In his narrow little room upstairs in one of the two-story brick buildings which framed the public square of Spring Valley sat J. B. Blackman, Justice of the Peace, upholder of the majesty of the law. His throne was a knock-kneed, broken chair. In front of him stood a large scarred table, whereon rested the equipment of well-thumbed tomes which bolstered him in his administration of justice. In the room beyond stood a few scattered chairs, a long bench or two. On one wall, by way of ornament, was a steel engraving of Daniel Webster. On the opposite wall hung certain lithographs of political candidates of like party persuasion with Blackman himself, for this was a presidential year, and certain crises of political sort existed, among others the choosing of a Senator of the United States. Among lesser likenesses on Blackman's grimy wall loomed large the portrait of his party's candidate, to wit: the Honorable William Henderson, late County Attorney, late District Judge, late member of the Legislature, late candidate for Governor, late Chairman of the State Republican Committee; and by virtue of the death of the late incumbent in the office of United States senator, himself now present candidate for that lofty honor. Otherwise than as to these purposeful decorations the room had small adornment and appeared judicially austere.
The hour was mid-afternoon, but so swiftly had the news of recent events spread abroad in the little village that already the room of Justice of Peace Blackman was packed. Aurora Lane's baby—why, she had fooled everybody—her boy never had died at all—here he was—he had been through college—he'd been somewhere all the time and now he had come to life all at once, and had fought Eph Adamson and the eejit, and had been arrested and was going to be tried. Naturally, the stair leading to the Justice's office was lined, and sundry citizens were grouped about the bottom or under the adjacent awnings.
Much speculation existed as to the exact issue of the legal proceedings which, it seemed, had been instituted by old Eph Adamson. When that worthy appeared, escorted by the clerk of Judge Henderson's law office, room respectfully was made for the two, it being taken for granted that Judge Henderson would appear for Adamson, as he always had in earlier embroglios. Much greater excitement prevailed when presently there came none less than Tarbush, city marshal, followed by Don Lane and the two women. Then indeed all Spring Valley well-nigh choked of its own unsated curiosity.
They walked steadily, these three, staring ahead, following close after the marshal, who now officiously ordered room for himself and his charges. When they entered Blackman's court that worthy looked up, coughed solemnly, and resumed his occupation of poring over the legal authorities spread before him on the table. Don Lane made room for his mother and Miss Julia, and took his own place at the side of the marshal. The latter laid his hand upon his arm, as if to show the assembled multitude that he had no fear of his prisoner. Don shook off the hand impatiently.
Outside, unable to restrain themselves sufficiently to be seated within the room, old Kneebone and his friend Craybill walked up and down in the narrow hall—lined with signs of attorneys, real estate men, and insurance agents—from which made off the door of Blackman's office.
"They'll bind him over," said old Silas to his friend. "They'll do that shore."
"Bind who over, Silas," said Craybill. "You mean Old Man Adamson and his eejit, don't you? The eejit's arrested, anyhow. But what's it all about? You don't believe it's true this hereis'Rory's son, now do you? How can that come?"
"Well, I ain't saying," replied old Silas cryptically, and nodding only in the general direction of the door, "but you'll see."
Old Aaron helped himself to a chew of tobacco thoughtfully. "They say Old Eph has got his dander up now, and's going to make plenty of trouble all along the line. Reckon he's ashamed of his son being licked thataway by just a kid like this. Come to think of it, it looks like Eph ain't got much glory out of it so far, has he?"
"No, and I'll bet he had to dig up some money—the Judge, he likely wouldn't think of it for less'n fifteen dollars anyways. That's the price of a good shoat these days. If the case was appealed, or if it got into a court ofnisy prisus, or maybe got over into another county on a change ofvenoo, you can bet Judge Henderson wouldn't be doing none of them things for nothing, neither. The law's all right for them that has plenty of money. Sometimes I think there's other ways."
