CHAPTER XXXVICRUMBLED CASTLES
Fearing what she might think of him for dealing with a man like Hutchinson, he dared not tell her just how the knowledge had come to him; but he swore it was true, that he knew it was true, and begged her to believe him.
“And, though he has denied it, he is Paul Hazelton. They have the absolute proof, and Mike Riley holds a letter of his that will bar him from baseball in the Northern League. There’ll be a meeting called this very week, and he’ll be suspended.”
“I do not believe it, I told you not to speak to me again about him until you could show proof that—”
“I can! I have it here!”
Exultantly he produced the letter and photograph; the latter he held before her eyes, and she looked at it, speechless.
“The picture of Paul Hazelton, of Princeton,” he said. “Does it resemble Mr. Tom Locke?”
“Where—where did you get it?” she asked ina husky whisper, taking it from his hand with nerveless fingers that nearly let it fall.
“I told you I had sent to a friend, asking him to get Hazelton’s picture for me. He went to Princeton for it; here’s the name of the Princeton photographer on it.”
She had hoped that there might be some doubt; that, even though the photograph resembled Locke, there might be some question as to whether it was not the counterfeit presentment of a person who looked like him. But, with it before her eyes, that hope sank and died; it was the man.
Watching her face, King felt certain he had won at last. He took the picture, and placed the open letter in her hands. She tried to read it, but the lines ran into a blurred mass, and finally, with a choking sensation in her throat, she handed it back, endeavoring to keep him from seeing how hard she was hit.
He sought to crush back and control his exultation; did his best to prevent any touch of it from creeping into his voice.
“While I am sorry, Janet, that you were deceived, even for a minute, by the fellow, I am also glad that no real harm has been done. He has been exposed in time. I knew from the first that he lied brazenly when he denied that he was Hazelton,but he certainly can assume a plausible manner which might fool almost anybody. Henry Cope knew, all along, that he was not what he represented himself to be, but, on account of Riley’s claim, and to protect Hazelton, he would not tell the truth. It is useless for him to hold back any longer. I hope you do not blame me, Janet; I’m sure you won’t when you have time to think it all over calmly. I care for you more—much more—than I have ever let you know, and for that reason I—”
“Please don’t say anything more to me now,” she entreated, her voice low but steady. “You were right.”
Half turning away, she put out her hand; he seized it quickly, and found it cold.
“I’ll not say anything more now,” he breathed, close to her shoulder, holding the hand fast in his grasp; “but some time, Janet—some time when you are ready to listen—I’ll have something more to say.”
On the street he swung off with a free, vigorous stride, his heart beating high. He had won; he was sure of it. The knowledge of her interest in the man, which he had feared might develop into something deeper, had led him to realize the full extent of his own regard for her. She was a poorclergyman’s daughter, and he was the son of Cyrus King, but the little god had winged his arrow straight, and the wound was deliciously deep.
Twenty minutes after King left, Janet, having donned hat and wrap, came out and walked swiftly down the street. Her face was chill and sad; she was deserted by hope; yet she would see Henry Cope.
Behind his counter, the grocer peered at her over his glasses.
“Mornin’, Janet,” he said cheerfully. “’Nother ruther nice day.”
“Mr. Cope, I’d like to speak with you a moment privately.”
Surprised, he took note of her pallor and the girl’s troubled look. Her voice had an unusual sound. Pushing up his spectacles, he came from behind the counter.
“Step inter my office,” he invited.
In the office he urged her to sit down, saying she looked tired; but she preferred to stand.
“I’ll bother you only a minute,” she said.
“No bother at all—no bother. What can I do? Anything the matter?”
“I have come to ask you, confidentially, about—about the man who is called Tom Locke.” She half turned her head away.
“Eh? Oh, him? What you want t’ know?”
“Mr. Cope, I want you to tell me the truth. You need not fear that I will repeat anything you say. You have always been my friend, and now, as such, I ask you to answer my question. I hope you’ll not refuse or put me off.”
“You bet I’ve alwus been your friend, little girl,” he returned earnestly. “What’s the question?”
“You engaged Mr. Locke for the baseball team, and you know who he is. They are saying he is a Princeton College man by the name of Hazelton. Tell me, Mr. Cope, if that is true.”
“Now, what makes the difference who he is?” spluttered the grocer, frowning. “I’m bein’ pestered to death about him.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pester you. I gave you my word I would not repeat anything you told me, but if you will not answer my question—”
“Hold on, Janet; I ain’t said I wouldn’t answer it. I know you won’t tell if you say ye won’t, and, anyhow, it’s beginnin’ to look like he’d have to sail under his own colors before long. Yes, Miss Janet, he’s Paul Hazelton. I agreed t’ keep mum ’bout it so’s he wouldn’t git inter a mess ’bout pitchin’ for his college; but what’s the use, withMike Riley raisin’ high jinks an’ claimin’ he’s got a holt on the boy, and even settin’ the newspapers to buzzin’? I’m ruther sorry for Hazelton, but I s’pose he knew he was takin’ a chance when he come here.”
“That’s all,” said the girl; “thank you. Now, I hope you’ll not tell anybody that I came to you to inquire about him?”
“Not a peep, little girl. He’s a mighty nice feller, I’ll say that fer him. Don’t seem to have no bad habits, an’ goes t’ church, an’—”
But she did not wait to hear him enumerate the virtues of the man who had looked straight into her eyes and lied without a tremor; the man who was proud of his conquests with the fair sex, and had boasted that he would amuse himself with her while in Kingsbridge. What a despicable creature the fellow was! She left the store.
On the way back home, Janet passed several persons without noticing them at all, but she kept her face set with the fixed purpose of preventing any one who saw her from imagining that she was fighting back a flood of tears. Glad that her father was out for a morning walk, she avoided the maid, hurried to her room, locked the door, and permitted the flood to burst the restraining gates.
After a time, having “cried it out,” she sat in an easy-chair near the window, watching a mother robin on her nest in the tree outside.
She was not thinking of the robin, however; she was thinking of yesterday and the meeting in the woods—a day she had thought the happiest of her life. She was thinking of the manner in which Locke had looked at her with those clear, honest brown eyes, and how she had thrilled beneath that look. She was thinking of his voice as, sitting on the log and leaning toward her, he had quoted the words of Bassanio, causing the heart, now cold and heavy in her breast, to leap and throb until it seemed that he must hear its joyous beating.
No man had ever stirred her like that, and something told her that no other man could so stir her again. And all the time he had been playing with her—amusing himself!
That day, “the happiest of her life,” was a day to regret; a day to forget—if she could forget it. Would the sun ever again shine as brightly? Would the woods ever seem so shadowy cool and inviting? Would the flowers ever be so fair and sweet?
She had loved the world and everything in it, and her blood had danced in her veins, and her feet had longed to dance, despite it being the Sabbathday; her very soul had seemed to sing with a joy as wide as eternity.
Now the sun was shining outside her window, but there was something gone from its golden glamour; her blood that had danced flowed chill in her body, and her heart was full with a pain too great for it to contain.
“A dream,” she whispered dully—“nothing but a dream. It is over!”