SHE SO GENTLY MANIPULATED THE SWOLLEN ANKLE AND BOUND IT WITH THE LOTION
She caught his hand in both hers, eagerly.
"Do you mean that we might live at peace; in love, as kinsfolk should? Now—this peace day—when the Christ child comes? Is it that?"
But Marshall made a little motion which might be warning or contempt. The old man's face hardened again.
"What are you asking? Look, you've wet my cuffs! Your hands just out of hot water and all liniment!"
"Never mind your cuffs.Look out for your heart.You're a poor, lonely old fellow, and I'm sorry for you."
Before he knew what she was about, Amy hadthrown her arms about her cousin's neck and imprinted a kiss—somewhere. It didn't much matter that it landed squarely on the tip of his pudgy nose. Archibald Wingate was so little in the habit of receiving kisses that he might easily have imagined this was quite the customary place for their bestowal.
It would be difficult to tell which was the most startled. Amy stepped back from the unresponsive object of her affectionate impulse and blushed furiously. She feared that he would think her bold and silly, yet she had only meant to be kind, to comfort him because she pitied him. Now, she was painfully conscious that Marshall was standing near, coolly observant, with a cynical smile upon his thin lips. It was a curious fact, which Amy instantly recognized, that this master of whom so many people stood in awe should himself stand in awe of his own valet.
"Ahem—shall I remove the bath, sir? Has the young person finished?"
Amy had not been accustomed to hearing herself spoken of as a "person," and the word angered her. This restored her self-possession. She looked up, laughing.
"I don't know how I came to do that, cousin Archibald. I hope you'll forgive me."
"Oh, I'll forgive you. I don't know how you did it, either. Well, man, why are you standing there,grinning like a Cheshire cat. I tell you she has finished. You can take away the things."
"Very well; it is time for your nap, sir."
The worm turned. "What if I don't take one to-day? What will happen?"
"I don't know, sir, except that you will probably be ill. The doctor's orders are, when you have an attack—"
"Hang you and the doctor and the attacks, all together! You can leave the room, can't you? When I want you, I'll ring."
Because he was too astonished to do otherwise, Marshall obeyed. He was a privileged person. His master did not often cross his will. There being no other apparent heirs, Marshall had, in his own imagination, constituted himself Mr. Wingate's heir. Why not? A lifelong service, an untiring devotion to whims of all sorts, a continual attention to the "creature comforts" which were so greatly a part of Archibald's life—these merited a rich reward. Marshall intended to receive this reward, should he be lucky enough to outlive his employer. He felt that he would fill the position of owner of Fairacres with dignity and profit. He did not like this new interest Mr. Wingate was taking, by fits and starts, in the deposed family who were his relatives and—enemies. In Marshall's opinion the breech between these kinsfolk ought not to be healed. Amy's presence in the house was a disastrous portent. Shemust be gotten out of it as soon as possible, and in such a way that she would not care to come again. But how?
The servant revolved this question, as he carried away the bath, and so profoundly that he failed to notice where he was going and stepped down a forgotten stair so unexpectedly that he fell and drenched himself with the water from the tub.
"Plague on her! Now, I'm in for it!" Which meant that before he could remove the damage to his attire Amy would probably have gained whatever she came to seek. He did not believe that anybody would visit his master without having "an axe to grind," for he judged all men by himself.
However, having tasted the sweets of rebellion against this iron rule of Marshall, Mr. Wingate determined to enjoy it further.
"He's a meddling old fool. He's a good servant, too. There isn't another man in the world would put up with my tempers as he does. Never a word in return, and as smooth as silk."
Amy laughed. "He looks to me as if he had had his hair licked by kittens. It's so slick and flat. Do you have to mind him always?"
"Mind him?I—mind myservant, eh?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course—"
Mr. Wingate's face was scarlet. The weakness which he had hardly acknowledged to himself had been instantly discovered by this bright-eyed girl. It wasn'ta pleasant thing to have so observant a person about. He had something to say to her, however, and he would do it at once and get rid of her. All his newly aroused affection died in his resentment against her judgment.
"I want to go to the studio. There is something there I don't mean to keep, and don't wish to destroy, without consulting some of you."
Amy followed him quietly out of the house toward the building where her father had spent so many hours, and which she held in strictest veneration. Did it not still enclose the "great picture" which even she had never seen, and which had been kept screened from the sight of all?
So she still expected to find the white curtain undisturbed; and as she entered the studio, paused—amazed. The canvas covered the end of the apartment; but after one hasty glance Amy shielded her eyes in a distress that was almost terror.
"Hmm. Itisvery realistic, isn't it? The thing is horrible. I don't wonder that Cuthbert's wits got scattered, working on it. It would drive me crazy in a week, and I'm a hard, matter-of-fact man. I kept it, because by right I might have kept everything that was here. I supposed I was getting something worth while. But this! I don't want it. I couldn't sell it. I hate to destroy it. What's to be done?"
"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!"
"So do I. I see it sometimes in the night and thenI can't sleep. I mean I imagine I see it, for I never come here after dark. It's a wonderful picture, sure enough. A horrible one."
The canvas fascinated Amy. It depicted a great fire. It was ugly in extreme. The big, bare building was in flames, everywhere. The windows seemed numberless, and at almost every window a face; on these faces all the gamut of fright, appeal, and unutterable despair. They were human—living. The girl felt impelled to run and snatch them from their doom; also the impulse to hide her eyes, that she might not see.
Mr. Wingate had taken a chair before the painting, and was looking at it critically.
"I tell you that's a marvellous thing, and it's as dreadful as masterly. There's only one way I can see by which a man could get any money out of it: that's by cutting out the separate faces and selling them singly. A body might endure to see one such countenance in his collection, but not more; or, it might be destroyed altogether. It explains why Cuthbert never recovered from the shock of the accident he was in. He never lost sight of it. He must have begun this while it was fresh in his brain, and he did his utmost to keep it fresh. Poor Salome, she had a hard life."
"She had a happy life. She loved my father. He loved her. Whatever he did was right, just right in her eyes. You needn't pity her. But, oh, if she wereonly here to consult! Why did you show it to me? Why did I have to see it?"
"Because it couldn't be helped. The thingis; it exists. Now what is to be done with it?"
"I—will ask my father."
"I don't know that that is wise. It might bring about a return of his malady, and I'm told he is improving in all respects."
"I must do it; it is his. There is no other way."
"What if it makes him worse again?"
