Martin, the postman, was the most deliberate man in Grey Town. He never hurried, and he never made a mistake. If he had twenty letters to deliver at the same address, he would carefully read the address of each one before taking the responsibility of handing it over to the recipient. This accounted for the fact that Martin, the postman, was invariably late.
To Molly Healy, anxiously waiting at the Presbytery gate for the weekly letter from Ireland, Martin was a constantly recurring cause of sin. So keenly did she resent his leisurely methods that her indignation had changed to anger, her anger almost to hatred, when she resolved to check herself.
"It must be stopped," she remarked to Mrs. Quirk, "or one day I will be running at him with the pitchfork, and it would never do for the priest's sister to be pursuing the postman through the town to destroy him."
"Sure, then, if I was you I would be praying for the man, returning good for the evil he was doing you," said Mrs. Quirk.
"But he doesn't mean it, and that is the worst of Martin. His conscience is so big that it takes him allhis time to carry it round. He's a poor, good man, but it is murder I sometimes contemplate," cried Molly.
At last she hit upon the device of giving Martin half an hour's grace before expecting him.
"I will be lenient with the man, and not expect him until he has arrived," she said. "But it would do my heart good to pinch him."
The half-hour had been prolonged to an hour, and Molly Healy was in a white heat of fury when Martin arrived.
"And what has kept you to-day?" cried Molly Healy. "You are the slowest man in Grey Town, for sure, and that is saying you are phenomenally slow."
"You are angry," said Martin, in his most deliberate fashion.
"Angry! I am just quivering with ungovernable temper. I could shake you!"
"You require your letters delivered by a twenty horse-power auto-motor," replied Martin.
Therewith he began to run through the letters with a deliberation that was almost cruel.
"When you have done shuffling the cards, perhaps you will give me the one you have in your hand," cried Molly.
"Patience, young lady. I have a duty to perform——."
"Your duty is to give me my letter. If you only knew how near you were to sudden death you would be in haste to get away from me."
"There you are, five letters—one for you. Let mesee; is it for you?" Martin began to read the address over.
"Oh, the Lord forgive you! You are an occasion of sin to me."
"Patience, Miss Molly! Here you are, and good-day to you. The Lord send you a better temper!"
Martin delivered the letters, and proceeded placidly on his path of duty. Molly Healy watched him until he had turned a distant corner.
"The man will never get to heaven—he is too slow; and he will prevent me getting there unless Providence removes him to another round."
She carried the letters to Father Healy, and then proceeded to shut herself in her room, and there absorb the news from Ireland. In laughter and in tears she read her letter, and then re-read it, determined to lose not one word of the contents.
Dr. Marsh was with Father Healy when the letters came.
"May I read them?" the priest asked.
"Certainly! Why not?" replied the doctor in his brusque manner. "I will digest a slice of theology."
He took a book from the table and opened it.
"I hope it will agree with you," laughed Father Healy, as he tore the first letter open.
"Humph!" grunted Dr. Marsh. "When I am dying I will send for you; meanwhile I am quite content to remain a sinner."
Father Healy did not reply. He had become keenly interested in his letter. Twice he read it, and then he asked:
"Where was it that Denis Quirk told you he was editing that paper of his?"
"'The Firebrand?'" asked Dr. Marsh, who had become absorbed in the book he was reading.
"Yes! yes!" cried the priest.
"I don't exactly remember. I fancy it was Goldenvale. You had better ask Denis. Now, I can't agree with this," said the doctor, referring to something he had just read.
"I will controvert with you in due season. Just now I am worried. You are a safe and reliable man. Read this."
Father Healy handed the letter to Dr. Marsh, who having glanced at it, became deeply interested in the contents.
"Goldenvale! Do you know this man?" he asked.
"How should I?" replied the priest, almost irritably. "Could you expect me to know every priest in America? But I could find out if there were such a man."
"I would take this letter to Denis Quirk, and allow him to deny it. It's a lie, a palpable lie. I am sure of that."
"And so am I; but lies are more readily credited in Grey Town than the truth. I will see Denis Quirk at once. Will you come with me?" asked Father Healy.
"Not to 'The Mercury' office, but a part of the way. Put your hat on while I finish what I was reading."
Denis Quirk was in the outer office as Father Healy entered. He was inditing a letter to Tim O'Neill, who now claimed, among his other qualifications, a certificate as a typewriter.
"Good-day, Father Healy!" cried Denis Quirk. "What can I do for you? A paragraph to encourage your congregation to build the new school?"
"Not at present, Mr. Quirk. If you will give me five minutes, I will ask no more."
"Then come into my room. Finish that, address it, and post it, Tim."
"Yes, sir. And might I then go down to the hall and report that meeting?"
"Certainly, Tim. This is the keenest man on my staff, Father."
Tim O'Neill beamed all over at this praise, and he settled himself resolutely to his task. Meanwhile Denis Quirk's office door closed with a bang on Father Healy and himself.
"I should like you to read this," said the priest, as he handed the fateful letter to Denis Quirk.
The latter took it and read it frowningly. Then he leaned back in his chair, and regarded the priest with a composed face.
"Well?" asked Father Healy.
"Well?" responded Denis.
"You will, of course, deny the calumny?"
Denis Quirk shook his head.
"The writer is a good man and a priest. As for the accusation, let time be the judge. I shall neither acknowledge nor deny it. There are others concerned besides myself."
Father Healy was for the moment bereft of thepower of speech. He could not understand Denis Quirk's attitude. At last he cried:
"You are accused of being a divorced man!"
"If I am, the action was not from me. I then adopted the attitude I now propose to adopt. I merely sat quiet. There are persons concerned in this whom I refuse to injure."
"And what do you intend to do?" asked Father Healy. "There will be a horrible scandal in Grey Town."
"I shall do what I did in the States—just live it down and wait. Time will put everything straight," said Denis Quirk.
"Your wife has married again?" the priest asked.
"I believe she has. Father Healy, all that I ask of you is your confidence and trust. There is certain to be a storm, but I am strong enough to stand it. I don't wish to lose my friends, you least of all. Will you believe in me?"
Father Healy looked in the man's eyes, and Denis Quirk met his gaze unflinchingly. He was particularly ugly that day, but Father Healy could read human nature, and he believed that Denis Quirk was honest.
"I would have preferred you to have proved yourself innocent," he said.
"I cannot do that; others can. It is for them to speak, not me," replied Denis.
