how she’d look beside Clarice,” Paul said, and slipping his own +picture from the case, he put Elithe’s in its place side by side with +the proud beauty who seemed to look with disdain upon her humble +neighbor. + +Elithe, however, did not lose by the comparison. She only represented a +different type of girlhood, and most people would have looked at her +first and longest. + +“They are both beauties and no mistake,” Paul said, following Miss +Hansford into the sitting room, where she heard a blind banging. “Keep +them here, where you can see them every day,” he continued, placing them +on the mantel with Miss Hansford’s Bible and hymn book and spectacle +case, a card of sea mosses, a conch shell and a plaster bust of John +Wesley. + +Returning to the kitchen, he sat down again by the stove and plied Miss +Hansford with questions concerning Elithe, who interested him greatly. +Miss Hansford could only tell him what Roger had written of her, but she +had a good deal to say of Roger and Lucy Potter and the Potters +generally, whose blood was not as good as that of the Hansfords. At this +Paul laughed. He had suspected that one of Miss Hansford’s objections to +Clarice was the thinness of the Percy blood compared with the Ralston’s. +For himself he didn’t care a picayune for the color of any one’s blood, +and it amused him greatly to hear this peculiar old lady vaunting the +superiority of her family and his over the Percys and Potters. For a +time he listened patiently, and then, as it was growing late, he +returned to the real object of his visit, the refusal of her rooms for +August and possibly a part of July,—he would let her know in time. The +rooms were promised and then he arose to go, after one more look at the +photographs. + +“I don’t believe Elithe has much Potter blood in her,” he said, “and I’d +send for her if I were you. I’d like to see her myself.” + +The next morning Miss Hansford took down the morocco case and looked +long and critically at Elithe. Paul’s admiration of her was having its +influence. The French name, the actress aunt and the Potter blood did +not seem quite so obnoxious to her, and she began to feel a longing to +see the girl whose eyes held her as they had held Paul Ralston. + +“I s’pose an outing would do her good, and I can afford it, too,” she +said. “What am I saving my money for? To give to the Methodists, I +suppose, and they don’t need it half as much as Roger.” + +The idea of sending for Elithe was beginning to take definite shape, and +the more she thought about it the more surprised she grew to find how +lonesome she was and how much she wanted the girl whose eyes followed +her so persistently and seemed to say, “Send for me; send for me.” From +an economical standpoint it might be well to do so, for if Miss +Hansford’s rooms were full of lodgers she would need help, and colored +servants were out of the question. Martha Ann, the best she had ever +employed, had decamped with three napkins, two silver spoons and a fruit +knife. Her would-be successor had come to the front door in a silk dress +and big hat, and, introducing herself as Mrs. Helena Jackson, had asked +if Miss Hansford wished to hire either a wash-lady or a lady to do +general housework. She was told that Miss Hansford wanted neither a +wash-lady nor a nigger, and the door slammed in her face. + +“No more darkies for me,” she said, and as she must have some one she +began to wonder if Elithe would not do. “I don’t s’pose she’d be much +more than a teacup wiper, though if what Roger says is true, she is +capable of doing more than that; and then I feel it in my bones that I +ought to send for her.” + +For a week or more Miss Hansford kept up this style of conversation with +herself, while her bones clamored more and more for Elithe. At last she +made up her mind and wrote to Roger inviting Elithe to spend the summer +with her, and as much longer time as she chose, if she proved the right +kind of a girl, and didn’t make more trouble than her company was worth. + +“One thing I may as well mention now,” she wrote, “I can’t have her +gadding nights to concerts and rides on the water and clambakes and the +Casino and the like. She must be in by nine, or half-past at the latest, +as I keep early hours. I can’t have her slat her things round +everywhere. I can’t have her sing and whistle in the house. I ain’t used +to it. I like to be still and meditate. I don’t want you to think she +isn’t to have any privileges, for she is. I shall use her well, and I +inclose money for her fare and a little more, as she may want to buy a +dress or two. Let me know when to expect her.—Phebe Hansford.” + +“P. S.—Give my regards to Lucy and a dollar to each of the boys. I’ve +allowed for that.” + +“There, I’ve done my duty,” Miss Hansford thought, as she posted the +letter, and then rather anxiously awaited the result. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + IN SAMONA. + + +If Miss Hansford could have seen the Rectory in Samona she would hardly +have likened it to bedlam. It was a small wooden structure without much +architectural symmetry, but with its coat of white paint, its green +blinds and its well-kept plot of ground around it, it looked very +homelike and cozy, and was regarded as one of the finest houses in the +little mountain town. The gate was not off the hinges, nor was there any +unsightly object obtruding from a broken window, as had been the case in +the Potter House in Ridgefield. Indoors there was perfect neatness and +order, notwithstanding that four active boys were constantly running in +and out, making a great deal of work, and care, too, for the delicate +mother and Elithe, on the latter of whom the most of the burden fell. As +Roger had written to his aunt, Elithe was the right hand and left hand +and both hands of the family,—the one to whom he went for counsel and +comfort, just as the boys went to her for help in every emergency, from +the mending of a kite or ball to the mastering of a lesson hard to be +learned. Between Elithe and her mother the natural relations seemed to +be reversed. Elithe was the mother and Lucy the child. A very dainty, +pretty child, whom her husband loved as devotedly as he had done when, +in the face of bitter opposition, he had made her his wife. He had been +told that she was not a helpmeet for a poor clergyman,—that she would be +sickly and inefficient, and as the years went by and she proved the +truth of all this he gave no sign that he knew it, and bore his lot +uncomplainingly. Indeed, he was very happy in his Western home. The +miners, to whom he preached every four weeks in Deep Gulch, and with +whom he often came in contact, worshiped him. He was hail fellow well +met with them at times, talking and laughing familiarly with them, +eating their coarse fare and joining in whatever interested them most. +Again, he was their pastor and spiritual teacher, dignified as became +his office, sympathizing with them in their joys and sorrows, reproving +them when they deserved it, and striving to lead them up to a higher +life and nobler manhood than is common in mining districts. + +If he were popular, Elithe was more so. In fine weather she often rode +with her father to Deep Gulch when he officiated there. Horses in that +vicinity were not very plenty, and as Mr. Hansford had but one, Elithe +at first rode behind him in their excursions to the mines. + +“It is a shame for our parson’s daughter to come to visit us this way. +Can’t we club together and get her a pony?” Bill Stokes, one of the +leading miners, said to his comrades, with the result that when, a few +weeks after, Elithe rode into the camp behind her father, she found a +beautiful chestnut pony, saddled and bridled, and tied to a young +sapling, awaiting her. + +This Bill Stokes was to present with a speech, which had cost him a +great deal of thought and labor and been rehearsed many times to his +comrades, each one of whom had some suggestion or criticism both as to +his words, his manner of delivering them and the way he stood and held +his head and used his hands. After many trials and changes, the speech, +which commenced with, “To her gracious highness, our Queen of the Gulch, +we, her worshipful admirers, filled with a deep sense of her kindness to +us, and the frailties and shortness of life, do hereby give and +bequeath,” and so on, was pronounced as perfect in composition as it +well could be. A few objected to the “shortness and frailties of life” +as sounding like a funeral, while others thought the “give and bequeath” +too much like a will. On the whole, however, it had quite a learned +sound, and could not be improved, and in their Sunday clothes, with +shaven faces and clean hands and sober heads, for it was a point of +honor with them not to touch a drop when the parson and Miss Elithe were +in the camp, they waited for Mr. Hansford and his daughter. + +“Oh, what a beauty!” Elithe cried, springing from her father’s horse and +going up to the pony, who, accustomed to be petted, rubbed his head +against her sleeve, and gave a little whinny of welcome. “Where did he +come from, and whose is he?” she said to Bill Stokes, whose face was on +a broad grin. + +“Like him?” he asked, and Elithe replied. “Like him! I reckon I do. But +whose is he? Is there a lady here?” + +She looked around for the owner of the pony, while Bill, forgetting his +speech, which he held in his hand, said to her: “He’s yours; we all +chipped in and bought him of a trader from Butte, and we give him to you +with—with—yours respectfully,” he added, with a gasp, remembering that +this was what he was to say last. He had forgotten his speech entirely, +and stood mortified and aghast at the jeers and groans of his +companions. “The speech, Stokes! the speech! Don’t cheat us out of +that,” they yelled, while Elithe drew near to her father in alarm, and +the pony, frightened at the din, began to snort and pull at his bridle. + +The speech was quite too fine a piece of composition to be lost. Too +many had had a hand in it and were waiting to hear how their ideas +sounded to be satisfied without it, and after the confusion had subsided +and Mr. Hansford began to comprehend the meaning of the hubbub, he +suggested that Bill should be given a chance to deliver it as if nothing +had occurred, and, mounted on a barrel, Bill delivered it with a great +many flourishes of hands and arms and in a voice which one of the miners +said reminded him of a leader in the Salvation Army when he wanted to be +heard half a mile away. The pony, Bill said, was called Sunshine, +because the beautiful lady who was to be his mistress was the sunshine +of the camp, the Aurora of the day, who brought the brightness of the +morning with her when she came, and left darkness and rain when she went +away. + +This allusion to Aurora and darkness and rain was thought the most +_fetching_ part of the speech, and was the combined effort of the three +brainiest men in the camp, one of whom had seen a picture of Aurora in +the East. It was received with thunders of applause, during which Elithe +began to cry, while the pony broke from the sapling and went curveting +around in circles. The men had expected Elithe to cry, and when through +her tears she thanked them in the sweet, gracious way natural to her, +they were fully satisfied, and felt that their Sunshine was a success. +He was soon caught, and, Elithe on his back, galloped several times +before her delighted audience, who complimented her by saying she rode +as well as a circus rider. + +Nearly every four weeks after that while the fine weather lasted Elithe +went with her father to Deep Gulch, where she led the singing for the +service and played the melodeon which had been bought in Helena and sent +to the Gulch for her use. One Sunday morning, about the middle of April, +Roger was too ill to rise. He was subject to headache, and a severer one +than usual made it almost impossible for him to open his eyes, much less +to sit up. + +“I am so sorry,” he said, “for the men at the mines will be +disappointed. They were anticipating to-day, because I was to take them +that music for the Magnificat. I hope they won’t get into mischief. It +is three weeks since I was there.” + +Elithe, who was bathing his forehead, was silent a moment, and then +said: “I’ll take the music and play it for them. Rob can go with me on +your horse. I shall be a poor substitute for you, but better than +nothing. Shall I go?” + +Mr. Hansford hesitated a moment, and then, knowing that she would be +just as safe with those rough men as if each were her brother, +consented. + +“Aren’t you at all afraid?” her mother asked, and Elithe answered, +laughingly: “Afraid? No. Why should I be? If I were in a great danger I +would go to the miners sooner than to any one else, and then Mrs. Stokes +and her mother are there now.” + +She was soon ready, looking, as her brother Rob said, “very swell” in +her gown of blue flannel and a fanciful little riding cap, trimmed with +gilt cord and tassel. It had come in a missionary box the fall previous, +and was so becoming to her well-shaped head and short curls that she +always wore it to the mines, where the men said she looked like a daisy. +It was a glorious day, for the spring was early that year, and both +Elithe and Rob felt the exhilaration of the pure mountain air and the +fine scenery as they made their way over wild wastes of plains and then +struck into the gorge which led to the Deep Gulch, the terminus of their +journey. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + THE STRANGER AT DEEP GULCH. + + +They found the miners in their Sunday clothes, some sitting on the +ground, some on big boulders and piles of debris, some standing, and all +smoking and waiting anxiously the arrival of Mr. Hansford. When they saw +only Rob, with Elithe, their countenances fell. + +“Where’s the parson? Isn’t he coming?” they asked, gathering around +Elithe, who told them of her father’s illness, and said she had brought +the new music and would play and sing it for them. + +This was some consolation, but, evidently, there was something else on +their minds, and at last Bill Stokes said, “If we hadn’t expected your +father we should have sent for him. There’s a sick fellow here, crazy as +a loon by spells, and we don’t know what to do. I s’pose he orto have a +doctor.” + +“Where is he, and who is he?” Elithe asked, and Stokes replied, “We’ve +got him into my cabin, where Lizy Ann can look after him. He did lay on +a buffalo skin a spell in one of the boys’ huts, cussin’ and howlin’ +with tremens,—snakes, and all that.” + +“Oh-h!” Elithe said, with a shudder. “It’s dreadful. Where did he come +from? What is his name?” + +“John Pennington, he says, though the Lord knows if that’s so. We have +so many names here that don’t belong to us, but I reckon this is +genuine,” Stokes replied. “His close is marked ‘J. P.’ Lizy Ann has +washed his shirts and things,—all store shirts, fine as a fiddle, with +gold studs in his cuffs and a diamond collar button, and a big diamond +on his little finger. I’ve got the studs and collar button safe. The +ring I left on him, for he wouldn’t let me take it off. He came into +camp a week ago,—from New York, I reckon, and he wanted to go snucks in +a mine to pay a debt of honor. That’s what he told me. Some of us let +him go to digging on pay, but, my Lord, he was that shaky in his legs he +could hardly stan’; was just gittin’ over a bender, for I put it to him +and he owned up, and said it was his last,—he’d sworn off, and was goin’ +to reform. Reform! He couldn’t do that, nor work, neither, and in less +than three days he was down with the very old Harry, tearin’ and +yellin’, so’s we had to hold him to keep the devils he said was after +him from gettin’ him. He’s quieter now, but keeps mutterin’ and +repeatin’ your father’s name.” + +“My father’s name! How did he know it?” Elithe asked, and Stokes +replied: “Heard us talkin’ of expectin’ him; there’s no other way. Lizy +Ann is great on religion, and she told him the parson was comin’ and +as’t if he’d like to see him. He swore awful then that no parson should +come near him, and that’s about the size of it as it stan’s. He’s asleep +now in Lizy Ann’s bunk.” + +“I’d like to see him,” Elithe said. But Stokes hesitated. “I do’ know +‘bout it. He cusses some now, and mebby your father wouldn’t like to +have you hear such words. Our cussin’ can’t hold a candle to his’n, +which is kind of genteel like and makes you squirm.” + +“Still, I’d like to see him,” Elithe persisted, and Stokes led the way +into his cabin, the most comfortable one in the camp. + +On a cot in a corner of the room a young man lay asleep, with marks of +dissipation and suffering on his face, which, in spite of the +dissipation, was a handsome one. His hands, on one of which the diamond +ring was showing, were lying outside the sheet and were whiter than +Elithe’s. + +“Them hands never done no work,” Stokes whispered, pointing to them. +“He’s a New Yorker sure.” + +Elithe’s ideas of New Yorkers were not very clear, but she accepted +Stokes’s theory as correct, and sitting down by the bed said to Mrs. +Stokes: “You look tired. Go out into the fresh air a while. I will stay +here.” + +Mrs. Stokes was tired, as she had sat all night by the restless man and +was glad of a little change. He would probably sleep for some time, and, +accepting the offer, she went out, leaving Elithe alone with the +stranger. For a time she sat very still, studying him closely, wondering +who he was and feeling a great pity that one so young should have fallen +so low. Her father was a gentleman and so were many of the men who lived +in Samona, but Elithe felt that this stranger was a different type from +them; not half so good, but more polished, perhaps,—more accustomed to +polite society, of which she knew so little. Once he stirred in his +sleep and muttered something of which she could only catch the word +“Mignon.” Who was Mignon? Elithe wondered. His sister, or wife, or +sweetheart? Probably the latter, and her interest in him was at once +increased. Again he stirred and spoke to Mignon, this time more +distinctly, telling her he was sorry and would pay it all in time. + +“If you knew what a hole I’m working in and how I have blistered my +hands, you would know I am in earnest,” he said, and then relapsed again +into a heavy sleep. + +The sweetheart theory did not seem quite so likely now. Mignon was some +one he owed and was trying to pay, Elithe thought, remembering what he +had said to Stokes about a debt of honor. Glancing at his hands, she saw +the red blotches on them where the skin had peeled off, and knew that +they had been blistered in his efforts to wield the heavy pick-axe. + +“Poor fellow, I’m sorry for him,” she thought, just as in the next cabin +she heard the jerky sound of the melodeon Rob was trying to play, while +those of the miners who could read music were attempting to follow him. + +The sound grated harshly on her sensitive ear, but she was not prepared +for the effect it had on the sick man, who started from his pillow and +said in a thick, husky voice very different from the one in which he had +talked to Mignon, “Shtop that d——d discord, I shay.” + +Elithe gave an exclamation of dismay, which the man heard, and turning +fixed his eyes on her. They were large and dark and bright, with a +watery expression, telling of dissipation and of something else which, +unused as she was to any world but Samona, Elithe could not define. She +liked him better with his eyes shut, and turned her own away from him, +but turned them back when he said in a natural voice, “I beg your +pardon; I thought you were Lizy Ann. She was here when I went to sleep. +I didn’t expect to find a lady in this place.” + +He was lying back upon his pillow, with his eyes fastened upon her, a +kindling light in them which fascinated her in spite of herself. She had +no idea what a lovely picture she made in that humble room with her +fresh, young face, her soft brown eyes, her bright color and her short, +curly hair with the jaunty riding cap upon it. The sick man noted it +all, but seemed at first most struck with the cap. + +“I say, where did you get that cap, so much like Mignon’s?” he asked. + +Elithe did not think it necessary to explain that it came in a +missionary box and simply answered, “It is mine, sir.” + +“It looks like one I have seen Mignon wear. Who are you, any way?” he +continued. + +“I am Miss Hansford,” was Elithe’s reply, given with a slight elevation +of her head. + +“Hansford? Hansford?” the man repeated, as if trying to recall +something. “Oh, yes, I know. Lizy Ann told me he was the parson and was +coming here. Are you the parson’s daughter?” + +“I am the Rev. Roger Hansford’s daughter,” Elithe replied with dignity +and a heightened color. + +The word “parson” when applied to her father always grated upon her and +doubly so when spoken as this man spoke it. He must have read her +thoughts, for he hastened to say: “Excuse me, Miss Hansford; I meant no +disrespect. Lizy Ann called him the parson, and I did the same on the +principle do as the Romans do when you are among them. Where is he?” + +Elithe said that, as he was ill, she came in his stead. + +“A deuced good exchange, too,” the stranger replied, “but aren’t you +afraid with all these miners? There are some hard cases among them, and +your face——” + +Something in Elithe’s face checked him suddenly, while she rejoined +vehemently: “I am not afraid. The hardest miner here would not see me +harmed.” + +“I believe you. The man would be a brute who could harm you, but he +can’t help thinking,” the stranger replied in a tone of voice which made +Elithe wish Mrs. Stokes would come. + +The sound of the melodeon had ceased, and after a moment Rob pushed open +the door and called to her: “Elithe, Elithe; they want you to play for +them. I tried my hand and couldn’t make it go. Mrs. Stokes will sit with +him.” + +He nodded towards the bed, seeing now for the first time that the sick +man was awake. Rob had heard of the snakes and the blue devils which had +held high carnival in that room the night before, and he, too, shrank +from the eyes fixed upon him. But when the stranger asked, “And who are +you, coming in like a whirlwind to take my nurse away,” he answered +fearlessly, “She is not your nurse. She’s my sister and I am Robert +Hansford.” + +“More Hansfords. I should not be surprised if the old one herself +appeared pretty soon,” and the man laughed a low, chuckling laugh; then +changing suddenly, and still looking at Rob, he continued: “I was once a +boy like you, only not half so good, I reckon. Keep good, my lad, and +never do what I have done.” + +“Get drunk, you mean?” Rob asked with a bluntness which startled Elithe, +whose warning hush-h came too late. + +The stranger did not seem in the least offended, and answered +good-humoredly: “Yes, get drunk, and other things which getting drunk +leads to. I have a sister,—not exactly like yours. She would never come +among the miners and sit in this place with such as I am. Still she is +my sister.” + +Here he closed his eyes and seemed to be thinking painful thoughts, for +there was a scowl on his forehead and a set look about his lips. Just +then Mrs. Stokes appeared, repeating Bob’s message and saying she had +come to take Elithe’s place. + +“No, no. Don’t go. They’ll come back if you do,” the stranger cried, +putting out his hand to restrain Elithe, who had risen to her feet, only +too glad to get away. “You are really going?” he said so piteously that +Elithe involuntarily took his hot hand in hers and answered soothingly: +“I must go for a while. I’ll come back again.” + +“You promise?” he asked, clinging to her hands as if in them lay safety +for him. + +“I promise,” she replied, and releasing herself from him she went with +Rob to the next cabin, where her father was accustomed to hold services +and where some of the miners were waiting for her and humming the +Magnificat. + +Sitting down to the instrument, she began to play and sing the opening +sentences, the men repeating them after her and catching the tune with a +wonderful quickness and accuracy. There were many fine voices among +them, and as they became accustomed to the music and the air was filled +with melody, the sick man sat upright with a rapt expression on his face +as the strains rose louder and higher, Elithe’s voice leading clear and +sweet as a bird’s. Suddenly, as the time became broken and difficult, +there was a frightful discord, and the singers were startled by a loud +call from Stokes’s cabin. + +“Idiots, why don’t you keep with Elithe, and not make such an infernal +break as that? It’s this way,” and, taking up the words, “He hath showed +strength,” the stranger sang in rich, musical tones, while Elithe and +the miners listened breathlessly. “That’s the way to do it. Now try it +again,” he said, authoritatively. + +They began as he told them and sang on, stopping when he bade them stop, +repeating when he bade them repeat, until they had a pretty accurate +knowledge of half the Magnificat, and knew they had been well drilled. +But the driller was exhausted, and relapsed into a state of half +delirium, half consciousness, calling for Elithe, who, he insisted, +should sit with him instead of “that snuff-colored woman with the big +bald spot on the top of her head and that terrible nasal twang,” which +he imitated when he spoke of her. This was rather rough on Lizy Ann, who +had tired herself out in his behalf. She was very glad, however, to give +up her post to Elithe, to whom the stranger said, as she sat down beside +him, “We’ve had a first-rate singing-school, haven’t we? We might go +through the country giving lessons. It would be easier than digging in +the dirt, or nursing either, and I believe we’d make more at it.” + +To this Elithe did not reply, but asked if she should read or sing to +him. + +“What will you read?” he said, and she replied, “How would the Gospel +and Epistle for the day do, seeing it is Sunday?” + +“Oh, go ’way with your Gospel and Epistle. I had enough of them when I +was a boy. Sing something.” + +“What shall I sing?” Elithe asked, and, after considering a moment, he +said: “‘Anna Rooney’ is pretty good. Know it?” + +Elithe was horrified, and showed it in her face. + +“Oh, I see,” he continued. “Anna isn’t a Sunday girl. Well, suit +yourself: only don’t make it too pious. I’m not that kind.” + +Elithe was puzzled till a happy thought came to her like an inspiration, +and she began the familiar words, + + “Sowing the seed by the wayside fair, + Sowing the seed by the noonday glare.” + +The effect was magical. Closing his eyes, the sick man lay perfectly +still until she reached the words, + + “Gathered in time or eternity, + Sure, oh, sure, will the harvest be.” + +Then two great tears rolled down his cheeks as he whispered: “I’m +ashamed to cry, but something in your voice compels it, and I’m thinking +of what I have sown and what I am reaping, and wondering what the future +harvest will be for me.” + +Elithe felt a little afraid of him, but with this glimpse of his better +side her fear vanished, and she sang whatever she thought he would like +until he fell into a quiet sleep and she went out to find a storm coming +down the mountains with great rapidity. It was not a shower, but a +driving rain, which fell in sheets and continued with little abatement +until sunset. Then it was so dark that it was not thought safe for her +to start for home, as the streams she must cross were sure to be +swollen, and possibly a log bridge carried away. + +“Your folks will know why you stayed, for it must have rained there as +hard as here. The clouds all went that way,” Mr. Stokes said to Elithe, +whose chief concern was for the anxiety at home when she did not come. + +She had never spent a night in the camp, and there came over her a +feeling of intense loneliness, amounting almost to homesickness, as she +looked out into the darkness, through which a few lights were shining +here and there, while occasionally a miner passed, wrapped in his big +cape, with the water dripping from his broad-brimmed hat. + +“Where in the world shall I sleep?” she thought, knowing that Mr. +Pennington was occupying the most comfortable room in the camp. + +This difficulty was settled by Mr. Pennington himself. He had been awake +for some time, and was growing very restless, with the rain beating +against the cabin and the wind roaring through the valley. The demons +were coming to carry him away, he said, fighting with his arms in the +air and bidding them go back to the infernal regions until he was ready, +when he would send them a postal. Then he began to clamor for Elithe, +and grew so excited and violent that she went to him at last and asked +what she could do for him. + +“Sit where I can see your face and then sing,—not ‘Sowing the seed,’ +I’ve sown a ton and am reaping the result. If you don’t like ‘Annie +Rooney,’ sing what you please, only sing.” + +She sat down where he bade her sit, and, reaching out his arm, he said: +“Let me take your hand; it’s like the drop of water the rich man wanted +to cool his tongue.” + +She let him take it and hold it while she sang “Rest for the weary,—rest +for you.” It was like a lullaby such as mothers sing to their fretful +infants, and, soothed by the soft, low tones, he fell asleep, still +holding Elithe’s hand, which she could not release from his grasp. If +she tried to do so he stirred at once and held it closer. Thus an hour +passed, when he awoke, burning with fever and delirium and calling for +Elithe to bathe his head or do something to keep him from the pit. Only +Elithe could quiet him, and it became evident that she must stay by him +if they kept him in bed. Once he started to get up, but Elithe was equal +to the emergency. + +“Lie down,” she said, with a stamp of her foot, and he lay down, and, +looking at her slily from under the bed clothes, said to her: “Got some +of the old woman in you, haven’t you?” + +She did not know what old woman he meant, nor did she care. She had +conquered him, and, with Lizy Ann nodding in a chair opposite her and +Rob sleeping on a pillow and blanket on the floor beside her, she sat +through the longest night she had ever known. Occasionally Bill Stokes +looked in to see if anything were wanted. Once when he did so Pennington +lifted his head and said: “All quiet on the Potomac. Don’t you worry.” +And again, when Stokes came, he waved his hand authoritatively, saying: +“Go away; go away; Elithe is running the ranch and running it well. +Arn’t you, Elithe?” + +She did not answer, but looked toward the rain-stained window, with an +inexpressible longing for some sign of day. It came at last, and almost +before it was fairly light her father opened the door and walked in. He +and his wife had passed an anxious and nearly sleepless night, although +feeling sure that the storm which had swept over Samona was the cause of +their children’s absence. That they would be safe in the camp and +comparatively comfortable they knew, but with the first streak of dawn +Roger was on his way to Deep Gulch. Bill Stokes was the first one he +met, learning from him all the particulars of the stranger and what +Elithe had done for him. + +“He’d of cut loose and run yellin’ over the plains if it hadn’t been for +her, I b’lieve my soul,” he said, as he led the way to his cabin and +opened the door. + +With a cry of joy Elithe threw herself into her father’s arms, sobbing +like a child, now that the strain was over and help had come. The cry +awoke Mr. Pennington, to whom, after soothing Elithe, Roger gave his +attention. + +“This is father,” Elithe said, proudly, holding her father’s arm. + +For an instant the stranger regarded him with a comical twinkle in his +eyes and said: “The parson? Another Hansford? The plot thickens, don’t +it?” + +Then his mind seemed to recover its balance, and, putting out his hand, +he said, very courteously: “I am glad to see you, Mr. Hansford. I am +afraid your daughter has had a sorry night, but she has done me a world +of good. I believe I should have died without her. Will you sit down? +Our quarters are small and not the best ventilated in the world.” + +Roger sat down, while Elithe went out into the fresh morning air, which +each moment grew fresher and warmer as the sun came over the hills. All +traces of the storm were gone, except where pools of water were standing +in the road and rain drops were falling from the trees. Mrs. Stokes’s +mother was preparing breakfast, and, attracted by the odor of coffee, +Elithe walked that way. + +“Drink this. It will do you good. You are white as a sheet,” the woman +said, offering her a cup of strong, hot coffee. + +Elithe drank it, and, sitting down upon a bench outside the door, fell +asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. Here her father found her when he +came from his interview with the stranger, who had seemed gentlemanly in +every way and very profuse in his thanks for what Elithe had done for +him. + +“If she could only stay for a day or two, I believe she would exorcise +all the evil spirits there are in me and make a man of me,” he said. + +He emphasized the _spirits_, and Roger knew what he meant. But this was +not the time for a temperance lecture, and he only replied that on no +account could he allow his daughter to stay. It was not the place for +her. + +“I know,—I know,” the stranger interrupted him. “Miss Grundy would say +it is very much _not_ the place for her, but she’d be safe with these +men, who adore her; and safe with me. Suppose I am a scamp of the +deepest dye, I’d as soon insult my mother were she living as harm your +daughter by a word, or look, or thought. Let her stay for one day, and +you stay with her.” + +He was very earnest, and drops of sweat stood on his forehead, but Mr. +Hansford was firm. + +“I’ll come to-morrow and see how you are,” he said, “and when you are +able you will find a plain but good hotel in Samona, where you will be +more comfortable than here. My daughter must go home.” + +“I suppose you are right, but you’ll let me say good-bye to her!” +Pennington said, quite cheerfully, buoyed up with the prospect of soon +getting to Samona, where he would be near Elithe. + +He had seen many young girls, most of whom had shunned him on close +acquaintance as one whose atmosphere was not wholesome. And he did not +blame them. He knew himself perfectly, and knew what feelings were +stirred in him at the sight of a pretty face. But he had spoken truly +when he said he would as soon think of insulting his mother as breathing +a poisonous breath upon Elithe. It was as if she were hedged about with +an iron fence up to which he might come and look upon the aureole of +purity and innocence and girlish beauty surrounding her, but beyond +which he could not pass. He was steeped to the dregs in dissipation, but +had sworn to reform, and had said so to Roger, who was reminded of the +couplet, + + “The de’il when sick a saint would be, + But when he was well, the de’il a saint was he.” + +Still, as a clergyman, it was his duty to encourage the least sign of +reformation, and he spoke words of hope to the man who puzzled him +greatly and to whom he brought Elithe to say good-bye. Taking her hand, +Mr. Pennington said, “God bless you, Elithe, for all you have done for +me.” Then, noticing the surprise in Mr. Hansford’s face at hearing her +so familiarly addressed, he added: “I beg pardon for calling her Elithe. +I must have done so ever since I knew her name,—the prettiest I ever +heard. It does me good to say it.” + +Roger bowed stiffly and took his daughter away. Half an hour later Mr. +Pennington, propped on pillows and looking through the window at the +foot of his bed, saw Elithe with her father and Rob disappear in the +gorge which led from the camp to Samona. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + AT “THE SAMONA.” + + +One morning about a week later as Elithe was sweeping the door steps she +saw an ox-cart coming up the street. Beside it was Bill Stokes +flourishing his whip and calling loudly to the oxen, as if to attract +her attention. Half sitting, half reclining in the cart was Mr. +Pennington, pale and thin and looking about him with a good deal of +curiosity and interest. The moment he caught sight of Elithe his face +brightened, and, taking off his hat, he bowed and kept it off, as if in +the presence of royalty, until the house was passed. As the Rectory +stood a little back from the street Elithe did not speak to him or +Stokes, but stood watching the cart until it stopped in front of the +hotel, which the miners always called the _tavern_, and whose sign, a +big board nailed across a post, bore the ambitious name, “The Samona,” +in imitation of larger places. Mr. Pennington was evidently expected, +for the landlord and bartender came out to meet him, and Elithe noticed +that he walked rather feebly as he entered the house. In the course of +half an hour, Stokes, having disposed of his passenger and oxen and +refreshed his inner man with a glass of beer, appeared at the door of +the kitchen, where Elithe was washing the breakfast dishes. Sitting down +on the step and wiping his face with his handkerchief, he began: “Wall, +how’s all the folks? Is the parson to home?” + +The _parson_ answered for himself, as he entered the room, followed by +his wife, who, as was her habit, sank into the nearest chair. + +“You look kinder shiffless this morning,” Stokes said to her. “Well, I +feel shiffless, too, and no wonder, routed out before light to get that +New York chap over here. Seems’s ef he couldn’t wait another minit. He’s +picked up wonderful in a week, but says he’s done with diggin’; tain’t +his forte, and I guess ’taint; hands too white and soft. He wanted to +get here the worst kind, so as to be near the Post Office and church, he +said. As’t how often you had meetin’. He’s got awful pious since Miss +Elithe was there.” + +Here a knowing wink from Stokes swept the room, but was lost on Elithe, +who kept on with her dishes while Stokes continued: “I do b’lieve he +means to reform, and the way he’s put us through that Magnificat is a +caution. We know it now from stem to stern, with all its whirligigs. +He’s signed the pledge, too, promisin’ solemnly not to touch no more +spiritual liquors.” + +“Where did he get a pledge to sign?” Mr. Hansford asked, and Stokes +replied: “Oh, he made one on a piece of paper. Wrote it himself and I +signed as a witness, and so did Lizy Ann.” + +“Where is it?” was Mr. Hansford’s next question. + +“In his trouses’ pocket. I offered to keep it for him, but he said no, +he’d keep it; then he’d know when he broke it. He’s had a letter sinse +you was there from somewhere. Says he expects another with some money. +He hain’t much now, and we fellers chipped in and made him up a little. +We kind of like the cuss. He wants to sell that stun he wears on his +little finger, but says this ain’t no place for that. Joe Newell, who’s +great on jewelry, offered him twenty-five dollars for it, thinkin’ he +was doin’ a big thing. You or’to seen Pennington’s face. ‘Twenty-five +dollars!’ says ’ee. ‘Are you crazy? It cost three hundred.’ I don’t +b’lieve it, do you? There’s his watch he’s goin’ to send to Helena, or +Butte, when he gits a chance. Says that cost a hundred and fifty +dollars. I don’t b’lieve it, do you? They’ve give him the best room up +to the tavern, and he’ll pay, too. I b’lieve he’s honest for a New +Yorker, but I can’t make him out. He never says a word about his folks, +with all Lizy Ann’s pumpin’, and she’s good at that. She couldn’t git +nothin’ from him. He talked about some gal with a queer name when he was +outen his head before Miss Elithe came. Since then when he talked in his +sleep it hain’t been that girl’s name, but two or three times he’s +called for Elithe, Elithe, to git him outen some scrape.” + +Here Stokes gave another wink, which Elithe did not see. But her father +did, and stopped the garrulous Stokes by abruptly changing the +conversation and asking after the work in the mine in which he had a +small interest. + +“Fust rate, fust rate. You’ll be a nabob some day, and I hope you will,” +Stokes said, leaving Mr. Pennington and launching into the subject of +the mines. “Well, good day,” he said at last. “I must be goin’ back. +Keep an eye on New York; that’s what we call him, and don’t let him +backslide. He never cussed but oncet comin’ here, and that was when we +run over a boulder and sent him up about a foot. Good-bye.” + +He started to go, then stopped and added: “I reckon New York will he +spectin’ some of you to call soon. It’s kind’er lonesome changin’ from +the mines to the tarvern.” + +Rob was the first to call. He had thought the night at the mines a lark +and was a good deal interested in Mr. Pennington, whom he first called +Elithe’s patient and afterwards her convert. He found him in the +“chambre de luxe” of The Samona,—a large, square room with three +paper-curtained windows, a rag carpet, a high post bedstead, two hard +chairs, a table in the centre with a red cotton spread, a Bible, a high +washstand with a round hole in the top for the bowl and two small +towels. Mr. Pennington was glad to see the boy and kept him a long time, +asking him questions about the people in the town and his own family +generally. Then looking from his window to the far end of the long +street, where the church, soon to be consecrated, was standing, he +talked about that, learning that Elithe played the instrument, as Rob +called the little parlor organ, and led the singing and taught in +Sunday-school and “ran things generally, and ran them well, too,” Rob +said, adding with a good deal of pride: “Elithe is very religious,—not +stiff, you know; not the kind that won’t let a feller have a good time. +She likes fun and all that, but she’s great on the church and +temperance.” + +Rob remembered the snakes and blue devils, and as the son of a clergyman +felt it his duty to drive a nail in the right direction when he had a +chance. There was no sign of snakes or devils about Mr. Pennington now. +He was clothed and in his right mind. A temperance pledge was in his +pocket and he meant to keep it. He had some money, thanks to his friends +the miners, whom he should pay as soon as he received what he was +expecting every day. He was lodged in a clean and comfortable room, and +what was better than all he was near Elithe. His “sweet wild rose of the +West” he called her to himself, and he had sworn a big oath that not a +petal of the rose should be tarnished by him. He was going to reform; he +had reformed, and when later in the day Mr. Hansford called he, like +Rob, was impressed with the gentlemanly manner with which he was +received. In some respects Mr. Pennington had the advantage of Roger. He +had traveled in Europe, had seen much of the world, had read many books +and had been to Harvard College. He did not say he had been sent home +for the very habit which had brought him so low at the mines, nor did +Mr. Hansford ask him troublesome questions. Accustomed to many phases of +human nature, he was shrewd enough to guess that behind this polished +exterior there was a past the man would keep from sight, and he did not +intend to meddle with it. If he could do him good he would and at the +same time he should guard his own fold sedulously, lest some taint of +poison should creep in. He invited Mr. Pennington to call at the +Rectory, and the next day he came, and the next and the next, until he +was quite one of the family. He seemed to know just what string to pull +to make himself popular. He told Rob of his trip to Egypt, of the +Pyramids and the Sphinx, and the grand old ruins of Luxor and Thebes. He +played backgammon with George, checkers with Thede, and hull-gull with +Artie. He treated Mrs. Hansford with the utmost deference as a lady and +an invalid, anticipating her wishes and making himself so agreeable to +her that she looked forward to his visits with more interest than +Elithe. To her Mr. Pennington never talked much. He knew that Mr. +Hansford was watching him in that direction, and nothing could be more +circumspect than his demeanor towards her. But he never for a moment +forgot her. He always heard her when she spoke,—heard, too, the rustle +of her dress and the sound of her footsteps when she was coming, and +when, as she sometimes did, she gave him her hand, as she said +good-night, the touch of her slender fingers sent the blood coursing +through his veins, and he would curse himself for a fool to care so much +for a little Western country girl who never could care for him, and who +he knew ought not to care for him if she could. + +Meanwhile his reformation was progressing. He kept his pledge, was +gracious to everybody, and only swore occasionally under his breath at +the coarseness of his food and the way it was served. Every Sunday and +every week day when there was service found him at church, more devout +if possible than Elithe herself. Rob, who saw everything, said he kept +his head down longer than any body else and bowed nearly to the floor in +the creed. + +“You are so good why don’t you get confirmed when the Bishop comes to +consecrate the church?” the boy said to him one day, and Pennington +replied: “By Jove, I b’lieve I will. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you +think she’d,—he’d, I mean,—do you think he’d take me?” + +Rob understood the blunder. Like his father, he was awake to the +situation, and he replied: “He might take you, but I don’t know about +_she_.” + +Mr. Pennington colored and mentally decided to abandon the confirmation +business. As a whole he was very popular in Samona, where some of the +people looked upon him as a suitor for the Rector’s daughter. It did not +take long for this gossip to reach Mr. Hansford, who was greatly +annoyed. As yet Elithe had shown no sign of consciousness, but there +might come an awakening, which, if possible, he would prevent. In his +extremity his thoughts turned to his aunt, Miss Phebe Hansford. It was +more than twenty years since he had seen her and a long time since he +had heard from her. She had opposed his marriage bitterly and opposed +his going into the ministry as an Episcopal clergyman. She had very +little faith in the church and less in Lucy Potter, and when he espoused +both she washed her hands of him and had kept them washed and dried ever +since. He could not ask her to invite Elithe to visit her, but he would +write to her and send his daughter’s picture, hoping that something +might come of it. It would be hard to part with Elithe, but he would do +it if by so doing he could remove her from danger. There was a +consultation with his wife, who at first demurred, but at last +consented, and the letter on which so much was pending was sent with a +prayer that it might have the desired result. + + + + + CHAPTER X. + MISS HANSFORD’S LETTER. + + +It was quite a gala day in Samona. The church was to be consecrated, and +the place was full of people, many of them miners, who had come from +Deep Gulch, to see the Bishop and to witness the ceremony. It was partly +their church, they thought, as their money had helped to build it, and +the window in the chancel was entirely their contribution. They would +like to have had it dedicated “To the memory of the Rev. Roger Hansford +by his friends, the Deep Gulch miners,” but as he was alive, this was +hardly practicable, so they asked that the design be Christ blessing +little children,—five of them,—the rector’s number. Besides the +consecration and the Bishop and the window there was another attraction. +Bill Stokes and Lizy Ann were to be confirmed, and rumor said _New +York_, too. In the sincerity of Mr. and Mrs. Stokes the miners believed, +but shook their heads over New York. He was a first-rate feller, but his +conversion had been too sudden. They didn’t believe in the still, small +voice,—they wanted a regular, old-fashioned knockdown, such as St. Paul +had had, and such as Stokes declared he, too, had experienced. Still, if +the parson and the Bishop were satisfied they were, and they’d like to +see the man who not long ago was fighting the devil with shrieks and +curses renounce him with solemn vows, and it was some disappointment to +hear that he was not to be confirmed. He was, however, very busy +everywhere. He had helped to decorate the chancel and the windows, +showing remarkable deftness and taste. He was to dine with the Bishop at +the Rectory. This had been Elithe’s proposition. + +“I think we owe it to him; he has done so much to help,” she said to her +father, who consented readily. + +If Mr. Pennington was busy, Elithe was busier. First in the church to +see that everything was in order; then at home seeing to the dinner; +then in the small room her father called his study, brushing his coat +and hat and feeling sorry they were so shabby. After service there were +all the strangers and miners to speak to, and the dinner to be gotten +through. This was a great success, made so partly by Elithe’s good +cooking, and partly by the genial manners of Mr. Pennington, who, +without seeming at all forward, drew out the best there was in every +one. When all was over and the Bishop gone Elithe was very tired, and +her face showed it, as she sat on the porch, with her head leaning +against the back of her chair. + +“You look pale and fagged out. Wouldn’t a walk do you good? I am going +to the Post Office. Suppose you go with me?” some one said close to her. + +It was Mr. Pennington, who had just returned with Mr. Hansford from +seeing the Bishop off. She had not often walked alone with him, but she +knew no reason why she should not go with him now. The fresh air would +do her good, and it was the day for the Boston Herald, which her father +took as the one connecting link between him and his old Eastern life. To +Elithe Boston, with its surroundings, was the centre of the world, and +she read religiously every word of the paper, which was doubly +interesting if it had anything in it concerning Oak City, where her +father’s Aunt Phebe lived. Of this aunt, Elithe knew nothing, except +that she was very peculiar. Her father seldom spoke of her, and her +mother never. She could not forget the bitter things which had been said +of her and to her at the time of her marriage. But she would not +prejudice her children against her, and, with her husband, she hoped +that through this aunt they might some time see a different phase of the +world from that in Samona. She had not told Elithe that her father had +written to her aunt and sent her photograph, and the latter was greatly +surprised when, with the Boston Herald, the postmaster handed her a +letter postmarked Oak City, Mass. + +“Why, this must be from Aunt Phebe. She has not written us in ages,” she +said, studying the angular handwriting, which she remembered to have +seen once or twice before. + +Mr. Pennington was standing where he, too, could read the address and +postmark on the letter, and there was a queer expression on his face as +he asked, “Have you an aunt in the East?” + +“Why, yes; father’s aunt in Oak City. Didn’t you know it?” Elithe +replied. + +In their intercourse with each other neither Mr. Hansford nor Mr. +Pennington had spoken directly of their former place of residence. That +Mr. Pennington was from New York Roger assumed, and that Mr. Hansford +was from the vicinity of Boston Mr. Pennington knew, for the miners had +told him as much. Of Aunt Phebe the miners knew nothing, and she might +or might not have been a revelation to Mr. Pennington, for any surprise +he expressed when told of her existence. He only said, “Were you ever in +Oak City?” + +“Never,” Elithe replied, “but I wish I could go there. I’d like sometime +to see the great world which lies east of here and is so different from +this.” + +“Elithe,” Mr. Pennington said, with suppressed emotion. Then he +remembered himself in time to keep back the words he had come so near +speaking. “Give yourself to me and you shall see the world,” had +trembled on his lips, but he did not say them. + +He had no home to take her to, or friends who would receive her if she +would go with him, and if he had, her innocence and purity must not mate +with him till he had purged himself from more than one evil spirit still +lurking in his heart. + +“Did you speak to me?” Elithe asked, and he replied, “No, did I? If so, +I’ve forgotten what I wished to say.” + +He was unfolding his own paper, the New York Times, and glancing up and +down its columns. Seeing this, Elithe said no more to him until the +Rectory was reached. Then she asked him to go in and offered him the +Herald to look at, while she carried her aunt’s letter to her father and +heard what was in it. He took the paper and, sitting down upon the porch +steps, turned at once to the column headed “Affairs in Oak City.” The +place was filling rapidly and the season bade fair to be gayer and more +prosperous than it had been in years. The Ralstons had returned from +Europe and would soon occupy their handsome house, which had been +undergoing some repairs. Mrs. Percy and daughter had also returned from +Europe, but were not yet in their cottage. There were rumors in the air +of a wedding in high life, to come off during the summer. The names of +the parties were for a time withheld. Miss Phebe Hansford had been +giving her cottage a coat of fresh paint, which had greatly improved it, +and the band had arrived and played every afternoon in the park in front +of the Casino. + +Such items and more he read with a blur before his eyes and a humming +sound in his ears like the echo of years past and gone, leaving memories +he would like to blot out. While he was reading the Herald, Mr. Hansford +in his study was reading his aunt’s letter aloud to his wife and Elithe. +As she heard the invitation, Elithe exclaimed, “Oh, I am so glad; if I +can only go.” Then followed the conditions. She must not gad to concerts +and rides on the water and clambakes and the Casino. She must always be +in by nine or half-past, at the latest, as her aunt kept early hours. +She must not slat her things around:—her aunt liked order. She must not +whistle in the house, as some rude girls did; her aunt liked to be still +and meditate. + +At this point Roger laughed merrily. “Aunt Phebe to a dot. I don’t +believe she has changed an iota in twenty years,” he said. + +Elithe was very grave, and a summer at the seashore did not look so +desirable as at first. The last of the letter, however, promising a good +many privileges, was more re-assuring, and she began again to wish she +might go. + +“But how can I? What would you do without me?” she said, looking first +at her mother, who was very pale, and then at her father, who tried to +seem cheerful and natural. + +Here was an answer to his letter and his prayer. Providence had opened a +way for Elithe to see something of the world, and to escape from an +influence which might eventually prove hurtful. An acquaintance of Mr. +Pennington had once said of him that with his smooth tongue he could +deceive the very elect. Mr. Hansford had never put his opinion of the +man into these words, but he felt the truth of them in his own +experience. Mr. Pennington was magnetic and fascinating, and he wondered +much that Elithe had remained so long indifferent to him. Of his many +good qualities he was fully aware, but he believed there was a +questionable side to his character from which he would shield his +daughter. He did not trust to his bones for intuition, as his aunt did +to hers, but he had a childlike faith in the signs of Providence and +watched them closely. He had prayed that his aunt might answer his +letter favorably. She had done so, and sent money for needed expenses. +It was right that Elithe should go, and when she asked how they could do +without her, he said, “It seems too good a chance to be lost, and it is +only for the summer. If we have some one to help us we may be able to +get along; eh, Lucy?” + +He turned to his wife, whom invalidism had not made altogether selfish. +There was a feeling like death in her heart as she thought of living +without Elithe, but she tried to smile, and said she thought it might be +managed, as she was stronger than she had been for some time. + +During this discussion Mr. Pennington finished the Boston Herald, and +leaving it on the steps, went to Samona, but returned to the Rectory in +the evening, to see, he said, if the family was not greatly fatigued +after the excitement of the day. Elithe was not fatigued at all. The +dream of her life was coming to pass. She was going to Oak City and to +Boston, and to see the ocean and everything, and her eyes were like +stars as she welcomed him. He had become so much a part of the family at +the Rectory and had identified himself so largely with their interests +that it was natural for the boys to go to him with everything which +interested them, and the four pounced upon him at once, all talking +together and telling him the news. Their aunt, or rather their father’s +aunt Phebe, had sent for Elithe to come to Oak City, and, better yet, +had given each of them a dollar for their very own. This was a fortune +to the boys, who had never before had more than five or ten cents at a +time, and the woman who sent it to them was exalted into the position of +a fairy godmother. Mr. Pennington listened to them, but did not seem +greatly elated. On the contrary, the boys had never found him so +uninteresting. + +“Is it true that you are to leave us?” he asked Elithe during a lull in +the boys’ clamor. + +“Nothing is settled as yet,” she replied, and he continued, “Do you +think you will like Oak City?” + +Something in his voice made Elithe ask quickly, “Were you ever there?” + +His face was partly turned from her as he replied, “I have heard of it +as a very pretty place. My sister has been there.” + +Elithe thought of Mignon, and would like to ask him if she were the +sister, but did not wish to remind him of that Sunday in camp when he +had been so debased before her. He had never referred to it but once +since he came to Samona, and then he had said, “It shall never happen +again, so help me Heaven.” He was not very enthusiastic on the subject +of Elithe’s visit to Oak City, and at an earlier hour than usual said +good-night and went slowly back to the hotel. In the barroom he heard +the click of glasses. A few of the miners were there slaking their +thirst, after a day’s abstinence. They had kept sober during the +consecration of the church and the Bishop’s visit. It was night now and +they were making amends with a good deal of hilarity. Pausing, with his +foot on the stairs, Mr. Pennington felt for a moment tempted to join +them and break his pledge. It was in his pocket where he always carried +it, and he mechanically took it out and looked at it. While it was whole +it was a safeguard, and he held it to the light, thinking how easily he +could tear it into shreds and be rid of the restraint. And why not? Why +try to be anybody? Elithe was going away, and if she were not it could +do him no good, so why continue the struggle? A thousand demons were +urging him to take the vile stuff the miners were drinking with so much +zest. He knew just how vile it was, for he had tasted it at the mines, +but he had been so long without it, and he was so thirsty. + +“I’ll do it,” he thought, just as one of the revellers in the barroom +called out, “Here’s health and happiness to the parson and Miss Elithe. +May God bless her and keep New York straight on her account.” + +“Amen!” came heartily from half a dozen throats, and the pledge slipped +back into Mr. Pennington’s pocket. + +“I’ll try it a while longer,” he said, going cautiously up the stairs to +his room and shutting the door so that the sounds of dissipation could +not reach him. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + GETTING READY FOR OAK CITY. + + +It was soon known in Samona that the Rector’s aunt had invited Elithe to +spend the summer with her and that she was going. One of the miners’ +daughters, a strong, capable girl, was to take her place so far as the +work was concerned, but no one save the mother herself knew of the pain +in her heart when she thought of the days when the busy feet and hands +which ministered so lovingly and willingly to them all would be gone. + +“It is for her good and I’ll bear it,” she said to herself, and, putting +on a brave and cheerful front, she entered heartily into the necessary +preparations for the journey. + +Elithe’s wardrobe was naturally the first consideration and here Mrs. +Hansford felt the bitterness of the poverty which precluded much of an +expenditure. Anything she had herself would be sacrificed gladly that +Elithe might make a respectable appearance with her relative and +friends. It was years since Mrs. Hansford had been in Oak City, which +had grown rapidly and must be quite a fashionable resort, if the items +in the Boston Herald were to be trusted. How much of society Elithe +would see she did not know. Some, of course, and she must not be in the +background. She was apt to express her views rather freely, and Mr. +Pennington was not ignorant of her trouble. + +“Nobody will care what she wears when they see her face,” he ventured to +say, wishing that he had the means and the courage to offer a part of it +with which to fill the gap. + +But he had neither, and contented himself with quietly looking on and +marvelling at the faculty of poor people to make a little go a great +ways. Miss Tibbs, the dressmaker in Samona, who went twice a year to +Helena, and was an oracle on style, was called in, and the trousseau +attacked in earnest. A blue flannel gown two years old was ripped and +washed and pressed and made over for a traveling suit according to Miss +Tibbs’s ideas and the fashions of six months before. Elithe thought it a +wonderful achievement and trimmed her last year’s hat with a bit of +ribbon to match and a red wing unearthed from a missionary box. There +were two of them in the attic, with some articles which had never been +used. Among them was a bathing suit of blue serge trimmed with large +buttons and flat braid of a peculiar pattern. It had come from +Washington two years before, together with the riding cap which Mr. +Pennington in his delirium had said looked like Mignon’s. The cap Elithe +had worn a great deal, and was rather proud of it, but she had often +wondered what Eastern people supposed she could do with a bathing suit +in the mountains of Montana. Now, however, she had use for it. To see +the ocean was an anticipated delight. To bathe in it was greater, and +here was a suit made ready, which Providence had certainly intended for +her. It had evidently been worn but little, and must have belonged to +some one taller and larger than herself. This she considered an +advantage, as it left less of her person exposed. Notwithstanding its +size and length, it was very becoming to her. Rob said she was a stunner +and wanted Mr. Pennington to see her in it. + +To this Elithe objected. She guessed she should not show her arms and +neck to Mr. Pennington, or any other man, and when Rob asked if she +didn’t suppose any man would see them when she went bathing, she looked +perplexed and troubled. + +“I never thought of that,” she said. “Perhaps I can’t wear it after all, +but I’ll take it.” + +Mr. Pennington, who had a way of being within hearing if not in sight, +had overheard the conversation and laughed as he wondered how some of +the costumes at the seaside would strike Elithe’s unsophisticated eyes. +After the bathing suit had been renovated and folded ready to pack, the +best dress, to be worn only to church and on state occasions, was +considered. Miss Phebe had sent money for a new gown which might be +needed, but Samona was not the place in which to buy it, and there was +not time for Miss Tibbs to go either to Helena or Butte. In this +emergency Mrs. Hansford’s wedding dress, a changeable silk of orange and +blue, was brought to light. It was twenty years old and had cost thirty +dollars, which had seemed a large sum to Lucy Potter, and been commented +on by some of her neighbors as extravagant. She had worn it but a few +times. Once, when she went out a bride, with white gloves and a white +feather in her hat; once to the theatre in Boston, where her aunt had +played a leading part, and once to the house-warming in Samona, given by +the people to their new rector and his bride, who was thought to be too +much dressed for a poor missionary’s wife. After that her children had +come rapidly, eight in all. Three had died between Elithe and Rob, and +she had not much leisure for silk gowns. Elithe should have it, and she +brought it from the drawer where she had kept it, folded between two +towels, and, laying it across Miss Tibbs’s lap, asked her rather proudly +what she thought of it. + +In truth, Miss Tibbs thought it old-fashioned for a young girl, but she +said it was an excellent piece of silk, and she would do her best with +it. Her best was very good, and when the dressmaking was finished no +daughter of a millionaire ever felt prouder of her wardrobe than Elithe +did of hers. There was the bathing suit, the silk dress, the second +best, the third best, and two ginghams for morning,—more than she should +need, Elithe thought, and wondered how she could carry them all. The +only available trunk was a small hair one which had been her father’s +when he was a boy. Mrs. Hansford suggested a new one, but Elithe decided +that the hair trunk would probably hold all her clothes, with a little +crowding, and it did. As a means of extra protection, a strong cord was +tied around it in the shape of a cross and securely knotted over the +lock. On each end a large card was tacked with “Elithe Hansford, Oak +City, Mass.,” written upon it. Mr. Pennington shuddered when he saw it +and thought of the many expensive trunks against which it would rub on +its journey East. Elithe would be rubbed, as well as her trunk, less on +her journey than at the end of it, he knew, and he wished he could help +her. + +“Perhaps I can,” he thought, and began a letter, which gave him a great +deal of care, it would seem, as he rewrote it two or three times, +erasing here and there, making additions and reading it over very +carefully. With all his pains, it did not suit him, and, with an +exclamation of disgust, he tore it up. “Better let matters drift than +try to arrange them. She might not listen to me,” he said, and taking a +fresh sheet of paper, he dashed off a few hurried lines, took the +diamond ring from his finger, put it in a small box with the folded +note, and going out upon the piazza, smoked and thought until midnight. + +The next morning Elithe was to leave, and after breakfast he said to his +landlord, “I am going to Helena for a few days,” and, taking his +hand-valise, started for the station. The Hansfords were all there, +Elithe, with tears in her eyes, which she tried hard to keep back. Her +father had hoped to find or hear of some one who was going at least a +part of the way, and to whose care he could confide her, but had been +unsuccessful. Elithe, who knew nothing, feared nothing, and declared +herself perfectly competent to go alone, and, as there was no +alternative, her father had consented to it, knowing there was no real +danger to be incurred. His aunt had sent money sufficient to defray the +expense of a sleeper, but Elithe preferred the common car, she said. She +was young and strong, and would rather give the extra money to her +father and mother. That she would take a sleeper after the first night +Mr. Hansford was sure, and did not press the matter. The sight of Mr. +Pennington at the station buying a ticket filled him with alarm, but +when told that he was only going as far as Helena on business and would +return in a few days, he felt relieved than otherwise that Elithe would +have an escort so far. She was glad that she was not to start upon her +long journey entirely alone, and put on quite a cheerful face when she +at last said good-bye and left her father and mother and brothers +standing upon the platform of the station, kissing their hands to her +until a turn in the track hid them from view. + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + ON THE ROAD. + + +Elithe had kept up bravely while the necessity lasted, but when her +mother faded from her sight and she could no longer see the handkerchief +Artie had tied to a stick and was waving after her, she turned her face +to the window and sobbed bitterly. Mr. Pennington, who sat behind her, +paid no attention to her until the sound of her sobbing ceased, and he +knew she was growing calm. Then he took the vacant seat beside her and +began to speak of the scenery and to point out whatever he thought would +please her. Elithe had never been in Helena since she was a child, +consequently everything upon the road was novel, and she soon became +interested in the country through which she was passing and the people +in the car. These Mr. Pennington was studying closely, managing to learn +how far they were going, and trying to single out some one with whom +Elithe would be safe from any annoyance. An old couple, whose +destination was Chicago, was his choice. They were plain, homely people, +with kindness written on every lineament of their honest faces. To these +he introduced himself, telling them of Elithe, who she was, where she +was going, and asking if they would look after her. Instantly the +woman’s heart opened to the young girl, who, she told Mr. Pennington, +was much like her granddaughter, and should be her special care. They +were now very near Helena, where they stopped for a few minutes, and +where Mr. Pennington was to leave. Two or three times he had made up his +mind to go on and changed it as often. + +“What use to put my head in the lion’s mouth and lose any chance I may +possibly have in the future? Better wait till I am at least half a man, +if that time ever comes,” he thought. Taking Elithe’s hands in his, he +said: “I was a beast the first time you saw me at the mines, and if I am +anything better now, you have helped to make me so. I don’t want you to +forget me, and as a means of keeping me in your mind take this little +souvenir.” + +He slipped the paper box into her hand, hesitated a moment, as if there +were more he would say, then turned quickly and left the car just as it +began to move away. It was growing dark, and Elithe could only faintly +discern the outline of his figure as he stood with his hat off watching +the train, which was bearing away the only human being who had any power +to sway him for good. “I’ll go to the devil now, sure,” he thought, as +he seated himself in the ‘bus which was to take him to the town. + +The old lady, who had witnessed the parting, looked for some tears from +Elithe. Seeing none, she concluded she must be feeling too badly to cry, +and, with a view to comfort her, took the seat Mr. Pennington had +vacated. + +“I know how you feel,” she began. “When I was young and my man went away +for a week I thought the sun would never shine again until he got back. +That’s before I was married, and we was courtin’.” + +Elithe looked at her so astonished that the woman, whose name was Baker, +said: “He was your beau, wasn’t he?” + +Elithe’s face was scarlet as she answered, quickly: “No; oh, no; I’m too +young for that. I’m only nineteen. He is my friend,—father’s +friend,—that’s all.” + +“Why, how you talk!” the old lady replied. “I s’posed of course he was +your beau. He acted like it. Well, it’s just as well, maybe. He looked +to me as if he was dissipated, and you’d better die than marry a +drunkard. My oldest girl, ’Mandy, did that, and leads a terrible life. +He’s had the tremens two or three times. It’s awful!” + +Elithe thought of Stokes’s cabin and the night she spent in it, while +Mrs. Baker rambled on, giving a full history of ’Mandy and ’Mandy’s +children, together with her son and his family. + +“Will she never stop?” Elithe thought, “and let me see what is in the +box.” + +It was still held tightly in her hand where Mr. Pennington had put it, +and she longed to know what it contained. After a while Mrs. Baker +declared herself hungry, and, telling her husband to bring the big lunch +basket, she invited Elithe to share with her. But Elithe could not eat. +A terrible homesickness had come over her, and she declined the food, +saying she had plenty of her own and her head was aching. + +“Poor little girl!” Mrs. Baker said. “You are tired; that’s what’s the +matter. Lucky we hain’t many passengers, so’s you can have two whole +seats to-night. I’ll turn one back and fix you nice.” + +She was as good as her word, and Elithe found herself in possession of +two seats, with a very comfortable-looking bed improvised on one of them +from her own wraps and those of Mrs. Baker, who said she did not need +them. Her seat was behind Elithe, who, the moment she was alone, untied +the box and by the dim light of the lamp overhead read the note which +lay upon the top. + +It was as follows: “Elithe.