Poor Amy! All her Christmas cheer had died from her heart. She felt that it would be almost wicked to remind her father of this, his "life work," of which she had not heard him speak since he left Fairacres. Yet it was his. He had given years to its completion, so far as it had neared that point.
Mr. Wingate regarded her keenly. "Well?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know what to say. Have you nothing to propose?"
"Only what I did. To cut it up and sell the faces as so many small canvases. That would partially repay me for the things he still owes for—the paints and so on. But I detest the thing so I hate to spread the misery of it."
"Repay you? Do you mean that you believe you have a right—youownthat picture?"
"Certainly."
"Why, it is the labor of—it means many years out of my poor father's life. Can such a thing be 'owned' by anybody except him?"
"Yes, of course. Hark you. You go home and tell him what I offer. I will take the picture off his hands and allow him—hmm—maybe two hundred dollars; or, he can take it and owe me that much more. In any case I want to get rid of it. I won't have it left here much longer. I shall have other uses for this room, maybe. Anyway, I mean to get that off the place."
Amy moved slowly toward the door. She did not know how to reply, and she felt her cousin was a very hard, unjust man. Yet she agreed with him that the picture was enough to make a person wish it out of sight, even out of existence.
At the doorway he arrested her steps, by laying his hand upon her shoulder.
"Help me down; I'm afraid of stairs. And there's another thing—that donkey."
"Oh, yes; I had forgotten Balaam. May I ride him home? Will you have him brought around for me?"
"Eh? What? Not so fast—not quite so fast! No, I don't mean the stairs. I can manage this pace for them. I mean the donkey. It came here of its own accord. It gave me an idea. If your brother wants to sell him—By the way, how do you expect to pay the rent?"
Amy stopped short, halfway down the stairs, and so suddenly that Mr. Wingate remonstrated.
"If you'd give warning of these spasmodic actions of yours, it would be more comfortable for those depending on you. There, please move along."
"The rent? I had not thought. Didn't my mother attend to that?"
"For the first quarter year, she did. To whom must I look now?"
Unmindful, since this new distressing question had been raised, how much she inconvenienced him, Amy sat plump down and leaned her head against the hand-rail.
It always appeared to aid her reflective powers if she could rest her troubled head against something material.
"I'll try to think. I earn two dollars and a half a week."
"Oh, my foot hurts again. Let's get into a decent room and talk it over there. I hate draughty halls and unwarmed rooms. There's a fire in the little side parlor off the dining room. That's my own private den. I want to get there and lie down. That rabbit pie I had for lunch doesn't agree with me, I'm afraid. Do you like rabbit pie?"
"No, indeed; I wouldn't eat one for anything."
"Why not?"
"I should fancy the pretty creatures looking at me with their soft eyes. They're the gentlest animals in the world."
"The most destructive, you mean."
She did not contest. Besides, she was now in great haste to leave Fairacres and regain the shelter of her own home. Strange, she reflected, how quickly she had ceased to think of this house, her birthplace, as a home; since all that went to make it such had gone elsewhere.
"About that rent money. If Hallam is able to keep at work we may together earn five dollars a week. That would be twenty dollars a month. The rent is ten. We will be able to pay it, I think."
"Do you imagine you will be able to live upon the remainder? Upon two and a half dollars a week, four grown persons?"
"If we have no more, we shall have to do so, shan't we?"
"Excuse me; but what would you eat? I saw no sign of scrimping and pinching that day I first came here—to stay."
"Oh, then Cleena was determined you should say no blame of her housekeeping. She gave you all in one meal. We've often laughed over it since."
"Humph! But this two and a half per week, what would it buy?"
"Meal and milk. Sometimes oat meal, sometimes corn. Once and again an egg or something for father. Oh, we'd manage."
"Hmm, hmm; you'd rather live on that than runin debt? You younger Kayes, who are all I seem to take account of now—Salome is gone."
"We will run in no debt we cannot pay, unless we are ill and it is impossible to help. Hal and I settled that long ago. So far we have managed, and now he is working too, I feel as rich as—rich."
"Exactly. Amy, if this old house were yours, what would you do with it?"
The answer was prompt and decided.
"Make it into a Home for Mill Girls."
"Whew! What in the world! Fairacres? The proudest old mansion in the country, or in this part of it! Are you beside yourself?"
"I should be with delight, if I could make that dream a reality."
"I gave you credit for more sense. But, business—that donkey. How much did Mr. Metcalf intend to pay for it?"
"I suppose the same as he did for Pepita. Seventy-five dollars—burro, harness, and all."
"At ten dollars a month, that would take you along well into next summer. Tell Hallam that I will keep the animal and allow him eight months' rent for it. That's giving you a half month, you see. Will you?"
"Yes, I'll tell him," answered she, with a catch in her voice. "Only I had hoped to take him home with me. It would have made such a delightful Christmasfor us all. You don't know how much we love those pretty creatures."
"Pretty! Opinions differ."
"And would it be quite right to make any such arrangements, after having asked the superintendent to buy it, and he agreeing? Wouldn't he be the one to say something about it?"
"Amy, you're incorrigible. You're a radical. A thing is either absolutely right or it is absolutely wrong—according to your standard. You'll be in trouble as long as you live, for you'll find nobody else with such antiquated notions as yours. There are a great many things that are expedient."
"I hate expedient things. I like just the easy, simple 'no' and 'yes' that was my darling mother's rule. I'm glad I'm at least a birthright Friend."
Mr. Wingate was silent. He seemed to drop into a profound reverie, and the girl hesitated to disturb him, eager as she now was to be away. Finally, as she had made up her mind to speak, he did so himself.
"Amy, do you ever use the plain speech now?"
"Sometimes—between ourselves. For mother's sake we can never let it die."
"Will thee use it to me now and then? It was the habit of my boyhood. Salome was my oldest friend. We've played together in this very room, again and again. She was my good angel. Until—No matter. You are her child. Not like her at all in face ormanner. She was always gentle, and shrank from giving pain. Truthful and puritanical as she was in her ideas, she had the tact, the knowledge to say things without hurting those whom she corrected. She corrected me often and often, when we were young, but she hurt me—never. Now, you—heigho!"
"Now, I hurt—thee. Of course. I speak first and think afterward. But does thee know, cousin Archibald, thee is the very queerest man I ever met?"
"Have you—has thee—known many?"
"Very few. Thee is so good on one side and so—so—not nice on the other. Like a half-ripened pear. But I am sorry for thee. I wish I could do thee good. Do I speak it as thee wishes?"
