All day long Alix was troubled. She could not free her thoughts of that searing look or the spell it had cast over her during the brief instant of contact. She was haunted by it. At times she gave herself up to a reckless, unmaidenly rejoicing in the thrill it had given her; at such times she flushed to the roots of her hair despite the chill of ecstasy that swept over her. But far more often she found herself resenting the liberty his eyes had taken,—a mental rather than a physical liberty. She was resolved that it should not happen again.
She had posted a note to David Strong that morning. Before the car had covered the first mile on its way to town, she was wishing she had not dropped it into the slot at the post-office. Only the fear of appearing ridiculous to Mrs. Pollock kept her from turning back to reclaim it. She could not explain this sudden, almost frantic impulse,—she did not attempt to account for it. Somehow she sensed that it had to do with the look in Thane's eyes,—but it was all so vague and intangible that even the suggestion did not take the form of thought.
In this curt little note she had said:
I hereby acknowledge receipt of your cheque No. 372 for two hundred and fifty dollars, but as I have tried to make you understand before, it is not only an unnecessary but a most unwelcome bit of paper. You are perfectly well aware that my grandfather's estate has been settled and, as I have informed you time and again, your obligation to him no longer exists. You may have owed something to him, but you owe nothing to me. If I were to follow my impulse I should tear up this cheque of yours. It would be useless to return it to you, for you would only send it back to me, as you did with the first two cheques that came last winter. I want you to understand that I do not accept this money as my own. If it is any satisfaction to you to know that I give it away,—no matter how,—you are welcome to all the consolation you may get out of it.
Yours truly,
P.S.—I have advised your mother to go to Philadelphia whenever you are ready for her to come. A.
P.S.S.—Under separate cover by registered post I am also returning to you the bracelet you sent me from Paris. I think I wrote you a long time ago how much I admired it. A.
Meanwhile, Thane was making the best of a rather empty morning. He put off finishing a letter to his mother, who had returned to New York and was so busy with dressmakers that twice she had employed the telegraph in promising to "write soon,"—a letter in which he already had written, among other rapturous passages: "She is positively ravishing, mater dear. I am simply mad about her, and I know you will be too." He was determined that the day should not be a total loss; he would turn at least a portion of it to profit.
First of all, he visited Alaska Spigg at the log-hut village library. Miss Spigg was very proud of her geraniums. No one else in Windomville,—or in the world, for that matter, if one were to recall Mr. Pollock's article in the Sun,—no one else cultivated such geraniums as those to be seen in the pots that crowned the superinforced windowsills at the library.
There was no such thing as a florist's shop in Windomville. Roses or orchids or even carnations were unobtainable. A potted geranium plant, in full bloom,—one of Alaska Spigg's tall, sturdy, jealously guarded treasures was the best he could do in the way of a floral offering to his goddess. So he set about the supposedly hopeless task of inducing Alaska to part with one of her plants. Half an hour after entering the library he departed with a balloon shaped object in his arms. He was not too proud to be seen shuffling up the lane with his prize, a huge thing loosely done up in newspapers,—leaving behind him a completely dazzled Alaska who went about the place aimlessly folding and unfolding a brand new two-dollar bill.
"I don't know what come over me," explained Alaska later on to a couple of astonished ladies who had hurried in to see if the report was true that she had parted with one of her geraniums. "For the life of me, I don't know how I happened to do it. 'Specially the one I was proudest of, too. I've always said I'd never sell one of my plants,—not even if the President of the United States was to come in and offer me untold millions for it,—and here I—I—why, Martha, I almost GAVE it to him, honest I did. I just couldn't seem to help letting him have it. Of course, I don't mind its loss half so much, knowing that it is going to Alix. She loves flowers. She'll take the best of care of it. But how I ever came to—"
"Don't cry, Alaska," broke in one of her callers cheerfully. "You'll be getting it back before long."
"Never," lamented Alaska. "What makes you think I'll get it back?" she went on, suddenly peeping over the edge of her handkerchief.
"Why, as soon as Alix knows how miserable you are about parting with that geranium, she'll send it back to you,—and you'll be two dollars ahead. Don't be silly."
Repairing at once to the house on the knoll, Courtney took counsel with Mrs. Strong. The housekeeper could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the geranium.
"Well, all I've got to say is that you must have stolen it," she exclaimed. "There couldn't be any other way to get one of those plants away from Alaska Spigg."
"Be that as it may," said he airily, "what we've got to decide now, Mrs. Strong, is just where to put it. I want to surprise Miss Crown when she returns from town."
"She'll be surprised all right when she finds out you got one of Alaska Spigg's pet geraniums. I remember Alaska saying not so long ago that she wouldn't sell one of those plants for a million dollars. Now let me see. It ought to go where it will get as much sun as possible. That would be in the dining-room. I guess we'd better—"
"I really think it would look better right here in this room, Mrs. Strong," said he, indicating one of the windows looking out over the terrace. There was little or no sunlight there, but he did not mind that. As a matter of fact, he wasn't at all concerned about the future welfare of the plant. It meant no more to him than the customary bunch of violets that one sends, "sight unseen," to the lady of the hour.
"Well, you're the boss. It's your plant," said Mrs. Strong briskly. "Alaska Spigg will go into hysterics when she hears where you've put it,—but that's of no consequence."
And so the plant was placed on a small table in the window of the long living-room.
"Link Pollock told us last night that you may go to Philadelphia to join your son, Mrs. Strong," said he, as he watched her arranging the window curtains.
Mrs. Strong flushed. "It did not occur to me to ask Mr. Pollock not to repeat what I said to him in confidence," she said, with dignity.
"I'm sorry I mentioned it. I am sure Pollock didn't understand it was—er—a secret or anything like that, Mrs. Strong."
"It isn't a secret. I have talked it over with Miss Alix, and I have practically decided to remain with her. You may tell that to Mr. Pollock if you like."
"She would miss you terribly," said he, allowing the sarcasm to pass over his head. "Your son and Miss Crown were boy and girl sweethearts, I hear,—oh, please don't be offended. Those things happen, you know,—and pass off like all of the children's diseases. Like the measles, or mumps or chicken pox. Every boy and girl has to go through that stage, you know. I remember being horribly in love with a girl in our block when I was fifteen,—and she with me. But, for the life of me, I can't remember her name now. I mean her married name," he explained, with his whimsical grin.