"I promise that I will hold to you," said the priest.
"Thank you, Father. If you will do that—you, the old mother, and one other—I am content," he said.
As the good priest left "The Mercury" in a particularly dejected frame of mind, he found Dr. Marsh waiting for him.
"Well?" he said. "A canard, I suppose?"
Father Healy made no reply.
"You don't mean to tell me——," cried the doctor.
"I believe he is a wronged man, but he refuses to speak."
"I must speak to him myself. Don't wait for me, Father. Just get away home, and pray that a miracle may put this straight."
Denis Quirk was still sitting as the priest had left him when Dr. Marsh burst in upon him, and plumped down on the chair that had been vacated by Father Healy.
"See here, Quirk," he began, without further explanation, "I am a man of the world, and I know the utmost capabilities of human wickedness. I don't believe you are a real libertine. But I know Grey Town. Many a dog has been hanged here because of his bad name. You must disprove this."
"No, doctor. If you knew my story you would recognise the strength of my position. I must trust to time to put things straight."
"They will start another paper and fight you."
"Let them. That is what I want, a good fight," replied Denis. "Someone whom I can hit—hard!"
"And what if I withdraw my capital?"
"You won't do that, doctor," replied Denis, with a quiet smile. "I know you."
"Well, Quirk, I'll tell you what I think of you—aclever, Quixotic fool. But I will stand by you to the end. I am a sort of Ishmaelite; nothing pleases me better than an exchange of hard blows."
The two men shook hands in silence, and Dr. Marsh went out to find Father Healy waiting for him.
"We are a pair of idiots, you and I," said the doctor. "We ought to unite in hooting Denis Quirk out of Grey Town, but we shall fight for him to the finish. He is too ugly to be hopelessly wicked," he added, after a pause.
"Then you and I are not altogether bad," laughed the priest.
They walked in silence to the doctor's gate.
"Won't you come in?" he asked, as they paused to say good-bye.
"No, thank you. It is a strange thing I should have received the Bishop's letter to-day," said Father Healy, reflectively.
Dr. Marsh could not grasp the meaning of this remark, so he refrained from comment on it.
"The Bishop wishes me to take a six months' holiday," continued the priest.
"You have earned it by hard work. A most reasonable suggestion. Take a rest before you die suddenly," said the doctor.
"And he suggests that I return to the old home in County Cork," added Father Healy.
"Naturally. Where would you go but to Ireland?"
"Why not America? It is a great country, and cousins of my own in every city. It might be I would find a cousin in Goldenvale itself."
"Goldenvale! Father Healy, you are a strange man, a many-sided man, but I don't think you are the best fitted person I would select to be discovering other men's secrets."
"Denis Quirk won't help himself. I intend to help him," said the priest.
"And if you prove him guilty?"
"No man need know but that I went to Cork, after all. But something tells me I shall find him innocent."
"I am prepared to lay 6 to 4 on that myself. Well, Providence go with you, for you deserve it; and if you require money——," said Dr. Marsh.
"Not one penny. I have a small income of my own, inherited from my mother, God rest her soul! Molly shall go to the Finns, in Brunswick. The change will do her good. And no one need know but that I am in Cork."
"In Cork you shall be, if I have to perjure my soul to prove it!" cried Dr. Marsh. "No man shall come near me when I come to die but you, for you are the best man living."
The Grey River was in flood. It came down the valley a torrent of yellow water, rushing madly between the rocks where the channel was narrow, spreading out far and wide over the low-lying meads, bearing with it the trunks of trees and other debris snatched up along its course. It had overflowed the lower bridge, and rendered it impassable to traffic; the upper bridge was threatened by the turbulent river.
There had been storms far up among the mountains, where the Grey takes its origin, and rains all down the valley. From every small stream and gully a volume of clay-coloured water flowed into the main stream. But the day was bright and sunny after the rain. The sunshine glittered on the yellow surface of the stream, and on the green fields sloping upwards from it. Viewed from the distant hills, the Grey valley was a shining, sparkling amber, encased in an emerald setting.
Kathleen O'Connor had viewed the flood with concern. On the further bank of the river was Mrs. Sheridan's small cottage, where a poor widow struggled to keep a large family by milking on the share system. Kathleen knew that one of the childrenwas seriously ill, and that the mother, always living from hand to mouth, but always carrying a brave face, would be seriously encumbered by Michael's sickness. She feared, too, that the flood waters might even reach to the little cottage, with disastrous results.
"Shall I ride over and see how Mrs. Sheridan is?" she asked, when the heavy rain had ceased, and sunshine was raising a warm vapour from the sodden earth.
"Why not?" replied Mrs. Quirk. "It will do you good—and Sylvia, too."
Sylvia Jackson still remained at "Layton." She had come prepared to spend a monotonous fortnight at Grey Town, because she was tired of the city. But she had remained at "Layton" day after day, accommodating herself to the inhabitants and to the routine of the house. No one resented her presence, nor did anyone desire her departure, for she had made herself pleasant to all. In Mrs. Quirk's eyes she stood second only to Kathleen. Samuel Quirk regarded her as chief critic and adviser on the estate, and to Kathleen she was a cheerful, madcap companion, who reminded her that she was yet young. Denis Quirk's sentiments in regard to the girl he carefully concealed from the outside world, even from Sylvia herself. He was polite and deferential, yet humorous, with her; but she would have liked him to demonstrate clearly that he had enrolled himself among her bodyguard. She had given him abundant opportunities so to do, walking almost daily into the town with him, paying flying visits to "The Mercury" office, and playing dreamymusic while he smoked his evening pipe. But Denis Quirk made no sign.
When Kathleen O'Connor proposed to ride round and see the Sheridans, Sylvia was painting. She was an adept at every variety of artistic work. Of any of the arts she might have made a success had she been content to devote her talent solely to that one; but she was too versatile to be completely successful, and while everything was good, nothing was perfect.
"I would love to go with you," she cried.
"And I will meet you at the lower bridge and ride home with you," said Denis Quirk.
In accordance with this arrangement, the two girls rode towards Mrs. Sheridan's after breakfast. Kathleen O'Connor was a perfect horsewoman. Sylvia Jackson, on the other hand, was unused to horses, and very nervous; but she was too proud to confess the fact. Kathleen, while recognising Sylvia's lack of capacity was too charitable to comment upon it. She had protested once, when her friend asked to be allowed to ride a rather high-spirited horse, but when Sylvia retorted hotly, Kathleen offered no further opposition. Thus it came about that Sylvia rode in constant dread, and made a nervous, fidgety horse a thousand times more irritable.