"Indeed, yes. It is music, even though the words are unflattering enough. Well, I'll not keep thee longer. And I don't ask you to call attention to this whim of mine by saying 'thee' in public," he remarked, himself falling back into the habit of their intercourse.
"No; if I say 'thee,' it is to be always, whenever I remember—like a bond to remind me I must be kind to thee for my mother's sake. If she did thee good, I must try to do thee good too."
"In what way?"
Amy reflected. The first, most obvious way, would be by cheering his solitude. Yet she hesitated. The thing which had come into her mind involved the desires of others also. She had no right, until sheconsulted them, to commit herself. Yet she disliked to leave this lonely old fellow, without trying to make him glad.
She sat down again in the chair from which she had risen and regarded him critically.
"Oh, cousin Archibald, if thee were only a little bit different!"
"Thee, too!" he laughed—actually laughed; and the action seemed to clear his features like a sunburst.
"Oh, of course. Well, it's this way. To-morrow's Christmas, isn't it?"
"So I've heard."
"And somebody—Teamster John—has sent Cleena 'the furnishing of a good dinner,' she told me. I don't know when we may have another such a meal, one that thee would think fit to eat. I'd like to ask thee to come and share it with us, instead of staying here alone, all grumpy with the gout. But it isn't my dinner, thee sees, and I'm going home to tell my people everything. About the picture and the donkey and all. If, after that, they agree with me that it would be nice to ask thee to spend the holiday with us, I'll bring thee word. If I do, will thee come?"
Mr. Wingate leaned back in his easy-chair and hugged his gouty foot for so long and so silently that Amy grew impatient and rose.
"Anyway, I must go home. I've been here ever so much later than I meant to stay. Good-by."
"Wait! How impetuous you—thee is. Well, I've received a great many invitations to dine, from the banquets of bank presidents down to the boiled dinners of my own workmen, but I doubt if I ever received one so honest and so honestly expressed."
"Will thee come, if thee is asked?"
"Yes; I'll come—if I'm asked. Don't thee bother to walk all the way back again, though. If by nine o'clock to-night I have heard nothing to the contrary, I shall understand that I am expected to dine with my tenants at 'Spite House.' At what hour, please?"
"On Christmas, dinner is usually at three o'clock. And, if thee pleases, it is no longer 'Spite' but 'Charity House.' My mother changed all that. Thee must not dishonor her wishes if thee loves her."
A wonderful, an almost beautiful change passed over the old man's face.
"Amy, thee speaks as if she were here still."
"She is to me. She always will be. Good-by."
She was gone, and the house seemed bigger and emptier after she had left it. But Archibald Wingate would not have had anybody know with what almost childish anxiety he waited the striking of the clock, as the hour of nine drew near. He had been judged a hard and bitter man. He was very human, after all. The small brown hand of his young cousin was pointing a new, strange way, wherein he might happily walk, and in secret he blessed her for it. But he wasa man who liked his own will and to follow his own road still; though he might do his utmost to bend that road in the direction she had elected. Meanwhile, he would have his supper sent in and sitting at ease before his own hearth-blaze review many plans.
So he did, and after the supper a comfortable nap, from which he roused with a start, fancying the old clock in the hall was striking the hour.
"Eh? What? Is it nine already? That timepiece must be fast."
"It's only me, sir, Marshall, with a bucket of coals. And, if you please, there's a young person outside insists upon seeing you, sir. Am I to bid him go away until morning?"
In his disappointment the master's face really paled. Marshall noticed it and wondered, but he knew enough, sometimes, to hold his tongue. This seemed to him to be one of the times, and he therefore made no comment, nor even inquired for the master's health.
"No, don't send anybody away. I fancy that was never the custom at Fairacres, on Christmas Eve, be the visitor who he might. We'll not disturb the old ways, more than we can help. After all—Bid the messenger come in."
The "young person" to whom Marshall referred in such contemptuous terms was Lionel Percival Jones. He so announced himself, as he was ushered into the presence of the great man.
"I've come to bring a letter from Amy Kaye."
"Indeed; would it not sound better if you said 'Miss Kaye,' or 'Miss Amy'? She is a kinswoman of mine."
Lionel Percival was astonished. He had prepared himself for this visit with the utmost care. He had oiled his curly auburn locks with a scented pomatum, and parted them rakishly in the middle. He wore his most aggressive necktie and his yellowest shoes, also his Sunday suit of clothes. With the exception of the necktie and the pomatum, he would not have attracted attention to himself anywhere, and so would have been well dressed. With these, he seemed to be all-pervading. He had instantly, by means of them, offended Mr. Wingate's taste, and put himself at disadvantage.
"Why, I'd just as lief say 'Miss,' but she's a mill girl, same as my own sister. I didn't go to mean no harm."
The mill owner winced. Then inquired:—
"Is there an answer expected?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Wait here."
The master of Fairacres limped into the adjoining room and turned his back toward the door between, hiding his face from the lad's observation as he read.
"Humph! She left it open, which is correct enough with reliable messengers. Probably, though, he had the curiosity to read what she had to say,"—in which he wholly wronged the bearer. But Mr. Wingate had yet to learn that even lads who attire themselves atrociously may still be true gentlemen at heart, and sin in taste through ignorance only.
This was the note:—
"Dear Cousin Archibald Wingate: My father and Hallam will be very happy to have thee dine with us to-morrow, Christmas Day. Cleena says that dinner will be served at three o'clock. If thee knew her as well as I do, thee would understand that she means not a minute before nor one afterward. If thee pleases, I would rather not have any 'business' talk of any sort to-morrow. I would like it to be a day of peace, as my mother always kept it for us. Thee may meet some other guests, but we will try to make thee happy.
"Good night,
"Amy."
It was a very cheerful and smiling old gentleman who returned to the room where Lionel Percival waited for the reply, a brief but stately acceptance of the invitation; for since Amy had set him the example, the mill owner considered that she regarded such formality essential.
Then he called in Marshall and bade him see that the messenger had a bit of supper before his return walk, which proceeding made the valet stare, and the boy feel exceedingly proud. It would be something of which to boast among his comrades at the mill.
The morning proved a cloudless one, mild and merciful to such as suffered from gout, and Mr. Wingate drove himself to "Charity House" in his own little phaeton. He felt this was an occasion when Marshall's too solicitous attentions might be in the way. He held a debate with himself, before setting off, whether he should or should not add to the feast from his own larder, and he decided against so doing by the simple test of "put yourself in his place."