"I don't believe Alix and David ever were in love with each other," said she stiffly. "They were wonderful friends,—playmates and all that,—but,"—here she flushed again, "you see, my boy was only the blacksmith's son. People may have told you that, Mr. Thane."
"What has that to do with it?" he cried instantly. "Wasn't Miss Crown's father the son of a blacksmith?"
He caught the passing flicker of appreciation in her eyes as she lifted her head.
"True," she said quietly. "And a fine young man, they tell me,—those who knew him. His father was not like my David's father, however. He was a drunkard. He beat his wife, they say."
"Abraham Lincoln was a rail splitter. James A. Garfield drove a canal boat. Does anybody think the worse of them for that? Your son, Mrs. Strong,—I am told by all who know him,—will be a great surgeon, a great man. You must not forget that people will speak of HIS son as the son of Dr. David Strong, the famous surgeon."
Her face glowed with pleasure. Mother love and mother pride kindled in her dark eyes. He caught himself wondering if young David Strong was like this tall, grey-haired woman with the steady gaze and quiet smile.
"I am sure David will succeed," she said warmly. "He always was a determined boy. Mr. Windom was very fond of him. He took a great interest in him." A self-conscious, apologetic smile succeeded the proud one. "I suppose you would call Alix and David boy and girl sweethearts. As you say, boys and girls just simply can't help having such ailments. It's like an epidemic. Even the strongest catch it and,—get over it without calling in the doctor."
He grinned. "It is a most amiable disease. The only medicine necessary is soda water and ice cream, with a few pills in the shape of chocolate caramels or marshmallows, taken at all hours and in large doses."
Mrs. Strong's eyes softened as she looked out of the window. A faraway, wistful expression lurked in them.
"Those were wonderful days, Mr. Thane,—when those two children were growing up." She sighed. "David is four years older than Alix, but ever since she was a tiny child she seemed older than he was. I guess it was because he was so big and strong that he just couldn't bear to lord it over her like most boys do with girls. He was kind of like a big shepherd dog. Always watching over her and—dear me, I'll never forget the time they got lost in the woods up above here. That was when she was about seven. They were not found till next morning. We had everybody for miles around beating the woods for them all night long. Well, sir, that boy had taken off his coat and put it on her, and his stockings too, and he had even removed his shirt to make a sort of muffler to wrap around her throat, because she always had sore throats and croup when she was a child. And when the men found them, he was sitting up against a tree sound asleep, almost frozen stiff, with her in his lap and his cold little arms around her. It was late in September and the nights were cold. Then there was the time when she fell off the side of the ferry boat and he jumped in after her,—with his best suit on, the little rascal,—and held her up till Josh Wilson stopped the ferry and old Mr. White, who was crossing with his team, managed to throw a buggy rein out to him and pull him in. The water out there in the middle of the river is ten feet deep, Mr. Thane, and David was just learning how to swim. And they BOTH had croup that night. My goodness, I thought that boy was going to die. But, my land, that seems ages ago. Here they are, a grown, man and woman, and probably don't even remember those happy days."
"That's the horrible penalty one pays for growing up, Mrs. Strong."
"I guess you're right. Of course, they write to each other every once in a while,—but nothing is like it used to be. Alix had a letter from Davy only a day or so ago. You'd think she might occasionally tell me some of the things he writes about,—but she never does. She never opens her mouth about them. And he never writes anything to me about what she writes to him. I suppose that's the way of the world. When they were little they used to come to me with everything.
"You see, I came here to keep house for Mr. Windom soon after old Maria Bliss died. My husband died when David was six years old. Alix was only four years old when I came here, Mr. Thane. This house was new,—just finished. I'll never forget the rage Mr. Windom got into when he found out that Alix and David were going up to the old farmhouse where her mother died and were using one of the upstairs rooms as a 'den.' They got in through a cellar window, it seems. They were each writing a novel, and that was where they worked and read what they had written to each other. That lasted only about six weeks or so before Mr. Windom found out about it. He was terrible. You see, without knowing it, they had picked out the room that was most sacred to him. It was his wife's own room,—where she died and where Alix's mother was born and where she also died,—and where our Alix was born.
"Of course, at that time nobody knew about Edward Crown. We all thought he was alive somewhere. The children never went there again. No, sirree! They both ought to have known better than to go at all. Alix was fifteen years old when that happened, and Davy was going to college in the winter time."
"Did your son live here in the house with you all those years?" inquired Courtney.
"We lived in the first cottage down the lane from here. Mr. Windom was a very thoughtful man. He did not want me to live here in the house with him because of what people might say. You see, I was a young woman then, and—well, people are not always kind, you know." She spoke simply and without the slightest embarrassment.
He looked hard at her half-averted face and was suddenly confronted by the realization that this grey, motherly woman must have been young once, like Alix, and pretty. As it is with the young, he could not think of her except as old. He had always thought of his mother as old; it was impossible to think of her as having once been young and gay like the girls he knew. Yes, Mrs. Strong must have been young and pretty and desirable,—somebody's sweetheart, somebody's "girl." The thought astonished him.
II — Shortly afterward he took his departure. There was a frown of annoyance on his brow as he strode briskly up the lane in the direction of the crossroads, half a mile or more above the village. As usual, he thought aloud.
"There's no way of finding out just how things stand between them. The old lady doesn't know anything, that's a cinch. If she really knew she would have let it out to me. I'll never get a better chance to pump her than I had today. She doesn't know. You can see she hopes her son will get her. That's as plain as the nose on your face. But she doesn't know anything. Is that a good sign or a bad one? I wish I knew. Alix isn't the sort to forget. Maybe Strong has gotten over it and not she. It's darned aggravating, that's what it is. There must be some good reason why she's never married. I wonder if she's still keen about him. This talk of Charlie Webster's may be plain bunk. If she hates him,—why? That's the question. WHY does she hate him? There must be some reason beside that debt he owed to old Windom. Gad, I wish I could have seen that letter he wrote her when he sent the cheque. Well, anyhow, it's up to me to get busy. That's sure!"