The road towards the upper bridge that crosses the Grey at Swynford is bordered by stretches of green grass. Along this the two girls rode at an easy canter, saving when Dr. Marsh's car rushed past, the doctor driving furiously, as was his way. This incident upset Sylvia's horse for a considerable time, but hequietened down into an easy canter in the deserted bye-road that leads from Swynford, along the farther bank of the Grey, to Mrs. Sheridan's.
At a rise in the road they paused to look down on the cottage. It stood surrounded by pine trees, with a small garden around it. It was a demonstration of Mrs. Sheridan's perpetual industry that she found time to keep the garden in order, despite her numberless other duties. A bright little patch of gay colours she had made of it, and behind it she had cultivated a neat kitchen garden.
"The river has not done any harm to Mrs. Sheridan's cottage," cried Kathleen, with great relief, as she viewed the flood waters, still several feet below the level of the garden.
"Can you understand anyone living in such a poky, ramshackle little hovel?" asked Sylvia. "I would rather be dead and buried than live there."
"Mrs. Sheridan cannot choose; she must live there or die. She is a great woman," said Kathleen.
Mrs. Sheridan met them at the gate, clean, tidy, and talkative. She was noted throughout the district for her loquacity, but, if she spoke at great length, she always spoke kindly.
"Is it you, Miss O'Connor?" she cried. "Sure, it was like yourself to be thinking of me and Michael. Michael and me, we was thinking of you. Only last Sunday I said to the boy, 'Miss Kathleen will be going to Mass,' the which I couldn't do myself, and more is the pity; but when Dan was down with the chickenpox, Father Healy himself, no less, the Lord bless thegood man! told me it was my duty to be with Dan. 'The Lord will excuse you from the chapel,' he said to me, 'and you can read the Mass to Dan.' The which I did to Michael here, and him listening to me as if he understood it all, every word. But won't you come inside, you and the young lady? You will be excusing the house, miss; and if you would be taking a cup of tea or a glass of milk, there's no spirits in the house to be offering you, for I think it is putting temptation in the way of some that's too fond of it."
"Yes, we will come inside and see Michael," cried Kathleen. "And if we might have a cup of tea——."
"Not for me," Sylvia whispered; "I couldn't drink tea in a place like this."
"To be sure," cried Mrs. Sheridan, not hearing Sylvia's comment. "Michael will be pleased to see you. Doesn't he call you 'Pretty Miss Kathie'? But you will excuse the liberty in a boy. He is recovering, the doctor says, which himself was here to-day, and the car stuck out there in the mud, and the doctor swearing! Michael could hear him in his bed, which it wasn't good for the boy to hear. But the doctor is too kind, for sure, to mean any harm, even to the car, and Michael and me pretended not to hear him, nor to know that he was angry. The Lord will overlook the words he used to the car and the council that should be taking care of the roads."
Kathleen hitched her own and Sylvia's horse to the fence, and entered a small, but wonderfully clean, room, that served as a kitchen and general sitting-room for the family. Here they found Michael, a boyof four, the baby of a family of nine. The other children had gone, as a troop, to the State school at Swynford. There they would remain all day, to return and assist at the milking, such of them as were capable.
Kathleen sat down beside the boy, and began to entertain him. In a few minutes the two were laughing together, as became old friends. Kathleen had brought sundry gifts with her, among them a sovereign, which she slipped under his pillow, to be discovered after she had gone.
Sylvia sat rigidly on her chair, absorbing the scene with her apparently sleepy eyes; while Mrs. Sheridan bustled about, talking unceasingly, as she spread a clean table cloth and prepared the tea for her guests.
"Did you ever hear such a rain? And the wind! The Lord preserve us; it was praying Michael and me was, the others fast asleep, that the cottage might not be blown away, and us in it. It was like the night himself died. I was sitting here beside him, watching to see him flicker out. He died as peaceful as a child—just one smile for me, and he was gone. An' me alone in the house with him. Mrs. Smith that would have been beside me—she's dead herself now, God rest her soul, for she was a good neighbour—the rain and wind prevented her and many another. And there I sat beside him, as I sat beside Michael, listening to the rain beating on the window and roof, and the trees groaning as if in mortal anguish, and the house creaking, and outside the river and sea roaring. It was praying I was for the morning, for the night makes the storm more fearsome. Now, sit down,Miss O'Connor, and you, miss; the tea is made. It's only bread and butter I can offer yous, but it is all I have, and welcome you are to it."
Kathleen sat down, but Sylvia Jackson, to Mrs. Sheridan's intense concern, refused to eat or drink.
"Thank you, I am not hungry," she said.
Kathleen was hurt by what she regarded as a want of courtesy. Everything was scrupulously clean, if poor, and the widow willingly gave all that she possessed. To make amends for her friend's refusal, Kathleen drank more tea and consumed a larger amount of bread and butter than she had ever done before. Then, after a chat on the affairs of Grey Town, which Mrs. Sheridan made a kind of prolonged solo, Kathleen and Sylvia rose to go.
Mrs. Sheridan followed them to the gate, talking vigorously. As they rode away her voice might still be heard as she chanted Kathleen's praises to Michael.
"What a dreadful woman!" said Sylvia.
Kathleen was already deeply hurt by her friend's conduct, and she fired up into intense indignation at this remark.
"Dreadful!" she cried. "Mrs. Sheridan is a good, honest woman. She has given her life for her children, and she is the soul of good nature."
Sylvia laughed good-humouredly at this championship.
"A very excellent person, no doubt," she said, "but an ungovernable tongue. She never ceased talking while we were there. No wonder himself diedpeacefully. How he must have longed for death—and peace!"
"You don't understand——," Kathleen began.
"I don't profess to understand. I belong to another school to you. My set detests the prosaic and commonplace; we must have the clever and original. Platitudes are detestable to us, unless they come clothed in a brilliant metaphor. Homely virtues I neither pretend to understand or admire. I much prefer eccentricity, even clever vice."
Kathleen laughed tolerantly, recognising that further argument or expostulation was vain.
"Shall we try the lower bridge?" she asked.
