"Why, Elisha!" exclaimed Marcia. "How you startled me. Come in. You're all dressed up, aren't you? Have you been to a funeral?"
"No. I—we—"
The sheriff cleared his throat.
"Me an' Eleazer—" he began.
"Eleazer? Did he come with you?"
Elisha nodded.
"Where is he?"
"Outside."
"Isn't he coming in?"
"Yes—yes. He's comin' presently."
"Perhaps he doesn't dare," Marcia remarked with spirit. "I don't wonder he hesitates. He ran off with my dory yesterday."
"That warn't Eleazer. That was me."
"You? But I didn't know you were here."
"I was. I took the boat on official business," Elisha explained.
Marcia's laughter, crystalline as a mountain stream, musical as its melody, rippled through the room.
"Official business!" she repeated derisively. "Official business indeed! When, I'd like to know, did Wilton ever have any official business? Don'tjoke, Elisha. This taking my boat is no joking matter. It is a serious thing to leave me here with no way of getting ashore quickly. I didn't like it at all."
"I'm sorry," apologized the sheriff uncomfortably. "You see, an emergency arose—"
"No emergency is important enough for you to take my boat without asking. Please remember that."
"I will," squeaked the offender, coloring under the reprimand like a chastened schoolboy. "I won't do it again, I promise you."
"All right. You're forgiven this time. Now sit down and tell me the news."
His dignity, his pomposity put to rout Elisha, feeling very small indeed, backed into the nearest chair.
Instead of making the rafters of the Homestead quake at his presence; instead of humbling Heath, reducing Marcia to trembling admiration, here he sat cowed and apologetic.
It was not at all the sort of entrance he had mapped out. It would not do. He had got a wrong start.
Before Eleazer put in an appearance, he must right himself.
With a preliminary ahem, he hitched forward in the rocking chair.
"You won't mind if I go on with my baking, will you?" Marcia said, bustling toward the stove. "I'm makin' dried apple turnovers. They'll be done in a second and you shall have one."
"I thought I smelled pie crust," Elisha murmured vaguely.
"You thought right."
Kneeling, Marcia opened the door of the oven.
"Isn't that a sight for sore eyes?" inquired she as she drew out a pan of spicy brown pastries and placed them, hot and fragrant, on the table. "Now, I'll get you a plate, fork and some cheese."
"I don't need no fork," Elisha protested. "I can take it in my fingers."
"Oh, you better not do that. It's sticky and you might get a spot on your Sunday clothes."
His Sunday clothes!
Elisha came to himself.
He rose up.
"I oughtn't to be eatin', anyhow," he called after Marcia as she retreated into the pantry. "You see, I come here this mornin' to—"
"I guess a nice hot apple turnover won't go amiss no matter what you came for," interrupted the woman, returning with the plate, fork and cheese.
With deftness she whisked the triangle of flaky pastry onto the plate and extended it toward her guest.
Its warm, insidious perfume was too much for Elisha.
He sat down with the plate in his lap.
He had taken only an introductory mouthful, however, when the door parted a crack and Eleazer crept cautiously through the opening.
For a moment he stood transfixed, viewing the scene with amazement; then he burst out in a torrent of reproach.
"'Lish Winslow, what on earth are you doin'? Here I've been waitin' outside in the wind, ketchin' my death of cold an' worryin' lest you was dead—hearin' neither word nor sign of you—an' you settin' here by the stove rockin' an' eatin' pie! What do you think you come for, anyhow?"
"I know, Eleazer, I know," Elisha stammered, ducking his head before the accusing finger of his colleague. "It may, mebbe, seem queer to you. I just hadn't got round to the business in hand, that's all. I'm comin' to it."
"Comin' to it? You don't look as if you was."
"I am," protested the sheriff, cramming the turnover into his mouth and drawing his hand hurriedly across his lips. "I'm comin' to it in time. Be patient, Eleazer! Be patient, can't you?"
"I've been patient half an hour a'ready an' you ain't, apparently, even made a beginnin'."
"Yes I have, Eleazer. I've made a start. Thepie's et. That's done an' over."
"But you had no right to stop an' eat. You had no business eatin' pie, anyhow. Ain't you got indigestion?"
"I—wal, yes. I do recall havin' a qualm or two of dyspepsia," Elisha owned in a conciliatory tone. "That's gone, though. I reckon the fresh air kinder scat it off. I'd clean forgot about it."
"Mebbe you'd clean forgot what you come here to do, too," derided Eleazer.
"No. Oh, no. I didn't forget that. I was just leadin' up to it in a sorter tactful way."
"There ain't no way of bein' tactful when you're arrestin' folks. You've got the thing to do an' you have to go straight to it."
A fork clattered from Marcia's shaking hand to the floor.
"Arresting folks?" she repeated, looking from one man to the other.
"Yes. Since 'Lish is so spineless at his job, I may's well tell you what we come for. He don't 'pear to have no notion of doin' so," Eleazer sneered. "Pretty kind of a sheriff he is! You'd think to see him he was at an afternoon tea."
"You better look out, Eleazer Crocker, how you insult an officer of the law," Elisha bawled angrily. "Say a word more an' I'll hail you into court."
"If you don't land me there faster'n you doHeath I shan't worry," jeered Eleazer.
"Heath? Mr. Heath?" Marcia repeated.
"Yes. We come over here this mornin' to place Mr. Stanley Heath under arrest," Eleazer announced.
The woman caught at the edge of the table.
"Place him under arrest? What for?"
So they knew the truth! In some way they had found it out and the net of the law was closing in.
Her mind worked rapidly. She must gain time—worm out of them how much they know.
"Of what are you accusing Mr. Heath?" she demanded, drawing herself to her full height and unconsciously moving until her back was against the door leading to the stairway.
"Of the Long Island robbery," Eleazer answered.
"You mean to say you think him a thief?"