But there was plenty and to spare. Teamster John did nothing by halves. Those who have least of this world's goods are always the most generous. Cleena had prepared each dish with her best skill and waited upon her guests with smiling satisfaction. Afterward, in the kitchen, she and John discussed the strange reunion of their "betters," and Cleena speculated upon it in her own fashion:—
"Sure, there's never fish, flesh, nor fowl could withstand the loving ways of me little colleen. And to hear them talkin' together, like lambs in the field. Them—"
"I never heerd lambs talkin'," observed John, facetiously.
"Then it's deaf ye've been belike. Oh, me fathers, if here doesn't come me own Gineral—Napoleon—Bonyparty! Where have ye been avick, avick?" she demanded, pushing hastily back from the board and hurrying out of doors. "Well, it's proof o' yer sense ye comes back in due time for a bit o' the nicest turkey ever was roast. But it's shamefaced ye be, small wonder o' that! Howsomever, it's a day o' good will. Come by. Wash up, eat yer meat, an' give thanks. To-morrow—I'll settle old scores. Come by."
Yet when Fayette entered the kitchen and learned from John who were the guests in the dining room beyond, he scowled and would have gone away again. However, he had forgotten Cleena. That good woman, having received her prodigal back, did not intend to relinquish him. She saw his frown, his hasty movement, and shutting the door put her back against it.
"You silly omahaun! If your betters forgives an' eats the bread o' peace, what's you to be settin' such a face on the matter? Come by. Be at peace. There's the blessed little hunchback eatin' cranberry sauce cheek by jowl with her 'boss,' an' can't you remember the Child was born for such as you, me poor silly lad? Come by."
Fayette "came by" at last, silently and because he was half famished, and could not resist the savory odors of the tempting food Cleena offered him. Yet in his heart there was still anger and evil intent; and though he was amazed to find Mary Reese a guest at the Kayes' table, as well as their "mortal enemy," Mr. Wingate, he made no further comment, and as soon as the meal was over retreated without a word to his chamber and shut the door.
"It's like he might ha' just stepped out yesternight, he drops into ways so quick," said Cleena.
"But he's not the same lad. He'll give somebody trouble before long. You do wrong, woman, to harbor him. He's vindictive and dangerous."
The trustful Cleena laughed the teamster to scorn.
"Faith, give a dog a bad name an' he'll earn it. Let the lad be. In old Ireland we call such the 'touched of God.' We judge not, an' that's the size of a man—how he betreats the helpless ones. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it."
Surely, John thought, there was a deal of good sense and heart kindness in this stalwart daughter of Erin. He was Yankee himself, to the backbone; yet, as he pushed back from the table, satisfied and at ease, he pulled from his pocket a small paper parcel. It was his Christmas gift for his hostess, and intended to suggest many things. She was bright enough to comprehend his meaning, if she chose. Would she? Shegave no sign, if she did, as she unrolled the package and placed its contents—a small flag of Ireland and its mate, in size, of the United States—behind the kitchen clock, where the blended colors made a bit of gayety upon the whitewashed wall.
"Long may they wave!" cried the donor.
"Troth, I'm not seein' no wavin'. They're best as they be, with the timepiece betwixt. Each in its place, as the Lord wills, an' mine's here. So here I bides till I'm no longer wanted."
"It's a biggish house," quoth the undismayed suitor. "There's room in it for me, too, I cal'late."
But if Cleena heard this remark she ignored it, passing swiftly into the dining room to remove the dishes of the first course, and substituting the luxury of a basket of fruit which she had accumulated somehow, as only herself could have explained.
Maybe there is no trivial thing that so greatly helps to bridge over a trying situation as good breeding. The breeding which is really good, out of the inner life: kindness and the reluctance to inflict pain. It was such breeding that enabled the oddly assorted company at that Christmas dinner table to pass the hours of their intercourse not only in peace, but with absolute enjoyment.
Finally, when the elders pushed back their chairs, Mr. Kaye proposed that Amy should sing some of the old-time ballads familiar to the childhood of bothhimself and his kinsman. So Hallam took out his mother's guitar and tuned it, and his sister placed herself beside him.
"Ah, how well I remember that little instrument," cried Mr. Wingate, "and the commotion it caused among the Friends. Music used to be the most 'worldly' and undesirable thing, but they are more tolerant now. Give us 'Lang Syne,' youngsters. It's the song for the day and—this hour."
It was. They sang it lustily, and Amy was amazed to hear how finely that deep voice of their cousin could fill in the pauses of her own treble, sweet but not strong. Then there was "Annie Laurie," and "Edinboro' Toon," and "Buy my Caller Herrin'," and others; till Cleena drew John to the door to listen and applaud, forgetting for once the big pile of dishes standing unwashed upon her kitchen table.
"For, aye, it's a time o' peace, thank God. An' her that has gone is among us never a doubt I doubt. What's a bit o' idlin' when a sight for saints is afore ye? If Fayetty, now—"
But Fayette was not there. Neither was he in his own room when Cleena sought him there. He had left it while she was off guard and had made his escape unseen. Forces of good and evil were tormenting him: the struggle to do right and please these good friends, and the greater yearning to seek the wrong path to revenge.
Yet, after all, what was this poor human waif to these happier folk? So he asked himself as he sneaked away in the twilight which hid his departure.
Had Amy heard the question, she would have answered it promptly: "Much, Fayette. Everybody one knows is something to one's self."
But she did not even hear of his brief visit, for, having discovered his fresh defection, Cleena decided to keep the matter to herself.
It was getting quite late when Archibald Wingate drove away from "Charity House" toward Fairacres, and as he went he pondered of many things. Once or twice he fancied he saw a lurking shadow in the road, that was not due to either bush or tree which bordered it. But he thought little of the matter, so engrossed was he with the recollections of the evening.
