CHAPTER XXVCHARLES CUTTS AGAIN
The car was not more than half full, but just as it started Harcourt heard a man come into the seat behind them, drop down in his place, and deposit a heavy bag beside him; and next he felt a hand laid familiarly on his shoulder.
He turned his head, and was face to face with Charles Cutts, the Baltimore broker, who was so fatally mixed up with the tragic drama of his life.
“How do you do? How do you do?” exclaimed the broker pleasantly, offering his fat hand. “Every time I see you, do you know, I am reminded of that night of Yelverton’s death on the Isle of Storms.”
“I need never to be reminded of it,” said poor Harcourt with a profound sigh.
He was not so cautious and reticent now as he had been in his previous encounter with Cutts. The time of his confession was drawing too near to make it necessary that he should be so. If Cutts—who certainly knew more of the manner of Yelverton’s death than any other man, except Harcourt himself—should feel inclined to denounce him, why, let Cutts do it—ifhe would only wait a few days or hours, until Dorothy Harcourt should be at rest.
“Ah! you don’t require to be reminded of it, don’t you? Brooding over it all the time, eh? That’s morbid. Take my advice, don’t you do it. It is hurting your health. You are looking very badly, my young friend. Don’t brood over what can’t be altered now,” said Cutts, patting him on the shoulder.
“I cannot help it. Since you know so much, you must also——” Harcourt replied.
“Yes, I do know so much!—much more than you dream of, my young friend—much more than I shall ever breathe to mortal ears, except your own, unless, indeed, it should be necessary to do so to vindicate some innocent accused person,” said Cutts, dropping his voice to a low murmur, which precaution seemed unnecessary, since there was no one near enough to hear their conversation except the child, who did not understand what they were talking about.
“Do not be afraid, Mr. Cutts. No innocent man shall ever suffer for me, whether you ever open your lips on the subject or not,” said poor Harcourt in a husky whisper, speaking now in recognition of the secret understanding between them.
But the broker stared at him blankly for a moment, and then said:
“I am not so sure of that. Look here, young man, what do you mean? You brood too much on this matter. How do I know what it will lead to? How do I know but what you will become insane, and go and accuse some poor devil or other, whom I shall have to vindicate by pointing out the real murderer? Take my advice, and don’t brood, young fellow. It can do no good. ‘What’s done is done,’ as Lady Macbeth, that strong-minded woman, wisely remarked to her very particularly feeble-minded lord and master. All the brooding in the present and future cannot alter the past. Say to yourself that you could not help what happened; and you really could not, you poor boy! Say to yourself it was kismet—and it was kismet, William Harcourt. Say that to yourself, andthen dismiss the matter at once and forever from your mind.”
“As if I could!” sighed the young man.
“Why not? The case is closed and forgotten, except by you and me. The coroner’s jury decided that Nathan Yelverton committed suicide, and all the world believed in the truth of that verdict—except you and me. We know, you and I, that the notorious sharper and blackleg did not die a suicide. But no one else on earth, except you and me, know that for the fact that it is, or even suspect it as a bare possibility, and I shall never divulge the secret, or breathe a hint of it to any living creature, except under the contingency I have mentioned.”
“But why do you always speak of it to me? Why, whenever I happen to meet you anywhere, do you broach this painful subject?” inquired Harcourt in a distressed tone.
“Why? Because it is a sort of relief to talk of it to the only man that shares the secret, and—also—because, whenever I meet you, your looks trouble me. I see you suffer, and I fancy it might be some relief to you, also, to speak of this tragedy.”
“It is not. It is exceedingly distressing to me. And now, Mr. Cutts, I must entreat you to drop it, after this, my ultimatum: That as you will only speak in vindication of some innocent person, I repeat that no innocent person shall be accused or suffer for me. Now that we perfectly understand each other, pray let us say no more about the horror,” said Harcourt, turning his head away from his persecutor.
“What a child you are! And, by the way, I am not so perfectly sure that we do understand each other. I, in point of fact, I am pretty sure that we do not. But here we are at Newark, where I get off. Good-by,” said the broker, as the train slowed into the station, and he took up his bag and left his seat to get off.
Harcourt rested his elbows on the window sill, dropped his head on his hands, and sank into troubled thought as the train started again.
Owlet was anxiously watching him. She had seen that the stranger had annoyed her friend, although she had not understood the drift of the conversation; and now, seeing him so bowed down in sorrow, she blamed the stranger, and sought to console Harcourt by the only formula that occurred to her mind:
“Don’t you mind him,” she said, sniffing with exquisite childish scorn. “He’s not possessed of common sense!”
Harcourt patted her head, in recognition of her sympathy, and then relapsed into troubled reverie.
Owlet, perceiving that her companion was indisposed for conversation, settled herself in her seat, drew her roll of peppermint lozenges from her pocket, and occupied herself with them until the motion of the cars and the aroma of the peppermint sent her off into a sleep that lasted until they reached Wilmington.
Then she was awakened by the train stopping and the passengers leaving their seats for the railway restaurant.
“What shall I bring you for lunch, little girl?” inquired Harcourt, rousing himself.
“Nothing. Miss Annie gave me this to give to you,” said the child, handing over the paper parcel of luncheon that had been intrusted to her. “It is our dinner,” she added.