His walk took him past the Windomville Cemetery and up the gravel turnpike leading to the city. Alix had traversed this road an hour or so earlier. Swinging around a bend in the highway, he came in view of the abandoned farmhouse half a mile ahead.
It was a familiar object by this time, for he had passed it many times, not only on his solitary walks but on several occasions with Alix. The desolate house, with its weed-grown yard, its dilapidated paling fence, its atmosphere of decay, had always possessed a certain fascination for him. He secretly confessed to a queer little sensation as of awe whenever he looked upon the empty, green-shuttered house. It suggested death. More than once he had paused in the road below the rickety gate to gaze intently at the closed windows, or to scrutinize the tangled mass of weeds and rose bushes that almost hid the porch and its approach from view. He was never without the strange feeling that the body of Edward Crown might still be lying at the foot of the hidden steps.
Now he approached the place with a new and deeper interest. Strangely enough, it had been shorn within the hour of much that was grim and terrifying. It was no longer a house to inspire dread and uneasiness. Two young and venturesome spirits had invaded its silent precincts, there to dream in safety and seclusion, unhaunted by its spectres, undisturbed by its secret. In one of its darkened rooms they had set up a "workshop," a "playhouse." A glaze came over his eyes as he wondered what had transpired in that room during the surreptitious six weeks' tenancy. Had David Strong kissed her? Had she kissed David Strong? Were promises made and futures planned? His throat was tight with the swell of jealousy.
He stopped at the gate. After a moment's hesitation he lifted the rusty latch and jerked the gate open far enough to allow him to squeeze through. Then he paused to sweep the landscape with an inquiring eye. Far up the pike a load of fodder moved slowly. There were cattle in the pasture near at hand, but no human being to observe his actions. In a distant upland field men were moving among a multitude of corn-shocks, trailing the horses and wagons that belonged to Alix Crown. Crows cawed in the trees on the eastern edge of the strip of meadowland, and on high soared two or three big birds,—hawks or buzzards, he knew not which,—circling slowly in the arc of the steel blue sky.
Confident that he was unobserved, he made his way up the half-buried walk to the porch, and, deliberately mounting the steps, tried the door-knob. As he expected, the door was locked. After another searching look in all directions, he started off through the tangle of weeds and burdocks to circle the house. He passed through what once must have been the tennis-court of Alix the First,—now a weedy patch,—and came to the back door. Below him lay the deserted stables and outbuildings, facing the barnyard in which a few worn-out farm implements were to be seen, weather-beaten skeletons of a past generation.
There was no sign of human life. A lean and threadbare scarecrow flapped his ragged coat-sleeves in the wind that swept across the barren garden patch farther up the slope,—this was the nearest approach to human life that came within the range of vision. And as if to invite jovial companionship, this pathetic gentleman wore his ancient straw hat cocked rakishly over what would have been his left ear if he had had any ears at all.
While standing before the gate, Courtney had come to a sudden, amazing decision. He resolved to enter and explore the house if it were possible to do so. He remembered that Mrs. Strong, in pursuing the subject, had declared that Alix and David were not even permitted to return to the house for their literary products; moreover, she doubted very much whether the former had taken the trouble to recover them after she became sole possessor of the property. If they were still there, with other tangible proofs of an adolescent intimacy, he saw no reason why he should not lay eyes,—or even hands,—upon them. He saw no wrong in the undertaking. It was a justifiable adventure, viewed from the standpoint of a lover whose claim was in doubt.
The back door was locked and the window shutters securely nailed. Entrance to the cellar was barred by heavy scantlings fastened across the sloping hatch. In the barnyard he found a stout single-tree. With this he succeeded in prying off the two scantlings. The staple holding the padlock was easily withdrawn from one of the rotten boards.
Descending the steps, he found himself in the small, musty cellar. The vault-like room was empty save for a couple of barrels standing in a corner and a small pile of firewood under the stairs that led to regions above. Selecting a faggot of kindling-wood from this pile, he fashioned a torch by whittling the end into a confusion of partially detached slivers. This he lighted with a match, and then mounted the stairs.
The door at the head opened at the lifting of an old-fashioned latch. A thick screen of cobwebs almost closed the upper half of the aperture. He burnt it away with the flaming torch, and passed on into the kitchen. He was grateful for the snapping fire of the faggot, for otherwise the silence of the grave would have fallen about him as he stood motionless for a moment peering about the empty room. No light penetrated from the outside. The air was dead. Spiders had clothed the corners and the ceiling with their silk, over which the dust of years lay thick and ugly. He felt, with a queer little shiver, that the eyes of a thousand spiders peered gloatingly down upon him from the murky fastnesses.
He hurried on. The rooms on the lower floor had been stripped of all signs of habitation. His footsteps resounded throughout the house. Boards creaked under his tread. Without actually realizing what he was doing, he began to tiptoe toward the stairway that led to the upper floor. He laughed at himself for this precaution, and yet could not rid himself of the feeling that some one was listening, that the stealth of the midnight burglar was necessary. The stairs groaned under his weight, the dust-covered banister cracked loudly when he laid his hand upon it. He had the strange notion that they were sounding the alarm to some guardian occupant of the premises,—to a slumbering ghost perhaps.
He came at last to the room where Alix and David had played at book-writing. In the centre stood a kitchen table, on either side of which was a rudely constructed bench,—evidently the handiwork of David Strong. Two strips of rag carpet served as a rug. At each end of the table was a candlestick containing a half-used tallow candle. There was a single ink pot, but there were two penholders beside it, and a couple of blue blotters. Nearby were two ancient but substantial rocking chairs,—singularly out of place,—no doubt discarded survivors of long-distant days of comfort, rescued from an attic storeroom by the young trespassers. A scrap basket, half-full of torn and crumpled sheets of paper, stood conveniently near the table.
He lighted both of the candles and extinguished the flickering faggot. The steady glow of the candlelight filled the room. On the mantel above the blackened fireplace he saw a small, white framed mirror. A forgotten pair of gloves lay beside it, and two or three hairpins. He picked up the gloves, slapped them against his leg to rid them of accumulated dust, and then stuck them into his coat pocket. They were long and slim and soiled by wear.