"We know he's one—leastways Elisha does."
"Don't go foistin' it all on me," snarled Elisha.
"But you do know, don't you? You said you did."
"I—yes! I'm tol'able sure. I have evidence," Elisha replied. "At least I figger I have."
"Shucks, 'Lish!" Eleazer cried. "Where's your backbone? You figger you have! Don't you know it? Ain't you beheld the loot with your own eyes?"
Elisha nodded.
"Then why on earth don't you stand up in your boots an' say so?"
The door opened and Sylvia entered then stopped, arrested on the threshold by the sound of angry voices.
Inquiringly she looked from Marcia to the men, and back again.
No one, however, heeded her presence.
Marcia, with whitened lips but with face grave and determined, remained with her back to the stairway door, her arms stretched across its broad panels, her eyes never leaving Elisha Winslow's. There was something in her face Sylvia had never seen there—a light of battle; a fierceness as of a mother fighting for her child; a puzzling quality to which no name could be given.
Suddenly, as the girl studied her, recognition of this new characteristic flashed upon her understanding.
It was love!
Anger, perhaps terror, had forced Marcia into betraying a secret no other power could have dragged from her.
Sylvia marveled that the men whose gaze was riveted upon her did not also read her involuntary confession.
Apparently they failed to do so.
"Ain't I said a'ready I had proof? What more do you want me to do, Eleazer?" Elisha fumed.
"What proof have you?" Marcia interposed.
Elisha shifted from one foot to the other.
"I've seen the jewels," he whispered. "They're here—in this room. Don't think I'm blamin' you, Marcia. 'Course Heath bein' what he is, is nothin' against you," he hurried on breathlessly. "We're all aware you wouldn't shelter no criminal did you know he was a criminal; nor would you furnish a hidin' place for his stolen goods. What I'm sayin' is news to you an' a shock. I can see that. Naturally it's hard to find our friends ain't what we thought 'em. When faced with the evidence, though, you'll see the truth same's Eleazer an' me see it.
"Heath, the feller overhead, is the Long Island jewel robber.
"The jewels he stole are under that brick. I've seen 'em."
With finger pointing dramatically toward the hearth, Elisha strode forward.
Sylvia, however, sprang before him, standing 'twixt him and his goal.
"What a ridiculous story, Mr. Winslow!" she cried. "What a fantastic yarn! Do you imagine for one moment there could be anything hidden under those bricks and Marcia and I not know it? Why, one or the other of us has been in this room every instant since Mr. Heath arrived. When could he get the chance to hide anything? Didn't you andDoctor Stetson get here almost as soon as he did? Wasn't it you who undressed him? Had he brought jewels with him you would have found them inside his clothing. You took off every rag he wore. Did you discover any such thing?"
"N—o."
"Well, then, don't you see how absurd such an accusation is? How could the gems get here?"
"I don't know how they got here. All I know is they're here," Elisha repeated stubbornly.
Sylvia's brain was busy.
That Elisha by some means or other had stumbled upon the truth there could be no doubt.
How was she to prevent it if he insisted upon searching as it was obvious he intended to do?
Not only was Marcia ignorant of Heath's true character but also that the jewels lay concealed close at hand. She would receive an overwhelming shock if the proof of his guilt came upon her in this brutal fashion.
Did she not believe in him? Love him?
It was for Marcia Sylvia was fighting, not Heath—Marcia whom she adored and whom she was determined to save from Elisha's power at any cost.
If after the two meddling officials had gone she could be convinced that the hero on whom her heart was set was unworthy, that was matter for later discussion.
All that was of import now was to defend him; shield him from discovery; give him the chance for escape.
It was at the moment she reached this decision that Marcia's voice, calm and unwavering, broke upon the stillness:
"If you are so certain about the jewels, Elisha, why don't you produce them?" she was saying.
"No—no, Marcia!" Sylvia protested. "There is nothing here, Mr. Winslow, truly there is nothing. I swear it."
"Nevertheless, let him look, Sylvia."
"But Marcia—" begged the girl.
"Step aside, dear, and let him look. Let them both look."
"Please—please, Marcia—!"
Sylvia was upon her knees now on the hearth, and the men, hesitating to remove her by force, halted awkwardly.
Her face, drawn with terror, was upturned to Marcia and was pitiful in its pleading.
Marcia regarded her first with startled incredulity—then with coldness.
So Sylvia loved Heath, too!
She was fighting for him—fighting with all her feeble strength.
A pang wrenched the older woman's heart.
What if Heath had played a double game—madelove to Sylvia as he had made love to her? Convinced her of the depths of his affection with an ardor so compelling that against all odds she, too, believed in it?
If so—if the man were a mountebank the sooner they both found it out—the sooner all the world knew it, the better.
If, on the other hand, he was innocent, he should have his chance.
The older woman went to the side of the pleading figure.
The surprise of her discovery crisped her voice so that it was short and commanding.
"Get up, Sylvia," she said. "The sheriff must search. He must do his duty. We have no right to prevent it."
Obedient to the authoritative tone, the girl arose.
"Now, gentlemen, you may search," Marcia said.
Neither Elisha Winslow nor his companion had cause now to complain of any lack of dignity in the law's fulfillment.
As if she were a magistrate seeing justice done, Marcia, magnificent in silence, towered above them while they stooped to perform their task. Her face was pale, her lips tightly set.
The brick was lifted out.
A smothered cry escaped Sylvia and was echoed by Elisha.
"Why—land alive—there's nothin' here!" gasped the sheriff.
"I told you there was nothing!" Sylvia taunted, beginning to laugh hysterically. "I told you so—but you would not believe me."
Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she wiped them away, strangling a convulsive sob.
"Wal, 'Lish, all I can say is you must either 'a' been wool gatherin' or dreamin' when you conceived this yarn," Eleazer jeered.