"Of course we must. Denis Quirk is to meet us, and I wouldn't disappoint him for anything. Now, there is a man after my own heart, strikingly ugly, so ugly as to be beautiful, and wonderfully clever, sometimes so rude as to be quite original, full of a sardonic humour—an absolutely unique type. Denis Quirk is the sort of man I might condescend to love, and if ever I do love it will be like that river in flood down there."
The road ran high above a rocky gorge, through which the Grey was rushing in a turbulent torrent of water. It roared as it went, and leaped up angrily at the rocks on either side, foaming and bubbling, swirling into small whirlpools, as if in an impotent passion at the constraint.
Kathleen looked at the flood, and then at Sylvia's sleepy face and dreamy eyes.
"I wonder if you could love?" she asked.
"I wonder, too. Sometimes I scoff at the very thought of such a thing, and sometimes I believe that I could be as wild and turbulent as the river is to-day."
Beyond the gorge the river widens out into a broad estuary before it enters the sea. It is across this estuary that the lower bridge has been built. Just below it is the bar, where river and sea were battling in a wild confusion.
When Kathleen saw that the bridge was half submerged, and that the current was still strong, though not to be compared in violence with the maelstrom that poured through the gorge, she reined her horse in.
"We must turn round and ride home the way we came," she said.
"Turn around? Why should we? I intend to cross. I can see Denis Quirk on the farther bank."
"And he is warning us to turn back," said Kathleen.
"The more reason to go on. Follow me if you dare."
Seeing that Sylvia was determined to cross, Kathleen urged her own horse alongside of Sylvia's, and seized her friend's rein.
"You shall not go on!" she cried.
"Let go of my reins!" said Sylvia.
Kathleen recognised the note of anger in the voice, and saw that the customarily sleepy eyes were flashing, and that there was a line of determination on the usually smooth forehead. But this did not influence her.
"No. I will not let go," she replied.
Sylvia Jackson raised her whip. Once it fell smartly on Kathleen's hand, leaving a red wheal; still Kathleen held on. But when the blow was repeated more viciously than before, with a cry of pain she released the rein.
"Do you imagine you can stop me, with Denis Quirk on the other side?" Sylvia asked, and urged her horse on to the flooded bridge. I have already said that Sylvia was not an expert rider; her horse realised the fact, and faced the water with a snort of terror. The handrail of the bridge alone appeared above the muddy stream; even this was submerged occasionally as a wave rolled up from the turbulent bar, barely one hundred yards below the bridge.
The horse began to rear in terror, threatening every moment to plunge over the rail of the bridge into the stream. Kathleen, behind, could do nothing but follow, while from the further bank a small collection of men and women watched in a panic that prevented action. But Denis Quirk was quick of thought and prompt to do; he sprang from his horse and dashed along the flooded bridge towards Sylvia.
"Sit still!" he cried. "Keep your rein loose, and get your feet free from the stirrups."
Scarcely realising what she was doing, Sylvia obeyed him. He attempted to seize the horses' rein, but the animal was maddened with terror, and kept turning away from him. At last, however, Denis managed to throw his arm around Sylvia and drag her from the saddle. Immediately after, whether still further frightened by his action or bewildered by thewater, the horse reared over the handrail into the flooded river. He was washed almost to the bar, but managed to reach the further shore, and gallop home to his stable at "Layton."
Denis Quirk carried Sylvia across the bridge, followed by Kathleen, whose horse went quietly through the flood secure in his rider's composure. On reaching the farther side, Denis realised that Sylvia had fainted. There was, however, a small hotel close at hand, and here Denis left the girl, safe in a kindly landlady's care.
He found Kathleen dismounting from her horse, her face very pale from the anxiety that Sylvia's danger had caused her.
"Why did you allow her to do such a foolish thing?" he asked, abruptly.
Kathleen held her hand, with the marks of the whip still on it, out of his sight. It was not for her to tell him how her attempts to restrain Sylvia had been received.
"It was against my wish that she crossed the bridge," she answered.
"Even for you it was a madcap thing to do," he said. "You can never trust a horse in such a flood as this. I have telephoned for the motor; you and she had better go home in it, while I take charge of your horse. You have caused me a terrible anxiety."
He turned away, leaving Kathleen scarcely able to control her mortification and annoyance. Denis Quirk had, she told herself, disregarded her danger, and spoken to her like a disobedient child. By what rightdid he lecture her or hold her responsible for Sylvia's wilfulness? When the landlady came to ask if she would come to her friend, it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse but she restrained herself by a great effort, and went into the room.
Sylvia was sitting on a couch, very pale, but smiling placidly. As Kathleen entered, tears came into her eyes, and she asked in a penitent voice:
"Can you ever forgive me? I can't forgive myself for striking you. But no one has ever attempted to prevent me from having my own way, and I was resolved to go on. I have been sufficiently punished."
"Never mind about it now," said Kathleen. "You did not realise the risk."
"I shall never forget it! Let me look at your hand. Did I do that? Oh, how cruel of me to strike you! You won't tell Denis Quirk that I did it?"
Kathleen, who had begun to feel her anger slowly evaporating, became suddenly as indignant towards Sylvia as she had been prior to the latter's apology. It was evident to her that it was not because of the injury Sylvia had done her, but lest she should complain to Denis Quirk, that Sylvia was asking forgiveness.
"I have no intention of telling Denis Quirk," she answered, coldly.
"Now, don't be angry, Kathleen—please. I am a spoiled girl, I know. Everybody has conspired to spoil me. I am impulsive and passionate, but no one has checked me. Let that be my excuse."
She put her arm around Kathleen and drew her down on the couch beside her.
"Kiss me," she said, "and say you forgive me. There, that's a dear! Now tell me exactly what happened. It is a blank to me."
Kathleen told her exactly what had taken place, Sylvia listening with intense interest.
"Isn't he brave?" she asked. "And he took me in his arms, and never thought of you! What if your horse had gone over the bridge after mine?"
"Denis Quirk knows that I can ride 'Douglas' anywhere," Kathleen answered.
"I suppose so," said Sylvia; "but he might have made sure of the fact. I think he is splendid. All those other men stood gaping on the bank, and he was the only one to act. It is a moment like that that proves a man. Scores of admirers have told me what they would do for me, but only one man has done—only one," she added, dreamily.
That evening Kathleen was restless; the day's adventure had disturbed her more than she was aware of. After tea, having made Mrs. Quirk comfortable, she slipped on a thin lace shawl and went quietly into the garden. Walking about in the evening stillness, her accustomed composure returned to her. Presently she slipped into a summer-house, and sat down to think placidly.