"Huh," said his companion, "old Adamson tried the other way, didn't he? Now look at him! If I was Old Man Adamson, or if I was his eejit son either, the best thing we could do, seems to me, would be to get out of town. This here boy's a fighter, if I'm any judge. Wonder if it is her boy! If it is, whoever was his father, huh? And how was he kep' hid for more'n twenty year?"
"He looks sort of changed since a couple of hours ago," said his friend judicially. "He's quieter now—why, when he come into town he was just laughing and talking like a kid. Of course, he must have knew—he knows who his father is all right. Now, come to think of it, if this here boy had any money he could sue them Adamsons for deefamation of character."
"How comes it he could? I hear say that all Old Man Adamson said was to call him nobody's son, and that's true enough, if he's her boy. If you call the truth to a man, that ain't no deefamation of character. As to 'Rory Lane, everybody knows the truth about her. You can't deefame a woman nohow, least of all her. We all know she had a baby when she was a girl, and it was sent away, and it died. Leastways, wethoughtwe knew. I ain't right shore what we've knew. It looks like that woman had put up some sort of game on this town. What right had she to do that?"
"She was right white," said the other, somewhat irrelevantly. "Never seen no one no whiter than she was when she went in that door right now."
"I don't reckon we can get no seats any more—the room's plumb full."
They both were looking wistfully in at the packed assembly, when they had occasion to make room for the dignified figure of a man who now pushed his way through the throng.
"How do, Judge Henderson," said old Silas Kneebone, who knew everybody.
The newcomer nodded somewhat coldly. He nodded also, none too warmly, to another man who stood near the door—a tall man, of loose and bulky figure, with a fringe of red beard under his chin, a wide and smiling mouth, blue eyes, and a broad face which showed shrewdness and humor alike.
"How are you, Hod?" said Henderson carelessly; thus accosting the only man at the Spring Valley bar for whom really he had much respect or fear—Horace Brooks, popularly known in Spring Valley as "old Hod Brooks," perhaps the most carelessly dressed man physically and the most exactly appointed man mentally then practising before that bar. A little sign far down the narrow hall betokened that the office of Horace Brooks might thereabouts be found by any in search of counsel in the law.
"Oh, are you retained in this case, Hod?" Judge Hendenson spoke over his shoulder.
"Not at all, Judge, not at all," said the other. None the less he himself followed on into the crowded little room.
As Judge Henderson entered all eyes were turned upon him. Conscious of the fact that he honored this assemblage, he comported himself with dignity proper for a candidate. He was a man well used to success in any undertaking, and he looked his part now. The full, florid face, the broad brow, sloping back to a ridge of iron-gray hair, the full blue eyes, the loose, easy lips, the curved chin, the large, white hands, the full chest, the soft body, the reddening skin of the face—all of these offered good index to the character of William Henderson. Lawyer, judge, politician and leading citizen—he was the type of these things, the village Cæsar, and knew well enough the tribute due to Cæsar.
A few eyes turned from the adequate figure of Judge Henderson to the loose and shambling form of the man who edged in to the front of the table. Rumor had it that in the early times, twenty years or more ago, Judge Henderson had come to that city with a single law book under his arm as his sole capital in his profession. Old Hod Brooks had made his own advent in precisely similar fashion, belated much in life by reason of his having to work his way through school. Since then his life had been one steady combat, mostly arrayed against Henderson himself. Perhaps it might have been said that they two from the first were rivals for the leading place at the local bar, little as Henderson himself now cared for that. He was well intrenched, and all opponents, such as this shambling giant with the red beard and nondescript carriage, must attack in the open.
Judge Blackman coughed ominously once more. "Order in the court!" he intoned, pounding on the table in front of him.
There was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs. Those standing seated themselves so far as was possible. Judge Henderson alone stood for a time in front of the table of Justice Blackman. The afternoon was very warm, but he represented the full traditions of his profession, for he appeared in long black coat, white waistcoat, and folded collar, tied with a narrow white tie. In some way he had the appearance of always being freshly laundered. His fresh pink cheeks were smooth and clean, his hands were immaculate as his linen. One might have said that at one time in his life he had been a handsome man, a fine young man in his earlier days, and that he still was "well preserved."
