Donald Morley rode back to town through the coming storm, in that particular state of ecstasy that mortals are permitted to enjoy but once in a lifetime. Not that falling in love was a novel sensation; on the contrary a varied experience had made him agreeably familiar with all the symptoms. But this, he assured himself with passionate vehemence, was something altogether and absolutely different. Between now and that morning when he had idly ridden out to Wicker's in search of a farm, lay a sea as wide as Destiny!
There in the country he had unexpectedly come upon his fate and with characteristic impetuosity had pursued and overtaken it. Other girls may have stirred his heart, but it had remained for a wild little pagan of the woods to stir his soul. He had laid bare to her the most secret places of his being, had confessed his sins, and received absolution. From this time on the frivolities of youth lay behind him, and ambition sat upon his brow. He would cut out the trip to the Orient, buy a farm and settle down to work as if he hadn't a penny in the world. Once the Colonel was made to recognize his worth, the gates of Paradise would be open!
He thought of the home he would build for her, and the flowers that would encompass it, of the horses and dogs they would have and perhaps—The memory of her face as she clasped Chick in the road flashed over him, and he straightened his shoulders suddenly and smiled almost tremulously. Yes, he'd be worthy of her, from this time forward life should hold no higher privilege!
It was after seven o'clock by the time he reached the Junction, and heavy mutterings of thunder could be heard in the west.
“Does this street go through to the boulevard?” he asked of a man, pointing with his knobless whip.
The lank person addressed removed his weight from the telegraph pole that had supported it and sauntered forward. As he did so Donald recognized the red-headed umpire of the afternoon.
“No, sir, Captain,” he said, “it do not. This here is Bean Alley. These city politicians has got their own way of running streets; they take a pencil you see and draw a line along the property of folks that can pay for streets. The balance of us sets in mud puddles.” The man evidently found some difficulty in expressing himself without the assistance of profanity. There were blanks left between the words, which he supplied mentally with compressed lips and lifting of shaggy brows, that served as an effective substitute. His conversation printed would resemble these grammatical exercises, struggled with an early youth, in which “a——dog——attacked a——boy with a——stick.”
But his suppressed eloquence was lost upon his hearer, for Donald had become absorbed in a theatrical poster, which represented a preternaturally slim young lady, poised on a champagne bottle, coyly surveying an admiring world through the extended fingers of a small black gloved hand. It was “La Florine,” whose charms he had heard recounted times without number by Mr. Cropsie Decker.
This evening, the poster announced, “La Florine” would for the first time in any American city, perform her incomparable dance, “The Serpent of the Nile.”
Don had consulted his watch, and made a lightning calculation as to the time in which he could get a bite of supper and reach the Gayety, before he remembered that he was a reformed character. Then he sternly withdrew his gaze from the lady who peeped through her fingers in the dusk, and brought it back to the red-headed person, who had continued his conversation with unbroken volubility.
“... and she says to me,” he was concluding “'Mr. Flathers,' she says, 'it's a privelege to help such as you. A man what's been in the gutter times without number, and bore the awful horrors of delirium tremins four times and still can feel the stirrings of Christianity in his bosom.'”
Donald looked at him and laughed. Here was evidently a fellow sinner.
“So you've straightened up, have you? How does it feel?”
Mr. Flathers cast a sidelong glance upward as if to size up the handsome young gentleman on horseback.
“Mighty depressin',” he confessed, “with a thirst that's been accumulatin' for weeks and weeks, and a sick wife, and a adobted child that ain't spoke a word for seven years. But I'm restin' on the Lord. He well pervide.”
“Oh, you'll get along!” said Don, feeling uncommonly lenient toward his fellow men. “Here's a dollar if that will help you out a bit.”
“It will,” said Mr. Flathers reassuringly; “it undoubtedly will. I got much to be thankful for, I know that. Fer instance I never was a poor relation! That's more than lots of men kin say! The fact are, there ain't airy one in my whole family connection what's got any more 'n I have!”
The shower that had been threatening began now in earnest, and Donald started toward town at a brisk canter, but before he had gone two squares the rain was driving in sheets across the street, and he was obliged to dismount and seek shelter in the doorway of an isolated building that stood at the end of the common. It was a double door with the upper parts in colored glass, on which was boldly lettered,
The CANT-PASS-IT SALOON.
In one of the windows a placard informed the famishing residents of Billy-goat Hill that their thirst might not be assuaged until after twelve o'clock on Sunday night.
As Donald stood in the doorway, an automobile turned the corner and came to a stop, the lights from the lamps shining on the wet street, and throwing everything outside their radius into sudden darkness.
A man got out of the machine and ran for shelter. He was coughing, and held his collar close about his throat.
“Why, hello, Dillingham,” said Morley, recognizing him. “How did you get out here?”
“Joy-riding,” said Dillingham with a curl of his lip. “Tried to make a short cut, and got marooned. What are you doing here?”