A closet door, standing partly open, drew him across the room. Hanging from one of the hooks was a moth-eaten vicuna smoking jacket of blue. Beside this garment hung a girl's bright red blazer, with black collar; protecting, business-like paper cuffs were still attached. In the corner of the closet reposed a broom, a mop and an empty pail.
He smiled at the thought of young Alix sweeping and scrubbing the floor of this sequestered retreat.
Returning to the table, he pulled out the drawer, and there, side by side, lay two neat but far from voluminous manuscripts, each weighted down by the unused portion of the scratch pad from which the written sheets had been torn. One was in the bold, superior scrawl of a boy, the other ineffably feminine in its painstaking regard for legibility and tidiness.
III — These literary efforts had been cut off short in their infancy. David's vigorously written pages, marred by frequent scratchings and erasures, far outnumbered Alix's. He was in the midst of Chapter Three of a novel entitled "The Phantom Singer" when the calamitous interruption came. Alix's work had progressed to Chapter Five. Inspection revealed the further fact that she was thrifty. She had written on both sides of the sheets, while the prodigal David confined himself to the inexorable "one side of the sheet only." There were unmistakable indications of editorial arrogance on the part of Alix on every sheet of David's manuscript. Her small, precise hand was to be seen here, there and everywhere,—sometimes in the substitution of a single word, often in the rewriting of an entire sentence. But nowhere on her own pages was to be found so much as a scratch by the clumsy hand of her fellow novelist.
Her story bore the fetching title: "Lady Mordaunt's Lover."
Courtney read the first page of her script. A sudden wave of remorse, even guilt, swept through him. Back in his mind he pictured her bending studiously, earnestly to the task, her heart in every line she was penning, her dear little brow wrinkled in thought. He could almost visualize the dark, wavy hair, the soft white neck,—as if he were standing behind looking down upon her as she struggled with an obstinate muse,—and the quick, gentle rise and fall of her young breast. He could see her lift her head now and then to stare dreamily at the ceiling, searching there for inspiration. He could see the cramped, tense fingers that gripped the pen as she wrote these precious lines,—with David scratching away laboriously at the opposite end of the table. A strange tenderness entered his soul. Something akin to reverence took possession of him. He had invaded sanctuary.
Slowly, almost tenderly, he replaced the manuscript in the drawer beside its bristling mate. Then he resolutely closed the drawer, blew out the candles, and strode swiftly from the room and down the creaking stairs, lighting the way with matches. Even as he convicted himself of wrong, he justified himself as right. The virtuous renunciation balanced, aye, overbalanced,—the account with cupidity. He was saying to himself as he made his way down to the cellar:
"It would be downright rotten to take that story of hers, even as a joke,—and I came mighty near to doing it. Thank the Lord, I didn't. Of course, it's piffle,—both of 'em,—but I just COULDN'T take hers away for no other reason than to get a good laugh out of it. Anyhow, my conscience is clear. I put it back where she left it,—and that's the end of it so far as I'm concerned. Damn these cobwebs! Good Lord, I wonder if any of these spiders are poisonous!"
Brushing the cobwebs from his face as he ran, he hurried across the cellar and bolted up the steps, out into the brilliant sunlight. He made frantic efforts to remove the disgusting webs from his garments, his eyes darting everywhere in search of the evil insects.
Presently he set to work replacing the staple and padlock, inserting the nails in the holes they had left in the rotting board. He did his best to fasten the scantlings down, making a sorry job of it, and then, as he prepared to leave the premises, he was suddenly seized by the uncanny feeling that some one was watching him. His gaze swept the fields, the barn lot, even the high grass that surrounded the house. There was no one in sight, and yet he could FEEL the eyes of an invisible watcher.
Up in the garden patch, the scarecrow flapped his empty sleeves. His hat was still tilted jauntily over his absent ear. It was ridiculous to suppose that that uncanny object could see,—yet somehow it seemed to Courtney that it WAS looking at him, looking at him with malicious, accusing eyes.
Not once, but half a dozen times, he turned in the road to glance over his shoulder at the house he had left behind. Always his gaze went to the scarecrow. He shivered slightly and cursed himself for a fool. The silly thing COULDN'T be looking at him! What nonsense! Still he breathed a sigh of relief when he turned the bend and was safely screened from view by the grove of oaks that crowned the hill above the village.
Several automobiles passed him as he trudged along the pike; an old man afoot driving a little herd of sheep gave him a cheery "good morning," but received no response.
"I wish I hadn't gone into that beastly house," he was repeating to himself, a scowl in his eyes. "It gave me the 'Willies.' Jolly lot of satisfaction I got out of it,—I don't think. I daresay he kissed her a good many times up there in that,—But, Lord, what's the sense of worrying about something that happened ten years ago?"
At the dinner table that noon, Charlie Webster suddenly inquired:
"Well, what have YOU been up to this morning, Court?"
Courtney started guiltily and shot a quick, inquiring look at the speaker. Satisfied that there was no veiled significance in Charlie's question, he replied:
"Took a long ramble up the pike. The air is like wine today. I walked out as far as the old Windom house."
Charlie was interested. "Is that so? Did you see Amos Vick's daughter hanging around the place?"
"Amos Vick's—you mean Rosabel?" He swallowed hard. "No, I didn't see her. Was she over there?"
"Jim Bagley was in the office half an hour or so ago. As he was coming past the house in his Ford he saw her standing at the front gate, so he stopped and asked her what she was doing over on this side of the river. She'd been over here spending the night with Annie Jordan,—that's Phil Jordan's girl, you know, the township assessor,—and went out for a long walk this morning. She looked awful tired and sort of sickly, so Jim told her to hop in and he'd give her a lift back to Phil's house. She got in with him and he left her at Phil's."
"I saw her walking down to the ferry with Annie as I was coming over from the office a little while ago," said Doc Simpson.
"Sorry I didn't meet her," said Courtney. "She's jolly good fun,—and I certainly was in need of somebody to cheer me up this morning. For the first time since I came out here I was homesick for New York,—and mother. It must have been our talk last night about the theatres and all that."