—There is so much I want to say to you, but +dare not. You are too pure and good for a man like me to do more than +think of you. If I had known you years ago I should not have been what I +am,—a man broken in his prime from excesses of all kinds. Don’t forget +me, and every time you look at the ring, have a kind thought of me. I +shall never forget you,—never.—J.P.” + +“The ring! What ring?” Elithe said to herself, and, lifting up the bit +of jeweler’s cotton, she gave an exclamation of surprise as her eyes +fell upon the costly diamond. + +She had some idea of its value, as she had heard Stokes tell how much it +cost, and she had a still more definite idea that it should never have +been given to her, and that she ought not to keep it. There was no way +of returning it now. She must wait until she reached Oak City, when she +would write her father and ask him what to do. Thus deciding, she put +the box in the under pocket of her skirt, where no one could get it +without her knowledge. Then she began to think of the contents of the +note and what Mrs. Baker had said to her. Did Mr. Pennington care for +her in the way the woman had insinuated? It would seem so, and for one +moment something like gratification stirred her pulse, but passed +quickly. There was nothing in her nature which could ever respond to +love from him. She liked him,—that was all. If he cared very much for +her she was sorry, and sorry, too, that he had given her the ring. + +By this time she had settled herself for the night, and her thoughts +were growing confused. The whir and pounding of the wheels made her +think of a tornado which had once swept the plain near Samona. Artie was +waving his long stick from the platform, her mother was kissing her and +leaving tears on her cheeks, and Mrs. Baker was holding up ’Mandy as a +warning against girls marrying men who drank. All these thoughts and +more mingled in her dreams, as the train sped on its way, and the air in +the car grew closer and the lamps burned low, with a smell of bad oil, +and the conductor came through now and then with his lantern and looked +at the sleeping crowd. Once, as he stopped near Elithe, whose face was +plainly visible, he pulled over her the shawl which had partially +slipped from her shoulders, and wondered who she was and why she was +alone. + +“Young and pretty and innocent. I’ll keep a little watch over her and +speak to Simmons about her when he comes on for duty,” he thought. + +Meanwhile the father and mother in the home growing farther and farther +away with every turn of the wheels, were praying silently and constantly +that no harm might befall her. John Pennington, too, who hardly knew +whether he really believed anything or not, said to himself, as he sat +smoking in his room at “The Helena” until far into the night: “If there +is a God, and I suppose there must be, I hope He will take care of +Elithe.” God did take care of her, but did not keep her from being +uncomfortable and tired and sickening of both her own lunch basket and +that of Mrs. Baker, as the food grew stale and old, and the car grew hot +and dusty, and so crowded that her two seats had to be given up, and she +was finally driven to sitting with Mrs. Baker, whose fat shoulder was +her pillow during the night before the train drew into Chicago. + +Here she was to part with Mrs. Baker, who waited in the station till she +found the conductor of the Eastern train and told him of Elithe, bidding +him look after her till he reached the terminus of his route. + +“Then I suppose the Lord will have to take her in charge,” she said, +with so much concern that the conductor answered, laughingly: “If He +don’t the next conductor will. I’ll tell him about her. Don’t you +worry.” + +Thus reassured, Mrs. Baker felt relieved, but stayed by Elithe until her +train was ready to start, talking to her through the window, telling her +not to be afraid when crossing Detroit River or Suspension Bridge, and +to be sure to look at the Falls in the right place and to call on her if +she was ever in Chicago. Then she shook both her plump hands as a +farewell, and Elithe was left alone to accomplish the rest of her +journey, which was done without accident or delay. Everybody was kind to +her, from the conductor to the tall brakeman, who got her out upon the +boat when crossing the river at Detroit, and took her to the best place +for seeing the Falls when nearing Suspension Bridge. + +Elithe saw a great deal on that journey, and felt herself quite a +traveled personage, regretting that she could not at once compare notes +with Rob, who had been to Salt Lake City with his father and ever after +boasted of his superior knowledge of the world. She saw the Genesee and +the beautiful Hudson and went out upon the platform in the moonlight to +look at the mountains between Albany and Springfield,—mere hills she +called them when compared with the Rockies, and scarcely worth keeping +awake to look at. She was very tired by this time, and, returning to her +seat, fell into a deep sleep from which she did not waken until the +train stopped in Worcester depot. There was only one change more before +she reached the boat which was to take her to Oak City, and she made it +without mistake, and drew a long breath of relief when she finally left +the car at New Bedford and her journey by rail was ended. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + ON THE BOAT. + + +The Naumkeag was standing at the wharf waiting for the passengers who +had come on the Western train. There was a great crowd, all hurrying, +with bags and umbrellas, towards the boat with as much speed as if their +lives depended upon getting there first and securing the best seats. +Elithe lingered, anxiously watching the baggage as it was taken from the +car. She was hot and dusty and tired and worn with the long journey. Her +straw hat, with its faded ribbons, was crushed and bent, her flannel +gown was soiled and wrinkled, and her gloves were worn at the fingers +tips. “A dowdy little thing,” some might have called her, as she stood +waiting the appearance of her trunk, which had caused her a great deal +of anxiety. Whenever the train stopped long enough and it was possible +for her to do so, she had managed to assure herself that it was there +with her, and she always scanned closely any trunks standing in a +station they were leaving, fearing lest by some mistake hers might have +been taken out with others. If it were in New Bedford it was safe, and +she stood in the broiling sun faint and dizzy, but resolute, until she +caught sight of it and saw a train hand put it upon a truck not far from +where she was standing. + +“This is the kind of trunk to have,” the man said to a companion, +staggering under a huge Saratoga four times as large as Elithe’s poor +little box tied with a rope, with one of the hinges to the lid wrenched +nearly off and a great crack across the end where the card with her name +upon it was fastened. + +It was rather dilapidated, but it was there, and Elithe followed it to +the boat and stayed below until she saw it placed by six immense +Saratogas with “Clarice Percy, Washington, D. C.” marked upon them. +Elithe had seen many handsome trunks during her journey, but the +difference between them and her own had never struck her as it did now +when Clarice Percy’s stared her in the face. How very insignificant hers +looked beside them, she thought, wondering who Clarice Percy was, and +why she had so much baggage. She had heard some one say they stopped +once before landing at Oak City, and she was tempted to stay below and +watch her property lest it be carried off. But it was too hot and close +down there, and, going up to the crowded deck, she tried to find a seat +sheltered from the sun, which was beating down upon the water with all +the fervor of a sultry afternoon. Her first feeling, as the boat moved +off, was one of relief. Her trunk was safe, and so was the little box +which held the diamond, and which had troubled her nearly as much as her +baggage. A dozen times a day her hand had gone into her pocket to see if +it were there, and it did so now, as she took the seat a young man had +just vacated and for which a woman made a rush. Elithe was before her, +feeling, as she sat down, that she had never been so tired and faint in +her life as she was now. Her head was throbbing with pain, and the lump +in her throat, which always came when she thought of home, was +increasing in size until she felt as if she were choking. The motion of +the boat as they got further from the shore and struck the swell made +her sick. There was a horrible nausea at her stomach and a blur before +her eyes, while the people around her kept the air from her. + +“I wonder if I am going to faint or die. I wish some one would bring me +some water,” she thought, looking in the faces of those nearest to her +to see if she dared speak to them. + +They were strange and new, with something different in their expression +from the home faces familiar to her. She could not appeal to them, and, +removing her hat and leaning her head back against a post, she shut her +eyes and sat as still and nearly as white as if she were dead. How long +she sat thus she did not know. There was a partial blank in her +consciousness. The hum of voices, the splash of the water and the thuds +of the engine all mingled together in one great roar, which made her +head ache harder. Then she must have slept for a few minutes, and when +she woke it was to find a young man standing beside her and scanning her +curiously. + +“Oh-h!” she said, with a start, and reached for her hat, which had +fallen from her lap. + +The young man picked it up and handed it to her, saying: “Aren’t you +Miss Elithe Hansford, from Samona?” + +“Yes, sir,” Elithe answered, timidly. + +“I thought so,” he continued, taking a seat beside her. “I’m Paul +Ralston. I guess you have never heard of me.” + +Elithe did not reply, and he went on: “I know your aunt, Miss Phebe +Hansford,—have known her for years. We are great friends. She told me +you were coming about this time. We must have been on the same train +part of the way. I didn’t see you. Funny, too, as I went through all the +sleepers looking for some one I thought might be there.” + +“I wasn’t in a sleeper. I came in a common car, and it was so hot!” +Elithe said. + +“You don’t mean you came all the way from Montana in a common car!” Paul +exclaimed, and Elithe replied: “Yes, I do,” in a weary kind of way, +which struck Paul with an intense pity for her. + +“Great Scott! What made you do that? I wonder you are alive. Why did +they let you?” he said, impulsively, his voice indicating that somebody +was to blame. + +Elithe detected this and rejoined, quickly: “Nobody wanted me to. I did +it myself, because——.” + +She stopped abruptly, for she could not explain that the money saved was +to buy Artie some long stockings, Thede some shoes, and her mother a +summer dress. Paul could not read her thoughts, but he was shrewd enough +to guess that economy was the reason why the common car was taken +instead of the sleeper, and he felt an increased pity for her, as he +frequently felt for people who had not all the money they wanted to +spend. Thinking to change the conversation, he said: “I was down below, +where the trunks are stored, and saw one with your name on it. I knew +then you must be on board and hunted till I found you.” + +At the mention of her trunk Elithe flushed, feeling in a moment the wide +gulf between her trunk and herself and this elegant young man, so +different from any one she had ever seen before, unless it were Mr. +Pennington, of whom, in some respects, he reminded her. They probably +belonged to the same grade of society, with, however, this difference: +Paul Ralston had never fought blue demons in the mining camp of Deep +Gulch, and on his face there were no signs of the fast life which always +leaves its impress. That he was greatly her superior, she was sure, and +as his eyes wandered over her from her shabby boots to her shabbier hat, +she began to be painfully conscious of her personal appearance, and to +wonder what he thought of her. Evidently he was expecting her to speak, +and she said at last: “You saw my name on my trunk, but how did you know +me?” + +He would not tell her that there was something about her which made him +think that she and the queer trunk belonged to each other, and he said +what was partly true, “Your aunt has your photograph, which I have seen, +and I recognized you by that, although you were so pale that I was not +quite sure until you opened your eyes; then I knew. There was no +mistaking your eyes.” + +If he meant this for a compliment it was lost on Elithe. The motion of +the boat was affecting her seriously again, and she grew so white that +Paul began to feel alarmed, and to wonder what he should do in case she +fainted. There were some ladies of his acquaintance on the boat, but he +did not like to appeal to them, knowing how they would regard the +forlorn little girl with nothing about her to mark her as belonging to +their set. She was growing whiter every minute and bluer about her lips. +Something must be done. + +“You are awfully seasick, arn’t you?” he said, fanning her with his hat. +“Let me help you below to the ladies’ cabin, where there are cushions +and rocking chairs and bowls and things; but no, I’ve heard mother say +it was frightfully close and smelly there. I have it. You stay here and +keep your eyes shut. Don’t look at the water. The old boat does bob +round like a cork. I never knew it to cut such capers before in the +summer. It’s the stiff breeze, I guess.” + +Elithe scarcely heard him, or knew when he left her. She was trying to +keep down the nausea which was threatening to overmaster her and might +have done so but for Paul’s happy thought of lemonade. It always helped +him. It would help Elithe, and he brought her a glass of it, with +chopped ice and a straw, and made her take it and watched as the color +came back to her face, and he knew she was better. + +“It was so good, and you are so kind. How much was it?” she asked, +giving him back the glass and beginning to open her purse, now nearly +empty. + +“Nothing, nothing,” he answered, energetically, thinking of the +difference between this girl, the scantiness of whose means he +suspected, and the many young ladies he knew who would unhesitatingly +allow him or any other man to pay whatever he chose to pay for them. “By +George, there’s a vacant chair, and I mean to capture it before any one +seizes it!” he exclaimed, and, darting off, he soon returned with a +chair, in which Elithe was more comfortable than she had been on the +hard seat on the side of the boat. + +“Lean your head back and shut your eyes; that’s right,” he said, and +Elithe lay back and closed her eyes. + +Sitting down upon the seat she had vacated, he looked at her very +closely, deciding that she was not like Clarice and the other girls of +his world,—fashionable girls, delicately reared, with no wish +ungratified. Her dress was poor and old-fashioned, and her hands, from +which she had drawn her gloves, were brown with traces of hard work upon +them; nor did she, in her present state, with her eyes shut and the +haggard look in her tired face, impress him as very pretty. She was too +crumpled and jaded for that, but, as if a breath from the future were +wafted backward to the present, hinting vaguely of all that she was to +dare and suffer for him, he felt strangely drawn towards her. For a few +moments she seemed to sleep, and when the boat changed its course a +little and the sun shone upon her face he stood up and shielded her from +it, and brushed a fly from her head, and thought how soft and fluffy was +her golden brown hair, more golden than brown in the sunlight. A sudden +roll of the boat aroused her, and, starting up, she flashed upon him a +look and smile so bright that he changed his mind with regard to her +beauty. + +“By Jove, she has handsome eyes, though, and a mouth which makes a +feller’s water when she smiles,” he thought, as he asked if she were +better. + +They were not far from the Basin, where he told her they were to stop +and take on the passengers who came by train from Boston. Then he began +to talk of Oak City, which she was sure to like. “Not a great many swell +people of the fast sort go there,” he said. “They have a fancy that it +is too slow and religious, with two camp meetings there every year, but +I don’t think so. I like the camp meetings. The residents are fine +people, and its visitors are highly respectable,—some of the very best +old families, like,——” He was going to say “the Ralstons,” but checked +himself, and added instead, “Judges and Governors and professors. Fast +people don’t go there much, such as Jack Percy and his crowd.” + +Elithe had never heard of Jack Percy. Neither he nor his crowd +interested her as much as the highly respectable set to which Paul +evidently belonged. + +“Is my aunt a swell woman?” she asked. + +Paul could scarcely repress a smile, as he thought of Miss Hansford, but +he answered, very gravely: “Not exactly a swell, but has oceans of blue +blood in her veins, dating back to the Mayflower, and Miles Standish and +Oliver Cromwell, and the Duke of Argyle, and the Lord knows who +else,—fairly swims in it.” + +“Oh-h!” Elithe gasped, with a feeling as if she were drowning in all +this blue blood, some of which must belong to her, as she was a +Hansford. + +“Tell me about her. I never saw her. Do you think she will like me?” she +said, and Paul replied: “Like you? Yes, of course, she will, and you +will like her. I do. We are great friends.” + +Then he began to speak of his own family, who spent nearly every summer +at Oak City. + +“We call our place the Ralston House,” he said, “and have owned it for +years and years. Built it, in fact, or my great-grandfather did, when +there wasn’t so much as a shanty on the island. He was a sea captain, +and folks wondered he didn’t live in Nantucket with the rest of the +captains, instead of pitching his tent in a lonely desert as it was +then. Some old gossips say, and, by Jove, with truth, I believe, that he +was a kind of smuggler, running his ship into Still Haven, a safe harbor +near Oak City, and then hiding his goods in the Ralston House till he +could dispose of them. Not the best kind of an ancestor to have, but +that’s a great many years ago, and I don’t in the least mind telling you +about the old chap whose ship went down in a storm off the Banks. He +went with it, and has been eaten by the fishes by this time. The house +he built is a queer old ark, or was before we fixed it over. It is large +and rambling, with great, square rooms and the biggest chimney you ever +saw. All round the chimney in the cellar is a room which I’d defy any +one to get into if he didn’t know how. Under the stairs in the front +entry is a closet, where father and mother hang their clothes. In a +corner of the closet are three matched boards, which fit together +perfectly, but come apart easily when you know how to manage them. +Behind this partition is the chimney and some rough steps leading down +to that room I told you about, and which tradition says was used for +smugglers’ goods. In the partition in the cellar there are two or three +more places of matched panels, which can be shoved aside to let in light +and air. It’s a grand place to hide in if a fellow had done something or +folks thought he had. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t find you! Funny that I +should dream so often of being hidden there. Innocent, you know, but +hiding, just as I used to play when a boy with Tom Drake, who lives with +us, and Jack Percy, who used to be here every summer from Washington. +Your aunt never liked him much. He was rather mischievous, but good +fun.” + +This was the second time Paul had spoken of Jack Percy to Elithe, who +had listened with a good deal of interest to his description of the +Ralston House, and had experienced a kind of weird, uncanny feeling as +she thought of the smugglers’ room where one could hide from justice. +Paul never seemed to tire of talking of the house, which he said had +been made over with a tower and bow windows and balconies until the old +sea captain would never recognize it if he were to come sailing back +some day in his ship. The big chimney was left, he told her, and built +round it in the roof was a platform inclosed by a high balustrade, with +seats where one could sit and look out on the water, and where the +smuggler captain’s men used to watch for the first sight of the Vulture, +as it came slowly into the harbor at Still Haven, with the Union Jack +and the Stars and Stripes floating from the masthead if their services +were wanted that night, and only the Stars and Stripes if there was +nothing to conceal. + +“You can see the top of our house with the look-out on the roof among +the trees as we get near Oak City. I’ll show it to you,” he said. + +They were now moving slowly into the Basin, on the long pier of which a +group of people were waiting. + +“Hello! There’s Clarice! I didn’t really believe she’d be here,” Paul +exclaimed. “Excuse me, please,” and he hurried away, leaving Elithe +alone. + +Her first impulse was to go below and see that her trunk was not carried +on shore by mistake. Then, reflecting that she could watch from the boat +and give the alarm in time if necessary, she kept her seat and watched +the passengers as they came on board. There were several ladies and +among them a tall, queenly looking girl, waving first her red parasol +and then kissing her hand to some one on the boat. Everything about her +dress was in perfect taste and the latest style, especially the sleeves, +which were as large as the fashion would admit. At these Elithe looked +admiringly, thinking with a pang of her small ones which Miss Tibbs had +declared “big enough for anybody.” They were not half as big as those of +the young lady in the gray dress, Eton jacket and pretty shirt waist, +looking as fresh and cool as if no ray of the hot sun or particle of +dust had fallen upon her since she left Boston in her new toilet. Elithe +wondered who she was and if she wasn’t one of the few _swells_ who +frequented Oak City and if Paul Ralston knew her. If so she might +possibly know her in time. He had been so very kind and friendly that he +would surely come to see her and bring his acquaintances. A moment later +she heard his voice as he came out upon the deck, and with him the +_swell_ young lady to whom he was talking, with his face lighted up and +the smile upon it which she had thought so attractive. + +Clarice Percy had been for some time with her mother in New York, where +Paul had joined her. Leaving her mother there with friends, she had come +with Paul as far as Worcester, where he stopped, as he had business. +Wishing to see an old school-mate in Boston, Clarice had gone on to that +city with the understanding that Paul was to look after her baggage, +which was checked for Oak City by way of New Bedford, and that she was +to join him at the Basin the following day. She was in the best of +spirits. The arrangements for her wedding were satisfactorily completed. +Her half brother Jack, who was sure to get drunk and disgrace her if he +came to her bridal, was out of the way in Denver, or somewhere West, and +she had nothing to dread from him. She had an elaborate trousseau in her +six trunks, and was very glad to see Paul, and very much flattered with +the attention she knew she was attracting as she stood talking to her +handsome lover. Elithe could see her face distinctly, and thought how +beautiful she was and how different from any one she had ever seen in +Samona, and how different from herself in her mussy blue flannel and +last year’s hat, with its crumpled ribbons and feathers. It was a very +proud face, and the girl carried herself erect and haughty, and glanced +occasionally at the people around her, with an expression which said +they were not of her world and class. Toward the corner where Elithe sat +she never glanced, nor did Paul. In his absorption with his betrothed he +had evidently forgotten Elithe, who, after watching him and his +companion for a while, half hoping he would speak to her again, turned +her attention to the shore and the many handsome houses dotting the +cliffs as the boat neared the landing at Oak City. High above the rest, +on a slight elevation, she could see the top of what she was sure was +the Ralston House, with its big chimney, its look-out on the roof and +the tower which had been added when the place was modernized. + +“That’s the Ralston House,” she thought, wondering if she would ever go +there, and thinking with a kind of awe of the smuggler’s room in the +cellar, which Sherlock Holmes could not find and the hidden entrance to +it in the closet under the stairs. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + IN OAK CITY. + + +The boat was beginning to stop, and the passengers were hurrying from +the deck, which Elithe was almost the last to leave. On the wharf crowds +of people were gathered,—hundreds it seemed to her,—and by the time she +was in their midst, pushed and jostled and deafened by the hackmen’s +cries for the different hotels, she lost her head completely and +wondered how she was ever to get through it, and if her aunt were there +and how she was to know her, and what had become of her trunk. She found +it at last on top of a Saratoga, with both hinges broken now and the lid +kept in place by the rope, but still pushed up enough to show a bit of +her second best dress through the aperture. It did look strange perched +on top of the handsome Saratoga, but she did not realize how strange +till she heard some one near her say very impatiently, “My gracious, how +came this rubbish here! I hope you don’t think it belongs to me. Can’t +you read the name, Elithe Hansford, on it? Take it away.” + +Turning, she saw Clarice Percy ordering a porter to remove the obnoxious +baggage, which he did with a bang. Close behind her was Paul Ralston, +who, the moment he saw her, called out cheerily, “Oh, here you are. I’ve +looked everywhere for you, thinking you might get dazed in this infernal +jam, the biggest, I do believe, I’ve ever seen here. Everybody in town +has come to meet somebody, and the rest to look on. Clarice, this is +Miss Elithe Hansford from Montana. You remember, I told you she was on +the boat. Miss Hansford, Miss Percy.” + +If ever eyes expressed utter indifference if not contempt, those of +Clarice did, as, with a swift glance, they took Elithe’s measure, from +her hat and gown to her gloves and shoes. That she was a fright and a +nobody she decided at once. But Paul had presented her, and she must +show a semblance of civility. Taking Elithe’s hand, she held it so high +that Elithe, who had not learned the fashion, wondered what it meant. +She gave it a little shake and said, “Glad to meet you, I am sure.” + +Nothing could be colder or haughtier than her voice and manner, and +Elithe felt it keenly and was going away when Paul, with his usual +kindness of heart, said to her, “I don’t see your aunt, but she must be +here. I’ll look for her. Stay where you are, both of you. I’ll be back +in a minute.” + +While he was gone Elithe kept guard over her despised trunk, trying to +adjust the hasp in its place and pushing back the fold of her dress +showing so conspicuously. Clarice turned her back upon her and stood +impatiently tapping her foot and humming to herself. + +“She is very proud, and if all the people here are like her, I shall +want to go home at once,” Elithe was thinking, when Paul came hurrying +up and with him a young man so nearly resembling him in figure and +height and general appearance that but for their dress one might be +readily mistaken for the other when his back was turned. + +“Your aunt is not here. Tom saw her on the piazza as he drove by. She +probably did not expect you on this boat,” Paul said to Elithe, and +added, “My man Tom will drive you home in our carriage. Here, Tom, take +this trunk to an expressman and leave the young lady at Miss +Hansford’s.” + +Tom shouldered the trunk, while Paul continued to Clarice, whose face +was clouded, “You don’t mind walking, do you? It is so short a +distance.” + +Clarice did mind, not so much the walk as the fact that Elithe, whom she +considered far beneath her, was to be driven in the Ralston carriage +while she went on foot. + +“Oh, no; a little roasting, more or less, in this hot sun won’t hurt me; +let’s go,” she said, with a toss of her head, and was turning away when +Elithe, who had heard everything and understood it, exclaimed, “Please, +Mr. Ralston, let Miss Percy ride. I would rather walk if some one will +show me the way.” + +“All right,” Paul answered, with some annoyance in his tone. “Tom shall +take Clarice and I will go with you. Hallo, Tom! Bring the horses here.” + +In an instant Clarice changed her tactics. She had no intention to let +Paul take Elithe home, and she said, “How absurd! Do you think I am +going to ride and let her walk, tired as she is. She looks quite worn +out.” + +She was beginning to be ashamed of her manner, which she knew was +displeasing to Paul, and as she addressed herself to Elithe she flashed +upon her a smile which made Elithe start, it seemed so familiar. The +eyes, too, in their softer expression, had in them a look she had surely +seen before. Tom had brought the horses up by this time, and at a sign +from Clarice Paul gave his hand to Elithe and assisted her into the +carriage. Clarice had played the amiable, and kept the role up as she +walked with Paul the few blocks to the Percy cottage on Ocean Avenue. +Then her mood changed, and without asking him in, she said, “I suppose I +shall see you to-night, unless you feel it your duty to call upon that +Miss,—what’s her name? Hansford isn’t it?” + +“Girls are queer,” Paul reflected, as he bade her good-bye and went +slowly towards home. + +His road did not take him directly past Miss Hansford’s cottage, but he +could see it from the avenue and knew that Elithe was there, as the +carriage was driving away from it. Miss Hansford had fully intended to +meet her niece, but for the first time in her life had forgotten to wind +her clock, which stopped at three, and the first indication she had that +it was time for the boat was when she saw it moving up to the wharf. + +“For the land’s sake,” she exclaimed in alarm, glancing at the clock, +“if there ain’t the boat, and I not there to meet her! What will she +do?” + +Then like an inspiration her bones came to her aid and told her somebody +would see to her. She did not, however, expect her to be seen to in +quite the way she was, and felt not a little surprised and elated when +the Ralston carriage stopped before her door and Elithe alighted from +it. + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + MISS HANSFORD AND ELITHE. + + +Miss Hansford had had many misgivings with regard to the wisdom of +having sent for her niece. She had lived alone so long and her habits +were so fixed that she dreaded the thought of a young person singing and +whistling and banging doors and slatting her things round. She had tried +to guard against some of these habits in her letter to Roger, but there +was no knowing what a girl would do, and Lucy Potter’s girl, too. Still +she had committed herself and must make the best of it. + +“I shall use her well, of course,” she said many times, and as often as +she dusted her mantel in the front room where Elithe’s picture was +standing she stopped and looked at the face and talked to it until she +almost felt that it was the real Elithe whose dark eyes met hers so +seriously. “She’s pretty to look at and no mistake, but handsome is that +handsome does, and the proof of the pudding is in the eating,” she said +more than once, while she busied herself with the room Elithe was to +occupy. + +It was a low back room with the windows looking out upon an open space +and clumps of oak and woods beyond, with no view of the sea. A room she +seldom rented and which she at first hesitated about assigning to +Elithe. + +“I shall want all the t’others for the gentry when the wedding comes +off,” she decided, and then went to work to make the back room as +attractive as possible. + +A light pretty matting was laid upon the floor. The old-fashioned +bedstead, put together with ropes, and on which she had slept when a +girl in Ridgefield, was sold to a Portuguese woman, and its place +supplied by a single white bedstead with a canopy over the head. She had +seen a bed like this at the Ralston House in a child’s room, and was +imitating it as far as possible. That was brass, with hangings of point +d’esprit, while hers was iron, with hangings of dotted muslin, but the +effect was much the same. The chest of drawers which had belonged to her +mother was moved into her own room and a small white pine bureau, with +blue forget-me-nots painted on it, put in its place. The square stand +was covered with a fine white damask towel, with a Bible and Hymn Book +laid upon it. The rocker was white, the curtains at the windows were +white, the toilet articles were white, everything was white. “A White +Room,” Paul Ralston christened it, for he saw it on the day the last +touches were put to it and just before he started to join Clarice in New +York. Miss Hansford was adjusting the pillow-shams when she heard Paul +below calling to her. + +“Up here in Elithe’s room. Come and see it,” she said, and Paul ran up +the narrow stairs two at a time and stood at the door, uncertain whether +he ought to cross the threshold or not. + +A young girl’s sleeping apartment was a sacred place, and he hesitated a +moment until Miss Hansford bade him come in and see if it wasn’t pretty. + +“I should say it was,” he replied, as he stepped into the room, bending +his tall figure to keep clear of the roof where it slanted down on the +sides. “It’s lovely, but a little low in some places. A great strapping +six-footer like me might knock his brains out some dark night on the +rafters, but Elithe is short. It will just suit her. Call it the White +Room.” + +He was very enthusiastic, and in his enthusiasm hit his head two or +three times as he walked about, admiring everything, saying it lacked +nothing but flowers, and suggesting that Miss Hansford get some pond +lilies the day Elithe arrived. + +“I’d do it myself,” he said, “only I’m going away and shan’t be here +when she comes. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll have Tom bring +over some white roses in the morning, if you will let him know when you +expect her.” + +Paul’s approval was sufficient for Miss Hansford, and after he was gone +she dropped the shades over the windows and closed the room until the +morning of the day when Elithe was expected. Tom brought the white +roses, arranged by the gardener in a basket, which stood on the +dressing-table, while on the stand at the head of the bed was a bowl of +pond lilies which Miss Hansford had ordered, and which took her back to +the river and pond in Ridgefield, where they had grown in such +profusion, and where the boy Roger had gathered them for her. Roger had +been gone from her twenty years and more; other boys gathered the lilies +in Ridgefield. She was an old woman, and Roger’s girl was coming to her. + +“I believe I’m glad, too,” she said, as she inhaled the odor of the +blossoms, gave an extra pat to the bed and went down to the kitchen, +wondering what she should cook for supper that would please Elithe. +“Girls like cake and custard,” she said. “I’ll have both, and use the +little custard cups with covers that were mother’s. There’s only four +left of the dozen. ’Taint likely she’ll eat more than two to-night, and +two to-morrow night. I don’t want any. Four will be enough.” + +The cake was made and the custards, too, in the pretty china cups which +Miss Hansford calculated were nearer a hundred years old than twenty. +Never but once had she used them since she lived on the island, and that +on the occasion of the Presiding Elder’s stay with her. Since then they +had reposed quietly in her cupboard, with her best china. This she +brought out now for Elithe, together with her best linen and napkins and +silver. Had she been willing to acknowledge herself capable of such +weakness, she would have known that she was guilty of a good deal of +pride as she anticipated Elithe’s surprise at the grandeur which awaited +her. + +The morning was long after everything was in readiness, and the +afternoon seemed interminable until she saw the boat at the wharf and +knew her clock was an hour behind time. She had seen Tom Drake drive by +in the Ralston carriage and wondered where and for whom he was going. +That he would bring Elithe to her she never dreamed and when she saw him +coming towards her cottage with a slip of a girl in the seat behind him, +she exclaimed, “I snum if I don’t believe that’s Elithe!” and hurried +out to meet her. + +People who only saw Miss Hansford’s peculiar side said that if she ever +had any milk of human kindness it had long since curdled. But these were +mistaken. The treatment one received from her depended wholly upon +whether they entered the front or back door of her heart,—the kitchen or +the parlor. Fortunately for Elithe, she came to the front door and +entered the parlor. She was nervous and excited, and had borne about as +much as she could bear without breaking down in hysterics, and when she +saw her aunt coming to meet her, she ran forward with a cry like a hurt +child seeking its mother, and reaching out both hands, exclaimed, “Oh, +Auntie, I am so glad to get here, and so tired!” + +She put up her lips to be kissed, and in the eyes full of tears Miss +Hansford saw a likeness to Roger, the boy she had liked so much and +loved still in spite of Lucy Potter and his choice of a religion. This +was his child, and there were tears in her own eyes as she kissed the +young girl and led her into the house. + +“You are all worn out,” she said, as she removed Elithe’s hat and made +her sit down and asked if she were hungry. + +With the exception of the lemonade Paul had brought her on the boat and +a dry sandwich eaten in Springfield, Elithe had taken nothing that day; +but she was not hungry. The sandwich still lay like lead in her stomach, +and the lemonade was waging warfare with it. All she wanted was a drink +of water, which her aunt brought her, and which she drank eagerly, then +leaned her head against the cushioned back of the chair, as if all life +had gone from her. + +“She’s a good deal mussed and pretty dirty,” Miss Hansford thought, as +she asked: “Ain’t there something I can get you besides water?—tea, or +something? I can make a cup in a minute.” + +“No, thanks,” Elithe replied. “Water is the best of anything. If I could +have a bath; I believe I am one big dust heap.” + +She laughed as she said it, and her smile made her face lovely, with all +its fatigue. + +“You shall have one,” Miss Hansford answered, with alacrity, thinking of +the White Room, in which a dust heap was not desirable. “It’s a kind of +a fixed-up affair,” she continued, speaking of her improvised bath tub +in a large, low closet back of Elithe’s room, “but it answers very well. +I’ll take some hot water up right away.” + +Against this Elithe protested, saying she would do it herself. + +“You set still, I tell you. You are tuckered out,” Miss Hansford +insisted, beginning to take the water up in pails and stopping between +times to talk to Elithe and ask about her journey. + +“You come in the common car all the way and hain’t had your clothes off +since you left home! What’d you do that for? I sent money for a +sleeper,” she exclaimed, setting down her pail so suddenly that some of +the water was spilled on the floor. + +“I know you sent it, and father and mother wanted me to take it, but +they needed it so much that I made them keep it. Artie must have some +stockings and Thede some shoes and mother hasn’t had a new dress in +three years,” Elithe explained. + +“My land!” was all Miss Hansford replied, as she went up the stairs with +her pail, but to herself she said: “Poor as Job’s turkey, I knew they +were. No new dress in three years; that’s hard for Lucy Potter, who used +to be so fond of jewgaws. The girl’s all right, poor thing. The dirt +must be an inch thick on her. I’ll bring up another pail full and get +her a whole bar of Sweet Home soap. She’ll need it.” + +When her bath was ready Elithe followed her aunt up the stairs into the +room designed for her. + +“Oh, how lovely! It rests me just to look at it,” she said. + +“I’m glad you like it. I thought you would. Paul called it the white +room, and had the roses sent over from their place. He suggested the +lilies, too,” Miss Hansford replied, enjoying Elithe’s appreciation of +everything, as she buried her face first in the roses and then in the +lilies, scarcely knowing which she liked the better. + +Both were exquisite and both a little sweeter because Paul Ralston had +sent one and suggested the other. There was a call from below, and Miss +Hansford hurried down to find the expressman with Elithe’s trunk, which +she made him put down outside while she swept it with a broom, brushed +it with a brush, and dusted it with feathers. “Pretty well knocked to +pieces,” the man said, but Miss Hansford did not answer. She had +recognized the trunk as having been her own, which she had given to +Roger when a boy, and now it had come back to her, “battered and banged +and old just as I am,” she thought, as she unknotted the rope tied +around it and bade the man carry it to Elithe’s room. The bath, which +Elithe enjoyed so much, refreshed and invigorated her, but did not +remove the drowsiness stealing over her. It was five nights since her +head had touched a pillow, and the sight of the white bed was a +temptation she could not resist. She had slipped on a loose, white +Mother Hubbard, made from an immense linen sheet which had been sent in +a missionary box and utilized first for her mother and then for herself. + +“I must lie down or I shall fall asleep standing,” she said. Then as she +remembered how much she had to be thankful for,—the safe journey, the +kindness of everybody from good Mrs. Baker and Paul Ralston to her aunt +who had received her so cordially, she went down upon her knees, and, +resting her head upon the bed, tried to pray and thought she did. “Our +Father,” she began from habit, and then the soft feel of the bed against +her tired head and the pressure of exhaustion upon her brain overcame +her and she floated off into a dreamy sense of things past and present, +the pretty room, the roses and the lilies, the delicious bath, Paul +Ralston, Artie and Thede and George and Rob and Mr. Pennington and +Heaven, which she had finally entered, losing herself at last in a heavy +sleep from which she did not waken until the clock struck six and her +aunt came up to see what had happened to her. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + THE DAYS WHICH FOLLOWED. + + +Miss Hansford had sat below listening to the splashing of water +overhead, hoping Elithe would not get much on the floor, as it might +come through into the kitchen, and that she would not leave the soap in +the tub when she was through with her bath. She heard her next in the +white room moving about, and hoped she would not slat her things around, +but hang them in the closet. + +“I couldn’t bear to see that room all littered up, though Elithe’s +litter wouldn’t be so bad as some. I begin to like the girl and feel +like a mother already,” she thought, as she listened to the steps +overhead until they ceased, and she waited for Elithe to come down. + +As she did not appear she finally decided that she was resting and she +would not disturb her until supper was ready. Never had she taken more +pains with a meal than she did that afternoon. The rolls were light; the +strawberries and cream were fresh, while the custards in the blue china +cups were the crowning of the feast prepared for Elithe. Why didn’t she +come down, Miss Hansford wondered as the time slipped by and she began +herself to feel the pangs of hunger. + +“Elithe!” she called at last at the foot of the stairs. “Elithe!” but +Elithe was wrapped in oblivion to everything around her, and it would +take more than a call to waken her. “I b’lieve she’s asleep,” Miss +Hansford said, going up the stairs and glancing first into the bath +closet. Everything was right there. The bar of soap was in the saucer on +the wooden chair and the towels on the rack. Turning next to the white +room, she stood for a moment in the door which jutted back a little into +the hall or entry so that she could not at once see the bed and the +young girl sleeping there. She could only see the confusion, which +filled her with dismay. Elithe was as orderly, and more so, perhaps, +than most girls. _Slatting_ was not her custom, and she had meant to put +everything away after finishing her toilet. But sleep had overtaken her, +and the whole room was bearing frightful evidence against the Potter +blood. Her trunk was open, with various articles in a huddle, as she had +left them when hunting for her linen. Her best dress, her second best +and her gingham were on exhibition; a part of the bathing suit hung over +one side of the trunk and a white apron on the other. On the floor at +intervals lay her traveling clothes, boots and stockings and skirts, +which she had left where she dropped them. Miss Hansford stepped over +some of them and kicked others aside as she advanced into the room with +stern disapproval on her face. + +“I’ll give up if she hasn’t slatted in good earnest. Her mother all +over!” she thought, just as her eye fell upon the figure by the bedside. + +Elithe’s head was on one side, disclosing a part of her face, which was +very pale, except for a red spot on her cheek. Through the window a bar +of sunshine fell across her hair like a halo bringing out its golden +tints and reminding Miss Hansford of a picture she once saw of the +Virgin when a girl of fifteen. + +“Fell asleep saying her prayers, poor, tired child!” Miss Hansford said +to herself, all her discomposure at the _slatted_ room vanishing as she +picked up the soiled articles and put them away. Then she awoke Elithe, +who started to her feet suddenly, but sank back quickly upon the bed. +She was not hungry, she said. She could not eat if she went down. All +she wanted was to sleep, and her head fell heavily upon her breast. Miss +Hansford told her of the strawberries and cream and the rolls and the +custards, dwelling at length upon the latter and the cups they were +baked in. Elithe could surely eat a custard if nothing else. + +“No, auntie, not even a custard to-night, if it were baked in a cup five +hundred years old,” Elithe said. “I can’t eat anything. I’ve had too +much already. That sandwich was dreadful.” + +A moment later she parted company with the stale sandwich eaten in +Springfield and the lemonade taken on the boat. With her stomach thus +relieved, she felt better, but begged so hard to be left alone that her +aunt did not urge her further. + +“Hop right into bed, and I’ll cover you up. It gets chilly here at +night,” she said, turning back the sheet and shaking up the pillow. + +Elithe needed no second bidding, and before her aunt left the room she +was again sleeping soundly. Miss Hansford ate her supper alone, +lamenting over the custards, which stood untouched in the little cups +until Paul came whistling up the walk. He was on his way to see Clarice, +and had called to enquire for Elithe. She had seemed so tired on the +boat and on the wharf that her face had haunted him ever since, and he +wished to know if she were rested. + +“Hello, taking your supper alone?” he said, as he saw Miss Hansford +sitting in solitary state with what he knew to be her _best things_. + +She welcomed him warmly, thanked him for his kindness to Elithe, who, +she told him, was dead beat and had fallen asleep saying her prayers. “I +couldn’t get her to eat a thing,—not even a custard, and I made ’em for +her. I never touch ’em. There’s four of ’em, and I’m afraid they’ll sour +unless you help me out,” she said, offering him a little blue cup. + +He had just finished his dinner, but he expressed himself willing to +help in the emergency, and ate the two custards intended for Elithe. He +was very solicitous about her, hoping she would be quite well in the +morning and saying he would come round in his cart and take her for a +drive. Then he shook himself down,—a habit he had,—straightened his hat +and said he must go and see Clarice. + +“Elithe saw her on the boat, I b’lieve. Tell her to call,” Miss Hansford +said, jerking the last words out with an effort, and hating herself for +caring whether Clarice called or not. + +“Of course she’ll call. We’ll come together,” Paul assured her, as he +ran down the steps and hurried off to make his peace with the young lady +who, he felt pretty sure, was aggrieved because he had sent Elithe home +in his carriage instead of herself. + +Three or four times before her usual hour for retiring, Miss Hansford +went up to Elithe’s room, finding her always in the same position, her +head on one side, her hands crossed upon her bosom and her face very +white, except for the spots on her cheeks, which increased in size until +they spread down to her neck. Her hands were hot and her head was hot, +but she appeared to be sleeping quietly. + +“Just tired, I guess. I’m not going to worry,” Miss Hansford thought. + +But she did worry, and as soon as the first streak of dawn appeared she +was dressed and in Elithe’s room again. To all appearances there had not +been the slightest change of position during the night. The hands were +folded just the same, the head was turned on the pillow, and the bed +clothes exactly as Miss Hansford had left them. + +“Elithe!” she said. “Elithe, wake up!” + +But Elithe made no answer except to open her eyes for an instant and +close them again wearily. Her face was crimson now, and the perspiration +stood under her hair, which, with the dampness, curled closely on her +forehead. + +Miss Hansford had never been ill herself, and did not believe much in +the ailments of other people. All they had to do was to make an effort +and brace up. But Elithe baffled her. She could not get her to brace up, +or wake up either, although she shook her and called her loudly by name. + +“I hate a doctor like pisen, but I’ve got to have one,” she decided, and +the first man who passed the house was sent in quest of one. + +He was a young practitioner, new in the place, and very full of his own +importance as an M. D. After asking a few questions and holding Elithe’s +hand longer than Miss Hansford thought there was any need of he began to +diagnose the case with so many long words that she lost her temper and +exclaimed: “For the land’s sake, quit the encyclopædia and talk common +sense. What’s the matter with her?” + +“Nervous exhaustion, amounting almost to nervous prostration, +complicated with fever and some slight gastric derangement of the +stomach, brought on by too long fasting and eating improper food. +Nothing dangerous, I assure you. Nothing but what will yield readily to +treatment,” was the doctor’s reply, as he stirred his two glasses of +water and told how often to give it. + +“What’s your price?” Miss Hansford asked, with her characteristic habit +of having things “on the square.” + +The doctor looked at her a moment before he replied: “Two dollars a +visit.” Then he went away, saying he would come again in the afternoon. + +Miss Hansford did not believe in homeopathy at all, and sniffed a good +deal at the water in the tumblers and the price she was to pay for it. +But she gave it religiously and watched Elithe very closely until the +doctor came again. If the case was not dangerous it was certainly +puzzling to him. For a few days Elithe lay in a kind of stupor, seldom +moving so much as her hand or opening her eyes. The doctor with the big +words and little pills was dismissed, and one called in his place from +Still Haven, a second from the Basin, and a third from a hotel. One was +an allopathist, another an eclectic, the third a Christian Scientist, +and all fools, Miss Hansford said, dismissing them one after another as +she had the homeopathist, and taking the case in her own hands. If +nothing ailed Elithe but nervous exhaustion, she’d get over it without +doctors, she said. + +Those were very anxious days which followed when Miss Hansford stayed by +Elithe night and day, except when her duties called her below. She +washed Elithe’s clothes herself, finding in the pocket of the flannel +dress the box with the diamond ring in it. Once she thought to open it, +but a sense of honor forbade, and she put it carefully away in the trunk +from which she removed Elithe’s dresses, recognizing Lucy Potter’s +wedding gown and understanding in part the sacrifice the mother had made +for the daughter. + +All of Miss Hansford’s acquaintances soon knew of the girl, who had come +so far and was lying unconscious and helpless, and everybody was kind, +especially the Ralstons. Two or three times a day Paul came to inquire +how she was, bringing fruit and flowers and asking if there was anything +he could do. Prayers were offered for her in the Tabernacle and the +Methodist church and the Episcopal. The last was at Paul’s request, and +his Amen was so fervent and loud that Clarice, who was sitting at some +distance from him, heard it distinctly above the others, and shrugged +her shoulders impatiently. + +“Who was the person prayed for this morning? Some of your relations?” +she asked Paul, as they were leaving the church together. + +“Why, Miss Hansford,” he replied, in some surprise. + +“Miss Hansford!” she repeated. “She must have been taken suddenly. I saw +her on the street last night.” + +“I mean Elithe, her niece. Don’t you know she has been very ill ever +since she reached here. I have certainly mentioned it to you,” Paul +said. + +Clarice did know perfectly well of Elithe’s illness, and how often Paul +was at the cottage, and of the fruit and flowers sent there daily, and +was exceedingly annoyed. She would scorn to acknowledge it, but she was +jealous of Elithe and angry with Paul for his interest in her and his +democratic ideas generally. It would be her first duty to change some of +them when she was his wife, but for the present she contented herself +with occasional stings, which he either did not or would not understand. +He lunched with her on the Sunday when prayers were said for Elithe, and +then sat with her for an hour or two on the piazza, listening to the +band and talking as young people will talk when in love with each other. +And Paul was very much in love. Clarice’s pride and hauteur, which he +could not appreciate, he looked upon as something she would overcome in +time. To him she was always gentle and sweet, and, dazzled by the +glamour of her beauty, he thought himself the most fortunate of men in +having won her. In Elithe he felt a great interest, and after leaving +Clarice that Sunday afternoon, he went to Miss Hansford’s cottage to +inquire for her. + +“Better since I sent the doctors adrift. Come up and see for yourself. +She won’t know you,” Miss Hansford continued, as Paul hesitated. “She +lies just the same, but seems to me there’s a change.” + +The room was partly in shadow, but Paul could see the face upon the +pillow, thinner and whiter than when he last saw it, but exceedingly +lovely, with a faint flush where the fever stains had been and the damp +rings of hair about the forehead. Her hands were folded and she seemed +to be sleeping quietly. + +“Poor little girl! She’s had a hard time,” Paul said aloud, as he stood +looking at her. + +At the sound of his voice her eyes opened suddenly, and rested upon him, +with a questioning look in them. “The lemonade was so good. I wish I had +some more. I am very thirsty,” she said. + +Evidently she thought herself on the hot boat taking the lemonade Paul +had brought her. With a cry of delight, Miss Hansford exclaimed: “Thank +God! It’s the first word she has spoken. She shall have the lemonade if +it kills her!” + +She was down the stairs in a moment, leaving Paul alone and standing +awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering if he, too, ought not to +go. Elithe decided for him. Lifting up her hand and reaching it towards +him she said: “You are Mr. Ralston and I am Elithe. Don’t you remember?” + +She was introducing herself to him, and he took her hand and kept it +while he replied: “Yes, I am Paul Ralston, and you are Elithe. I am glad +you are better. You have been very ill.” + +“Ill!” Elithe repeated, with a startled look in her eyes, which went +rapidly around the room, taking in all its appointments and their +meaning. “I didn’t know I was ill. How long is it, and where is auntie?” + +“Here, child,” and Miss Hansford appeared with the lemonade, finding +Paul holding Elithe’s hand in one of his and smoothing her hair with the +other. + +He was a natural nurse, and she looked and seemed so like a child in her +helplessness that he caressed her as if she were one, and held the glass +to her lips while she drank eagerly. She was decidedly better, but a +good deal bewildered with regard to her illness, which she could not +understand. + +“Don’t try to now. We’ll talk of it by and by when you are stronger,” +Paul said, as he bade her good-bye and went below, followed by Miss +Hansford. + +During the days and nights she had watched by Elithe the little girl had +crept a long ways into her heart, melting the frost of years and +awakening in her all the instincts of loving motherhood. + +“I never b’lieved I could care for anybody as I do for her,” she said to +Paul. “Why, only think that I, an old maid of sixty-five, who never had +an offer, and only now and then a beau home from spellin’ school or +singin’ school, should actually feel as if I was several mothers. I +don’t see through it.” + +Paul laughed merrily at her idea of several mothers, and then went to +telegraph the glad news to Samona that Elithe was better. This was his +third telegram, for after he knew Miss Hansford’s letter telling of +Elithe’s illness must have reached there, he had sent a message every +day, knowing how anxious the family would be. Miss Hansford had tried +not to alarm them, and had only said Elithe was worn out with the +journey and sick in bed from its effects. The telegrams, “Is about the +same,” or “No worse,” frightened them more than the letter, and if the +prayers in Oak City for her recovery were fervent and heartfelt, they +were doubly so in Samona and at Deep Gulch. + +“If I ever prayed in my life I’d do so now,” one of the toughest of the +miners said, wiping his eyes with his grimy hand. “I should s’pose +Stokes, who has been through the mill, would go at it. Hallo, Stokes! +Ain’t there a prayer for the sick in that book of yourn you read so +much?” he called to Stokes, coming slowly from his cabin. + +Stokes nodded, and the rough continued: “Well, you’d better say it for +Miss Elithe, and lively, too. No time to fool round now.” + +“I am saying it all the time,” was Stokes’s reply, as he passed on to +his work. + +Every day a boy was sent to Samona for news, and when at last Paul’s +telegram, “She is better,” flashed across the continent and was carried +to the camp a loud huzza went up from the miners, the tough leading the +yell and getting drunker that night than he had ever been before in his +life by way of celebrating Elithe’s recovery. Mr. Pennington did not +return from Helena for a week or more, consequently he knew nothing of +Elithe’s illness until the worst was over and Paul’s telegrams came +every day, signed sometimes Paul Ralston and sometimes P. R. + +“He is awful good to take so much interest in Elithe, isn’t he?” Rob +said to Mr. Pennington, when communicating the last telegram to him. “I +wonder who he is.” + +There was no reply, but Mr. Pennington’s face was dark, as he turned +away with something akin to jealousy stirring in his heart and a half +resolve to start at once for Oak City and assert his claim to Elithe +against all the world. + + + + + CHAPTER XVII. + GETTING ACQUAINTED. + + +After the disease left her, if there had been any disease, Elithe’s +recovery was rapid. Of her illness she remembered nothing, except a +feeling that she was having a delicious rest and a dream of Mr. +Pennington and the diamond ring. Where was her dress and the box, she +wondered, and was about to inquire, when, as if guessing her thoughts, +her aunt said to her, “I’ve washed your things, dress and all. There was +a box in the pocket. I don’t know what was in it, if anything, but I put +it in your trunk.” + +At first Elithe thought to tell her aunt about the ring and ask her what +to do with it. Her father had written that Mr. Pennington had again left +Samona and it was uncertain when he would return. She could not send the +ring direct to him, and she decided that her better way was to keep it +until she went home, and then give it to her father, who would return it +to Mr. Pennington. With her aunt she did not feel quite at ease, but the +acquaintance progressed rapidly during the days of convalescence, when +she sat in the large easy chair in the pleasant front room, looking out +upon the sea and the passers-by. Every day Paul Ralston came in for a +few moments, and Elithe found herself looking forward to his coming with +a good deal of interest. Clarice had not called, nor did she intend to. +Paul had given her Miss Hansford’s message, and several times had +suggested going with her after Elithe was able to see people, but she +always had some reason for not going, and at last said pettishly, “Don’t +bother me any more, please. The fact is, I am not specially interested +in Miss Hansford or her niece, and I have more acquaintances now than I +can do justice to.” + +After that Paul said no more on the subject, but went oftener himself to +make amends for Clarice’s neglect. This was the reason he gave to +himself, and at first it was partially true. But he could not see Elithe +day after day and not get interested in her, she was so sweet and +unaffected, and her eyes welcomed him so gladly when he came, and she +was so pretty in her short hair and white negligee jackets which her +aunt had bought for her. Paul carried a picture of her with him when he +left her and insensibly found himself looking forward to the next day +when he could see her again. In this he had no thought of disloyalty to +Clarice. She was the rare rose which belonged to him, while Elithe was +the simple wild flower, whose perfume he could inhale with no harm to +him or any one. Every day he spent hours with Clarice. They went in +bathing together; they rode on wheels together on the smooth asphalt +pavement, and in the afternoon he took her to drive with his tandem +team, the first in Oak City, and greatly admired in consequence. Elithe +had seen him go by on his wheel with Clarice and made no comment, except +to wonder if she could learn to ride and how much a wheel would cost. +Her aunt did not reply and set her lips together in a way which Elithe +had learned meant disapprobation. Evidently, Miss Hansford did not +believe in wheels. + +The next day the tandem turnout went by, with Clarice driving and Paul +sitting by her side, radiant with happiness and content. Clarice was +handling the reins skillfully and looking very handsome as she sat +beside him. He saw Elithe in the door and touched his hat to her, but +Clarice’s attention was centered on the fleet horses, which required all +her strength to keep well in hand. + +“Miss Percy drives a good deal with Mr. Ralston. They must be great +friends,” Elithe said. + +“They are engaged,” Miss Hansford answered shortly, biting off rather +viciously the end of the thread she was trying to put through the point +instead of the eye of her needle. + +“Engaged!” Elithe repeated, with a feeling for a moment as if the day +were not quite as bright as it had been an hour ago. + +“Yes,” Miss Hansford replied, “more’s the pity, but if he’s suited I +ought to be. They are to be married the last of August, here in Oak +City, with a great spread. You’ll be invited, of course, with me. Paul +brought me a new grey silk from Paris as a present to wear. It is not +made yet. I must get about it pretty soon. Time enough, though. I wonder +what you’ve got to wear.” + +Elithe had not quite heard all her aunt was saying. Paul’s engagement +was a surprise to her and not altogether a satisfaction. She did not +know that she had attached any importance to his attentions to herself. +She only knew that they had been very pleasing, and could never be quite +the same with her knowledge of his engagement to Clarice Percy. +Remembering the young lady’s manner towards her, and, contrasting it +with Paul’s affability, she felt how unlike they were to each other, and +was disappointed that Paul should thus have chosen. For a moment there +was a little pang in her heart, making her forget that her aunt was +talking of the grand wedding in August and asking what she had that was +suitable to wear. As yet, she knew nothing of the elegant toilets worn +at watering places. Her changeable silk, made from her mothers gown, was +quite equal to any emergency, and she assured her aunt that she was +quite well equipped for the wedding, should she be fortunate enough to +be invited. + +The next time Paul came he staid longer than usual,—complimented Elithe +on her rapid improvement, and said she would soon be able to drive with +him behind his tandem. + +“Thanks. I saw you go by yesterday with Miss Percy. She is very +beautiful, and your horses, too,” Elithe replied, conscious at once that +she had made an odd speech in associating Paul’s betrothed with his +horses. He did not seem to mind it, but chatted on pleasantly, talking a +great deal about his horses and a little about Clarice after Miss +Hansford said to him, “I told Elithe you was going to be married in +August.” + +“Oh, yes; certainly, certainly; expect a great time. Glad you are here,” +Paul rejoined, mopping his face with his handkerchief, as the morning +was very warm. + +Then he began to talk of the guests he expected and when they would +arrive. + +“Is Jack coming?” Miss Hansford asked, and Paul replied, “Doubtful. +Clarice don’t know where he is, and don’t wish to know. She is afraid of +the consequences. It takes so little to upset him. He generally carries +a bottle in his pocket and is very noisy and quarrelsome when over the +bay.” + +Miss Hansford was a strong supporter of the W. C. T. U., and had less +sympathy for a man easily affected than for one who could take quarts +with no bad result. So far as Jack was concerned, whether he could take +much or little, did not matter. He was better out of the way, and she +said so, with sundry uncomplimentary remarks concerning him, while Paul +defended him. The only subject on which he and Miss Hansford ever openly +differed was the luckless Jack, whom Paul declared a pretty good fellow, +but for one fault, while she denounced him as wholly bad. There was no +reason why Elithe should be interested in him; and yet she was, and, +after Paul had gone, she asked her aunt why Clarice did not try to +reform him instead of turning against him. + +“There’s no reform in him,” her aunt replied. “I know Jack Percy,—a bad +egg when he was a boy, and a worse one now he is a man, I dare say, +though I haven’t known much of him lately. Such as he can’t reform.” + +“He must be pretty bad, then,” Elithe said, thinking of Mr. Pennington +as he was in the miners’ camp and as he was when she saw him last. + +She spoke of him to her aunt, who asked when she had finished, “Is he +anything to you?” + +“To me? No; nothing but a friend. We all liked him. We couldn’t help +it,” was Elithe’s answer, given with no change of voice or color. + +She was untouched; but Miss Hansford was not so sure of the man. He +could not be insensible to Elithe’s beauty,—no man could. It had +impressed Paul, engaged though he was; it must have impressed Mr. +Pennington, who might appear on the scene at any moment, and Miss +Hansford’s bones began to tell her that trouble would come from Elithe’s +reformed friend. She was studying Elithe carefully, and as yet could +find no fault with her. She neither sang, nor whistled, nor slatted her +things; she was so helpful about the house, so sunny and bright and +willing that her aunt wondered how she had ever lived without her, and +began to dread the time when she would be gone. There was no Potter +blood in her, she decided, unless it were manifest in the flower-like +beauty of her face and the supple grace of her figure. So much she +conceded to the Potters. For the rest Elithe was all Hansford. + +“I hain’t an atom of fault to find with her, nor her bringin’ up,” she +said to a neighbor. “Nothing at all, except that she’s never read the +Bible through, and she a minister’s daughter. But what can you expect of +a ’Piscopal who puts the Prayer Book before everything. She knows that +about by heart, same as I did once.” + +Reading the Bible through was one of Miss Hansford’s tests of religious +training, and she had learned with surprise that Elithe was remiss in +this respect. + +“Never read the Bible through! My soul! What’s your father been thinking +about?” she said, when Elithe confessed her shortcoming. “Why, I’d read +it through before I was a dozen years old,—five chapters every Sunday +and three every week day will do it in a year.” + +Then she began to question Elithe’s knowledge of the Scriptures, finding +that she neither knew how old Adam was when he died, nor how old he was +when Seth was born. Ages were Miss Hansford’s specialty, and she could +give you the birthdays at once of most of the noted people in the Bible +and the date of their death. + +“I suppose you know your catechism from A to izzard,” she suggested to +Elithe, who replied, “No, I don’t. I never could manage the long answer +about my duty to God and my neighbor. Heathenish, I know, and if you say +so I’ll learn them at once. Any way, I’ll begin the three chapters in +the Bible to-day, and will soon catch up with the old fellows’ ages.” + +Every morning after that Elithe spent an hour or so in her room poring +over the Bible until she knew a good deal about Adam and Seth and many +more of the patriarchs. If she had a longing for the flesh-pots as +represented by the Rink and Casino and the dances at the hotel, she did +not show it. But the fun was in her just the same, and she never heard +the band in the distance that she did not keep time to it with her hands +or her feet, and more than one waltz the little kitchen saw when she was +alone, with no one to criticise. She had not yet joined the bathers on +the beach, although urged to do so by Paul, who promised to teach her to +swim and to float and to help her in every way, if he knew when she was +to be there. + +“I am going to-morrow,” she said to him one day when he called. + +“All right. I’ll find you, if I don’t go blue fishing. Some of us +fellows are talking of it,” he answered, as he bade her good afternoon +and started across the fields in the direction of the Percy cottage. + +When he was gone Elithe brought out her bathing suit and tried it on for +her aunt’s inspection. + +“That’s decent,” Miss Hansford said, “and doesn’t show your arms and +legs as some of ’em do,—Clarice Percy’s, for instance. I declare to +goodness it makes me blush when I see her and some of ’em like her, with +nothing on but a little skirt, you may say!” + +Elithe had been down to the beach and seen the little skirts and thought +them and their wearers immodest. Hers, however, was right. It came some +ways below her knees, and if the sleeves were rather short it did not +matter so much. Her arms were very pretty and she knew it, and her aunt +knew it and thought with a good deal of satisfaction that Clarice +couldn’t beat them. That night Elithe dreamed she was in the surf with +Paul and Mr. Pennington, both contending for her and holding her under +the water till she woke to find a soft shower falling outside and the +rain beating upon her face from the open window. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + ELITHE AND CLARICE. + + +It was the fashionable hour for bathing. The band, which alternated +between Oceanside and the Heights, was to play that morning, and the +pavilion was full of people watching the bathers diving, swimming and +jumping and filling the air with shouts of laughter. Elithe had wanted +her aunt to come with her, but Miss Hansford had excused herself and +consigned her to the care of a lady, who promised that she should not +stay in the water too long or get beyond her depth. At first Elithe +looked round for Paul. He was not to be seen, and, thinking he had +probably gone fishing, she took possession of her bath room and arrayed +herself in her blue suit, which was rather baggy and conspicuous from +its over size. She, however, did not think so, and started gayly with +her friend across the platform or bridge leading to the water. At the +head of the steps Clarice Percy was standing, clad in a fanciful costume +of black, trimmed with scarlet, and exposing so much of her person that +Elithe felt ashamed for her, and wondered how she could look so +unconcerned with so many masculine eyes upon her. Although Clarice had +not called upon Elithe, she had seen her several times and knew she was +at the bath house, for they had come down in the same car, she sitting +in front and Elithe, who got in later, in the rear. Clarice usually +bathed at the Tower on the Oceanside, as it was nearer her mother’s +cottage, but this morning she was at the Heights for a purpose of her +own. Paul had told her the previous night not to expect him the next +day, for, if he did not go fishing, he should be at the Heights, as +Elithe was to take her first bath and he had promised to see to her. + +Paul had talked too much of Elithe to suit Clarice, who sometimes felt +that she hated the girl because of his interest in her. She was, +however, too politic to show her real feelings. Smiling very sweetly, +she said: “That will suit me perfectly, as I am going there, too. I’m +told it is not as stony as at the Tower.” + +Thoroughly honest and open in everything he said or did, Paul did not +see through the ruse, and was rather glad than otherwise to show off +Clarice’s accomplishments as diver and swimmer to the people at the +Heights. He could attend to Elithe first and her afterwards, and he +hoped the fishing party might be given up, as it was at the last moment, +and this made him late at the beach. Glancing at the bathers and seeing +neither Clarice nor Elithe among them, he dressed himself leisurely, +and, going out, found Clarice waiting for him. She had heard that the +fishing was given up and knew Paul would be there. She had seen Elithe +when she appeared at the end of the long platform, and watched her as +she came across it. Something in the dress first attracted and then +startled her so that her look was a stare when Elithe came close to her. +For a moment their eyes met, and Elithe’s kindled a little expectantly, +then fell under the haughty gaze confronting them. + +“That’s Miss Percy, the proudest girl on the island,” Miss Noble said to +Elithe, who did not reply. + +She was too much absorbed in putting one foot in the water and taking it +back again with a shiver to think of Clarice still watching her +curiously. + +“I can’t be mistaken,” she was saying, when she saw Paul coming from the +bath house and went to meet him. “You see I am here,” she said, putting +her hand on his arm, “and so is your Western friend. See?” + +She pointed towards Elithe, who was now standing up to her waist in the +water and resisting Miss Noble’s efforts to get her farther out. + +“Yes, I see. She’s afraid. They always are at first. Let’s go to her.” + +Elithe saw him coming and smiled pleasantly upon him, and then gave a +little cry as a wave came tumbling in and nearly knocked her down. + +“Hallo!” Paul cried. “Frightened, arn’t you? That won’t do. Go under as +soon as you can. Let’s have a dip.” + +Still holding Clarice’s hand, he seized Elithe’s and said to her: “Take +hold of Clarice’s. Now, all hands round,” he cried, jumping up and down +until both girls were thoroughly splashed with water and Elithe’s fears +had entirely vanished. Clarice was never more angry in her life. To be +thus associated with Elithe was too much to bear quietly. Wrenching her +hands away without a word, she struck out for the raft at some distance +from the shore, and, climbing upon it, sat down while Paul waded farther +out, with his arm around Elithe, and then tried to make her swim. She +proved an apt pupil, and he complimented her highly upon her skill. + +“By the way, where is Clarice?” he asked, looking round until he saw +her. “Oh, there she is! Suppose we go to her. It’s not very far,” he +suggested. + +Something warned Elithe to keep away from the raft while Clarice was +there. + +“I don’t believe I’ll try it,” she said. “I guess I’ve done enough for +one morning. I’m getting tired, and think I’ll go ashore if Miss Noble +is ready.” + +Miss Noble was quite ready, and Paul went with them to the stairs and +then swam back to the raft, where Clarice was still sitting. She had +learned from experience that her little spurts of temper were lost on +Paul, who either did not or would not notice them, and when he said to +her, “You’ll take cold sitting there so long; come into the water,” she +obeyed at once, and began swimming toward the shore. As they neared it +and she was walking beside him she said: “Didn’t your Western friend +come from Samona, and isn’t her father the Rev. Roger Hansford?” + +“Yes,” Paul replied, and Clarice continued, in a low tone: “I thought +so. Funny, isn’t it? She has on my old bathing suit. I sent it to Samona +in a missionary box with a lot more things.” + +“That accounts for its being so becoming to her,” Paul replied, shaking +the water from his hair, as he went up the steps. + +Clarice gave a shrug of annoyance. Her little shaft had failed to hit +the mark, and she was not in a very good humor when she left him and +went towards her dressing room, meeting on the way an acquaintance, who, +like herself, had just left the water. + +Meanwhile Elithe was divesting herself of her wet garments, and had +nearly completed her toilet when Clarice and her friend passed her door, +one taking the room next her own and the other the adjoining one. They +were talking together, and every word they said could be distinctly +heard by Elithe. + +“Do you often come here?” one asked, and the other replied: “Haven’t +been here before this summer, and don’t believe I’ll come again. Not a +soul I know but you and Paul.” + +Elithe thought she recognized the last speaker’s voice, but was not sure +until the first spoke again. + +“I say, Clarice, who is the pretty girl Mr. Ralston was teaching to +swim?” + +Elithe held her breath for the answer, which came promptly and plain. + +“That? Oh, that’s a niece of that frumpy Miss Hansford. You’ve heard of +her, of course. The girl’s name is Elithe,—rather a pretty name, too. +She’s from the wild and woolly West, Miners’ Camp, or something in +Montana. Paul has the queerest notions about some things. He has always +liked the aunt, and is polite to her niece, just as he is to every one. +I believe the old maid asked him to take charge of her to-day. Do you +think her pretty? I wish you could have seen her on the boat the day she +came. Such a guy, and such baggage,—actually tied with a rope!” + +“Not, really?” + +“Yes, really. Hope to die if it wasn’t; and she has on an old bathing +suit of mine which was sent in a missionary box from our church in +Washington to the Rev. Roger Hansford. That’s her father. I can’t be +mistaken. The buttons and braid were of a peculiar kind. I never liked +it, and only wore it at Long Branch a few times. I knew it in a minute. +There was a riding cap of mine in the same box. I wonder if she has that +and will appear in it some day? No, I don’t think her very pretty. +Perhaps she would be if her clothes were not so back-woodsy. She was at +church last Sunday in a made-over changeable silk, with small sleeves, +gathered just a little at the top. Not material enough to make them +larger, I suppose. Probably that was in some box like my bathing suit. +Her aunt sent word for me to call. Think of it!” + +“Have you called?” the first speaker asked, and Clarice replied: “I +guess not much! Shan’t, either; although Paul wants me to do so. He’s +very democratic, you know.” + +“Yes, but an awfully nice fellow, and you are to be congratulated.” + +“That’s so,” Clarice assented, and, opening the door of her bath room, +she walked away, followed by her friend, with no suspicion that Elithe +had heard every word. + +If she could have gotten out she would, but she was not quite dressed, +and could only sit and listen. She did not care so much for what was +said of herself as of her belongings,—the silk dress she had thought so +fine and her poor old trunk. The latter had been her father’s, carried +by him on many a journey in the Western wilds. The silk was her mother’s +wedding gown, and every time she wore it she seemed to feel the touch of +her mother’s loving hands in its soft folds. The sleeves were small, she +knew, for the pattern was scant, but just how small they were she never +realized until now, or just how small she was herself, with everything +pertaining to her. She heard Paul calling down the passage way, +“Clarice, Clarice, are you ready?” and knew he was waiting to escort his +fiancée home. + +“I hate her!” she said to herself. “To make fun of _me_ and she does it +to him, too, no doubt.” + +This was the bitterest thought of all,—to be made light of and ridiculed +to Paul Ralston, and Elithe cried harder than she ever remembered having +cried before. That the bathing suit had belonged to Clarice she was +sure, for on the lining of the belt were the initials, “C. P.” She could +see them now on the floor where the wet garments lay, and she put her +foot upon it, spurning it from her. + +“I’ll never wear it again!” she said, “nor the cap, either. It was in +the same box. It was hers!” + +With the thought of the cap came a recollection of Mr. Pennington. He +and Paul Ralston belonged to Clarice Percy’s world. They had been very +kind to her. They liked her. They did not think her a _guy_ from the +“wild and woolly” West, and their opinion was worth more than that of +Clarice. There was some consolation in this, and, drying her eyes, she +wrung the water from the dripping garments on the floor, rolled them in +a newspaper and started for home. + +Her aunt had told her to ride both ways, as the walk was a long one from +the bath houses to the cottage, and the car was ready to start as she +came out of the building. In it were Paul and Clarice, the latter very +fresh and cool looking in her thin summer muslin, a striking contrast to +Elithe’s plain calico and linen collar. + +“I’ll not ride with her,” Elithe thought, shaking her head at the +conductor, who was ringing the bell and inviting her to get in. + +It was hot and dusty, but she did not mind it as she hurried along, +smarting from the indignity she had suffered and anxious to be rid of +the detested bundle she carried. What she should do with it she did not +know until she reached the cottage. Miss Hansford was ironing with a +hotter fire than usual, and had just lifted a cover from the stove, when +Elithe burst in like a whirlwind. + +Her eyes were flashing, her face was crimson, with perspiration +trickling down it in streams, and she looked more like a little fury +than the usual mild and placid Elithe. + +“What is the matter?” Miss Hansford asked, but Elithe did not reply. + +She was dropping the blue suit upon the red-hot coals and watching it as +it spluttered and hissed and sent up great smudges of smoke and an odor +of burning wool. She did not stop to cover it up, but, darting up to her +room, found the velvet riding cap which suited her so well. She detested +it now, and, hurrying back to the kitchen, removed the cover her aunt +had replaced and dropped the pretty velvet thing into the fire, and with +the poker pushed the burning mass into the flame until it was a charred +and blackened crisp. + +“Are you crazy or what?” Miss Hansford asked, this time rather +indignantly, for the room was full of smoke and black flecks, some of +which had settled upon the table-cloth she was ironing. + +“Never was more sane in my life, and never more angry,” Elithe replied. + +Little by little she told her story, while Miss Hansford listened, +forgetting her table-cloth drying on the ironing board and her fire +dying down from contact with so much wool and salt water. Never before +had Miss Hansford been so indignant. Even Paul came in for a share of +her animadversion. He was a fool to care for a girl like Clarice. +Everything pertaining to the Percys was brought to light. The bondman +was resurrected, with old Roger and the treasury clerks, until there was +scarcely a shred of respectability left to the family. And Clarice had +insulted Elithe and called her a _guy_ and made fun of her clothes and +trunk. + +At this point Miss Hansford stopped short, remembering how the trunk had +looked when brought to her door, and that she had been glad when it was +safely housed from the curious eyes of her neighbors. It _was_ battered +and rusty, and as for Elithe’s clothes.——Here she took counsel with +herself again. She had thought but little of Elithe’s dress, except that +it was neat and plain, as a minister’s daughter’s dress ought to be. +Now, however, in the light of Clarice’s criticism she awoke to the fact +that it was not exactly like that of other girls whom she saw daily in +the street. What the difference was she could not have told, she paid so +little attention to the fashions. _She_ wore her gowns years; _her_ +sleeves were tight to her skin. She didn’t know what the fashions were. +But she would know, and Elithe should look like other girls, if she +ruined herself in doing it. She had cooled down considerably by the time +this decision was reached. + +“Don’t cry. It’ll make you sick again,” she said to Elithe, whose tears +were falling as she recalled the sarcastic criticism which had cut so +deep and seemed worse the more she thought of it. + +Her head began to ache, and when that afternoon Paul came in to ask how +she was feeling after her bath, he was told that she “wasn’t feeling +anyhow and had gone to bed.” This information Miss Hansford gave +crispily, and her crispiness continued as Paul expressed his regret and +surprise, saying: “She seemed to enjoy it so much, and after the first +dip took to the water like a duck. She’ll learn to swim in no time. I +hope she’ll be all right to-morrow. I want her to go over to the Tower.” + +“She won’t go to the Tower, and she won’t go anywhere very soon, let me +tell you,” Miss Hansford said, while Paul wondered what had occurred to +throw her so far off her equilibrium. + +“I’m sorry. I hope nothing disagreeable happened to her,” he said. + +For a minute Miss Hansford was tempted to tell him the truth. Then, +changing her mind, she asked if he knew the shops in Boston well. “The +stores, I mean, and places where folks go to get things up to +date,—where your mother trades, for instance, and people like her.” + +“Why, yes,” he replied. “There’s Jordan and Marsh, and White’s.” + +“I know them places. Ain’t there others?” Miss Hansford interrupted. + +“Certainly. There’s Hollander’s, on Boylston Street,—rather more +expensive, I expect.” + +“I don’t care for expense. I want things that nobody can make fun of,” +Miss Hansford interrupted him again, and he continued: “You’ll get them +there, and shoes in the same street, and hats. I believe Clarice bought +one there, the prettiest she ever had.” + +“You don’t remember the number, nor name?” Miss Hansford asked. + +“No, I don’t. I can get it, though, of Clarice,” Paul said. + +“You needn’t do that. I can inquire. I have a tongue,” Miss Hansford +answered, mentally resolving that wherever Clarice had shopped she would +shop and so be sure she was right. + +“Are you thinking of going to Boston?” Paul asked. + +“Yes. Where does Mrs. Percy put up when she’s there?” + +“Usually with us, or, if at a hotel, at the Adams House. That’s a good +place,” Paul said, while Miss Hansford took mental notes for future use. + +Something ailed her. Paul could not guess what, and, after a few +unsuccessful attempts to bring her to herself, he left, hoping Elithe +would change her mind and go to the Tower on the morrow. + +“I shall call for her,” he said, and the next morning he was at the +cottage, which he found closed, with no sign of life about it. “She’s +gone to Boston, and won’t be back for some days,” a neighbor called to +him from her window, and, feeling disappointed that Elithe was not to +have her second lesson in swimming, Paul hailed a passing car and joined +Clarice at the Tower. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX. + MISS HANSFORD IN BOSTON. + + +“I want you up early to-morrow morning, for I am going to take the first +boat for Boston,” Miss Hansford said to Elithe, when she came down to +tea after Paul had left. + +“To Boston!” Elithe repeated. + +“Yes, to Boston,” Miss Hansford replied, “to get you some clothes that +are clothes. Clarice Percy shan’t twit you any more with being +old-fashioned. I’m going to have my gray silk made for Paul’s wedding, +and you must have a gown to wear.” + +“Oh, auntie, no; even if I am invited, which is doubtful, I do not want +to go,” Elithe exclaimed, thinking that nothing could tempt her to see +Clarice Percy married. + +It was useless to oppose her aunt when her mind was made up, as it was +now, and the next day they started for Boston on the early boat. Miss +Hansford knew next to nothing of the city, and came near being run over +at the crossings two or three times before she reached the Adams House. + +“I want two rooms with a door between,—good ones, too,” she said, +shaking her head fiercely at the office clerk after registering her own +name and Elithe’s. + +Naturally they showed her communicating rooms, with a bath, first floor +front, looking on Washington Street. + +“Oh, this is lovely!” Elithe cried, putting her head from the window and +looking up and down the narrow street crowded with cars, vehicles and +pedestrians. + +It was her first experience in a big city, and she liked it. Her aunt, +meanwhile, was haggling over the price of the rooms, which seemed to her +exorbitant. + +“And pay for what I eat besides? I’ll never do it!” she said to the +attendant, who, knowing that he had what he called a case, smiled +blandly and replied: “There are cheaper ones higher up and in the rear, +but there’s no bath.” + +“Bath!” Miss Hansford rejoined. “Who asked for a bath? I didn’t. Show me +the rooms.” + +They were on the fourth floor looking upon roofs and into a dreary +court, and the price was less than half of the apartments they had left. + +“Don’t you think these will do?” Miss Hansford asked Elithe, whose face +was clouded, but who answered: “Yes, I think they will do.” + +Something in her voice and the droop of her eyes betrayed her +disappointment, and, after thinking a moment, Miss Hansford said, +briskly: “Well, if you do, I don’t. We’ll go back where we came from, +bath and all.” + +It did not take long for them to get established in their suite, and +while Miss Hansford rested upon the easy couch and calculated how long +she could afford so expensive accommodations, with all the rest she +meant to spend, Elithe was taking in the sights and sounds of the busy, +narrow thoroughfare, whose noise nearly drove Miss Hansford wild, but +was delightfully exhilarating to her. This was life,—this was the +world,—this was Boston, of which she had thought so much and dreamed so +often in her home among the Rockies, and she would willingly have sat +all day watching the ever-changing panorama in front of the hotel. But +her aunt had other business on hand than counting cars and carriages and +people. She was there to shop, and the sooner they were at it the +better. It took her the remainder of that day and a part of the next +before she was fairly launched. She visited Jordan and Marsh’s, and +White’s, and Hollander’s, one after the other, telling them what she +wanted, getting prices and samples for comparison, and sometimes making +Elithe blush for her brusque, decided ways, which amused the clerks +greatly. At each establishment she called for the _head man_, and told +him she was going to run up a big bill and pay on the spot. She wanted +several outfits for her niece, all of the best kind and latest style; +nothing last year’s would answer, and she should trade where she could +get the best material and the best attention. + +“I don’t like the manners of some of your help, whisperin’ and nudgin’ +each other,” she continued, with a wave of her hands towards two or +three young girls, who could not keep from smiling at “the queer woman +talking so funny to their boss.” + +After this the lady was treated with the utmost deference, and the +clerks nearly knocked each other down to serve her. After a good many +trips back and forth from one store to another, and becoming so +bewildered with prices and quality and style that she scarcely knew what +she was about, or what she wanted, she decided to “stick to one place, +if they cheated her eye-teeth out, as she presumed they would.” The +suave floor-walker rubbed his hands together,—told her how delighted he +was at having her patronage,—assured her that nowhere would she be +better pleased or get more for her money, and then handed her over to +the Philistines. + +For the next three or four days she was a conspicuous figure in the +establishment, where the “queer old woman and beautiful girl” came to be +well known by sight and freely commented upon. She wanted everything “up +to the mark, and was going the whole figger,” she said. Everybody was +eager to wait upon her, and overwhelmed her with so many suggestions and +assurances of what was fashionable that she might have defeated her own +purpose if Elithe had not come to the rescue. She knew what young girls +wore better than her aunt, who gave the matter up to her, telling her to +get what she pleased regardless of expense. + +“I want you to have sailor hats, and big sleeves, and Eton jackets, and +yellow shoes, and tan gloves, and shirt waists, and ties, and bathing +suits, and yachting suits and evening gowns, and all that. Beat Clarice +Percy, if you can,” she said. + +Fortunately Elithe knew that what was proper for the future bride of +Paul Ralston was not suitable for her. She had no use for a bathing +suit. She had taken her first and last bath in the ocean. She had no use +for a yachting dress, which had been suggested to her aunt as essential +to a complete outfit. Neither had she any use for an evening dress, such +as her aunt wished her to get. A pretty, white muslin, with quantities +of soft lace upon it, was the most she would consent to, and she made +her other selections with taste and discretion. + +Relieved of care for Elithe, who evinced a wonderful aptitude to run +herself, Miss Hansford gave her attention to her gray silk, striking, +fortunately, a dressmaker who had worked for Mrs. Ralston, and knew all +about the grand wedding in prospect. She also had in her parlors two or +three dresses belonging to parties who were going to Oak City in advance +of the occasion. + +“Why, they are to room with me,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, when she heard +their names. “They must be about my age.” + +This reconciled her to certain innovations in her dress as to what was +suitable for her. + +“I’m sixty-five years old, and I can’t have too many curlycues,” she +said, but after seeing the dresses of women as old or older than she +was, with Y-shaped necks and elbow sleeves, she gave herself into the +modiste’s hands and came out a surprise to herself. + +“Why, auntie, you look real handsome and young,” Elithe exclaimed, with +delight, when the dress was tried on in their rooms at the hotel. + +“I look like an old fool trying to be young,” Miss Hansford responded, +examining herself critically before the glass and declaring the +demi-train too long, the skirt too wide and the sleeves too big. On the +whole, however, she was satisfied, and, folding her dress carefully, +laid it in one of the large packing boxes necessary to hold all her +purchases. Her shopping expedition had been very successful, and she +only rebelled mentally at her hotel bill for rooms. She paid it, +however, and just a week from the day she left Oak City, she sailed up +to the wharf in the afternoon boat, poorer by some hundred dollars, but +happy in the thought that no one could find a flaw in Elithe’s costume, +which was as faultless as a Boston tailor could make it. “Elithe could +hold her head with the best of them,” she thought, as she walked behind +her through the crowd always down to see the boat come in, and felt her +heart swell with pride as she saw how many turned to look at the young +girl so transformed that Paul, who was at the landing, did not at first +recognize her. He had stopped at the cottage every day during the week, +and had been disappointed when he found it closed each time. Something +was missing which made his life at that particular period very happy. To +bathe with Clarice, to drive with her, to wheel with her, to waltz with +her and sit with her on the beach, looking out upon the great ocean, +listening to its constant beat upon the sands and talking of the future +opening so bright before them was very delightful, and kept him up to +fever heat, except when he came down from the Elysian heights and spent +a half hour with Elithe. She rested him, and he liked to hear her talk +of a kind of life he had never known, but which, as she described it, +seemed rather attractive than otherwise. She told him of the miners at +Deep Gulch; of the pony they gave her and the rides on Sunday through +the wild cañons to the camp where her father held service, and of her +once staying there all night with a sick man, who was recovering from +delirium tremens. She did not tell him who it was, nor did he ask her. +She usually did the most of the talking while he watched her glowing +face and her eyes brightening and widening as she talked, and then +drooping modestly when she caught him looking at her admiringly, as he +often did. He liked to see the color in her cheeks change from a +delicate rose tint to a brilliant hue, as she laughed and chatted and +grew excited or interested. Clarice seldom or never blushed; Elithe +blushed all the time, and he liked it. He was interested in every pretty +girl. Elithe was more than pretty and of an entirely different type from +most of the young ladies whom he knew and who held rather loose views +with regard to what young men should be. To be _fast_ was nothing; to +drink was nothing, if their vices were kept in the background, or +covered over with gold. Not to drink,—not to be fast,—was no +recommendation. Paul neither drank nor was fast in the usual acceptation +of the term, but the money at his back atoned for these deficiences, and +Clarice had accepted him gladly, feeling sure she could soon cure him of +his Puritanical notions and bring him up to her plane of morals. To a +certain extent he was already being influenced by her in the wrong +direction, when Elithe came into his life, becoming so much a part of it +that the days when he did not see her lacked something which had become +necessary to him. During the week she was gone he went to meet every +boat, hoping to find her on it, and felt disappointed when she was not +there. What was her aunt doing in Boston so long, he wondered, and once +half made up his mind to go to the city and find out. It was rather a +strange phase of affairs for a young man soon to be married to one girl +to be thinking so much of another, but Paul did not analyze his +feelings, and was inexpressibly glad when he at last ran against Elithe +on the wharf, thinking her a stranger at first, and saying, “I beg +pardon, Miss.” + +He had been looking for a blue flannel dress and hat with faded ribbons +and tarnished red wing, and, not finding it, was turning away, when he +backed against Elithe. + +“Why, Elithe,” he said, offering her his hand and taking her new satchel +from her. “Why did you stay so long? It seems an age since you went +away. It does, upon my soul. Hallo, Aunt Phebe! How are you? Let me take +that bag.” + +It was not as fine looking as Elithe’s; it was old and glazed and black, +and her umbrella was a cotton one loosely rolled up, but he took them +both and looked like a hotel porter, as he walked beside the ladies, +wondering why Elithe seemed different and more like the young girls he +was to meet that afternoon at the tennis grounds on Oceanside. It dawned +upon him just as the cottage was reached and he was waiting for Miss +Hansford to unlock the door. Dropping the bags and umbrellas and laying +his hand familiarly upon Elithe’s shoulder, he said: “I say, arn’t we +gotten up swell since we went to Boston? That hat is awfully becoming to +you, and that thing-em-er-jig,” indicating the front of her shirt waist. +“Somebody has done you up brown.” + +“Is she all right?” Miss Hansford asked, beaming with delight at Paul’s +commendation. + +“All right? I should say she was. I haven’t seen such a stunner this +season,” Paul replied, warming with his subject, while Elithe blushed +scarlet and tried to divert his attention from herself. + +Paul was not to be diverted. He had heard Clarice criticise her dress, +and, with his attention thus called to it, had himself thought it +old-fashioned and plain. All this was changed, and the metamorphosis so +complete that he wished to show her off to his acquaintance. Following +her into the cottage, he said: “The club play at the tennis court on +Oceanside this afternoon. I’ll stop for you after tea if you will go. +There’s lots of fun.” + +Elithe replied that she didn’t play tennis, and didn’t know the young +people. + +“Come and know them, then,” Paul said. “No matter if you don’t play. +Plenty of them sit round and look on.” + +He was very urgent and persuasive and at last, encouraged by her aunt, +who was nearly as anxious for her to be seen in her new feathers as +Paul, she concluded to go if she were not too tired after supper. + + + + + CHAPTER XX. + AT THE TENNIS COURT. + + +She was not too tired. Her aunt took care of that, and made her rest +while she prepared supper. + +“I want you to be fresh and to hold your own with them,” she said, happy +that Elithe was at last to be introduced into society as represented by +the tennis club. + +It was very select. Not every one could gain admittance, as one “No” +rejected the applicant, whoever he or she might be. Any member, however, +could bring a friend, and no objections made. Paul was the president of +the club, while Clarice was the prime mover of its exclusiveness. Paul +had wished to take Elithe there before, thinking she must be lonely, +knowing so few young people as she did. Clarice, to whom he proposed it, +vetoed it at once. + +“She wouldn’t enjoy it,” she said. “She don’t play. She knows none of +the members. None of them know her, and besides that, you don’t want her +feelings hurt. That old flannel she wears incessantly would be out of +place among the gay dresses of the young ladies who might laugh at her.” + +“Not if they were ladies,” Paul answered, quickly, wondering why clothes +should make so much difference with women. + +He didn’t care whether a fellow’s coat were old or new, if he liked the +fellow, but he gave up the idea of taking Elithe to the club until he +suggested it again on her return from Boston. Nothing could be more _en +regle_ than her attire, and Miss Hansford looked after her with pride, +as she walked down the path with Paul and turned into the avenue. +“Carries herself like a duchess. Nobody’d know but what she’d lived in a +city all her life,” she thought, wondering how Clarice would receive +her. + +Clarice was not in a humor to receive any one very cordially. She had +just had a letter from Jack which annoyed her exceedingly, and she was +anxious to show it to Paul. He was usually early at the court, and, with +Jack’s letter in her pocket, she waited for him to come, declining to +play and seeming very much out of sorts. All the élite of the club were +there, and two or three games were in progress when Paul at last turned +the corner with Elithe. + +“Where is Mr. Ralston?” a young lady said to Clarice; then, as she saw +him in the distance, she added: “There he is now, and some one with him. +Who can it be? Gen. Ray’s daughter, from New York, perhaps. They are +expected here. She’s lovely, any way, and, look at her ripple skirt, +seven yards wide, I am sure. It hangs well, too. How graceful she is, +and what a pretty hat! There is something about a New York girl which +marks her from a stiff Bostonian like me.” + +If a face as fair as Clarice’s can turn dark hers did as she listened +and looked at the slowly approaching couple. She had not seen Elithe +since the meeting in the water, but she knew that Miss Hansford had gone +to Boston, and that Elithe had gone with her. The little Daily News +published in Oak City had it among the Personals, and she had wondered, +when she read it, of what possible interest it could be to the world at +large to know anything of Miss Hansford’s movements and who had notified +the editor. + +“Did it themselves, I dare say,” she said, as she threw the paper aside +and thought no more of it. + +Paul had given the Personal to the editor, thinking it would please Miss +Hansford and Elithe to have their movements published with those of Gov. +Tracy’s family, just arrived from Paris, and the President at Buzzard’s +Bay, and Joe Jefferson, whose young kinswoman was soon to be married. +Had he known where Miss Hansford was stopping in Boston he would have +sent her a paper. As he didn’t know he kept a copy for her, but forgot +to give it to her when he called for Elithe. He was telling the latter +about it as they came up to the court, not that he sent the Personal, +but that he saw it. + +“I wish I had a paper to send to father. I never saw my name in print in +my life,” Elithe said, pleased with the attention. + +To be mentioned with the President and Joe Jefferson and Gov. Tracy was +something to be proud of, and her face was beaming with pleasure at the +honor and with delight at the scene the tennis court presented, with the +gay dresses of the ladies and the fanciful costumes of the men. + +“Isn’t she lovely?” the young lady who had first called Clarice’s +attention to her, continued. + +“Looks well enough, but I don’t call her lovely, and it isn’t Miss Ray, +either. It’s that Hansford girl,” Clarice replied, with a toss of her +head. + +Who the Hansford girl was the young lady didn’t know, but she watched +her as she came up with Paul, who did not at first see Clarice. When he +did he went to her, apologizing for being late and saying: “I have +brought Miss Hansford with me.” + +Clarice bowed stiffly, but did not speak. She was taking in every detail +of Elithe’s dress, and wondering at the transformation and hating her +for the attention she was attracting. Paul introduced her to those who +were not playing, all of whom received her cordially and wondered they +had never met her before. The young men especially vied with each other +in their attentions to her. At least half a dozen urged her to play, and +offered to teach her. She ought to be in the club, they said, and they +would propose her name at once if she wished it. Elithe possessed the +talent of adaptability to a great extent, and, although this was her +first introduction to Oak City’s Four Hundred, she was wholly +self-possessed, and received the attention paid her as if she had been +accustomed to it all her life. She was fond of society, but had seen +little of it since coming to Oak City, and it was very pleasant to find +herself the centre of attraction, and to hear so many express their +pleasure at meeting her. Before she quite realized it, she was trying +her hand at the game, proving an apt scholar and never making a move +which was not graceful and lady-like. Many were the whispered inquiries +as to who she was, and where she came from, and the fact that she was +from the wilds of Montana did not in the least detract from the interest +in her. + +Only Clarice kept aloof, sitting just where she sat when Paul came up +with Elithe. She had a headache, and was too tired and hot to play, she +said, and was going home. But she waited and watched Elithe until the +game was over, and then arose to go. + +“Don’t trouble yourself to go with me. Stay with Miss Hansford by all +means,” she said to Paul, who, until then, had not thought it necessary +to accompany her, as the Percy cottage was not more than fifty rods +away, and it was still daylight, with a full moon rising over the sea. + +Now, however, he knew by the tone he was learning that it was necessary. + +“I am sorry to take you away, but as Miss Percy is tired I think we will +go with her,” he said to Elithe, who, flushed with exercise and +pleasure, was looking very bright and beautiful, and around whom the +young men were gathered as bees gather around a flower. + +Two or three of them at once protested against her leaving, saying they +would see her home. Elithe thanked them, but decided to go with Paul and +Clarice. The latter was very silent until the cottage was reached. Then +she said: “Good-night, Miss Hansford. I am sure you will excuse Mr. +Ralston if he stops with me. There is something I particularly wish to +tell him.” + +“Certainly,” Elithe replied, and was turning away when Paul laid his +hand on her shoulder and detained her. + +He had not been pleased with Clarice’s manner at the court, and he was +less pleased with it now. + +“I brought Miss Hansford here,” he said, in a tone of annoyance, “and I +shall see her home. You can go with us, if you like.” + +Clarice’s face was like a thunder cloud as she saw herself thwarted, but +if she could not keep Paul from a long walk alone with Elithe in one way +she would in another, and after a moment she said: “Of course I’ll go, +but suppose we take a car. There’s one coming now.” + +Had he been alone with either of the girls, Paul would have preferred +walking. As it was he did not care whether he walked or rode, and the +three were soon put down on the avenue opposite Miss Hansford’s cottage. +Elithe did not ask them in, but Paul unceremoniously seated himself upon +the steps and began to talk of the fine view with the sunset colors on +Lake Eau Claire and the moonlight on the sea beyond. Clarice remained +standing, nor did Elithe ask her to sit down, knowing that she would +refuse. There was a silent antagonism between the two which Paul felt +and which made him uncomfortable in spite of his affected gayety. When +she had stood as long as she could endure it Clarice said, persuasively: +“Come, Paul, I’m very tired, and Miss Hansford does not want to be kept +out here all night.” + +Then he arose, shook hands with Elithe and said to Clarice: “I’m ready. +Come on.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXI. + NEWS FROM JACK. + + +“Paul,” Clarice said, when they were down on the avenue, and she was +leaning on his arm, “I’ve had a letter from Jack, and where do you think +he is?” + +“Have no idea. He is likely to turn up anywhere,” Paul replied, and +Clarice continued: “Well, you would never guess, and I may as well tell +you. He is at Samona, of all places in the world.” + +“Samona? Where’s that?” Paul asked, not at once associating it with +Elithe’s home in Montana. + +“Don’t pretend you don’t know that Samona is where that Hansford girl +lives,” Clarice rejoined, irritably. + +It was very seldom that Paul showed any resentment at what she said or +did. To-night, however, he was a good deal annoyed at her treatment of +Elithe, and he asked her, “Why do you call her ‘that Hansford girl?’ Why +not say Elithe?” + +“Well, Elithe, then, if it suits you better,” Clarice replied. “Her +father, you know, lives in Samona,—preaches there, and in some +unaccountable way Jack has stumbled upon the place, and says he likes it +very much, and the Hansfords, too. Wants me to be polite to Elithe, +because they have been kind to him. He can’t have seen _her_, as he has +only been there two weeks, I judge from his letter. But that is long +enough to hear from the Hansfords that we are going to be married, and +he says that he is coming.” + +“Well,” Paul said, “suppose he does?” + +It did not matter to him personally whether Jack came or not, and he +could not quite understand Clarice’s aversion to having him present at +her bridal. It would be very annoying, of course, if he were intoxicated +and noisy, but he did not believe he would be. He was naturally a +gentleman. He could surely keep sober for one day, and he said so to +Clarice. + +“You don’t know him as he is now,” she said. “It takes so little to make +him perfectly wild, and I should die of mortification. I think he did +enough when he gambled away the money I entrusted to him without +disgracing me more. It makes mamma quite ill to think of having him +here. She says she positively cannot, and I wish you’d write and tell +him not to come. No, not exactly that, perhaps, but make as if we didn’t +expect him, he is so far away and all that. You can do it nicely.” + +Paul didn’t think he could, or would. Jack was sure to see through a +ruse of that sort, and he did not want to hurt his feelings. “Let him +alone and he will stay where he is,” he said. “Poke him up and he’s sure +to come.” + +This reasoning did not please Clarice, who had more on her mind. + +“If Elithe had minded her business he would have known nothing about +it,” she said. + +“What has Elithe to do with it?” Paul asked in some surprise, and +Clarice replied, “Wrote home about the grand wedding which she and her +aunt were to attend. How did she know she would be invited?” + +“She knew her aunt was to be, and naturally thought she would not be +left out,” Paul answered. + +“Which she will! I’ve made up my mind to that! It isn’t necessary to ask +a whole family. One member is enough,” Clarice said so viciously that +Paul stopped short in his walk and looked at her. + +“Do you mean what you say?” he asked, and Clarice replied, “Yes, I do +mean it! I don’t like the girl, with her pussy cat ways. I’ve never +liked her, and you’ve made such a fuss over her ever since she came. +Calling there every day, I hear, teaching her to swim, and bringing her +to the tennis court. You’ll be wanting her to join next, but I’ll +black-ball her,—see if I don’t.” + +All Clarice’s rancor and jealousy of Elithe had come to the surface, +making her forget herself entirely and say things at which Paul looked +aghast. He had borne a good deal that day from her, and this attack on +Elithe was too much. + +“Clarice,” he said, in a voice she had never heard from him before, “you +astonish me. Are you jealous of Elithe?” + +“Jealous of Elithe!” Clarice repeated with the utmost scorn. “How can I +be jealous of one so far my——” she did not say “inferior,” for something +in Paul’s eyes checked her, and she added, “I tell you I don’t like her, +and I won’t have her invited. I can surely do as I please about that. I +have no master yet.” + +She was very angry, and Paul was angry, too, and answered hotly that +Elithe would be invited, as he should do it himself. It was their first +real quarrel, and they kept it up until they reached the Percy cottage, +where Clarice, alarmed at Paul’s quiet, determined manner, which meant +more than fierce, noisy passion, broke down and began to cry, wishing +she had died before Paul ceased to care for her,—wishing she had never +seen Elithe, and ending by saying she didn’t care who was invited to the +wedding, and that she had been unreasonable and foolish and was sorry. +Before she reached this point Paul’s anger had melted, and the quarrel +was made up in every possible way. He, however, insisted that he could +not write to Jack and that it was better to let him come, and take the +chance of good or bad behavior. He did not ask to see Jack’s letter, nor +did Clarice offer to show it to him, but after he had gone and she was +alone in her room she read it again, softening and hardening at +intervals, and not knowing whether she were more angry at Elithe or Jack +for the latter’s proposed visit to Oak City. The letter was as follows: + + + “Samona, Montana, July ——, 18——. + + “Dear Sister: + + “I have written you twice and had no answer, and I suppose you think + me a greater scamp than when you used to tell me I was one every day + of my life. Well, I own up. I was a scamp to use your money, but I + really had to or be arrested. I shall pay it back, honor bright. I’m + going into the mining business; am prospecting now in or near Samona, + a right smart little town, as they say here at the West. I’ve been + here two weeks or more, and have made the acquaintance of the Rev. Mr. + Hansford, nephew of that cranky woman in Oak City who used to hold me + in such high esteem. I’m quite hand in glove with the rector and his + family and pass for a respectable man. His daughter is visiting his + aunt, he tells me. Do you know her? I hope your infernal pride has not + kept you from calling upon her. Her father is very kind to me, and I + wish you’d be polite to her. Mr. Hansford is a good deal of a man, + too. Ought to have a better parish than this, though what the miners + would do without him I don’t know. They fairly worship him. Their + daughter has written them of a wedding she expects to attend in August + and to which everybody, I should think, is to be bidden except your + scapegrace brother. Him you haven’t even told of your engagement. It + is true you haven’t known exactly my whereabouts since I failed to + pay. But a letter sent to Denver is sure to reach me some time. I got + the one blowing me up for my rascality, and have heard nothing since + of you until news of your approaching marriage came to me through the + Rev. Mr. Hansford, or rather his son Rob, who told me that Elithe + expected to attend a grand wedding. I did not tell him I had ever + heard of you. Shame that I, your brother, should be so much a stranger + to your plans, kept me silent. I deserve your reticence, of course, + but I shall be at your wedding. There are certain reasons why I very + much wish to visit Oak City, and the same reasons make me wish to be + on good terms with you and mother. Can’t we let bygones be bygones, + and begin again? Suppose we try. I don’t know when you may expect me, + but I am coming. Very truly, + + JACK.” + + “If you answer, direct to Denver, as I may be there. If I am not, it + will be forwarded to me here.” + + +This was not a bad letter, and if Jack had not said he was coming to her +wedding Clarice might have been glad to have heard from him, especially +as he promised payment of her money. Her objections to having him in Oak +City seemed unreasonable and still were not without some cause. It took +so little to affect him, and he was so violent and quarrelsome when +upset, and she had been so often mortified that she dreaded a recurrence +of what might, and probably would, happen if he came. No matter how +stringent the laws might be, he managed to evade them and always had the +poison with him. + +“I have been free from this horror so long that I cannot meet it again,” +Clarice thought, as she folded the letter and felt her anger kindling +again against Elithe, who had written to Samona of the wedding. + +She knew this was unjust, but she was irritated and jealous, and +smarting from her recent quarrel with Paul, for which Elithe was to +blame. + +“I wish she had never come to Oak City, and, like her aunt, I feel it in +my bones that she is my evil star,” she thought. + +Then she began to wonder why Jack wished particularly to come to Oak +City, and why for the same reason he wished to be on good terms with his +family. + +“Elithe can have nothing to do with that. He has never seen her. If he +had I might imagine all sorts of complications,” she thought, and was +still cogitating on the subject when her mother joined her and the two +talked up the matter together, Mrs. Percy evincing more dislike to +Jack’s coming than Clarice herself. + +Between the brother and sister there was some affection; between the +stepmother and stepson, none, or at most very little. Mrs. Percy had +suffered so much from Jack’s habits that she shrank from putting herself +in the way of them again. + +“He is safe in Montana; let him stay there, and write him such a letter +as will keep him there,” she said. + +This, however, was not so easy a task, and Clarice sat up half the night +to accomplish it. Three different copies she wrote and three times tore +them up; then wrote at last that she was very glad to hear from him +(which was not true) and glad that he intended to refund her money +(which was true). She was to be married in August, and had she known +where a letter would find him she should have written to him, of course. +This was her second lie, but, being fairly under way, she did not +hesitate to tell another and say that the grand affair of which he had +heard was a mistake. She was to be married quietly, with a few friends +present, and it was hardly worth his coming so far for so small a +matter. When the invitations were out she should send him one and hoped +to see him on her wedding trip, as they were going to the Pacific coast +by way of Helena and should stop at Samona if he were there, as she +trusted he would be. He could take her through the mines and the cañons. +Paul would enjoy it so much. She made no mention of Elithe except to say +she had met her two or three times. She closed with “Yours +affectionately till I meet you in Samona. Will let you know when to +expect us. + + + CLARICE PERCY.” + + +That trip to the Pacific by way of Helena was born in her brain as she +wrote. They had talked of the Canadian route to Victoria and then by +steamer to San Francisco, with no thought of Helena or Samona. But they +might change their minds and call on Jack if he proved quiescent and +staid where he was. She could easily persuade Paul to go wherever she +wished to go. On the whole, she was rather pleased with her effort, and +had not told a very big falsehood unless it were with regard to the +quiet wedding with a few friends. + +“And it is to be quiet compared with what I meant to have had in +Washington, and of those who will attend only a few will be real +friends; the rest will be here to see and be seen and criticise,” she +said to herself, trying to ease her conscience as she folded and +directed the letter which was to bear so bitter fruit. + + + + + CHAPTER XXII. + THE WALTZ. + + +When Paul parted with Clarice that night he was conscious of a feeling +of disquiet unusual to him. He had been angry with Clarice and made her +cry. This of itself was enough to disturb him, but added to it was +another feeling, novel and bewildering. Clarice was jealous of Elithe, +and not altogether without cause, although until she put it into words +it had never occurred to him that possibly he was too attentive to her. +He had thought of her a great deal and called upon her every day. He +could not help his thoughts, but he could keep from calling, and he did +for four days, three of which he spent in Boston. At the close of the +fourth he could stand it no longer, and on his way to the tennis court +stopped at the cottage, finding only Miss Hansford, a little grim and +off color as she asked where he had kept himself. He told her, and then +inquired for Elithe. + +“Gone to the tennis court with Ralph Tracy, the Governor’s son,” Miss +Hansford answered, with a good deal of elation in her voice. + +“Gone to the tennis court with Ralph Tracy!” Paul repeated. “I didn’t +know that she knew him.” + +“Well, she does. He was here day before yesterday with one or two more +high bucks. To-day he came with his sister to ask her to go to the court +and to tell her she had been made a member.” + +Here was news. Paul had not been near the tennis court since he took +Elithe there and quarreled with Clarice, but he started for it rapidly +now, finding Elithe there playing with Ralph Tracy. Clarice had not +black-balled her. She had shut her lips together when her name was +proposed, but had dropped her Yes into the box with the rest and shaken +hands with her as a new member when she appeared on the grounds with +Ralph Tracy. Some people are long in reaching the top of society’s +ladder; others get there with a bound. Elithe was of the latter class. +The fashionable young men of Oak City had taken her up, attracted by her +beauty, her freshness and the absence of anything conventional and +stiff. She said what she thought, she laughed when she wanted to laugh. +She confessed her ignorance of many things, and with her frank Western +ways was altogether charming. Others besides Paul Ralston called to see +her. There were invitations to clam bakes and blue fishing, and +excursions on the boat, and concerts, and the skating rink, and to a +ball at the Harbor Hotel. + +It was Paul who gave the last invitation. Clarice was in New York for a +few days, and he didn’t want to go alone, he said to Miss Hansford, to +whom he preferred his request, knowing that by so doing he was surer to +have it granted. Miss Hansford had given in to a good deal which she +once held heterodox, but she looked on dancing as something flavored +with brimstone. For her niece and the daughter of a clergyman to dance +would be a deadly sin. She presumed Roger would not object, she said, as +the ’Piscopals were always kicking up their heels. She used to kick hers +up till she learned the folly of it. + +“I want awfully to learn the folly of it, too,” Elithe said, as she +stood anxiously waiting her aunt’s decision. + +“Poor foolish child. You’ll know more when you are older,” Miss Hansford +said, feeling herself giving way under the entreaty in Elithe’s eyes and +Paul’s persuasive tongue. + +Finally a compromise was effected. Elithe could go and look on, but not +dance, and was to leave at eleven sharp. + +“Not one little dance with me?” Paul said, taking Miss Hansford by the +arm and whirling her round until she unconsciously fell into a step once +familiar to her, but buried years ago when she laid aside her white +dress and red ribbons and burned her long curls. + +“Stop—stop,” she cried. “There’s Miss Dunton looking at us. I shall be +churched. I know I shall.” + +“Hardly,” Paul answered with a laugh as he released her and again asked +permission for one dance with Elithe. + +Miss Hansford was firm. She had given her ultimatum, and Paul and Elithe +were obliged to accept it. It was after nine when they entered the +ball-room at the hotel, where Elithe was at once besieged with suitors. + +“I am not going to dance. I’m here to look on,” she said to them all, +and then took a seat where she had a full view of the gay scene. + +It was harder to look on than she had imagined, for she was fond of +dancing, and nothing could be more inspiriting than the music hired for +the occasion, as it was the ball of the season. She had joined in the +grand march with Paul, who, at her request, tried a waltz or two and +then sat down beside her, while with her head and hands and feet she +kept time to the lively strains and studied carefully the step of a +waltz she had never seen before. Every few minutes she asked Paul what +time it was, saying: “I mustn’t be a minute late, you know.” + +At last Paul laid his open watch in her lap, telling her to keep the +time herself, which she did religiously, and at exactly eleven o’clock +she left the ball-room with Paul. It was a bright moonlight night, and +when they were on the broad avenue at a little distance from the hotel +Elithe stopped suddenly and exclaimed: “This is glorious, and I feel as +if I could fly. I did not promise not to dance outdoors with nobody in +sight but the moon. I can do that step. I know I can. Look!” + +Striking an attitude, she began a series of pirouettes and evolutions, +and turnings and twistings, now with her head on one side, now on the +other, her hands sometimes thrown up and sometimes grasping her dress, +while she whistled the accompaniment in notes clear and shrill as a +boy’s. Paul was entranced as he watched the little whirling figure whose +white skirts brushed against him and then went sweeping off in front, +making in the moonlight fantastic but graceful shadows on the smooth +pavement. + +“Can you do it?” she said at last, stopping in front of him and looking +at him with a face which would have moved any man had he been twenty +times engaged, and twenty times more in love with his betrothed than +Paul was. + +“Yes, I can do it,” he replied, putting his arm around her, not stiffly +and gingerly, but holding her so close that his face at times almost +touched hers, and he felt her breath stir his hair during the mad waltz +across the causeway. + +“I should like to go on this way forever,” Elithe said when they stopped +at last by the path which led up to her aunt’s cottage. “I have not +danced before since I came, and you don’t know how I like it.” + +“Shall we try it again?” Paul asked, holding out his arms, into which +Elithe went with the eagerness of a child. + +There was another turn across the causeway and back, and then, flushed +and panting, Elithe said she was satisfied and must go in. + +“I hope auntie is asleep,” she continued, “and you’d better not come up +the gravel walk. Your boots will make a scrunching and waken her.” + +She bade him good-night, and ran lightly on the grass to the side door +of the cottage. Miss Hansford was awake, and had been since she heard +the clock strike eleven. Elithe would soon be there, she thought, and, +getting out of bed, she looked out to see if she were coming. On the +causeway at the farther side was some white object moving rapidly, but +without her far-see-ers she could not make out what it was. + +“Two fools on a tandem wheel, I guess,” she thought, returning to her +bed and listening until she heard the key turn in the lock and knew +Elithe had come. There was the scratching of a match as Elithe glanced +at the clock and then stole noiselessly up the stairs, her heart +thumping wildly, when, as she passed her aunt’s door, a voice called +out, “Is that you, Elithe?” + +“Yes-m,” was the answer, demurely given. + +“What time is it?” + +“Half-past eleven.” + +“Half-past eleven!” Miss Hansford repeated. “Has it taken you half an +hour to come home?” + +“No, ma’am,” and Elithe stepped into her aunt’s room, and, standing in +the centre of a broad patch of moonlight, which fell upon the floor from +an uncurtained window, she continued: “We left the hotel at exactly +eleven, but——” she hesitated, and her aunt asked: + +“But what? What have you been doing since?” + +“Whistling and waltzing on the causeway,” Elithe said, not defiantly, +but as if she meant to tell the truth if the heavens fell. + +“Whistling and waltzing!” Miss Hansford exclaimed, sitting up straight +in bed like a Nemesis confronting the little girl standing in the +moonlight wiping her wet face and pushing the damp hair from her +forehead. “Do you know how wicked it is to waltz, and what is said of +whistling girls and crowing hens?” + +“Yes’m: + + “Girls that whistle, + And hens that crow, + Make their way + Where’er they go,” + +Elithe replied. + +Miss Hansford fell back upon her pillow vanquished and silent, while +Elithe continued: “I didn’t dance a step at the hotel, because I told +you I wouldn’t. Almost everybody asked me, and I wanted to so badly. I +didn’t think it wicked to waltz outdoors. The music got into my brain +and I had to!” + +“More likely the Old Harry got into your brain,” Miss Hansford said, and +Elithe replied: “Perhaps it was the Old Harry. Any way, I had a good +time, and,—and,—I don’t care!” + +Here was rebellion,—the first she had seen in her niece, and Miss +Hansford knew she ought to check it, but for some reason she didn’t feel +like it, and, greatly to Elithe’s astonishment, she said: “Neither do I +care. Go to bed. It must be nearly midnight. You are sure you locked the +door?” + +Ten minutes later Elithe was asleep, dreaming of music and waltzing and +two-steps and Paul Ralston’s arm around her, as they whirled on and +on,—they two alone,—on into a vast sea of moonlight, where she became +lost in a dreamless slumber, which lasted until breakfast was over the +next morning, the work done up and her aunt sewing on the rear porch. +Paul, too, had his dreams of skirts whirling in circles round him, of +fairy feet dancing on their toes and coming nearer and nearer to him, +and of a face so close to his that he kissed it, then with a start he +awoke to find that it was Elithe he had kissed and not Clarice. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII. + PREPARATIONS. + + +The day after the ball Clarice returned from New York, and the following +morning several messenger boys were busy going from house to house with +the little square envelopes, the meaning of which the recipients knew +before they opened them, and read: + + Mrs. James Percy + requests the honor of your presence + at the marriage of her daughter, + Clarice Isabel, + to + Mr. Paul Ralston, + on Thursday Evening, August ——, 18—, + at eight o’clock. + St Luke’s Church, Oak City. + + Reception at Percy Cottage + from half-past eight to eleven. + +There were 500 invitations gotten up in Tiffany’s best style, and the +larger proportion of them were carried from the island that day in the +mail to different parties. Comparatively few were invited in Oak City. +Could Paul have had his way and the church been large enough nearly +everybody would have been bidden to his marriage. But it was Clarice’s +prerogative to rule on this occasion, and when she struck name after +name from the list he gave her he acquiesced, for the most part, +thinking that after his return from his bridal tour he would come to Oak +City, open the Ralston House, which would hold hundreds, and invite all +the residents. Against this scheme Clarice did not protest, but merely +shrugged her shoulders as she fancied herself receiving the great +unwashed in the elegant drawing rooms of the Ralston House. She was very +loving and sweet to Paul, and he was very happy. Occasionally thoughts +of the moonlight waltz with Elithe crossed his mind as something he +could never have again or forget either. He did not see her now every +day, for, as Clarice stayed mostly at home after her cards were out he +in duty bound stayed with her. She, too, was very happy. Beautiful and +costly presents were coming in daily, with letters of congratulation. No +news had come from Jack, who had probably decided to stay in Samona. Her +bridesmaids were from some of the best families in Washington, New York +and Boston. The best man was Ralph Tracy. Paul was to give a supper to +his immediate friends at the Harbor Hotel on Tuesday night, and Mrs. +Percy was to serve an elegant little dinner to the bridesmaids on +Wednesday night. A caterer with colored waiters was to come from Boston. +He had already been and looked the ground over, deciding that a tent +must be erected by the side of the cottage for the better accommodation +of the guests. There was to be a canopy at the church and another at the +house. There were to be tons of flowers and forests of palms and ferns. +There were to be lanterns on the lawn and fireworks from a yacht +stationed off the shore. There were to be two bands, one outside and one +in for dancing. The Ralston House was to be illuminated from cellar to +attic, with an enormous flag floating from the look-out on the roof. The +church was to be elaborately trimmed, and white satin ribbons a finger +wide were to divide the sheep from the goats,—the lookers-on from the +invited guests. An organist from Boston was to preside at the organ, and +the bridal party was to be preceded up the aisle by a surpliced choir of +boys, trained and brought from Boston by the organist. This was +Clarice’s idea, as were most of the novel features of the wedding. She +should never be married but once, she said, and she meant to make the +most of it and give the people something to talk about and remember. And +they did talk, those who were bidden and those who were not,—the latter +naturally making invidious remarks against the Percys, whose antecedents +were thoroughly canvassed. Old Roger was dragged from his grave with the +white slave, whom some of the most disaffected changed into a black man. +Even the Ralstons came in for a share, and the Vulture, with its +smuggling captain and crew, were fished up from the watery beds off the +Banks of Newfoundland and paraded before the public. This gossip, +however, was put down by the majority, who confined their remarks to the +Percys. + +Clarice rather enjoyed knowing that everybody was discussing her and her +affairs. The favored few were in a flutter of excitement and expectancy. +Those who had not been sure of an invitation and consequently were not +ready with the wedding garment were greatly agitated. Trips were made to +New Bedford and Boston, fashions discussed, goods priced, dressmakers +interviewed and employed, last year’s finery looked over to see if it +would do, and the question often asked of each other when they met “What +are you going to wear?” Miss Hansford knew exactly what she and Elithe +were to wear. There had been no attempt on the part of Clarice to leave +the latter out, and two cards lay conspicuously on the centre-table in +Miss Hansford’s best room. Folded carefully in the trunk in which they +had come from Boston were the gray silk and the white muslin, Elithe’s +dress and her aunt’s. Once after the invitations came they were taken +out and tried on to make sure everything about them was right. Elithe +told her aunt she looked like a queen, and Miss Hansford thought Elithe +looked like an angel. Their dresses were ready and satisfactory. They +had nothing to do but to wait for the great event, written about in the +papers and anticipated by every one in Oak City. + +And while the gossip went on and the interest increased, over the +mountains and across the prairies of the West a train Eastward bound was +speeding on its way and coming nearer and nearer to its destination and +the scene of the tragedy which was to electrify the surrounding country +and change the marriage bells into a funeral dirge. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV. + THE SHADOW BEGINS TO FALL. + + +It was the Saturday before the wedding, which was to take place on +Thursday of the next week. Many of the guests from a distance had +arrived. The Ralston House was full, Miss Hansford’s cottage was full, +as were some of the other cottages engaged for the occasion. The Harbor +Hotel, as the largest and most expensive and most fashionable house in +Oak City, was crowded to its utmost capacity. “Positively no more room, +if you take a shelf in a closet,” the distracted clerks said to the mob +of people who came as usual in the afternoon boat clamoring for +accommodations. Those who had families and were expected for Sunday were +easily disposed of, while the rest were turned away. There was a good +deal of fault-finding and some swearing among the disappointed ones, as +they left the hotel, not knowing where to go next. + +One of the number stayed with his lips pressed tightly together and a +look of determination in his dark eyes, as he leaned against the railing +around the office. He had fought his way to that place and kept it +through all the jostling and pushing around him. He had heard scores +refused and sent away, and, either because his brain was muddled or +because he overrated his influence and powers of persuasion, he hoped to +get in somewhere, “if it is in the attic,” he said, when he at last +stood alone and reached out his hand for the register in which to sign +his name. + +“No room in the attic; no use to register,” the worn-out clerk said, +trying to take the book back. + +But the stranger held it fast and wrote in a round, plain hand, “John +Percy, Washington, D. C.” + +“That’s who I am,” he said, pointing to his name with an assured manner, +as if it would at least secure him a cot in the parlor. + +The clerk glanced at it and shook his head, then called his companion’s +attention to it. + +“Oh, Jack Percy,” the young man said, looking at the stranger, whom he +remembered to have seen three or four years before. “I am very sorry, +Mr. Percy,” he said, coming forward, “but really, there is not a foot of +spare room in the house. We might give you your meals if you are willing +to wait for the second table. We have two now, the hotel is so full.” + +“I’ll take my meals here then and sleep on the beach,” Jack answered, +taking up his grip-sack. + +“There is your mother’s. Why don’t you go there?” the clerk asked, +regretting his question when he saw the look on Jack’s face, as he sent +his stepmother to a very warm place and added: “She don’t want me.” + +Nobody wanted him, and he had come so far and was so tired and faint and +angry, too, as he sat down outside in a cool angle of the building, +where he was shielded from observation and could think. He had received +Clarice’s letter, which had been forwarded to him from Denver. Reading +between the lines he understood that he was not wanted at the wedding, +which she said was to be a quiet affair, not worth his coming so far to +see. The Boston Herald, which Mr. Hansford took, told a different story, +and so did Elithe’s letter to her mother. Rob, with whom he was very +intimate, repeated to him with a good deal of pride an account of the +fine doings in Oak City, of which Elithe was to be a part, in a white +muslin gown, made in Boston and trimmed with ribbons and lace. Jack +listened without any comment, but to himself he said: “I shall go to +this wedding.” + +He left Samona suddenly, with no word of explanation as to where he was +going or when he should return. At Chicago he stopped for a day to rest +and get a present as a peace offering for Clarice. He wanted to stand +well with her, if possible, and meant to do his best. The present was +bought,—a lovely silver vase with Clarice’s name upon it and the date of +her marriage. All might have ended well but for his falling in at the +hotel with two of his old comrades in dissipation. To resist their +persuasions and keep from drinking was impossible. He forgot his +pledge,—forgot Elithe and everything else but the pleasure of the +moment, and when the train which he intended taking for Boston left the +station, he was lying like a log in the bed to which his friends had +taken him, and in his pockets were two bottles of brandy, which they had +put there as souvenirs of their spree. Mortified beyond measure and weak +from the effects of his debauch, Jack shook himself together and started +again for the East, drinking occasionally from the brandy to steady his +nerves, until the boat was reached at New Bedford. It was packed, but he +managed to find a seat and sat with his back to the passengers. Behind +and close to him were two or three young men bound for Oak City and +talking of the wedding. + +Nothing like it had ever been seen in that vicinity, they said, +discussing the fireworks and the lanterns and the bands and the tent and +the flowers and the twenty waiters, and wondering how Mrs. Percy could +afford it, as they had never supposed her wealthy. + +“Poor, but proud as Lucifer, and her daughter is prouder,” one said, +adding that possibly Paul Ralston furnished some of the wherewithal. + +“I don’t think so,” another replied. “Miss Percy would not allow that. +More likely it’s the brother. She has one, I believe. Where is he, +anyway?” + +“Oh!” and the first speaker laughed, derisively. “You mean Jack.” + +A shiver like ice ran through Jack’s body as he heard his name spoken in +the way it was and by one whose voice he recognized as belonging to an +old friend. But he sat perfectly still and listened while the talk went +on. + +“I used to know him some seasons ago; pretty wild chap; nothing really +bad about him, if he’d let whisky alone. He is only Clarice’s half +brother, and cuts no figure whatever. If he can take care of himself he +does well. Used to drink like a fish and howl like a hyena when he had +too much down him. He’s West somewhere, and I’ve heard that they want +him to stay there; but there are so many lies told you can’t tell what’s +true and what isn’t. I know Ralston don’t want him, for I heard some one +ask him if he were coming and Paul said ‘It is to be hoped he will +not.’” + +Here the speakers moved to another part of the boat, while Jack sat as +still as if he were dead, his hands clenched and his eyes red with +passion, staring out upon the white foam the boat left in its track. +Once he started up, half resolved to throw himself overboard into that +foaming water and disappear forever. He was shaken to his very soul with +what he had heard. His suspicions were more than confirmed. His +stepmother did not want him, Clarice did not want him, Paul did not want +him, and this hurt him more than all the rest. Paul had always been +friendly; now he had turned against him. + +“I wish I had stayed away,” he said to himself, growing dizzy from the +motion of the boat and the strong excitement under which he was +laboring. + +His brain whirled like a top, and everything grew dark around him. +Brandy would stop that and steady his nerves, if taken moderately. +Thanks to his Chicago friends, he had it in his side pocket, and when +sure no one was looking he took out the bottle and drank a swallow or +two of the clear fluid, which burned as it went down and spread itself +over his system in a pleasant glow which quieted him in one sense and +roused him in another. He didn’t care for his stepmother, nor Clarice, +nor Paul, nor the whole world, except one. He gasped when he thought of +that one, then put the thought aside and was only conscious of a hard, +dogged feeling, which would make him dare and do almost anything,—shame +Clarice, if he felt like it,—thrash Paul Ralston, if he felt like +it,—and be a devil generally, if he felt like it. + +In this state of mind he reached Oak City and passed unrecognized +through the crowd of people, some of whom would have known him had they +stopped to look at him. They were, however, too eager to push on either +to their cottages, where they were expected, or to the hotels, where +many of them were not expected. When Jack left Samona he had intended +going directly to his stepmother’s as the natural place for him to go. +Now nothing could tempt him to go there. Once he thought to take the +next boat which left for New Bedford and go back to the Rockies. Then he +thought, “I’ll stay till Monday, and maybe get a glimpse of her. It will +be something to take away with me.” + +So he insisted upon entering his name upon the register at the Harbor +Hotel. Where he would sleep was another matter. He was not hungry. He +never was after a spree, and the brandy kept him up. Going down at last +upon the sands he sat a long time on a bench under a willow tree, +watching the fishing boats as they went by, homeward bound to Still +Harbor; watching the sun as it went down in the West; watching the +groups of young people sauntering on the beach to his right and left, +straining his eyes to see if perchance _she_ was there with them; then +cursing himself for a fool to care whether she were there or not, and +taking a drink of brandy when he felt himself growing faint and dizzy. +Finally he fell asleep and dreamed he was a boy again, playing with Paul +in the smuggler’s room at the Ralston House, and worrying Miss Hansford. +He stole the melon a second time, and a second time lay under the clump +of scrub oaks and dreamed that he was dead. When he awoke the lights in +the city were out. The water in front of him was black, except where the +stars were reflected in it. His clothes were wet with the heavy dew; he +was cold and hungry and sober. It was not very far to a small hotel he +knew, and, taking his hand-bag, he made his way to it along the shore. +The drowsy clerk whom he roused from sleep was not very cheerful in his +greeting, and made some profane remarks about disturbing a feller that +time of night, and gave him an inferior room on the third floor back. +Jack didn’t care. It was all of a piece with the rest of his reception, +and he accepted it as his due. The night was hot, his room close, and, +taking off his coat and vest, he sat a while by the window, trying to +catch a breath of fresh air and wishing so much for a sight of the +cottage pictured so distinctly in his mind. It was the opposite side of +the hotel,—away from his range of vision. He could not see it, and if he +left in the morning, as he now meant to do, instead of waiting till +Monday, he might not see it at all; but he could write. Strange he had +not thought of that; he could write, and then good-bye forever to +everybody he had ever seen or heard of. He had material in his satchel, +and by the dim light of his kerosene lamp he began a letter which was to +be read with blinding tears, and which made his own come occasionally as +he pitied himself for what he was and where he was and what had brought +him there. + +The dawn was breaking when his letter was ended, and he could discern +the outlines of many houses on the Heights. Conspicuous among them was +the Ralston House. Jack looked at it awhile,—then shook his fist and +swore at it as the home of Paul Ralston, his prospective brother-in-law, +who did not want him at the wedding. + +“Well, I shan’t be there,” he said, folding his letter, and placing it +in an envelope, but forgetting to direct it. + +His mind was confused with loss of sleep and his long fast. + +“I must have something to eat, or drink, or both,” he thought, +fortifying himself with brandy, and then, as he heard sounds from below, +going down to the dining room to order his breakfast. + +No one saw him but the waiter to whom he gave his order and the clerk to +whom he paid his bill. + +“Queer customer; been on a high old jinks, I reckon. I wonder who he +is,” the clerk thought, looking after him as he left the house and went +along the beach towards the Harbor Hotel. + + + + + CHAPTER XXV. + THE SHADOW DEEPENS. + + +As it was Sunday morning there were not as many people as usual on the +piazza of the Harbor Hotel when Jack went up the steps, and seated +himself in an arm chair. As it chanced, none of the men knew him, and +all glanced curiously at him, wondering who he was. He knew they were +looking at him, and cursed them under his breath with a bitter sense of +humiliation, remembering that he was once one with them,—their +equal,—whose hand they would have grasped had they known him, and whom +they would have congratulated upon his sister’s marriage. Now they +passed him by with a stare, while he looked after them angrily. They +were so respectable and jaunty in their fresh morning suits, telling of +city tailors with whom he was once familiar. He had his wedding garments +in his trunk, but the clothes he wore were travel stained and shabby +with his long journey, his debauch in Chicago, and the hours he sat in +the dampness upon the beach. The starch was out of his collar and cuffs; +the crease was out of his trousers,—there were spots on his coat and +vest and patches of sand on his shoes; seedy, those who passed him by +thought him, and very seedy he looked, as the piazza began to fill with +men and women who had come out for an airing before going in to their +breakfast. None of the newcomers gave him more than a casual glance, +although among them were some whom he had seen in Oak City before. + +“Nobody knows me any more; nobody wants me,” he was thinking, when Paul +Ralston came up the steps, happy and handsome and a little anxious, too, +as his eyes scanned the moving crowd. + +He knew Jack was in town, and had come to find him. He had spent the +previous evening with Clarice, who had never been more gentle and +womanly. The character of wifehood so soon to fall upon her was taking +effect and making her amiably disposed towards everybody. She talked of +Jack, from whom she had not heard, and said perhaps she was wrong in +wishing to keep him away, and he her only brother and near male +relative. She said, too, that she had neglected to send him a card and +was sorry. + +Paul was sorry, too. He had a feeling that Jack had not been treated +quite fairly, but he could not tell Clarice so. They would make it up, +he thought, when they met him West, if they did meet him. It was quite +late when he said good-night to Clarice, telling her he should not see +her till the next afternoon, as he had promised to sing a difficult solo +in church in the morning. + +“My farewell, you know, as after I am married I suppose I must sit with +my wife,” he said, kissing Clarice’s blushing cheek with unwonted +tenderness as he said “my wife.” + +He did not tell her that Elithe had been asked to sing in the choir, +that her first appearance would be on the morrow and that he would not +like to miss being there to hear her. He had been greatly interested in +getting her into the choir, and more interested in what she was to sing +at the offertory. In the absence of the first soprano that part, at his +suggestion, had been offered her, and, after a great deal of persuasion, +she had accepted it. Before going to see Clarice that night he had +attended the rehearsal and heard with pride Elithe’s voice rise clear +and unfaltering, without a break, while the few spectators present +listened wonderingly to this new bird of song. + +He did not return home by way of the cottage, as he usually did, looking +always for the light which, though only a light like that of many more +on the ridge where Miss Hansford’s cottage stood, streamed across the +green sward down towards the avenue with a softer radiance than the +others, because it first shone on Elithe. If he had analyzed himself and +seen what construction might have been put upon his thoughts if they +were known, he would have turned from the picture with dismay, for he +meant to be true as steel to Clarice, and had never loved her better +than when he said good-bye to her that Saturday night and went whistling +along Ocean Avenue, which took him past Harbor Hotel. A few of the +guests were sitting upon the piazza, and, seeing these, Paul joined +them, listened to their gay banter a few moments, and then went inside +to examine the register, as he often did. + +“Pretty full, arn’t you?” he said to the clerk, who replied, “Jam up. +Had to turn off a lot, and among them Jack Percy. Seen him?” + +“Jack Percy in town! When did he come?” Paul asked. + +“On the four o’clock boat. Looked pretty hard, too,” was the clerk’s +answer. + +“Why didn’t he go to his mother’s?” was Paul’s next question, as he +turned the leaves of the register till he found Jack’s name. + +“I asked him that, and he said he wasn’t wanted, and consigned his +mother to Hades,” the clerk replied, with a meaning look at Paul. + +“But where did he go? Where is he now?” Paul continued. + +The clerk could not tell him. “He is to take his meals here, but where +he is to sleep I don’t know.” + +This was all the information Paul could get, and he left the hotel half +glad, half sorry that Jack had come, and determining to find him the +next morning, and if his mother were willing, take him to the Ralston +House until after the wedding. The house was full of guests, but Mrs. +Ralston expressed her readiness to receive Jack if Paul would share his +sleeping room with him. + +“I’ll do it,” Paul said. “It is his getting drunk Clarice dreads so +much, and I think I can keep him sober. I’ll try it, any way. He is +Clarice’s brother and is soon to be mine.” + +Immediately after breakfast the next morning he started for the hotel to +find Jack. He did not see him at first, and inquired for him at the +office. + +“Haven’t seen him,” was the answer of the clerk, and Paul went out again +upon the piazza to look for him. + +Spying him at last, he hastened to him, and with a cheery “Good morning, +Jack. I’ve hunted everywhere for you. How are you, old fellow,” held out +his hand. + +It was a peculiarity of Jack that when angry he kept brooding over the +fancied injury and nursing his wrath, which was augmented by every +trifle. The fact that no one recognized him added fuel to the fire +within him. The clear brandy he had taken was doing its work, and when +Paul came upon him his temper had reached the boiling point of +unreasonableness and lack of sense. To Paul’s “How are you?” he answered +growlingly, “Much you care how I am, and I don’t know that it’s any of +your business either.” + +“Why, Jack, what’s the matter? Can’t you speak civilly to me?” Paul said +in much surprise. + +“No, I can’t, and I don’t wish to speak to you at all,” Jack replied. + +Paul saw the condition he was in and wanted to get him away. + +“Come, come,” he said soothingly. “Come home with me,” and he laid his +hand on Jack’s shoulder. + +“Let me alone,” Jack said fiercely, shaking the hand off and launching +into a tirade of abuse, taunting Paul with having pirates and smugglers +for his ancestors and still feeling so big that he didn’t want +_him_,—Jack Percy,—a Virginian gentleman, to be present at his wedding. + +The crowd around them had increased to quite a ring,—some standing on +tiptoe to get a glimpse of the angry man. The sight of them made Jack +worse, and, after finishing Paul, he took up his stepmother and Clarice, +saying things of them which no sane man would ever say of women allied +to him by ties of consanguinity. Paul had listened quietly while his +father and grandfather and great-grandfather and himself were called +thieves and cut-throats and robbers, but when Clarice became the subject +of Jack’s vituperation he could bear it no longer. Usually the mildest, +most forbearing of men, he had a temper when roused, and it was roused +now. + +“Silence! You wretch, to speak so of your sister,” he said, raising his +arm as if to strike, and taking a step forward. + +In an instant Jack was upon him, and, with a heavy blow, laid him flat +upon the piazza. Some men deserve knocking down and are made better for +it, but Paul was not one of them, and his face was livid with rage at +the indignity offered him. He had sought Jack with the kindest +intentions and been grossly insulted. Springing to his feet, he raised +his hand again threateningly, then dropped it, and, controlling himself +with a great effort, he said, “This is not the place to settle with you, +Jack Percy, but I’ll make you pay for this some time, see if I don’t.” + +Just what he meant he did not know. He was too much excited and +mortified to reason clearly. He had been knocked down and called a +coward and a snob and a pirate. His promised wife had been called a liar +and a flirt and a cheat. Many of his friends had witnessed his +humiliation, and amid the Babel of voices around him he heard the words, +“Fight him; thrash him; he deserves it. We’ll stand by you and help lick +him if necessary.” + +He knew the popular feeling was with him, but it did not help him much. +He was very proud and felt keenly the insult put upon him and the +injustice of it. It was a disgrace to be mixed up in such a row, and all +he wanted was to be alone until his temper had cooled. + +“Let me out of this before I break his head,” he said, as he pushed his +way to the street. + +The bell in the church near the hotel was ringing its first summons for +service, but Paul did not hear it, or remember that he was to sing a +solo that morning and that Elithe was to sing another at the offertory, +and if he had he could not enter the House of God in his present state +of mind. Leaving the hotel, he walked along the beach until he reached +the seat under the willow tree where Jack had sat the night before until +the stars came out and the fog was creeping inland. Here Paul sat down, +trying to comprehend the situation and forget the indignity offered him. +But he could not. The more he thought of it the angrier he grew, with a +feeling that he must do something. + +“I’d like to kill him!” he said aloud, just as a shadow fell upon the +sand, and looking up he saw a half-grown boy regarding him wonderingly. +“Who are you and why are you staring so at me? Be off with yourself!” he +said savagely. + +The boy, who did not know Paul, went off, but remembered the incident, +which was to form a link in the dark chain of evidence tightening around +Paul Ralston. He heard the last note of St. Luke’s bell and the +answering ring of other bells floating out to sea, and knew that service +was commencing in all the churches. Then he remembered his solo and +Elithe. Had she heard of the fray? Had all the people heard of it, and +what would they say? He knew what Miss Hansford would say, and laughed +as he thought of the epithets she would heap upon Jack. The laugh did +him good, and he could think of the sore spot in his side where Jack had +struck him. “His fist was like a sledge hammer and would have felled an +ox,” he said to himself, beginning to wonder what had happened to rouse +Jack to such a pitch. He was in no hurry to go home, for, although he +could not think himself in any way to blame, he shrank from meeting his +people with a kind of shame that he had been in a broil. + +At last, when he heard the one o’clock bell, he started for home, which +he reached just as the family were sitting down to lunch. He did not +care to join them, and bade the maid bring him something to his room. +“I’ll take a bath and get cooled off before I see Clarice,” he thought, +after his lunch was over. Going to the bath room he divested himself of +his light gray coat, noticing as he did so a brown stain on the sleeve, +which in his fall had come in contact with a pool of tobacco juice. Paul +was very fastidious with regard to his clothes; a misfit or soil of any +kind ruined them for him, and Tom Drake, who was in one sense his valet +and who was just his height and figure, seldom had need to buy a new +garment, as all Paul’s castoffs were given to him. Paul found him on the +rear piazza and said to him, “Here, Tom, is another coat I’m through +with. There’s a stain on the sleeve. Maybe you can get if off.” + +Tom was so accustomed to these gifts that he took them as a matter of +course, and was very proud of his general resemblance to Paul, whom he +admired greatly, trying to walk like him and talk like him as far as +possible. He had not yet heard of the trouble with Jack, and did not +know why the coat was given to him, unless it were for the stain. +Thanking Paul for it, he put it on at once, with the remark that it +fitted him to a T. “We do look in our backs as near alike as two peas,” +he said to himself when he saw Paul leave the house, habited in another +coat nearly the same style and color as the one he was wearing. + +Paul was going to see Clarice, whom he found in hysterics, while her +mother was in a state of collapse, with several lady friends in +attendance. They had heard of Jack’s arrival and the scene at the hotel. +Of this the most extravagant stories had been told them. That Jack was +intoxicated went without saying. Another story was that he and Paul had +fought like wild beasts, rolling together on the hotel piazza. A third, +that without the slightest provocation Jack had flown at Paul, knocked +him down, broken his arm and further disabled him. This seemed probable, +as Paul did not come at the time he was expected, and a messenger was +about to be sent to the Ralston House to inquire for him when he +appeared. + +At sight of him Clarice redoubled her sobs, while Paul tried to quiet +her, assuring her he was not harmed and making light of the matter. When +she grew calm he began to relate the particulars, and as he talked and +heard the expressions of sympathy for himself and indignation against +Jack, his temper began to rise again, and he said many things not very +complimentary to Jack,—threatening things natural in themselves under +the circumstances, but which came up afterward as proof against him. +Clarice was the most excited, declaring that Jack should not come there +and begging Paul to find him and keep him away. This Paul promised to +do, although shrinking from another encounter with the enemy. + +The summer day was drawing to a close and the sun was setting when he +left the Percy cottage and started for home. As he crossed the causeway +between Lake Wenona and Lake Eau Claire he saw Jack turning into a cross +road on the Heights, and guessed that he had started for his mother’s +cottage, though why he should go that way, which was longer, he could +not guess. Dreading the result for Mrs. Percy and Clarice if Jack went +to them in a state of intoxication, as he probably was, he decided to +overtake him and if possible persuade him to turn back. The quickest way +to reach the oaks in which he had disappeared was to cross the open +space between Miss Hansford’s cottage and the woods. Seated on the steps +and piazza were three or four of the lodgers, together with Miss +Hansford. They had all heard of the encounter at the hotel and were +discussing it when Paul came rapidly up the path from the avenue. His +face was flushed and he looked excited and flurried, and seemed +unwilling to be stopped. + +“Hallo, Ralston,” one of the young men called out to him. “Glad to know +you are alive. Come here and tell us about it. Heard first your leg was +broken, then your arm. Why didn’t you smash his head for him?” + +“I’d like to,” Paul said, “but I can’t stop now. I am looking for him. +He is up this way somewhere, and I must find him. Have any of you seen +him?” + +No one had seen him, and Paul passed on hurriedly, while one of the +party on the steps remarked, “I don’t believe the trouble is over yet. +Ralston was pretty well wrought up for him.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI. + THE TRAGEDY. + + +Elithe was in her room at the rear of the cottage trying to bring up +arrearages in her Bible reading. Since entering society she had fallen +sadly behind with her five chapters on Sunday and three on every week +day. Fishing parties and clam bakes and lawn tennis and the skating rink +did not leave much leisure for other duties, and she found to her dismay +that she was twenty-five chapters behind,—long chapters, too,—and she +felt tired as she thought of them. Still they must be done, and she had +set apart this afternoon in which to do them. Her singing in the morning +had been a great success, and many had shaken hands with and +congratulated her when service was over. She, with others, had wondered +at Paul’s absence, which was the more singular on account of his solo. +There was no one to sing it until Mr. Turner, the rector, attempted it +and broke down. It was too bad of Paul to disappoint them, the people +said, while Elithe felt a little aggrieved inasmuch as he had expressed +himself so proud of her singing and so desirous for others to hear it. +At the offertory when she stood alone she had found herself looking over +the congregation in the hope that at the last he might come in. He +wasn’t there, but near the door, close up in a corner, some one was +sitting, whose face she could not see distinctly and who, when she was +through singing, rose up as if to leave, but resumed his seat, and she +thought no more about him until church was out. Then, with others she +heard of the trouble at the hotel and that Jack had had the effrontery +to come to church, sitting by the door and behaving in a very nervous, +restless manner, the sexton said in speaking of him. + +“Brought his satchel with him and acted as if he couldn’t keep still, +and once he did get up to go, but I shook my head at him and he sat down +again. He put a dollar in the box, any way.” + +This was the sexton’s story, to which his hearers listened eagerly, and +none more so than Elithe. She had heard a good deal of Jack Percy, and +nothing that was very favorable, and now that he had knocked Paul down +he must be a monster. She did not doubt that the man in the corner by +the door whom she had seen rise from his seat was he, and was sorry that +she had not a better view of him. During her dinner with her aunt she +had discussed him and Paul’s absence, regretting that the latter was not +there, as he would have told her truly how she sang. + +“I was there. I can tell you,” Miss Hansford said so quickly that Elithe +nearly fell out of her chair in her surprise. + +“You there! Oh, auntie. I’m so glad,” she exclaimed, and her aunt +replied, “Yes, I was there. Nobody asked me, but I wanted to see if you +made a fizzle.” + +“And did I?” Elithe asked. + +“No, you did first rate,—only flatted a little when you struck that high +G, made a dive at it as if you were afraid you would miss it,” was Miss +Hansford’s response, and not all the praises she had received pleased +Elithe half as much as her aunt’s commendation and the fact that she had +left her own church on purpose to hear her sing. + +After this they spoke of Jack Percy, Miss Hansford narrating a good many +incidents of his boyhood which she had treasured against him. Elithe had +heard some of them before, but now, with his presence in the town and +his abuse of Paul, they assumed a new interest, and while struggling +with the plagues of Egypt later in her room thoughts of Jack Percy kept +recurring to her mind with great persistence, and he became frightfully +mixed with Moses and Aaron and other actors in that far-off drama. If +she succeeded in driving Jack from her mind other distracting thoughts +crept in. Sails on the water, skating in the rink, games in the tennis +court, and, worst of all, that waltz by moonlight when Paul Ralston’s +arm was around her. That bothered her the most. + +“It’s the evil one himself tempting me,” she thought, and said aloud +with a jerk of her shoulder, “Get thee behind me, Satan.” + +But he kept himself in the foreground until she had nearly waded through +the plagues. Then she heard Paul speaking to the young men on the steps, +and, glancing from her window, saw him as he passed under it. + +“Ahem,” she said involuntarily, and, looking up, Paul saw her and +touched his hat. “You weren’t in church to hear me sing. Auntie was +there, and says I flatted on high G. I told you I couldn’t strike it +square.” + +Paul was not in a mood for joking, but he could not resist the bright +face confronting him, and he answered laughingly, “I don’t believe you +flatted. Your auntie is a little deaf. I’m sure you sang beautifully. Am +sorry I could not hear you.” + +“So am I, but more sorry for the trouble which kept you away. We are all +so indignant. It was too bad about your solo. Ever so many were there to +hear it. Poor old Mr. Turner took it and quavered and floundered and +finally broke down. It was too funny for anything. Mr. Percy was there, +too, they say. Couldn’t have liked my solo very well. Got up to go out, +but the sexton frowned him back. I had just a glimpse of the wretch.” + +She might have talked longer if Paul had not cut her short by saying, +“He _is_ a wretch, and I am looking for him, so excuse me if I do not +stop any longer. I don’t believe you flatted on that G.” + +He laughed, touched his hat again and hurried on, while Elithe resumed +her reading. It was very close and warm in her room, and when she had +Pharaoh and his 600 chosen chariots ready to pursue after the children +of Israel she let down her window from the top and leaned far out to get +a breath of fresh air. It was light enough to see objects distinctly, +and at a distance of a dozen rods or more she saw Paul Ralston standing +with his face turned partly from her and towards a thick clump of +shrubbery which lay in the shadow. What was he doing there, and why had +he come back so soon? she wondered, and was about to call and ask him if +he had found Jack, when she saw him take something from his side pocket +and examine it. What it was she could not tell, except that it was +bright like silver. Just then there was a stir in the undergrowth of +shrubbery, and a sound like some animal running. Before she had time for +further thought the object in Paul’s hand was lowered to nearly a level +with the ground. There was a flash, a report, and a loud cry of pain +from the clump of oaks, which were violently agitated as if shaken by +some one in mortal agony; then all was still. For a moment Elithe stood +frozen with horror, and saw Paul throw the weapon from him and hurry +into the woods. + +“Oh, Auntie! Mr. Ralston has shot some one!” she cried, running down the +stairs and out to where the group, which had been sitting on the steps, +were now standing upon the grass and looking to see where the shot came +from. + +“Mr. Ralston? How do you know it was Mr. Ralston? And where is he?” Miss +Hansford asked, and Elithe replied, “I saw him. He threw the revolver +away and went into the woods. Come quick; I am sure somebody is hurt. I +heard a groan. There, it comes again.” + +She was leading the way to the clump of thick bushes, or stunted trees, +where, when a boy, Jack Percy had waited while Paul carried the melon to +Miss Hansford and had dreamed that he was dead. Here he was lying now, +his hand grasping his valise, his face turned on one side, and the blood +trickling from a bullet hole above his temple. Several of the cottagers +had heard the report and were out to ascertain its cause, so that it was +quite a little crowd of people which met around the spot, Miss Hansford +the most excited of them all. Pushing Elithe back so violently that she +nearly fell to the ground, she stooped over the prostrate man and said +in a choking voice, “It’s Jack Percy; but he is not dead; he must not +die. Take him to my cottage.” + +As the men stood for a moment paralyzed and did not offer to touch him, +she lifted his head herself and with her handkerchief tried to stanch +the blood which gushed from the wound and saturated his hair. + +“Somebody go for a doctor—quick,” she said. “Tell him it’s a case of +life and death.” + +Elithe heard and started like a deer across the field to the nearest +doctor, whom she found just leaving his house for a walk. + +“Quick! Quick!” she said, seizing him by the arm. “Mr. Ralston has shot +Mr. Percy. He is in auntie’s cottage. Run!” + +“Bless my soul! Shot Jack Percy! I didn’t think it would come to that. +What won’t young blood do?” the doctor exclaimed, trying to keep up with +Elithe, whom he questioned as to what she saw, and which she told him +readily, with no thought of the consequences. + +She was too frightened and too excited to think of anything but the +dying man, whose face she had not seen as it lay in the deep shadow of +the trees. They had put him upon the lounge in Miss Hansford’s front +room, where he was breathing heavily and moaning occasionally as if in +pain. + +“Jack! Jack! Mr. Percy!” Miss Hansford kept saying, trying to rouse him +to consciousness, but she might as well have talked to a block of wood. + +The news had spread like wild fire, bringing a crowd of people asking +who it was and how it was, but receiving no satisfactory answer. A +second doctor, who chanced to be passing, had been summoned, and with +the first one was examining the patient. Outside the cottage was the +murmur of eager, subdued voices and inside terrible excitement as one +after another tried to get a sight of the sufferer. Miss Hansford was +now calm and resolute, issuing her orders like a general and ministering +to Jack as tenderly as if he had not always been her detestation. + +“Stand back, can’t you, and give him air, and for heaven’s sake don’t +let any more in,” she was saying, when the crowd parted to let Paul +Ralston pass. + +“Who is it?” he asked, making his way to the couch. + +Laying her hand upon his shoulder and looking steadily into his eyes, +Miss Hansford said very low, “It’s Jack. Didn’t you know it?” + +“Jack! Oh my God!” Paul exclaimed, throwing up his hands and staggering +backward. “Who did it? Was it suicide?” + +At this moment Elithe, who had been sent for another lamp, entered the +room, and, seeing Paul, said to him: “Oh, Mr. Ralston! How did it +happen? Didn’t you know he was there?” + +Before Paul could reply Miss Hansford sent Elithe from the room again +and followed her. Closing the door and drawing the girl to the farthest +corner of the kitchen, she said in a whisper, “Can’t you hold your yawp? +Do you want to put a halter round Paul’s neck, telling everybody what +you saw?” + +In her fright Elithe had never thought of implicating Paul by what she +said, but now as her aunt’s meaning dawned upon her she seemed to see in +a flash the terrible drama in which she was to play so prominent a part. +With a cry she dropped into a chair and said faintly, “I saw him, but it +was a mistake; he never meant to shoot him. Oh, what can I do?” + +“Hold your tongue and stay where you are,” was Miss Hansford’s reply, as +she went back to the room where the doctors were still at work, with +Paul assisting them and occasionally making suggestions. + +“If he would only go away,” she thought; then, as a sudden inspiration +came to her, she asked if any one had told Clarice. + +“No,” Paul said. “I’ll go for her myself. She ought to be here,” and to +Miss Hansford’s relief he left the house. + +In a short time he came back with Clarice, who threw herself upon her +knees beside her brother and called upon him frantically to speak to +her, or give some sign that he knew her. The sight of his white, +bloodstained face had roused all the affection she ever felt for him, +and made her regret the harshness with which she had treated him. She +did not ask how it happened. She assumed it was suicide, and wondered +why he did it. + +Gradually the crowd disappeared to talk the matter over in the street +and at their own houses. The lodgers, too, had gone to their rooms after +offering to stay if they were needed. Miss Hansford declined their +offers peremptorily. She wanted to be alone, and when all were gone +except the doctors, Clarice and Paul, she went up stairs to Elithe, whom +she found upon the floor, with her head upon the window sill, sobbing +convulsively. + +“Elithe,” she began. “You saw him throw the revolver away. Tell me just +where he stood,—which way he threw it, and about how far.” + +“He stood by the stump where some nasturtiums are growing,” Elithe +replied. “His face was away from me,—to the west. He threw with his +right hand. Oh, Auntie, he didn’t mean it. What will they do with him?” + +“The Lord only knows;—hang him, perhaps! If you had held your tongue +nobody would have connected him with it,” was Miss Hansford’s reply, as +she left Elithe writhing on the floor in an agony of remorse and fear. + +The moon had gone down and clouds, which threatened rain, were scudding +across the sky, adding to the darkness of the underbrush, where a woman +was moving cautiously, feeling every inch of ground, every stone and +clump of grass, and whispering to herself, “I must find it,—I must.” Her +hands were cut with briars,—her dress was draggled and wet, when she at +last abandoned the search and returned to the house, where the doctors, +with Clarice and Paul, were keeping their anxious watch. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII. + ELITHE AND JACK PERCY. + + +Elithe had sat upstairs in the darkness praying that Jack Percy might +live, or if he died, that no harm might come to Paul. Hearing no sound +from below, and anxious to know how matters were, she ventured down at +last. In the confusion she had seen only the outline of Jack’s face and +this in semi-darkness. Now, as she entered the room she had a full view +of it as he lay on his back, with the light of a lamp falling upon it. +Clarice was sitting with her head upon a table,—Paul at the foot of the +lounge, and a doctor on either side, nodding in their chairs and paying +no attention either to Miss Hansford or Elithe, until startled by a loud +cry from the latter. + +“It’s Mr. Pennington! How came he here?” and, throwing out her arms, +Elithe dropped by the side of the couch as if she had been shot. “Mr. +Pennington,” she repeated, “you must not die; you shall not.” + +In an instant Clarice and Paul and the doctors were on their feet, +stupefied with what they heard and the sight of Elithe kneeling by Jack +Percy and calling him Mr. Pennington. Very slowly Jack’s eyes opened and +turned towards her with a look of ineffable tenderness which each one in +the room noticed. Then they closed again, as if the effort to keep them +open were too great, and, moving his hand very slowly towards her, he +whispered, faintly: “Elithe.” + +What did it mean, and where had she known this man whom she called Mr. +Pennington, and who, at the sound of her voice, roused as nothing had +been able to rouse him, Miss Hansford thought, as she watched the +strange proceeding. + +“Speak to him again. You may save him,” the doctor said. + +With this incentive Elithe spoke again: “Mr. Pennington, do you hear me? +I am Elithe. Do you know me? Try to live. You must not die.” + +Unconsciously she was pleading for Paul more than for the life ebbing so +fast. Nothing could save that, and the pallor of death was already +spreading itself over the face, which moved a little in response to her +appeal. The eyes opened again,—more filmy and dim than when they looked +at her before. Around the lips there was a pitiful kind of smile as he +said: “Elithe, the harvest is being reaped, and such a harvest! You +tried to make it a better one. They all tried. Tell them I am sorry, and +wish I had never left the Gulch. Tell Clarice——” + +Here he stopped, while Clarice sprang forward on the other side of him +and said: “Jack! Jack! I am here,—Clarice. Speak to me. What is it you +want Elithe to tell me?” + +Jack did not reply. His dulled ear had caught only the word Elithe, +which he repeated again. + +“Ask him who did it?” one of the doctors said, and in an instant Elithe +stiffened, while her aunt stood more erect and listened. + +“Can I ask him and run the risk of his answer?” Elithe thought, deciding +that she would not. Lifting her tear-stained face, she shook her head +and said: “I cannot.” + +“Then I will,” and, bending close to Jack, the physician shrieked in his +ear: “Who did it? Who shot you?” + +Both Paul and Clarice thought this a useless question to ask one who +shot himself, but Jack did not reply even if he understood. + +“Thank God!” came from under Miss Hansford’s breath, as Jack made no +sign that he had heard, or sign of any sort for several minutes, when +there was the faintest possible whisper: + +“Elithe, I tried my best and failed.” + +They were his last words, and Elithe felt the hand she held growing +colder and clammier as the minutes went by, and there was no sound in +the room but the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the labored +breathing, which grew more and more labored and slow until, just as the +day was breaking over the sea and the white sails were coming into +sight, it ceased entirely and Jack was dead. + +Elithe knew it first and rose to her feet, tottering a little from the +cramped position she had been in so long. Paul put out a hand to steady +her, but Miss Hansford was before him. She could bear the suspense no +longer, and, taking Elithe by the arm, she said: “Where did you know +Jack Percy?” + +“In Samona, as Mr. Pennington; never as Mr. Percy,” was Elithe’s reply, +as she left the room, and, going to her chamber, threw herself upon her +bed, half crazed with all she had passed through. + +Clarice fainted, and when she recovered Miss Hansford said to Paul: +“Take Clarice home. She is better with her mother.” + +She wanted to get him away, although she knew he was going from one +danger into another. There would be as many questions asked at the Percy +cottage as at her own, where people were beginning to gather, coming +from every direction, some up the avenue, some across the bridge and the +causeway and some across the open space where she had hunted in the +darkness for the revolver. + +“Somebody is sure to find it,” she thought, and watched from the kitchen +door all who came that way. “There! God help us!” she moaned, as she saw +a man stoop down and pick up something, which he examined carefully. She +knew what it was, and went to meet him, holding out her hand. “Give it +to me,” she said, and he gave it to her,—a little silver-mounted +revolver with “P. R.” engraved upon it. + +She knew he had seen the lettering and said to him: “It is a mistake, +which will be explained. Don’t say you found it.” + +The man bowed and did not reply. Covering the telltale witness with her +apron, Miss Hansford took it to the house, and, hiding it in a deep +chest in the back chamber where she kept her bed linen, went down to +meet the people who were talking of the inquest, which it was thought +best to have at once before the body was removed. It was a hurried, +informal affair, held by an incompetent coroner, new to the office and +conducting his first case. No one of those who saw Paul go by just +before the shooting and heard what Elithe said had spoken. The doctor +for whom Elithe had been sent had been hurriedly called away immediately +after Jack died. Suicide had been suggested by Paul and Clarice and +accepted as highly probable, and a verdict to that effect was rendered +with very little discussion. Miss Hansford felt that the matter was +finished and Paul was safe. The next moment her spirits fell. They were +inquiring for the revolver which did the deed. It must be near where +Jack was found, and search must be made for it. Here was a trouble she +had not foreseen, and she felt as if her heart would burst as she tried +to appear natural and put aside her dread of impending evil. All her +lodgers and some of the neighbors had heard Elithe. Sooner or later they +were sure to talk, and then a hundred verdicts of suicide would not +avail to save Paul from suspicion and possible arrest. If he would only +speak out now and tell how it happened he would be believed. Evidently +he had no thought of speaking out. He had gone with Clarice without +doing so, and she could only pray that no inquiries might be made when +the missing weapon was not found. + +Now that the inquest was over and the people began to go she had time to +think of Elithe. She was lying on her bed benumbed with the great +horror, not the least of which was the knowledge that Mr. Pennington was +Jack Percy. That he had cared for her more than for a mere friend, she +could not doubt, and it seemed to her that “Elithe,” spoken as with his +dying breath he had spoken it, would sound in her ears forever. It never +occurred to her what construction with regard to herself might be put +upon that death scene. She could think of nothing except that Mr. +Pennington was Jack Percy, and Jack Percy was dead,—shot by Paul +Ralston. + +“Oh, I can’t bear it!” she cried. “I cannot bear it. Why did I ever come +here?” Then she remembered the ring, and started to her feet. What +should she do with it now? “I’ll give it back to him,” she said, and, +putting the box in her pocket, she stole downstairs into the kitchen, +keeping herself from sight, as much as possible and watching her +opportunity to enter the sitting room when no one was there. + +An undertaker had been sent for, and while waiting for him Miss Hansford +had closed the door to keep intruders out. This was Elithe’s chance. +Stealthily, as if she were guilty of a misdemeanor, she crossed the +threshold, shut the door and was alone with the dead. She had no time +more than to glance at the white face, handsomer in death than in life, +because of the peaceful expression which had settled upon it at the +last. His hands were folded one over the other upon his chest, where +Miss Hansford put them. “He wore it on his right,” Elithe thought, +remembering just how the ring looked when she first saw it in Stokes’s +cabin. Taking the hand in hers, she pushed the ring on to the third +finger, knowing it would stay there, as she had some trouble to get it +over the joint. Very carefully she placed the left hand over the right, +shivering from head to foot with the awful chill it gave her and +recoiling once as she fancied the stiffened fingers clasped hers as the +living ones had done just before Jack died. As she left the room she saw +the undertaker on the walk, and with him a number of people, who were +just coming to the scene of the tragedy. “I was none too soon,” she +thought, as she escaped up the stairs and ran into her chamber. + +Miss Hansford met the undertaker, and, conducting him to where the body +lay, stayed by while the preparations were made for taking it to the +Percy cottage. When all were gone except a few who lingered round the +house and near the spot where Jack was found and where his blood was +still staining the low shrubs and sand, she went to Elithe’s room and +said, just as she had never spoken to her before: “Now tell me all you +know about Jack Percy.” + +At the sound of her stern voice, Elithe, who was lying down, sat up, +and, shedding her hair back from her throbbing temples, said, +pleadingly: “Must I tell you now, when I am so tired and my head aches +so hard?” + +“Yes, now; and tell it as it is,—no prevarication!” + +Elithe took her hands from her head and looked at her aunt in surprise. + +“Why should I prevaricate? There is nothing to conceal,” she said. “I +told you something about him once, and I will tell you again,” and, +beginning at the beginning, she repeated every particular of her +acquaintance with Jack from the day she first saw him to the present +time. + +As she talked Miss Hansford felt her knees giving out and she sat down +upon the bed, with a feeling that she was living in the midst of a +romance as well as of a tragedy. + +“And are you sure you did not care for him,—love him, I mean?” she +asked, and Elithe answered, quickly: “No; oh, no, I did not! I could +not; he was my friend,—father’s friend; that is all.” + +“And you put the ring on his finger?” was Miss Hansford’s next question. + +“Yes, I put it on his finger,” Elithe repeated, with a shudder. “Please +cover me up; I am so cold.” + +She was huddled in a little heap, and Miss Hansford pulled the blanket +over her and said: “You are shaking as if you had an ager fit. Ginger +tea will help that.” + +She brought the tea and made Elithe drink it, and put another blanket +over her, wondering that she should be so cold when the air was so hot +and sultry, and never suspecting that it was the chill of Jack’s dead +hand which Elithe felt in every nerve, and which would take more than +ginger tea to remove. She stayed in bed all day, and Miss Hansford was +glad to have her out of the way of the people who came at intervals +during the morning to ask questions and wonder why Jack killed himself. +Miss Hansford’s mouth was shut on the subject, and when they asked if +they could see Elithe she answered: “No, you can’t. She’s sick,—worn out +with excitement and being up all night just as I am.” + +She wanted so much to be alone, and was glad that her lodgers had the +good sense to spend the day at the hotel, where the affair was freely +discussed. Paul was with Clarice at the cottage, from the doors of which +yards of crape were streaming, while in the darkened room, where, on the +following Thursday night, the bridal party was to have stood, Jack lay +in his coffin, his thick hair concealing the wound from which the bullet +had been extracted. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII. + POOR JACK. + + +With all his faults there was much that was good in him, and right +influences could have brought it out. Neglected by his stepmother, +treated with indifference by his sister, called a bad boy by nearly all +who knew him, it was natural that the worst part of his nature should +thrive until it bore its fruitage of vice. + +“I am a sort of Ishmael, anyway,” he used to say to himself, “and may as +well have a good time being so.” + +And he had a good time according to his definition of the term. Drinking +and gambling were his besetting sins, and during the last three years of +his life, when his mother and sister saw but little of him, he sank low +in the scale of respectability, although managing to preserve the +semblance of a gentleman, for he was very proud, and not without his +seasons of remorse and resolutions to reform. One of these was strong +upon him after he had squandered the money Clarice entrusted to him to +invest in Denver. + +“I’ll pay back every dollar if I live,” he said to himself, and on a +piece of paper he wrote: “I hereby solemnly promise to pay Clarice all I +owe her with compound interest from date.—Jack Percy, Denver, Jan. ——, +18——.” + +He was in the habit of writing similar good resolutions after every +drunken debauch, and this last was in his pocket when he reached the +miners’ camp at Deep Gulch, hoping to retrieve his fortune. He had taken +the name John Pennington because he was tired of Jack Percy, who had +played him false so many times, and represented so much that was bad. + +“A new name is like new clothes, and makes me feel respectable,” he said +to the friend in Denver to whom he confided his plans, and who was to +receive his mail and forward it to Samona. + +At Helena, where he stopped on his journey, he found two of his +comrades, who invited him to a champagne supper, with the result that at +its close the three were on the floor. Jack, who was easily affected, +especially by champagne, went down first and was taken to his room in a +state of stupidity, followed by delirium tremens, the first attack he +ever had, and the last, he swore, when able to be up and recall the +horror of the days and nights when writhing snakes, with red, beady +eyes, were twisting themselves around his body and devils breathing blue +flame from nostrils and mouth were beckoning to him from every corner of +the room. Weak and shaky, he reached Deep Gulch and went to work with a +will. Nature, however, who exacts payment for abuse, exacted it of him, +and with no apparent cause he was visited a second time by his enemies, +the devils and the snakes, and was put into Stokes’s cabin, where Elithe +found him. He heard the miners speak of Mr. Hansford, and that he was +from the vicinity of Boston. Cudgelling his brain to recall something he +had forgotten, he remembered at last that Miss Phebe Hansford had a +relative in the far West, who was a clergyman. This, no doubt, was he, +and when Lizy Ann asked if he would like to see him he answered with an +oath that he would not. + +“He would undoubtedly worry me as the old woman used to do, telling me +that I was the worst boy the Lord ever made. Now, if she had told me +once in a while that I was a good boy, or if anybody had, I believe, my +soul, I should have tried to be one,” he was thinking, when he fell into +the sleep from which he woke to find Elithe sitting by him. + +It was a long time since he had seen a face as sweet and fresh as the +one looking at him with pitying eyes, which said they knew his +infirmity, and were sorry for him. All the best of his manhood was +wakened to life by the sight of her. She was so different from the girls +he had known,—different from Clarice, whose pet name, Mignon, given her +by him when she was a baby, had escaped him in his sleep. He had never +cared particularly for any of the fashionable young ladies of his +acquaintance, although he had flirted with many of them, but his heart +went out to Elithe at once, and it was not long before he knew that he +loved her as he could never love any one again. Then began the struggle +to conceal his love until such time as he had proved himself worthy of +her, should that time ever come. He knew her father was watching him and +respected him for it, and knew, too, that in Elithe’s mind there was no +suspicion of his real feeling for her. Two or three times he came near +betraying it and his identity, and the night before she left home he +wrote to Clarice, telling her of his attachment to Elithe and asking her +to be kind to her for his sake. This letter he tore up, deciding to let +matters drift. Then he wrote the note which, with the ring, he gave to +Elithe when he reached Helena. + +“That will keep me in her mind,” he thought, half expecting some +acknowledgment of the gift and word to say that she remembered him. + +But none came and the weeks went by and he only heard from her through +the letters sent to her father and mother. Of these he had pretty full +accounts from Rob, and from him and the Boston Herald he heard of +Clarice’s approaching marriage and felt humiliated and angry that the +news should first reach him in this way. He did not deserve much at his +sister’s hands, he knew, but he had written her twice that his debt to +her should be paid, sending his letters to Denver, from which place they +had been forwarded to her by his friend and confidant. She had not +answered them, but he knew she must have received them, and, thinking he +had made sufficient atonement for the past, he resented her neglect of +him. + +“I’ll write her again, telling her where I am and that I have heard of +her wedding and am going to it,” he thought, and he wrote the letter, +which was prompted more by a desire to see Elithe than to be present at +the marriage. + +Very anxiously he waited for Clarice’s answer, which was directed to +Denver and then forwarded to him at Samona. + +“Something for you,” the P. M. said to him one morning, handing him the +letter in which he recognized the handwriting of his Denver friend. + +It was from Clarice, and he understood it perfectly. He was not wanted +at the wedding. “But I’ll go,” he said, his desire to see Elithe +conquering every other feeling. Mr. Hansford heard with surprise of his +intention to leave Samona for an indefinite length of time, but had no +suspicion of his destination. The boys were inconsolable, for Mr. +Pennington was a great favorite. The miners were sorry, for New York was +the right sort, and they prided themselves upon having had something to +do with his reformation, which seemed genuine. He had his last shake in +their midst, and had been straight as a string ever since, they said, +and they were proud of his acquaintance and friendship. They came into +town and went with the boys and Mr. Hansford to see him off, and gave +three cheers and a tiger for his safe journey and ultimate return. + +“Keep the pledge,” Stokes said to him at parting. + +“I will. It’s in my pocket,” was Jack’s reply, and there were tears in +his eyes as he heard the shouts of the miners bidding him good-bye and +saw them throwing their hats in the air until the train entered a deep +cut and the place he would never see again disappeared from view. + +There was a stop at Denver, where an irresistible impulse took him to +the place where at different times he had lost so much and won so +little. + +“I’ll try it once more. Maybe I’ll make enough to pay Clarice,” he +thought. + +He tried again and won nearly as much as he owed her. This he deposited +to her credit, and with a feeling that now she would certainly be glad +to see him, continued his journey to Chicago, where his evil genius met +him in the shape of so-called friends, and he sank again to the level of +a beast. Mortified and half tipsy, he made his way to New Bedford, +hearing that of himself upon the boat which made him hot with resentment +and pain. At the Harbor Hotel in Oak City there was no room for him,—no +one who cared. At the hotel, where he spent the night, it was worse. + +“They said on the boat that I cut no figure, and I don’t,” he thought, +as he sat in his small, close room reviewing the situation and wishing +himself back with the miners, who were his real friends. + +“I’ll go back, too,” he decided, but first he must write to Elithe, +telling her who he was,—how much he loved her,—and then bid her good-bye +forever. + +He wrote the letter and put it in his pocket, forgetting to direct it. +In his satchel were his toilet articles and the present he had bought +for Clarice. This he meant to leave for her at the Harbor Hotel, with +his card and a “d—— you” under his name. But he couldn’t write it. A +thought of Elithe held him back, and he laid his plain card in the box +from which he took the vase and looked at it a moment. It was very +pretty and he anticipated Clarice’s appreciation of it. In his weak, +childish condition after a spree he cried easily, and two great tears +rolled down his face and fell upon the vase. + +“I don’t suppose she’ll care a rap for it, she’ll be so glad I am not +here to mortify her, but she shall have it all the same,” he said, +wiping the tears from it with his shirt sleeve and replacing it in the +box. + +At the Harbor Hotel his anger against everybody and everything increased +and reached its height when Paul appeared and spoke to him. Of what +followed he had but little real knowledge. He had an impression that +Paul meant to strike him, but was not sure. He knew he knocked Paul down +and didn’t care. He heard the execrations of the people round him and +didn’t care. He didn’t care for anything but to get away from it all, +and, taking up his bag, he started to go,—he didn’t know where, or care. +He was disgraced forever in the eyes of Elithe, who would hear what he +had done and despise him. + +“I don’t believe I’ll send her the letter, and then she’ll never know +that I am the Jack Percy whose name will be in everybody’s mouth in a +few hours,” he thought, as he went down the steps. + +In the church across the street they were singing the Te Deum. He had +heard the Venite in a confused sort of way, and something had struck him +as familiar in it, although the music was new. Now as the words, “All +the earth doth worship Thee, the Father everlasting,” were borne out +upon the summer air he stopped suddenly. Surely that was Elithe singing, +as he had heard her many times in the little Samona church. She was +there, not many rods away. He might see her again, himself unseen, and +he started for the church, while the people on the piazza looked after +him, commenting upon his appearance and wondering why in his condition +he should care to go to church of all places. He knew where to sit if +the place were not occupied,—close by the door, in a corner, where, +unobserved, he could see most of the congregation. He had sat there more +than once when a boy and eaten peanuts and scribbled in the old Prayer +Books and been frowned upon by the colored sexton, Pete. It was the same +man now, grown older and gray-haired and less overwhelmed with a sense +of his importance. He recognized Jack, and offered to take his satchel +and conduct him up the aisle. Jack shook his head, indicating that he +would rather stay near the door. Crowding himself to the farthest +extremity of the pew he found that he could see a part of the choir and +Elithe. She was singing the closing lines of the Te Deum, and in her +tailor-made gown, sailor hat and all the appurtenances of a fashionable +toilet, seemed a different Elithe from the one he had known, and for a +brief moment he felt that he preferred her in her Samona dress, with the +air of the mines and the mountains upon it. He had heard from Rob of the +trip to Boston and its result and was glad. Elithe had been very minute +in her description of her wardrobe to her mother, and Jack had often +fancied her in her new attire. Now he saw her, and while not quite +pleased with the change thought her more beautiful than ever before. He +could see her sailor hat and half of her face when she sat down and +watched her intently. + +Once it occurred to him to wonder if Clarice were there. But no, she +would never appear in public the Sunday before her marriage, and the +Percy pew was occupied by strangers, and behind it in a corner, nearly +as much sheltered from observation as he was himself, was Miss Phebe +Hansford. Knowing her prejudice against “Fashion’s Bazaar,” Jack could +scarcely believe his eyes. Yet there she was,—joining in the service and +slightly bowing in the creed;—then, as if remembering herself and her +principles, giving her head an upward jerk and standing through the +remainder of the creed as stiff and straight as a darning needle. Jack +could not repress a smile as he watched her, dividing his attentions +pretty equally between her and Elithe, until the offertory, when the +latter stood up to sing alone. At first her voice shook a little, and +Jack was afraid she would break down. But as she gained courage her +voice rose louder and clearer,—making those who had never seen her +before wonder who she was,—with notes which, if not tuned to the highest +culture, were pure and sweet as a bird’s. She was achieving a great +success, and Jack felt proud of her, and thought of the miners’ camp, +where she sang to him of “Rest for the weary,” with the wind sweeping +through the cañons and the rain beating dismally against the window. +That was a long time ago, and she was here in Oak City, singing to a +fashionable audience, and he was listening to her and forgetting the +nightmare which had oppressed him. He had an ear as acute as Miss +Hansford’s, and knew when Elithe flatted on high G, and was sorry she +did it, but consoled himself with the thought that not one in fifty of +the congregation would notice it. The plate was coming down to him by +this time, for the song was ended and Elithe, with a look of relief, was +fanning herself with her music. Now was Jack’s time to leave, he +thought, and, taking his satchel, he rose to go. A shake of the old +sexton’s head made him sit down and sent his hand into his pocket. He +had not intended giving anything, but, changing his mind, he dropped a +silver dollar in the plate and was rewarded by Pete with a nod of +satisfaction. As it chanced his offering was the only silver dollar +given that morning, and after the awful tragedy Pete went to the +treasurer and exchanged a bill for it, keeping Jack’s dollar as a +souvenir to be exhibited to many curious people, who looked at it and +handled it with a feeling that it was something sacred, because the last +money which the dead man’s hands had touched. + +Jack was the first to leave the church, as he did not care to meet any +of the people, for the remembrance of what he had done that morning was +beginning to make him ashamed, and if he had seen Paul he would +unquestionably have apologized to him. But Paul was not there and Jack +returned to the hotel, where no one spoke to or noticed him. He had his +lunch at the second table, and then went out on the seaward side of the +house, and, seating himself at a distance from the few who were on that +piazza, began to think whether he should take the evening boat or wait +till morning. + +“I’ll wait,” he said, “and maybe I can see Paul. Any way I’ll add a P. +S. to my letter to Elithe and tell her what a brute I’ve been and that I +heard her sing.” + +Going to the reading room he added a P. S., telling what he had thought +and felt and done during the day,—saying he was sorry for insulting Paul +and wished she would tell him so. He would like to see Clarice and +possibly he might. If not, he would leave her present at the hotel, with +directions for it to be sent, and he wished Elithe to tell her that he +had refunded nearly all her money, and she would find things straight in +Denver, if she stopped there on her wedding trip, as she said she +intended doing. + +“And now, my darling,” he wrote in conclusion, “it is good-bye forever. +It is not likely we shall meet again, nor will you care to see me after +what I have done. But I hope you will think of me sometimes as one who, +for the brief period he knew you and your family, experienced more real +happiness and received more real kindness than he ever received or +experienced before in his life.