"Queer, what a pleasant time I had. Yet we are all, practically, enemies. Each side feels that the other side has been at fault. Anyway, I seem to hear Salome saying: 'Judge not my children by the mistakes of their parents.' Nor will I; of that I am resolved. I'll give even that top-lofty lad, Hallam, a fair show, by and by. I must test him a little longer first, then I'll begin. That is, if he's made of the right stuff. As for Amy, she's a witch. She's wheedled the heart right out of me with her bright, unflinching, honest eyes. Talked to me about getting up a 'club' for the mill folks. 'The right sort of club, with books and picturesand everything helpful.' The saucebox! and she earning the mighty wage of two-fifty per week. Well, all in good course. I haven't toiled a lifetime to attain my object, then relinquish it without a little enjoyment of it; though, after all, possession isn't everything. The struggle was about as enjoyable as the result. But I succeeded! I am master of Fairacres, of Ardsley Mills, of half all Ardsley township. The old family is still on top. But, I'll buy Cuthbert's great picture and burn it up—sometime. Hmm. Wonder where that visionary Frederic Kaye is, of whose unpractical schemes I am reaping the benefit. Odd—buried himself in California, so to speak, and the only visible proofs that he had ever reached that happy land are a couple of braying burros.—Hello! hello, I say! Who's that? What's up?"
The shadow which had dogged the track of the mill owner's phaeton had suddenly become a reality. His horse was seized, forced backward, the horsewhip wrenched from its socket, and before he could defend himself Mr. Wingate's head and shoulders felt the cuts of the whip, delivered in swift and furious intensity.
"Hold on! hold—on! What—who—stop, stop,s-t-o-p! You're killing me! What's wanted? It's murder—murder!"
And again after another visitation of stripes, that awful cry of "mur-der!"
The word holds its own horror. No one can thushear it shouted, in the stillness of the night, unmoved. It affected even the ferocious assailant of the lonely old man, and arrested his further blows.
"Murder." That meant death, prison, everything that was hateful. Even to Fayette's dull brain there penetrated some realization of what his present deed implied. For this was he who had waylaid an "enemy" on the highroad and beaten him into unconsciousness.
Then he remembered his own wrongs, and his anger flamed afresh.
"Thought you could do all the lickin', did ye? How many times didyouhavemethrashed? What did you care if the man who thrashed me 'bout killed me? What was I, only 'Bony,' out o' the poor farm! Ugh, you old rascal! Take that, and that, and that. Huckleberries! but it's fun to settle such scores."
The old horse which Mr. Wingate drove stood quiet in the road, else the matter might have had a different ending; for had she run and dragged her now helpless master, he would surely have been killed. As it was, she did not move, so there was nothing to deaden the sound of the sharp blows Fayette administered; and in the silence of the place and night this sound carried far.
It reached the ears of a foot passenger, toiling up the mill road toward Fairacres and quickened his pace. So that when the half-wit finally paused for breath, hefelt himself caught by his collar and heard a stern voice demanding:—
"What's this? Hold! Stop! This—here, inArdsley?"
Fayette looked up. The man who had gripped him was much taller than he, and seemed in that dim light a giant for strength. The capture brought back all those visions of punishment and the prison. In a twinkling the agile lad had writhed himself free from his short coat and leaped away into the darkness.
The newcomer heard a sound of retreating footsteps and mocking laughter, then turned his attention to the injured man in the phaeton.
"An old fellow, too, he seems. Hello! Are you alive? Hey! Can't you speak? That's serious."
The stranger's actions were alert and decided. He gently raised the bent figure of the unconscious Mr. Wingate to as comfortable a position as he could, stepped into the vehicle, and took up the reins.
"If nothing is changed, the nearest house is old Fairacres. But I didn't look for such a home-coming. Get up there, nag!"
Not since the days of her youth had the sorrel mare been forced into such a pace as then. The rescuer drove for life and death, and as if all turnings of the old road were familiar to him. Nor did he slacken rein until he reached the front door of the mansion, and sung out in a voice to wake great echoes:—
"Hello, there! Come out! A man in distress!"
This hello reached the stable, where Fayette was loosing Balaam, and roused that intelligent beast to speak his opinion concerning these disturbances of his rest.
Marshall, hurrying to answer the imperative demand at the front door, heard the burro's bray of protest, though he paid it small attention then, because of the nearer demand. Holding his candle high above his head, he slid back the bolts and peered out, but the sight which met his gaze set him trembling like an aspen.
"Why—my land! Master, what—what's happened? Have they murdered you out of hand? Ah, but my mind misgave me how 'twould be. To think it—to think it!"
"Hush! Put down the candle. Give a lift; he's powerful heavy. Is this your master?"
The servant retreated. This might be the very person who had done the mill owner such terrible injury. He would put his own precious anatomy out of harm's reach.
"Oh, you fool! Come back. You're safe. Leave that door open. I'll bring him in myself. Make way there—quick!"
Marshall tried to barricade the entrance to the room beyond the hall by means of his own plump body, and was promptly kicked aside, as the strangerstrode past him, bearing the unconscious man upon his shoulder, very much as if he had been a bag of meal.
"Is this your master?"
"Y-ye-s. Who—are you—ordering—"
"Hot water—lights—a doctor—everything—at once. I'm Frederic Kaye."
The excitement at Ardsley was intense. Never had its quiet precincts been disturbed by a crime so unprovoked and dastardly.
"To strike a man in the dark."
"To waylay an old fellow like that. The man is a coward, whoever he be, that did it."
"Poor old 'boss.' He wasn't to say over lovable, in ordinary, but I'd pity even a scoundrel got treated that way."
"He ought to be punished with his own stripes."
"Oh, he'll get what he deserves. Never fear. If old man Wingate had been poor—well, you might say. But a rich man has friends."
Such talk all through the mill, on that day after Christmas, interfered seriously with the customary labor. But it was small wonder; and though he tried to enforce discipline and keep things running smoothly, even Mr. Metcalf himself was greatly disturbed and anxious.
The news of the assault upon the mill owner hadspread rapidly. At first the story told by the stranger, who had so suddenly and opportunely appeared upon the scene, was given credence. Then, when it was remembered that this stranger, now known to be Frederic Kaye, had been injured and supplanted by Archibald Wingate, a faint suspicion began to rise in men's minds.
Only those who have suffered from it know with what terrible rapidity an unjust rumor grows and spreads. Inoculated by this evil germ, even the fairest judgment becomes diseased. Those who had best known Frederic Kaye, the old people who recalled his frank, impetuous, happy-go-lucky boyhood, here in the town where he was born and bred; those who had received good from his hand, and nothing but good; even these joined with the baser sort in considering the night attack upon the mill owner "quite natural. Just what might have been expected."
"Of course no one knows what sort of life Kaye's led out there in Californy. The jumping-off place of creation."
So, instead of finding himself among friends, the returned citizen discovered that he was among enemies, under the basest of suspicions. He had remained all night at Fairacres, with the doctor so hastily summoned there. This gentleman was an old acquaintance, and from him Mr. Frederic, as he had always been called in distinction from Mr. Kaye, the artist and hisbrother-in-law, learned the history of the past weeks. Yes, even of years.