As she sat there, she heard voices, and, to her surprise, Denis Quirk and Sylvia paused directly in front of the summer-house. The very thought of eavesdropping was repugnant to her, but they were speaking so quickly and earnestly that she had heard part of their conversation before she could interrupt it.Remembering Sylvia Jackson's passion, possibly fearing an outburst of malice, Kathleen kept very quiet, resolved never to give a sign of what she knew.
"You saved my life," Sylvia said, "and I could refuse you nothing. Ask anything of me in return."
"Nonsense!" Denis answered, laughingly. "You exaggerate what I have done."
"You say that because you are brave. Brave men laugh at their own courage, as you do. But I know, and I worship you!"
The last words were spoken almost in a whisper, and in the tender voice that Sylvia Jackson was mistress of. But for once the words rang true. Kathleen held her breath, wondering what any man could do when so spoken to by such a woman as Sylvia.
Denis answered curtly, almost rudely:
"My dear young lady, please don't weave any absurd romances about me. I am an ordinary and very commonplace man, not accustomed to soft words from pretty women. Take my advice and go home to your parents; forget about me as quickly as you can. I have no intention of ever marrying, and I don't pretend to be a lady's man. Now, go inside, like a good girl, and forget to-day."
"Forget!" Kathleen noted a change in Sylvia's voice. "I shall never forget to-night."
Their voices and steps grew fainter, until they were finally lost to Kathleen's ears. After a few minutes she also went towards the house. Denis Quirk stood higher in her estimation than ever he had done before. He had been severely tempted, and had put thetemptation behind him. Sylvia Jackson was what is termed a man's woman, but Kathleen could realise the fascination she was mistress of. She had been courted by many men; to-night she had thrown herself at Denis Quirk's feet, and he had resisted where other men might have succumbed. With these thoughts in her mind, Kathleen greeted Denis Quirk kindly when he met her near the house.
"I am afraid I was rude to you to-day," he said, without preamble. "I spoke without thinking. I want you to excuse me."
"I do," she answered, simply.
"Naturally, you were hurt," he said. "Believe me when I say that I would rather offend anyone than you. I place very few women among the heroines, but you are one of them. For any other I would have been afraid in the flood; I knew that you were safe. That was the reason why I offered you no help. My fears were for your friend. I am fully forgiven?"
"Fully," she answered.
"Thank you! That is all I want. Good-night!"
He turned on his heel, and went down the avenue on his way to "The Mercury" office.
In the period of pique and disappointment, when she realised that Denis Quirk was impervious to her attractions, Sylvia Jackson suddenly awoke to a new interest in life. At the moment she was hesitating between an interesting decline and a fearful vendetta. But this did not deter her from attending the Grey Town Intellectual Society's lecture on Art and Artists, which was delivered by George Custance, R.A., nor did it prevent the lecturer from fascinating the impressionable girl.
Until that moment Grey Town was unaware that Custance existed. A few of the townspeople had occasionally noticed a man in a grey suit, who was living at the "Fisherman's Retreat," near the mouth of the Grey River. They had seen him handling a rod from the banks of the river, and had sometimes observed him with a sketch-book in his hand, transferring a view of the coast to paper.
But he was so quiet and unobtrusive that few persons paid any great attention to him. It was indeed entirely by chance that the Intellectual Society secured his services. The secretary wrote to an artist friend in Melbourne, suggesting a lecture; the answer was short and concise: "Sorry I cannot find time to amuseyou. Try Claude Custance; he knows more about art than any other man in Australia."
"Try Custance! Who the dickens is Custance?" the secretary asked the president.
"Blessed if I know. Ask Gurner; he is sure to know," the president answered.
In the club Gurner was nicknamed the Grey Town Directory. He was regarded as a local Burke, who could fire off the pedigrees and performances of every family in the district.
The secretary discovered him in the club, taking a novice down at billiards.
"Do you know a man of the name of Custance?" the secretary began.
Gurner prided himself on his knowledge. To be unable to point out the identity of any person in the town was to ruin a reputation. He paused abruptly from the stroke he was contemplating.
"Custance, did you say?"
"Yes; Custance, an artist."
"There is a grey man of that name at the 'Fisherman's Retreat.' He is a bit of an artist, they tell me. I will ask Cowley," he said.
A few days later he found the secretary in his office.
"I have found out all about that artist man," he said.
"Custance? Does he know anything about art?"
"Do you know anything about law? He's a classic winner, the very deuce of a top-notcher. He's been hung over and over again. You can't teach him anything about art," replied Gurner.
"I wonder if he would lecture for us?"
"Leave him to me. A nice fellow; we fraternised over fishing, with a whisky and soda to wash it down. He began to tell me tall stories, and I added six inches to everyone he produced. I will secure him for you."
This he did the following day, for Custance was quite an obliging man, and a personal friend of the artist who had refused the invitation.
The news spread, as it usually does in a country town, and interest in the lecture became phenomenally keen. The intellectuals had for once secured public support. They promptly raised their charge for admission from sixpence to one shilling, with an additional sixpence for booking. They advertised the attraction in capital letters and created a furore. The consequence was that the learned and those who assumed the virtue combined to fill the hall to overflowing.
Custance was an ideal lecturer. He took possession of the platform and audience in an easy, unassuming manner, and delivered an address amusing and learned, yet understandable. And well he might, for he was not a mere painter, but one who had lectured on art to select audiences, and had sold pictures at fabulous prices. At this very moment London was asking, "Where is Custance?" and here he was in Grey Town.
The town would have made much of him had he permitted it. But he was there for work and quiet. A shoal of invitations were fired at him and refused; he preferred to lapse into obscurity. A few of themore obtrusive attempted to force their society on him: to these he was frankly rude. The more tactful fell in with his humour, and were content to nod to him.
Sylvia Jackson was introduced, but beyond a passing glance of admiration Custance relegated her to forgetfulness. She was, however, determined to know him, and she engineered a second meeting with her usual diplomacy.
"A picnic to the beach would be ideal," she suggested. "Not to the frequented part, but to that quiet little beach near the mouth of the Grey. Just ourselves, Mrs. Quirk, you and Kathleen, and I."
She knew that Custance was sketching a seascape not far from that spot.
"Why not?" asked Mrs. Quirk. "What more should we want? You and Kathleen are all I need—with Denis to come to tea, if he has the time."