“I've been out in the country for a couple of weeks. Got caught in the shower. What's the matter? Are you sick?”
Dillingham was leaning against the door jamb, shivering. He was a short, sallow, delicate-looking young fellow with self-explanatory puffs under his somewhat prominent eyes.
“Chilled to the bone,” he chattered. “I've got to get something to warm me up. Is this a saloon?”
“Yes, but it's closed. Won't be open until midnight.”
Mr. Dillingham made a sweeping condemnation of a city administration that would countenance such a proceeding, then set his wits to work to evade the law.
“Whose joint is this, anyhow?” he asked, glancing up. “Sheeley's? Why, of course. I've been out here to prize fights. He lives somewhere around here. Ugh! but I'm cold. I'll be a corpse this time next week if I don't head off this chill. Let's look him up and get a drink.”
Donald hesitated to spring the news of his reformation upon one who was already in a weakened condition. He assured himself that he would refuse when the time came. In the meanwhile no reason presented itself for refusing to assist his friend in quest of a life-preserver.
“Sheeley used to live in one of those shacks over there. It's letting up a bit, suppose we go over?” proposed Dillingham, shaking the water out of his cap.
“Been out to the house to-day?” asked Donald as they splashed through the mud.
“Just came from there. The truth is Margery and I have fixed things up at last. Any congratulations?”
“To be sure,” said Donald, extending a wet hand, but frowning into the darkness. “Have you told my sister?”
“Mrs. Sequin?” Dillingham smiled with superior amusement. “I guess she didn't have to be told. I imagine she thought of it before we did. Rather keen on me, you know, from the start.”
Donald drew in his breath but said nothing. Had it not been true, how he would have enjoyed punching Dill's head!
“You get off to the Orient this week, I suppose,” went on Dillingham. “Lucky devil! Decker asked me to go along. If it hadn't been for the paternal grandparent I'd have gone in a minute, but he put his foot down. When do you sail?”
“I've given up the trip. I'm going to buy a farm out near the Wickers', and get down to work.”
Dillingham whistled incredulously:
“Yes, I see you doing it! You are counting on pulling off the Derby, I suppose?”
“No, I'm not going to enter my horse.”
“What! Why Lickety-Split could win that race in a walk. All the crowd say you stand to win. Here, this is the shanty; at least it's where he used to live.”
A bright light streamed from the uncurtained window of a small cottage, revealing a family group within. A fat, smiling woman in curl papers, with a baby in her arms, and six youngsters in varying stages of Sabbath cleanliness, hung upon the words of a man who sat in a large, plush self-rocker, and read from a highly colored picture book. In the head of the family Dillingham recognized Richard Sheeley, ex-pugilist, and present proprietor of the Cant-Pass-It.
“Well, if it ain't Mr. Dillingham!” exclaimed Sheeley, throwing open the door in answer to their knock. “Soaked through, ain't you? Little somethin' to warm you up? Sure. Just come in and wait 'til I git on my shoes and find an umbrella and I'll go over with you. Don't keep a drop here,” he added in a whisper, behind a hand so large that he evidently regarded it as sound proof. “Missus won't stand fer it, 'count of the kids, eh?”
“That's him, Ma, the one I was telling you about,” Richard Sheeley, Jr.,—yclept “Skeeter”—tugged at his mother's sleeve, nodding his head at Donald, who was making love to the smallest and shyest of the daughters of the house.
“She ain't as meek as she looks!” Mrs. Sheeley was saying, as she tried to get the child from behind her skirts. “She's got her popper's temper along with his smartness. They ain't either one of them got a grain of sense when they git mad. I never seen a child with such a temper, did you, Popper?”
But Sheeley did not heed her; he was busy doing the honors to one he evidently considered an honored guest.
“Sit right down here, Mr. Dillingham, lemme take the book out of the chair. I was just reading to the Missus and the kids a book Skeeter brought home from Sunday School, all about Dan'l and the lions' den. Tall tale that, Mr. Dillingham. About one of the raciest animal articles I ever come acrost.”
When they were ready to go, Mrs. Sheeley followed them anxiously to the door.
“It's a awful stormy night, Popper; you ain't going to stay, are you?”
“Not long. I'll be back to finish the story. So long, kids!” He swung himself down the wooden steps, between his two well-groomed companions, looking back now and then at the bright, open doorway, where the smiling fat woman stood surrounded by half a dozen tow-headed children.
Just as they reached the saloon, the storm, which had evidently only paused for breath, broke in all its fury. The thunder rolled nearer and flashes of lightning pierced the darkness.
“Here! The side door!” shouted Sheeley.
“Wait till I strike a match. I'll take the umbrella. Go right up-stairs, if you don't mind. I want you to see the improvements I been making. There ain't a saloon this side the city limits that's got the 'quipment for sparring matches mine has.”