Mary Blythe and her brother arrived on Tuesday for a two days' visit. Alix motored to town and brought them out in the automobile. She was surprised and gratified when Courtney, revoking his own decree, volunteered to go up with her to meet the visitors at the railway station in the city. But when the day came, he was ill and unable to leave his room. The cold, steady rains of the past few days had brought on an attack of pleurisy, and the doctor ordered him to remain in bed. He grumbled a great deal over missing the little dinner Alix was giving on the first night of their stay, and sent more than one lamentation forth in the shape of notes carried up to the house on the knoll by Jim House, the venerable handy-man at Dowd's Tavern.
"I really don't recall him," said Addison Blythe, frowning thoughtfully. "He probably came to the sector after I left, Miss Crown. I've got a complete roster at home of all the fellows who served in the American Ambulance up to the time it was taken over. I'd like to meet him. I may have run across him any number of times. Names didn't mean much, you see, except in cases where we hung out together in one place for some time. I would remember his face, of course. Faces made impressions, and that's more than names did. Courtney Thane? Seems to me I have a vague recollection of that name. You say he was afterward flying with the British?"
"Yes. He was wounded and gassed at—at—let me think. What was the name of the place? Only a few weeks before the armistice."
"There was a great deal doing a few weeks before the armistice," said Blythe, smiling. "You'll have to be a little more definite than that. The air was full of British aeroplanes from London clear to Palestine. What is he doing here?"
"Recovering his health. He has had two attacks of pneumonia, you see,—and a touch of typhoid. His family originally lived in this country. The old Thane farm is almost directly across the river from Windomville. Courtney's father was born there, but went east to live during the first Cleveland administration. He had some kind of a political appointment in Washington, and married a Congressman's daughter from Georgia, I think—anyhow, it was one of the Southern states. He is really quite fascinating, Mary. You would lose your heart to him, I am sure."
"And, pray, have you offered any reward for yours?" inquired Mary Blythe, smiling as she studied her friend's face rather narrowly.
Alix met her challenging gaze steadily. A sharper observer than Mary Blythe might have detected the faintest shadow of a cloud in the dark, honest eyes.
"When I lose it, dear, I shall say 'good riddance' and live happily ever after without one," she replied airily.
The next morning she started off with her guests for a drive down the river, to visit the old fort and the remains of the Indian village. Stopping at the grain elevator, she beckoned to Charlie Webster. The fat little manager came bustling out, beaming with pleasure.
"How is Mr. Thane today, Charlie?" she inquired, after introducing him to the Blythes.
Charlie pursed his lips and looked wise. "Well, all I can say is, he's doing as well as could be expected. Temperature normal, pulse fluctuating, appetite good, respiration improved by a good many cusswords, mustard plaster itching like all get out,—but otherwise he's at the point of death. I was in to see him after breakfast. He was sitting up in bed and getting ready to tell Doc Smith what he thinks of him for ordering him to stay in the house till he says he can go out. He is terribly upset because he can't get up to Alix's to see you, Mr. Blythe. I never saw a feller so cut up about a thing as he is."
"He must not think of coming out in this kind of weather," cried Alix firmly. "It would be—"
"Oh, he's not thinking of coming out," interrupted Charlie quietly.
"I am sorry not to have met him," said Blythe. "We probably have a lot of mutual friends."
A queer little light flashed into Charlie Webster's eyes and lingered for an instant.
"He's terribly anxious to meet you. It wouldn't surprise me at all if he got up today sometime and in spite of Doc Smith hustled over to call on you. I'll tell you what we might do, Alix. If Mr. Blythe isn't going to be too busy, I might take him up to see Court,—that is, when you get back from your drive. I know he'll appreciate it, and be tickled almost to death."
"Fine!" cried Blythe. "If you're sure he will not mind, Mr. Webster."
"Why should he mind? He says he's crazy to meet you, and he's able to see people—"
"But I've always understood that talking was very painful to any one suffering from pleurisy," protested Alix.
"Doesn't seem to hurt Court very much," declared Charlie. "He nearly talked an arm off of me and Furman Hatch this morning,—and it certainly seemed to be a real pleasure for him to cuss. I really think he'll get well quicker if you drop in for a chat with him, Mr. Blythe."
"It would be very nice," said Alix warmly, "if you could run in for a few minutes—"
"Sure I will," cried the young man. "This afternoon, Mr. Webster,—about half-past two?"
"Any time suits me," said the obliging Mr. Webster. As if struck by something irresistibly funny, he suddenly put his hand to his mouth and got very red in the face. After an illy-suppressed snort or two, he coughed violently, and then stammered: "Excuse me. I was just thinking about—er—about something funny. I'm always doing some fool thing like that. This was about Ed Jones's dog,—wouldn't be the least bit funny to anybody but me, so I won't tell you about it. Two-thirty it is, then? I'll meet you up at Alix's. It's only a step."
"Will you tell Mr. Thane that you are bringing Mr. Blythe to see him this afternoon, Charlie?" said Alix. "You said he was threatening to disobey the doctor's—"
"You leave it to me, Alix," broke in Charlie reassuringly. "Trust me to see that he don't escape."
A little before two-thirty, tall Mr. Blythe, one time Captain in the Field Artillery, and short Mr. Webster wended their way through the once busy stableyard in the rear of Dowd's Tavern. Charlie gave his companion a brief history of the Tavern and indicated certain venerable and venerated objects of interest,—such as the ancient log watering-trough (hewn in 1832); the rain-barrels, ash-hoppers and fodder cribs (dating back to Civil War days), the huge kettle suspended from a thick iron bar the ends of which were supported by rusty standards, where apple-butter was made at one season of the year, lye at another, and where lard was rendered at butchering-time. He took him into the wagon-shed and showed him the rickety high-wheeled, top-heavy carriage used by the first of the Dowds back in the forties, now ready to fall to pieces at the slightest ungentle shake; the once gaudy sleigh with its great curved "runners"; and over in a dark corner two long barrelled rifles with rusty locks and rotten stocks, that once upon a time cracked the doom of deer and wolf and fox, of catamount and squirrel and coon, of wild turkeys and geese and ducks—to say nothing of an occasional horsethief.