"It's a pity, a great pity! When I failed to pay what I owed on the property here, and Salome, my sister, saw that I would lose everything unless somebody came to my aid, she did so. I hoped, I fully expected, to be able to return what she advanced. All the world knows now that I was not."
"She was not the first person who has been ruined by injudicious indorsement."
The Californian winced. His home-coming was proving a terrible disappointment to him, and he little dreamed how much worse than disappointment was yet in store.
"Well, bad luck has pursued me. I have lost in every speculation I ever undertook. The last I tried was the evaporation of fruits. There's money in it, if I had the capital—"
"Then you did not know how badly things were going with your sister?"
"I never dreamed it. You knew her well—Salome was never a whiner. If she had even intimated the straits which she was in, I would have thrown up every chance and come back at once, to put my shoulder to the wheel in some shape. I wouldn't have permitted it."
"How happen you here just now?"
"My niece, Amy, wrote me of her mother's death. Itwas a brief, heart-broken little letter. I have it here. It brought me home, but I still fancied that home was this house." The gentleman took from his pocket a small envelope and read its enclosure aloud. It was, as he had stated, extremely short and gave only the facts.
"My dear Uncle Frederic: Our mother is dead. She is buried at Quaker cemetery. My father and Hallam are well. So is Cleena. I don't know how to write to you because you are really a stranger to me. The burros are both well. Your loving
"Amy Kaye."
"There, that's all. It was enough to bring me clear across the continent, however. My heart aches; I should have come sooner. Oh, for one sight of Salome's beautiful face before—" He dropped his head on his hand and a sob shook the strong frame.
The doctor rose and busied himself about his patient. He respected the brother's grief, and he liked this man, unthrifty and neglectful as he might have been.
Then Marshall made a sign, and the physician left the room so quietly that Mr. Kaye did not hear him go. Outside, in the hall, the valet was waiting, almost breathless with eagerness.
"Will he live?" he questioned in a whisper.
"Time will tell. I hope so," was the unsatisfactory response.
"Well, if he don't, that's his—murderer."
The other sprang back as if he had been struck.
"Man, take care what you say! How dare you?"
"Ain't it reasonable? Didn't he say he was the man that owned the mill, this house, everything before master did? Who else had a grudge against the poor old man?"
"Lots of people, I reckon. It won't hurt him to tell the truth. He was as testy as a snapping turtle—you know that. Plenty of folks disliked him. Most likely the person who attacked him was a tramp who hoped to find money. By the way, did anybody look to see if there had been robbery as well as assault?"
"I did. No; there wasn't anything stole, so far as I know. That's what, one thing—why it must have been—"
Dr. Wise laid his hand on Marshall's shoulder.
"Look here, man, you stop that talk. Not another word of it. How dare you, I say how dare you, thrust suspicion upon an innocent man? I'd stake my life on the integrity of any Kaye was ever born. Unfortunate this returned wanderer may be, but—If you let me hear one single word more of such fol-de-rol, I'll make it hot for you. Understand? Haven't we got enough on our hands to keep your master alive? There must be quiet here, absolute quiet. It's your business to have it maintained; and if you don't, I'll have you punished as accessory to the deed. Hear me?"
All this had been delivered in the lowest tone possible, yet each syllable was as distinctly enunciated as if it had been shouted. The doctor knew Marshall. He chose that idle threat of "accessory" as the safest means to accomplish his own object.
This was all very well, so far as it went. Unfortunately, the doctor was not the only person to whom the valet had already announced his suspicion. There were other servants in the kitchen, and they had been swiftly poisoned by his opinion. So that when, after a sleepless night of watching beside his kinsman's bed, Frederic Kaye set off for "Charity House" and his relatives, he was even then a marked man.
Into the sacredness of reunion, when the little family on the knoll were discussing all that had befallen them, on either side, and the two men were renewing old affections, while Hallam and Amy were forming new ones for this new uncle, there came an alarming summons.
A local officer of the law presented himself before the group and on behalf of the public safety arrested the stranger.
"Arrest me? Why, what in the name of justice do you mean?"
"Just what I say. For the attack upon a peaceful citizen, who lies at the point of death, brought there by your villainous hand," repeated the sheriff, solemnly. He so seldom had opportunity to exercise his office that he now embellished it with all the dignity possible.
"Indeed, take care of your words, friend! It was a case of rescue, not attack. You are slightly mixed in your ideas, sir. I found him suffering a terrible horsewhipping at the hands of somebody whom I do not know, who slipped away from me when I seized him, and disappeared in the darkness. I was too anxious over Mr. Wingate to notice, or even care, which direction the rascal took. But—aha, it's too absurd!"
"Remember that whatever you say will be used against you," cautioned the officer of the law.
"Let it. I could ask no better treatment."
"You say you grabbed a fellow. What was he like?"
"It was too dark to see distinctly. He appeared rather tall and slim. I don't remember that he said a word, but he laughed harshly as he ran. Somehow, that laugh gave me the impression that the man was demented. But I have nothing else to judge by, and I would not be unjust. The thing for which to be thankful is that Dr. Wise hopes my kinsman's injuries are not fatal."
"Hmm. All the same, sir, you will have to go with me."
Frederic Kaye turned toward his friends a countenance which expressed as much amusement as annoyance. Cuthbert Kaye had risen, and his face was white with indignation. The sight of this, determined his brother-in-law to yield quietly to the inevitable. He had heard much during his night with Dr. Wise of theartist's recent condition, and he felt it would be criminal to let him become excited now. So he laid his hand affectionately upon the trembling shoulder, and remarked, with laughing disdain:—
"Why, lad, don't think of it. It's a ludicrous mistake, of course, and the best, the simplest way to correct it is for me to go with this gentleman; and I doubt not I'll be back in time for dinner. Why, Cleena, woman, take care! It's delightful to find you so loyal to your 'black sheep,' but fisticuffs won't answer, nor even a shillalah."
This was a diversion, and everybody laughed. For Cleena had advanced threateningly toward the sheriff, raising her rolling-pin, that she happened to have in hand, as if she would bring it down upon his offending head. Her hand dropped to her side, but her eyes did not cease to hurl contempt upon the officer, as, under cover of the merriment resulting, Frederic Kaye himself led the way out of the house toward the "bar of justice."