"Sorry to disappoint you," said Denis Quirk, "but I must be at the office all day. Cairns is away on holiday, and not a man with any initiative but Tim O'Neill to support me."
Denis Quirk's absence was a great relief to Sylvia Jackson. She still entertained a tender admiration for him, but, as he continued to resist her fascinations, she preferred that he should not be present to frustrate or ridicule her plans. Mrs. Quirk and Kathleen were easily duped, but she feared the penetration of Denis Quirk. Nevertheless she made pretence of a great disappointment.
"We counted on you," she remarked in an agonised voice.
"Never count on a paper man. We are the most unreliable people in the world," he answered. "Make the old mother happy, and don't keep her out too late."
With these words he went down the avenue whistling the air of a melody that Kathleen had sung the night before.
Sylvia had studied her plans with the greatest care, and she put them into action when they were safely arrived at the strip of beach that lies beyond the river bar.
"You and Granny prefer to be alone," she told Kathleen. "I intend to take my sketch book and see what I can do with the view round the point."
Therewith she sauntered away, giving them no time to protest. The spot she had chosen for her sketch is one of the most magnificent on the coast.
It is a small patch of sand, terminated towards the east by black precipitous rocks, against which the sea is perpetually pounding in great breakers. On this day the sea was a wonderful dark blue, and very peaceful, save where it thundered at the base of the cliffs. On the horizon a bank of grey clouds rested on the water like a remote island crowned with mounts and peaks. The smoke of a distant steamer rose in an almost straight line upwards; nearer the shore a small fishing boat was moving gently backwards and forwards, its sails barely filled by the gentle breeze. There was a sense of rest in the scene, as ifthe ocean were slumbering after the strife of a few days previously.
Here Sylvia found the artist, working quietly at a picture that he had almost completed. He had caught the vivid colouring of the ocean, the grey bank of clouds and the distant smoke, and had transferred them to his canvas.
Sylvia approached and stood behind him, but he did not recognise her presence, for he was absorbed in his work.
"How do you contrive——," Sylvia began.
Custance turned towards her with a quick start, for, like other artists, he had nerves that were peculiarly sensitive and reacted acutely to impressions. Seeing that the questioner was a beautiful girl, he regarded her with a kindly smile.
"Forgive my rudeness," said Sylvia, "the question was almost involuntary."
"The question is not yet completed. How do I contrive——?" he asked.
"How do you contrive to snatch up the colours of nature and place them on your canvas?"
"I have all the colours there," he said, pointing to his palette, "and so has every painter; but some of us approach nearer to Nature. I have never yet succeeded in quite pleasing myself. I have the deep blue of the sea, but not the representation of infinite depth and infinite power."
"You approach very closely to it," she answered. "Now sit down and paint, and let me watch you. Iam a painter myself; not an artist like you, but one who dabbles a little in an amateur fashion."
"May I see your sketch book?" he asked, and took it from her hand. "Very good!" he cried. "Shall I tell you what I think?"
"Please do!"
"You might be an artist, if you were content with that alone; but you are too versatile. Am I right? The result is great possibilities that will never be realised unless you concentrate your power on one thing."
"Let me watch you," she said, "and I will resolve to do nothing but paint."
She sat on a sand bank behind him, and he painted his picture, turning occasionally to speak to her.
At last she rose unwillingly.
"I must go, or my friends will fancy I am lost. May I come here again and take a few more lessons?"
"Certainly, if you will. I shall be delighted. But when this picture is completed I pack up my effects and go. It is a pity you do not live in Melbourne," he added regretfully.
"But I do," she answered.
"Then you must come to me and study the finishing touches of your art. You need only a few more details and you will be an artist."
"Oh, you are too kind!" she cried.
"Not at all. It is a privilege to encourage talent," he answered. Nevertheless had she not been an attractive woman, he would not have offered his assistance so willingly.
"I suppose your parents will not object?" he asked."You can assure them I am a most trustworthy young man."
"My parents allow me to do exactly what I wish," she answered. "You see, they can trust me," she added, smilingly.
"Naturally. Then it is a promise."
This was their first meeting. Subsequently it became her custom to ride out alone after breakfast. She chose the morning, when Kathleen was busy and could not accompany her, and she took her sketching book; but most of her time was spent in watching Custance, and absorbing his art.
When her teacher left Grey Town she suddenly realised that her parents and friends in Melbourne needed her society, and, after an affectionate parting from Kathleen and the Quirks, was carried out of Grey Town life by the train that is termed an express.
In Melbourne, an indulgent father and mother, who fondly believed that she was perfect, readily consented to her improving her talent under the teaching of the great artist, and she made rapid progress in her art. But this was not the chief result of her lessons. Slowly she became infatuated with the personality of Custance, while he, having begun to play the game of love simply for the excitement it afforded him, finally found himself involved in a grand passion. This he declared to her in language suggested by his artistic temperament, and she responded in a similar strain.
Then came a pause, when he asked himself: "Is it fair that any woman shall link her fate to mine?" He looked at the small syringe on the mantelpiece and thetiny little bottle beside it. He thought of the marks on his arm, of the passing inspirations he thus found, and of the subsequent fits of remorse.
The following day, while they were working in the studio, Sylvia painting and he criticising her work, he asked:
"If I were a drunkard, would you still care for me?"
She did not so much as turn while she answered:
"Whatever you are, I have given myself to you."
"There are worse things than drink," he said, as if communing with himself. "There are drugs that enslave and debase a man; drugs that lead him into the gardens of pleasure and raise him to the heights of delight, so that he believes himself to be a superman, and," he almost groaned, "lower him to the uttermost depths. Supposing——."
She turned to face him smilingly. "I refuse to suppose," she answered. "I have resigned myself to you, and I am ready to accept and condone everything. I love you, and that is sufficient for me."
What could a man such as he, who had never denied himself anything, do under these circumstances? He threw his scruples to the winds and made love in a feverish manner, regardless of the cost. Sylvia introduced him to her parents, and he was made welcome by the hospitable and kindly old people. At last he offered himself to Mr. Jackson as a husband for Sylvia. But here he met with a check, for the old man had a strange antipathy for artists; his capable, matter-of-fact business mind mistrusted the emotional, and hefirmly believed that artists were governed by the emotions. He was willing that Custance should be a friend; he refused him as Sylvia's husband.
Custance was prepared to accept this as an adverse judgment, and to bow to Mr. Jackson's decision; for he was a man of honour. But, when he announced his intention to Sylvia, she refused to accept it.