"They say old man Dowd could shoot the eye out of a squirrel three hundreds yards away with one of these rifles," announced Charlie; "and it was no trick at all for him to nip a wild turkey's head off at five hundred yards. I'll bet you didn't run up against any such shooting as that over in France."
Blythe shook his head. "No such rifle shooting, I grant you. But what would you say to a German cannon twelve miles away landing ten shells in succession on a battery half as big as this stable without even being able to see the thing they were shooting at?"
"I give up," said Charlie gloomily. "Old man Dowd was SOME liar, but, my gosh, he couldn't hold a—well, my respect for the American Army is greater than it ever was, I'll say that, Captain. Dan Dowd was the rankest kind of an amateur."
"Do you mean as a shot,—or as a liar?" inquired Blythe, grinning.
"Both," said Charlie.
He had a very definite purpose in leading his guest through the stable-yard. By doing so he avoided the customary approach to the Tavern, in full view from Courtney's windows. They circled the building and arrived at the long, low porch from the north. Here they encountered Furman Hatch. Charlie appeared greatly surprised to find the photographer there.
"What are you doing here at this time o' day, Tintype?" he demanded. "Takin' a vacation?"
"I come over for some prints I left in my room last night," explained Mr. Hatch.
"We're going up to call on Court," said Charlie. "Won't you join us?"
Hatch looked at his watch, frowned dubiously, and then said he could spare a few minutes,—and that was just what it was understood in advance that he was to say!
"He goes by the name of Tintype," explained Mr. Webster, after the two men had shaken hands. "Not because he looks like one, but because the village idiot's name is Furman, and we have to have some way of tellin' them apart."
A few minutes later, Charlie knocked resoundingly on Courtney's door.
"Who is it?"
"It's me,—Charlie Webster. Got a nice surprise for you."
"Come in."
And in strode Charlie, followed by the tall stranger and the lank Mr. Hatch.
Courtney, full dressed,—except that he wore instead of his coat a thick blue bath gown,—was sitting at a table in front of the small wood-fire stove, playing solitaire. A saucer at one corner of the table served as an ash tray. It was half full of cigarette stubs.
"Well, what the—" he began, and then, catching sight of the stranger, scrambled up from his chair, his mouth still open.
"I thought you'd be surprised," said Charlie triumphantly. "This is Mr. Blythe, Mr. Thane,—shake hands with each other, comrades. When I told him you were so keen to see him and talk over old times, he said slap-bang he'd come with me when I offered to bring him up."
"I hope we're not intruding, Mr. Thane," said Blythe, advancing with hand extended. "Mr. Webster assured me you were quite well enough to receive—"
"I am glad you came," cried Courtney, recovering from his surprise. "Awfully good of you. These beastly lungs of mine, you know. The least little flare-up scares me stiff. Still, I had almost screwed up my nerve to going out this afternoon—"
"It doesn't pay to take any risks," warned Blythe, as they shook hands.
The two men looked each other closely, steadily in the eye. Courtney was the first to speak at the end of this mutual scrutiny.
"I wasn't quite sure whether I met you over there, Captain Blythe," he said, "but now I know that I didn't. I've been puzzling my brain for days trying to recall the name, or at least your face. I may be wrong, however. I haven't much of a memory. I hope you will forgive me if we did meet and I have forgotten it. I—"
"I have no recollection of ever having seen you, Mr. Thane," said Blythe. "It isn't surprising, however. It—it was a pretty big war, you know."
Charlie Webster was slightly dashed. If anything, Courtney Thane was more at ease, more convincing than Addison Blythe. He felt rather foolish. Something, it seemed, had fallen very flat. He evaded Mr. Hatch's eye.
"Sit down, Captain Blythe," said Courtney affably. "Hope you don't mind this bath gown. Charlie, make yourself at home on the bed,—you too, Hatch. We're as shy of chairs here as we were at the front, you see."
Blythe remained for half an hour and then went away with his two companions. Courtney shook hands with him and said good-bye at the hall door; then he strode over to the bureau to look at himself in the glass. He saw reflected therein a very well satisfied face, with brightly confident eyes and the suggestion of a triumphant smile.
Hatch accompanied the moody Mr. Webster to the warehouse office.
"Strikes me, Charlie," said he, thoughtfully, "that of the two our friend Courtney seems a long sight more genuine than this feller Blythe. I guess you're off your base, old boy. Why, darn it, he had Blythe up in the air half the time. If I was a betting man, I'd put up a hundred or two that Blythe never even saw the places they were talking about."
"Do you think Blythe is a fake?" cried Charlie in some heat.
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," said Hatch diplomatically, "but you'll have to admit that Court asked him a lot of questions he didn't seem able to answer."
Charlie stared hard at the floor for a few seconds. Then: "Well, if I was to ask you what my mother's maiden name was, Tintype, you'd have to say you didn't know, wouldn't you?"
"Sure," said Hatch. "But I wouldn't go so far as to say I wasn't certain whether she had a maiden name or not, would I?"
"There's no use arguing with you, Hatch," said Charlie irritably, and turned to his desk by the window, there to frown fiercely over his scales book.
II — Alix and Miss Blythe were sitting in front of the fireplace when young Blythe entered the living-room on his return from Dowd's Tavern. The former looked up at him brightly, eagerly as he planted himself between them with his back to the cheerful blaze.
"Did you see him?" she inquired. He was struck by the deep, straining look in her dark eyes,—as if she were searching for something far back in his brain.
"Yes," he replied, as he took his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. "He was up and around the room and was as pleased as Punch to see me." He began stuffing the bowl of the pipe. "He is a most attractive chap, Alix. I don't know when I've met a more agreeable fellow."
"Then you had not met before,—over there?"
"No. We missed each other by days on two or three occasions. He left for the Vosges just before I got to Pont-a-Mousson, and was transferred to another section when we all went up to Bar le Duc at the time of the Verdun drive. He joined the Ambulance several months before I did, and was shifted about a good deal. Had some trouble with a French officer at Pont-a-Mousson and asked to be transferred." Here he smiled feelingly. "He's got a mustard plaster on his back now, he says, that would cover an army mule. I know how that feels, by Jinks! I wore one for three weeks over there because I didn't have the nerve to rip it off."