Because Cleena fancied that Amy had taken cold, the girl had remained at home that morning, but she now begged to be allowed to return to the mill.
"I want to go and see Mr. Metcalf. He'll be the very one to help Uncle Frederic, if he needs help, and I'd rather tell him the story myself."
"If you go, I will too," said Hallam, quickly. "I'll have no holidays you do not share."
"Nonsense! Your work is 'piece work.' If you get behind at one time, you can make it up at another. The superintendent told me you could soon bring it home to do, if you wished."
"But I shall not wish—not for the present. Let us both go."
Mr. Kaye looked up as if he would remonstrate. Then he took up a western newspaper that their guest had laid down, and began to read. But his children had seen his glance, and interpreted it to themselves by a swift exchange of their own. Amy's eyes spoke to her brother's, as plainly as words:—
"We mustn't leave him alone to-day," and Hallam's had telegraphed back:—
"No, I see that. One of us must stay."
"Well, father, Hal is not half so necessary to the success of Ardsley Mill as I am. He's going to help you mount those sketches this morning, while I hunt up Uncle Frederic, and try to get a 'day off' to visit with him. Cleena must dish up the remains of the yesterday dinner for us, and we'll keep Christmas over again. Isn't it just lovely, lovely, to have one's relatives turn up in this delightful fashion? First, Cousin Archibald, behaving just like other folks; and now this romantic arrival of the long-lost uncle. Good-by. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Mr. Kaye and Hallam repaired to the upper floor as Amy went away, but Cleena remained standing for along time, motionless in the middle of the room. Her head was bent, and her gaze fixed, as if she were studying some matter deeply. Finally she roused with a mighty sigh and stalked out of the room.
"Sure, the pother o' life. It's an' up an' down, so fast it makes a body dizzy in their wits. That boy, Fayetty, one day as good as a fine fish o' Friday; the next—eatin' me heart out with the worry. Never a doubt I doubt 'twas himself belabored the old man on his road home. There's bad blood 'twixt 'em. But I'll aye see if he's in his bed the now."
So she ascended to the back chamber that Fayette used. To her knock there came, at first, no response; but she kept on with her tapping and interspersed this with coaxing tones, and finally a voice answered her.
"What you want?"
"Yerself, avick."
"Well, you can't have me."
"Can I no? It's two makes a bargain."
"Clear out."
"After you is manners for me. Come by."
"Leave me alone."
"I'd take shame to myself. Have ye heard the fine doin's? No?"
"What doings?"
"The lad's back from foreign parts, Miss Amy's uncle. He's the one has donkeys in his pocket. Heard ye ever o' him?"
"Where's he at?"
"Faith, I d' know. Belike he's after takin' a stroll about, meetin' old friends. What for no? Come on an' help me get a fine dinner out o' scraps."
"Suppose he'd give me one?"
"Never a doubt I doubt,he'll give ye all ye deserve. Come by. There's kindlin' to split an' praties to peel, an'—Whist! What's that I hear?"
Fayette's curiosity was very strong. It had led him into trouble more than once. It now induced him to open the door and peep through.
"What's that, Cleena? Anything happenin'?"
"Arrah musha, but I think yes!"
"What?"
"Sure, if ye're askin', I'm believin' it's Willyum Gladstone happenin' down in your minin' hole."
"Huckleberries!"
The door flew open, Fayette rushed by as if he could not move half fast enough. It seemed to Cleena he cleared the stairs with two bounds, and an instant after she heard him hurrying into the cellar at the same headlong pace.
"Hmm. I thought that'd fetch him," she chuckled. Then she suddenly remembered that she had once heard the lad speak of using "giant powder," or some such explosive in his work of the underground passage. She had strictly forbidden this, and had carefully watched lest any suspicious material might be broughtupon the premises. She had even persuaded Teamster John to examine the trench and the articles which Fayette had placed there. He had found nothing wrong, and the pick and the shovel had been so long disused that they had rusted. Of late Cleena had let William Gladstone play down there in the soft dirt, while she was busy at other things.
"Alanna, the day!"
Cleena followed her leader only a trifle less swiftly, and reached the top of the cellar stairs just in time to receive a whirling object plump in her arms. The object was the incipient statesman, and in a second more the half-wit had also reached the kitchen floor and had shut the door behind him.
"I'll teach him to interfere with my gold mine!"
"Oh, Mr. Metcalf, may I come in?"
The superintendent was alone in his office and admitted Amy at once. "Such strange things have happened, I've not come to work to-day, but to ask your help. My Uncle Frederic—"
"Sit down, child, you are breathless with haste. You needn't talk. I have heard your news. Dr. Wise has sent me a message. I am expecting him here immediately."
"Isn't it dreadful?"
"Very," answered the gentleman, and his grave face emphasized his words. He knew Archibald Wingate better than anybody else could know him. He was the rich man's confidential employee, from whom no weaknesses were hid. He believed the mill owner to be vindictive, and he had heard his often-expressed contempt for the "whole family of Kaye, so far as its men are concerned." Of course, this had been some time ago; before Fairacres had become Mr. Wingate's home. Since then his enmity toward his relatives had seemed to slumber, it had even altered to a sort offriendliness; yet Mr. Metcalf had no faith in the endurance of this friendliness should any test be put upon it. The attack of the night before had pointed suspicion very strongly toward one of "the Kayes," and should the victim recover, he would, doubtless, prosecute to the full extent of the law the person who had assaulted him.
"Do you know how he is?"
"Of whom do you ask?"
"Cousin Archibald, of course. I am so sorry for him. If I hadn't to work, I would go and take care of him, if he'd let me."
"I don't think he would. Besides, you would not be either strong or wise enough. He must have trained nursing, the best obtainable. I hear that he has recovered consciousness and is resting quietly. What complications may arise one cannot foresee. He has been a high liver, and he is an old man; but I hope for the best. I hope it not only for his sake, but everybody's concerned."
"Wasn't it queer that that man, that officer,—a sheriff he called himself,—should come after my uncle? It frightened my father, so Hallam stayed with him. I'm sorry to be away from my place to-day, but Cleena fancies I have taken cold. Then, too, since Uncle Frederic came, of course I should devote myself to him. He's just splendid. So big and strong and jolly. Even under his sorrow about my mother he is as sunshiny aspossible. He's like a fresh west wind that 'airs' a house so wonderfully. I do want you to see him; and I came to ask if you'd just go and explain to that sheriff how silly it is to suspect him."