“Get busy with some whisky in the meanwhile,” reminded Dillingham sharply; “and I say, can't you make a fire somewhere? I'm chattering like an idiot.”
“Sure I can. There's a stove up there, and a bottle or two of extra fine liquor. Jes' step right up.”
Half way up the ill-lighted stairs they paused. Above the wind and the rain, a curious sound had come from below as if someone had stumbled against something.
“Who is that?” Sheeley demanded sharply, leaning over the banister and peering down into the gloom.
No answer came, but a draught of wind blew in from somewhere, swaying the gas-jet.
“Oh! it's a window that's left open,” said Sheeley. “That fool bartender! I'll just go down and fasten it.”
The lock proved stubborn, and it was with some difficulty that he forced it into place. Meanwhile the two young men had lit the gas in the large upper room and were inspecting the elevated stage where boxers were wont to engage surreptitiously in the noble art of self-defense.
“Take yours straight I believe, Mr. Dillingham?” said Sheeley, rejoining them; “an' yer gentleman friend?”
“Nothing for me,” said Morley with unnecessary firmness. “I'll just wait a second until the storm lets up, then be off to town.”
“Do any boxing these days, Dick?” asked Dillingham, pouring himself a second drink of whisky, as he hovered over the newly kindled fire.
“Oh! I don the mitts occasionally to gratify me friends. My long suit these days is faro; more money in it.”
Donald, standing at the window, staring out at the wild night, drummed impatiently on the pane.
“Hurry up, Dill,” he said. “I don't want to keep my mare standing so long in the rain.”
“Your mare be hanged,” said Dillingham; “just wait ten minutes until I get thawed out, and I'll go with you.”
Donald had waited ten minutes for Dill before, but never with the present sense of responsibility, born of his new connection with the family. He knew that his only chance of getting him home was to humor him.
How the wind whistled across the window! He wondered what Miss Lady was doing? Was she sitting by the table in the cozy living-room at Thornwood, with the lamplight on her hair? Was she at the harpsichord, singing to the Colonel? Was she standing, as he was standing, at the window, peering out into the wild night, and thinking,—and longing—?
“What's the matter with a little game of poker?” asked Sheeley, lightly running a deck of cards up the length of his arm and reversing them with a deftness that spoke of long familiarity.
“Great idea!” exclaimed Dillingham expansively. “Just pass that bottle, will you? What's that, Morley? Haven't got time? What in thunder's the matter with you to-night?”
Donald retorted, with great dignity, that nothing in thunder was the matter with him, except that he wanted to get back to town.
“Better not start with it storming like this,” urged Sheeley, as a crash of thunder shook the windows. “It'll let up soon.”
“Tell you what I'll do!” said Dillingham, putting an arm across Donald's shoulder affectionately, and speaking a trifle unsteadily. “If you'll play a couple of games I'll go home with you—You ought to be willing to do that for a fellow that's going to be your uncle. I mean your nephew.”
“And you'll go the minute the rain lets up?”
“Yes, if you'll play with us.”
Donald stood irresolute, watching Dillingham's thin, unsteady fingers shuffle the cards. He must get him home somehow, for Margery's sake. Dill never knew when to stop, he was good for the night unless somebody intervened.
Sheeley caught his eye and nodded significantly.
“All right!” said Donald, dropping into the vacant chair. “Only two games remember! No whisky, thanks. What's the ante?”
When Miss Lady had championed the cause of the oppressed that afternoon, she had unknowingly spoiled a criminal in the making. Chick Flathers, at the advanced age of eleven, had been so impressed by the injustice of social conditions that he had dedicated himself to a life of crime. He had already achieved two appearances in the Juvenile Court, and two days in the Detention Home. He was now fully decided to be a burglar.
To be sure there were extenuating circumstances for Chick. It was unquestionably a handicap to have opened his eyes for the first time in an ash barrel, and in Mr. Flathers' ash barrel at that. The transfer in a patrol wagon to an incubator in the City Hospital had been the next move, hence back to Mr. Flathers' who, inasmuch as it washisash barrel, felt called upon by Providence to adopt the foundling.
The next misfortune that befell him was in being dropped out of the window on his head, during one of Maria Flathers' absent-minded moments. This apparently did not affect his head, but in time it seriously affected his speech. The fact that he had so much to say, without being able to say it, resulted in a dammed-up current that sometimes overflowed in temper and viciousness. He talked a great deal, but nobody was able, or took the pains to try, to understand him. That is, not until Skeeter Sheeley gave him his nickname and became his official interpreter.
Their friendship dated from a memorable day when Skeeter had for the first time heard of the incubator incident, and had promptly accosted the Flathers' foundling as “Chicken.” The insult had been instantly resented in a battle so fierce and so bloody, that the details of it became historic in the annals of Billy-goat Hill. Chick, though of lighter weight, and feeble muscle, was armed with righteous indignation. He observed no rules, but fought with arms, legs, teeth and nails. The odds were against him however, and he had to be assisted from the field, a vanquished hero.