Not so much might have been said of old Hod Brooks, who had slumped into a seat close to Tarbush and his prisoner. That worthy wore an alpaca coat, a pair of trousers which shrieked of the Golden Eagle Clothing Store, no waistcoat at all, and it must be confessed, no collar at all, beyond a limp strip of wilted linen decorated by no cravat whatever.
As he sat now Brooks suddenly cast a keen, curious gaze upon the face of the young defendant who sat at the left of the city marshal—a gaze which, passing at length, rested steadily, intently, on the face of Aurora Lane, who sat, icy pale, staring straight in front of her. Her left hand lay in that of Miss Julia Delafield. The eyes of the latter—whose face was flushed, as was usual with her in any time of mental emotion—remained fixed upon the man who was to prosecute this boy, whose life was linked so closely with her own.
The great lawyer seemed not to see these women at all, and at first cast no glance whatever at the defendant. The whole thing was rather trivial for him; for although his fee really had been five hundred dollars—in form of a note from Ephraim Adamson secured by a certain mortgage on certain live stock—he knew well enough he honored Adamson and this court by appearing here in a mere Justice trial.
"Order in the court!" said Blackman once more. "The case coming on for trial is City of Spring Valley on the complaint of Ephraim Adamson against Dewdonny Lane." At this bold declaration of what had been a half credited secret to Spring Valley, all Spring Valley now straightened and sat up, expectant. A sort of sigh, half a murmur of intense curiosity went over the audience. It was indeed a great day for Spring Valley. "Lane—Dewdonny Lane." So hewasthe son of Aurora Lane—and had no family name for his own!
Justice Blackman paused and looked inquiringly at the battered visage of old Eph Adamson. He coughed hesitatingly. "I understand this case is one of assault and battery. I believe, Judge Henderson, that you represent the plaintiff in this case?"
"Yes, your Honor," said Judge Henderson slowly, turning his full eye upon the court from its late resting place upon the campaign portrait of himself as it appeared on the wall. "I have consented to be of such service as I may in the case. Mr. Ephraim Adamson, our well-known friend here, is ready for the trial of the cause now, as I understand. I may say further, your Honor, that there will be a writ ofhabeas corpussued out in due course demanding the body of the son of Ephraim Adamson, who is wrongfully restrained of his liberty at present in our city jail.
"As for this defendant——" Judge Henderson turned and cast an insolently inquiring eye upon the young man at the side of the town marshal.
"Who appears for the defendant?" demanded Judge Blackman austerely, casting a glance upon the prisoner at the bar.
Don Lane arose, half hesitatingly. "Your Honor," said he, "I presume I am the defendant in this case, although I hardly know what it's all about. I haven't any lawyer—I don't know anybody here—I'm just in town. All this has come on me very suddenly, and I haven't had time to look around. I don't see how I am guilty of anything——"
Just then arose the soft and kindly tones of a large voice which easily filled all the room. Old Hod Brooks half rose.
"Your Honor," said he, "it isn't customary for a member of the bar to offer his services unsolicited. I would say, however, that if the Court desires to appoint me as counsel for this young man I will do the best I can for him, since he seems a stranger here and unprepared for a defense at law. If there were any other younger lawyer here I would not suggest this course to your Honor—indeed, I have no right to do so now. I trust, however,"—and he smiled at Judge Henderson at the other end of the table—"that my learned brother will not accuse me of champerty, maintenance, or any other offense against my office as a servant of justice in this community. Of course, I may add, your Honor"—he turned to Justice Blackman again—"that in such circumstances my own services, such as they are, would be rendered entirely free of charge."
People wondered, turning curious looks on the big, gaunt speaker thus suddenly offering himself as champion in a rôle evidently unpopular.
Justice Blackman hesitated, and cast again a glance of query at Judge Henderson, on whom he much relied in all decisions. The latter waved a hand of impatient assent, and began to whisper with his clerk.