Mr. Metcalf regarded Amy for a moment in silence. With all her good sense, she was as ignorant as a child of many things in practical life. He answered her very gently:—
"I expect to see him soon, that is my intention. Dr. Wise and I will become his 'bail', so that he can soon be set at liberty."
"I do not understand you. What do you mean?"
"Why, this: your uncle has been arrested upon suspicion of waylaying and assaulting Mr. Wingate. He will be imprisoned unless somebody becomes surety for him, that he will appear at court when summoned to stand his trial and prove his innocence if he can. It is right you should know this, though extremely disagreeable for me to speak of it."
Amy's face paled as he talked. She did not wonder that her father had been frightened. The thing was horrible, and the disgrace of it crushed her. She bowed her head beneath its weight, and sat silent so long that the superintendent was moved to rise and comfort her.
"Don't take it so to heart, my child; there is, of course, some great mistake. The thing is—to find out who the real assailant was and bring him to justice. This, unfortunately, will be a difficult matter."
"No; I won't mind it. Why should I? If he had done this wicked thing, I should be right to feel shame; but he didn't. Oh! I've just thought of something that might help. Uncle Frederic said he caught the man by the collar, and the man slipped out of his coat and ran away. Where is the coat? Has anybody looked for it?"
"Several persons, my own messenger among others. There is no trace of any garment anywhere near the highroad. If we could find that, as you say, it would simplify matters greatly. Come with me; I heard Nanette wishing she could show you her Christmas gifts. To hear her describe each, one would imagine she could see them. She is so interested about Balaam, too. She wonders where he is, and if he misses Pepita as much as she would miss one of her numerous sisters. When Dr. Wise has been here and we have concluded our business, I will call for you, probably, with your uncle. I have a new horse I'm anxious to try, and things are so unsettled here to-day—"
"Unsettled?"
"Yes; Ardsley doesn't often have such a sensation as its wealthiest citizen being horsewhipped. It's difficult to get the hands to work regularly. It's just as well you do not try, till it's blown over. You would be asked no end of questions, idle as the people who would put them."
In his kind heart he wished to save her not only thequestions, but the shadow which might rest upon her because of her misjudged relative. By nightfall, or earlier, he was determined to have the Californian set at liberty. It was an outrage that one who acted the good Samaritan should receive such reward, and he believed that two as influential townsmen as Dr. Wise and himself could, by their indorsement of the prisoner, turn the tide of public opinion in his favor.
So Amy went again to the Metcalf home and forgot all her cares in the midst of its bright young people. The hours went swiftly round, and it was not till the gate clicked and a trio of gentlemen came striding up the path that she remembered how anxious she had been.
Then she sped out of the house and flung herself into her uncle's arms.
"Oh, I'm so glad they found out their mistake! How ashamed that sheriff will be! Please, Mr. Metcalf, may I show him his own little Pepita, that was? And thank you for helping him to explain, or for the 'bail,' and everything. Thank you, too, Dr. Wise. Do you know how Mr. Wingate is?"
"Improving. He's pretty badly scared and shocked, but I think he will come out all right."
"Can he tell who struck him? That would clear everything up all right."
"Yes; it would be a simple solution of the matter. I am hoping he will be able to tell, after a while; butfor the present my object is to prevent, as far as possible, his recalling the incident. He must not be excited, else there may be fever. But all in good time, I think. Now Mr. Metcalf has invited us to ride behind his new horse. I have an hour of leisure, and I propose to show this old Ardsley boy the changes a few years have made, even in our quiet town. Did I hear anything about a small girl named Amy being one of the party?"
"Indeed, you did. Oh, what a treat! A real Christmas gift. To ride behind a brand new horse, beside a brand new uncle, in a brand new carriage, is enough to turn my head; so forgive me if I'm silly—sillier than common. And oh, Mr. Metcalf, can't Nanette go too? She's so little she takes up no room worth mentioning, and I love her."
It was a merry party. Amy believed that all the morning's trouble had been overcome, and did not realize that being out on bail was in itself sort of an imprisonment to a man of honor. Until the real culprit was found Frederic Kaye would still be under suspicion; yet he could enjoy his parole, and this ride had been purposely planned by his friends as a means of influencing that variable public opinion which had first promptly misjudged him.
Therefore, they drove through the principal streets of the town, past all its business places, and lingered by the haunts of the village gossips, that Ardsleyites might see and comment.
"Well, if that don't beat all!" exclaimed Mrs. Hackett to her customers. "There's Dr. Wise and the 'Supe' driving Mister Fred all over creation. I guess they don't believe anything against him, bad as things look. I don't know as 'tis right, either. I guess I'll wait and see before I make up my mind."
But having already spread the "news" by means of every villager who had visited her place of business that morning, this was rather late in season to stem the tide of rumor; though on the principle of "better late than never," it may have done some good.
When the ride was over and the Kayes deposited at the door of "Charity House," Amy was in the wildest of spirits. It seemed to her as if the world were the loveliest, friendliest place, and her gayety infected all about her. The gentlemen accompanied Mr. Frederic into the new home and spent an hour delightfully with the artist, amid his pictures. Then Cleena, aided by Amy, brought in a tray of luncheon, and they stayed to share it.
"Blessings on Teamster John's turkey. What a lot of comfort it has given lots of folks!" remarked Amy to Cleena, in the kitchen, as she surveyed the neatly arranged tray.
"Yes, so be. Arrah musha, were the man as sensible as his fowl I'd know. But, colleen, keep an eye to that back door. Fayette's behind, in the store closet. It's behind he must stay or there's mischief a-brewin'."
"Indeed, I wonder he isn't putting himself forward, to attract Uncle Frederic's notice, as he always does of strangers. Well, poor lad, I fancy the introduction can wait. When you've carried in the tray, I'll go and serve them."
But after the light meal was over and the guests departed, Hallam became absorbed in the new magazines that his uncle produced from his valise; while the elder Kayes dropped back into the reminiscences that were so interesting to themselves and so dull to Amy. Try as she would, now that all was quiet, she could not keep from her mind a picture of Archibald Wingate, riding home from a pleasant visit and suffering such mischance.
"My first little dinner-party, too. I must go and see him. I must tell him that I am sorry. I must offer to help."
So, after a while, as the afternoon waned, Amy put on her outdoor things, and telling only Cleena her errand, set off for Fairacres. She was admitted by a strange servant, and was passing straight toward the room which her cousin occupied when she was met and prevented by Marshall.