"I warn't," hissed Elisha, stung to the quick. "I warn't dreamin'. Them jewels was there. I saw 'em with my own eyes. I swear to heaven I did." Then as if a new idea flashed into his mind, he confronted Sylvia. "They was there, young lady, warn't they? You know they was. That's why you was so scairt for me to look. You've seen 'em, too."
"I?"
"Yes, you. Deny it if you dare."
"Of course I deny it."
"Humph! But Marcia won't. You can lie if you want to to save the skin of that good-for-nothin' critter upstairs—though what purpose is served by your doin' it I can't see. But Marcia won't. She'll speak the truth same's she always has an' always will. No lie will cross her lips. If she says them jewels warn't here I'll believe it. Come now, Marcia.Mebbe you've evidence that'll hist me out of the idiot class. Was there ever diamonds an' things under this brick or warn't there?"
"Yes."
"You saw 'em?"
As if the admission was dragged from her, Marcia formed, but did not utter, the word:
"Yes."
"They was under this brick, warn't they?"
"Yes."
"There! Then I ain't gone daffy! What I said was true," Elisha acclaimed, rising in triumph and snapping his finger at Eleazer.
"The jewels were Mr. Heath's. He hid them for safe keeping."
"He told you that?"
"Yes."
"A likely story! He stole 'em—that's what he did."
"I don't believe it."
"I do," leered the sheriff.
"Prove it then," challenged Marcia, with sudden spirit, a spot of crimson burning on either cheek.
"Prove it?" Elisha was taken aback. "Wal, I can't at the moment do that. I can't prove it. But even if I can't, I can make out a good enough case against him to arrest him on suspicion. That's what I mean to do—that's what I come for an'what I'll do 'fore I leave this house."
Marcia swept across the floor.
Once again she was poised, back against the door leading to the stairs.
"Mr. Heath is sick."
"I guess he ain't so sick but what I can go up an' cross-examine him."
"I ask you not go to. I forbid it."
"Law, Marcia!"
"I forbid it," repeated the woman. "Drop this matter for a day or two, Elisha. Mr. Heath shall not leave the house. I promise you that. I will give you my bond. Leave him here in peace until he is well again. When he is able to—to—go with you I will telephone. You can trust me. When have I ever been false to my word?"
"Never, Marcia! Never in all the years I've known you."
"Then go and leave the affair in my hands."
"I don't know—mebbe—I wonder if I'd oughter," ruminated Elisha. "'Tain't legal."
"No matter."
"I don't see why the mischief you're so crazy to stand 'twixt this Heath chap an' justice, Marcia. The feller's a scoundrel. That's what he is—an out an' out scoundrel. Not only is he a thief but he's a married man who's plottin' behind your back to betray you—boastin' openly in telegrams he is."
"What do you mean?"
"I wouldn't like to tell you. In fact I couldn't. 'Twould be repeatin' what was told me in confidence," hedged Elisha, frightened by the expression of the woman's face.
"You must tell me."
"Mebbe—mebbe—there warn't no truth in what I heard."
"I must judge of that."
"I ain't got no right to tell you. Things are often told me in confidence, 'cause of my bein' sheriff, that it ain't expected I'll pass on."
"I have a right to know about the telegram you mention. Will you tell me or shall I call up the Sawyer Falls operator?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake don't do that," Elisha pleaded. "Artie Nickerson would be ragin' mad did he find I'd told you. If you must know what the message was, I can repeat it near 'nough, I reckon. It ran somethin' like this:
"Safe on Cape with my lady. Shall return with her later."
"And that was all?" inquired Marcia calmly.
"All! Ain't that enough?" Elisha demanded. "There was a word or two more 'bout clothes bein' sent here, but nothin' of any note. The first of the message was the important part," concluded the sheriff.
As she vouchsafed no reply and the ticking of the clock beat out an embarrassing silence, he presently continued:
"I don't want you should think I told you this, Marcia, with any unfriendly motive. It's only that those of us who've seen you marry one worthless villain don't want you should marry another. Jason was a low down cuss. You know that well's I."
The woman raised her hand to check him.
"I'm aware 'tain't pleasant to hear me say so out loud, but it's God's truth. Every man an' woman in Wilton knows 'tis. Folks is fond of you, Marcia. We don't want you made miserable a second time."
"Marcia!" Sylvia burst out. "Marcia!"
"Hush, dear. We'll talk of this later. Elisha, I think I must ask you and Eleazer to go now. I will let you know when Mr. Heath is able to take up this affair with you."
"You ain't goin' to tell me where the jewels are?"
"I don't know where they are."
"Nor nothin' 'bout—'bout the telegram."
"Nothing except to thank you for your kind intentions and say you quoted it quite correctly. I sent it for Mr. Heath myself."
"But—but—"
"My Lady, as you have apparently forgotten, is the name of Mr. Heath's boat—the boat you yourself helped pull off the shoals."
"My land! So 'tis," faltered Elisha. "I'm almighty sorry, Marcia—I ask your pardon."
"Me, too! We come with the best of intentions—" rejoined Eleazer, fumbling for his cap. "Honest we did."
"It's all right. Just leave us now, please."
As the two men shuffled across the kitchen, a heavy object dropped to the floor, interrupting their jumbled apologies.
"Pick up them handcuffs, 'Lish, an' come along double-quick," Eleazer muttered beneath his breath. "You've made a big enough fool of yourself as 'tis. Don't put your foot in any deeper."
"And here's your hat," added Sylvia, handing the bewildered sheriff his property with an impish bow. "Take it and scram—both of you."
As the door banged behind the discomfited officials, clear as a bell on the quiet air came the twitting voice of Eleazer:
"Wal, Scram got said, didn't it, 'Lish, even if 'twarn't you said it? That gal is an up-to-date little piece. She knows what's what. I told you no shindy of this sort was complete unless somebody said: Scram!"