From that time on, by one of those mysterious laws that govern boydom, the two were inseparable companions, waging open war on all adjoining neighborhoods, engaging in predatory expeditions in their own, and, when interest in life flagged, fighting each other.
Skeeter interpreted all that Chick said, interpreted it freely, and with imagination, and Chick apparently considered himself honor bound to accept the interpretation and stand for it, no matter how far it came from expressing his meaning.
Eleven years of wickedness had thus been swaggered through when Chick suddenly and unexpectedly fell in love. It was when the beautiful young lady at the railroad crossing had bent above him like a succoring angel, that he had been forced to change his classification of the human race. Hitherto it had been divided into grown people and children, henceforth it was divided into men and women!
All that Sunday afternoon he went about in a dream. He could not get over the fact that she had taken his part, that she had put her arm around him, and smiled at him. Once or twice when nobody was looking, he put his very dirty hand on his cheek and felt the spot where her fingers had rested.
But this new and tender emotion was not allowed to interfere with the special project that Chick had in mind. It was a project so colossal in its nature, that not even Skeeter was to be admitted to the secret. For six weeks Chick had been the victim of a gaming system, and to-night he was to take his revenge.
At supper time Skeeter recognized a convention of civilization and repaired to the bosom of his family, but Chick being accountable to nobody, and recognizing no conventions, stole a couple of apples from a passing cart, and repaired to the dump heap to wait for the dark.
He had not long to wait, for great black clouds were covering the sky, and he could no longer see the houses at the end of the alley. Carefully storing his apple cores in his pocket for future trades, he picked his way over the tin cans and debris, until he reached the Junction. Here he hesitated. It was there that he and Skeeter had tussled for the whip. It was here that the young lady had come to his rescue, and said she didn't believe he was so very bad. Gee! but she was a pretty young lady, and her hand was so soft, and her voice—
Chick rammed his hands in his pockets and pulled his cap over his eyes. This was no way for a cove to be feeling when he had a job to do! With watchful eyes for passers-by, he slipped through an opening in the fence, and entered the switch-yard. When he emerged he staggered under the weight of a crowbar which he vainly tried to hide under his ragged jacket.
Just at the intersection of Bean Alley and the switch-yard, where the dusk banked up densely in the corners, he stopped again. He was watching his chance to get across the wide common, undetected. Twice he started, and twice he shrank back and flattened himself against the wall as some one passed.
If, to the casual observer, Chick was but a dirty, ragged little boy, undersized and underfed, and rather frightened, to himself at least he was a bold desperado, about to avenge himself for a wrong committed.
Thunder muttered ominously, and a drop of rain fell on his face as he skirted the common, and reached the big, dark saloon at the cross-roads. Skirting the side wall, he crept to the rear, and felt for the open window which he had discovered earlier in the day. It was a low window and easy of access, and he lost no time in climbing in.
The passage was in utter darkness, but he felt his way along the wall until he reached a door. Here he fumbled for the knob and opened it. A street lamp outside threw a dim, wavering light into the room, revealing the long bar with its shining fixtures. Chick put down his crowbar and tremblingly removed his coat. According to the moving pictures of criminals, that was the first move. Then he resolutely grasped his weapon and with thumping heart approached his enemy.
It appeared a very innocent enemy as it stood there in the half light, announcing in printed letters across its face, that seven out of every ten persons who put a nickel in the slot, received a prize in money. But Chick knew that it lied! Had it not eaten up his nickels week after week? Had he not worked for it, fought for it, and bled for it, confidently believing that the prize would be his? And there it stood gorged with his precious nickels, mysterious and fascinating still, but treacherous through and through!
In a blaze of wrath Chick dealt it a sounding blow with the crowbar, then crouched in terror for what might happen. There was no sound but the dash of rain against the windows, and the heavy rumble of thunder overhead. Once more Chick grasped his heavy weapon and began the attack in earnest. Blow followed blow, as fast as his small arms could swing the crowbar. Suddenly a spring seemed to snap, and out poured a stream of money that rolled about his feet, and off into the farthest corners of the room.
Chick crouched on the floor, overcome by his exertions and the success of his venture. Wealth was within his reach, more wealth than he had ever dreamed of! Not unintelligible gold and silver, but dear, familiar nickels, whose purchasing power he knew. But no thought of appropriation crossed his mind as he knelt there, fingering the glittering pile. He was carefully counting out his rightful share, the eleven nickels that the slot machine had stolen from him, and his hesitation came from the fact that he was trying to select the shiniest ones!
Having gotten what he came for, he once more shouldered his crowbar, and let himself out into the dark passage. Here he stopped in terror! Something was snorting and hissing without, something that sounded as if itmightbe the Devil!