He was still aware of the unanswered question in her eyes. Changing his position slightly, he busied himself with the lighting of his pipe.
"Was he expecting you?" inquired Alix.
"Not at all. It seems that your roly-poly friend forgot to notify him. I say, Alix, what a wonderful lot of pre-historic junk there is in that old stable-yard. Webster took me around there and showed me the stuff. Tell me something about the place."
Late in the afternoon Blythe,—after submitting to an interview at the hands of A. Lincoln Pollock,—sat alone before the fire, his long legs stretched out, a magazine lying idly in his lap, his pipe dead but gripped firmly in the hand that had remained stationary for a long, long time halfway to his lips. He was staring abstractedly into the neglected fire.
His sister came in. He was not aware of her entrance until she appeared directly in front of him.
"Hello!" he exclaimed, blinking.
"What is on your mind, Addy?"
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Where is Alix?"
"Writing letters. There were two or three she has to get off before we start for town." She sat down on the arm of his chair. "You may as well tell me what you really think of him, Addison. Isn't he good enough for her?"
He lowered his voice. The frown of perplexity deepened in his eyes.
"I can't make him out, Mary," he said, lowering his voice.
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"Well, I may be doing him the rottenest injustice, but—somehow—he doesn't ring quite true to me."
"For goodness sake, Addy,—" she began, and then: "In what way? Hurry up! Tell me before she comes down. Isn't he a—a gentleman?"
"Oh, yes,—I suppose he is. He's a most engaging chap; he certainly seems well-bred, and he's darned good-looking. That isn't what I mean." He hesitated a moment and then blurted out: "Does Alix know POSITIVELY that he was in the American Ambulance? I mean, has she anybody else's word for it except his?"
Mary Blythe stared at her brother, her lips parted. Then her eyes narrowed suddenly.
"Don't—don't you think he's straight, Addy?" she half-whispered.
"I confess I'm puzzled. I never dreamed of doubting him when I went there. But I've been doing a lot of thinking since I saw him, and,—by George, Mary, I'm up a tree. Good Lord, if he should be—well, if he should be putting something over on Alix, he ought to be shot, that's all. Do you think she's in love with him?"
"I don't know. She's interested in him, I'm sure, but two or three times I have caught the queerest little look in her eyes when she is speaking of him,—almost as if she were afraid of something. I can't describe it. It's just—well, the only thing I can think of is that it's kind of pleading, if you know what I mean."
"Groping, I guess is the word you're after."
"Exactly. But go on,—tell me."
"It won't do to say anything about this to Alix, Mary," said he firmly. "At least not at present. Not until I've satisfied myself. I'm going to write to three or four fellows who were in Section Two for months,—before I was there,—and see if they know anything about him. I'd write to Mr. Hereford himself, but he's in Europe. He could give me the right dope in a minute. Piatt Andrew's in France, I understand. The records will show, of course, but it will take time to get at them. We must not breathe a word of all this to Alix, Mary. Understand? I've got to make sure first. It would be unpardonable if I were to make a break about him and he turned out to be all right."
"You must find out as quickly as possible, Addison. We would never forgive ourselves if we allowed Alix to—"
"Don't you worry! It won't take long to get a line on him. I'd telegraph if I were sure of the addresses. I ought to hear in three or four days, a week at the outside. Of course, he talks very convincingly. That's what floors me. But, on the other hand, he's too darned convincing. First of all, he called me Captain Blythe all the time. That isn't done by fellows in the know. I'm just plain Mister these days. He was rather hazy about the places I know all about, and tremendously clear about places I've never even heard of,—the places around Pont-a-Mousson, I mean. He actually looked suspicious of me when I said I didn't know where they were. And he mentioned a lot of men that I am dead sure never were up at Pont-a-Mousson,—either before or after I was there. Names I had never heard before in my life. And, confound it, the way he lifted his eyebrows made me feel for a minute or two that I hadn't been there myself. He says that since his injury and his sicknesses his memory isn't the best, but when I spoke of some of the fellows who were there with me, he remembered them perfectly. Didn't know them well, because he wasn't with the bunch very long, it seems. When I remarked that he must see a good bit of the chaps who live in New York City, he told me he had been sick ever since he came home from England and hadn't seen one of the crowd. He said he knew Pottle, and Fay, and Tyler, Sudbery and several others,—so I'm going to write to all of them tomorrow."
"It would be terrible, Addy, if she were to—"
"Mind you, old girl, I'm not saying this fellow isn't square," he interrupted. "He may be all he says he is. He's got me guessing, that's all."
"She says he has the croix de guerre and a D. S. medal."
He looked at her pityingly. "I've got a couple of Iron Crosses, old dear, but that doesn't mean I had 'em pinned on me by a Boche general. I've also got a German helmet, but I got it the same way I got the Crosses,—off of a German whose eyes were closed. Anyhow, I'd like to see his medals. Has Alix seen them?"
"His mother has them in New York," she replied. She stared into the fire for a moment or two and then turned to him, a look of deep concern in her eyes. "I think Alix is in love with him, Addy. She isn't herself at all. She is distrait. Twice this afternoon she has asked me if I didn't want to walk down into the village,—to the postoffice or the library. What she really wanted to do was to walk past the place where he lives. Oh, I know the symptoms. I've had them myself,—when I was younger than I am now. We don't do the things at thirty-two that we did at twenty-four. She is the dearest, finest girl I've ever known, Addy. We must not let anything happen to her."
He shook his head slowly. "If she is really in love with him, there's nothing we can do. The saying that 'there's no fool like an old fool' isn't in it with 'there's no fool like a woman in love.' Look at Isabel Harrington. Wasn't she supposed to be as sensible as they make 'em? And didn't everybody she knew tell her what kind of a man he was? Did it do any good?"
"She knew he gambled,—and drank—and he WAS a fascinating chap, Addy. You'll admit that."
"You bet I admit it. It was certainly proved when those other women turned up with marriage certificates, and old Mrs. Mason jumped into the scrimmage and had him arrested for swindling her out of thirty-five thousand dollars, and the New York police came along with a warrant for—"
"Yes, yes," she interrupted impatiently. "But Alix is quite different. She is NOT a fool, and Isabel was,—and still is, I maintain. You have seen this friend of Alix's. Is he attractive?"