"By what right," she asked, "does my father take my happiness in his hands? I can best judge the husband I need, and I refuse to give you up. It is too late for him to interfere now."
"You must remember——," he began.
"I will remember nothing but that I love you, and that you have told me you love me. That is the only thing that counts. You do love me, Claude?" she answered.
"Love you! I worship you," he answered, "but your father has done so much for you——."
"I grant that. There is no father like him. If he had stopped me in the beginning I would have accepted his commands. Now it is too late. I can't obey him now."
"I feel myself bound by honour——," he said.
"You are bound by honour to me. My father has no right to tell me who I shall marry. I refuse to be treated as a child; I am a woman, capable of choosing my own husband."
Thus did she urge him on against his better judgment, and one day they were missing. For better or worse Sylvia Jackson was married to Claude Custance, brilliant, erratic, a slave to morphia. For his sake sheforgot her duty to her parents, the love and kindness they had lavished on her. The day that she left them a cloud came and rested over their home. For her, marriage proved a cruel and bitter disillusionment, for no woman can ever rival that deadly mistress, morphia.
The night before Sylvia's elopement, Desmond O'Connor had dined with the Jacksons. Mr. Jackson had hoped to displace Custance with the handsome young fellow whom he loved, and Sylvia had made use of Desmond to conceal her infatuation for the artist. They had sat together out on the verandah, and she had given him a rose.
"A rose for constancy," she said, as he held it in his hand and inhaled the perfume. "You deserve it."
"Shall my constancy be rewarded?" he asked eagerly.
"What a handsome boy you are!" she laughed. "I wonder will it be rewarded?"
"Why do you tease me?" he asked. "If you could read my heart——?"
"I can read it in your eyes. I know every word they say. Come inside and sing to me."
In his fine tenor voice he sang, at her request, Tosti's "Good-bye." That was his farewell to Sylvia Jackson.
The following morning Mr. Jackson failed to appear at business. This was an almost unprecedented event, and caused quite a flutter of excitement in the office; but it was not until the afternoon that Desmond learned the reason. He was summoned into the Chief'soffice to find Mr. Jackson, grey-faced and worn, a broken man.
"I have ill news, my boy," he said very kindly to Desmond. "Sylvia has run away with Custance."
Desmond made no reply. Suddenly the world had altered for him; he had passed out of the light into an impenetrable blackness. He sat with his head bent down, changed in a moment from a light-hearted boy to a despairing man.
"I want you to come home and fill the place that she had. Mrs. Jackson and I love you, and we need a child." Mr. Jackson continued.
"I can't do it," cried Desmond. "I should be thinking of her all the time. I have lost all faith."
And so the world believed; for Desmond O'Connor, while he eschewed the coarser vices and worked relentlessly, renounced for a period the religion that his father's life should have made dear to him, and went on his way a professed disbeliever.
The City Fathers who governed the municipality of Grey Town were not unlike the councillors in other towns and cities. They laid no claim to a pre-eminence in wisdom, professing to be merely ordinary men of business, of sound common sense, and strictly honest for the greater part.
Councillor Garnett was perhaps the single exception to this rule of honesty. The other councillors worked from a sense of duty, possibly urged by a worthy ambition. Councillor Garnett occasionally dipped his hand in the municipal purse, and brought from it as many golden guineas as he could clutch. Yet he had led the Council for many years, and was still regarded by the Conservative element as a worthy leader. In all probability he would have continued to rule the civic affairs of Grey Town had not Denis Quirk come to the town to turn things upside down and sweep away certain municipal cobwebs.
The question as to the purchase of a block of land in the town for the erection of Council stables and cart houses was made a test question by both parties as to who should control the future destinies of Grey Town.
It had already been decided to erect the necessary buildings. Councillor Garnett had then moved that acertain vacant section in one of the streets should be purchased, when Denis Quirk rose to his feet.
Immediately there was a certain electrical excitement in the Council Chambers, that was reflected in the alert faces of the councillors. They sat attentively with expectant ears as he began to speak.
"Sir," he said, "I am here to oppose anything that approaches municipal corruption."
"I object to that word," growled Garnett.
"You object to the word and I object to the deed," Denis replied, quietly. "We are not here to line our own pockets, or, if we are here for that purpose, we are in the wrong place. Our purpose should be to act as watch-dogs for the ratepayers, to guard their interests. What if the dogs start to worry the sheep? I accuse Councillor Garnett in this matter of abusing his position as a councillor. I accuse him of disingenuousness that borders on fraud."
"Oh, come, come," said an elderly councillor, who was constantly scandalised by Denis Quirk's want of municipal decorum. "Fraud is an unpleasant word."
"Undoubtedly," Denis continued. "But it amounts to that. Councillor Garnett is directly interested in the land that he is urging the Council to purchase at a false price."
The words were spoken quietly, and with a certain deliberation that was impressive.
"That is a lie!" cried Councillor Garnett, now aroused to fury.
"Order! Order!" cried the Mayor. "I ask Councillor Garnett to withdraw that word."
"Let Councillor Quirk withdraw his accusation first," suggested another councillor.
"I intend to prove it," answered Denis. "Will Councillor Garnett tell me who is George Haynes?"
"How should I know?" replied Councillor Garnett, doggedly thrusting his hands in his trousers pockets and tilting his chair backwards.
"Who should know better than you? George Haynes is a dummy, a former clerk in your office, who has been made to appear the owner of this land to cover you in this transaction. I have the copy of a deed here that directly proves my statement."
"How did you obtain it?" asked Garnett, when someone plucked his sleeve and thrust a paper in to his hands.
"Turn the tables on him. Ask him why he left Goldenvale; has he been divorced; and what about the funds of the Goldenvale Investment Society which he was accused of embezzling?" he read; but, when he turned to see the messenger, the latter had vanished.
"Never mind how I obtained it. May I read it?" Denis asked the Mayor.
"One minute first. Let us have the credentials of this reformer before we listen to his accusation. I refuse to be judged by a dissolute ruffian, a divorced man and one accused of embezzling the funds of an investment society. Why did Councillor Quirk leave Goldenvale?" cried Councillor Garnett, triumphantly.
This accusation came as a thunderbolt to the Council, when those who were friendly to Garnett were pondering how they should act in view of Denis Quirk'scharges; and those who stood opposed to Garnett were rejoicing in his discomfort. To the former his counter charges came as a relief; to the latter they brought doubt and consternation. Only one man seemed perfectly composed and he was the person accused.