In Chick's creed there was but one affirmation. He believed absolutely in the Devil. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was red, and cloven-footed and that his tail ended in a hard, sharp, spike, like Mammy Flathers' ice-pick. He also knew that when he breathed, it was in groans and hisses, such as he was hearing at the present moment. Chick's hair would have risen on his head, it wanted to, but it was not long enough.
For a moment he stood breathless, then he drew a sigh of relief. It wasn't anything but an automobile after all! He tiptoed to a window and peered out. The lamps from the machine threw long lights across the shining wet street, but nothing else was visible.
After a long while he heard voices at the side door. Somebody was coming into the saloon! He could hear the doorknob turning, and a key in the latch. He started back to the barroom, then remembering a little closet under the steps where he and Skeeter used to play, he felt along the wall. There it was! And just in time for him to stumble in and pull the door to, leaving enough crack to breathe through, in case his breath ever came back.
The side door was flung open, and the sputter of a match was followed by the feeble light from a gas-jet at the end of the passage.
“Here, I'll take the umbrella!” said a voice he dreaded next to the Devil's. It was Sheeley; he would go into the barroom, and discover the wreckage of the slot-machine! Chick was beginning to feel the handcuffs on his wrists, when he became aware of ascending footsteps overhead. What were they going up-stairs for? Was it a sparring match? Forgetting his precarious position he leaned forward to listen, upsetting a box on the shelf beside him.
“Who's that?” came in Sheeley's fiercest tones from the stairway above, and Chick cowered back into the dark with chattering teeth. Then he heard him say something about the window, and followed the sound of his heavy footsteps down the stairs and up again.
Now was his chance to escape while they were up-stairs. With utmost caution he pushed open the closet door, and on hands and knees began his perilous journey to the window. It was at that moment that he decided positively that he would not be a burglar. A plumber took fewer risks, and made more money. Once at the window he was unable to budge the lock. Standing on the sill, whimpering with fear, he wrestled with it frantically, bruising his fingers, and tearing his nails, but he could not move it. Then he tried the door but Sheeley had evidently locked it and taken out the key.
A blinding flash of lightning sent him scurrying back to his hiding-place, where he sank on the floor, shivering and cringing. Nearer and nearer roared the thunder, and the wind seemed as anxious to get into the house as he was eager to get out of it. Gradually his arms and legs ceased jerking, his head relaxed against an empty box, he laid his hand against the cheek that had been patted and forgot his troubles in sleep.
When he awoke he heard loud voices overhead. At first he supposed he was at home, and that the voice was only Mr. Flathers enjoying one of his periodical backslidings. But Dick Sheeley's voice recalled him; Dick was mad at somebody, and when Dick got mad he fought. Not a boy on Billy-goat Hill but would have faced death to see the ex-prizefighter in a row. It was a distinction that placed one at a bound in the front ranks of juvenile aristocracy.
Chick crept from his hiding-place and listened. The voices grew louder and more excited. Drawn as by a magnet he slipped up the stairs step by step. At the top was an off-set in the hall, a corner in which he could hide, unseen from the open door beyond. There he lay on his stomach and wriggled forward until his eye was on a line with the crack in the half-open door.
Three men were sitting around a card table, two of them with their backs to him; and Dick facing them with his jaw set and his teeth showing. All three were talking at once, and Dick was the most excited of the three.
“You didn't have no ace of spades to show down! You discarded it. You know you did, you—cheat!” He had risen and was shaking his fist in the face of the thin young man.
“It's a lie, you common cur!” cried the other wildly, but before the words were well out of his mouth, Sheeley's mighty right arm had shot out across the table and struck him in the face.
“Sheeley! For God's sake, don't you see Dillingham's drunk?” protested the other young man whom Chick recognized as his friend of the afternoon.
“Drunk or no drunk, he can't call me a liar!” yelled Sheeley, and the next instant Chick, with his heart pounding madly between him and the floor, was in his element. It was a fight! A real one, in which the hero of Billy-goat Hill held his own against two opponents.
The tumblers and the whisky bottles went first, the liquor dripping from the table to floor; then a chair was overturned, and a window-pane shattered to the ground below.
The thin young man hadn't sense to stop; again and again he flung his insults at the infuriated Sheeley, impatiently fighting off the efforts of his companion who sought to part them. Suddenly Chick saw him step back, while the others were grappling, and fumble in his rear pocket. He saw him steady himself against the door jamb, not four feet away, and raise a pistol. There was a sharp report, a smothered groan, then a heavy fall.
The man with the pistol flung it through the broken window, then staggered to the table where he sank down with his head on his arms.
What had happened in the corner, Chick could not tell, but in a few minuteshisyoung man came swiftly into his line of vision, and shook the limp figure half lying on the table.
“Get up, Dill! For God's sake! Are you too drunk to crank up your machine? As soon as I can get that blood stopped I must go for a doctor.”
The dazed eyes of the drunken man looked at him in helpless terror!
“I can't stay here!”