"The Court will allow this procedure," said Justice Blackman. "Does the defendant accept Mr. Brooks as counsel?"
Don Lane, embarrassed and somewhat red of face, half rose again, meeting full the fascinated, absorbed look on the face of Hod Brooks—a look which the keen eye of Henderson also saw. He puckered a lip and frowned estimatingly. Rumor said that Old Hod Brooks was going to come out as candidate for U. S. Senator on the opposing ticket. Henderson began now to speculate as to what he could do with Hod Brooks, if ever they should meet on the hustings. He studied him now as a boxer, none too certain of himself, studies his antagonist when he strips and goes to his corner opposite in the ring.
"Your Honor," said Don, "I don't know this gentleman, but what he says seems to me most kind. I surely shall be glad to have his assistance now." He did not look at his mother's face, did not see the quick look with which Hod Brooks turned from him to her.
"Does my learned brother require time for preparation of his case?" inquired Judge Henderson sarcastically. "I will agree to a brief recess of the Court in such case."
"Oh, not at all, not at all," said Old Hod Brooks. "I know all about this case, better than my learned brother does. Not having any special interest in anything but this case—that is to say, not any alien interest, political or otherwise—I am ready to go to trial right now to defend this young man. If Judge Henderson will move his chair so he can get a better look at his own picture on the wall, I don't see but what we might as well begin the trial."
Certain smiles passed over the faces of a few in the audience as they saw the quick flush spring to the face of Judge Henderson. The chief delight in life of Old Hod Brooks was to bait his learned brother by some such jibes as this, whenever the fortunes of the law brought them together on opposing sides.
Judge Henderson coughed. "Your Honor," said he hastily, "I am glad that in the course of justice this young man has secured counsel—even counsel such as that of my learned brother—who also, I am informed, is not beyond aspirations of a political nature. I have no time for idle jests. If the defense is ready I may perhaps state briefly what we propose to prove."
"By criminy!" whispered Silas to Aaron at the hall door, peering in. "By criminy! I believe Old Hod's got him rattled right now!"
But Judge Henderson pulled himself together. He now assumed his regular oratorical position, an eye upon his audience.
"Your Honor," he said, "this case is very plain and simple. The quiet of our city has been violated by this young man, who has publicly assaulted one of our best-known citizens."
"Which one do you mean?" interrupted Hod Brooks, most unethically, and smiling behind his hand. "Which do you mean, the old drunkard or the young idiot?"
"Order in the court!" rapped Blackman, as still further smiles and shufflings became apparent at the rear of the room. Judge Henderson went on, flushing yet more.
"My client, your Honor," he said, "was standing peacefully in the public square, accompanied by his son. They were beaten up, both of them, by this young man who has been brought into this court by our properly constituted officer of the law. Without any provocation whatever, this defendant inflicted great personal injury upon my client."
"We will make Eph's face 'Exhibit A,' and let it go into evidence," smiled Hod Brooks amicably; and the audience smiled and shuffled yet more.
"As to the unlawful detention of the son of my client," resumed Judge Henderson, beet-red now, "we have chosen the remedy ofhabeas corpusrather than a simple discharge, because we wish to bring before our people the full enormity of the offense which has been committed here in the public view, actually upon the grounds of our temple of justice. We shall show——"
"Your Honor," interrupted old Hod Brooks at this point, half rising, "if this were a political gathering indeed, and not the trial of a cause in a justice court, I would rise to a point of order. As it is, I rise to a point of law."
"State your point," said Justice Blackman.
"We are trying, as I understand it, the case of this defendant, Dewdonny Lane, accused by this plaintiff, Ephraim Adamson, of assault and battery?"
Justice Blackman nodded gravely.
"Then why does my learned brother speak ofhabeas corpusin this case, and what is the case which he is trying, or thinks he is trying? What is his evidence going to be? And why does he not get on?"
"Your Honor," blazed Henderson, "I shall not endure this sort of thing."