—JACK PERCY, _alias_ JOHN PENNINGTON.” + + +Why he did not direct the letter this time no one will ever know. He +didn’t direct it, but dropped it into his satchel and went again to his +seat on the seaward side of the hotel, sitting there alone and sleeping +most of the time until the day was waning, when he roused up and +started, probably for his mother’s cottage, and taking the road past +Miss Hansford’s with a hope of getting a glimpse of Elithe. When Paul +saw him entering the wood he judged from his gait and general appearance +that he was partially intoxicated, but this might not have been true. He +was always unsteady in his walk for a few days after a debauch such as +he had had in Chicago, and if he tottered it was probably more from +weakness and fatigue than from drink, and this prompted him to stop by +the way and rest. Why he chose the clump of oaks, where he had dreamed +of lying dead, no one can tell. He did choose it, and here they found +him dying, with all his sins upon his head and all his good deeds and +intentions, too, of which the pitiful Father took note and met as they +deserved. Poor Jack! + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX. + ELITHE’S INTERVIEW WITH CLARICE. + + +Nearly all that day Elithe stayed in bed, sometimes burning with fever, +but oftener shivering with cold, which the ginger tea had not +counteracted. She had experienced two great shocks in quick succession +and was bodily and mentally unstrung. She saw Paul Ralston fire the +fatal shot which had killed Jack Percy. No questioning or +cross-questioning from her aunt could leave a doubt in her mind. She saw +it and was filled with dread of what her having seen it might mean for +her. Second to this, and nearly as great in its effect upon her, was the +knowledge that Mr. Pennington was Jack Percy, in whom she knew there was +much that was good, notwithstanding the ill that was spoken of him in +Oak City. + +In the dining room below Miss Hansford sat like a sentinel keeping +people from going up to see Elithe and answering the questions put to +her in the most non-committal manner. They kept coming all the morning +and a part of the afternoon, bringing the news from time to time of what +was being done at the Percy cottage. Paul was there with Clarice, who +had refused to see any one and sat in a dark room crying all the time. +There were to be short services at the house early the next day, and +then the body was to be taken to Washington and buried at Beechwood, the +old Percy homestead, which still belonged to the family. Mrs. Percy was +nearly as bad as Clarice, and had a doctor in attendance. + +To all this and more Miss Hansford listened, evincing no particular +interest until the last bulletin was brought her to the effect that the +bullet had been extracted and that they were still hunting for the +revolver which the ball fitted, but could not find it. + +“Some think now that it wasn’t suicide, if the jury did so decide. +There’s queer things being talked which I don’t believe,” one caller +said, with a meaning look at Miss Hansford, who knew that the train was +fired which would certainly overtake Paul and crush him. + +She was a woman of strong nerve, but this news unmanned her and she sat +motionless in her chair, making no comment, and when her informer was +gone, locking the door to keep out others who might come spying upon her +misery. Would the man who found the revolver keep silent? She did not +think so. He would tell. The weapon would be traced to its hiding place, +and with its initials, “P. R.,” bear deadly evidence against her boy. +She called him that many times, wondering what she ought to do and why +he did not speak. And so the day wore on, and, late in the afternoon, +Elithe, who had slept for two hours or more, insisted upon dressing +herself and coming down to tea with her aunt. It was taken in the +kitchen, with the shades down and the door bolted. Several times there +had been knocks, which were not answered, but as they were finishing +their supper there came one so loud and oft repeated that the door was +opened tremblingly by Miss Hansford, who half expected to be met by an +officer come to demand the revolver and perhaps to arrest her for +complicity in the matter. It was a boy from the Percy cottage with a +note from Clarice to Elithe. + + + “Miss E. Hansford,” it read: “There are some things relating to my + poor brother which you alone can tell me. Will you come to me this + evening? We leave to-morrow for Washington, and I must see you before + I go. Hastily,— + + “CLARICE PERCY.” + + +“Oh, I can’t go! What does she want?” Elithe said as she read the note +aloud. + +“Wants to know all about Jack. Natural enough. I thought ’twould come. +You’ll have to stand it. I’ll go with you,” Miss Hansford replied, and, +going to the boy waiting upon the doorstep, she bade him tell Miss Percy +that Miss Hansford would call upon her between eight and nine. “It’ll be +dark then. It’s raining now, thank the Lord,” she said to Elithe, whose +chill increased at the thought of meeting Clarice and talking with her +of Jack. + +“What shall I say to her?” she asked her aunt. + +“Tell her how you found him at the mines, and what kindness did for him. +It’s my opinion he would not be lying as he is now if they had treated +him decent.” + +She was beginning to espouse Jack’s cause, and encouraged Elithe and +kept her up until the clock struck eight, when, under the cover of +darkness and rain and umbrellas, they started for the Percy Cottage. + +Clarice had spent a wretched day, stunned by the calamity which had +overtaken her,—grieving for her brother’s tragic death,—wishing she had +treated him better while living, and regretting the grand spectacle in +which she was to have been the central figure and which must now be +given up. The invitations and orders must be countermanded,—her bridal +trousseau exchanged for crape, which she detested, and the wedding march +turned into a funeral dirge. It was hard, and Paul tried in vain to +console her, telling her there was still a bright future in store for +them. Clarice would not be consoled, and with her head on Paul’s +shoulder and his arm around her, sat blaming Providence for having dealt +so harshly with her, when Elithe was announced. + +“Show her in,” she said, without removing herself from Paul’s encircling +arm. + +She was to have been his wife the next Thursday, and was quite willing +that Elithe, of whom she had been jealous, should be witness to her +ownership of him. + +“Shall both come in?” the maid inquired. + +“Both? Whom do you mean?” Clarice asked, and the maid replied: “The +elder Miss Hansford is here, and wishes to see you with her niece.” + +“Yes, let her come,” Paul said, moving a little as if he would rather +Clarice should sit upright in the presence of visitors. + +She took the hint and sat up, but kept her place close to him, with her +hand on his, and plunged at once into her motive for sending for Elithe. + +“You knew my brother,” she began. “I want you to tell me all about your +acquaintance with him, but first about this ring. It was not on his +finger when he died. It was there when they brought him home. You must +have put it there. Why? Didn’t you care for my brother?” + +She was asking questions such as Elithe had not expected, and for a +moment she shook like a leaf, and turned so white that Paul feared she +was going to faint. Clarice had the ring upon her own finger, turning it +round and round as she talked, and the indelicacy and bad taste of +appropriating it to herself so soon struck Elithe forcibly and disarmed +her of all fear of Clarice. + +“She’s a fool,” Miss Hansford thought, but she said to her niece: “Tell +her all you know, if she wants to hear it.” + +“Yes, tell me,” Clarice rejoined. + +Thus abjured, Elithe began: “I put the ring on his finger. It was never +on mine. I did not know he had given it to me until it was too late to +return it. I could never wear it. I only cared for your brother as a +friend,—never could have cared for him otherwise.” + +Clarice looked puzzled, and said: “That’s queer. Tell me how you came by +it and where you first saw him. I know something from his letter to you +which I found in his valise. Here it is.” + +She held Jack’s letter towards Elithe, who took it from her, and with a +voice and manner which would not have shamed her aunt, said, slowly: +“_You_ read a letter directed to _me_?” + +Her face flushed and her eyes blazed with indignation and surprise. + +“I beg your pardon,” Clarice replied, more abashed than she had ever +thought it possible for herself to be before a girl like Elithe. “It was +not directed. It was in his bag with his present for me, bought in +Chicago, and which I did not deserve. It touched me very closely. Poor +Jack.” + +There were tears in her eyes as she continued: “There was no address on +the letter, and, seeing my name so often I read it. My brother loved +you. Did you return it?” + +Before Elithe could reply her aunt interposed: “You have no right to ask +such personal questions. It is none of your business whether she loved +your brother or not. But I will answer for her. She did _not_, and never +could. That he cared for her is evident. Poor fellow. I never liked him +much. I think better of him now in the light of what my niece has told +me and what she will tell you.” + +She turned to Elithe, who began at the miners’ camp and the night spent +with Jack, dwelling at some length upon what he said in his delirium of +Mignon. At this point Clarice put both hands to her face and the tears +trickled through her fingers, while Elithe went on with her narrative of +Jack’s life in Samona, his efforts to reform and the pledge which he +drew up himself and carried in his pocket. + +“He spoke of that in his letter, and said he tore it up after what +happened in Chicago,” Clarice said, interrupting her. + +Elithe bowed and went on to tell of his intimacy in her father’s family, +his interest in her, and his giving her the ring when he left the car in +Helena. She did not speak of his note; that was not necessary. She only +added: “I never saw him again; never knew he was not Mr. Pennington till +he was dying. You think he was bad. Everybody thinks so. In some +respects he was, but he was trying to do better; he _was_ doing better. +He was susceptible to good influences and kind treatment, and tried to +come up to one’s standard of him. Treat him like a dog, and he was a +dog; treat him like a man, and he was a man. He was respected in Samona +and among the miners. There will be mourning in Deep Gulch when they +hear he is dead, and in Samona, too. Why he fell the last time and came +here in the condition he did I do not know. Some influence he could not +withstand was brought to bear upon him.” + +Elithe had not read Jack’s letter, but Clarice had. She knew what had +caused Jack’s downfall, and Elithe’s words were like sharp lashes to her +conscience. Paul, too, knew, but kept silent and admired Elithe for her +defense of Jack. Clarice had read to him a part of Jack’s letter, and +the message to him had removed all his animosity and sense of injury. +Jack was the friend of his boyhood, and he would have given much to +bring him to life again. Clarice was also greatly softened, partly +because of her money refunded and the present bought for her. This +appealed to her baser nature, while something told her she had in one +sense been her brother’s keeper and failed. Elithe’s words struck home, +and she sobbed aloud as she listened. + +“Thank you for telling me what you have,” she said. “It makes me think +better of my brother. I wish I had done differently.” Then, removing the +ring from her finger and offering it to Elithe, she continued: “Take it, +please. It is yours. He gave it to you. He would like you to have it.” + +Paul drew a breath of suspense, and Miss Hansford straightened her +shoulders as they waited for Elithe’s reply. + +“No,” she said, “I never wore it; never can wear it. I only cared for +him as a friend. If it is mine I give it to you.” + +Miss Hansford’s shoulders dropped and Paul breathed more freely. + +“Thanks. I’ll accept it for Jack’s sake,” Clarice said. + +She was very gracious now, and as Elithe arose to go said to her: “Come +and see Jack. He looks so peaceful and happy, as if he were asleep.” + +“I can’t,” Elithe gasped, but Clarice insisted and led the way into the +room where Jack lay in his coffin ready for the early boat. + +On his handsome face there was a look as if death had kindly washed it +clean from every mark of dissipation and left upon it the beauty and +innocence of childhood. Elithe was crying,—so was Clarice, and Miss +Hansford’s eyes were wet with tears. Paul alone was calm. + +“Poor Jack. We were always friends until the last, when he was not +responsible for what he did,” he said, laying his hand on the forehead +of the dead. + +“D-don’t,” Miss Hansford stammered, thinking of the old tradition as to +what would happen if the slayer touched the corpse of the slain. + +Paul had touched Jack, and nothing had happened. The white forehead +showed just as white in the lamp light, and around the mouth there was +the same smile which had settled there when the dying lips whispered, +“Elithe.” The old tradition had not worked. Paul was not afraid of Jack, +and he astonished Miss Hansford still more by saying: “Perhaps you know +they extracted the bullet.” + +She nodded, and he continued: “They have not found the revolver. +Strange, too, as it must have fallen near him. I remember the one he +used to have. It was very small, and expensive. Some one may have picked +it up and is keeping it for its value, or it was trampled into the sand +by the many feet which have visited the place from curiosity.” + +Miss Hansford was horrified at his coolness and duplicity, while Elithe +looked at him with eyes full of pain and surprise. “I saw him; I saw +him,” she thought, while her aunt was thinking of the revolver at the +bottom of her chest, with “P. R.” upon it. On the piazza, as they were +saying good-night, Clarice threw her arms around Elithe’s neck and +kissed her, as she said: “I shall never forget what you were to my +brother, or your kindness to him. Will you come to the funeral to-morrow +morning and sit with us?” + +“No,—no. Don’t ask me to do that. There is no reason why I should,” +Elithe cried, putting up her hands in deprecation. + +Clarice was making altogether too much of her relations with Jack, and +once out upon the avenue she almost ran to get away from the house and +its atmosphere. + +“Oh, auntie,” she said, “it is all so dreadful, and Mr. Ralston does not +mean to explain. What shall we do if he is suspected?” + +“Hold our tongues and trust to the Lord,” was Miss Hansford’s answer, +and that night, long after Paul was asleep, she was kneeling in her room +and sobbing. “My boy, my boy, will the good Father, who knows how it +happened, make him speak out and clear himself?” + +Elithe, too, was awake and sitting by her window, which faced the woods. +On her return from the Percy Cottage she had read Jack’s letter, in +which he told her who he was,—what he had been,—why he had taken another +name,—and of his love for her,—when it began,—how it had grown,—and how +for her sake he had tried to be a man. He told her of his mortification +at the slight Clarice put upon him,—of his resolution to attend her +wedding, more to see her again than to be a guest where he was not +wanted. Of his downfall in Chicago, where he tore up his pledge,—his +experience on the boat and what he heard of himself,—his taking the +brandy which made him worse,—his determination to leave without seeing +any one. This was written in the Beach House, where he spent the night. +The encounter with Paul in the morning he described in the P. S., +telling how it happened, saying he was sorry,—saying he was a brute, and +had sunk so low that now he had no hope, no star to guide him,—nothing +to remember of a journey from which he had hoped so much but her face as +he saw it in church that morning and the sound of her voice, which he +could never forget. + +Over this letter Elithe’s tears fell so fast that the words were blurred +and blotted almost past the possibility of deciphering them. Miss +Hansford did not ask what was in the letter, but Elithe read her parts +of it calculated to exculpate Jack from intentional wrong doing, and the +two sore-hearted women wept together until the clock struck twelve. Then +they separated, each going to her own room, where, in an agony of grief +and fear, Miss Hansford prayed for her boy, while Elithe sat by the +window from which she had talked with Paul, and asked herself again and +again: “Could I be mistaken?” + +The answer was always the same: “I saw him; I saw him.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXX. + THE FUNERAL. + + +Very early the next morning crowds of people were making their way to +the Percy Cottage, which was soon filled to its utmost capacity. The +yard, also, was full, and the sidewalk; those on the outer edge speaking +together in low tones, as if saying what they ought not to say and +afraid of being heard. Somebody had talked, and there were strange +rumors afloat. A few whispered them to each other under ban of secrecy, +while others discussed them more openly and stamped them a lie, or, at +least, something which would be explained when Jack was buried. Miss +Hansford was late at the funeral and held her head high in the air as +she made her way through the crowd, which fell apart to let her pass and +stared at her as if she were a stranger. Her name was mixed with the +rumors and the revolver, which, it was said, she had found and secreted +and those in the secret would not have been surprised to have seen Max +Allen, the constable, who was present, place his hand on her shoulder as +she pushed past him into the house. + +Paul was one of the chief mourners, sitting with Mrs. Percy and Clarice, +his face pale and tired, but wearing no look of guilt and meeting the +curious eyes around him fearlessly. All his thoughts were centered on +Clarice and the dead man lying in his coffin, with so many flowers +heaped around him that they seemed a mockery to those who believed he +had taken his own life. Mrs. Percy and Clarice were draped in crape, and +the grief of the latter was not feigned as she looked her last upon the +brother to whom she had never been very kind. Paul walked between the +two to the carriage when the services were over and followed them into +it unmolested. Had he been stopped there were those present ready to do +battle for him and rescue him, for, as yet, the rumors were only rumors, +which needed verifying. Judge Ralston and his wife were to accompany +Mrs. Percy and Clarice to Washington. They had heard nothing. No one in +the household had heard anything, except Tom Drake, who was in a white +heat of anger as he drove behind the hearse and then acted as body guard +to the mourners, seeing them on to the boat and keeping close to Paul +until the last possible moment, as if fearing harm might come to him. + +Elithe did not attend the funeral. She had scarcely been more tired when +she reached the end of her journey from the Rockies than she was that +morning, and, had she wished to go, her aunt would not have allowed it. + +“Lock the doors and don’t let anybody in,” Miss Hansford said to her, +and Elithe obeyed. + +Then going to an upper window, which commanded a view of Oceanside, she +saw the hearse and the carriages and a multitude of people following +them to the wharf. She heard the last warning bell and watched the boat +until it disappeared from view, sending after it a tearful good-bye to +the dead man who had loved her, and a prayer for the living man who was +more to her than Jack Percy had ever been. Miss Hansford went to the +boat with the crowd, impelled by a force she could not resist. Her bones +told her she must see and hear all she could, if there was anything to +be heard or seen. She did see people whispering to each other and +directing glances towards Paul, and while struggling with the crowd she +heard the missing revolver mentioned as something which would “prove or +disprove,” the man said who was talking of it. With a sinking heart she +hurried home to see if it were safe at the bottom of her chest. It was +there, and she took it out and looked at it in a kind of terror, as if +it were Jack himself, reproving her that all her thought was for Paul +and none for him, cut off in his young manhood just as he was trying to +reform. + +“He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t know you were there. He will explain +it when he comes back. He had to go to your funeral first with Clarice,” +she said, apostrophizing the pistol as if it were really Jack, and not +at first hearing the voice calling to her from below. + +“Miss Hansford, Miss Hansford, we want to see you.” + +It was the man who had picked up the revolver, and Miss Hansford’s teeth +chattered as she dropped it into the chest, heaped the clothes over it, +closed the lid and sat down upon it with a determination that nothing +should make her give it up. + +“Well, what do you want? I’m busy,” she called back. + +“Want to see you,” and Seth Walker came up the stairs with the bold +familiarity of the people of his class. “They’ve got to have that +revolver,” he said in a whisper. “Somebody seen me pick it up and give +it to you. I never told nobody but my wife, and she told nobody but her +mother and sister. It couldn’t of got out that way. They will have the +pistol, they say, if they send a constable for it. Better give it up +peaceable.” + +The word constable had a bad sound to Miss Hansford. For one to cross +her threshold would be a disgrace, no matter what his errand might be. +Her resolve to fight over the murderous weapon began to give way before +the dreaded law. She must give it up, and very slowly she opened the +chest, lifted the articles in it one by one, took up the revolver, +examined it carefully, and poor, half-crazed woman that she was, tried +to rub off the “P. R.” with her apron. + +“They won’t come off,” Seth said, understanding her meaning, “and they +are kind-er damagin’, with the other stuff that’s told; but he ain’t +guilty. None of us will ever think so. It was a mistake,—manslaughter is +the wust they can make of it, if they do anything.” + +He took the revolver and went down the stairs, while Miss Hansford, not +knowing what she was doing, sat down in the middle of the deep chest, +with the lid still open and the linen sinking under her weight, until +her feet scarcely touched the floor. It was not a very comfortable +position, but she did not mind it, and as she could not well rock back +and forth, she rocked from side to side, repeating to herself, “At the +most, manslaughter!” That meant imprisonment for Paul for a longer or +shorter period. Her boy,—her Paul,—whom, until she knew Elithe, she +loved better than any one in the world. She couldn’t bear it. God +wouldn’t allow it; if he did, she’d—— + +Here she stopped, appalled at her defiance of her Maker. “Forgive me; I +don’t know what I’m saying, nor how I’m to get out of this pesky place,” +she moaned, as she sank deeper into the chest. Elithe solved the last +difficulty by coming to the rescue and laughing in spite of herself as +she saw her aunt’s doubled-up position. + +“I don’t see how you can laugh,” she said, as she got upon her feet. “I +don’t feel as if I should ever laugh again. Somebody has blabbed. +They’ve got the pistol, with his name on it. Nothing will save him now. +It’ll be manslaughter, at least, and that means hair shaved off and +striped clothes and prison fare for I don’t know how long.” + +Elithe made no reply, nor was she surprised, for how could a dozen +people be expected to keep silent? Going to her room, she sat down to +think. If anything were done to Paul, she would be subpoenaed as chief +witness, and she felt she would rather die than appear against him. + +“What could I say except that I saw him, for I did. God help me!” she +cried, in a paroxysm of pain more acute than that of her aunt, because +on her the heavier burden would fall if Paul Ralston were arrested. + +Many people came to the cottage that day, asking questions concerning +the events of Sunday night, but receiving no satisfaction. + +“I know next to nothing, and, if I did, I should keep it to myself,” +were Miss Hansford’s evasive replies. + +The next day fewer people came, and those who did neither asked +questions nor gave information. Something in Miss Hansford’s attitude +precluded both. On Thursday no one came. This was to have been the +wedding day, and, as if sorrowing for the life ended so tragically and +the wrecked happiness of Paul and Clarice, the skies shed showers of +tears, which kept every one indoors, with a feeling as if a great +funeral were passing through the rain-swept streets. Outside, the air +was heavy and damp,—inside, the moral atmosphere was charged with a +feeling that something was going to happen when _he_ came home, and +while many wished he might never come, all were on the _qui vive_ for +his coming. On Sunday those who were at church told everybody they met +who did not already know it that Judge Ralston and wife were in Boston +and would be home on Monday and that Paul and the Percys were coming on +Wednesday. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXI. + THE ARREST. + + +Jack Percy had been lain to rest beside his father and mother and old +Roger in the family cemetery at Beechwood. The rain, which fell so +heavily in Oak City, extended as far as Washington, and the Percy party +were shivering with cold and drenched to the skin when they returned to +the hotel. Mrs. Percy’s house was rented for the summer, and Paul had +secured rooms at the Arlington,—the best the house could give him, for +he knew that the luxury of handsome surroundings would do much towards +comforting Clarice. It was to have been their wedding day, and the sharp +contrast was bitter and hard to bear. He had suggested that they be +married quietly at once and go away by themselves, but Clarice would not +listen. + +“I was not so kind to Jack while living that I can afford to insult his +memory now,” she said. “Six months is as soon as I can possibly consider +it.” + +In her heavy black she did not look much like the brilliant bride Paul +had hoped to have that day, and his stay at the Arlington was anything +but pleasant, and he was very glad when the day came to return home. Had +he known what was before him, he would have shrunk from it in fear; but +he did not know, and with every moment was drawing nearer to his fate. +Some of those who saw Paul pass Miss Hansford’s cottage just before the +shooting, and had heard what Elithe said, had told what they heard and +saw, while the revolver, with “P. R.” upon it, had been found in Miss +Hansford’s linen chest, and Oak City was in a ferment of excitement. At +first, the public talked in whispers behind closed doors,—then aloud in +the streets, where knots of people gathered to repeat and hear the last +bit of gossip and conjecture. The suicide theory had been exploded as +impossible, and the coroner and jury denounced as fools for their haste +and decision; but, if Jack did not do the shooting, who did? Hundreds +asked that question, and at first no one answered it, but repeated the +story going the rounds so fast. Jack had knocked Paul Ralston down in +the morning at the hotel. In the afternoon he had started, presumably, +to see his sister. He had been traced to the Baptist Tabernacle and had +taken a short cut through the woods. He was probably intoxicated and had +fallen or lain down behind a clump of scrub oaks and been shot, the +assassin firing low, as if he knew he was there. Paul Ralston had been +very indignant at being knocked down and had used some threatening +language. He had passed Miss Hansford’s cottage not long before the shot +was fired and was known to have been in search of Jack. Miss Hansford +and others had spoken with him. Elithe had seen him fire and throw the +revolver away, and then hurry off in the direction of the woods. Jack +had been found a few minutes later weltering in his blood. Seth Walker +had found the revolver with “P. R.” upon it and handed it to Miss +Hansford, who acted like a crazy woman, while Elithe, who saw the +shooting, refused to be interviewed. + +This story was followed by the news that the revolver had been hidden in +Miss Hansford’s chest and that the bullet extracted from Jack’s head +fitted one of the chambers. After this those who had said the whole was +a lie, held their peace. There could be but one conclusion as to the +guilty party and his name was spoken sadly, for Paul Ralston was the +most popular man in Oak City, and it seemed like sacrilege to associate +him with the tragedy. That he did not intend it everybody was certain, +though how he could take deliberate aim and hit the mark so sure was a +question. Had he at once come forward and said, “It was an accident; I +didn’t know he was there,” nearly everybody would have believed him; but +he had kept quiet and never seemed conscious of the danger threatening +him. + +“What ought we to do?” was asked many times a day during the time Paul +was in Washington, and the answer was always the same, “The law must +take its course were he ten times Paul Ralston.” + +A few there were, as in all communities, who, jealous of Paul’s position +or money, or, fancying some slight put upon them when none was intended, +were open in their denunciations. + +“If he were a poor man you would have no hesitancy as to what you should +do. He’d be arrested at once, but because he is a big bug you are +disposed to let him go.” + +Tom was furious when he heard such remarks. He was ready to swear that +Paul could not have been near the place where the shooting occurred, but +there was the testimony of Miss Hansford’s lodgers, who saw and spoke +with him, and of Elithe, and Tom’s bare word went for nothing. He kept +the rumors from the judge and Mrs. Ralston, who were expecting Paul on +the 4 o’clock Wednesday boat and would have gone to meet him but for +Mrs. Ralston’s indisposition. Two or three times while harnessing the +horses Tom decided to tell the judge and ask him to go with him in case +there should be trouble. Then he changed his mind, saying, “Maybe they +won’t do anything. I’ll not trouble the judge till I see what they mean +to do.” + +He had not much doubt of their intentions when he saw the crowd waiting +for the boat just coming to the wharf, and setting his teeth together he +clenched his fists and waited. From the deck Paul had seen the swarm of +human beings, greater than when he went away, and called Clarice’s +attention to it, wondering why the whole town was out and if some noted +personage were expected. + +“They expect _us_,” Clarice said, feeling somewhat gratified by this +attention and never guessing why it was paid to them. + +Their long crape veils covered her and her mother entirely, and between +the two black figures, Paul left the boat among the first and walked +across the pier lined with curious spectators, to whom he bowed and +smiled in his old familiar way, noticing the expression of their faces +and thinking how sorry they were for him and Clarice. She did not see +them, but it was impossible that the intense feeling pervading the crowd +should not communicate itself to her in some small degree, and she was +very nervous by the time the Ralston carriage was reached. Tom Drake was +standing there, more alarmed and anxious than he had ever been in his +life, as he saw the people pressing around Paul, who was coming towards +him with a smile on his face as if glad to be home. Standing close to +the carriage steps was Max Allen, the young constable, new to the +office, which Paul had helped him get by giving him money for the +campaign. He was shaking like a leaf and scarcely able to respond to +Paul’s cheery “How are you, Max?” + +Now was the supreme moment for which the gaping crowd were waiting and +over it there fell a hush of expectancy,—a silence so profound that Paul +looked round inquiringly and saw those on the outer edge of the jam +elbowing their way nearer to him. + +“This is attention with a vengeance,” he thought. “I dare say Clarice +will feel gratified when it is over and she has time to realize it, but +it must annoy her now.” + +It was anything but gratifying to the young lady when she felt her black +bombazine dress stepped on behind and herself pulled back with a jerk. + +“This is too much. Let’s get out of it,” she said, grasping the skirt of +her dress and springing into the carriage before her mother and without +Paul’s help. + +He was offering his hand to Mrs. Percy, when Max touched his arm and +with a thickness of speech which made his words nearly unintelligible, +began: “Mr. Ralston, I want to speak with you a minute. But no,—I’ll be +darned if I can now. Take the ladies home first, and come back to the +church. I’ll wait for you.” + +“All right,” Paul said, wondering what Max had to say to him, and why he +was so excited. + +Entering the carriage and taking off his hat he bowed right and left to +the people, feeling some like a conquering hero as he drove through +their midst, knowing for a surety now that they were there to see him +and Clarice. + +“Careful, Tom, you’ll run over somebody,” he said, as Tom gave the +horses a smart cut, which set them into a gallop. + +“I wish I might kill ’em,” Tom muttered, slackening his speed when out +on the avenue and away from the crowd. + +He was in no hurry to get back to it again and sat very patiently while +Paul accompanied the ladies into the house and said a few loving words +to Clarice, who sank down in a fit of sobbing, saying she could not bear +it. + +“Yes you can, darling. Try and be brave,—for your mother’s sake and +mine. You have me left, you know, and by and by we shall be very happy,” +Paul said, himself removing her bonnet and making her lie down upon the +couch. + +Then, kissing her and promising to see her again after dinner, he left +her and bade Tom drive to the church to see what Max Allen wanted. + +“Your mother is sick. Hadn’t we better go straight home and let Max +run?” Tom suggested, but Paul said, “No, it won’t take long to see what +he wants;” and they started in the direction of the church, where some +of the crowd still waited. + +They had expected some demonstration,—handcuffs, perhaps,—and a scene, +and when the carriage drove away with Paul in it the murmur of their +voices was like the sound of a wind sweeping over a plain. Max was +questioned as to what it meant, and replied, “No, by George, I couldn’t +do it right before his gal. I’d rather be licked than do it at all, and +if I’s you I’d go home. He don’t want you gapin’ at him when he’s took.” + +Most of the people followed Max’s advice, and went home. A few, with +less delicacy, staid to see what Paul would say and how he would look. +Would he resist? Would he try to get away? + +“No, sir,” some one replied. “He’ll face it like a man. He’s innocent as +you be of meanin’ to do it.” + +“Then why don’t he own up and say ’twas a mistake? It looks bad for him +to keep mum,” was the answer, and the battle of words went on till the +carriage was seen coming towards the church green, where Max was +waiting, dripping with perspiration and whiter than his shirt color. + +Tom saw that quite a number of people still remained, and thought of the +old gladiatorial fights when men and women went to see human beings and +wild beasts tear each other to pieces. There were germs of the same +nature in this crowd, which he would like to have annihilated as he +drove past it and stopped before the church steps. + +“Now, Max, what is it? What can I do for you? Want some more money?” +Paul said, going up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. + +“Set down,” Max answered stammeringly, moving along. + +But Paul did not sit down. He was in a hurry to get home and see his +mother, and anxious for Max to finish his business. + +It must have something to do with the people still waiting there, and +who he saw at a glance were largely of the lower class, reputed robbers +of gardens and hen roosts. Probably some of their friends had been +prowling on the Ralston premises, and Max wanted to know what to do with +them. + +“I shall tell him to let the poor devils go,” he was thinking, when Max +began: “It’s the all-firedest, meanest thing I ever had anything to do +with, and if I’d ’er known I’d have to do it, I’d never been so crazy +for the office. No, sir! You must not blame me, I’d rather be thrashed. +Yes, sir,—and I feel awfully sick at the pit of my stomach. Didn’t eat a +thing for dinner, thinking of it, and not much for breakfast, I don’t +believe a word of it, neither; none of us does. It’s a lie out of whole +cloth.” + +He was mopping his wet face with his soiled hands and leaving streaks of +dirt on it while Paul looked at him in amazement and Tom stood looking +on as if ready to strike when the time came. + +“For Heaven’s sake, Max, what are you talking about. Come to the point. +I’m in a hurry,” Paul said. + +“Yes,” Tom growled. “Come to the point and not act like a cat playing +with a mouse.” + +“I wish I was a cat, or anything but the blooming fool I am,” Max +gasped, and then nerving himself with a mighty effort, he said, “I’ve +orders to arrest you. Oh, my Lord, my Lord.” + +The last words were wrung from him by the pallor on Paul’s face, as he +grasped the carriage wheel for support. + +“Arrest me! For what?” he asked, his voice sounding to himself a hundred +miles away. + +“You see,” Max continued, still husky and shaky, “it’s for shooting Mr. +Percy.” + +He did not use the ugly word _murder_ and it was a singular fact that it +was never used during the trying scenes which followed Paul’s arrest. It +was sometimes killing, oftener shooting, but never murder. One could not +associate that word with Paul, whose face was spotted with astonishment, +but not with fear. How could he be afraid, knowing his own innocence? It +had never occurred to him that Jack came to his death by any other hand +than his own, and the intimation that he was to be arrested struck him +like a thunderbolt. + +“What do you mean?” he asked. “Jack shot himself. The coroner’s inquest +said so. I didn’t do it. I was not near there. I didn’t know it till +some one told me. Who was it, Tom? Do you remember?” + +His chin and lips quivered as he asked the question and he leaned more +heavily against the wheel of the carriage. Tom did not reply, and Max +went on: “Lord bless you, that’s so. You didn’t do it, but somebody did, +and the law must be vin-_di_-ca-ted, they say. Somebody must be +arrested, and so they took you. You see, it’s this way. That coroner +didn’t know beans, nor the jury neither, hurryin’ up things before +anybody had time to think, or tell what they seen and heard. When they +did begin to talk, didn’t it go like chain lightnin’;—the inquest and +verdict was knocked into a cocked hat,—more’s the pity; better of let it +stood and not get me inter this scrape, arrestin’ _you_. This is what +they say. Mr. Percy knocked you down, and made you mad. You was heard to +say you’d like to kill him. You was lookin’ for him. The folks at Miss +Hansford’s seen you go by. Miss Elithe seen you shoot and throw the +pistol away and cut for the woods. Seth Walker found it with your +initials on it and give it to Miss Hansford the mornin’ Mr. Percy died. +She hid it in her chist with sheets and things. Seth told his wife and +she told all creation and they’ve made the old lady give it up, and the +bullet fits it exactly. Quite a case of circumstantial, but I don’t +believe a word of it. Nobody does. Mebby you shot him, but ’twas an +accident, and all you have to do is to say so and explain. Folks thought +you would when you got back. Anyway I’ve got to do my duty and it makes +me sweat like a butcher. Oh, Lord, Lord!” + +Max had finished his speech, which covered the whole ground, and +advanced a step towards Paul still clinging to the wheel into the spokes +of which he had thrust his arm as he listened. At the beginning of Max’s +story he had held his head high, conscious of his own innocence and that +no evidence could be brought against him. But as Max went on he felt the +ground slipping from under his feet and saw by inspiration the chain of +circumstances which was to encircle him. + +“Elithe saw me shoot, and Miss Hansford hid my revolver! Oh, Max,—Oh, +Tom, what does it mean?” he said, shaking until his knees bent under +him. + +“Don’t blame the old lady,” Max said. “She’s madder ‘n a hen, and ready +to fight everybody. Last night at prayer meetin’ she hollered so loud +for the Lord to save the innocent, you could hear her all over the +island. Some thought ’twas a fire alarm and was goin’ to call out the +department. They say the amens was powerful. As for the little girl, +what she seen slipped out before she thought, and you can’t get a word +from her now. I’ll bet there’s been forty reporters there to see her. +She’s cryin’ her eyes out, they say, and won’t see a soul.” + +Here was a grain of comfort and Paul pulled himself up, but put out a +hand to Tom. “Did you know all this?” he asked, and Tom replied, “I knew +something of it, but don’t take it so hard. You shall not be harmed. +Lean on me and sit down on the steps.” + +He passed his arm around his master, who was weak as a baby and glad to +sit where Tom put him. + +“Does father know it?” Paul asked, and Tom replied, “No, I kept it from +him, hoping nothing would happen. He ought to know it now. Shall I go +for him?” + +“Yes, yes. Go for father. Max will wait,” Paul answered eagerly, bowing +his head and resting his face in his hands. + +Several boys had come close up to him, wondering why Max did not produce +handcuffs, as they supposed he would. These Tom dispersed with his whip +and then the two black horses went tearing across the causeway towards +the Ralston House, their feet striking fire on the pavement and their +mouths white with foam. Mrs. Ralston was lying down in her room with +something which threatened to be the Grippe, but the judge was sitting +upon the side piazza waiting for Tom. The boat had been gone nearly an +hour. It was surely time unless something had happened. Perhaps they +didn’t come, he was thinking, when he saw the horses running at their +utmost speed, the carriage rocking from side to side, and Tom evidently +having some trouble to keep his seat. + +“Is he drunk, or what?” the judge said, hastening out to meet him and +asking with some severity: “What’s to pay, that you are driving like +this? I never saw the off-horse sweat so.” + +“The Old Harry’s to pay,” Tom answered. “They are arresting Mr. Paul +down by the church for shooting Mr. Percy. You must go quick and stop +it.” + +“Arresting my son for shooting Jack Percy! Are you crazy? The thing is +preposterous,—impossible!” the judge exclaimed, with the voice and +manner of one who does not think any great calamity can come to him +because it never has. + +“It’s true, though, and the town’s alive with it. Jump in! don’t wait a +minute.” + +The judge had come out without his hat, which, in his excitement, he +forgot entirely as he sprang into the carriage and was driven +bare-headed, with his white hair blowing in the wind, to the church +where Paul was sitting on the steps, with Max beside him, a picture of +perplexity and despair. + +“Oh, father, I am so glad you have come. You know it is not true,” Paul +said, lifting his face, across which there flashed a ray of hope that +with his father near no harm could befall him. + +“What does this mean? I don’t understand it,” the judge asked Max, who +began to tell his story with a great many apologies for being mixed up +in it and saying he didn’t believe it, but had to do his duty. + +Something the judge said made Paul exclaim, “Oh, father, you do not +believe I did it either by mistake or otherwise!” + +During the rapid ride the judge had learned all Tom knew of the matter. +Max had added a good deal which Tom had not told, and just for one +instant the father wavered, not with a thought that the act was +premeditated, but that it was an accident which could be explained. +Before he was elected judge he had been a prominent criminal lawyer, +with a wide reputation for his skill in cross-questioning, and now he +said to his son, “Tom tells me you were not near the spot,—that you had +no firearms about you,—that you knew nothing of the shooting until some +time after it happened. Is this true?” + +“Yes, it is true, and true, too, that I was looking for Jack when I +passed Miss Hansford’s cottage. I wanted to give him a message from +Clarice. I must have passed near where he was lying, but did not see +him. I made a detour in the woods thinking to find him. I went as far as +the old brick kiln and turned back another way and came across Tom +coming from Still Haven. We heard some one had been shot and I went at +once to see who it was. That is all I know. I am as innocent as you. Max +says they think it a mistake which I can explain and it will not go hard +with me. There is no mistake. I cannot explain. God knows I didn’t do +it, and you believe me, father.” + +There was dumb entreaty in Paul’s face, and putting his arm around him +the judge said, “My boy is innocent, and please God, we will prove him +so.” + +“Must you do this dirty work?” he added, in an aside to Max, who was +again wiping the sweat from his face, this time with a handkerchief more +soiled than his hands. + +It was Paul who answered, “Yes, father, he must. Max isn’t to blame. He +and I are good friends,—have played hide and coop together many a +time,—haven’t we, Max?” + +“Ye-es,” Max blubbered, “I wish I wasn’t so tarnal tender-hearted.” + +“Never mind your heart. You must do your duty, so go ahead and do it in +ship-shape style,—but omit the bracelets,” Paul said with a laugh. “Must +I go to the lock-up?” he continued, shrinking from the dreary place, not +often used, and at which when a boy he had often looked curiously, +especially if there were a prisoner in it. + +He was the prisoner now, and with some difficulty he rose to his feet, +supported by Tom and his father, the latter of whom said to him, +“Courage, my boy. Everything which can be done to save you shall be done +and you will soon be free. I shall come and see you this evening. Don’t +cry,—don’t,” he continued, as Paul broke down and sobbed like a little +child. This was so different from anything he had expected. Over the +hill to his right was his pleasant home, where his mother waited for +him;—up the avenue to the left was Clarice, who would be expecting him +that night,—and before him the terrible lock-up. He was in the carriage +now, seated on the back seat with Max and trying to hide from the eyes +of those who still lingered in the street to see the end. At these Tom +swore lustily as he gathered up the reins and drove up the avenue, not +rapidly as he had driven to the Ralston House, but slowly, as if going +to a burial. + +As he crossed the causeway he met Miss Hansford, excited and angry. She +had heard all the rumors and that it was thought Paul would be arrested +on his return from Washington. Stationing herself on her upper balcony +she watched the boat as it came in and waited anxiously for the return +of the Ralston carriage. She knew it would first take Mrs. Percy and +Clarice home and she allowed ample time for that; still it did not come. +She could see the church with her far-seers and the people gathering +there. Beside her on the floor was Elithe, her younger eyes taking in +everything her aunt’s spectacles might fail to see. + +“The carriage is there,” she said at last, and in a few minutes they saw +it dashing across the causeway and over the hills towards the Ralston +House. + +In less time than they thought it possible for it to do so, it returned +with the judge in it. + +“What does it mean?” Elithe asked, but her aunt did not reply until she +saw it start again, and this time towards the lock-up. + +“It means they’ve took him and are carrying him to that pen,” she cried +hurrying down stairs. Seizing her oldest and worst-looking sun-bonnet +she ran down the path and across the causeway, until she met the +carriage crossing it. + +“Stop,” she said, throwing up her arms at the horses. + +Tom stopped, glad of an excuse. + +“What are you doing ridin’ in a carriage as if you was a gentleman?” she +said to Max, who cowered as if afraid of bodily harm. + +“Taking me for a little change of air,” Paul answered for him, trying to +laugh, but failing dismally. + +“Not to the lock-up! He shall not go there,” Miss Hansford continued. + +“Them’s my orders,” Max said timidly. + +“D—— the orders!” Tom muttered under his breath, while Paul rejoined, “I +can stand it awhile. It can’t be for long. Drive on, Tom, let’s see what +the accommodations are.” + +They were worse than anyone of the party anticipated. One or two men +arrested for incendiarism and a few tramps were all who had occupied the +place for a long time. No one had been in it for months. Consequently +but little attention had been paid to it and the room was close and +damp. + +“Smells enough to knock you down,” Miss Hansford said, holding her nose +as she put her head inside the door, which had been unlocked by an +official waiting for the party. + +Hundreds of spiders’ webs filled with dead flies festooned the walls and +the small barred windows. The floor was littered with sticks and +shavings and stained with tobacco juice. + +Miss Hansford held her skirts high as he stepped into the room, and +taking up the pillow from the bunk pronounced it “hen’s feathers and bad +ones at that.” + +“Oh, father,” Paul said, “I can’t go in there. I should die before +morning with the smells and the spiders and the rats. See that big one +scurrying across the floor.” + +Miss Hansford’s shriek would have called attention to it if Paul had +not. The long, lank creature had run across her feet, and with the +agility of a young girl she had leaped into the wooden chair to get out +of its way. + +“Take me to the jail at once. It is better than this,” Paul continued, +and “Yes, to the jail,” was repeated by those who had gathered outside +and were looking on with pity for the young man who had fallen so +suddenly from a palace, as it were, to a prison. + +The jail stood about a mile from the town, near the shore, and at some +little distance from the road. It was a large frame building, old and +dilapidated, but answering every purpose for the few occasions when it +was called in requisition. The jailer and his wife occupied the front +rooms, and those in the rear were reserved for prisoners when any were +there. As it had once been a dwelling house the so-called cells were +larger and pleasanter every way than are usually found in country jails. +After some necessary preliminaries and orders Paul was taken there and +the best and airiest room assigned him. It was very bare of furniture, +but it was scrupulously clean, and a great improvement on the lock-up. +But there were iron bars across the window and a heavy padlock on the +door outside. It was a prison and Paul was a prisoner. Sitting down in +the hard chair, and, leaning his head against his father, he began to +realize what it would be when he was alone and they were all gone. + +“Keep up, my boy, keep up,” his father kept saying. “We’ll soon have you +out. I’ll come again to-night and bring your mother to-morrow, if she is +able.” + +Max was looking on and wishing he had never been elected constable, +while Tom was quietly taking note of the bars at the window and the +decayed condition of the casings. + +“Good-bye, Paul, for a few hours,” the judge said, stooping down and +kissing his boy, a thing he had not done in years. + +Max was quite unstrung and kept stroking Paul’s arm as he said: “I’ll be +darned if I hadn’t rather stay here myself than leave you. Yes, I +would.” + +Tom was silent, but he wrung Paul’s hand with a strength as if he were +testing the iron bars. Then they went out and Paul heard his father +speaking to the jailer and knew he was being commended to his care. + +“Be kind to him, Stevens. Give him all the privileges you can,” the +judge said, slipping a bill into the man’s hand. + +“No need to tell me that,” Stevens replied. “I’ll treat him as I would +my brother.” + +Then the carriage drove away, and before bedtime the news spread through +the city that Paul was in jail,—that his mother was going from one +fainting fit into another, with three doctors in attendance,—that +Clarice was in convulsions with two, Elithe in hysterics with one,—that +Miss Hansford was crazy and Judge Ralston was to offer $10,000 for the +capture of the man who killed Jack Percy. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXII. + IN PRISON. + + +When Paul heard the key turned upon him and the sound of voices die away +and began to realize that he could not get out if he wished to, a kind +of frenzy seized him and for a time he was beside himself. What business +had Max Allen to arrest him, innocent as he was of the dreadful +accusation brought against him? Why had his father and Tom allowed it +and left him there in jail, shut in with bars and bolts? He would get +out,—he would be free. Going to the heavy door, he shook it with all his +strength, but it did not yield to his blows. There was another one +leading to the passage connecting with the janitor’s rooms, and he tried +that next. But it was locked and bolted. He could not get out there. He +stood upon the chair and shook the iron bars across the open window. If +they moved he did not know it, and with a despairing look at the ocean +and the white sails against the evening sky he gave that up. There was +no way of escape unless it were through the wide chimney. He might get +out there, and going down on the hearth on his hands and knees, he +looked up the sooty flue to where a ledge of brick and mortar broke the +line and impeded the way. The chimney was impracticable. He was hemmed +in on every side,—a prisoner. The perspiration was rolling down his face +and back and arms,—there was a buzzing in his ears and a throbbing in +his head as he began to walk up and down his rather small apartment. + +“Am I mad? If not, I soon shall be,” he said, and then his thoughts went +back to the time when a boy in the Boston High School he had spoken the +“Maniac’s Plea,” + + “Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe, + She is not mad who kneels to thee.” + +He had been greatly applauded and told he could not have done a maniac’s +part better had he really been one. + +“I can do it better now,” he thought, repeating some parts of it with +fierce gestures and glassy eyes. + +Outside the cool evening breeze came from the sea through his open +window and blew across his face. The tide was coming in, and there was +something soothing in the sound of the waves breaking on the shore a few +rods away, and as he listened he grew more calm and began to put things +together and recall the incidents of the last few hours. He remembered +how glad he was to be coming home and how pleasant the Bluff and Heights +had looked with their handsome villas and grounds sloping to the water. +The roof of the Ralston House, with its cupola and look-out, he had +saluted with a thought of his mother, of whom he was very proud, and who +would probably be at the wharf to meet him and Clarice. He had put his +arm around the latter as they drew near the landing and saw the crowd of +people, who, she said, had come to meet them. With an exclamation of +disgust he recalled his satisfaction and pride as he thought she was +right,—that because of her misfortune and his the people were sorry and +were showing it in that way. They _had_ come out to meet them, or him, +not to do him honor, but on the contrary to arrest him,—to drag him to +prison for a crime he never committed. Tom’s face, which he had not +noticed at the time, came back to him now, with Max Allen’s stammering +words of greeting and request to speak with him, and Clarice’s angry +exclamation as her dress was stepped on. The drive to the cottage, his +parting with the weeping girl, who clung to him just as she had never +done before when he said good-bye,—the drive back to the church, where +Max and a portion of the crowd were waiting for him, were all plainly +outlined before him, and then——! He could feel again the chill, followed +by a sensation as if hot lead were being poured through every vein and +scorching every nerve, when Max said: “I’ve got to arrest you.” + +The words were sounding in his ears, as he continued his recollections +of all that passed after they were spoken. He had a faint remembrance of +sitting on the church steps with a lot of boys staring at him, and Max +saying occasionally a word of sympathy and encouragement. Then the black +horses came dashing up, flecked with white foam, and his father was +beside him, pale and hatless. This struck him now as it had not at the +time, and he said, aloud: “He was bare-headed, wasn’t he? Yes, he was. +Where was his hat, I wonder? I don’t think he had it on at all. It must +have blown off, and he didn’t stop to pick it up.” + +It was some little diversion to settle the matter of the hat, and then +he returned to what followed his father’s arrival,—a recapitulation of +what he had heard before from Max, and which, had it been told him of +any other person than himself, would have stamped that person as a +criminal beyond doubt. Then came the arrest, how, or in what words, he +did not know. He heard Tom swear at the boys and girls, too,—for there +were girls there and women looking on, and he was sorry for them that +delicacy should not have kept them away. Tom had helped him into the +carriage with his father and Max, and they had driven to the causeway, +where a flying figure, with arms akimbo and a most wonderful sun-bonnet, +had met them and poured a torrent of abuse on Max, shriveled to half his +size as he listened. That was Miss Hansford, the grand old woman he +called her, who, at the door of the lock-up, with its mold and spiders, +had taken his hand and held him back and said he should not go in there. +He shuddered as he recalled the place. His present quarters were a great +improvement upon the lock-up, and he was grateful for them. + +“But nothing very elegant here,” he said, taking a survey of his +surroundings. + +Everything was clean and smelled of fresh lime, but was exceedingly +plain. A bare floor, a single bed, with straw mattress, and a crazy, +patchwork quilt spread over it. At this Paul rebelled and thought of his +brass bedstead at home, with its lace canopy and silken covering and +embroidered pillow cases. Then he continued his investigations. A hard +chair, a square table, with nothing on it but a Bible, which Paul was +sure had never been read,—a washstand, with a tin basin hanging over it, +and pail and dipper beside it,—a shelf with a turkey red drapery around +it, and on it a vase made of Gay Head pottery and warranted not to hold +water. In it was a dried carnation, put there for somebody by +somebody,—how long ago he could not guess, but the sight of it awoke a +throb of sympathy for the poor wretch shut up as he was, and for the +kind hand which had brought the little flower to make the solitude less +cheerless. Over the mantel was a lithograph,—a picture of the +crucifixion, with the Saviour’s dying eyes turned with love and +forgiveness toward the penitent thief. + +Paul had completed the inventory of his furniture and stood +contemplating the picture. + +“I s’pose it’s intended to point a lesson and tell the hardened criminal +that there’s mercy at the last moment,” he said. “Well, I’m not a +hardened criminal, and I do not need to be forgiven for shooting Jack.” + +Then there came to his mind what Max and Miss Hansford and two or three +more around him had said of its being a mistake which would be cleared +up. He had told his father there was no mistake, and he said so again to +himself, but if Jack didn’t do it, who did? + +“I didn’t,” he continued. “I wasn’t there, was I? Who said they saw me?” + +He was in a chair now trying to think. Suddenly what in the excitement +attending the arrest he had forgotten came to him. “Elithe saw me, +Elithe!” and he groaned aloud. “How could she say so? Oh, Elithe!” Had +it been Clarice, it would have scarcely hurt him more cruelly. “If she +saw me, I must have been there and I didn’t know it. I certainly am mad, +or shall be soon if some one does not come to waken me from this +nightmare,” he said. + +His reason had reached the last barrier and might have leaped over it if +Stevens, the jailer, had not come in with a lamp, which he put upon the +table. + +“I am sorry I left you in the dark so long,” he said. + +“I didn’t know it was dark,” Paul replied, glancing at the window and +surprised to see a star shining through it. + +“Yes, it grows dark early now, and your supper is late, as we didn’t +expect company. Sarah Jane has taken a heap of pains with it. Here it +comes,” Stevens said, nodding towards the door, where his wife stood, +holding a large tray filled with the most appetizing food she could +think of. + +Broiled chicken and coffee and peaches and cream, such as she had never +taken to a prisoner before. Paul was no ordinary charge. He had always +had a pleasant word for her, and once, when she was in town without an +umbrella and a heavy rain was falling, he had taken her home in his +covered phaeton. “Just as if I was a lady,” she said, and she never +forgot the attention. Now he was there in jail, and she was more sorry +for him than she had ever been for any one in her life. Like the most of +the people she did not believe he intended to kill Jack Percy, and she +wondered he did not say so. + +“I hope you will enjoy your supper,” she said, putting the tray upon the +table and pouring his coffee for him. + +He was young and he was hungry, and he ate with a keener appetite than +he would have thought possible half an hour ago. He was naturally very +social; he never liked to be alone, and the presence of the jailer and +his wife was company and made the place less dreary. His head was less +hot and dizzy, and he talked calmly of the calamity which had overtaken +him so suddenly. + +“Nobody believes you meant to do it, and when you tell just how it was, +things will be easier,” Mrs. Stevens ventured to say, as she poured him +a second cup of coffee. + +Paul looked at her quickly and asked: “They mean that I am to say I shot +him by mistake, not knowing he was there, and get off that way?” + +“Yes, that’s about it,” Mrs. Stevens replied, and Paul continued: “Then +I shall never get off. I know no more of the shooting than you do. I was +not there.” + +Mrs. Stevens looked distressed and puzzled. If Paul persisted in this +statement she did not know what could save him from State’s Prison at +least, if not from a worse fate, and her face was very grave as she took +up the tray and carried it from the room. Her husband had gone out +before her, and Paul was again alone. He knew the door had not yet been +locked, and he could get out if he chose. But he did not choose. The fit +of frenzy had passed, leaving him stunned and apathetic. The lamp was +burning very dimly, and he could still see the star looking at him +through the window, and began to recall his knowledge of astronomy and +try to think what star it was and in what constellation. It was very +bright, and reminded him first of Clarice’s eyes,—then of Elithe’s,—then +it was his mother looking at him, and he was nodding in his chair when +the rusty old key in the padlock outside aroused him, and he awoke to +find his father and Tom in the room, their arms full of bundles, which +they put down one by one. Soft pillows and bed linen, towels and a rug +and articles for the toilet, with his dressing gown and slippers, and a +large hand mirror. This was Tom’s idea. Indeed, nearly everything was +his idea. His quick eyes had noted the bareness of the room,—the absence +of everything to which Paul was accustomed, and he had suggested to the +judge that they take a few necessaries that night and furnish square the +next day. The judge was thinking more of the safety of Paul and how to +secure it than of present animal comfort, but he assented to Tom’s +proposal and said: “Do what you like. I don’t seem able to think of but +one thing,—how to prove my boy innocent,—and of my poor wife.” + +The news, told her as carefully as it was possible to tell it, and with +as much concealed as could be concealed, had sent her into a deadly +faint, from which she recovered only to insist that Paul be brought to +her, and then to swoon again. This lasted for an hour or more, when she +grew quiet, but talked constantly of Paul, begging her husband to go for +him and bring him home. + +“I can’t, Fanny,” the judge said to her. “They will not let him come +yet. There must be an examination, or something, and then we trust he +will he free. Tom and I are going to see him by and by. What shall I +tell him for you?” + +“Tell him to come. His mother is sick and will die if he stays away. Who +says he shot Jack Percy?” + +They did not tell her the particulars then. She was too weak to hear +them. She only knew Paul had been arrested and was lodged in jail and +that her husband and Tom were going to get him out. She put a great deal +of faith in Tom, who _guaranteed_ Paul’s speedy release over and over +again, until she began to believe it, and was comparatively quiet when +he started with the judge for the jail,—the carriage as full as it would +hold of articles which Tom’s thoughtfulness had suggested. + +“There’s more coming to-morrow,” he said to Paul, who could not answer +at once. + +The sight of his father and Tom and hearing of his mother’s illness had +unnerved him again, and he was lying on the cot with his face buried in +the pillow he knew was from his own bed. + +“Seeing you makes me want to go home so badly,—to mother. Oh, mother, +mother,” he said at last. + +It was like the heart-broken cry of a child, and it seemed to the judge +as if he must die if it were continued. + +“Don’t, my boy, don’t,” he said, passing his arm under Paul’s neck and +bringing his face up to his own. “It’s not for long. I have offered ten +thousand dollars for the arrest of the real man and will offer ten more +if necessary. That will bring him down.” + +“Then you don’t think I did it, even by accident, as Mrs. Stevens says +most people do?” Paul asked, and his father replied: “No, my son. I +believe you told the truth when you said you knew nothing of it.” + +“I did, father; I did. If I knew it could save my life, I could not say +differently. I was not there.” + +“And will prove it, too,” Tom said, his voice so full of courage and +hope that Paul felt stronger himself and began to look about with some +interest on what had been brought and what Tom was doing. + +He had spread down the handsome Persian rug on the floor in front of the +cot,—had put the fine linen damask towels on the washstand, with a tilt +of his nose at the tin basin and pail, and a mental note of what he +would bring in their place. He laid Paul’s dressing gown on the foot of +the cot with another tilt of his nose at the patchwork quilt, and with +another mental memorandum. He took out Paul’s comb and brushes and soap +dish,—all silver-backed and looking on the old stand as much out of +harmony as the rug on the floor. + +“I brought you this,” he said, holding up the hand glass. “Everybody +wants to see himself, if he is in prison. To-morrow I’ll bring a bigger +one, with more things. We’ll have you in good shape while you stay +here.” + +He was very cheerful, and both the judge and Paul felt the magnetism of +his cheerfulness. Clarice’s name had not been mentioned, nor that of any +one except his mother, but she was in Paul’s mind, and when he could +trust himself he asked: “Does Clarice know where I am and what they +charge me with?” + +“Yes, she knows. Everybody knows. The whole town is up in arms. She +takes it hard,” Tom said. + +“Does she believe it?” was Paul’s next question. + +“No. Nobody believes it,” was Tom’s reply, and Paul continued: “Yes, +they do. They believe I did it accidentally. Does Clarice think so?” + +“Certainly not. She knows you didn’t,” Tom said, unhesitatingly, without +in the least knowing what Clarice believed or didn’t believe. + +He had been told that when the news reached her she had shrieked so loud +that she was heard a block away, and had then gone into convulsions. He +had heard, too, that Elithe had turned as white as marble when her aunt +came with the intelligence of Paul’s arrest, and had not spoken since. +He did not mean to mention her name to Paul, knowing that what she saw +and heard was the pivot on which public opinion hung. But Paul spoke of +her and said: “Elithe says she saw me. I wish she would come here and +tell me why she thought it was I.” + +“They say she’s like a dead lump, and would give the world if she had +held her tongue,” Tom replied, feeling more pity for poor little Elithe, +white and still and dumb with pain and terror, than for Clarice in +screaming hysterics. These would wear themselves out, but Elithe would +grow steadily worse with the dread of the trial and the witness stand +before her. + +“Tell her not to feel so badly, but come and see me. Maybe I can +convince her it was not I whom she saw,” Paul said. + +He did not say “Tell Clarice to come.” He was as sure of _her_ coming as +he was of his mother’s. Both might be there to-morrow, and this thought +buoyed him up when he at last said good-night to his father and Tom, and +heard the key turn in the lock to let them out and turn again to shut +him in. The few touches Tom had given to his room had made a difference +in his physical comfort, while his father’s confident words, emphasized +by Tom, had given him hope, and his heart was not so heavy when he knelt +down by his bed and asked that he might be freed at once, —that God, who +knew his innocence, would not suffer him to be brought to trial. When he +thought of that he recoiled with a feeling as if pins were piercing +every nerve. + +“I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t. A prisoner in the dock, with the +people looking at me and Elithe swearing against me. Oh, God! please +save me from that!” + +For a few moments he was in an agony of excitement, which shook him like +a reed. Then he grew very calm. God would save him and all would yet be +well. Moving his cot in front of the window he lay down upon it, tired +but sleepless. The star which had shone upon him earlier in the evening +was still looking at him, with another near it. The higher and brighter, +flashing as it shone, he likened to Clarice; the lower and softer, +shining with a pure, steady light, was Elithe, whose eyes had often +looked at him steadily and quietly as this star shone upon him now, +bringing a sensation of rest and indifference to what had happened or +might happen in the future. Thoughts of Jack came to him in his +loneliness. Poor Jack! Cut off so suddenly. How he wished he hadn’t been +angry with him that morning at the hotel, and wished, too, that he had +found him in the woods when looking for him. In the confusion which +followed Jack’s death he had scarcely had time to think much of John +Pennington, the hero of Deep Gulch, but now, with Elithe’s star looking +at him, he remembered the scene in Miss Hansford’s rooms when Elithe +knelt by the dying man, whose last thoughts were for her,—whose last +word was her name, spoken as he, Paul, might speak Clarice’s, if he knew +he were dying. Elithe had disclaimed all love for Jack, saying he had +only been her friend. + +“But Jack loved her, and this must influence her in her opinion of me. I +wish I could see her and talk with her about it,” he thought, still +watching the two stars. + +That of Elithe was a little dim, with a fleecy cloud over it, but that +of Clarice was bright as ever. + +“Poor Clarice, who was to have been a bride last week! I am so sorry for +her,” he said, forgetting Elithe at last and thinking only of Clarice +until he heard a clock strike one. + +He had not slept. He didn’t feel as if he could ever sleep again, but +after an hour of tossing on his hard bed, which grew harder every +minute, he fell into a heavy slumber, from which he did not waken until +the sun was shining through the window, where the starry eyes of Clarice +and Elithe had looked at him the night before. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIII. + OUTSIDE THE PRISON. + + +All that night lights were burning in the Ralston House, where the judge +sat by his wife, who lay with her eyes closed and tears constantly +running down her cheeks until it seemed as if she could not cry any +more. + +“My boy, my boy! I must go to him,” she kept saying, and nothing but the +assurance that she should do so could quiet her. + +“It will not harm her as much to go as it will to stay,” the doctor said +when he came in the morning, and not long after Paul had breakfasted she +was with him, sobbing in his arms, while he tried to comfort her, +mastering his own grief for her sake, telling her it would all be right, +and that he was very comfortable. + +“Tom brought a lot of things last night, and he says there’s a whole +load coming by and by. I shall be housed too luxuriously for a +prisoner,” he said, trying to laugh. + +“Oh, Paul, don’t call yourself that dreadful name. I can’t bear it,” +Mrs. Ralston said, clinging closer to him and covering his face with +kisses. + +She was lovely and gracious to every one, but she was very proud of her +own family name and that of the Ralstons, too. None was better in +Massachusetts, and that it should be tarnished by her son’s arrest and +imprisonment was galling to her pride. But over and above this was the +thought of possible conviction, which must not,—should not be. She would +fight for her boy and rescue him from his traducers. + +“Tell me about it,—all you know. People think it was accidental, and +that you should say so at once. Tell me everything.” + +She was a little woman, and she was in Paul’s lap, with her arms around +his neck and her face against his cheek, while he told her all he +knew,—the same story he had repeated so many times and which she +believed, for he had never told her a lie. Naturally she felt indignant +at Elithe, who was expected to be the main witness against him. + +“I shall see her and know what she means,” she said. + +“No, mother, don’t worry Elithe,” Paul rejoined. “She thinks she saw me. +I have asked for her to come here and explain. Perhaps I can convince +her she was mistaken. I want to see Clarice, too. If you could come +to-day she surely can and will. How is she?” + +Mrs. Ralston did not know. She would call there on her way home, she +said, and if possible Clarice should come that afternoon. For two hours +she staid in the jail talking to Paul and watching Tom arranging the +cart load of things which Paul had told her were coming. An easy chair, +a lounge, another rug, a vase with flowers to put in it, a small mirror +and a soft blanket and white spread for the cot. + +“I’m mighty glad of that,” Paul said. “The patchwork thing, made of +nobody knows how many women’s dresses, would drive me crazy. I should +count the pieces over and over again. I began it this morning after I +was awake.” + +He was quite cheerful, or tried to appear so, when at last his mother +left him, promising to return the next day. Mrs. Ralston had overtaxed +her strength and was feeling very weak and sick as she drove to the +Percy Cottage, which was shut as closely as if Jack’s dead body were +still lying there. Clarice was in bed, with Jack’s photograph on one +side of her pillow and Paul’s on the other. Both were soaked with tears, +and she was looking very pale and worn when Mrs. Ralston was announced. +She had gone into hysterics when she heard of the arrest and had +indignantly rejected the charge against Paul as monstrous and +impossible. After the hysterics subsided she had sunk into a state of +nervous exhaustion, crying a great deal and insisting upon seeing every +one who called. There were many who came to offer sympathy and from whom +she learned all that was being said and why suspicions had fastened upon +Paul. + +“Miss Hansford’s niece says she saw him,” was told to her, and her eyes +grew larger and blacker and harder, as she listened, and had in them at +last a look of doubt and horror. + +Remembering Paul’s manner when he left her to find her brother, and +knowing Jack’s temper, there crept into her mind a thought that possibly +there was a meeting and a quarrel and a shot fired, in self-defense most +likely, although that theory did not harmonize with Elithe’s story of +deliberate aim and throwing the pistol away. + +“She never saw all she pretends to have seen,” Clarice thought, as she +tried to reason it out. “She was more in love with Jack than she +admitted to me, and because of that she feels vindictive towards Paul, +and would like to see him punished.” + +This was her conclusion, something mean in her own nature making her +think there was the same in Elithe’s. That Paul shot her brother she had +little doubt when she reviewed all the evidence brought to her by those +who would not have told her everything if she had not insisted upon +hearing it. + +“It’s my right to know. One was my brother; the other was to have been +my husband,” she said, laying stress upon the was to have been, as if +the condition were a thing of the past. + +It was impossible for her to marry the slayer of her brother, whether it +were accidental or intentional, and neither could she bear the disgrace +of having a husband who had been arrested as a felon and tried for his +life. All this she confided to her mother, who, more politic than her +daughter, counseled silence for the present at least. + +“Wait and see what the future brings,” she said. “If Paul is honorably +acquitted and proved innocent, there is no reason why your relations +with him should not continue; if he is proved guilty, we must stand by +him to the last for the sake of what he has been to you.” + +“And go and see him hung!” Clarice cried, going into a hysterical fit. + +From this she had just recovered when Mrs. Ralston came in and nearly +sent her into another. + +“My poor, dear child; my daughter that was to be, and please God will be +yet,” the little lady said, caressing her with a mother’s pity and +tenderness. + +Sitting beside her she told her of her visit to Paul and of his great +desire to see her. + +“Go to him as soon as you can,” she said, “and comfort him. He is as +innocent as you are.” + +“You believe it?” Clarice asked. + +“Believe it!” Mrs. Ralston repeated. “Why shouldn’t I believe it?” + +Clarice saw she was offended and hastened to say: “I did not mean +intentional killing,—no one believes that,—but might it not have been +accidental?” + +“That makes him a liar,” was Mrs. Ralston’s reply, while Clarice began +to speak of Elithe, who had unquestionably exaggerated what she saw, not +meaningly, perhaps, but because of her relations to Jack. This was the +first Mrs. Ralston had heard of Elithe’s relations to Jack, and she +listened with a good deal of interest to what Clarice told her. + +“I shall see the girl and talk with her,” she said, as she arose to go. + +Her parting with Clarice was not as loving as her greeting had been, for +Clarice would not say she believed Paul wholly guiltless,—nor when she +would go to see him. + +“I don’t know what I believe. I feel as if I were turned into stone with +all that has come upon me so suddenly,” she said, and with rather a cool +good-bye Mrs. Ralston left her. + +She was scarcely able to stand, and knew she ought to go home, but she +must see Elithe first, and she ordered Tom to drive to Miss Hansford’s +cottage. She found Miss Hansford having a cup of tea alone in the +kitchen, and as it was past her lunch hour she took a cup with her, +broaching at once the object of her visit. She had seen Paul and +Clarice, and now she must see Elithe. Where was she? + +“In her room, where she has staid the most of the time since they took +him. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor talks, nor sees any one,” Miss +Hansford told her. + +“She’ll see me; she must,” Mrs. Ralston said, in a tone Miss Hansford +had never heard from her before. “They tell me she saw Paul shoot Mr. +Percy. She is mistaken. He did not shoot him. If he is committed and +there is a trial she will be the principal witness; her testimony will +convict him, and it must not be.” + +“Would you have her swear to a lie?” Miss Hansford asked, and Mrs. +Ralston replied: “Certainly not, but I would convince her of her +mistake,—persuade her not to be influenced by prejudice because she +thinks he shot her lover.” + +“Shot her lover! Great Heavens! What do you mean? Jack Percy was no more +Elithe’s lover than he was mine,” Miss Hansford exclaimed, spilling her +tea into her lap in her surprise. + +Before Mrs. Ralston could reply a voice called down the stairs, “Auntie, +I’m coming down; or no, let Mrs. Ralston come up; then if any one else +calls I needn’t see them.” + +A door from Elithe’s room opened directly at the head of the kitchen +stairs, and without listening Elithe had heard all the conversation, +cowering at first as from heavy blows and then growing surprised and +indignant that she should be thought to be biased by a love for Jack +Percy. She would clear herself of that suspicion and she asked Mrs. +Ralston to come to her. Since the arrest she had refused to see any one, +fearing lest something more than she had already said might be extorted +from her and be used against Paul. Could she have left the island she +would have gone, and she had begged her aunt to send her away, or go +with her beyond the reach of lawyers and judges, and trials and subpœnas +and constables, of which she had heard so much during Paul’s absence. +But Miss Hansford knew better than to allow that. They must meet it, she +said, and Elithe grew whiter and thinner every day with the fear of what +was coming. + +Mrs. Ralston found her sitting by the window from which she had talked +with Paul and seen him fire the shot, and something in her heavy eyes +and drooping attitude reminded her of a young girl hopelessly insane +whom she had seen in the asylum at Worcester. She did not get up when +Mrs. Ralston came in. She was so tired and sick and sorry that she did +not want to move, and with a slight inclination of her head waited for +Mrs. Ralston to speak, which she did at once, telling why she was there +and saying: “It is not possible that you are right, and I want you to +think it over carefully. Recall everything. Give my son the benefit of +every doubt. Remember his life is involved and a few words from you +might save him. Don’t let any personal feelings influence you because it +was Mr. Percy who was shot.” + +She did not get any further. Elithe understood her, and her face was +scarlet and her heavy eyes bright as she said: “Please stop. I know what +you mean, and it is not true. I am sorry Mr. Percy is dead, but that +does not influence me at all. Mr. Ralston never meant to kill him, but +he did, and I saw him. Thinking it over will make no difference. I saw +him, and if they make me speak I must say so, but I would rather die +than do it. You don’t know how I feel. There’s a tight band around my +head which burns like fire. All above and below is cold and aches and +throbs. I can’t tell you how dreadful it is! It’s like two engines +beating on my brain from different points.” + +She had slipped from her chair and was kneeling at Mrs. Ralston’s feet, +repeating the story of that Sunday night rapidly and concisely and +leaving no doubt on Mrs. Ralston’s mind that she fully believed all she +said, and that no reconsidering could change her mind. Elithe would +convict her son if nothing else did. And yet she could not feel as angry +with her now as she had done, and when she left it was with a greater +pity for Elithe than she had felt for Clarice. + +“Did you get any satisfaction?” Miss Hansford asked, when she was in the +room below. + +Mrs. Ralston shook her head and said: “She persists in saying she saw +it. Seems on the verge of insanity. Something should be done.” + +Miss Hansford had feared it, too, and after Mrs. Ralston was gone she +went to Elithe and asked if there was anything that would comfort her or +help her in any way. + +“Yes,—father. It would not be so hard if he were here to tell me what to +do.” + +“He shall come,” Miss Hansford replied, and that afternoon she wrote a +long letter to Roger, telling him the whole story and urging him to come +if possible. She would pay all the expenses and pay for some one to take +his place in church during his absence. “That’ll fetch him,” she said to +Elithe, who, buoyed up with this hope, slept that night the first quiet +sleep in a week. + +Tom Drake came the next day, asking if she would go to the jail. + +“No, Tom. I couldn’t bear to see him there,” she said, “and it would do +no good. Tell him I am so sorry,—that I’d take his place if I could. +When father comes perhaps I’ll go. Maybe they’ll let him out before that +time.” + +Tom shook his head and went away discouraged. After that Elithe refused +absolutely to see any one. She was growing stronger with the hope of her +father’s coming. It was time now to expect him, or a letter. It was the +latter which came. Mr. Hansford was ill in bed with a malarial fever +which precluded the possibility of his leaving home for days and +possibly weeks. When he was able to come he would do so, if he were +still needed. The news which Miss Hansford had written had been received +with consternation and sorrow both in Samona and Deep Gulch. That Mr. +Pennington had another name was not a great surprise to any one, for +such complications were not uncommon, but all grieved for his violent +death. At the Deep Gulch the mourning was sincere and heartfelt. With +regard to Elithe the miners were pretty well posted by Rob, who told +them whatever he thought would interest them. They knew about the big +wedding she was to attend,—what she was to wear, and of the trip to +Boston. Elithe had secured a copy of the paper with the Personal +concerning herself and her aunt, and forwarded it to Rob, who, after +showing it to everybody in Samona, took it to Deep Gulch. To go to +Boston was not of so much importance as being mentioned with the +President and Joe Jefferson and Gen. Tracy, and the miners read and +re-read the paragraph many times, and the paper was passed from one to +another until it was worn so thin that Mrs. Stokes pasted a bit of plain +paper under it to keep it together. Elithe was having a gay old time, +they said, and they were very glad and proud because of it. + +Mr. Pennington was often mentioned in connection with her and the +opinion expressed that he would yet turn up in Oak City. He had turned +up there and was dead,—shot by Paul Ralston, for whom there were +scarcely words enough in their vocabulary to express their indignation, +until Stokes, who had heard Miss Hansford’s letter read, made them +understand that it was not a case for lynching, as they had at first +imagined. That New York had backslidden did not surprise them, but he +was a good sort of cuss after all, and they stopped work half a day in +honor of his memory, and suggested that a set of resolutions should be +drawn up and forwarded to Elithe as a testimonial of respect for New +York and sympathy for her. Naturally the task fell upon Stokes, who said +he could not do it. He exhausted himself when he presented Sunshine to +Elithe. Sam Blye was their next choice. His father had written some +verses for a paper in Maine and he was supposed to come of literary +stock. It was to be a kind of obituary as well as a testimonial, they +said, and, proud of the honor conferred upon him, Sam went to work with +a will and wrote: “Whereas, it has pleased God to take New York from us, +we, the undersigned, hereby express our disapproval of the same, and +think it a shabby thing to do.” + +This, when read aloud, was received with howls of disgust as something +highly disrespectful to the Almighty; but Sam would not give it up, and +commenced again, with: “When in the course of human events,” and went on +quite glibly until told it was an obituary they wanted, and not a +Declaration of Independence. + +“That’s so, by Gosh!” Sam said. “I’ll have to give it up and let New +York slide. But we’ll send our regrets to Miss Elithe and tell her if +she wants us to come down and break the chap’s head for her, we’ll do +it. Ain’t he the ‘P. R.’ who sent so many telegraphs when Miss Elithe +was sick that New York looked black as thunder? I’ll bet you they both +wanted her and fit over her, and that’s what’s the matter. Maybe she +likes ‘P. R.’ the best. There’s no tellin’ what a woman will do.” + +Taking a fresh sheet of paper, Sam wrote in a very scrawling hand: “To +Miss Elithe Hansford, Greeting:—We, the undersigned, send our Regrets, +and are just as sorry for you as we can be, and if you want us to come +down in a body and break that ‘P. R.’s bones, we’ll do it, or if you +want us to come and get him out of jail, we’ll do it. Take your choice. +Yours to command, + + “SAMUEL BLYE, Secretary.” + +Then followed a list of the men’s names, written in every sort of +calligraphy, from good to bad, some of them X marks, and the whole +covering a sheet of foolscap. This was taken to Mr. Hansford, with a +request that he send it in his letter to Elithe. + +“Don’t do it. It’s too ridiculous,” his wife said, but Mr. Hansford did +not think so. + +It would divert Elithe’s mind a little from herself, he said, and it +did. It made her laugh and cry both, but laugh the most, and that did +her good. The last part of her father’s letter was a help and comfort to +her. Her aunt had written: “She don’t know what to do when she is on the +stand. She’ll tell the truth, of course, but she don’t want to give Paul +away.” + +To this Roger replied: “You’ll find out fast enough what to do. When +once you are on the stand, if you go there, answer what is asked you, +telling the exact truth, but do not volunteer information and open doors +for the lawyers to enter. Keep up your courage. We are all praying for +you here, and something tells me it will yet be right and Mr. Ralston +freed.” + +Elithe had more faith in her father’s prayers and beliefs than in her +aunt’s bones. The latter were very apt to forbode evil and in Paul’s +case they prognosticated the worst. Still Miss Hansford tried to keep up +and to keep Elithe up with her, while the days slipped by and the whole +town talked of little beside the coming trial, which attracted the +attention of the entire State, for the Ralstons were well known and +Paul’s friends were legion. The newspapers were full of it and several +came out with the story that Jack Percy had been engaged to the girl who +was to appear against Paul Ralston. This added fresh interest to the +affair, and although many of the summer visitors had gone home, and +among them most of the guests bidden to the wedding, the town was seldom +more crowded than it was for a part of that September long to be +remembered in Oak City. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIV. + READY FOR THE TRIAL. + + +Every preliminary in the way of examination, indictment and committal +had been gone through. Bail had been offered and refused. The $10,000 +offered to any one who would capture the slayer had failed to find the +slightest clue to any one but Paul, who was still in jail awaiting his +trial. Fortunately he had not long to wait, as the court opened soon +after his arrest and examination. But every day was an eternity, and the +nights were longer still. It seemed to him they would never end. His +stars, Clarice and Elithe, were some little comfort to him,—that of +Clarice still glowing like fire,—that of Elithe pale and blurred as if +with many tears. When he could not see them he would cover up his head +and cry, he was so weak from close confinement and so hopeless as to the +future. + +When daylight came, he felt better, for before night shut down again +there might be news of the man for whom detectives were hunting +everywhere. But there was never any news, and the days went by, bringing +him nearer to the dreaded ordeal from which he shrank as a martyr might +shrink from the rack which was to torture him. Everything which could be +done to ameliorate his condition as a prisoner was done. No room in that +jail or in any other had ever been furnished as his was. Tom was always +bringing something until the place was overcrowded. Letters of sympathy +came to him from every city and town where he had acquaintances. +Flowers, fruit, delicacies of every kind were showered upon him. His +table was filled with books and magazines and papers. Every day his +father and mother visited him, cheering and encouraging him to the +utmost, although they had little courage themselves, the outlook was so +dark. Tom alone was hopeful. He hovered around the building constantly, +often going inside and telling Paul any items he thought would interest +him,—who had gone,—who were going,—who had come,—how the grounds were +looking,—what flowers were in blossom, and how Sherry the dog,—named for +the old Sherry,—missed his master. This interested Paul, who was very +fond of Sherry, a big Newfoundland,—whom he had bought when a puppy. + +“He stays by your door nearly all day,” Tom said, “and we couldn’t get +him away at night until I took one of your old coats and put it in his +kennel. He almost talked when he smelled it and gamboled round it like a +kitten. I’d bring him to see you, but your father thinks I’d better not, +he’d tear round so and be here every day if he knew where you were. We +tie him up when the carriage comes, and the way he howls is a caution.” + +Tom was a great comfort to Paul,—the friend who never failed. At night, +after every one had retired and the lights in the city were out, he was +often at the prison. + +“It’s I,—Tom. There’s a big stone here and I’m sitting on it to keep you +company,” he would call through the window, and Paul felt glad, knowing +that he was not alone. + +More than once, when the nights were at their darkest and the wind and +rain were sweeping over the sea with a sullen roar, Paul could hear his +tread and knew Tom was out in the storm like a faithful watch-dog. If +Stevens, the jailer, suspected these vigils, he made no sign. Indeed, he +would scarcely have interfered if he had known Paul was trying to +escape. He might not have helped him, but he would have kept silent and +wished him godspeed. Popular sympathy was all with Paul. That he shot +Jack Percy people believed, but shot him either by mistake, or in +self-defense, and great was the surprise at his emphatic denial of any +complicity in the matter. He had told a straightforward story at the +first and adhered to it ever after. He was angry with Jack and looking +for him,—not to do him harm,—but to give him a message from his sister. +He didn’t find him, but must have passed near him as he remembered +thinking there was some dark object under the clump of bushes, but did +not stop to investigate. As he left the woods he could see the path and +the bridge leading in the direction of Oceanside. Jack was not on +either. Thinking he heard footsteps to the right, he turned that way and +went as far as the brick kiln without meeting any one, until he struck +into Highland Avenue, where he met Tom returning from Still Haven and +walked with him towards home, hearing before he reached there of the +shooting. That was all he knew. The revolver was his, but how it came +where it was found he did not know. He had no theory; he suspected no +one. This was his story, from which he never varied. He knew that nearly +everybody believed he shot Jack except his parents and Tom. The latter, +who was oftenest seen, stood firm as a rock for entire innocence, +corroborating what Paul said of joining him on the Highland Avenue and +walking with him till they heard somebody had been shot and carried into +Miss Hansford’s cottage. He, Tom, had gone to the stable to attend to +the horses, and Paul had started at once for Miss Hansford’s. + +This was Tom’s story, to which he stood firm, and when asked who did it, +if Paul did not, answered, “Only two know,—the one who did it and the +Lord, who, if worst comes to worst, will make it plain.” + +That Paul would never be convicted, he said hundreds of times, and +succeeded in infusing some of his hopefulness into the minds of the +wretched parents, notwithstanding the evidence against their son, both +circumstantial and direct, if that of Elithe could be called so. Every +day Miss Hansford sent him some message and once she went to see him, +taking with her some little apple pies, such as she used to make for him +every Saturday when he was a boy. At the sight of them, and her pitiful +eyes looking at him so sorrowfully, Paul broke down, remembering the +many times when he had eaten pies like these at her round table in the +kitchen and then ran off to play with Sherry, his dog,—and Jack who was +waiting in the woods and was never invited to eat a little pie. Paul +thought they would choke him with the memories they brought, but to +please Miss Hansford he ate one, while she told him what he already +knew,—that she and Elithe had been subpoenaed by the People, that she +did not want to appear against him, and should say everything in his +favor that she could say, and flout the District Attorney who was to +conduct the case. + +Paul laughed and took a second little pie, while Miss Hansford went on +to speak of Elithe, and of the miners’ testimonial, with their queerly +written signatures, some mere marks, with the names written round them, +but all suggestive of sympathy for Elithe and liking for Jack. + +“He must have met with a change, or else he was always better than I +supposed, and had now and then a good streak in him,” she said. + +“He had a great many,” Paul rejoined, and then asked if Elithe had seen +the paper in which she was said to have been engaged to Jack. + +He had read it with a feeling of indignation and torn the article in +shreds, wondering if Elithe would see it and what effect it would have +upon her. She had seen it. Your best friend is very apt to bring you an +uncomplimentary notice of your book or an unkind criticism on yourself, +and one of her best friends had shown her this, with the result of a two +days headache and darker rings around her eyes. This Miss Hansford told +Paul, who, though he knew the story was false, felt so relieved by +Elithe’s reception of it that he took a third little pie and ate it +without seeming to know that he was doing so. There was but one left, +and this he put aside as if for future use, knowing it would please Miss +Hansford. + +It was nearly time for her to go, and as she tied her bonnet-strings, +she said, “Wouldn’t you like me to pray with you?” + +She had seen a Prayer Book on a table by his bed and knew there was a +good deal in it concerning the Visitation of Prisoners, but Paul’s was +an exceptional case, and she was glad when he answered readily, “I wish +you would, for if ever a poor wretch needed prayer, I do.” + +Falling upon her knees and putting her hands on Paul’s head she prayed +earnestly that if there were a God in Heaven he would make it right. She +did not say “find the man who killed Jack.” She felt she had him in her +grasp, but he was to clear Paul somehow, and make him free again. + +Through the window came the words “You bet he will.” Tom was there and +stayed there that night until the dawn was breaking and his clothes were +wet with the heavy dew. As the day of the trial drew near he was oftener +at the jail, speaking comfort to Paul, telling him that the best talent +in the State was engaged for the defence and hinting that if that failed +he knew a sure way out of it. Paul could not help feeling hopeful after +Tom had been with him, and still his sky was very dark and made darker +by Clarice’s continual silence and refusal to visit him. + +Her first excitement was over, but she took refuge behind nervous +prostration as a reason for receiving no one except Mrs. Ralston and a +few of her most intimate friends. When those last tried to comfort her +she would turn from them almost angrily and say, “Don’t speak to me of +happiness, as if it could ever be mine again. Think of all I was +anticipating; all the preparations made for nothing. Do you think I can +ever forget that I was to have been a bride, and now I am in black for +my brother killed, and Paul, who was to have been my husband, is in +prison for killing him?” + +It was very sad for the girl. The wedding, with all its attendant +grandeur, given up,—her bridal trousseau, for which so much had been +expended, useless,—herself in black, and worse than all, a growing +belief that the shooting had not been wholly accidental; that there had +been a quarrel, provoked most likely by Jack, who had paid the penalty +with his life. Why Paul did not tell the truth she could not guess. It +would go easier with him if he confessed, but in either case it was all +over between them. Her mother had counseled silence in this respect and +she was keeping silent except so far as actions were concerned. These +were eloquent as words and told Mrs. Ralston the real state of her mind. +She could not, however, report this to Paul, who asked every day for +Clarice and if she were not yet able to come and see him. + +“She is very weak and nervous, and the excitement would make her worse,” +his mother told him. + +“But she could write just a line,—a word,—if only ‘Dear Paul,’ it would +help me some,” Paul said, and at last Clarice did write. + +“Dear Paul,” she began, “I am heart broken, and can never be happy +again. Neither of us can, whichever way it turns. If you are convicted, +it must be over with us, of course. If you are not, we can never live +down the disgrace. Oh, Paul, why not tell exactly how it happened? +People say that most likely nothing would be done to you if you would. I +can’t come to you. I couldn’t bear to see you in prison. It would kill +me. I am nearly killed now. My head aches all the time, I can’t sleep, +and everything is so dreadful and so different from what it was to have +been. What have I done that this should come upon me, and why was Elithe +permitted to come here? If she had staid in Samona, Jack would have +staid there, too. Has it ever occurred to you that if it were some one +beside Jack whom you shot Elithe’s memory would not be quite so good? +She must have liked him better than she pretended. Poor Jack. It is +dreadful, and I am so unhappy. So is mamma. Bills are coming in and they +are awful, and we have no good of them. I am so tired and must stop. +They have kindly arranged it that I need not appear at the trial, and I +am glad. I should die if I had to go on the stand. I believe I shall die +as it is. Good-bye. From your wretched Clarice.” + +She could scarcely have written a more heartless letter if she had +tried. Everything about herself and her own unhappiness and nothing of +pity or comfort for Paul, who took her letter eagerly when his mother +brought it to him and tearing it open read it almost at a glance. Then +his head began to droop lower and lower, and his chest to heave with the +emotions he could not keep back. + +“What is it, Paul?” his mother asked, but he did not answer. He could +not tell her that the letter had brought him more pain than pleasure. +Indeed, it was all pain, and to himself he said, “She never loved me as +I did her.” + +This hurt him cruelly, though scarcely more than the knowledge that she +believed he shot Jack, and that Elithe’s testimony would be biased +because it was Jack. Still it was something to hear from Clarice at all, +and he kept her letter in his hand and looked at the “Dear Paul” many +times and tried to find excuses for her. + +It was Saturday when he received Clarice’s letter and Monday was to be +the first day of the trial. That night just before dark Tom came to him +with the evening papers and a note from Elithe. As the day of the trial +came nearer she grew more nervous and frightened. The band, which she +said was pressing against her forehead, tightened its hold until it +seemed to her it was cutting into her flesh. Her head above it grew hot, +and her head below it so cold that her teeth sometimes chattered with +the chill oppressing her. + +“How can I face that crowd and him, and tell what I saw, and what will +he think of me,” she said, as she remembered all Paul’s kindness to her +and thought of the return she was to make. “I’ll write and tell him how +sorry I am,” she determined at last, and without waiting to consider, +wrote the note, which was as follows: + + + “Mr. Ralston: If I could keep from appearing against you next Monday I + would. I have prayed so many times that God would take away my memory + so that I could not remember what I saw and heard, but the more I pray + the more distinctly I see it all before me. Not a thing is missing. I + hear your voice, I see your face just as you looked at me and spoke to + me when I leaned from the window. If I fall asleep I dream about it + and I think of it all day with a feeling in my head which I cannot + describe. It is like a band of hot iron across my forehead and I + sometimes look in the glass to see if there is not a big dent there. I + wish I had never come here, so much that is dreadful has happened; and + oh, the awful things the papers say! I was never engaged to Mr. + Percy,—never could have been,—and my testimony will not be influenced + by any prepossession in that direction. My cheeks burn when I think of + it. How could I be prejudiced against you,—one of the kindest friends + I have ever had. I wish it were right to tell a lie, but I dare not. + Forgive me, and do not hate me when you see me stand up and swear + against you. You will get clear some way, I am sure. Everybody hopes + it; everybody is sorry for you, and except your father and mother and + Miss Percy, no one so sorry as I,— + + ELITHE.” + + +It was too dark for Paul to read this note when it was brought to him, +and for a time he sat talking with, or rather listening to Tom, who told +him of the general gloom pervading the town as the trial drew near. He +did not say that the shops were closed and there was crape on every +door, but he did intimate that there was neither bathing, nor wheeling, +nor dancing, nor sailing, nor playing on the tennis court; and this in +part was true, for the social atmosphere was clouded with apprehension, +and there was but little interest in anything of a festive nature. Only +the children were light hearted and happy. They played on the beach and +in the water and in the parks as usual, but when their voices grew very +loud and hilarious they were as quickly hushed as if the sound could +reach Paul in his prison and add to his cup of bitterness. All this and +more Tom repeated, and Paul could not help feeling cheered as he +listened. + +“Thank you, Tom,” he said, when the latter rose to go. “You can never +know all you have been to me these last few weeks, and I know there is +nothing you would not do to save me if you could.” + +“Nothing, so help me God, nothing!” Tom answered with a choking voice +and holding fast to Paul’s hand as if loath to let it go. + +The jailer found them standing there together when he brought in the +lamp, Tom the whiter and more agitated of the two, as he released Paul’s +hand and said good-bye. + +“That’s a good fellow. I almost believe he’d die for you,” the jailer +said, as Tom went out. + +Paul did not reply. He was anxious to be alone to read Elithe’s note. It +was very different from Clarice’s and the difference struck him +forcibly. Elithe’s thought was all for him. What she was suffering was +for him. There was no self in it, and he involuntarily pressed the note +to his lips and whispered, “Poor little Elithe, I am so sorry for her.” + +He had kissed Clarice’s letter many times, but not exactly as he kissed +Elithe’s. The first had brought him only pain and disappointment. The +last had brought him comfort in some way, he hardly knew how, and he put +it with Clarice’s under his pillow, and dreamed that night of the waltz +in the moonlight which Elithe had wished might go on forever. Clarice’s +star and Elithe’s were out of sight, but other stars looked in upon him +with a kind of benediction us as he slept more peacefully and quietly +than he had done since he became a prisoner. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXV. + THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL. + + +All of Sunday Mr. and Mrs. Ralston spent with Paul, who was calmer than +either of his parents. + +“I think my bones must have contracted some of Miss Hansford’s prophetic +nature,” he said to his mother, “for I feel it in them that something +will turn up in my favor,—the right man appear, perhaps, at the last and +own up.” + +His mother tried to smile, but her heart was heavy with fear of what the +result might be. Her husband had employed the very best talent in +Boston, while the prosecution was rather lame in experience at least. +But it had an unbroken chain of evidence, beginning with the quarrel at +the hotel and ending with the revolver and the story Elithe would tell. +Popularity and a good name could scarcely stem that tide, and when at +parting she brushed his brown hair from his forehead, she thought with a +shudder of the shears which would soon cut that soft hair short and of +the prison garb which would disfigure her son’s manly form, if he +escaped——. There was a gurgling sound in her throat when she got so far, +and the tight clasp around Paul’s neck, as she whispered “Good-bye, my +boy, good-bye,” was like a mother’s farewell to her dead child. She +would see him on the morrow, it was true, first for a few moments in the +jail, and then in the Court House, a prisoner arraigned on trial for his +life, and she would almost rather he had died a baby in her arms than +see him there. + +“Come, Fanny, come,” the judge said, unwinding her arms from Paul’s neck +and gently pushing her towards the door. + +When his parents were gone Paul threw himself upon his bed and sobbed so +loud that the jailer’s wife heard him in the hall outside and cried +herself for the unhappy man. Tom came before long, cheerful as usual, +but for once his cheerfulness failed in its effect. + +“Don’t, Tom,” Paul said, “don’t try to rouse hopes which can not be +fulfilled, and don’t think me weak if I cry. I shall be braver to-morrow +and face it like a man.” + +They were both crying now,—Paul and Tom, who had broken down for the +first time and gave way so utterly that it was Paul’s task to comfort +and soothe. + +“Let _me_ cry a bit, and don’t touch me,” Tom said, shaking off Paul’s +hands; then regaining his composure he continued: “We were boys +together, Mr. Paul, you the master, I the servant, but you never made me +feel that, and now misfortune has brought us very close together, so +close that—would you mind if—if—I kissed you as your mother did? I +should like to remember it when—.” Tom finished the sentence in his own +mind one way, and Paul another as like two girls they kissed each other +and said good-bye. + +Then Paul was really alone through the longest night he had ever known +and which seemed the shortest when it was over and daylight looked +through the window. He did not go to bed, but sat the whole night +through, thinking of what was before him, and feeling sure that he did +not reach the reality or know how it would feel to confront his friends +and acquaintances and strangers and the rabble, men and women,—more +women than men,—who would come to see him and hear him tried for his +life. He was glad Clarice was not to be there. All his tenderness for +her was in full force; her selfish letter was forgotten, her faults +condoned, and she was only the girl he loved and had hoped to make his +wife. He would have been glad to have seen her once and heard her say +she loved him still, but he felt no hardness towards her because she had +kept aloof from him. She couldn’t come, he said, and then he thought of +Elithe and his heart gave a sudden throb of something inexplicable to +himself. She would be in the courtroom and he was sorry to have her see +him humiliated and charged with murder, and sorry for her that she must +testify against him. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t blame anybody, +although there came into his mind the thought “Why has God allowed this +when he knows I am innocent.” He knew prayers had been offered for him +in all the churches, for Tom had told him so and during the dark days of +his incarceration he had prayed himself as he had never done before. God +had not answered and he was still a prisoner, and the day was breaking +over the sea, a glorious September day such as he had seen and revelled +in many a time in the old life gone forever, for if he were freed it +could never be quite the same again. A man, however innocent he might +be, who had been tried for his life, could not hold his head as he had +held it before. + +“I must stoop always,” he said. “I find myself doing it now when I walk. +Tom and I used to be just of a height. Now I am the shorter. I noticed +it last night when we stood together before the glass.” + +It was a little change to think of this and wonder at it, but the pain +came back again when he heard some one outside of the building say to +another, “Fine day for the trial. The town will be full. They say there +isn’t standing room now at the hotels.” + +Paul stopped his ears lest he should hear more. The town was already +full and would be fuller of people come to see him,—Paul Ralston,—once +the head of everything, and now brought so low that when he left the +jail it would be under an official escort and on his way to the +prisoner’s dock accused of murder. The sun was now up and he could hear +the stir of life in the street and on the water where row boats were +passing, full of people, who had come from Johnstown a few miles up the +coast to be on hand when the doors of the Court House were opened. He +guessed their object and stopped his ears again to shut out the sound of +their voices, which rang as cheerfully as if they were going to his +bridal. Once he thought of Clarice. Was she thinking of him in that +dread hour? Was she praying for him? He believed so, and bowing his head +he prayed for her that God would give her strength to keep up under the +strain of that day. Mrs. Stevens was bringing his breakfast, but he +turned from it with loathing. Then as he saw the look of disappointment +on her face he tried the coffee and the steak, telling her both were +excellent, and adding with a smile, “They say criminals eat heartily the +very morning before they are hung. I am a criminal in the eyes of the +world, but I am not to be hung to-day, and I can’t eat. You are so kind; +you always have been. Father will not forget it when I am gone.” + +An hour later his father and mother came in, the latter so weak that she +could scarcely walk. All night at intervals she had been upon her knees, +praying for her boy, and when her husband bade her take some rest she +answered, “If Paul were dying in my arms I could not rest, and I feel as +if he were dying to us. To-morrow and next day will tell the story. We +have done all we can do. Only God can help us now.” + +When morning came her strength was nearly gone and she was lifted half +fainting into the carriage which took her to the jail through the +streets full of people hurrying to the Court House. + +“Oh, see them, going to look at Paul,” she said to the judge, who was +scarcely less affected than herself. + +Tom, who drove them, scowled defiantly at the crowd, a few of whom were +nearly knocked down by the spirited horses he did not try to check. + +“Careful, Tom, careful. You’ll run over some of them,” the judge said to +him. + +“Ought to be run over,” was Tom’s reply, as he went dashing along, until +the jail was reached. + +There was not much time to wait, for the hour was near and Paul must be +on hand. Tom had brought him a fresh suit of clothes the day before and +he had put them on before his mother came, and except for his face and +stooping figure looked a fashionably dressed young man when he stood up +to meet her. She was so crushed and helpless and leaned so heavily on +him that he felt at once the necessity of bracing himself if he would +not have her fainting in his arms. + +“Don’t, mother, don’t. It isn’t so very hard; there’ll be some way out +of it, and it makes me worse to see you so bad,” he said to her, and +with a great effort the little mother nerved herself to calmness. + +Max Allen, the constable, was there by virtue of his office, shaking so +he could hardly speak. + +“I don’t want to go with you, but it’s the law which must be +vin-_di_-cat-ed,” he said to Paul, who answered cheerfully, “All right, +Max, I understand, and as long as I am not handcuffed I shan’t mind.” + +“Handcuffed,” Max repeated. “I’d like to see ’em make me do that. No, +sir! You are going to court like a gentleman in your father’s carriage. +I wish to gracious I could walk, as I or’to, but I can’t. You are to go +on the back seat with Mrs. Ralston, I in the front with the judge.” + +This was the arrangement, and when all was ready the jailer unlocked the +door and Paul stepped out into the brightness and freshness of the +morning, but before he had time to look about him he was met and nearly +knocked down by Sherry. They had forgotten to shut him up and he had +followed the carriage to the jail, where, while the judge and Mrs. +Ralston were inside, he sniffed under the window and scratched upon the +door with low whines of eagerness and delight as if he knew his master +were there. The moment Paul appeared there was a roar of joy, and +Sherry’s paws were on Paul’s shoulders and his shaggy head was lain +first on one side of his neck and then on the other. + +“Good Sherry, are you glad to see me?” Paul said, caressing the dog and +with some difficulty removing his paws from his neck. “Get down, old +fellow, get down, I’ve no time for you now.” + +Sherry got down, but crouched at Paul’s feet, wagging his tail with +short barks and occasionally leaping up again towards his face. Paul +kept his hand upon him, while he inhaled the pure salt air in long +breaths and looked about him as if the place were new. To his right was +the sea, dotted with sails afar in the horizon,—nearer the shore a boat +was coming as fast as steam could bring it, its lower deck black with +passengers, who, afraid of being late, were crowding to the front in +order to be among the first to land. To the south, over the roofs of +other buildings, he could see the cupola of his father’s house, and he +winked hard to keep back the tears choking him as he thought he might +never enter that house again. He could not see Mrs. Percy’s cottage, nor +Miss Hansford’s, but he knew where they were and his eyes wandered from +one locality to the other and then went on to the Court House half a +mile away and on the same wide street with the jail. He could see the +people hurrying there before he entered the carriage and after he was in +it and out of the jail yard he could see them more distinctly lining the +way and reminding him of ants when their nest is disturbed. All turned +their heads to look as the carriage drove by with Sherry in attendance +trotting on the side where Paul was sitting and sometimes springing up +to see that his master was there. Many lifted their hats, and the piping +voice of a little child grasping its mother’s dress called out, “Mam-ma, +which is _him_!” + +Paul heard it and laughed. “It’s quite an ovation, isn’t it,” he said to +his mother, who could not answer. It was dreadful to her, and she was +glad when they reached the Court House and were for a little time alone +in the anteroom to which Paul was taken. The Court House was a large one +for the size of the town and comparatively new. Mr. Ralston’s money had +helped to build it. Indeed, he had given more towards its erection than +any one else, and now his son was to be tried in it. Every available +seat was taken before the session opened. A great many people had left +the Island,—some to avoid being subœnaed, others because business called +them home, but their places had been filled and the hotels and boarding +houses were doing a thriving business. They were empty this morning. The +guests were all at the court house, waiting the appearance of the +prisoner. Judge Ralston had taken his seat near where Paul would sit. +Beside him was his wife, white and corpse-like. Miss Hansford sat not +far away,—with fire in her eyes as they rested on the sea of heads there +to look at Paul, and Elithe, who sat beside her, with a blue veil over +her hat effectually hiding her face from the eyes bent upon her. There +were many rumors in circulation concerning the young girl, who was +nearly as much talked of as Paul. That Jack Percy had been in love with +her and known to her as Mr. Pennington, until she saw him dying, +everybody knew, while many believed that she had been engaged to him, +for hadn’t the papers said so? That she was to be the principal witness +against Paul was generally understood and great was the anxiety to see +her. + +“That’s she, with the blue veil, sitting by that cross-looking old +woman,” was buzzed about, and many were the wishes expressed that she +would remove her veil. She would have to do it when called to the stand, +and with that reflection the crowd consoled themselves and waited for +Paul, who would not be veiled. + +He came at last, walking unsteadily to his seat, with that stoop in his +shoulders which had come upon him in prison. He was very pale and thin, +with dark rings around his eyes, which for a few minutes he kept upon +the floor as if he could not meet the hundreds of eyes watching him and +compelling him at last to look up. He had tried to prepare himself for +it, and thought he had done so, but, at the sight of so many +people,—friends, acquaintances and strangers,—some in the rear of the +house, with opera glasses, as if at a play, he felt his strength leaving +him, and was more dead than alive when told to stand up and asked if he +were guilty. Stumbling to his feet, he answered, “Not guilty,” the words +ringing through the room and seeming to come back to him from every +corner and every face in front of him. He was very much alive now. The +numb feeling which had come over him at first was gone, and it seemed to +him his head must burst with the pressure on it. He thought of the band +of which Elithe had written and fancied there was a similar one across +his forehead and the back of his head,—burning, boring, blinding, and +making him lift his hand to loosen it, if possible, or take it away. +Just where it pressed so hard was torture. Below it everything was +clear, and, without apparent effort, he knew where his father sat, with +his mother beside him, her face turned toward him with ineffable love +and pity. She believed him wholly innocent,—so did his father, so did +Tom, these three and no more. All the rest believed it accidental +shooting, and that he was telling lies. This thought hardened him for a +moment, and the glance with which he swept the house had in it something +like reproach and a sense of injustice. This, however, changed as he met +only looks of pity and sympathy, with here and there smiles of +recognition. He saw Miss Hansford and Elithe and was glad the latter was +veiled, feeling instinctively that, next to himself, she was the one +most looked at. He was glad Clarice was not there, but up to the last +minute he had hoped she would send him some word of comfort on this day +which was to try his soul. But she had not. “She does not care as I +thought she would, and she was to have been my wife,” kept repeating +itself over and over in his mind during the preliminaries of the trial, +which were rather long and tiresome. + +There was not much heart in the prosecution, and the opening of the +prosecuting attorney showed it. He told what he expected to prove, but +indulged in no bursts of eloquence or sarcasm such as frequently mark +the openings of similar trials. The jury, drawn with great difficulty, +listened rather apathetically, and the audience impatiently, and Paul +scarcely at all at first. He was looking at Elithe, trying to get a +glimpse of her face, thinking again of the band around her head and +wondering if it were as wide and hot as the one round his, benumbing him +so that, for a second time, he did not realize where he was or why he +was there, until Sherry came rushing in. + +Generally, he staid quietly with the horses, and he had kept near them +now for a while. Then, as if scenting danger to his master, he went to +the Court House, pushed his way into the room, looked around for an +instant until he saw Paul. With a bound, he was at his side, uttering +cries more like human sounds than those of a canine, as he again put his +paws on Paul’s shoulders and looked in his face. There was a stir among +the people, which Sherry evidently did not like, for he turned his head +from side to side in a threatening kind of way. + +“Somebody remove that dog,” the judge said, sternly,—a command more +easily given than obeyed. + +Sherry refused to be removed and growled savagely at the attendant who +tried to get him out. He took his paws from Paul’s neck, and, stretching +himself at full length upon the floor, looked as if he meant to stay +there. + +“Quiet, Sherry!” Paul said, in a low tone, as the dog continued to growl +and show his teeth. + +In an instant Sherry was quiet and dropped his head between his paws. +There was a brief consultation between judge and attorney, with the +result that Sherry was permitted to remain as long as he behaved. He +seemed to understand the decision, and, with one loud whack of his tail +and one uplifting of his eyes to Paul, lay perfectly still while the +trial progressed. + +The first witness was the clerk at the Harbor Hotel, who had seen Jack +when he came. The second, the clerk at the Beach Hotel, where Jack had +spent the night. What their testimony had to do with the matter no one +could tell. Miss Hansford mentally called the attorney a fool for +intruding such matters. She was anxious to get on. So were the +spectators, and when the clerks were dismissed they straightened up with +new courage and waited for what was to come next. Those who had +witnessed the quarrel and knockdown at the hotel were called, their +testimony all leaning towards Paul, who, now that his name was used so +often, began to listen to what was said and to live it all over +again,—hearing Jack’s insulting words, feeling the heavy blow which +felled him and involuntarily putting his hand to his side, which was not +well yet from the force of Jack’s fist. The boy who had seen him on the +sands and heard him say, “I’d like to kill him!” told a straightforward +story and identified Paul as the man. The ladies who had been at the +Percy cottage when Paul came there testified very unwillingly to the +state of high excitement he was in when he left them to find Jack. Miss +Hansford’s lodgers, who had been brought from Boston for the trial, took +the stand one by one and told of seeing him and speaking to him as he +passed the steps on which they were sitting twenty minutes or half an +hour before the shot was fired. He was looking for Jack and had asked if +they had seen him pass that way. + +Up to this point, everything that Paul heard was strictly true and just +as he remembered it. He would have sworn to it himself had they asked +him to do so. But when Seth Walker, the man who had found the revolver +with his initials upon it, came forward, he listened with a different +interest, and as Seth described his meeting with Miss Hansford and her +agitation as she demanded it of him and hid it under her apron, the +confusion in his head increased and there was a buzzing in his brain +like the sound of machinery in motion. Here was something he could not +understand. The revolver was a mystery which he could not explain. + +“It’s mine; but I have no idea how it came there in the woods,” he said, +when it was shown to him, and, returning it to the attorney, he sank +into his seat with a feeling that it was going hard with the poor wretch +being tried for his life. + +He was not the wretch. The buzzing in his head had separated him from +that man for whom there was scarcely a ghost of a chance, and he began +to pity him and to look around to see where he was. He could not find +him, but his eyes fell upon Miss Hansford, who had relaxed from her +stiff, upright position, and settled down in her chair until she was not +much taller than Elithe, sitting beside her. Elithe had not moved +perceptibly and might have been asleep, she was so motionless, until +Paul said, “It is mine, but I have no idea how it came there in the +woods.” Then she clutched at her veil, as if it smothered her. There was +something in his voice so sad that her heart ached with a fresh pain and +she used all her self-control not to cry out. Very gently, as we touch a +sick, restless child, Miss Hansford put her hand on Elithe, who grew +quiet again and resumed her former attitude. + +It was expected that Miss Hansford would follow Seth Walker, who found +the revolver, but it was growing late, and the judge thought it best to +adjourn until the day following, when Miss Hansford and Elithe would be +put upon the stand and with their testimony and that of the physicians +called to attend Jack the prosecution would close. There had been some +sharp cross-questioning for the defense, but it had failed to shake the +evidence of the witness sworn, and not much had been accomplished either +way. As the black mass of human beings surged out of the house, many +murmurs of disappointment were heard. They had seen Paul and seen Elithe +through her blue veil, but they wanted more than that,—wanted to see her +on the stand, and Miss Hansford, too. This would come to-morrow, and, +with this to anticipate, they went their different ways, talking of +nothing but the trial and the seeming impossibility that Paul could be +cleared. He was driven back to jail in his father’s carriage, very quiet +and thoughtful and a great deal mystified with all he had heard and +seen. His brain was still affected by the pain in his forehead and the +back of his neck, and he could not understand clearly what it was all +about or why he was conducted to prison, with Max Allen in attendance, +instead of that other man who had shot Jack Percy. His father noticed +his peculiar state of mind and feared for his reason. + +“Better so, perhaps, than something worse. They don’t hang crazy people, +or send them to State’s prison, either,” he thought, and, with this +grain of comfort, he bade Paul good-night. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVI. + THE SECOND DAY OF THE TRIAL. + + +It was a kind Providence which kept Paul in his numb and dazed condition +and made him eat the supper Mrs. Stevens brought him with a keen relish, +and afterwards wrapped him in a sleep so profound that he did not waken +until the jailer knocked at his door and told him his breakfast was +waiting. He had fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, +his last thought a confused one of the man they were trying and in whose +fate he was interested. He was not that man when he went to sleep; he +was Paul Ralston, the people’s favorite,—Clarice Percy’s affianced +husband, and, if he dreamed at all, it was of the bridal festivities, +commenced on so gigantic a scale. When he awoke, refreshed by his long +sleep, the pain was gone from his head, leaving him only a little dizzy, +but with full knowledge of what lay before him and who he was. + +He was Paul Ralston still, but a prisoner charged with killing Jack +Percy,—the man they had sworn against the day before, and against whom +Elithe was to swear to-day. His breakfast went away untouched, and his +stoop was more perceptible, his eyes more hollow, and his face whiter +when he was driven again through the crowded streets and saw the people +hurrying to the Court House, some with lunch-boxes and baskets, showing +that they meant to sit through the recess and not run the risk of losing +their seats if they were so fortunate as to get one. + +Again the house was packed. Again the twelve jurors were in their +places, with the judge and attorneys, those for the defense and those +for the prosecution, with the prosecuting attorney bustling about, +nervous and excited, and speaking once to Miss Hansford, who scowled at +him with a look through her “near-see-ers,” worn on the end of her nose, +not very re-assuring. She had never had a great deal of respect for him, +and had less now, when he was arrayed against Paul Ralston, with a right +to ask her whatever he chose. He knew this and had confessed himself a +little afraid to tackle the old lady, and so had thought to conciliate +her by asking her advice on some minor point. He might as well have +tried to conciliate a mad dog, and he gave her up hopelessly. + +Everything was now ready. Judge Ralston was there, leaning heavily on +his gold-headed cane, with his wife leaning on him. Elithe was in her +place, with the blue veil over her face and shaking in every limb, for +now the worst was coming and there were so many looking on,—not at her +then, but at Paul, who was taking his seat, followed by Sherry, who +stretched himself upon the floor as he had done the previous day. With +his appearance and Paul’s, the hum of voices ceased and a great hush +pervaded the room until Miss Phebe Hansford was called. + +“Oh, my Lord!” she was heard to ejaculate as she rose in response to the +call; then, in a loud whisper, “Let go my dress,” to Elithe, who had +unconsciously been holding to her skirt as a kind of safeguard and +defense. + +Elithe dropped the dress, while Miss Hansford went forward, bristling +with defiance, her “near-see’ers” on her forehead now instead of the end +of her nose. Never before had a witness like her been seen upon the +stand. She cared neither for law, nor order, nor judge, nor jury, and +much less for the prosecuting attorney. + +“’Tain’t likely I shall tell anything but the truth. I ain’t in the +habit of lying, like some folks I know,” she said, as she took the oath. + +All her words were jerked out with a vim which made the spectators smile +in spite of themselves. When asked if she knew the prisoner, she +answered, “I’d laugh if I didn’t. Seems to me I’d ask something more +sensible than that and more to the point. You know I know him, and you, +too!” + +Whether it was her derisive manner, or his nervousness in tackling her, +or both, the next question was certainly not necessary under the +circumstances, nor one he had intended asking her until it came into his +mind suddenly. + +“How old are you, Miss Hansford?” + +If scorn could have annihilated him, the attorney would have been wiped +out of existence, as Miss Hansford told him it was none of his business. +“Not that I’m ashamed of my age,” she said. “Anybody can know it who +cares to look in my family Bible, but it has nothing to do with this +case. I’m old enough to be a legal witness. I knew you when you was a +boy. If you are old enough to stand there asking me questions, I am old +enough to answer correctly, and I hain’t softening of the brain, +neither.” + +The boys in the gallery roared, the judge pounded for order, Sherry +growled threateningly, and the discomfited attorney went on with the +examination, asking, next, how long she had known the prisoner. + +“I’ve known Paul Ralston, if that’s who you mean by prisoner, ever since +he was knee-high and wore knickerbockers. I knew Jack Percy, too. I +believe he was a tolerably good man, or tryin’ to be, when he died, but +he was about the worst boy the Lord ever made, and Paul was the best, +and no more meant to kill Jack than you did,” was the reply. + +There were more laughs from the boys and a buzzing of amusement +throughout the building, while Sherry growled and the judge again called +to order and instructed the witness that she was to keep to the +point,—to answer questions and not volunteer any testimony. He didn’t +know Miss Hansford, who paid no more attention to him than if he had +been a fly. In her estimation he was as bad as the attorney, and she +went on: + +Beginning with the story of the watermelon, she repeated it in all its +details, with many other incidents of Paul’s boyhood, dropping her +spectacles once and pouring out a torrent of words which nothing could +check and which started the boys again. It was in vain she was called to +order, and finally threatened with punishment for contempt of court. She +didn’t care for a hundred courts, she said, nor for lawyers, nor for +law. There wasn’t any law when such a man as Paul Ralston could be +arrested and put in jail and dragged there to be gaped at by a crowd who +would much better be at home minding their business. She didn’t care if +they did fine her. She could pay it. She didn’t care if they put her out +of court, or in jail. She hoped they would, as then she wouldn’t have to +testify against Paul. The Lord knew, she wasn’t there of her own free +will, and she hoped He’d forgive her for swearing against the only man +she ever cared a picayune for, outside her own family. She loved Paul +Ralston and she wasn’t ashamed to say it, seein’ she might be his +grandmother. + +There was an immense sensation in the gallery and among the spectators, +with more growls from Sherry and thumps and cries for order from the +judge, with a request that she stick to the point. + +“How can I stick,” she said, “with you interruptin’ me all the time? If +you let me alone, I’ll tell what I know in my own way. If you don’t, +I’ll never get there.” + +After that they let her alone. There was no other alternative, and, in a +rambling way, with many digressions, and now and then a question from +the prosecuting attorney, she told her story. She was sitting on her +steps,—the more’s the pity; she wished she had been in the cellar and +staid there. She saw Paul Ralston and spoke to him. He asked if they had +seen Jack Percy; said he was looking for him; seemed kind of mad. Why +shouldn’t he, after being knocked down like an ox? She heard the shot +not long after, but saw no one fire it, or run, either, and “them that +did see it might better have had their heads in the window reading their +Bible.” + +This was a thrust at Elithe,—the only one she had given her,—and the +young girl stirred a little in her chair, then resumed her attitude of +perfect stillness and listened, while her aunt went on: + +She was first at the clump of bushes and found Jack with a bullet hole +in his head. He was carried to her cottage and died there towards +morning. Paul came in, surprised and shocked to find it was Jack who had +been shot, and with no more signs of guilt than she had. She hunted for +the revolver and couldn’t find it, but Seth Walker did. She took it from +him and wished now she had thrown it into the sea. That was all she +knew, so help her Heaven, and she wished the land she didn’t know that. +To question her further was useless and she was turned over to the +defense for cross-examination. + +The counsel to whom this duty fell knew he had a _case_ to deal with and +began warily, finding her attitude materially changed. The side which +had subpoenaed her was against Paul; the defense was for him, and she +would like to have taken back all she had said, if she could +consistently do so. Only once did she grow peppery and threatening, and +that when the lawyer tried to shake her recollection of what she saw and +heard. + +“Have you ever thought your memory might be a little treacherous? It is +apt to become so—with age,” the lawyer said, and Miss Hansford roused at +once. + +If there was one thing more than another in which she prided herself, +after her blood, it was her memory, and an insinuation that it was +faulty made her furious. + +“I wish to the Lord it was treacherous,” she said, “but it ain’t. I can +remember everything I ever heard or saw, and more, too. I know what I am +talking about, if I have acted like a tarnal fool and made a spectacle +of myself. I’m so mad that I have to be here, but I know what I’m about +if I am sixty-five years old. There, you’ve found out my age, haven’t +you, and you are welcome to it.” + +She turned to the attorney, who, now that he was rid of her, was +enjoying her idiosyncrasies to the full. A few more questions were asked +her, and then, with a parting shaft at the judge, the lawyers and the +whole business, she was dismissed, with cheers from the boys, who were +not to be restrained by any threats of the police officer shaking his +club at them, or any calls from the judge, scarcely less amused than +they were. The spectators were all laughing. Things to-day were lively +and atoned for the monotony of yesterday’s proceedings. + +The physicians who attended Jack were next called and testified to +Paul’s appearance in the room, with no signs of guilt in his manner. He +had suggested suicide, and they had accepted the theory for a time, or +one of them had. The other, for whom Elithe had been sent, had been +suspicious from what she told him she had seen. There was a faint sound +from Elithe, whose hand grasped her aunt’s dress again as if for support +or comfort. Miss Hansford was bathed in perspiration, which rolled down +her face and dropped from her nose and chin. She was weak, too, and +leaned back in her chair and fanned herself with her handkerchief until +some one passed her a palm-leaf and a glass of water. Thus revived she +sat up stiff and straight as before, while the bullet extracted from the +wound was produced and fitted into the revolver, which was again passed +for inspection. + +“Don’t pint it this way,” she said, with a toss of her head, as it came +near her. + +The boys laughed, the judge frowned and proposed a recess before Elithe +was called. The day was one of those close, sultry days which sometimes +come in September, and are more unendurable than those of summer. +Outside the huge building the white heat quivered on the sea and on the +land with but little breeze to cool it. Inside the air was so stuffy one +could almost have cut it, although every door and window was open. Fans +and hats and newspapers were doing active service, and the water was +trickling down the faces of the spectators, the most of whom kept their +seats for fear of losing them should they go out for a moment. Two or +three spoke to Elithe, asking if it would not be better for her to take +some refreshment and exercise before being called to the stand. + +“No,” she said, “if I go out, I shall not come back. I should like a +glass of water,—that is all.” + +Tom brought it to her, his hand shaking so that part of it was spilled +on her dress. He was on the side of the defence, but no one had listened +to the prosecution with more absorbed attention or with more real +curiosity. He had not even smiled at Miss Hansford, and oh, how he +pitied Elithe and dreaded what was before her! He wiped the water from +her dress, offered to bring her more and, stooping, whispered some words +of encouragement. She scarcely heard him. She had neither hope nor +courage. In everything so far, it seemed to her she had been the central +figure and what she said had been repeated again and again and was the +pivot on which everything was turning. She was to blame for it all,—even +for Jack’s death. If she had not been there he would not have come to +Oak City. If he had not come he would not have been shot, nor Paul +arraigned for the shooting, nor she brought forward as witness against +him. Without seeming to do so she had heard all the testimony and +thought her aunt peculiar and been glad when it was over. The laughter +of the boys and the calls to order jarred upon her as they would have +done had Paul been in his coffin instead of in the prisoner’s chair. She +did not feel the heat or know how close the atmosphere of the room was +with the hundreds of breaths and the scorching air which came through +the windows. She was not warm. She was only thirsty and drank the water +Tom brought her eagerly. + +When he spoke to her and said, “It’s coming soon, but be brave. It won’t +last long. They’ll be nice with you,” she shook her head as if he +troubled her, and said to him, “Don’t, Tom; please don’t talk to me.” + +She was thinking of her father’s advice not to volunteer information and +open doors for the counsel to walk in, and praying that she needn’t do +so. The house was filling again, fuller if possible than during the +morning session. There was scarcely standing room, and the afternoon sun +poured in at the windows until the seats seemed baked and blistered. But +those on whose heads and necks it fell did not feel it, or feeling it, +did not mind. The