Leftalone, Marcia, weary and spent, collapsed into a chair and closed her eyes, appearing to forget the presence of the girl who, with parted lips, hovered impatiently at her elbow.
Something in the woman's aloofness not only discouraged speech but rendered any interruption an intrusion.
At length, however, she roused herself and sighing deeply looked about, and taking the gesture as permission to break the silence, the torrent of words Sylvia had until now held in check, broke from her:
"Was it true, Marcia—what they said about Uncle Jason I mean? Was it true?"
"I'm afraid so, dear."
"But you never told me; and you never told Mother, either. Of course I see why. You didn't want her to know because it would have broken her heart. So you kept it all to yourself. You did not mean I should find it out, did you?"
"Not if I could help it."
Sylvia knelt, taking the cold hands in hers.
"I hate him!" cried she fiercely. "I hate him for making you unhappy and spoiling your life!"
"Hush, child. Jason has not spoiled my life," contradicted Marcia with a grave, sad smile.
"But he has scarred it—dashed to pieces all the dreams you started out with—those beautiful dreams a girl has when she is young. I know what they are, for I dream them myself sometimes. They are lovely, delicate things. We never quite expect they will come true; yet for all that we believe in them. I know you had such fancies once, for you are the sort who would. And Jason came and trampled on them—"
"He made me see life as it was. Perhaps it was better I should."
"We all have to see life as it is sooner or later. But there are plenty of years ahead in which to do it. The man who destroys the world of illusion in which a girl lives destroys something no one can ever give back to her."
"I don't know that I should say that," returned Marcia with a faint, shadowy smile as if pursuing some secret, intriguing fancy.
"But it's never the same again, I mean—never the same."
"No, it's never the same," agreed the woman soberly.
"Was Jason as bad as they said, Marcia? Ah, you don't have to answer. There is no need for you to try to reconcile your desire to spare me—spare him—with the truth. He was as bad—probably much worse. Dear, dear Marcia." ImpulsivelySylvia bent her lips to the hands so tightly clasped in hers. "I cannot imagine," she rushed on, "why, when one of my family had made you as wretched as he did, you should have wanted another in the house. Had I suffered so I should never have wished to lay eyes on any more Howes as long as I lived."
"But Jason had nothing to do with you, Sylvia."
"The same blood ran in our veins."
"Perhaps that was the reason."
"Because you could forgive, you mean?" whispered Sylvia. "You are a better Christian than I, my dear. I could never have forgiven."
"I have tried not only to forgive but to forget. I have closed the door on the past and begun a new life."
"And now into it has come this Stanley Heath," the girl said.
For the fraction of a second Marcia did not reply; then almost inaudibly she murmured:
"Yes."
Sylvia slipped one of her strong young arms about the bowed shoulders.
"It just seems as if I could not bear it," she burst out passionately.
"Sylvia, look at me. Tell me the truth. Do you, too, love Stanley Heath?"
"I?"
"Was that the reason you fought against Elisha'sfinding the jewels? Tell me. I must know."
"No," she answered without hesitation. "At first he did fascinate me. He is a fascinating person. An older man always fascinates a younger girl if he has charm. I changed my mind, though, later on. Not because on acquaintance he became less charming. It wasn't that. If anything, he became more so. I just—just—changed my mind," she repeated, avoiding Marcia's eyes. "As for the jewels, I could not bear to let that little runt of a sheriff win out. You see, I thought the gems were there under the brick and that when you urged him to search, you did not know it.
"I had known all along they were in the house, for I stumbled upon them by accident one day when I was here alone; but I had no idea you had. I truly believed Mr. Heath had hidden them beneath the hearth, and I was determined Elisha should not find them."
"I knew they weren't there."
"You'd moved them? Put them somewhere else?"
"No, indeed. Didn't you hear me tell Elisha I did not know where they were?"
"Oh, of course. But you'd have said that anyway," smiled Sylvia, dimpling.
"Why—why, Sylvia!"
"You certainly wouldn't have let those men findthem," she added comfortably.
"On the contrary, if the jewels had been in the house and I had been compelled to tell what I knew, I should have told the truth."
"You would? You would have showed those two miserable blood-hounds where they were?" asked the girl incredulously.
"Certainly."
"I wouldn't," flashed Sylvia, clinching her small hands. "I would have fought that sheriff tooth and nail. I'd have lied—stooped to any means to prevent him from unearthing the evidence he was after."
"But the law, Sylvia—the law."
"I wouldn't give a rap for the law. You love Stanley Heath. That's enough for me. Besides, he is being tracked down—trapped. I want him to go free."
"You think he took the jewels?" asked Marcia, slowly.
"Certainly I do. Don't you?"
"No."
"But, Marcia, can't you see how plain it all is? I know it is terrible for you, dear. It almost breaks my heart. It is an awful thing to believe of anybody—harder still of a person one loves. Nevertheless, we must face the facts. People do not carry such things about with them—especially men. Hecame by them in no honest way, you may be sure of that. Hasn't he told you anything?—haven't you asked him?"
"I wouldn't think of asking him," Marcia replied with a lift of her chin.
"And he has not volunteered any information?"
"No."
"Most men, if honest and caught in such an odd situation, would explain," continued Sylvia. "The very fact that Mr. Heath has not is suspicious in itself. He is guilty, Marcia—guilty."
"I do not believe it," was the stubborn protest.
"I realize, dear, it is hard for you to own it," soothed Sylvia. "We hate to admit the faults of those we—we—care for. Still, nothing is to be gained by remaining blind to them."
"You speak as if such a sin were a mere trivial flaw of character, Sylvia. Why, it is fundamental—a crime."
"How can we measure sins and decide which ones are big and which little? Perhaps Mr. Heath was horribly tempted to commit this one. We do not know. We are not his judges. The thing for us to do is to help him out of the mess he is in."
"Help him?"