"Well," he mused aloud, "unless I am mistaken, he is the sort of fellow that women fall for without much of an effort. The sort that can fool women but can't fool men, Mary, if that means anything to you. Now that I think of it, I believe Webster and that friend of his are—Well, I'm sure they don't like him. He—"
"Sh! She is coming!"
Alix's quick, light tread was heard in the hall. She came from her "office" in the wing where the kitchen was situated.
There was a heightened colour in her cheeks and her lovely eyes were shining.
"Well, that job is done," she cried, tossing two or three letters on the table. "Don't let me forget them, Mary. I'll post them in the city. We leave at six o'clock, Addison. I telephoned to town and asked George Richards to meet us at the Raleigh at a quarter before seven. I am dreadfully disappointed, Mary, that Mr. Thane cannot go, but you will like George. Mr. Thane NEVER goes to town. He was going to break his rule tonight, and now he CAN'T go. Isn't that always the way?"
"Mary's awfully partial to Georges," said Addison, "so don't you worry about her. I know I shall have a better time if Thane isn't in the party. To be perfectly frank with you, I'm jolly well fed up with Mary,—as we say in London. And if Thane was along I'd HAVE to talk to her for three solid—Why, 'pon my soul, Alix, you're blushing!"
"Don't be silly!"
"Skip along, Addy, and see how quickly you can dress," interposed his sister briskly. "You've got forty-six minutes."
"I can dress and undress three times in forty-six minutes, and still have time to read the evening paper and do a few odd chores about the place. I say, Alix, red is awfully becoming to you." With that parting shot, he disappeared.
III — One of the envelopes on the table was addressed to David Strong. It was a reply to a special delivery letter received in the afternoon post. He had been very prompt in responding to Alix's curt note, and she was being equally prompt with her answer. There were stamps sufficient on hers to insure "special delivery" to him.
He had written:
I have not received the bracelet yet. Registered mail moves slowly. If I did not know you so well, I might even hope that you had changed your mind at the last minute and did not send it. But I know it will come along in a day or so. I shall not ask you to explain why you are returning my gift. You have a good reason, no doubt. We have not been very friendly of late. I admit that I have been stubborn about paying back the money your grandfather lent to me, and I suppose I have not been very gentlemanly or tactful in trying to make you understand. I still maintain that it is a very silly thing for us to quarrel about, but I am not going to hector you about it now. I trust you will forgive me if I add to your annoyance by saying that I'd like to be where I could shake a little sense into that stubborn head of yours.
You are returning my gift. As I told you when I sent it to you, it was given me by a French lady whose son I had taken care of and for whose ultimate recovery I was perhaps responsible. She appreciated the fact that I could not and would not accept pay for my services. This much I have told you before. Now, I shall tell you something more. When she pressed it upon me she said that I was to give it to my sweetheart back in America. I gave it to you. I daresay I am greatly to blame for never having told you before that you were my sweetheart, Alix.
Very sincerely yours,
To this Alix replied:
By this time you will have received the bracelet. It is not beyond the bounds of probability that you may yet be in a position to carry out the terms imposed by the lady in France. All the more reason for my returning it to you. You are now free to give it to any one to whom you may have confided the astonishing secret you so successfully withheld from me. You seem to have forgotten that I gave you a receipt in full for the amount you are supposed to have owed my grandfather's estate. I did this with the consent of my lawyer. He said it was perfectly legal and that it was in my power to cancel the so-called obligation,—especially as we have no documentary evidence that you ever had promised to reimburse my grandfather. On the contrary, as I have told you over and over again, I have in my possession a statement written by Grandfather Windom which absolutely settles the matter. He states in so many words that in making his will he failed to mention his "beloved young friend, David Strong" as a beneficiary, in view of the fact that "I have made him a substantial gift during the closing years of my life in the shape of such education as he may require, and for which I trust him to repay me, not in money, but in the simplest and truest form of compensation: gratitude." In spite of this, you continue to offend me,—I might even say insult me,—by choosing to consider his gift as an obligation which can only be met by paying MONEY to me. All that you owed my grandfather was gratitude and respect. As for myself, I relieve you of the former but I do think I am entitled to the latter.
Yours sincerely,
The same post that carried her letter east was to take one from Courtney Thane to his mother.
I am going to ask Alix Crown to marry me. I have hesitated to do so for obvious reasons, perfectly clear to you. Now, I have decided. She understands my financial situation. She knows that I am almost entirely dependent on you for support at present. If it had not been for the war and my confounded ill-health, I should, of course, have been quite independent by this time. I have explained my present unbearable situation to her in a general sort of way, and I know that she is in complete sympathy with me. Your resolve to not increase my allowance is, I suppose, irrevocable. I shall soon be in a position, I hope, to dispense with what you are already so gracious as to allow me. I have not deemed it wise to tell her at this time of my unfortunate and, as you say, foolish mismanagement of my affairs before and after father's death. When all is said and done, he didn't leave me very much. It went before I quite knew what was happening, and I submit that it was bad judgment due to my youth rather than to recklessness, as old Mumford claims. I'll make him eat his words some day. Thanks for your cheque. You are a darling. You're the best mother a fellow ever had. I quite understand your position, so don't lose a moment's sleep thinking that I may be resenting your decision. I shall manage very nicely on what you give me. It is ample for my present needs. I shall probably find it rather humiliating when it comes time for a wedding journey, but, bless your dear old heart, I'll manage somehow.
I am quite well and very happy. Hope you are the same. By the way, have you made that visit to Washington?
Your loving son,
P.S.—I am still looking for the little parcel I asked you to send me. Have you forgotten to attend to it?
As Alix and her friends went out to the automobile, the big police dog trotted beside Addison Blythe, looking up into his face with pleased and friendly eyes. He allowed the man to stroke his head and rumple the thick fur on his back.
"He likes you, Addison," said Alix, a serious little frown in her eyes. "I can't understand his not liking Courtney Thane. His hair fairly bristles and he growls like a bear every time he sees him. Isn't it odd?"
Blythe looked up quickly. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something tactless. What he did say was this:
"Can you blame the poor dog for being jealous?"