"My past history does not concern the Council if I can prove my present statement," he said very quietly.
"It concerns the Council vitally. How can we believe a man with your reputation?" asked Garnett.
"The latter part of that charge is false."
Again a paper was thrust into Garnett's hand. This time Denis Quirk noted the action, and the face of Gerard, the messenger. He smiled grimly.
Garnett glanced at the paper and read the heading.
"Quirk in Court. Accused of misappropriating the funds of the Investment Society. Case part heard."
"Does Councillor Quirk know this paper?" he asked. "The 'Goldenvale Investigator?'"
"I used to know it. It was a rival of my own paper, 'The Firebrand,' and a most unscrupulous paper."
"Perhaps you remember this?"
Garnett handed the paper across the table to Denis.
Denis read the heading aloud to the Council, ending with the last lines: "Case part heard."
"Have you the next issue of this rag?" he asked. "If so, you will find that the result of this case was a complete vindication. I was triumphantly acquitted. A month later you will find an abject apology from 'The Investigator.' This was a trumped-up affair, the work of my enemies. To-morrow I shall publish the full details in 'The Mercury.'"
But the Council were determined that he should no longer be heard. When he asked again:
"May I read this document?" the Mayor replied:
"I do not think it is in order."
"I intend to read it," cried Denis.
"I rule you out of order," answered the Mayor.
Denis began to read slowly and deliberately, but the opposing councillors prevented him with a babel of cries. The meeting finally broke up in great disorder, after Denis had attempted to make himself heard and had been escorted from the Council Chambers by the Town Clerk.
The following day he began his battle with Grey Town, a fight in which all fair-minded and right-thinking men conceded him a victory. He published the full account of the proceedings in the Goldenvale Court, ending in a triumphant acquittal, and the subsequent apology in "The Investigator." He also published the document purporting to be signed by George Haynes. It was an acknowledgment of the loan of a sum of money, equivalent to that which Haynes had paid for the land under offer to the Council, and a promise to repay the money at an exorbitant rate of interest to Garnett. Very few impartial men doubted the real meaning of the transaction.
But Garnett knew Grey Town. It was not a particularly moral town, but there were periods when it arose in virtuous indignation to punish the evil-doer, and it generally selected as its victim the man who was the least guilty. Denis Quirk was made the object of one of these outbursts of public morality. He was aman of dissolute morals, divorced under peculiar circumstances. Denis Quirk must be booted out of Grey Town.
The Quirks were at breakfast on the day that followed the scene in the Council Chambers; only Denis was absent. Samuel Quirk was reading "The Mercury" when his son's name caught his eye.
"What is this about Denis?" he cried; but as he read he wished he had not spoken, for he loved and respected his wife, notwithstanding his professed scorn for her.
"And what is it?" she asked.
"Never you mind. Denis can fight for himself," he answered.
"Just read it to me," she urged.
"What for would a woman be wanting to hear such things?" he answered, and thrust the paper in his pocket as he went out.
But Mrs. Quirk was determined to know. She had noted the frown on her husband's face, and gathered from it that he was reading ill news.
"Just slip out, Honey, and ask Joe for his copy. I must know the worst," she said to Kathleen.
"Mr. Quirk does not wish you to know," Kathleen suggested.
"Not knowing is worse than the very illest news. I will be in a fever until I hear. Just run away and do what I ask of you."
Kathleen recognised that Mrs. Quirk was determined, and wisely obeyed without further hesitation.But when she saw the nature of the charges she paused before reading them aloud to the old lady.
Denis Quirk, with his customary straightforwardness and honesty, had printed the account of the scene in the Council Chambers word for word. There it stood—his own accusation and the counter-charges urged against him. He had attempted neither palliation nor excuse. But in the same issue of "The Mercury" he had reproduced the account of the proceedings in the Golden Vale Court, that had ended in his acquittal. More than this, he had reprinted the apology of "The Investigator," as it had appeared in that paper.
But to Kathleen and to Mrs. Quirk the account of the divorce proceedings was the most serious indictment against Denis, and here he offered neither denial nor excuse. Both women held firmly to the belief that marriage is sacred and irrevocable, and that no human power—nothing short of death—can annul the bond uniting man and wife.
Fearing to hurt her old friend, Kathleen attempted to avoid this part of the accusation. But she was a bad dissembler, and Mrs. Quirk very keen.
"There is something more, Honey. Let me hear all that those backbiters found to say," she urged.
When she had learned the full account of the charges, she burst out into lamentation.
"To think of it!" she cried. "Denis, the apple of my eye, to be in that Divorce Court! It is, for sure, thewickedest place ever invented by man—and him there!"
"But he did not appear," said Kathleen.
"And them saying all those things against him! Where was he, then, if not giving them back the lie? I don't believe it, not one word of it all. He has his enemies, and they have invented this. Oh, why isn't Father Healy here to advise me?"
"Why not go and ask Denis?" suggested Kathleen. "He will tell you the truth."
"Do you believe he did what they say of him?"
Kathleen looked out at the bright sky flecked with white clouds, at the green lawns, and the masses of colour in the flower-beds. The sun was shining brightly, scores of birds uniting in melody, music, brightness and peace everywhere.
"I would almost as soon believe that this world was not created by Almighty God," she answered, without disrespect, for she had a profound trust in Denis Quirk.
"God bless you, Honey! Then why should I be doubting him? I will go and speak to the boy. Sure, he never yet lied to me. If he has sinned, the Lord forgive him. And what am I to judge him?"
The motor was ordered at once, and in a short space of time it carried Mrs. Quirk and Kathleen to "The Mercury" office. Tim O'Neill was in the outer office, bright-faced and very busy, as was his custom. He welcomed the ladies with a smile.
"Is Denis in?" asked Mrs. Quirk.
"Mr. Quirk? Yes, he is in. Were you wanting to see him?" Tim replied.
"Who else?" said Mrs. Quirk.
"I will stay here and talk to Tim," suggested Kathleen. "That is, if Tim can spare the time."
Tim was a gallant youth, and he answered blushingly that it was an honour and pleasure to speak to Miss O'Connor. Meanwhile Mrs. Quirk entered her son's room.
Denis Quirk was reckoning up the consequences of the last night's proceedings, and considering the best method of carrying on the campaign. As his mother entered he looked up with a frown, that changed into a smile when he saw who his visitor was.