"Get him off. Aid him to escape."
"Believing him guilty—you would do that?"
"Surely I would."
"You mean you would help him to evade the law? The punishment such wrongdoing merits?"
Emphatically, Sylvia nodded her curls.
"I'd help him to get away from those who are tracking him down just as I'd help a fox to escape from the hunters."
"Regardless of right or wrong?"
"Yes. To give him a sporting chance, the start of those who are after him. You love Stanley Heath. Don't you want to see him go free?"
"Not if he is guilty."
"Marcia! You mean you would deliver him over to the law?"
"I would have him deliver himself over."
"As if he would! As if any criminal would."
"A criminal who thought of his soul might."
"But criminals don't think of their souls, dear. They think only of their bodies—that's probably why they are criminals."
Marcia made no answer.
"Well, anyway, nobody is going to round up Mr. Heath if I can prevent it," asserted Sylvia, throwing back her head. "If you won't help him get away, I will. He must go in the boat—now—today."
"The boat has gone."
"Gone!"
"Mr. Currier arrived this morning after you hadgone and took the boat back to New York with him."
"And the jewels?"
"Yes, the jewels, too."
"Humph! So that's where they are!"
"Yes."
"Pretty cute of him to make so neat a get-away!" commented the girl with admiration. "Currier is, of course, the understudy—the accomplice."
Marcia started.
"What sort of man was he? A gentleman, like Mr. Heath?"
The older woman colored.
"Well, no. At least he—he—. Oh, he was polite and had a nice manner—a quiet voice—"
"But he was different from Mr. Heath—an inferior—one who took orders," interrupted Sylvia.
"I hardly know. I saw very little of him," Marcia replied guardedly.
"But Mr. Heath did tell him what to do. Currier did as he said."
"I suppose so—yes."
"In other words, he is the hands and Mr. Heath the brains of the team."
"How can you, Sylvia?"
Quivering, Marcia shrunk into her chair as if she had been struck.
"Because I must, Marcia—because we must bothlook this affair in the face. Confess the circumstances are suspicious."
"They seem to be," she owned with reluctance.
"They are suspicious."
"That proves nothing."
"Perhaps not. Nevertheless it is all we have to go by and we should be fools not to take them at their face value, shouldn't we? We should at least consider them."
"Of course we should do that," evaded the woman.
"Have you considered them?" Sylvia suddenly inquired.
Marcia drew her hand across her forehead.
"I—I—yes. I have thought them over."
"And what conclusion have you arrived at?"
"I don't understand them at all. Nevertheless, I do not believe Stanley Heath is guilty," was the proud retort.
"That is because you don't want to—because you won't."
"Leave it at that, then, and say I won't," cried Marcia, leaping defiantly to her feet.
"You are making a great mistake, if you will pardon me for saying so," Sylvia responded gently. "You are deliberately closing your eyes and mind to facts that later are bound to cause you bitter unhappiness. Let alone the man's guilt. He has awife. You seem to forget that. As Elisha Winslow remarked, you have already been miserable once. Why be so a second time? Help Stanley Heath to get out of Wilton and forget him."
"I cannot do either of those things. In the first place, I have given my word to hand Mr. Heath over to the authorities. As for forgetting him—why ask the impossible?"
Sylvia's patience gave way.
"Go your own way then," she snapped. "Go your own way and if by and by you regret it—as you surely will—do not blame me. Don't blame me, either, if I do not agree with you. Stanley Heath shall never remain here and be betrayed to the law. I've enough mercy in me to prevent that if you haven't. Stick to your grim old puritanism if you must. I'll beat it by a more charitable creed. I'll help him get away."
She started toward the stairway.
"Sylvia, come back here!" Marcia cried.
"I shall not come back."
"I beg you! Insist!"
The command fell on deaf ears.
Marcia rushed after her, but it was too late.
Sylvia was gone.
StanleyHeath was lying with expectant face turned toward the door when Sylvia entered.
"What's the rumpus?" he demanded.
"You heard?"
"Heard? Certainly I heard," he laughed. "I could not hear what was said, of course, but anyone within five miles could have heard those men roaring at one another. What's the trouble?"
"The trouble is you," answered the girl.
"Me?"
"Yes. Didn't you expect trouble sometime?"
"We all must expect trouble sooner or later, I suppose," was the enigmatic answer. "To just what particular variety of trouble did you refer?"
"I guess you know. There is no use mincing matters or beating about the bush. We haven't the time to waste. The jewels have gone and you must go, too."
The man looked dumbfounded.
"Don't misunderstand me, please," Sylvia rushed on. "I'm not blaming you—nor judging you. I don't know why you took them. You may have been tempted beyond your strength. You may have needed money sorely. All that is none of my business."
"You believe I stole them?"
"Certainly I do."
"Suppose I didn't?"
"I expected you'd say that," was the calm retort. "Let it go that way if you prefer. I don't mind. What I want to do is to help you to get away."
"Even if I am guilty."
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Because you're sick and in a trap; because I—I—well—" she faltered, her lips trembling, "I just can't bear to have that mean little sheriff who's after you catch you."
"What's that?"
Startled, Heath sat up.
"That wretched Elisha Winslow who came here this morning with Eleazer Crocker tagging at his heels. In some way they had found out about the jewels and where you had hidden them. Prying into other people's affairs, no doubt, when they would have much better minded their own business. Well, it doesn't matter how they found out. They know the truth, which is the important thing. They even attempted to come upstairs and arrest you post haste; but Marcia wouldn't allow it."
"Marcia!" he spoke the name softly. "She heard the story, too?"
"Of course."
"Poor Marcia!"
"You may well say poor Marcia," Sylvia echoed sarcastically. "You have made her most unhappy. Oh, Mr. Heath, Marcia has not had the sort of life that I told you she had. She has been wretched—miserable. Go away before you heap more suffering upon her. She is fighting to make something of her wrecked life. Leave her and let her make it. I'll help you get out of town. I am sure we can devise a plan. I'll row you across to the mainland and contrive somehow to get you safely aboard a train. If we only had a car—"
"My car is at the Wilton garage."