"Oh, yes, you will, my learned brother," said Hod Brooks, still smiling gently. If Henderson had other resources, he needed them now, for keenly enough he sensed himself as slipping in this battle of wits before assembled electors; and it really was politics alone that had brought him here—he scented a crowd afar off. He now lost his temper utterly.
"If the Court will excuse us for a brief moment of recess," said he savagely, "I should like to ask the privilege of a brief personal consultation with the attorney for the defense. If he will retire with me for just a moment I'll make him eat his words! After that we can better shape these proceedings."
The blue eye that Hod Brooks turned upon his opponent was calmly inquiring, but wholly fearless. On the other hand, some sudden idea seemed to strike him now. He resolved to change his tactics. He was shrewd enough to know that, irritated beyond a certain point, Henderson would fight his case hard; and Hod Brooks did not want to lose this case.
Henderson, with a little wave of the hand, his face livid in anger, edged away from the table of the Justice of the Peace. Hod Brooks followed him out into the hall.
"Order in the court!" intoned the Justice yet again. There was a rush toward the door. "There now, go back, men," said Hod Brooks, raising a hand. "There's not going to be any fight. Let us two alone—we want to talk, that's all."
Don Lane looked steadily at the face of Justice Blackman. Aurora Lane stared ahead, still icy pale, her hand clasped in that of Miss Julia's. She felt, rather than saw, the gazes of all these others boring into her very soul. Here were her enemies—here in what had been her home. It seemed an hour to her before at length those standing about the door shuffled apart to allow the two forensic enemies to reënter, though really it had not been above ten minutes. Neither man bore any traces of personal combat. The face of Judge Henderson was a shade triumphant—strangely enough, since now he was to admit his own defeat.
"I tell you, I heard the whole business," said old Silas later on to his crony, who owned to a certain defect in one ear in hot weather such as this. "I heard the whole business. There wasn't no fight at all—not that neither of them seemed a bit a-scared. Hod, he raises a hand, and that made the Judge slow down.
"'It's what you might expect, Judge,' says Hod, for appearing in a measly little justice court case.' He's got a mighty nasty way of smiling, Hod has. But scared? No. Not none.
"'I'll fight this case as long as you like,' says the Judge, 'and I'll win it, too.'
"'Maybe, maybe, Judge,' says Hod. 'But they's more ways than one of skinning a cat. Suppose you do win it, what've you won? It's all plumb wrong anyhow, and it orto be stopped. These people all orto go on home.'
"'So you want to try the case here, huh?' says the Judge; and says Hod:
"'That's just what I do. I mean I don't want to try it none at all. I've got various reasons, beside, why I don't want to try this case, or have it tried. Are you a good guesser?' I didn't know what he meant by that.
"'What're you getting at?' says the Judge. 'I know you've got something hid. There's a sleeper in here somewheres.'
"'Well, let it stay hid,' says Hod. 'But one thing is sure, you ain't hiding it none that you're out for Senator?'
"'Why should I? I'll win it, too,' says the Judge.
"'Maybe, maybe,' says Hod. 'All I was going to say was, maybe you'd like to have me help you, say left-handed, thataway? Even left-handed help is some good.'
"'What do you mean, Hod?' says he. 'They tell me you're mentioned strong for the other ticket and are out after the place your own self?' He takes a kind of look-over at Hod, no collar nor nothing, and that sleazy coat of his'n.
"'That's so,' says Hod. 'I've got a chance anyhow. Even every bad-chance candidate out of your way is so much to the candy for you, Judge, ain't it so?' says he.
"'Say now, you don't mean you'd talk of withdrawing?' Judge Henderson he was all lit up when he says this. 'On what terms?' says he. 'Of course, there's terms of some sort.'
"'Easiest terms in the world,' says Hod—though I don't think it was easy for him to say it, for he's got as good a chance as the Judge, like enough. But he says, 'Easiest sort of terms,' and laughs.
"'Talk fast,' says the Judge.