crisis was coming,—the hour had struck for which they +were waiting and for which many had come from Boston and Worcester and +New Bedford. Miss Elithe Hansford was to be sworn. + +As she heard her name she started violently, it sounded so loud, echoing +through the room, repeating itself over and over again and finally +floating off until it seemed thousands of miles away, and she wondered +if her father could not hear it in Samona and know her time had arrived. +A thought of him and a fervent “God help me,” quieted her somewhat, and, +rising to her feet, she removed her veil and hat. Why she took off the +latter she did not know unless it were the least weight upon her head +oppressed her. Her hair had grown rapidly since she came to Oak City and +was twisted into a small flat knot in her neck, but clustered around her +forehead in short curls. These were wet with the perspiration, which +stood in drops on her face. Wiping them off and running her fingers +through her hair, she took the place assigned her, a little figure, with +hollow eyes and face as white as marble and lips which quivered as she +took the oath. + +Those who had never seen her before thought how small and young and +pretty she was in spite of her pale cheeks and tired eyes telling of +tears and sleepless nights. Paul had smiled more than once at Miss +Hansford’s defiance of all law and order, but his face changed and +seemed to contract and shrivel up as he looked at Elithe and leaned +forward to listen. It was not resentment he felt that she was testifying +against him, but an intense pity that she had to do it and a wish that +he could save her from it. How sweet and modest she looked, standing +there with downcast eyes and hands grasping the chair against which she +leaned for support and how her voice shook when she began to speak. All +this Paul noted, and for a time the feeling of yesterday came back and +he forgot his own identity again. _He_ was not the prisoner being tried +for his life. That was one of the detestable men drinking in Elithe’s +beauty, remarking every curve of her girlish figure, every turn of her +graceful head. He, Paul, was only a spectator, watching Elithe,—wishing +he could reassure her,—could tell her to speak louder so that all could +hear. At last she looked at him with such anguish and entreaty in her +eyes that he smiled his old-time smile she knew so well and which acted +like a tonic upon her nerves and loosened the band around her forehead. +He did not hate her; he did not blame her; he had no fear of what she +might say. Something had come up of which she had not heard and which +would be explained when she was through. He was safe no matter what she +said. She had sworn to tell the truth, and she must do it. The mass of +faces in front of her didn’t trouble her now. God had helped Paul and +was helping her with courage and strength. + +Drawing herself up from the drooping attitude she had assumed, she +answered the questions put to her, telling where she was when she saw +and spoke to Paul and saying she could not be mistaken in him when she +saw him fire the shot and throw the revolver away. His face was partly +turned from her, but she knew his figure and his coat,—a light gray,—and +his hat. He fired low, and when he heard the groan, as he must have +heard it, he hurried off into the woods towards the west, and a few +minutes later they found Mr. Percy lying behind the clump of bushes at +which Paul had aimed. This was the substance of her testimony, and while +she gave it scarcely a sound was heard in the room, so intense was the +interest with which the people listened. Even the fans and hats and +papers were motionless, although the heat grew more intense as the sun +poured in at the western windows, and not a leaf stirred on the trees +outside, or scarcely a ripple on the water. She had kept her eyes on +Paul, who listened, fascinated and bewildered, and still with a feeling +that it was not himself she was talking about. + +At the close of her testimony she addressed him personally and said: “I +didn’t want to come, but they made me. I know you didn’t mean to do it. +You did not know Mr. Pennington was there.” + +At the mention of Mr. Pennington there was a low buzz in the room which +Elithe heard and understood. Blushing scarlet, she continued: “I mean +Mr. Percy. You did not know he was there. You fired low at some animal. +I thought I heard a rustle in the leaves.” + +“By George, she’s hit the nail on the head,” Tom Drake exclaimed, +springing to his feet and nearly upsetting an old lady sitting next to +him and munching caraway seed. + +No one had followed Elithe more closely than Tom, whose springing up and +exclamation were involuntary, and when some one behind him called out, +“Sit down!” he sat down as quickly as he had risen, and no further +attention was paid to him. All the interest was centred on Elithe, whose +face shone with wonderful brightness and beauty as she turned from Paul +to the judge and said: “He didn’t do it on purpose. He can explain, and +you will let him go, won’t you?” + +Never was there a fairer pleader, or one more in earnest than Elithe. +She didn’t know she was infringing upon the etiquette of legal procedure +and no one enlightened her. The judge blew his nose, the jurors winked +very hard, while Paul covered his face with his hands to hide the tears +he could not keep back and which made him Paul Ralston again,—the man +for whose release Elithe was asking so innocently. The direct +examination was over, and she felt relieved, thinking she was through. + +“More! Must I tell more?” she asked pathetically, when given into the +hands of a lawyer on the other side. + +He was a kind-hearted man and he pitied the young girl who had borne so +much, but he must do his duty, and their only hope of success lay in +weakening her testimony and show cause why she might think she saw what +she did not see. He was one of the most adroit men for cross-questioning +in the profession, approaching the citadel to be attacked cautiously, +boring here, undermining there, confusing and bewildering until the +witness so unfortunate as to fall into his hands contradicted himself +and did not really know what he saw or heard. Paul knew his reputation +and wondered how Elithe would come through the ordeal. She felt +intuitively what was before her and braced herself for it. + +“Will some one bring me some more water?” she said, and there was a +different ring in her voice. + +Three or four started to get the water, but Tom was ahead of them. He +didn’t spill it this time, but whispered to her: “You’ve the very Old +Harry to deal with. If you want to _forget_, it will be pardonable now.” + +Did he mean that he hoped she would waver in her testimony and take back +some things she had said? Elithe wondered. If so, he would be mistaken. +She knew what she saw and heard, and nothing could make her gainsay it. +She did not look at Paul now, but square at the man asking innumerable +questions which seemed to have no bearing on the case and then suddenly +pouncing upon the real point in a fashion confusing at least. Where was +her home? Where did she first see Paul Ralston? Did she know him so +intimately that she could not mistake another for him? What facilities +had she for knowing him so well? Did he visit her often? or, did she +visit at the Ralston House? What was she doing in her room when she saw +Paul from her window? and could she repeat the conversation she held +with him, and so on. + +These and many more questions were asked her, and she answered them all +without hesitation. Her home was in Samona. She first met Paul on the +boat. She had seen him many times since. She knew him well,—better than +any man in Oak City. She could not be mistaken in him, and she was +reading the Bible in her room when she heard his voice and spoke to him +from the window. She could repeat the conversation she held with him, if +necessary. Then she told again what she saw and heard, never varying her +story an iota. + +It was seldom the questioner had such a witness to deal with. She looked +so young that he had thought it an easy matter to worry her into +contradictions. But she was firm as a rock, saying always the same, no +matter how he approached her, and keeping her truthful eyes upon him +with a gaze so steady that he was losing his nerve and wondering how he +should next attack her. He struck it at last and hated himself for the +satisfaction he felt when he saw the color come into her face and the +startled look in her eyes when he asked: “You knew Mr. Percy under +another name, I believe? What was that name?” + +“Mr. Pennington, John Pennington,” she answered, her voice not quite +steady, but her eyes still fixed upon him with an expression so +beseeching that it made him look away from her up at the ceiling, where +a big spider was watching to capture a fly creeping slowly his way. + +He likened himself to the spider and Elithe to the fly, but continued: +“Do you know why he took that name?” + +“I never heard. We do not ask such questions in Samona,” Elithe +answered, with a manner worthy of her aunt, who was sitting with a hand +holding each side of her chair, her lips apart and her head thrown +forward so as not to lose a word. + +“You don’t ask such questions in Samona?” the lawyer repeated, still +regarding the fly coming nearer to the web. “Will you please tell where +you first met him and under what circumstances?” + +“I saw him first at Deep Gulch, where my father preaches once a month. +He was very ill,” Elithe said, without a falter in her voice, although +her heart was throbbing so she thought her interlocutor must hear it. + +“Ill, was he, and you nursed him?” + +Elithe did not think that a question, and did not answer until it was +repeated; then she said: “If sitting by him all night, with Mrs. Stokes +and my brother in the room, was nursing him, I did so. Yes.” + +The red on her face was deepening, but her voice was still steady as the +cross-examination proceeded: + +“You sat with him all night, and after that you saw him often?” + +“Yes, very often in Samona, when he came to the hotel.” + +“He visited at your house on terms of intimacy?” + +“Yes.” + +“Was he respected in Samona?” + +“Yes, highly respected, and in Deep Gulch, too. The miners worshipped +him,” Elithe said, with energy. + +She had forgotten Paul for the time being, and was defending Jack. + +“And he was perfectly straight while he was there,—sober, I mean?” + +“Perfectly,” Elithe replied, wondering why such questions should be +asked her, and, glancing at her aunt, whose glasses had slipped to the +end of her nose and who, under her breath, was calling the lawyer a “dum +fool,” notwithstanding that he was on Paul’s side, and for his sake +trying to confuse Elithe. + +“If he were so sober and circumspect in Samona while you were there, why +did he change, do you think?” was the next query, to which Elithe’s +reply was quick and decisive: + +“I supposed I was here to tell what I know, and not what I think.” + +Paul’s hands struck each other in a wordless cheer; the boys in the +gallery laughed, and the lawyer’s gaze came back from the spider and the +fly to this slip of a girl, who had more backbone than he had given her +credit for. Her eyes were still upon him,—very tired now and worried and +beseeching, as if asking him to let her go and leave Jack Percy in his +grave. He had no such intention. If he could prove her prepossession in +Jack’s favor he would gain a point, and thus, perhaps, weaken her +testimony by showing that her evidence was biased. + +“True,” he said, “you are here to tell what you know. You and Mr. Percy +were great friends? Isn’t that so?” + +“We were good friends. Yes.” + +“And you liked him very much?” + +“Dum fool!” Miss Hansford said, louder than before, while her glasses +dropped from her nose to the floor, where they lay unheeded. + +She guessed the drift of the questioning and was hot with indignation. +For a moment Elithe hesitated and her face grew spotted as she, too, +began to see the snare before her. + +“I liked him. Yes.” + +“Very much?” + +She did not answer him at once, and when she did she said, “What does it +matter whether I liked him much or little?” + +She was proving herself her aunt’s own niece. Her voice sounded defiant; +her eyes had lost their look of entreaty and confronted the lawyer in a +way which made him feel very uncomfortable. He looked up at the spider’s +web. The fly had veered away from it, and the spider was in pursuit. His +fly might escape him if he were not more wary and discreet. He must +prove that Jack Percy, as John Pennington, had been the lover of this +girl, whom he disliked to catechize as much as she disliked to have him. +After a little more skirmishing on his part, and evasion on Elithe’s, he +cleared his throat, gave one look at the big spider swinging down from +the ceiling and said, “Miss Hansford, I believe you were engaged to +marry Mr. Percy, were you not?” + +The effect was wonderful. Elithe had not expected this in so bare-faced +a form, and it roused her to a pitch of high excitement. + +“Engaged to Mr. Percy! I? Never! It is false; all false. Why will you +torture me so? Why will anybody believe it, when it is not true? I was +never engaged to him; never could have been. Never! He was my _friend_. +That was _all_. I shall say no more about him, or anything else.” + +She emphasized the “all” and the “friend” with a stamp of her foot and a +nod of her head, and, without being told to go, walked deliberately from +the place where she had been standing. No effort was made to recall her. +She felt that she was through and put out her hand to find her chair. + +“Let’s go out! Can’t we?” she said to her aunt, whose shoulder she +grasped in her blindness. + +Everything swam around her. The voice of the lawyer, asking if she were +not engaged to Jack Percy, kept sounding like thunder. Paul’s face was +seen through a mist,—troubled, anxious and sorry; the floor came up to +meet her, and, by the time she reached the door, led by her aunt, she +fainted. Instantly Paul arose to go to her,—then sank back with a groan, +remembering he was not free. + +“Go to her, father. Don’t let everybody touch her,” he called aloud to +his father, who hastened to the room where she was being shaken and +fanned, and deluged with water and strangled with hartshorn and camphor, +until she came back to consciousness. + +“What have I done? Where have I been?” she said. + +“Been through a thrashing machine and come out whole,” her aunt said, +wiping the water from her hair and dress, and putting on her hat. + +“Are they through? Is it over? Will they let him go?” she asked. + +No one replied, except to say that she was through and could go home as +soon as she liked. + +“Take my carriage. It’s too far for her to walk,” Judge Ralston said, +putting her and her aunt into it, and then returning to his wife. + +It was Tom who drove Elithe home and said to her as he lifted her out, +“He’ll get off yet.” + +“Get off! What nonsense! We’ve hung him,” was Miss Hansford’s retort, as +she hurried Elithe into the house. + +It was very hot and close indoors and Elithe felt that she should +suffocate if she staid there. + +“I must go where I can breathe,” she said, and, taking her hat, she +started for the Baptist Tabernacle, which was open on three sides. + +Her head was aching both above and below the band still pressing her +forehead, and her heart was aching harder as she thought over the events +of the day and recalled all she had said and all that had been said to +her. It was so much worse than she had expected, especially the +cross-questioning to which she had been subjected. She knew it had been +done to weaken her testimony and help Paul, but the smart was none the +less and her cheeks burned so that she put up her hands to cool them. In +her absorption, she did not know anyone was near her until a voice said, +“Miss Hansford!” + +Then she looked up with a cry of joy, for her first thought was that +Paul was standing beside her. + +“Oh!” she said, “it’s you, Tom. I thought it was Mr. Ralston.” + +“I’ve been told before that we looked alike, especially when I have on +his clothes, as I generally do,” Tom replied. Then, still standing +before her, he began: “Suppose it goes hard with Mr. Paul?” + +“Do you mean hanging?” Elithe asked. + +“Perhaps not that,” Tom answered, “but State’s prison, with a convict’s +dress and a felon’s cell, not much like the room he is now in. The +evidence against him is awful strong. The defense have nothing to offer +except his good character. It looks pretty black for him.” + +“I couldn’t bear it. I should know I put him there. Oh, Tom, you have +said all the while it wouldn’t be, and I believed you and felt there was +hope when they were making me tell what I knew.” + +“There is hope,” Tom answered, sitting down close to Elithe and speaking +very low. “Let’s look it square in the face. If he owns to accidental +shooting, which he never will, they’ll give him a few years unless we +prevent it.” + +“How prevent it? What can we do?” Elithe asked, looking earnestly at Tom +and thinking for the first time how he had changed within the last few +weeks. + +He had grown very thin. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, with a +haunted look in them, as if he were constantly on the alert to ward off +some threatened evil. + +“Listen,” he said. “I have known Mr. Paul all my life. Father and mother +have charge of the Ralston House, summers and winters. I was a boy with +Mr. Paul, who has always treated me more like a brother than a servant. +There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. Give my life, if +necessary,—although it is hard to die when one is young.” + +Here he stopped, and, dropping his head, seemed to be considering. Then +he went on: “They’ll be through to-morrow and sentence him, unless we do +something. I’ve thought it all out. The jail is a ricketty old +rattletrap; the jailer sleeps far away from Mr. Paul’s room and is deaf; +the window casings are rotten as dirt; the bars loose. I know, I’ve +tried ’em. I haven’t been there night after night for nothing. It’s easy +for him to get out and be free.” + +“Oh, if he only could,” Elithe said, and Tom continued: “I can do it, +but must have help. I can trust no one but you. Will you go with me +to-night? You know the Ralston boat-house. Meet me there at twelve +o’clock sharp. We’ll row up the coast, opposite the jail. I know a place +where we can land. I’ve been there two or three times. We can fasten the +boat till we get him out. What do you say?” + +Elithe had scarcely breathed as Tom talked, but now she said, “What will +you do with him? He can’t go on the street.” + +“Leave that to me,” Tom replied. “You’ve heard of that queer room in the +basement of the Ralston House, once used by smugglers, they say. Few +know the entrance to it. We’ll keep him there till the search blows +over. It won’t last long, or be very thorough. Then, we’ll get him off +the island some way if I have to row him across to the Basin. I can do +that, and he can go to Europe or Canada or somewhere. There’s not a man, +woman or child that will not be glad to hear he has escaped.” + +Elithe was young and ignorant and excited, and did not consider the risk +in trying to escape from the island, or the obstacles to be surmounted +after it and the sure penalty if he were captured. She only thought of +Paul free, and that by helping to free him she would atone for her +testimony against him. Just why Tom needed her she did not ask, and he +scarcely knew himself, except that he wanted companionship and knew he +could trust her. After thinking a moment, she said, “I’ll go with you, +but I’d like to tell auntie.” + +“Not for the world!” was Tom’s energetic response. “Nobody must know it +but you and me. After he is safe in the basement, I shall tell his +father and mother.” + +Elithe was persuaded, and, with a promise not to fail, she left Tom and +returned to the cottage, where supper was waiting for her. But neither +she nor her aunt could eat much. Their thoughts were with the incidents +of the day they had passed, and which seemed to have added years to Miss +Hansford’s age and Elithe’s feelings. They didn’t talk of it. They could +not, and at an early hour they said good-night to each other and went to +their respective sleeping rooms. Once alone, Elithe began to waver and +wish she had not promised Tom to join him. Then came thoughts of Paul +and the joy it would be to see him free; aye, more, to help set him +free, and she hesitated no longer. She heard the clock strike ten; then, +overcome with fatigue, fell asleep in her chair, but awoke again as the +clock was striking eleven. In an hour she was due at the boat-house, +and, with her hat on, she sat down to wait and calculate how much time +she ought to allow to reach it. It was dark, and once or twice she heard +the sound of thunder in the distance and, as she leaned from the window +to listen, she felt a coolness, like coming rain, upon her face. It must +be time now, she thought, to start, and, with a noiseless step, she went +down the back stairs and through the kitchen door. Once outside, she +breathed more freely and felt her way cautiously along the piazza to the +front steps, uttering a smothered cry as a hand grasped her arm. + +“Hush!” came warningly from Tom, who had come to meet her. + +“It’s awfully dark; there’s a storm brewing, and I thought you might be +afraid,” he said, keeping hold of her and hurrying her along to the boat +house. + +The wind was rising, and the sea was running high with an angry sound in +it, and white caps showing through the darkness. + +“Oh, Tom, I’m afraid. Let’s walk,” Elithe said, drawing back from a +great wave which came rolling into the boat house. + +“There’s danger on the road and none on the sea. I’ve been out in much +rougher weather than this,” Tom said, lifting Elithe into the boat. + +He was very calm and fearless, and his calmness helped to quiet Elithe +as they pushed out upon the dark water, keeping as near the shore as +possible, until they landed at a point nearly opposite the jail. A few +drops of rain were beginning to fall as they groped their way across the +sands and the strip of meadow, or marsh land, between it and the +highway. Everything about the building was still as death. The jailer +was unquestionably asleep, and possibly Paul. + +“But we’ll soon have him awake and with us,” Tom said, encouragingly, to +Elithe. “Here’s the stone I’ve sat on many a night and planned this +raid. You sit here now and keep these matches under your sacque away +from the rain till I tell you to give me one. Maybe I shall want you to +help a little with the bars.” + +Elithe felt very much like a burglar as she obeyed Tom and sat down upon +the stone, just as a flash of lightning lit up the sky showing the wide +expanse of angry waters and the foaming waves rolling almost up to where +she was sitting. Tom was at the window, she knew, for she could hear him +as he tugged at the iron bars which offered more resistance than he had +expected. + +“Miss Elithe, can you help? Are you strong?” he whispered. + +“As a giant,” she answered, losing all her fear, as, standing on the +stone Tom rolled under the windows, she put all her strength into the +task of liberating Paul. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVII. + FREE. + + +After Miss Hansford and Elithe left the court room that afternoon there +was but little to do. One or two unimportant witnesses were sworn and +one or two recalled, when the prosecution was closed and many of the +strangers hurried to the boats and cars which were to take them home. +They had heard and seen what they came to see and hear,—Miss Hansford +and Elithe. They had laughed at Miss Hansford, and said it was as good +as a play and they had pitied Elithe, compelled to say what she did not +want to say, and which proved so much against Paul that there seemed no +hope for him. The trial would end on the morrow without doubt, and many +were the conjectures as to what the verdict would be. Paul felt all this +as he was driven back to jail after Tom had taken Miss Hansford and +Elithe home. He had asked for them and smiled when he spoke of Miss +Hansford’s manner in court. Of Elithe’s testimony he said nothing, but +she was constantly in his mind as she looked at first when telling what +she saw and heard, and as she looked at the last under the +cross-examination, denying with energy the story of her engagement to +Jack. That gave him some comfort, or would have done so if there had +been comfort to be gained from any source. + +He knew the trial would end the following day, and he would know the +worst there was to know. Those twelve men, who had looked kindly but +pityingly at him as they listened to Elithe, would do their duty as he +should do it in their place, and must find him guilty. If they did not +he was disgraced for life, and could never hold up his head again as he +once had held it. There was no light in the future, and his appearance +was that of an old man when he reëntered the jail. The officer who +conducted him there was very kind and the jailer’s wife brought him many +delicacies for his supper. But he could not eat. The last two days had +been terrible to him, more terrible than any day could ever be again, he +thought, unless——. He could not finish the sentence and contemplate a +possible time when he would say good-bye forever to a world in which he +had been so happy until within a few weeks. These weeks had seemed a +horrible nightmare from which he must awaken either for better or worse. +The awakening had come, and it was for the worse, and never had he felt +so entirely hopeless and miserable as when he sat alone in his room +reviewing the events of the day and dreading those of the morrow. + +If I could only sleep and forget it, he thought, and after a while he +fell asleep, so worn and exhausted that he could keep awake no longer. +He had no means of knowing the hour when he awoke. It must be late, he +knew, and it was very dark outside. In the distance he heard the +rumbling of thunder and nearer the sound of the waves beating on the +shore. He knew just how it looked down there by the sea. He had seen it +many times when a storm was gathering, and, with shoes and stockings +off, had waded out as far as he dared and then ran for the shore with +the green waves in hot pursuit. He had thought it fun, but liked better +the long, sunny beach by the tower, with the music and bathers, Clarice +and himself, and Elithe and Sherry, his first dog, dead so long ago, +“just as I may be when the season comes again,” he said, wondering if +they would miss him and sometimes speak of him to each other. + +Yes, he knew they would; his friends, who liked him, would speak of him +pityingly, in low tones, as a good fellow who went astray. Others would +repeat his story to those who did not know it, and point out the spot +where Jack was killed, and the jail where the man who killed him was +confined and from which he was taken to expiate his crime. It was +horrible to think of it, and he so young, and so much to live for that +he could not die, and in that way. Die and never see again the places he +loved so well,—the green woods and hills of the country, the city haunts +so dear to him, his home, and more than all, his friends, his father and +mother and Clarice. He spoke her name aloud, “Clarice, Clarice, I loved +you so much and you think I killed him,” he cried, stretching out his +arms in the darkness and then letting them fall at his side in an +abandonment of grief. + +The thunder was louder and nearer now. The wind was rising and shook the +bars of his window as they had never been shaken before; then died away +towards the sea, but the shaking of the bars continued and a gleam like +a lighted match flashed through them and disappeared, followed by +another and another, and he could see the outline of four hands, two +large and two small, tugging at the iron rods. Some one was there trying +to get in and Paul felt a momentary fear as he listened to the grating +sound and heard the lime and mortar give way. Again there was a flash of +light. One bar was gone, and the big hands were wrenching another from +its place. + +“Who is there?” Paul asked. + +The answer was in a whisper. “Tom,—come to set you free.” + +The shock was so sudden, the joy so great, that without a thought of +anything but the word _free_. Paul’s head fell forward upon his chest, +and he knew no more until the cool night air and drops of rain were +falling upon his face. Some one was holding his head, and a hand, which +could not be Tom’s, was brushing back his hair, and it seemed to him, +wiping away a drop of blood trickling from a place which smarted on his +forehead. He knew he must he out of his cell, and had an indistinct +remembrance of having been lifted and pushed and pulled in a most +extraordinary way until his arms felt as if they were dislocated. + +“Where am I?” he asked, rising to a sitting posture and trying to pierce +the thick darkness and see who were with him. + +“Whisper, or you’ll have Stevens here. I shouldn’t wonder if he was +putting on his trousers now,—the racket we’ve made. You are out of +prison. Free!” + +“But,” Paul said, beginning to understand, “isn’t it better to stay and +face it? People will certainly think me guilty if I run away. You meant +it right, Tom, and I thank you, but I must go back.” + +“No, you don’t,” Tom replied. “I nearly broke my neck getting you out, +and I am going to keep you. Then, you see, you didn’t run away. You were +_abducted_, against your will, and if they find you, I’ll say so. I’ll +take the brunt. I’ve sworn it. + +“I’m glad you fainted,” Tom continued, “or you might have resisted. I +found you all huddled down in your chair, just ready to tumble on the +floor. A streak of lightning showed me where you were, and I tell you I +had a tussle to get you up to the window and then to get you through, +your legs were so almighty long. You did scrape your forehead some on a +sharp point of iron. I could never have managed you without help.” + +“Help!” Paul repeated. “I remember now. Some one was holding my head +when I came to my senses. Who was it?” + +Reaching out his arm, he felt Elithe’s dress and drew her towards him. + +“Who is it?” he asked, in an eager voice. “Is it,—is it,—_Clarice_? + +“Clarice be ——,” Tom began; then checked himself and said: “It’s Miss +Elithe, and she worked like a nailer, too, and scratched her hand on +that same jagged iron which rubbed your head. She’s a brick!” + +“Elithe here in the darkness and rain,—to save me!” Paul exclaimed, +getting Elithe’s hand in his. + +“Yes, I am here,” Elithe replied, with a drawing in of breath, Paul held +her wounded hand so tight. + +All his thoughts of returning to his cell had vanished with its touch. + +“It’s raining. You’ll be wet through. Let me take off my coat and cover +you,” he said. + +Elithe declined the coat, but let him keep her hand as they went +cautiously down to the landing where the boat was dancing like a cork +upon the waves. It was not an easy task to enter it, and Elithe’s dress +was wet to her knees when she at last took her seat and made room for +Paul beside her. Tom sprang in last, and they pushed off into the +seething waters. The storm had burst upon them with flashes of lightning +and sheets of rain which made Elithe’s face wet with spray and white as +it had been when she took the witness stand in the court room. + +“Are you afraid?” Paul asked. + +It was impossible that she should not be afraid in an open boat in a +raging storm. And yet she was glad Paul was free, if she went to the +bottom. As she did not answer him, he continued: “If I am to be hung I +shall not be drowned. So you are safe.” + +Just then a wave heavier than any which had preceded it struck the boat, +nearly upsetting it, and with a cry of alarm Elithe clung to Paul, who +put his arm around her and drew her down until her face rested in his +lap. + +“Courage,” he whispered. “We are more than half way there. Tom and I +both can swim, and between us we will save you. For me it does not +matter.” + +The storm was terrible now, one moment sending the boat far out to sea, +and the next taking it towards the shore. Crash after crash of thunder +rolled over their heads, while forked lightning darted from the black +sky and swooped down into the water so near them that Paul could see Tom +as with all his strength he plied the oars and tried to keep the boat +well balanced. Paul was bare-headed, for there had been no time to +secure his hat when he left the jail and Tom had made him take his, +saying: “A little wetting will do me no harm and may injure you in your +run-down state.” + +As the waves dashed over the boat more and more until it was a third +full of water, Tom said: “Go to bailing with my hat, if you can. It will +help some.” + +Paul obeyed, bailing rapidly with one hand, while the other held fast to +Elithe, who lay helpless across his lap trembling so that he could feel +the beating of her heart and thought of a little frightened bird he had +once caught and held a moment in his hand. She was thinking of +Samona,—of her father and mother and brothers, and their grief when they +heard she was drowned, as she was sure she would be. Then she wondered +how any one would know what had become of them, and if their bodies +would be washed ashore and found upon the beach. Paul, who was bending +over her as he bailed, knew she was praying, and the arm which encircled +her pressed her more closely. For himself he did not particularly care +whether the sea engulfed him or not, but the girl who had risked her +life for him must not die, and he prayed with her for safety from their +peril. + +How long they buffeted with the storm he did not know, but it seemed an +eternity. They were driven beyond the boat house, then back again and +out to sea, until the rain fell less heavily; the thunder muttered in +the distance; the boat moved more steadily and finally shot into safety +in the shelter of the boat house. Paul lifted Elithe out, and, sitting +down beside her upon the bench in the little room, with his arm still +supporting her, said to Tom: “Well, what next?” + +“Stay here till I take Miss Hansford home and I’ll tell you,” was Tom’s +answer. + +He was wet to his skin; so was Paul, and so was Elithe. But neither of +the three cared. They were safe, and Elithe wrung the water from her +skirts and shook it from her hat, which was crushed beyond all shape or +comeliness. Then she gave her hand to Paul, but neither spoke a word of +parting. They had been in a great peril together; he was in peril yet, +and the horror of it was over them still. There was a warm hand clasp, +and then Tom and Elithe went out again into the darkness and made their +way towards Miss Hansford’s cottage. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + EXCITEMENT. + + +By nine o’clock the next morning everyone in Oak City knew that Paul had +escaped. “Broke jail, and there ain’t no court to-day,” Max Allen said, +when he brought the news to Miss Hansford, who was breakfasting alone. +Hearing no sound from Elithe’s room, she had looked in and, finding her +asleep, had decided not to waken her. + +“The child is just played out, and no wonder,” she said, closing the +door carefully, and leaving the room by the opposite way from which she +had entered. + +It was the back way through which Elithe had come in her wet garments, +stopping a moment as she fancied she heard her aunt moving. A puddle of +water on the floor was the consequence, and into this Miss Hansford +stepped as she went out. + +“For goodness’ sake, I didn’t know it leaked here,” she said, peering +overhead to find the place. + +Failing in this, she wiped up the water and thought no more about it. +She had heard nothing in the night except the storm, which woke her two +or three times. When Max came in with his news, which seemed to excite +him happily, she put her coffee cup down quickly and, with the jerk +natural to her when surprised, she repeated, “Broke jail! What do you +mean?” + +“Mean what I say. Mr. Ralston has skipped. Three of them iron bars to +the winder gone slick and clean. Must of took a giant’s strength to pull +’em out, though the old house is rotten as dirt. Fourth bar twisted all +out of shape. Somebody must of got hurt on the sharp point, for there’s +blood on it,—prints of the ends of fingers on the casin’ below,—not very +big fingers, either, and jam up under the winder a large stone had been +moved for somebody to stan’ on; somebody short, and round the stone was +tracks ground down into the sand and mud, so deep that the rain didn’t +wash ’em all away. Two tracks,—one a woman’s, sure. There must of been a +big tussle right there under the eaves; then there ain’t no more tracks +to be seen, nor nothin’ to tell which way they went.” + +“Thank the Lord for that!” Miss Hansford said, and Max continued: “Who +do you s’pose the woman was?” + +“How should I know?” Miss Hansford replied, thinking the same thought +with Max, who went on: “Between you and I, I b’lieve ’twas Miss Ralston, +for who but his mother would go out such an awful night. Rained cats and +dogs. I never heard bumpiner thunder, nor seen streakeder lightnin’. +Struck two trees and a barn at Still Haven. Folks think she must have +had a hand in it and don’t seem much sorry that he’s cut and run. That +evidence yestiddy was tellin’ and sure to convict him. But the law must +be vin-di-ca-ted, you know, and they’ll have to pretend to hunt for him, +of course. You don’t know nothin’ about it, do you?” + +“No, I don’t,” Miss Hansford replied, bristling at once. “Have you come +with a writ to search my house? If so, go ahead, and when you are +through, I’ll take you by the scruff of your neck and pitch you down the +steps.” + +“Easy, easy,” Max said, good-humoredly. “I hain’t no writ. I only wanted +to warn you that they was goin’ to search Miss Percy’s and your house, +and the Ralston’s, as the three most likely places where he’d be hid. I +didn’t want you to be took unawares, if he happened to be here.” + +“He ain’t here, I tell you,” Miss Hansford said, and Max rejoined: “Of +course he ain’t. He ain’t nowheres, and I hope he’ll stay there. I’d +help get him off the island, I do believe. Where’s Miss Elithe?” + +“Bed and asleep; all wore out,” was Miss Hansford’s reply. + +“Should s’pose she would be. ’Twas awful the way they put her through +yestiddy. Well, I must go over to the Ralston’s. Good day!” + +He nodded and went out, and, shaking like a leaf, Miss Hansford +watched him taking the path through the woods to the Ralston House. +That Elithe had had anything to do with Paul’s escape she had no +suspicion. It was natural that she should sleep late and look white +and scared when she at last came down stairs and was told what had +happened. Miss Hansford was washing her dishes and did not look +closely at Elithe as she repeated what Max had said of the bars pushed +out of place and the twisted one with blood upon it,—the marks of +fingers on the window sill, and the footprints,—one a man’s, +presumably Tom’s; the other a woman’s,—presumably Mrs. Ralston’s. + +“Oh-h! Mrs. Ralston’s!” Elithe exclaimed, closing her right hand, in the +inside of which was the cut she had received on the sharp point of the +iron bar. + +Once she thought to tell her aunt everything, then decided to await +developments. She was glad suspicion had fallen upon Mrs. Ralston rather +than upon herself, and wondered how that frail woman would have come +through the fearful storm. She did not want to talk and kept out of her +aunt’s way as much as possible, and when, towards noon, she saw three +men coming up the walk and guessed their errand. She quietly slipped +through the back door and left her aunt to receive her visitors alone. +Very few of the islanders had expressed themselves as freely as Max, but +there was a general feeling of gladness that Paul had escaped, and a +hope that he would not be recaptured. Still, the law must be +“vin-di-ca-ted,” and a search, or the semblance of one, made for him. +There were only three places where he was at all likely to have taken +refuge,—Mrs. Percy’s, Miss Hansford’s, and his own home. That he was at +the latter place was probable, but it was thought best to begin with +Mrs. Percy. They told her why they had come, apologizing for their +errand on the plea of its advisability in order to make it easier for +other places to be visited. Mrs. Percy had heard of Paul’s escape and +resented the idea that he was in her cottage; but she made no objection +to their going over the house and into the room where Clarice was again +on the verge of hysterics at the new phase matters had assumed. + +Paul was not there, and Miss Hansford was next called upon. They found +her furious, but resolute. + +“Come to look for Paul, have you?” she said. “Well, hunt away, and I’ll +help you.” + +More for form’s sake than for anything else, they followed her upstairs +and downstairs, from room to room, while she opened closet doors and +bureau drawers and trunks, and bade them satisfy themselves. + +“This is my niece’s sleeping room, and this her clothes-press,” she +said, swinging wide the door of Elithe’s closet before the men were +quite in the room behind her. “Lord of Heavens!” she exclaimed under her +breath, as the first objects which met her view were the muddy boots and +wet garments and crushed hat which Elithe had put there until she had a +chance to dry them while her aunt was gone to market or shopping. She +knew now that Elithe and not Mrs. Ralston was concerned in Paul’s +escape, and she felt as if she were sinking to the floor. This would not +do, and, with a mighty effort, she kept herself upright and, taking down +some of Elithe’s dresses, dropped them over the pile of wet clothes. +Then, with a sneer, she said: “Look in, gentlemen, and see for +yourselves that he is not here hanging on the hooks.” + +She made them look in, and made them look under the bed and followed +them downstairs, telling them to call again if they did not find him, +and asking if they had nothing better to do than hunt an innocent man. + +“We are no more anxious to find him than you are,” they said, as they +bade her good morning and started for the Ralston House. When they were +gone, Miss Hansford sat down, more worried and perplexed than she had +ever been in her life, and more conscience-stricken, too. + +“I’m backslidin’ every day,” she thought. “Actually got so I swear,—for +‘Lord of Heavens’ is swearin’, spoke the way I spoke it. I couldn’t help +it. I was so took back with what I saw and what I know. Mrs. Ralston up +at the jail, enjoyin’ such poor health as she does! I might have knew it +was Elithe. Where is she, I wonder?” + +She found her in the kitchen, hovering over the few coals of fire still +burning in the stove. She had staid outside until she saw the men leave, +and then had come in by the same door through which she went out. + +“Be you cold?” her aunt said to her. + +“Yes, the weather has changed a good deal since yesterday,” Elithe +answered, with a shiver, wondering if her aunt would detect the odor of +witch hazel in which she had bathed her hand. + +She did smell it, but was too much excited to think about it or care. + +“I s’pose you took cold last night at the jail! Who was with you?” she +asked. + +Elithe fairly jumped. Her aunt knew, and there was nothing left but to +tell the truth. + +“Tom was with me,” she said. + +“I thought so. Where’s Paul? What did you do with him?” + +“Left him in the boat-house. I don’t know where he is now,” Elithe +replied, and her aunt continued: “In the boat-house! Elithe Hansford, do +you mean you brought him by boat in that awful storm? They say two trees +and a barn were struck near Still Haven.” + +“It would not have surprised me if every house in Oak City had been +struck,” Elithe answered, as she recalled the awful storm and the great +peril she had been in. + +At her aunt’s request, she told everything,—why she went and what she +did, and showed her wounded hand, and said there was a cut on Paul’s +forehead, which had scraped against the same sharp iron point. Miss +Hansford’s knees shook so that she could hardly stand. Nor could she +think of any fitting words with which to express her feelings except +“Lord of Heavens!” which came to her the more readily because she had +used it so recently. + +“There, I’m swearing again, but it’s enough to make a minister +swear,—the things I’m goin’ through. I wonder I’m alive. I know where +they’ll put him, but he’ll be found, if they haven’t got him already, +and then it’ll be worse for him.” + +She didn’t reproach Elithe for what she had done, nor feel like +reproaching her. On the contrary, she felt an increased admiration for +the girl who had braved so many difficulties to save Paul. Elithe seemed +to be more like a woman to be counseled with and considered than a girl +to be advised and dictated to. And Elithe felt ten years older than she +had when the great trouble came. Together she and her aunt talked the +matter over and waited for news from the Ralston House. Max Allen had +gone there after his interview with Miss Hansford to notify Tom, he +said, although he had his own suspicions with regard to that young man. +He found him grooming a horse near the stable and so busy with his work +that he did not seem to see Max until he was close to him and said, +“Good mornin’! Heard the news?” + +“Yes. Two trees and a barn struck with lightnin’ last night, if that’s +what you mean,” Tom answered, without looking up. + +“Oh, git out! ’Tain’t that. You know ’tain’t,” Max rejoined. “Paul +Ralston’s broke jail, and they’ll be scourin’ the country for him. You +hain’t seen him, I s’pose?” + +Tom meant to be truthful in the main, but, thinking this a time to lie, +he did so without a scruple. + +“No, I hain’t, and if I had I’d die before I’d tell. How did he get +out?” + +Max repeated the story, while Tom groomed the horse assiduously, asking +a question now and then but not hoodwinking Max. That Tom knew something +about it he was sure, and finished by saying: “Whoever did it was +all-fired plucky, and I respect ’em for it. Folks suspect Miss Ralston; +the finger tips on the window and the footprints under it was so small. +I hope she’s well as usual this mornin’ and will have her wits about her +when they come to search. You are sure he ain’t here?” + +“Yes, sure,” Tom answered, giving the horse a blow which made him spring +round with his heels close to Max, who began to back off and very soon +left the yard with the remark, “You’d better warn ’em that they are +comin’.” + +Tom did not reply, but after Max was gone he said: “I must tell them +now, but not where he is till after the search has been made.” Putting +the horse in the stable, he started for the house. Mr. and Mrs. Ralston +had passed a sleepless night, thinking only of Paul and counting the +hours before they could see him again. They had no hope of an acquittal. +That died out with Elithe’s testimony. Mrs. Ralston could not feel +altogether kindly disposed towards the girl, although she pitied her, +and knew that what she said had been wrung from her by the iron hand of +the law. The result, however, would be the same and she would lose her +boy,—not by death, perhaps,—but in a manner nearly as bad and hard to +bear. She wished to be early at the jail that morning so as to be with +him as long as possible before he went into the court room, and had told +Tom to hurry with the carriage. She had her bonnet on waiting for him +and wondering why he was so long in coming, when he appeared and told +the news as Max had told it to him. Mrs. Ralston fainted, and during his +efforts to restore her the judge had time to consider the situation, +which looked to him rather grave. Still the thought that Paul was free +gave him a thrill of joy, while he doubted the wisdom of the escape. But +who helped him, and where is he? he asked. + +Tom, who, since he began to lie, did so without compunction, insisted +that all he knew was what Max had told him. The officers were coming to +search the house by and by, he said, offering to attend to them himself. +If the judge suspected Tom he said nothing, and with his wife waited in +painful suspense until the arrival of the three men who had visited Mrs. +Percy and Miss Hansford at an earlier hour. They were met by Tom and +were shown at once into the room where the judge and his wife were +sitting, the mother’s face full of agonized fear and the father’s stern +and grave, as, in answer to the question, “Do you know where your son +is?” he replied, “I do not. Go where you like. Tom will conduct you.” + +The next ten minutes were minutes of torture to the two who sat +listening to the tramp of feet while the party went over the house, led +by Tom, who threw open presses and closets, with a strange glitter in +his eyes, especially when he came to the closet under the stairs in the +large square entry or hall. + +“They keep their best clothes here,” Tom said, taking down a silk dress +and the judge’s evening coat. “Go in, if you like.” + +They didn’t go in nor into the cellar either. Only one of them, an old +resident of the place, knew anything definite about the smuggler’s room, +and he kept his knowledge to himself and hurried the others away. They +were satisfied, they said to Tom, as they left the house with a feeling +that Paul was there somewhere. + +“And if he is, let him stay. We have done our duty, and don’t want to +drag him back to prison,” they said to each other. + +This was the prevailing sentiment of the people when the first +excitement was over. There was a little disappointment on the part of +the idlers and curious ones that they were not to have another day in +court, but they consoled themselves by going in crowds to the jail and +staring at the windows and the twisted bars and the finger marks and +footprints, which last were effectually trampled out of sight before the +day was over by the many feet which walked over the spot. + +“We must try to find him, of course,” the people said, and a pretended +watch was kept upon the outgoing boats and the little fishing smacks +which crossed to the mainland, but there was no heart in it. + +Nobody wanted to capture the runaway, and when a new sensation came up +in the shape of a fire and the arrest of the incendiary, public interest +was centred in that, and when Paul was mentioned it was only to ask, +“Where do you suppose he is?” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIX. + WHERE HE WAS. + + +While the men were going over the house he was lying in the smuggler’s +room on the billiard table, which had been put there in the spring and +scarcely used at all, as the young men preferred the one in the third +story, which commanded a view of the sea. On this Tom had improvised a +comfortable bed, taking his own mattress and pillows and secretly +purloining sheets and blankets in his frequent tours through the house. +Here he had lain Paul after a hard struggle to get him there. On his +return from seeing Elithe home he had found Paul in a state of +semi-unconsciousness, from which he could not at first rouse him. + +“Paul, Paul,” he said, dropping the Mr. in his anxiety as he shook him +by the arm, “come with me now; you are at home; safe,—free. Come.” + +Paul only answered, “Yes, I know; the storm is terrible, and she is wet +through. I can feel how she trembles.” + +He was still in the boat with Elithe in his arms. Tom understood it, and +said: “Miss Elithe is home. I took her there. Don’t you remember? And +you are home. Come.” + +It was of no use. Paul did not offer to move, and the night was wearing +away. The storm had passed on, and there was a faint streak of daylight +in the east. Something must be done. What can I do to rouse him? Tom +thought. The answer came in a howl from Sherry, shut up in his kennel, +where Tom had put him when he left the house. The sagacity of an +intelligent dog is wonderful, and Sherry was one of the most intelligent +of his race. He had been uneasy ever since the boat glided under cover, +and had tried to get out. His ear was trained to catch sounds at a long +distance, and his instinct told him something unusual was going on in +which he must have a part. It did not seem possible that he could +recognize Paul’s voice so far away, but from the moment he spoke he +redoubled his efforts to be free, and finally gave the howl which +decided Tom. Going to the kennel, he let the dog out, but did not have +to tell him where to go. Sherry knew, and when Tom reached the boat +house the dog was there, licking Paul’s face and hands and talking to +him in the language of a dumb beast. Tom thought of Rip Van Winkle +asking for Schneider, as he threw the light of his dark lantern upon the +scene and saw the expression on Paul’s face. The dog had saved him. + +“Yes, Sherry, old fellow,” he said, patting the animal, “you are glad to +see me, aren’t you? But, easy, boy, easy. Don’t lick my face off with +your long tongue. What is it, Tom? What am I to do? I think I’ve been in +a sort of trance from which Sherry wakened me. Good Sherry, who stood by +me through it all.” + +“Come with me to the house,” Tom said, putting his arm around him and +almost carrying him up the slope, while Sherry ran sometimes in front +and sometimes behind them and jumping on Paul, whom he nearly threw +down. + +Paul made no comment when introduced into the smuggler’s room from the +cellar. It seemed very natural to go there, and after Tom had exchanged +his wet clothing for dry ones and covered him in bed, he looked up and +said: “It’s the old days come back,—when we were boys and played I was +hiding here a prisoner, just as I am now.” + +Tom did not reply. He was thinking what to do next. Paul decided it for +him. + +“Put another blanket, or something, over me,” he said. “I’m very cold, +some like Harry Gill. How many did he have, when his teeth they +chattered still.” + +There was no extra blanket there, but Tom put a big rug over him, and +gave him a swallow of brandy from the small flask he had in his pocket +for just such an emergency. + +“I know you are temperance,” he said, “and so am I, but if there was +ever a time for brandy and lies it’s now. I’ve told a pile and expect to +go on telling. Confound that dog with his yelps. He’ll have the whole +house up if we don’t stop him,” he continued, as Sherry kept bounding +against the door with short, sharp barks for admittance. + +“Let him in,” Paul said. “He does me good.” + +Tom let him in, with the result of a scene similar to that at the jail +when he first saw Paul. + +“Come up here and keep me warm,” Paul said to him, with a snap of his +fingers, which brought the dog on to the billiard table, where he lay +close to Paul, who gradually grew warmer and finally fell asleep. + +How Tom managed to bring him anything to eat he hardly knew, but he did +manage it. Paul, however, could not eat, and only took a bit of bread to +please Tom, and then again fell asleep with Sherry beside him. He had +given a growl or two when he heard the tramp of strange footsteps +overhead as the officers went through the house, and Tom wanted to +throttle him, fearing danger. That was passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Ralston +found their son and his dog asleep when they went to him after being +told where he was. His mother’s tears upon his face awoke him, and he +started up, but fell back again upon his pillow weak as a child, bodily +and mentally. The strain upon him had been more than he could bear, and +for days he lay in a kind of lethargy, sleeping a great deal and +partially delirious when awake. He knew he was free, but did not fully +realize the situation or understand why he was in the Smuggler’s room +instead of his own, or why his father’s face wore so grave a look of +concern and his mother’s eyes were full of tears when she spoke to him. +He saw only these two and Tom for a few days, if we except Sherry, who +staid with him constantly and only went out for exercise and to bark and +growl at any suspicious people who came near the house. Sherry was +developing a new side to his character, and from being the best-natured +dog in the neighborhood, was getting a name for the most savage. His +favorite resting place when out of doors was near the entrance to the +basement, where he would sit watching everything which went on around +him, and when he heard a footstep at the front of the house, hurrying to +see who the intruders were, growling if he did not like their looks, +wagging his tail if he did and going back to his position near Paul’s +door. + +It was necessary after a little that the servants in the house should +know of Paul’s presence there, and they were sworn to secrecy, which was +scarcely necessary, as not one of them would have betrayed their young +master. After this it was easier to care for him than before. The +Smuggler’s room was furnished with every appliance for comfort, and +every possible attention was paid to the invalid, whose mind remained +shaky and clouded, and who was always trying to remember what had +happened and how he came to be in his present quarters. Tom told him two +or three times, but the effort to remember tired him so that Paul always +shook his head, saying: “No good. It’s all a blur, except Sherry’s +licking my face. I remember how cold his tongue was. That’s all.” + +“Perhaps Miss Elithe can help you,” Tom suggested, and Paul caught +eagerly at it. + +“Yes, I want to see Elithe. I have a dim recollection of her. Send for +her.” + +Mrs. Ralston, who had heard from Tom all the particulars of Paul’s +escape from prison, had freely forgiven Elithe for what she had been +obliged to say at the trial. + +“I’ll go for her,” she said, feeling a great desire to see the girl who +had risked so much for Paul. + +During the week which had elapsed since Paul’s escape there had been no +intercourse between the Ralston House and Miss Hansford’s cottage. Tom +knew he was suspected and watched, and, fearing to implicate Elithe in +the matter, he had thought best to keep aloof from her as long as +possible. And both she and her aunt were glad that he did so. They had +no doubt as to the place of Paul’s concealment, but did not care to know +certainly, as it was better to be ignorant of his whereabouts until the +talk had subsided in some degree. Still they were anxious to know +something definite, and were glad when Mrs. Ralston came to them one +evening just after dark. She was on foot and alone, not caring to +attract attention by driving in her carriage. Taking Elithe’s face +between her hands, she kissed it tenderly and said: “I want to thank you +for what you did for my boy. Tom tells me you were of great assistance +and very brave.” + +“How is he?” Miss Hansford asked before Elithe could reply. + +Mrs. Ralston told them everything which had occurred since Elithe left +Paul in the boat house,—of Paul’s mental condition and the hope they had +that Elithe might rouse him. + +“He has a high fever, too,” she said. + +“Have you had a doctor?” Miss Hansford asked. + +“No, we dare not,” was Mrs. Ralston’s reply, and Miss Hansford +continued: “I wouldn’t, either. None of ’em know enough to go in when it +rains. I tried ’em when Elithe was sick and shipped them all. Good +nursing is what he wants, with maybe some herb tea. I wish I could see +him.” + +“You may,” Mrs. Ralston said. “Come to lunch with Elithe to-morrow. That +will not excite suspicion. I have seen very few people, although many +have called. Most of the visitors have left the island, and I am glad of +that.” + +Her invitation was accepted, and the next day both Miss Hansford and +Elithe were admitted to the Smuggler’s room. But Paul did not know +either of them. His fever and delirium had increased, and he was talking +continually, not of the present but of the past, when he was a boy with +Jack Percy, stealing Miss Hansford’s watermelon and playing he was a +prisoner in the Smuggler’s room, with an officer at the door trying to +get in. This was uppermost in his mind, and he begged that the officer +should be kept out, saying: “I don’t know what they think I did. I only +know I didn’t do it.” + +The case was serious, and grew more and more so for three or four days, +during which Miss Hansford expended all her nursing powers and +knowledge, which were considerable, and Elithe staid by him constantly. +He was more quiet with her, although he did not know her, and frequently +called her Clarice, telling her he knew she would come, and once asking +her to kiss him. + +“Not now. You are too sick for that. You might give her the fever,” his +mother interposed, while Elithe kept from his sight as far as possible. + +He missed her at once and said: “If she can’t kiss me, she can hold my +hand. Where is she?” + +Elithe returned to her post and held his hot hands and bathed his head +and answered to the name Clarice and felt her heart throb strangely at +the terms of endearment he gave her, asking her often if she loved him. +Her silence troubled him greatly, and he would look reproachfully at +her, repeating the question, until once, when they were alone and he was +very persistent, she leaned forwards and said in a whisper, while her +cheeks were scarlet: “Yes, Paul, I love you. Don’t ask me again, or talk +of me so much.” + +“All right. I won’t,” he answered cheerfully, and soon fell into a sleep +which did him so much good that from that time onward he began to mend. + +“Will he remember?” Elithe asked herself in an agony of fear and shame +as his brain began to clear and to realize where he was and why he was +there. + +He did not remember, nor did he mention Clarice again for some time, +except to ask if she had been there. + +“I thought she was here once. It must have been a dream,” he said to +Elithe,—adding after a moment, “I believe I knew you were here all the +time,—you and Sherry,” and he stroked the head of the dog, sitting on +his haunches beside him and looking at him with almost human +intelligence in his eyes. + +He did not talk much now, except occasionally with his father of the +future, which was so dark and full of peril. + +“They have stopped looking for me, you think?” he would say: “but what +of that? I can’t stay here forever. If I don’t give myself up again, +what am I to do?” + +This question was hard to answer, and, as the days went by and Paul grew +stronger and realized his real position, he grew more and more restless +and unhappy,—with a desire to see Clarice and talk with her of what he +ought to do. Nearly every visitor had left Oak City except the Percys, +who had been kept there by the continued indisposition of Clarice. Paul +had heard that she was going on the morrow and he begged so hard to see +her that his father finally consented, and Elithe was asked to take a +note from him and explain. + +Clarice had passed from nervous prostration into a kind of stony apathy +and indifference to everything around her. When she heard of Paul’s +escape she was glad, and gladder still when told that people believed he +had managed to reach the mainland and was probably a thousand miles +away. She hoped he would not be recaptured, as the disgrace for herself +would be less than if he were convicted and punished. Mrs. Percy did not +quite see the distinction, but Clarice did. + +“If the man I was to have married should be hung, or sent to prison, I +could never hold up my head again. It’s bad enough that he should have +killed Jack and been tried for his life,” she said, losing sight of +Paul’s unhappy position, and thinking only of her own. + +She did not know whether she believed the shooting accidental or not, +but, in either case, she blamed Paul for having brought this trouble +upon her,—ruined her life, she said,—feeling sometimes that she could +not forgive him if the law should set him free. To lose her position as +his wife was hard, but her brother’s blood was on his hands and she must +not marry him. How much this decision was influenced by a letter +received by her mother from Ralph Fenner, the Englishman, telling her +that his uncle, the old earl, was dead, and also the little boy next in +the succession, leaving only his invalid brother between him and the +title, it is hard to say. She had sent him cards to her wedding, and he +wrote on the assumption that she was married, and sent his +congratulations to her and Paul, inviting them, if they ever came to +England, to visit him at Elm Park, his late uncle’s country seat, where, +with his brother, he was living. The possibility which this letter +opened up did not occur to her at first, and she would not have admitted +that it occurred to her at all or made her think less kindly of Paul. +She was reading this letter a second time when Elithe’s card was brought +to her. Something told her that Elithe was bringing her news of Paul, +and she signified her willingness to see her. She could not forget that +Jack had loved the girl and her manner was more cordial than haughty as +she went forward to meet her. + +“I have a message from Mr. Ralston,” Elithe began at once. + +“Where is he?” Clarice asked, and Elithe replied by telling her +particulars of the escape and of the Smuggler’s room in the basement of +the Ralston House, where Paul was taken; of his delirious illness, when +he talked so much of Clarice, thinking she was with him; of the days of +convalescence, harder to bear than positive illness; of his despair as +he counted the weary years which must be spent in hiding and his +oft-repeated resolves to give himself up to justice. + +“He goes around the house when no one is there,” she said, “and is often +in the look-out on the roof, where he can see the boats as they go out +and come in. He heard you were to leave to-morrow and wishes you to come +to him this evening. Here is his note.” + +She passed it to Clarice, who read: “My Darling: Can you come to me +before you go and let me see your dear face again? You may never be my +wife, but the knowing that you love and trust me will make life more +endurable, whether spent in a foreign land or in a felon’s cell. I have +so much to say to you. Come, Clarice; if you ever loved me, come.” + +Clarice’s lips quivered as she read the note, and her eyes were full of +tears. For a brief instant she hesitated and seemed to be thinking. Then +she said, “I cannot go.” + +“You cannot!” Elithe repeated, and Clarice continued: “No, I cannot. Of +what use would it be when I can’t say I think him innocent.” + +“You don’t think him guilty?” Elithe exclaimed, and Clarice replied, “I +think he killed Jack. _Your_ testimony proved that.” + +“I know, I know,” Elithe answered her; “I had to tell what I saw. But it +was an accident. He did not mean to do it.” + +“Why, then, does he not say so? Why persist in a falsehood when the +truth might save him?” Clarice asked in a tone of voice which roused +Elithe, and no lawyer defending his client was ever more eloquent than +she was in her defense of Paul and her entreaty for Clarice to see him. + +“If you ever loved him, you must love him now more than ever, when he +needs it so much, and if he were free or in a foreign land you would +still marry him,” she said. + +Clarice shook her head. “You must hold peculiar ideas,” she said, “if +you think I could marry one who killed my brother. I have thought it all +over,—again and again,—during these wretched days. Don’t imagine I have +not suffered, for I have. Think of the crushing blow which fell when I +was so happy and expected to be happier, and all through Paul. I have +loved him. I suppose I love him still, but can never be his wife. I am +sorry for him. I hope he will escape justice and would help him if I +could. I find myself weakening now as I talk to you, and dare not trust +myself to see him. You say he often sits in the look-out. Tell him to be +there to-morrow when the boat goes out. There will not be many on it, +and I will wave him a God bless you and good-bye.” + +“Is that all?” Elithe asked, rising to go. + +It seemed as if Clarice wavered a moment, her love for Paul tugging at +her heart and fighting with her pride, which conquered. + +“That is all,” she said, “except good-bye to you, in whom I must always +be interested because Jack loved you.” + +She held out her hand, which Elithe took mechanically and dropped +quickly. She did not like to be reminded of Jack’s love. It hurt her +almost as much as the message she was taking to Paul, who was waiting +anxiously for her. + + + + + CHAPTER XL. + FAREWELL. + + +“What did she say? Is she coming? Did she send me a note?” Paul asked +eagerly, knowing the answer before Elithe could give it. + +He was in the Smuggler’s room, which, luxuriously as it had been fitted +up, was a prison still. All the world was a prison and would be as long +as he lived as he was living now. + +“I can’t bear it much longer. I believe I’d rather die or work in the +convict’s garb, with the hope of being eventually free,” he had said +many a time, with a growing conviction that he should ultimately give +himself up in spite of his mother’s assertions that the real culprit +would in time be found, or he gotten out of the country to a foreign +land, where she and his father would join him, and, perhaps, Clarice. + +She always pronounced that name hesitatingly, for she doubted the girl +who had shown so little sympathy for her lover. Did Paul doubt her, too? +Possibly, although he made every excuse for her, while the hunger in his +heart grew more and more intense to see her and hear her say she loved +him and would one day be his wife if he were ever free from the taint +upon his name. If he had killed Jack by accident, as so many believed, +he would never have thought of offering her his love a second time; but +he had _not_ killed Jack, and there was nothing but the disgrace of his +arrest and trial, and, perhaps, punishment, standing between them. Would +she overlook all that, as he would have done had she been in his place? +He hoped so, and waited anxiously the return of Elithe. + +“Will she come?” he repeated, and, sitting down beside him, Elithe told +him the particulars of her interview with Clarice, while Paul listened +without a word or a sign that he heard or cared. + +“Thank you, Elithe,” he said, when she finished, and, getting up, began +to walk the room rapidly. + +She knew he wanted to be alone, and, bidding him good-bye, went out and +left him with his sorrow and disappointment. + +The next morning was dark and gloomy, as November days are apt to be, +and there were very few passengers on the boat, and only the express and +hackmen were on the wharf when the Ralston carriage drew up with Mrs. +Percy and Clarice in it. This was Paul’s suggestion. He would have every +possible attention paid to Clarice and had asked that their carriage be +sent for her. Tom, who drove it, was civil,—nothing more,—for he +despised the selfish girl who had shown so little heart for Paul. He +bought their tickets and saw their baggage checked, and then, without a +word, was turning to leave, when Clarice took his hand and said, “Tom, I +know where he is. Elithe told me. I couldn’t see him, believing what I +do, but I am sorry,—oh, so sorry. Tell him so, and give him my love.” + +Tom bowed and walked away, thinking it doubtful if he gave the message +to Paul. + +“I want him to forget her,” he said; “want him to see the difference +between her and that other one who has stood by him so nobly. God bless +her!” + +As he drove from the landing he looked back and saw Mrs. Percy and +Clarice standing in a part of the boat which could be seen distinctly +from the top of the Ralston House, where a white flag was floating. +Tying her handkerchief to her umbrella, Clarice returned the signal +which Paul had fastened to the railing, and then sat down on the floor +beside it, waiting for some sign that it was recognized. He had often +waved a good-bye to friends when they were leaving, and he remembered +that once, when he was a boy, and Clarice was going away and Jack was +staying a few days longer with him, they had dragged their sheets from +their beds and shaken them in the wind, while Clarice stood upon a chair +and kissed her hand to them. Now Jack was dead and he was accused of +killing him, and Clarice was going from him forever. He felt that this +was so. Clarice was lost. Her love for him was dead or dying, and from +that moment his own began to die. When the boat disappeared and he could +no longer see the two black figures, the sight of which had made Jack’s +death so real, he took down his white flag, and, covering his face with +his hands, said sadly: “It’s over between us. The bitterness of death is +passed. God pity me, and give me courage to do what I must do. I have +lost Clarice. I know it now, and perhaps it is better so. She could not +bear the disgrace.” + +There was a step near him and a hand was laid upon his arm. It was +Elithe, who had been sent by Mrs. Ralston to tell him there were callers +in the drawing-room and he was to stay where he was. At sight of him she +forgot her errand and tried to comfort him as she would have comforted +her brother. + +“Don’t feel so badly,” she said. “You will see her again and be happy.” + +“Never,” he answered. “It is all over between us. I don’t know that I +blame her. She believes I killed her brother. How can she forgive that?” +He was silent a moment; then he continued: “I have made up my mind and +nothing can change it. I shall go back to prison and take my chance. I +do not believe it will be hanging. I’ve thought it all out, and I can +stand prison life better than this dodging and hiding from the world, as +I should have to do no matter where I might be. Neither Europe nor +Canada, supposing I could get there, would free me from myself. I shall +go back.” + +Here he stopped, struck by something in Elithe’s face he could not +mistake and which awoke an answering chord in him. During the weeks of +his isolation in his father’s house he had seen Elithe nearly every day. +He had watched for her coming, and missed her when she went away. She +had read to him in the Smuggler’s room during his convalescence, and +once or twice she had sung to him, just as she had sung to Jack Percy in +the miners’ camp at Deep Gulch. He had no evil spirits to be exorcised +like Jack, but she had soothed and quieted him until he felt his +strength returning and knew he owed it largely to her. He had always +been interested in her since he first knew her, and, with the exception +of Clarice, had liked her better than any girl he had ever met. Now she +stood in a different relation to him. She had been with him in all his +trouble and had made it her own. She was necessary to him, and as he +looked at her it came to him with a pang that to give himself up to the +law was to give her up, too. There would be no more waiting for her +coming,—no more readings,—no more talks,—no more anything! His heart had +ached when he sent his farewell after Clarice, and it ached nearly as +hard now as he thought of losing Elithe. Taking her hands, he said: “God +only knows all you have been to me. No sister could have done more. Do +you think I can forget that night on the sea when you risked your life +for me, or what you have been to me since? One of the hardest things in +going to prison will be giving you up, but whether I go for life or for +a term of years I know you’ll stand by me. You’ll not forget me. You’ll +write to me. You’ll come to see me some time.” + +“I shall never forget you, wherever you are, whether in prison or at the +ends of the earth, and if I can I’ll go to you if you need me,” Elithe +answered him. + +She was greatly excited, and perhaps her words implied more than she +really meant, but they brought to Paul a second time a feeling, half of +joy, half of pain, as he began to realize what she might have been to +him had he never seen Clarice. + +“Elithe,” he said, “Elithe,” in a tone of voice which sent the hot blood +in waves of crimson to her face. Then, remembering Clarice and the cell +and the convict’s dress, he dropped her hands and only added: “Go now +and leave me. I am better alone.” + + + + + CHAPTER XLI. + TOM, YOU DID IT! + + +This was what Elithe said to Tom, sitting in the Baptist Tabernacle just +where she sat when he came asking her to help him liberate Paul, and +where he now came to tell her of Paul’s fixed determination to go back, +as he termed it. No arguments or entreaties had been of any avail to +deter him from his purpose. Anything was preferable to the life he was +living, he said, and when the court which was to try the firebugs was in +session he should give himself up, trusting Providence for the result. +From the moment when this was settled Tom appeared like a new man, and +his cheery whistle, which had not been heard since Paul’s arrest, +sounded in the stables and yard again as he busied himself with his +work. The second day after Paul’s decision he put on the coat and hat he +had not worn since the Sunday when Jack was shot and started for a walk +in the woods. It was late November, and the dead leaves rustled under +his feet with a dreary sound which awoke a mournful feeling in his +heart. + +“It makes me sorry like to think I shan’t be walking here much longer, +but I’m going to do it,” he said, just as he saw Elithe sitting in the +Tabernacle in the distance. + +She did not see him till he was close to her, and then she started as +she had done before with a thought that it was Paul. + +“It’s his coat and hat, or they were once,” Tom said, “and in ’em I +b’lieve I look so much like him that in a fading light I might easily be +mistaken for him, if he had been seen and spoken to a few minutes +before. I might be shootin’ at some animal, you know,—a rabbit, or +woodchuck. Do you see?” + +He was looking at Elithe, in whose mind a whirlwind of emotions were +contending with wild suspicions, which culminated at last in her +springing up and with her finger pointed towards him saying: “_Tom you +did it!