{Illustration: There was a sharp report, a smothered groan, then a heavy fall.}
“You've got to stay here! Can't you see you are in no fix to run a machine? Brace up, you idiot; we've got todosomething and do it quick. Go down and try to crank up. Here's the door key! I'll be there as soon as I can get the blood stopped!”
The man at the table staggered to the door, passed through the hall, so close to Chick that he almost trod upon him, then went swaying down the stairs, steadying himself by wall and banister. Chick heard the side door slam, and the chug of the machine, then realized that it was turning the corner.
The young man in the room rushed frantically to the window and leaned out, then he said something savage under his breath, and plunged out into the passage and headlong down the steps. Chick heard the side door bang again, and a moment later the gallop of a horse.
Then everything was still, but the noisy beating of his heart that threatened to burst its confines. Through the crack he saw the table with its broken tumblers, and the whisky drip, dripping on the floor; he saw the chairs overturned, and the gas-jet flickering in the wind from the broken window.
The thing he could not see was what lay in the corner, the huddled-up, blood-stained hulk of a something for which a smiling, fat woman and six tow-headed youngsters were waiting across the common. Chick crawled to the head of the stairs, and as he reached the top step his hand touched a hard object. He picked it up and held it to the light, and as he did so, the joy that often blossoms on the brink of tragedy was his for a moment. It was the riding whip whose handle he had fallen heir to that afternoon!
Down the steps, through the door and out into the rain-soaked night he sped; across the common, through the switch-yard, and down the narrow, noisome darkness of Bean Alley. Over a ram-shackled fence, and up a dilapidated porch he clambered like a cat, until he reached the small loft in the Flathers' two-roomed mansion which he called home.
Here the hardened criminal, the breaker of laws, and of slot machines, the would-be burglar, threw himself upon an old mattress, and with two grimy fists in his eyes sobbed out his heart to the rafters above.
It was not repentance for his sins, neither was it terror of the secret that was locked behind his inarticulate lips, although both of them had a part. It was because a beautiful young lady had taken his part, and put her arms about him, and refused to believe that he was as bad as Skeeter Sheeley said he was.
During the rest of the week the rainstorm, that had started all the trouble, continued to hover ominously, breaking forth day after day in fierce, petulant showers. Out at Thornwood the aspect was most dreary; the low-lying ground in front of the house was under water for a quarter of a mile, trees, limp and draggled, stood disconsolate in an unfamiliar lake, the bridge below the dam was washed away, and horses going to the creek for water were constantly being caught by the current, and having to be rescued by ropes. In the flower garden dirty-faced little blossoms lay in the mud, vines trailed across the paths, all the fragrance and color seemed to be soaked out of everything by those continuous, pelting showers.
Within the house it was not much gayer. The front hall, with its steep, narrow stairway, and floor-covering of highly ornate landscape oilcloth, was in a perpetual twilight. An occasional glint from white woodwork, or the gold molding of a picture, strove in vain to dispel the gloom. The parlor, at the right of the hall, was sepulchral with its window cracks stuffed with paper, and the shutters securely closed. To be sure, the living-room on the other side of the hall did its best to look cheerful, but even that comfortable spot with its low ceiling and battered mahogany furniture, its high cupboards flanking the wide, stone fireplace, and its friendly litter of every-day necessities, was not equal to the occasion.
One afternoon when the Colonel came in from the chicken yard where he and Uncle Jimpson had constituted themselves a salvage corps, he surprised Miss Lady sitting in the dusk on the floor before the empty fireplace, with suspicious traces of tears upon her face.
“Make a light,” blustered the Colonel; “you mustn't sit around in the dark like this, you know. Where's my pipe?”
She sprang up and found the missing article, and with a great show of cheerfulness lit the lamp and held the match out for him to light his pipe.
“What's the matter?” asked the Colonel; “sort of trembly, ain't you?”
“Me? Watch me!” She held the match very straight and very tight, then as it wavered, blew it out and dropped it down his sleeve. “There's some mail over there on the table for you, Daddy dear. Noah brought it down from town in his buggy.”
She said it very carelessly, and even enumerated the contents as she handed it to him:
“Two circulars, a letter from the seed man, theConfederate Veteranand the newspapers.”
“Nothing for you?”
“Nothing.”
Under his scrutiny Miss Lady's eyes fell, and she turned abruptly to the window, while the Colonel, mouth open, pipe in hand, watched her.
He had never seen his girl like this in her life! What business had her lip to tremble in the middle of a sentence, or her eyes to brim with sudden tears, making her turn her back on her adoring Dad, and busy herself with the window curtain?