"Oh, then it will be easy," exclaimed she with evident relief.
"Not so easy as it seems."
Heath held up his bandaged hand.
"I doubt if I could drive any distance with this wrist," he said. "Of course it is on the mend. Nevertheless, it is still stiff from disuse, and pretty clumsy."
"Couldn't I drive? I've driven quite a lot. What make is your car?"
"A Buick."
"I've never driven one of those. I wonder if I'd dare try? How I wish Hortie were here! He could drive it. He can drive anything."
"Hortie?"
"Horatio Fuller—a man I know out west. If only he wasn't so far away! He'd help us in a minute. He'd do it and ask no questions. That's what we need—someone who'll ask no questions."
She frowned, thoughtfully.
"Well, no matter. We can find somebody, I am sure—especially if we pay them liberally. I'll see what I can do."
"Wait just a moment. What does Marcia say?"
"Marcia? Oh, you must not listen to Marcia. She is too much upset to be depended on. She cannot see the case at all as it is. Her advice wouldn't be worth twopence. Trust me in this, please. Trust me, Mr. Heath. I promise you I'll stand by you to the last ditch. I'm not afraid."
"I think I'd better talk with Marcia first."
"Don't! It will only be a waste of time."
"Still, I must hear what she has to say."
"You won't like it. Marcia is hard, merciless. Her conscience drives her to extremes. Even should you get her opinion, you would not follow it."
"What makes you so sure I wouldn't?"
"Because it would be madness, sheer madness. You'll realize that, as I do," insisted Sylvia with an impatient tapping of her foot. "Marcia stubbornly shuts her mind to the truth and will only look on one side. She just repeats the same words over and over again."
"What words?"
"I shall not tell you."
"Then she must tell me herself. Will you ask her to come up, please?"
"I'd rather not."
"You prefer I should call her?"
Baffled, the girl turned away.
"No. I'll send her to you—if I must. But remember, I warned you."
"I shall not soon forget that, Sylvia, nor the splendid loyalty you've shown today. I shall always remember it. Whatever happens, please realize that I am grateful," Heath said earnestly. Then in less serious vein he added: "I never dreamed you were such a valiant little fighter."
His smile, irresistible in brightness, brought a faint, involuntary reflection into Sylvia's clouded countenance.
"Oh. I can fight for people—when I care," cried she, impulsively.
Did the artless confession, the blush that accompanied it, soften the voice of the man so observantly watching until it unconsciously took on the fond, caressing tone one uses toward a child?
"So I see. Run along now, little girl, and fetch Marcia."
"I wish I could make you promise not to listen to her," coaxed Sylvia, making one last wistful appeal.
"I cannot promise that."
"I'm sorry. You'd be wiser if you did."
It was some moments before Marcia answered the summons and when at last she came, it was with downcast eyes and evident reluctance.
"You sent for me?" she said, halting stiffly at the foot of the bed.
"Won't you please sit down?" Heath replied.
"I've only a few moments. I'd rather stand."
"But I cannot say what I wish to say while you flutter there as if poised for flight," urged the man, annoyance discernible in his husky voice.
Unwillingly Marcia slipped into the chair beside him.
"That's better," he said, smiling. "Now tell me exactly what happened down stairs."
"Didn't Sylvia tell you?"
"She told me something. I want your version of the story."
As if realizing the futility, both of protest and evasion, the woman let her gaze travel to the dim purple line where sea met sky and began to speak.
She related the incident tersely; without comment; and in a dull, impersonal manner.
Stanley Heath, scrutinizing her with keen, appraising eyes, could not but note the pallor of hercheeks, the unsteadiness of her lips, the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands.
The narrative concluded, her glance dropped to the floor and silence fell between them.
"And that is all?" he inquired when convinced she had no intention of speaking further.
"That is all."
"Thank you. Now what had I better do?"
She made no answer.
"What do you think it best for me to do?" he repeated.
"Best? How do you mean—best? Best for your body or best for your soul?"
"For both."
"But suppose the two should not coincide?"
"Then I must reconcile them or choose between them."
"You cannot reconcile them."
"Choose between them then—compromise."
At the word, he saw her shiver.
"Well, you are not advising me," he persisted when she offered no reply.
"How can I? You know your own affairs—know the truth and yourself far better than I."
"Granting all that, nevertheless, I should like your opinion."
"You will not thank me for it," cautioned she, bitterly. "Sylvia says I am quixotic, impractical."
"Never mind Sylvia. Tell me what you think."
"But how can I give a just opinion? I cannot judge," she burst out as if goaded beyond her patience. "I know none of the facts. To judge the conduct of another, one must know every influence that contributed to the final catastrophe. No person but God Himself can know that."
A radiance, swift as the passage of a meteor, flashed across Stanley Heath's face and was gone.
"Suppose you yourself had taken these jewels and were placed in this dilemma?" pressed he.
"That would be entirely different."
"Why?"
"The case would not be similar at all."
"Why not?" Heath reiterated.
"Because—because I should be guilty."
"You mean—you think—"
"I do not believe you took the jewels," was the quiet answer.
"Marcia! Marcia!" He reached for her hand, then sharply checked the gesture. "Why don't you believe I took them?"
"It isn't like you."
"The evidence is against me—every whit of it."
"I cannot help that."
"Have I ever told you I did not take them? Ever led you to suppose me innocent?"
"You have never told me anything about it."
"You have never asked."
"As if I should put to you a question like that," she said proudly.
"You had the right to inquire."
"I did not need to."
Once again the man restrained an impulse to imprison her hands in his.