“Miss Annie has been like a sister to me, and a mother to you, has she not, little girl?” inquired Harcourt as he opened the parcel, spread a newspaper over his knees, and divided the sandwiches and apple pie between himself and his little companion.
“Ah! she has that,” responded Owlet emphatically. “She is possessed of common sense, and I am going to ask Lady to invite her to come down and stay at Goblin Hall—that I am!”
“And do you think Lady will comply with your request?” inquired Harcourt.
“Will—what?”
“Will do it, when you ask her?”
“Why, of course she will, when I tell her what adear, good woman Miss Annie is. Lady is possessed of common sense, you bet. She has invited ever so many poor people to come to her house this summer. She has such a great big house, with ever so many rooms in it, and ever such a great big garden, with ever so much fruit and flowers in it. She’s got everything she wants, and plenty of it—eggs and roses and banty chickens, and potatoes, and strawberries, and cows, and—and—things, you know—ever so many.”
“But will Lady be willing to share all these things with a perfect stranger like Annie Moss?” inquired Harcourt, solely for the purpose of drawing the child out to talk of his loved and lost Roma.
But Owlet looked at him in solemn disapprobation. Why should he, or any one, doubt that Lady would do everything that was kind to everybody, her eyes seemed to ask. Then she answered:
“Of course she will! And, of course, Miss Annie will be no stranger after I have told Lady all about her; and Lady will be sure to invite her to come to Goblin Hall. You’ll see. Oh! I think I will ask Lady to invite you to stay when you take me home to her. Wouldn’t you like to stay?” inquired Owlet, with sudden inspiration.
“Lady is very good to everybody, then?” said the young man, evading the child’s question.
“You bet! Why, didn’t I tell you she was possessed of common sense? But I don’t believe you listen to one word I say!” Owlet exclaimed in a tone of pique.
“Oh, yes, I do, indeed. To every word you speak about Lady.”
“No, you don’t. You never answered me when I asked you if you wouldn’t like to stay at Lady’s house when you take me home there.”
“I beg your pardon, mistress. I will answer now. I should, very much, if I could, my dear.”
“Well, you can, if you want to. I will tell Lady how good you have been to me, and she will have you stay, I know. And, oh! I think she will like you very much—I do, indeed. And, oh! I say, Mr. William!”
“What now, little girl?”
“I have just thought of it—oh! such a great thing!”
“What is it, dear?”
“I wish you and Lady would get married.”
“Good heavens!” muttered the young man under his breath, and he turned quickly and looked out of the window to conceal the agitation of his face.
“Everybody who is possessed of common sense gets married, you know. And Lady is possessed of more common sense than anybody I ever saw in this world,” continued Owlet, paying, in her own estimation, the highest possible tribute to the character of her benefactress. “But, you see, there’s nobody down there for her to marry. There’s only old Dr. Keech, who pulls people’s teeth out and gives them nasty physic, and who I do not think is possessed of common sense. And there’s old Mr. Shaw, who preaches such long sermons he almost makes me gape the top of my head off; and there’s Lawyer Merritt, who is good for nothing, ’cept when he is Santa Claus. And, yes, there’s old, old, old Grandfather Toomie, but he has got one wife already, and I don’t think she’d like him to marry Lady. There, Mr. William! Them’s all the men Lady has to choose from to marry, unless it’s you, you know, and if you are possessed of common sense you will marry Lady.”
“But, my dear, I am not possessed of common sense,” said Harcourt in a serio-comic tone.
“There, now!” exclaimed Owlet, dropping a piece of pie she was conveying to her mouth. “I always thought so myself! I did, indeed! Though, mind you, I never said so. You said it, not me. I wouldn’t like to, when you were so good to me; but it’s too true!” she added, with a profound sigh.
“Yes, dear, it is too true,” Harcourt confessed.
“Well, never mind. Maybe you was born so, and can’t help it. But I tell you what you do. You marry Lady—Lady has got enough for both of you. She’s got more than anybody I know. Marry Lady! You know very well that you ought to marry. Everybody ought to marry. I am going to be married myself.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“Yes, indeed! You bet!”
“May I ask the name of the happy man?” inquired Harcourt, with a smile.
“What happy man?”
“The lucky fellow you are going to marry.”
“Oh, I don’t know yet. But somebody, you may bet your life on that.” And having expressed this excellent resolution, Owlet fell to eating her luncheon with a concentration of attention that precluded the possibility of further conversation for the present.
Harcourt’s appetite had vanished. He could eat but little, and that little in a merely perfunctory manner, to keep his physical strength from utterly failing.
Passengers returned to their seats. New people got in. Some strangers took their places immediately behind Harcourt and his little companion, so that if either the man or the child had felt inclined to renew their discourse they could not have carried it on confidentially. But, in fact, neither wished to talk. Harcourt was buried in gloomy thought, and Owlet was heavy with drowsiness, like any other tired young animal after a hearty meal, so she curled herself up on her seat and shut her eyes.
The train soon started again, and rushed onward toward its southern destination.
The rapid motion, with the total absence of conversation, soon lulled the child to sleep.
The remainder of the journey passed without incident.