Of course it is upsetting to have a friend, whom you have been seeing daily for a couple of weeks, get into trouble such as young Donald Morley had fallen into. It made even the Colonel feel bad, he didn't deny it. But what business had the kitten to be taking it all so to heart? Why was she called upon to champion this young stranger's cause so hotly, to resent every insinuation, and to contend! passionately that he would be able to explain everything? Morley had not explained. Three days had dragged past and nothing had been heard from him. Nothing probably would be heard from him! The Colonel wanted to feel victorious, but he did! not. Instead, he cast anxious and sympathetic glances at the back of his daughter's head, and surreptitiously wiped his small snub nose on the corner of his red-bordered handkerchief.
He had a good mind to give up his trip to Virginia! To be sure, he had looked forward for months to celebrating Founders' Day at the old college. If it weren't for seeing all the old boys, he would stay at home. By George! the little girl came first; he would stay at home anyhow!
“Those gloves,” he burst out by way of breaking the news; “the thin ones I told you to mend. Well, you needn't mend them.”
“I haven't,” said Miss Lady, “but I'll do it now.”
“Needn't mind. Won't need 'em. Fact is, I ain't going.”
“Yes you are,” said Miss Lady, adding inconsequently, “Why not?”
“Needed here at home. Roads washed out, everything out of fix. Decided to stay at home.” Miss Lady wheeled from the window where she had been tracing the raindrops on the pane, and made a rush for him, establishing herself on his lap, as far as one could establish oneself on such a perpendicular surface.
“You are not going to do anything of the kind. Uncle Jimpson is going to drive you in to town to catch the first train in the morning.”
“I ain't going,” insisted the Colonel, shaking his head doggedly.
“Yes you are. Where's your traveling bag?”
“On the top shelf of the cupboard. But I'm not going.” He said it firmly, but the next instant he asked, “Did Jimpson press my gray suit?”
“Oh! Squire Daddy, I'm so sorry I forgot to tell him! I'll tell him now.”
“Too late!” the Colonel sighed in resignation; “no use talking any more about it.”
“Yes there is! Your enthusiasm's just gotten damp like everything else. I am going to tell Uncle Jimpson to make a little fire to cheer us up, then we'll all go to work to get you ready.”
It seemed to be a relief to her to bustle about and set things in motion. In a short while she had a cheerful blaze going on the hearth, and the curtains drawn against the dreary twilight without.
The Colonel sat in the middle of the room, watching Uncle Jimpson and Aunt Caroline collect his scattered wardrobe, keeping a vigilant eye meanwhile upon Miss Lady. He simply did not intend to have her unhappy! It was preposterous! Altogether out of the question! His little girl crying around in corners where he couldn't see her? The idea of such a thing! If she must cry, what was the matter with his shoulder?
“You ain't got but four hankchiefs in de wash, Cunnel,” announced Aunt Caroline from her knees beside a large wicker basket. “Don't look lak dat's enough fer a white gem-man to start off on a trip wif.”
“Jimpson,” the Colonel looked up reproachfully, “did you hear that? You have actually let me get down to four handkerchiefs.”
“And socks,” continued Caroline, enjoying the opportunity of emphasizing the shortcomings of her lesser half, “'bout sebenteen, all singles. No two scarcely de same color.”
“Miss Lady, she been 'cumulatin' 'em to darn 'em,” explained Jimpson, glad to shift responsibility. “She 'low she gwine to tak a day off some o' dese days, an' mend up ever'thing in de house.”
The Colonel glanced around: “Where is Miss Lady?”
“Out in de hall, readin' de evenin' paper. Nebber did see dat chile tek so much notice ob de newspaper. Yas, sir, I'll call her.”
“Any later news of the shooting?” asked the Colonel casually, when she returned.
“Yes, Mr. Dillingham was indicted and arraigned before the court. The case was passed until June first.”
“And Sheeley? What of his condition?”
“The paper says he will lose his eye, but that he will probably get well.”
“And—and nothing has been heard of Morley?”
“Not yet.”
After supper, when all the preparations for the trip were completed, and the cheerful presence of Uncle Jimpson and Aunt Caroline removed, the Colonel and Miss Lady sat before the dying fire, and tried to make conversation. Outside wet branches swept the windows, and sudden gusts of rain beat against the panes.
“Thirty years since I saw some of the old boys,” the Colonel said, trying to warm up to his coming journey. “I'll miss old Professor Queerington, but John Jay will be there. We are planning to come home together. Fine man, he is, fine man!”
“Who? Oh, yes, Doctor Queerington.”
“Just a little boy when I boarded at his father's. He can't be much over forty now. The smartest man the old college ever turned out! And just as good as he's smart. A little too much book learning maybe, and not any too much common sense, but there ain't many heads built to carry both. He's sound though, sound to the core, and that's saying a good deal these days. What's the matter? Sleepy?”
“No, just the fidgets. Say, Daddy, what do you suppose they will do with Mr. Dillingham, if he is convicted?”
“Penitentiary offense, I hear. But Noah says they'll get him off. Old General Dillingham has plenty of money, and friends at court. He'll take care of his grandson.”