"Suppose I did take them?" he went on in an even, coolly modulated voice. "Suppose the case stands exactly as this shrewd-eyed Wilton sheriff suspects it does? What am I to do?"
He saw the color drain from her face.
"I only know what I should do, were I in your place."
"Tell me that."
"I should go through with it—clear my soul of guilt."
"And afterward?"
"Start over again."
"That would be very difficult. The stigma of crime clings to a man. Its stamp remains on him, try as he will to shake it off. My life would be ruined were I to pursue such a course."
"Not your real life. You would, of course, lose standing among your supposed friends; but you would not lose it among those whose regard went deeper. Even if you did—what would it matter?"
"But to be alone, friendless! Who would helpme piece together the mangled fragments of such a past—for I should need help; I could not do it alone? Do you imagine that in all the world there would be even one person whose loyalty and affection would survive so acid a test?"
"There might be," she murmured, turning away her head.
"Even so, would I have the presumption to accept such a service? The right to impose on a devotion so self-effacing?"
"The person might be glad, proud to help you—consider it a privilege."
"Who would, Marcia? Do you know of anyone?"
She leaped to her feet.
"Why do you ask me?" she demanded, the gentleness of her voice chilling to curtness. "You have such a helpmate near you—or should have."
"I don't understand," pleaded the man, puzzled by her change of mood.
"Perhaps we'd better not go into that now," was her response. "It is beside the point."
"On the contrary it is the point."
"I don't see how. What happens after the penalty has been paid has nothing to do with the paying of it."
"In this case it has everything."
"I cannot stay," she whispered, frightened by his insistence. "I must go."
"Wait just a moment."
"I cannot. I must get dinner."
"Never mind the dinner!"
She looked at him then for the first time.
"We have to eat," she declared making an attempt at lightness.
"Not always. Sometimes there are things more important."
"To think of a man saying that!"
The ring of the telephone chimed in with her silvery laughter.
"I'll go, Sylvia," she called with a promptness that indicated the interruption was a welcome one.
"Yes. Yes, this is Mrs. Howe at Wilton.
"It's long distance," she called to Heath. "New York is on the line.
"Yes, he is here. He can speak with you himself.
"Mrs. Heath wishes to speak with you," she announced formally. "Slip on your bathrobe and come."
Heath took the receiver from her hand.
"Joan? This certainly is good of you, dear. Yes, I am much better, thank you. Bless your precious heart, you needn't have worried. Currier will be back late tonight or early tomorrow morning and he will tell you how well I am progressing. Yes, he has the jewels. Put them in the safe right away, won't you?
"I can't say when I shall be home. Something has come up that may keep me here some time. I cannot explain just now. It is the thing you have always predicted would happen to me sometime. Well, it has happened. Do you get that? Yes, I am caught—hard and fast. It is a bit ironic to have traveled all over the world and then be taken captive in a small Cape Cod village. I guess I believe in Fate, destiny—whatever you call it.
"I'm in something of a tangle just at present. I may even have to call on you to help me straighten it out. That's sweet of you, dear. You've never failed me. Oh, I can talk—it doesn't hurt me. You mustn't mind my croak. I'm not so badly off as I sound. I'll let you know the first minute I have anything definite to tell.
"Goodbye, dear. Take care of yourself. It's done me a world of good to hear your voice."
Heath returned the receiver to its hook and in high spirits strode back into his room.
If, however, he hoped there to take up the threads of the conversation so unexpectedly broken off, he was disappointed.
Marcia's chair was empty.
She was nowhere to be seen.
Thedays immediately following were like an armed truce.
Marcia watched Sylvia.
Sylvia watched Marcia.
Heath watched them both.
When, however, no further reference to the events of the past week was made, the tension slowly began to lessen, and life at the Howe Homestead took on again its customary aspect.
One agency in this return to normal was the physical improvement of the invalid, who as a result of rest, fresh air, sleep, and good nursing now became well enough to come down stairs and join the family group.
An additional, and by no means unimportant contributory factor, was the sudden onrush of fine weather.
Never had there been such a spring—at least never within the memory of the owner of the house on the Point. The soft breath of the south wind; the radiance of the sunshine; the gentle lapping of the waves on the spangled shore; the stillness; the vivid beauty of the ocean's changing colors—all these blended to make a world that caught the breath and subordinated every moodsave one of exuberant joy.
Against a heaven gentian blue, snowy gulls wheeled and dipped, and far beyond them, miniature white sails cut the penciled indigo of the horizon.
The old grey house with its fan-light and beaded doorway stood out in colonial simplicity from the background of sea and sky like a dim, silvered picture, every angle of it soft in relief against the splendors that flanked it.
Marcia sang at her work—sang not so much because there was peace in her heart as because the gladness about her forced her to forget her pain.
Sylvia sang, too, or rather whistled in a gay, boyish fashion and in company with Prince Hal raced like a young colt up the beach.
Only a day or two more passed before it was possible to get Stanley Heath, warmly wrapped in rugs, out on the sheltered veranda where, like the others, he reveled in the sunshine.
His cheeks bronzed, his eyes became clear and bright, laughter curled his lips. If just around the corner the spectre of trouble loitered, its presence was not, apparently, able to put to flight his lightheartedness. Over and over again he declared that every hour spent in this lotus-eaters' country was worth a miser's fortune.
Sometimes when he lay motionless in the steamer-chair looking seaward beneath the rim of his softfelt hat, or following the circling gulls with preoccupied gaze Marcia, peeping at him from the window wondered of what he was thinking.
That the fancies which intrigued him were pleasant and that he enjoyed his own company there could be no question.
No attitude he might have assumed could have been better calculated to dispel awkwardness and force into the background the seriousness of the two women, whose interests were so inextricably entangled with his own, than the merry, bantering one he adopted when with them.