_” + +Tom answered, “I did,” and listened while she heaped upon him the most +scathing scorn for his cowardice and wickedness in letting another +suffer in his stead. + +“And you would have seen him sent to prison, perhaps to death, and never +spoken,” she said, “Oh, Tom, I have thought you so good and true, and +all the time you were hiding your own sin. I’m going to town as fast as +I can to tell it.” + +She was hurrying away when Tom took hold of her arm and made her sit +down again. + +“You are not going to tell it,” he said. “I claim that privilege myself. +I’ve been mean as dirt, but not so bad as you think. Let me tell you how +it was.” + +Very rapidly he told his story, how, arrayed in Paul’s coat, trousers +and hat, he had started for a stroll in the woods as he often did on a +Sunday afternoon, taking Paul’s revolver with him in hopes he might find +some animal to fire at. He had no idea of Jack’s proximity to him, and +when a rabbit ran in that direction he fired at it, as Elithe saw him +do. The shot was followed by a groan, telling him he had wounded some +one. In his fright he threw the pistol away, but did not know why he did +it. His first impulse was to go to the clump of bushes and see who was +there. Then he heard Elithe call out that some one was shot, and, like a +coward, he skulked behind the trees, hearing the confusion of voices and +some one saying, “He is dying.” Thoroughly frightened, he hurried +through the woods and across the fields in the direction of Still Haven, +seeing no one until he was near New York wharf. Here he met and spoke to +two or three, but heard nothing of the disaster. On Highland Avenue he +was joined by Paul, coming from the direction of the brick kiln. They +walked together until nearly home, when they were told that some one had +been shot and carried into Miss Hansford’s cottage. Paul had at once +started for the cottage, and he, Tom, had gone on, hearing later that +Jack had committed suicide. He had no thought that Paul would be +suspected, and when he knew he was he was too much frightened to speak +out and say that he did it. + +“I tried a hundred times. I swan I did,” he said, as he saw the contempt +in Elithe’s face, “but something always gripped my tongue and kept me +still. And then I didn’t b’lieve they’d go so far with him,—he was so +popular and rich, and when they put him in jail I swore on the Bible +that if he was convicted I’d own up, and I meant it, too, though life +and liberty is as sweet to me as to him, and because they are so sweet +and I hated so to give up everything and be hung or sent to State’s +Prison, I contrived a plan to liberate him and get him out of the +country, where he’d be safe, and then I needn’t tell.” + +“But leave him all his life with that cloud upon him. Oh, Tom, I am +disappointed in you, and I thought you so good, standing by Mr. Ralston +as you have,” Elithe exclaimed, feeling sorry the next moment for the +man who looked so abject and crushed and on whose face drops of sweat +were standing, although the day was cold and gusty. + +“Infernal mean, I know,” he said, “but I’ve suffered more than he, I do +believe. Look how poor I’ve grown, and how baggy my clothes set on me. +It’s remorse that did it, and the knowing I must take his place if he +didn’t get off. I was as tired of his hidin’ with me and Sherry keepin’ +watch as he was. I knew it couldn’t last forever, and I was that glad I +could have shouted when he settled it that he would go back. I am +happier than I have been since the shootin’.” + +“Have you told him?” Elithe asked, and Tom replied: “No, and don’t mean +to either till the next trial. You see, it will look better for him and +more innocent like to go back, knowing nothing, and then, Lord, won’t +there be a sensation when they bring in the defence, and I am called as +a witness and spring it on ’em. I can see your aunt’s face now. Wouldn’t +wonder if she jumped up and hugged me. She’s great on Mr. Paul.” + +He laughed and cried both and Elithe cried, too, with pity for him and +joy for Paul, who was virtually free. + +“I must tell auntie,” she said. “I shall burst if I have to keep it from +every one. She is safe as I am, and then she will not be so excited when +she has to testify as she was before.” + +Tom laughed as he recalled Miss Hansford’s manner on the stand, but +fully appreciated Elithe’s dislike to have it repeated. + +“Well, tell the old lady if you wish to,” he said, “and maybe she’ll +bring me apple pies and things when I’m in jail instead of him. You’ll +come and see me some time?” + +Elithe took his hand and said: + +“I’ll come, yes,—and so will everybody, and I don’t believe they’ll do +anything to you, either, when they know just how it happened. They’ll +blame you for keeping still so long,—but giving yourself up voluntarily +will wipe that out. I was very angry with you at first. I think you a +hero now, so will Mr. Ralston, and he and his father will do everything +to save you.” + +She pressed his hand warmly, and then hurried home with the news, +feeling herself grow stronger with every step and looking so bright and +happy when she entered the house that her aunt noticed the change and +asked what had happened. + +“The man is found,—the man is found,” Elithe replied, curveting around +the room and finally dropping into the two-step she had practiced with +Paul on the causeway, and whistling an accompaniment. + +“Be you crazy? What man is found?” Miss Hansford asked, divining the +answer before it came. + +“The man who shot Mr. Percy. It was not Paul. I was mistaken. It was +Tom. He has told me all about it and is going to give himself up.” + +Miss Hansford’s knees, which had played her false so many times of late, +weakened as they had never done before, and, although she was sitting +down, she straightened out in her chair until the Bible she was reading +slipped from her lap to the floor, followed by her spectacles, while her +hands followed them and hung beside her. There was a spasmodic movement +of her lower jaw and a clicking sound of her teeth as she said: “Tell me +what you mean?” Elithe told her all she had heard from Tom, whom Miss +Hansford first called a scamp and a scoundrel who deserved hanging and +ended by praising and pitying, saying, as Elithe had said, that the +Ralstons would do everything to save him and most likely nothing would +be done to punish him. The change in Miss Hansford after this was as +rapid as it had been in Elithe and manifested itself in a peculiar way. +Usually the most particular of housekeepers, she had, since Paul’s +arrest, paid but little attention to anything beyond the necessary +preparation of meals and clearing them away. Her autumnal house cleaning +had been neglected. She didn’t care how much filth she wallowed in, +feeling as she did, she said. Now, however, she woke as from a trance, +and, declaring her house “dirty as the rot,” went to work with a will to +renovate it. Before the sun was up next morning her mattresses and +blankets and pillows were out in the November wind; much of her +furniture was on the piazza; her carpets were on the line and grass +ready to be whipped, and within an hour, with her sleeves rolled up and +a towel on her head, she was making a raid on dust and spiders and +flies, wondering she didn’t find more and urging on the two Portuguese +men outside with the carpets, and the two Portuguese women inside with +the cleaning, as they had never been urged before. + +The next day was Sunday, and she went to church for almost the first +time since Paul’s escape. + +“Somebody is sure to ask me if I have any idea where Paul is. Of course +I have, and with wrigglin’ and beatin’ round the bush I’ve told so many +lies that I’m afraid I’ll never be forgiven, and I don’t want to see +people,” she had said to Elithe as an excuse for staying at home. + +Now she did not care and she held her head high as she entered the +church, and her knees did not bend at all until she went down upon the +floor with a silent prayer of fervent thanksgiving for what was coming +to Paul and forgiveness for the sins she had committed in trying to +shield him and keep his whereabouts a secret. She did not have to do +this much longer, for the town was soon electrified by Paul’s walking +boldly out before the public and surrendering himself to justice. + +“This beats all. Seems as if we had stood about all we can stand,” the +people said, as they talked the matter over, growing more excited, if +possible, than they had been when Paul was first accused and arrested. + +As is natural, many of them said they had known as well as they wanted +to know that he was at the Ralston House. Others shook their heads, +wondering why Tom Drake hadn’t managed to get him away, and predicting +it would go hard with Paul, as giving himself up was a proof that he was +guilty. Others took a different view, and thought he had done a +magnanimous thing which would tell in his favor, and so the discussion +went on, and Miss Hansford’s house was cleaned and her knees recovered +their strength and she put a dollar in the contribution box two +successive Sundays and did not appear at all disturbed about the coming +trial. + + + + + CHAPTER XLII. + THE SECOND TRIAL. + + +The broken bars to the window of the jail had been repaired, and Paul +was in his old quarters, to which a part of the furniture carried there +before from the Ralston House had been returned. Tom did not show so +much anxiety to fit up the room as he had done, nor was he as often +there during the short time which elapsed between Paul’s surrender and +his trial. His negligence, however, was in a measure made up by Sherry, +who regularly every morning trotted through the town to the jail, giving +first a loud bark as a greeting and then scratching on the door for +admittance, and when that was refused lying down under the window from +which Paul occasionally spoke to him. At noon he would go home for his +dinner, play a little while with Beauty, the pug, whom Paul had bought +in the early summer,—then going to Mrs. Ralston, who was now ill in bed +with dread and apprehension, he would look at her with beseeching eyes, +as if asking what had happened to take his master away and lick the hand +with which she patted his head. This done he would trot back to the +jail, bark to let Paul know he was there and stretch himself again under +the window, growling if any one came near, as many did come, from +curiosity to see the animal growing nearly as famous as Paul himself. At +night he went home and staid there, but was back in the morning. Stevens +tried two or three times to feed him and save him his long walks, but +Sherry disdained the offered fare, preferring the exercise, which was +not prolonged for any length of time. + +The court was to be in session very soon after Paul’s return to prison, +and, if the excitement was great before, it was greater now, with a +desire to see again the man who had voluntarily given himself up, and to +see Elithe, whose part in his escape had become known and was commented +upon differently by different people. Some called her bold,—some +plucky,—some that she did it to atone for her damaging testimony, and +others that she was in love with Paul, and this had influenced her +actions. Through whatever lens she was looked at, she was an object of +great interest, and the people were eager to know if she would tell +exactly the same story as before, and if Miss Hansford would treat them +to a circus similar to the one at the first trial. Neither she nor +Elithe shrank from meeting people, and the latter was quite ready to +talk of Paul’s escape, keeping her own part in it in the background as +much as possible, and dwelling upon Tom’s bravery and devotion. She was +doing all she could for him by way of enlisting public opinion in his +behalf. He tried to be cheerful and natural, but sometimes failed +utterly, and there was a look on his face different from anything seen +there before Paul’s second arrest. + +“I ain’t going back on my word. I couldn’t, if I wanted to, with you and +Miss Hansford both knowing it,” he said to Elithe; “but you can’t guess +how homesick I am when I look round on the places I like so well and +think how soon I’ll be shut away from them all.” + +It was Elithe’s mission to comfort him just as he had comforted and +encouraged Paul. The court would be very lenient, she said, and, +possibly, take no action at all. + +“I don’t know. I’ve been so cowardly mean that I ought to have a few +years, any way,” Tom would say, wishing the time would come, and when it +did, feeling tempted to drown himself and leave the clearing up to Miss +Hansford and Elithe. “I could make my confession and leave it in my +room,” he thought, as he busied himself with his usual duties before +starting for the Court House. + +It was a lovely November morning, warm and bright, with the Indian +summer brightness, and as he looked out upon the water, smooth as glass, +with white sails here and there and a big steamer passing in the +distance, he changed his mind with regard to the confession and +drowning. + +“No, by jing!” he said; “this world’s too good to leave that way. A few +years will soon pass and I know the Ralstons will take me back. I’ll +face it. Hello, Sherry! you here? Why ain’t you at the jail?” he +continued, as the dog came bounding towards him. + +Contrary to his custom, Sherry had not started on his usual walk that +morning. Possibly, his instinct told him there was something amiss with +Tom, who had some difficulty in shaking him off while he harnessed the +horses, which were to take the judge to the Court House. Mrs. Ralston +was too ill to go. + +“Tell Paul I shall pray for him every moment,” she said to her husband +when he left her. + +Neither of them now had any hope of an acquittal, and the judge’s face +was very sad when he reached the jail, where Paul was waiting for him, +dressed in the suit he had worn at the first trial. + +“I want you to do me a favor,” Tom said, undoing a bundle he had brought +with him. “Wear this coat to-day and vest and trousers. I have a reason +for it.” + +They were the same Paul had worn on the Sunday when Jack was killed, +and, at first, he demurred, as he had an aversion to them. But Tom was +so persistent that he yielded, noticing that Tom was wearing the coat he +had given him that day and thinking, as they stood together for a +moment, how much their clothes were alike in color and fit. He had no +idea what Tom meant and wondered why he seemed so excited and unlike +himself. He forgot it, however, when he was again in the court room, +facing as dense a crowd as had been there nearly two months before. +Sherry, who had come with the carriage, was with him, lying at his feet, +wagging his tail as if he knew the aspect of matters was changed. Miss +Hansford was in her place, straight and prim and even smiling, as she +nodded to some of her acquaintances. Elithe was without her veil, with a +brightness in her eyes amounting almost to gladness as she sat unmoved +by the gaze of the multitude. Paul saw how unconcerned she seemed and +marvelled at it just as he had at her changed manner ever since he told +her of his fixed intention to give himself up. Didn’t she care, or had +she become callous to the proceedings? He felt callous himself and +wished it were over and he knew the worst. He would know it soon, and he +stood up very readily to plead, “Not guilty!” + +There was a new jury and the evidence had to be repeated as far as +practicable. Some of the former witnesses could not be found, and those +who were said as little as possible and were soon dismissed. Then Miss +Hansford was called, and the interest began to increase, but soon +flagged, as, without any flings at the prosecuting attorney, or going +back to Paul’s boyhood, she told very rapidly all she knew of the matter +and then sat down. + +Elithe came next, her face flushed and her eyes shining like stars as +she took the oath. She was first questioned about the escape, and told +the story unhesitatingly, leaving herself out as much as possible and +putting Tom to the front. Some thought she brought him in unnecessarily +often and volunteered too much information with regard to his fidelity +to Paul. They did not know she was working for Tom, who heard her with +an occasional thought of the ocean not far away, and how easily it would +be to bury himself in it. When Elithe began to speak of the Sunday night +when the shooting occurred, there was no hesitancy in her manner and her +voice was clear and distinct as she told what she _thought_ she saw. She +laid great stress on the rustling sound in the bushes and the firing low +of the man she _thought_ was Mr. Ralston. + +“Aren’t you _sure_ he was Mr. Ralston?” she was asked. + +“I thought so then,” she replied. + +“Do you think so now?” was the next question. + +“_I do not_,” she answered, while a thrill of excitement ran through the +room, and Paul started from his seat. + +Thinking something was amiss, Sherry got up, licked Paul’s hands, shook +his sides and lay down again, while the proceedings continued. + +It was useless to question Elithe as to her meaning. + +“You will know later,” she said, and was dismissed without +cross-questioning. + +Tom had said to the leading lawyer for the defense, “Don’t ask any +questions of anybody. I know something which will knock all they can say +into a cocked hat. The man has been found, and when I am on the stand I +shall tell who he was. Get me there as quick as you can.” + +This communication had circulated rapidly among the lawyers for the +defense, who were as anxious for Tom to be sworn as he was himself. +Matters had been hurried so fast and with so short a recess that there +would be just time for Tom before the day’s session closed, and, when +the prosecution was ended, he was called at once. There was a last look +at the ocean, with a wonder how deep it was near the shore where the +waves were tumbling in. Then he walked forward and stood before the +people, a fine specimen of young manhood and as popular in a way as Paul +himself. Everybody liked him, even those he had sworn at for maligning +Paul, and they were wondering what he had to say. Sherry gave a little +bark of welcome, and, getting upon his feet, stood watching Tom, who was +very white around his mouth as he went through the preliminaries. Then, +clenching his hands tightly together and drawing a long breath, he +began: + +“You needn’t question me. I am going to tell it right along as it is. I +shot Jack Percy! though, God knows, I did not mean to do it. I did not +know he was within a mile of me. I thought I was firing at a rabbit, +which I saw running through the bushes. You remember Miss Elithe heard +the same noise and said I fired low. I was wearing this coat I have on. +It’s the one Mr. Paul wore that morning at the hotel when he was knocked +down. He got a stain of tobacco juice on it,—here it is; you can see it, +if you like,—and he gave it to me when he got home and put on another +the same make and almost the same color. He has it on now. I wore the +hat he had given me the week before. Here it is,” and he held up his +hat, which he had kept in his hand. + +No one stirred as he took from his pocket another hat, which he +straightened into shape and held by the side of his own. + +“This is the one he wore,” he said. “They are alike, and we are alike in +height and figure. It is not strange that, having seen him not long +before, Miss Elithe should make a mistake. I wonder none of you smart +fellers ever thought of that. Look at him.” + +He was pointing towards Paul, who had risen to his feet, as had every +one in the house. For a few moments there was the greatest confusion and +the judge tried in vain to be heard. Everybody talked at once. Tom +crossed over to Paul, put the crushed hat on his head, the other on his +own, and stood beside him to emphasize the resemblance. Miss Hansford +gesticulated frantically, while Sherry barked to show his appreciation +of what was going on. Only Elithe sat still, too happy to speak or move. + +Order was at last restored. The people resumed their seats and, amid a +silence so profound that the dropping of a pin might almost have been +heard, Tom told his story, leaving no doubt in the mind of any one that +he was telling the truth. His cowardice, which increased as matters grew +more complicated, was dwelt upon at length. The particulars of Paul’s +escape narrated; his vow on the Bible to give himself up if Paul were +convicted; his telling Elithe what he meant to do, and his sorrow that +he had not done it in the first instance. + +When his story was finished Miss Hansford’s “Glory to God” was lost amid +the deafening hurrahs for Tom. With an imperative gesture of both hands +he stopped the din and said, “Paul Ralston is innocent. I am the man, so +help me Heaven; but I had no intention to kill. I am an infernal sneak +and coward and liar,—that’s all,—and enough, too. Arrest me as soon as +you please. Handcuff me, if you want to. I deserve it and more.” + +“Never, never! we protest,” came like a hoarse roar from a hundred +throats, mingled with a savage growl from Sherry, who had gone over to +Tom, by whom he stood protestingly, as if knowing he was the one now +needing sympathy. + +With the “Never! we protest,” a movement was made to close around Tom +and screen him from harm, had any been intended. But there was none. He +was as free to leave the house as Paul was himself, after a form was +gone through by judge and jury, and a verdict of “Not guilty!” returned. +Then for a time pandemonium reigned. Had there been a cry of fire the +confusion could not have been greater, as those in the rear of the +building struggled to get to the front, while those in the front kept +them back. They did not trample each other down, but they crowded the +aisles until it was impossible to move, and walked over the seats in +their eager haste to get to Paul and Tom, whose hands were grasped and +shaken until Tom put his behind him, but stood erect, with Sherry beside +him. When the “Not guilty!” was pronounced Judge Ralston got up slowly, +groping as if he could not see, and saying to those beside him, “Lead me +to the door.” + +They thought he meant to say, “Lead me to Paul,” and started that way. + +“No, no; to the door,” he said. “His mother must know it at once!” + +They took him to the door, where some men and boys were standing, who +had not been able to get into the house. + +“Somebody,—who can drive—my horses—go as fast as they can—and tell Mrs. +Ralston Paul is free!” he said. + +In an instant a great scramble ensued among the boys, each contending +for the honor of driving the spirited blacks. Max Allen had heard the +request, and so had the prosecuting attorney, and both entered the +carriage together, with a feeling that they had a right to carry the +good tidings to the mother, whose every breath that long day had been a +prayer for her son, and for strength to bear the worst if it came. With +an exclamation of delight, the housemaid, who first received the news, +rushed to her mistress’ room. + +“Joy, joy! He’s free! He will be home to-night!” she cried, with the +result that Mrs. Ralston fainted. + +Meanwhile, at the Court House, the wildest excitement still prevailed. +Paul was congratulated and shaken up and whirled round until he nearly +lost his senses. A few of his young friends from Boston, who, unknown to +him, had come from the city that morning, fought their way till they +reached him, and, taking him up, carried him into the open air, which he +sadly needed. + +“We mean to carry you home if you will let us,” they said, keeping their +arms around him. + +“No, boys, don’t. Please put me down. Kindness and happiness sometimes +kill, you know. Where’s father?” Paul said. + +They put him down and brought the judge to him, turning their heads away +from the meeting between the father and son. Paul was the more composed +of the two because the more benumbed and bewildered. + +“Paul, Paul,—my little boy. I’m glad to get you back. You’ve been away +so long, and your mother is ill,” the judge said, talking as if Paul +were a child again just coming home after a long absence. + +It was growing dark as the people surged out from the court house, judge +and jury, lawyers and witnesses, leaving Tom alone with Sherry. + +“What am _I_ to do? Arn’t previously you going to arrest me?” he called +after them, and some one answered back: “Not by a jug full! Come along +with us.” + +Not at all certain as to what might happen to him, Tom went out and +joined Paul, whom many hands were helping into the carriage, which had +returned. Everybody wanted to do something for him, and when there was +nothing they could do they sent up a shout which made the horses rear +upon their hind feet and then plunge forward down the avenue, followed +by cheer after cheer, in which Sherry’s bark could be plainly heard as +he dashed after the horses, jumping first at their heads, then at Tom, +who was driving them, and then at the window from which Paul was leaning +to catch sight of the familiar places they were passing and the +landmarks which told him he was near home and his mother. No one was +present when Mrs. Ralston received her boy as if he had come back to her +from the dead, crying over him until too much exhausted to speak or +move. + +Judge Ralston would have liked to have that evening in quiet with his +wife and son, but the people did not will it so. They had done great +injustice to Paul, and they could not wait before trying to make some +amends. All the available material for a celebration in Oak City and +Still Haven was collected;—bonfires were kindled in different parts of +the island. The Ralston House was ablaze with light, from the Smuggler’s +room in the basement to the look-out on the roof, from which rockets and +Roman candles went hissing into the sky, and were seen on the mainland +and by fishing boats far out to sea. Tom had but little to do with it +all. + +“I can’t,” he said. “I’m tuckered out, and feel as if the sand was all +taken from me. Go ahead and let me rest.” + +They left him to himself, sitting on a box near the stable and looking +on, while Max Allen and Seth Walker superintended the fireworks and +attended to things generally. Paul was with his mother holding her hand +and occasionally kissing her in response to some look in her eyes. No +one intruded upon them that night, but the next day hundreds came to +congratulate Paul and say a kind word to Tom, assuring him that not a +word had been suggested of an arrest, or anything like it. + +“We’ve had enough such work to stand us a lifetime, and we don’t want +any more,” they said, while Max declared he should resign his office +before he would touch Tom. + +That day Mrs. Ralston received a short letter from Clarice, who was in +New York with her mother and expected to sail for Liverpool the +following day. The family, who had occupied their house during the +summer, wished to rent it for a year or more, she wrote, and she had +decided to go abroad, as both her mother and herself needed an entire +change after the sad and exciting scenes through which they had passed. +They were to stop a short time in England as guests of Mr. Fenner,—then +cross to the Continent and spend the winter in Rome or Naples. + +“I have heard of Paul’s giving himself up,” she wrote in conclusion. “It +was wise, perhaps, to do so, and I am sure they will be more lenient on +account of it. I am so sorry for him. Please tell him so. The past seems +to me like a dreadful dream from which I am not yet fully awake. With +love, + + CLARICE.” + +Mrs. Ralston handed this letter to Paul, who read it with scarcely any +emotion except to smile when she spoke of visiting Mr. Fenner. +Incidentally he had heard that the old earl and young earl were dead and +only Ralph’s bachelor brother stood between him and the title. He was an +invalid, and who could tell what possibilities were in store for +Clarice? “Lady Fenner would not sound badly, and she would fill the bill +well,” Paul thought, as he passed the letter back to his mother. It was +all over between him and Clarice. He had known that for some time, and +could think of her now without a pang, except as the heart always +responds with a quick throb to the memory of one loved and lost. + +That day was a hard one for Paul, but, exhilarated with his freedom and +innocence proved, he kept up bravely, seeing all who called and +declaring himself perfectly well. The next day, however, the reaction +came. Nature was clamoring for pay, and she took it with interest, +reducing Paul so low that for weeks he never left his room, and when he +began to recover, his physician recommended that he be taken away from a +place where he had suffered so much. Boston was not to be thought of. He +must go farther than that, and about the middle of January the Ralston +House was closed, and the family started for Southern California. Tom +went with them as Paul’s attendant, and as he stepped on board the boat +he looked anxiously round, thinking to himself, “If I am to be arrested +it will be now when they know I am leaving.” + +But he was not arrested then or ever. People had said they supposed +something ought to be done, but no one was willing to do it. They were +tired out with the excitement they had gone through, and were not +disposed to have another, which could only end in Tom’s acquittal. It +was an accident anyway, and no blame could attach to Tom, except +allowing the guilt to fall upon Paul. If the Ralstons could forgive him, +they could. The Ralstons had forgiven him, and thought more of him than +ever, so they let the matter drop. + +“Hanging by the ears,” Tom said, feeling always a little uncertain as to +what might befall him yet. + +But when the boat moved from the shore and no effort was made to detain +him he gave his fears to the winds and felt that he was safe. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIII. + AFTER EIGHTEEN MONTHS. + + +Mr. and Mrs. Paul Ralston, maid and valet, were staying at the Grand +Hotel in Paris and making occasional trips to Versailles, St. Germain, +Vincennes and Fontainebleau. They had just returned from the latter +place, where they had spent a few days. Mrs. Paul was in her room +dressing for dinner, while her husband went to Munroe’s for any letters +which might have come from home during his absence. + +“I think I will wear my new dress to-night,” the lady said to her maid, +and by her voice we recognize Elithe, whom we saw last in the crowded +court room in Oak City testifying against Paul. + +She was his wife now, and had been for two months of perfect happiness. +The marriage had followed in the natural sequence of events. Paul had +gained strength and vitality rapidly in California, but there was +something lacking to a perfect cure. He missed the girl who had stood by +him so bravely when his sky was blackest, and who, he knew now, had +always been more to him than he supposed. He had loved Clarice +devotedly, but that love was dead, and another and better had taken its +place. Every incident connected with his acquaintance with Elithe he +lived over and over again, seeing her as she was on the boat, forlorn +and crumpled and homesick,—seeing her in the little white room when she +came back to life and spoke to him,—seeing her in the water where she +went but once,—and in the tennis court and on the causeway, and on the +wild sea, when the lightning showed him her face and she lay in his arms +like a frightened child,—seeing her in the court house in an agony of +remorse because she had to swear against him,—but seeing her oftener in +the Smuggler’s room, where her presence was like sunshine and her voice +the sweetest he had ever heard. + +Clarice was only a sad memory now, his love for her blotted out by the +black shadows which had come between them. He did not know where she +was, nor particularly care. Her movements were nothing to him. He wanted +to see Elithe, and when in the spring his parents spoke of returning +home he suggested that they go up the coast to Portland and Tacoma and +across the country by way of Spokane and Helena, stopping at Samona, +where Elithe now was. Miss Hansford, who wrote occasionally to his +mother, had said her niece was going home in April and she was going +with her. Both Mr. and Mrs. Ralston understood Paul’s wish to stop at +Samona, and as they would have gone to the ends of the earth to please +him, they readily assented to his suggestion, and a letter was forwarded +to Miss Hansford asking what accommodations could be found for them. The +whole of the second floor at The Samona, where Jack had once been a +guest, was engaged, and Miss Hansford took it upon herself to see that +it was in perfect order, insisting upon so much new furniture that the +landlord came to an open battle with her, telling her he should be +ruined with all he was paying out and the small price he charged for +board. + +“Charge more then. They are able to pay. You never had real quality +before,” Miss Hansford said to him. + +“I had Mr. Pennington,” the landlord replied, and with a snort Miss +Hansford rejoined: “Mr. Pennington! I hope you don’t class him with the +Ralstons. He can’t hold a candle to ’em. I know the Percy blood.” + +Here she stopped, remembering that Jack was in his grave, and that his +memory was held sacred in Samona and among the miners, whose camp she +had visited several times with Elithe and Rob. But she carried her point +with regard to refurnishing. The room Jack had occupied was to be turned +into a salon, where the family were to have their meals served. Hair +mattresses were to be bought for the beds. There was to be drapery at +the windows in place of the paper curtains,—rugs for the floor, and four +towels a day each for Mr. and Mrs. Ralston, and Paul, Tom and the maid +could get along with two each. The landlord looked aghast. One towel a +day was as much as he ever furnished, except to Mr. Pennington, who +insisted upon two, and he thought the Ralstons must be a dirty lot. +Twelve towels for three people, and two apiece for their help, making +sixteen in all. + +“There ain’t enough in the tavern to hold out. I’ll have to get more,” +he said. + +“Get ’em, then,” Miss Hansford replied, and he got them. + +The _saloon_, as he called it, was an innovation of which he had never +dreamed, and unmistakable airs for which the Ralstons would have to pay +“right smart.” + +“They’ll do it,” Miss Hansford assured him, suggesting a price which +staggered the landlord more than the _saloon_ had done. “Good land,” +Miss Hansford said, “that’s nothing for folks who are used to paying +four, five and six dollars a day apiece, besides extra for a parlor. +Don’t you worry, but do your best.” + +He did his best, and it was so very good that when the Ralstons arrived +they were more than delighted with their quarters and made no objection +to the price, which the landlord gave them with many misgivings, +fortifying himself by saying, “That Massachusetts woman told me you’d +pay it, and I’ve been to a great deal of expense and trouble.” + +“Certainly, we’ll pay it, and more, if you say so,” Mr. Ralston replied, +complimenting everything and in a few days quite superceding Jack in the +estimation of his host and hostess. + +Both Paul and Tom were objects of intense interest,—one because he +killed Jack, the other because he didn’t. The miners, came in a body to +see them, taking the most to Tom, who assimilated with them at once and +spent half his time in the camp. Paul did not need him. He was perfectly +well, and while enjoying the wild scenery and the life so different from +that he had known was never long away from Elithe. On her pony which the +miners had given her she rode with him through the woods and gorges and +over the hills, until one day, when they had explored the cañon farther +than usual and sat down to rest under the shadow of a huge boulder, +while their horses browsed near them, Paul asked her to be his wife. He +drew no comparison between his love for her and that he had felt for +Clarice. He said: “I love you, Elithe. I think my interest in you began +the first time I saw you on the boat. Of all that has happened since I +cannot speak. I have buried it, and do not wish to open the grave lest +the ghost of what I buried should haunt me again. I do not mean Clarice. +I am willing to talk of her. I loved her, but she is only a memory of +what might have been, and what I am very glad was not allowed to be. I +want _you_. Will you take me?” + +There was no coquetry in Elithe’s nature, and when she lifted her face +to Paul and he looked into her eyes he knew his answer and hurried back +to town to present her to his parents as their future daughter. He +wanted to take her with him when they left Samona, as they thought of +doing soon, but this could not be. The mother, whom Miss Hansford had +denounced as weak and shiftless, was weaklier than ever and Elithe would +not leave her. + +“If you stay I shall stay, too,” Paul said. “I am in no hurry to go back +where I suffered so much.” + +His wish was a law to his father and mother. There was nothing to call +them East. The mountain air suited Mrs. Ralston, who was growing robust +every day and to whom the scenery and the people were constant sources +of enjoyment. An Englishman, who was going home for a year, offered his +house, the newest and best in Samona, to Mr. Ralston, who took it at +once. + +“If you all stay, I shall,” Miss Hansford said, and it was a very merry +party the Ralstons and Hansfords made that summer, their only drawback +Mrs. Hansford’s failing health. + +It was of no use for Miss Phebe to tell her to put on the mind cure and +brace up. + +“I can’t brace up, and I haven’t much mind to put on,” she answered with +a smile. + +“That’s so,” Miss Hansford thought. “The Potters never had any mind to +spare.” + +But she was very kind to the invalid, and as she grew thinner and paler +and finally kept her bed altogether the Potter blood was forgotten, and +it was Roger’s wife whom she nursed so tenderly and to whom she gave her +promise to care for Roger and the boys. All through the summer and +autumn Lucy lingered, but when the winter’s snows were piled upon the +ground and the cold wind swept down the deep gorges she died, and they +buried her on a knoll behind the church where the light from the chancel +window erected for her husband could fall upon her grave. Then Miss +Hansford took matters into her own hand. The whole family should go East +with her in the spring. There was a vacancy in St. Luke’s parish. She +would apply for the place for Roger and give something herself towards +his salary. He could stay with her a while. She wasn’t overfond of boys, +but she could stand Roger’s a spell. She called them little bears to +herself, but had a genuine liking for them, especially for Rob, who knew +how to manage her. He was to go to college and be a minister,—Methodist, +she hoped. Thede, who was always drawing pictures and had made a very +fair one of her with her far-see-ers on the end of her nose, and her +shoulders squared as they usually were when she was giving him what he +called “Hail Columbia,” was to be an artist. George was to be a lawyer, +though she didn’t think much of that craft after her experience with +them, while Artie,—well, she didn’t know what he’d be. He only cared for +horses. Maybe he’d keep a livery stable, or be a circus rider. Artie +decided for the latter, which Miss Hansford took as an indication that +the Potter blood, as represented by the actress, predominated in Artie’s +veins. Elithe’s marriage must take place in Oak City, and if they wanted +a splurge such as Clarice was to have had, they should have it, and a +bigger one, too. She could afford it better than Mrs. Percy, and it +would give her a chance to wear her gray silk, the making of which had +cost so much and which was lying useless in her bureau drawer. + +“Not for the world will we be married in Oak City,” both Paul and Elithe +said, when the proposition was made to them. + +They would be married quietly in Samona, among Elithe’s people and the +miners, the latter of whom had lamented loudly when they heard they were +to lose their rector, who had shared their joys and sorrows and been to +them like a brother. + +“But if we must, we must, and we won’t whimper like children, but give +him a good send-off,” they said. + +They kept their word, and came to the wedding, a hundred or more, with a +lump of gold valued at $200, for the bride, and another of equal value +for Roger. At the station they screamed themselves hoarse with their +good-byes, and when the train was gone, sat down upon the platform and +wondered what they should do without the parson and what he would do +without them, and if that Massachusetts Temperance Society, as they +called Miss Hansford, who had several times lectured them for drinking, +wouldn’t make it lively for Roger and the kids. + +This was in April, and early in May Paul and Elithe sailed for Europe, +going directly to Paris, where they staid week after week until it was +now the last of June, and they were still occupying their handsome suite +of rooms at the Grand Hotel, with Tom and a French maid in attendance. +Elithe was delighted with everything in Paris, and it seemed to Paul +that she grew lovelier every day. Possibly dress had something to do +with this. Her mother had made a request that she should not wear black, +and Elithe had respected the request, but avoided whatever was gay and +conspicuous. Paul would like to have heaped upon her everything he saw +in the show windows, but her good sense kept him in check, while her +good taste, aided by the best modistes in Paris, made her one of the +most becomingly dressed ladies at the table d’hôte, where so much +fashion was displayed. Doucet’s last effort, though plain, was a great +success, and never had Elithe been more beautiful than when she was +waiting for Paul’s return from Munroe’s and wondering if he would bring +any letters. He had found several, one of which made him for a time +forget all the rest. + +It was from Clarice, mailed at Rome and directed to Boston, and covered +with postmarks, having crossed the ocean twice in quest of him and +finding him at last in Paris with his bride, of whose existence Clarice +had no knowledge. If she had ever thought to secure Ralph Fenner she had +failed. After supposing her married to Paul, he had heard with surprise +that the marriage was given up and why, and that Mrs. Percy and Clarice +were coming to London. Wishing to return some of their attentions to him +when he was in America, he had invited them to Elm Park, his brother’s +residence and for the time being his home. Everything which could be +done to make their stay agreeable was done. Clarice was so much pleased +with life, as she saw it in a first-class English home, and the people +she met there, that she would most likely have accepted Ralph had he +offered himself to her and taken the chance of his brother’s keeping +them at Elm Park. But Ralph was too wise to do that. He admired Clarice, +and was very attentive to her, but could not afford to marry her, and +she left England a disappointed woman. As she had but few correspondents +and was constantly moving from place to place, she did not hear of +Paul’s acquittal until she reached Florence, some time in February. +There she found a letter from a friend in Washington and a paper +containing full particulars of the second trial and acquittal and the +attention heaped upon Paul by way of atonement for the injustice done +him. He was in Southern California with his father and mother, the paper +said, adding that the family talked of going to Japan and from there +home through Europe the following summer. Now that she knew Paul was +innocent of killing her brother, the disgrace of his having been tried +for it did not seem an insurmountable obstacle to an alliance with him, +and as time went on she found herself longing for a reestablishment of +their old relations and wishing he would write to her. That he would do +so eventually she had no doubt. Men like him never love but once, she +reasoned, and he had loved her, and by and by he would write to her, or +she would meet him somewhere in Europe on his way from Japan. But he did +not write, nor did she meet him, nor see his name in the American +Register, or on the books of any hotel where she stopped, and she began +to long more and more for some news of him and to think she had never +loved him as much as she did now, when he might be lost to her. Their +stay abroad was prolonged into the second year, and she heard nothing of +him except that he was still in California, and that the Ralston House +in Oak City and the Boston house on Commonwealth Avenue were closed. At +last, when she could bear it no longer, she wrote him a letter, which, +had he loved her still, would have thrilled him with ecstasy. But +between the past and present there was a gulf in which he had buried all +she ever had been to him so deep that it could not be resurrected had +there been no Elithe. + +“Poor Clarice. I hope she will never know I received this,” he said, +tearing the letter in strips and burning them with a lighted match over +the cuspidor. + +Then he went back to Elithe and thought how glad he was that she was +there with him instead of Clarice. The salle-a-manger was nearly full +when he entered it, and, taking his usual seat at the table near the +centre of the room, noticed that two chairs opposite him were vacant. +Remembering that the parties who had been sitting there when he went to +Fontainebleau had told him they were to leave that day, he thought no +more about it, and paid no attention when the waiter seated two ladies +there until an exclamation from Elithe made him look up to meet the eyes +of Mrs. Percy and Clarice. They had come that afternoon on the same +train with Paul and Elithe, but in their second-class compartment had +known nothing of the first-class passengers. They had spent a great deal +of money and their funds were growing so alarmingly small that economy +had become a necessity. Mrs. Percy had suggested going at once to a +pension, but Clarice objected. They would be registered at the Grand and +then go where they liked, if necessary. Paul would certainly write soon. +There might be a letter from him now at Munroe’s, where she had told him +to direct, or possibly he was on his way to her, and then farewell to +second-class cars, cheap pensions and the poky little rooms _au +cinquiene_, in one of which she found herself at the Grand Hotel. She +was hot and tired and decided not to change her dress for table d’hôte. + +“I don’t suppose there’s a soul here we know,” she said, as she bathed +her face and brushed her hair and then started for the dining salon. + +At first she paid no attention to those around her and was studying the +menu when Elithe’s exclamation made her look up. + +“Paul!” she exclaimed, half rising from her chair, “Paul, I am so glad.” + +The sight of Elithe closed her lips and sent the blood to her face until +it was scarlet with surprise and pain. It did not need Paul’s words, “My +wife,—Mrs. Ralston,” to tell her the truth, and the smile with which she +greeted Mrs. Ralston was pitiful in the extreme. Elithe, whom she had +thought infinitely beneath her, was Paul’s wife and looking so +beautiful, while she sat there dowdy and soiled and so wretched that to +shriek aloud would have been a relief. But the proprieties must be +maintained, and she tried to seem natural, talking a great deal and +laughing a great deal, but never deceiving Paul. He knew her well, and +was sorry for her. When dinner was over he asked her and her mother to +go with him to their salon, but Clarice declined. She was very tired, +she said, and her head was aching badly. Throwing herself upon her bed +when she reached her room, she wished herself dead and wondered what +chance had sent her there and how Paul could have turned from her to +Elithe. + +“If I had written earlier and he had received my letter in time he would +have come to me,” she thought. + +There was some comfort in that and in the belief that she still had +power to move him. She had reason to change her mind within a few days. +Yielding to Paul’s and Elithe’s solicitations, she and her mother went +with them to the opera, the Bois, the Luxembourg,—to Bignon’s and St. +Germain,—Paul always insisting upon paying the bills and saying: “You +know you are my guests.” + +Once, as they were standing alone on the Terrace at St. Germain Clarice +said to him, “Paul, I must tell you how sorry I am for the course I took +in your trouble. I ought to have known you were innocent. At first, I +did think so, but the testimony was so strong that I could not help +believing it was an accident and I wondered you did not say so. Still, I +might have done differently,—might have shown you what I really felt. I +was not as heartless as I seemed and I was so glad when I heard of your +acquittal, and how the people lionized you. We were in Florence when the +news reached us, and I was foolish enough to hope you would write to me, +although I didn’t deserve it. At last I wrote to you. I suppose you +never received my letter. I hope you never will, for I said some foolish +things in it. If you do get it, I am sure you will tear it up unread.” + +He could not tell her he had received the letter. That would have been +too cruel, and he said, “I think you can trust me, Clarice. I shall +always be your friend. I have no hard feelings against you. How can I +have when I am so very, very happy?” + +He was looking in the direction of Elithe, with an expression which told +Clarice that she no longer held a place in his affection, and the pallor +on her face deepened as she realized all she had lost. A few days later +the Ralstons left for Switzerland and the Percys crossed the channel to +England, where they were to spend a week and then sail for America. +Clarice was very tired of foreign travel and her mother was glad to go +home. Their house in Washington had been re-rented for a second year and +the question arose as to where they should live in the interim. + +“There’s our cottage in Oak City. We can go there if you think you can +endure it,” Mrs. Percy suggested. + +For a moment Clarice made no reply. The loss of Paul had hurt her +cruelly, but she was too proud to let any one know that she cared. She +would go there and show them she did not need their pity, she said, and, +towards the last of August, the Percy cottage was again opened and made +ready for Clarice and her mother. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIV. + LAST GLIMPSE OF OAK CITY. + + +There was much surprise when it was known that Mrs. Percy and Clarice +were again in their cottage, and many remarks were made as to the +probable state of Clarice’s feelings, and much wonder expressed at her +changed demeanor. She had studied her role and decided to make herself +popular. She was affable to every one. She went at once to call upon +Mrs. Ralston to tell her about Paul, appearing as natural when she +talked of him as if he had never been more than an ordinary +acquaintance. From the Ralston House she went to see Miss Hansford to +tell her of Elithe, and how much she was admired in the American colony, +and was so gracious and sweet that Miss Hansford concluded she must have +met with a change and thought she would find out. Referring to the +camp-meeting, which had been unusually interesting, she spoke of some +young people whom Clarice knew and who, she said, had come forward and +were enjoying religion. + +“I wish you were of the number. Maybe you are,” she added. + +Clarice laughed and replied, “I hope I always enjoyed it in a measure.” + +“Pretty small measure, if I am any judge,” was Miss Hansford’s mental +comment. + +She was, however, very sociable, and gave Clarice a glass of root beer +and introduced her to Roger when he came in from a long walk across the +fields, where he had been to visit a sick family. Clarice had not +expected much of a poor missionary from Samona, and was surprised to +find him so courteous and gentlemanly. He was very glad to meet her, for +she could tell him of his daughter, and, for a full half hour, she sat +answering his questions and asking some of her own concerning Jack, to +whom he had been so kind. Evidently, the two were much pleased with each +other, and before Clarice had left she had promised to attend a sewing +society to be held in the church parlors for the purpose of working on +cassocks for the surpliced choir the rector was training. + +Up to this point Miss Hansford had joined in the conversation, but, at +the mention of cassocks, she left the room hurriedly, banging the door +hard, and did not return to say good-bye to Clarice. She was very proud +of Roger and he was very popular, as a new rector, earnest in his work, +good-looking, fairly young and unmarried, is apt to be. He had entered +heart and soul into his work and in an atmosphere more congenial than +that of Samona was expanding and developing in more ways than one. All +this pleased Miss Hansford, who gave liberally for the maintenance of +the church, and went occasionally to hear him preach, until he began to +intone the services, when she quit, saying she couldn’t stand that +whang-tang, and she didn’t believe the Lord could, either. At the +cassocks, which she at first called _hassocks_ she rebelled more hotly +than at the whang-tang, and gave Roger many a sharp lecture, but never +made the slightest impression upon him. He laughed at her good-humoredly +and told her she was behind the times, and conducted his services in his +own way. Once she thought of suggesting to him to find another boarding +place, not on account of his ritualistic proclivities, but on account of +his four boys, who nearly drove her wild. + +They had very early made the acquaintance of Sherry, who had been left +at the Ralston House, and who spent the greater part of every day at the +cottage. They picked up two stray cats and brought them home, to the +infinite disgust of Jim, growing old and fat, and jealous of intruders. +They had a wheel and a kite and stilts. They played ball and croquet on +her grounds; they chewed gum, and left little balls of it everywhere. +They raced through the house, with Sherry after them. They brought all +the boys in the neighborhood to play with them and the place resounded +with the merry shouts from morning till night. With all this, they were +lovable boys, with bright, handsome faces and pleasing manners, and Miss +Hansford doted upon them and, knowing she would be very lonely without +them, decided finally to keep them and “stand the racket.” It was +something to have so good a man as Roger under her roof and she was very +happy until Clarice came as a disturbing element. + +From his first introduction to her Roger became interested. He knew her +history and, because he knew it, he was very kind to her. He could read +the human heart better than his aunt, and he felt sure that in Clarice’s +there was a pain she was trying to hide, and he was sorry for her. He +did not know how much the interest she began at once to manifest in +church matters was feigned, nor how much real. Nor did he care. If she +were willing to help, he was very willing to have her, and, knowing it +would divert her mind, he put upon her a good deal of work, which she +accepted cheerfully. This threw them together a good deal, and before +winter was half over people began to gossip. When this reached Miss +Hansford she gave Roger a rather unpleasant half hour, and the next day +wrote a long letter to Elithe, telling her to come home and see to her +father, who was making a fool of himself in more ways than one. + +“He’s got a vested choir of girls and boys,—thirty of ’em,” she wrote, +“gathered from all over town. Seems as if folks were crazy. They want +the training for their children, they say. Training! I should say it was +general training; the way they march down one aisle and up another. Your +brother Rob leads the van with a big cross. They call him something +which sounds like an _aconite_. ’Tain’t that, of course, but I’m so +disgusted I won’t ask any questions. Artie is in it, and you know he +can’t sing a note. But he is small and pretty and makes his mouth go, +and that pleases the people. They have candles on the altar in broad +daylight. Symbols Roger calls them, and tries to convince me it is all +right. Maybe it is, but it looks to me like a show. Give me a good, +plain meeting, I say, with now and then an Amen that _is_ an Amen, +without a _broad a_ in it. Candles and cottas and cassocks ain’t all. I +could stand them if I wan’t afraid your father had a notion after——. +You’ll never guess _who_ in the world, so I may as well tell you and +done with it. _Clarice!_ Did you ever! You know they are staying here +all winter, and as there ain’t any carousin’ or dancing going on, she’s +turned religious, and really does seem different. The way she teeters +round Roger makes me sick. She plays the organ,—helps him train the +children,—and he goes home with her from rehearsal. She teaches in +Sunday school, too. No more fit to teach than a cat. Artie is in her +class and says she tells them stories mostly, which he likes, of course. +I’ve given Roger my opinion, and he laughed me in my face, told me I +needn’t worry and asked if I s’posed he could ever forget Lucy. Lucy, +indeed! I don’t think she stands much chance with Clarice Percy purrin’ +round. I b’lieve she thinks Roger is to be my heir, but she’s mistaken. +I’ve made my will and left everything to the boys. Bless their hearts! I +never thought much of boys, but I could not live without these four, and +can hardly live with them. Such a noise as they make, with balls and +kites and dogs and cats. There’s two here now, besides Jim, and I expect +they’ll bring a litter of kittens they have found somewhere in the +woods. They have wonderful stomachs and are always wanting something to +eat, and a pie is nothing to them. I make one every day,—sometimes two. +Everybody likes Roger, and he seems to be more like a son than nephew, +if he is cracked on ritualism, but I’ll never take in Clarice,—never!” + +When Elithe, who was in Rome, read this letter she cried out loud and +Paul laughed louder than she cried. + +“Clarice, your stepmother! My stepmother-in-law! that would be rich,” he +said. + +Then, when he saw how really distressed Elithe was, he tried to comfort +her, but she would not be comforted. + +“Oh, Paul,” she sobbed, “we must go home and stop it!” + +“Stop what?” he asked. “The vested choir?” + +“No-o,” Elithe replied. + +“Do you want to blow out the candles?” + +“No. I don’t care if they have a hundred!” + +“Well, do you want to stop Rob from being an _aconite_?” + +“No-o. You know better. It’s,—oh, Paul! I don’t want father to marry +Clarice! It would be so ridiculous!” + +“That’s it, is it?” Paul said, beginning to laugh again. “Don’t be +alarmed,” he continued, “Clarice must amuse herself some way, and just +now it suits her to help your father run the church. But she will never +marry him. Don’t let that trouble you. We hav’n’t half done Europe yet. +Next summer will be time enough to go home, and I doubt if we find +Clarice there.” + +Paul was right in his conclusions. One winter, with nothing more +exciting than helping run a church was enough for Clarice, and as early +in the spring as they could get their house she and her mother returned +to Washington and a more congenial atmosphere. When last heard from, a +millionaire, old enough to be her father, was in constant attendance +upon her, and rumor said, with more truth than it frequently does, that +she was soon to be mistress of his handsome home on Massachusetts +Avenue. + +For more than a year Paul and Elithe staid in Europe, accompanied by +Tom, whose devotion to them knew no bounds. He did not, however, take +kindly to foreign customs and foreign languages, and was glad when at +last, on a bright day in July, the boat which had taken him from Oak +City drew up to the wharf, where as great a crowd was assembled to meet +the returning party as had been there when Paul came home with Clarice. +Elithe was with him now, radiant with happiness, as she stepped ashore +and was surrounded by her father and brothers and aunt and Mr. and Mrs. +Ralston, all talking at once to her and then to Paul and then to Tom, +who had never been so happy in his life. Max Allen was there, not in the +capacity of constable. He had resigned that office, and during Tom’s +absence had been Mr. Ralston’s coachman. + +“Hello, Tom,” he said, with a hearty hand grasp. “Here’s the hosses and +the kerridge. I’ve been mighty proud to drive ’em, but I give ’em up to +you, or would you rather walk this once?” + +Tom preferred to walk, and followed the carriage to the house, where the +more intimate friends of the family were waiting to receive them. That +was a very happy summer for all the parties concerned. The Ralston House +was filled with guests. The Smuggler’s room was thrown open to the air +and the light of heaven. From the look-out on the roof a flag was always +floating as a welcome to the coming guests and a farewell to the +parting. Paul was more popular than ever and an object of so much +attention from his friends and curiosity to the strangers in the place +that he was glad when the season was over, and they returned to their +home in Boston, where they were to pass the winter. + +The story of the tragedy is still told in Oak City, the place pointed +out where Jack was shot and Tom pointed out as the man who shot him. The +window from which Paul escaped and the cell where he was confined is +visited by the curious ones, fond of the marvelous. Miss Hansford +pursues the even tenor of her way, scolding and petting and spoiling the +boys, glad that she has nothing to fear from Clarice and watching +vigilantly every marriageable woman who is polite to Roger. If not +reconciled to his candles and cassocks and cottas and intoning, she +holds her peace, satisfied that he is a good man. Her bones still do +their duty, and she has had a chance to wear her gray silk gown to a +reception at the Ralston House, where she helped receive the guests and +was reported in the papers. Paul and Elithe are very happy, although the +memory of the terrible days which he passed in prison and in hiding +sometimes casts a shadow over Paul and makes him very sad. But when he +looks at Elithe he says: “Only for that she would not have been my wife, +and so I thank God for it!” + + + THE END. + + + POPULAR NOVELS + + BY + + MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. + + TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. + ENGLISH ORPHANS. + HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. + ’LENA RIVERS. + MEADOW BROOK. + DORA DEANE. + COUSIN MAUDE. + MARIAN GREY. + EDITH LYLE. + DAISY THORNTON. + CHATEAU D’OR. + QUEENIE HETHERTON. + BESSIE’S FORTUNE. + MARGUERITE. + MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION. + DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. + HUGH WORTHINGTON. + CAMERON PRIDE. + ROSE MATHER. + ETHELYN’S MISTAKE. + MILLBANK. + EDNA BROWNING. + WEST LAWN. + MILDRED. + FORREST HOUSE. + MADELINE. + CHRISTMAS STORIES. + GRETCHEN. + DR. HATHERN’S DAUGHTERS. + PAUL PRESTON. (NEW). + + “Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. 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Dillingham Co., Publishers, + 33 West 23d Street, New York. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + Page Changed from Changed to + + 142 The next time Paul came he staid The next time Paul came he staid + longed than usual,—complimented longer than usual,—complimented + + 246 Paul’s cherry “How are you, Paul’s cheery “How are you, + Max?” Max?” + + 263 not belief he intended to kill not believe he intended to kill + Jack Percy, and she wondered Jack Percy, and she wondered + + 342 here there. Don’t you remember? her there. Don’t you remember? + And you are home. And you are home. + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75309 *** |