“But if he is cleared,” began Miss Lady, “that throws the guilt on—”
“Now see here,” interrupted the Colonel, “you stop bothering your little head about that trial. Go over there and play me a couple of good old tunes, and then we'll both trot to bed.”
Miss Lady's soft untrained voice began bravely enough. She described with feeling the charms of Annie Laurie, and was half way through Robin Adair before she faltered, started anew, stumbled again, then came to an ignominious halt.
“Tut! tut!” said the Colonel fussily, getting himself out of his chair in an incredibly short time for so stout a gentleman. “This won't do, you know; this ain't right!”
“It's that silly old piece!” said Miss Lady petulantly. “It always works on my feelings.”
“But it wouldn't make you cry like this. Come, tell me.”
“There's nothing to tell—that is—”
“Well, never mind then. Just cry it out. That's right. Don't mind me. Just your old Dad.” And with much fussing and petting and foolish assurances that he was her Daddy, he got her over to the sofa. Sitting on the floor with her arms across his knees, she wept with the abandonment of a child, while his short, stubby fingers tenderly stroked her shining hair. At last when the storm had subsided and she was able to look up, he took her face between his hands.
“Out with it, kitten!” he demanded. “What's troubling you? Don Morley business?”
She kissed his nearest hand.
“Thought so. You—you got to like him pretty well, eh?”
She nodded between her sobs.
“Better 'n most anybody?” he asked it jealously, but unflinchingly.
“Except you, Daddy.” It was a faint whisper, but it was reassuring.
“And what about him?” the Colonel continued.
Another burst of tears, then a resolute effort at self-control.
“He meant to do what's right. I know he did! He promised to give up drinking and gambling and go to work.”
“He made a good start!” The Colonel knocked the ashes from his pipe. “And after he got into the fracas, what in thunder did he run away for? Why didn't he stay and face it out? Any fool would know that if Dillingham is cleared, the suspicion would all be on him.”
“But, Daddy, we haven't heard his side yet. If I could just hear from him, or see him.”
“See him!” he exploded. “What in the name of the devil do you want to see him for? No siree! Not while Bob Carsey's got any buckshot left in his gun! Do you think there's any chance of his prowling 'round here while I'm gone? That settles it! I'll not budge an inch. Tell Jimpson! Tell Caroline! Unpack my things.”
“But, Daddy, wait! He is probably out at the coast by this time. Besides, he hasn't written or sent any word. How do we know that... that he wants to come back?”
“He'll try it all right. I saw how things were going. I saw how he looked at you. The impudent young hound!”
“Daddy! Please don't! You don't know him. He will explain everything when he writes, I know he will!”
“But he won't write! He won't have the face to. The idea of his going straight off from my girl, and getting mixed up in a scrape like this! You've got to promise me never to speak to the young scoundrel again!”
“But if he explains?”
“Why hasn't he done so? Because he can't. Besides, I don't want him to. We are through with him from now on. Promise me never to have anything more to do with him.”
She hesitated, and the Colonel began to fling the things out of his bag in great agitation.
“Please, Squire Daddy!” She caught his hands, and looked at him, and something in her pleading eyes and quivering lips was so reminiscent of another face he had loved, that he broke down completely and had to have recourse to one of his four clean handkerchiefs that were still in the bag.
He was an old fool, he declared between violent blowings of his nose, and clearings of his throat. Was only doing what he thought was his duty. Didn't mean to make her unhappy. Didn't have sense enough to bring up a girl. Had tried to, though! Always would try. Only she mustn't be unhappy; he couldn't stand that. It would kill him if she dared to be unhappy!
And Miss Lady with her arms about his neck, making futile dabs at his streaming eyes with her little wet knot of a handkerchief, passionately declared that she would promise him anything under the sun, that she was going to be happy, that shewashappy!
“Not yet,” said the Colonel, with much mopping of his brow; “but you will be! We'll straighten it out. Soon as I get back, I'll take the matter up. Sift it clean to the bottom. We'll give Morley every chance to square himself. But 'til then, you won't see him if you can help it, or read his letters, if he writes? You don't mind promising me that much, do you?”
“I promise, Daddy.”
Oh! the promises made for a day, and kept through the years, what a lot of tangled lives they have to answer for!
Miss Lady put the Colonel's things back in his bag, and stooped to kiss him good night.
“Sure you don't mind my going?”, he asked, studying her face. “I'll be back Saturday night.”
“All right. Good-by, I won't be up in the morning when you start. Have a good time, Daddy dear, and—and don't worry about me.”
He lit her candle for her and carried it to the steps where he kissed her again.
“My little girl,” he whispered.
The house grew still. Out on the landing the tall clock ticked off the hours to midnight; the fire died to an ember; from the porch without came the drip, drip, drip of the gutter. Still the Colonel sat in his split-bottom chair, his little eyes like watch fires in the gloom, listening for the faintest sound of restlessness from the room above.