Even Marcia, who at first had avoided all tête-à-têtes, quivering with dread whenever she found herself alone with him, gradually, beneath the spell of his new self, gained sufficient confidence to perch hatless on the piazza rail beside him in an unoccupied moment and spar with him, verbally.
For he was a brilliant talker—one who gave unexpected, original twists to the conversation—twists that taxed one's power of repartee. The challenge to keep pace with his wit was to her like scouring a long disused rapier and seeing it clash against the deft blade of a master fencer.
Here indeed was a hitherto undreamed-of Stanley Heath, a man whose dangerous charms had multiplied a hundredfold and who, if he had captivated her before now riveted her fetters with every wordhe spoke, every glance he gave her.
She struggled to escape from the snare closing in on her, then finding combat useless, ceased to struggle and let herself drift with the tide.
After all, why not enjoy the present?
Soon, all too soon, its glamorous delights would be gone and she would be back once more in the uneventful past which had satisfied her and kept her happy until Heath had crossed her path, bringing with him the bewildering adventures that had destroyed her tranquillity.
Would she ever find that former peace, she frequently asked herself. Would her world ever be the same after this magician who had touched it with the spell of his enchantment had left it? For he would leave it. A time must come, and soon now—when like a scene from a fairy play the mystic lights would fade, the haunting music cease, the glitter of the whole dreamlike pageant give place to reality.
It was too beautiful, too ephemeral an idyll to last.
In loving this stranger of whom she knew so little, she had set her heart upon a phantom that she knew must vanish. The future, grim with foreboding, was constantly drawing nearer.
In her path stood a presence that said: Thou shalt not!
There were, alas, but two ways of life—the wayof right and the way of wrong, and between them lay no neutral zone. This she acknowledged with her mind. But her rebel heart would play her false, flouting her puritan codes and defying the creeds that conscience dictated.
Meantime while she thus wrestled with the angel of her best self, Sylvia accepted the situation with characteristic lightness. Her life in this vast world and wide had been of short duration, but during its brief span she had learned a surprising amount about the earth and the human beings that peopled it.
She knew more already about men than did Marcia—much more. Long ago they had ceased to be gods to her. She was accustomed to them and their ways, and was never at a loss to give back to each as good as he sent—frequently better.
Her sophistication in the present instance greatly relieved the strain.
She jested fearlessly with Heath, speaking a language with which he was familiar and one that amused him no end.
Often he would sit watching her furtively, his glance moving from the gold of her hair to the blue of her eyes, the fine poise of her fair white throat, the slender lines of her girlish figure. Often, too, in such moments he would think of the possibilities that lay in the prodigal beauty she so heedlessly ignored.
That he took pleasure in being with her and treating her with half playful, half affectionate admiration was incontestable. Yet notwithstanding this, his fondness was nicely restrained and never slipped into familiarity or license.
It was the sort of delicately poised relation in which the girl was thoroughly at home and with which she knew well how to cope.
Today Heath was taking his first walk and the two had strolled down to the water's edge where deep in a conversation more serious than usual they sat in the sun on the over-turned yellow dory.
To Marcia, watching from the porch, they appeared to be arguing—Sylvia pleadingly, Heath with stern resistance.
The woman could not but speculate as to the subject that engrossed them.
Not that she was spying. She would have scorned to do that.
She had merely stepped outside to shake a duster and they had caught her eye. It seemed, too, that she had chosen an inopportune moment for observation, for just at that instant Sylvia placed her hand entreatingly on Heath's arm and though he continued to talk, he caught and held it.
The fact that Sylvia neither evinced surprise, nor withdrew it forced her to the disconcerting conclusion that the thing was no unusual happening.
Marcia turned aside, jealousy clutching at her heart.
When, later in the day, the pair reëntered the house Heath, with a few pleasant words, caught up his overcoat and went out onto the steps to smoke, while Sylvia hurried to her room.
Marcia, passing through the hall, could see her golden head bent over the table as intent with pen and paper she dashed off page after page of a closely written letter.
It was a pity the elder woman could not have read that letter, for had she been able to, it would not only have astonished but also have enlightened her and perhaps quieted the beating of her troubled heart.
It was a letter that astonished Sylvia herself. Nevertheless, much as it surprised her, her amazement in no way approached that of young Horatio Fuller when he read it.
So completely did it scatter to the winds of heaven every other thought his youthful head contained that he posted two important business documents—one without a stamp, and the other without an address. After that he decided he was unfit to cope with commercial duties and pleading a headache hastened home to his mother.
Now Horatio's mother, far from possessing the appearance of a tower of strength to which one mightflee in time of trouble, was a woman of colorless, vaguely defined personality indicative of little guile and still less determination. She listened well and gave the impression she could listen, with her hands passively folded in her lap, forever if necessary. She never interrupted; never offered comment or advice; never promised anything; and yet when she said, as she invariably did, "I'll talk with your father, dear," there was always infinite comfort in the observation.
That was what she said today to Horatio Junior.
Accordingly that evening after Horatio Senior had dined, and dined well; after he had smoked a good cigar and with no small measure of pride in his own skill put into place all the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle that had defied his prowess the night before—his wife artfully slipping them beneath his nose where he could not fail to find them—then and not until then did Mrs. Horatio take out the pink afghan she had been making and while she knit two and purled two, she gently imparted to Alton City's leading citizen the intelligence that his son, Horatio Junior, wished to go East; that he was in love; that, in short, he wished to marry.
Up into the air like a whizzing rocket soared Horatio Senior!
He raged; he tramped the floor; he heaped on the head of the absent Horatio Junior every epithet of reproach his wrath could devise, the phrases driveling idiot and audacious puppy appearing to afford him the greatest measure of relief. Continuing his harangue, he threatened to disinherit his son; he smoked four cigarettes in succession; he tipped over the Boston fern. The rest of the things Horatio Senior said and what he did would not only be too gross to write down in the Chronicles of the Kings of Judah, but also would be improper to record here.