"'Dismiss this suit—withdraw from this case—and I'll withdraw from all candidacy on any ticket! That goes!' He said it savage.
"'Do you mean it?' says the Judge, and Hod he says he does. 'I've got reasons for not wanting this case to go on,' says he. 'It's politics brought you here, Judge, and I know that, but it's mighty good politics you'll be playing not never to try this case at all. Drop it, Judge. Politics against politics; you win. Lawyer against lawyer,Iwin. But I pay the biggest price, and you know it mighty well, even if you're a poor guesser why I'm doing this. Since you're getting all the best of the bargain, is it a bargain, then?'
"Henderson he thinks for a while, and says he at last, 'Anyhow, I never knew you to break your word,' says he.
"'No,' says Hod, simple, 'I don't do that,'
"'I'll go you!' says the Judge, sudden, and he sticks out his hand. 'I shake politically, Judge,' says Hod. 'No more; but it's enough. We don't neither of us need explain no more,' Anddamn me! If they didn't quit right there, where it seemed to me a whole lot of explaining what they meant 'd a-ben a right good thing for me anyways, for I couldn't gether what it was all about.
"But I heard the whole business—and there wasn't no fight, nor nothing, just only that talk like I said, and I don't know nothing ofwhythey done it, I only know what they done.That'swhy there wasn't no fight, no trial after all—and us setting there that long! I want to say, some things is beginning to look mighty mysterious to me. But I ain't saying what I think. You'll see."
Hod Brooks was first to address the court. He stood, a tall and hulking figure, one hand upon the shoulder of Dieudonné Lane—stood in such fashion as in part to shield Don's mother from the gaze alike of court and audience.
"Your Honor," said he, and his face now was very grave; "I assume the Court has been in recess. After conference with my learned brother I believe that he has some statement to make to the Court."
He turned now toward Henderson, who straightened up.
"May it please the Court," he began, "I find it incumbent upon me to withdraw as counsel in this case. My learned brother has lived up to the full traditions of courtesy in our profession, but I will only say that I have learned certain facts which render it impossible for me to represent this client properly in this cause. There would seem to have been certain justifying circumstances, not at first put before me, which leave me more reluctant to prosecute this defendant. I shall counsel my client to withdraw his suit."
Blackman in his surprise scarcely heard the deep voice of Don Lane's attorney as he spoke in turn.
"May it please the Court," said he gently, "it is the best function of an attorney to counsel restraint and moderation; it is most honorable of any great counsel to decline any case which does not enlist his full convictions. It is the duty of all of us to uphold the actual peace and actual dignity of this community. I have never entertained a fuller respect for my learned brother than I have at this moment. I withdraw what I said about his portrait yonder—and may say I do not blame any man for being well content even in the offer of an honor which I cannot and do not contemplate for myself—the great honor of the candidacy for the Senate of the United States. It is my own function, none the less, to state that there is no cause why my client should be longer detained. He and others, these witnesses, are virtually restrained of their liberty. I therefore move the dismissal of this case. I think these people all ought to go home. I further suggest that this court adjourn—if this latter suggestion be fully within my own province."
He turned an inquiring gaze upon Tarbush, city marshal, who by this time had fairly sunken down into the depths of his coat collar.
"How about the plaintiff?" said Blackman, turning a hesitating glance upon Judge Henderson, who seemed much relieved by what his opponent in fact and inpossehad said.
"There is other counsel for him," said Judge Henderson, "but if he will take my own advice, he will drop the case now and at this point."
"What does the plaintiff say?" Blackman bent an inquiring gaze on the battered visage of Ephraim Adamson. The latter lifted up a swollen eyelid with thumb and finger, and turned a still confused gaze upon court and counsel. His reply, crestfallen though it was, brought a titter from the audience.
"I guess I'm satisfied," said he.
Blackman looked from one to the other, and then back to the faces of the disappointed audience of the citizens of Spring Valley.
"Order in the court!" exclaimed Blackman, J. P., fiercely. "This court is adjourned!" He spoke with a certain disgust, as of one aware of participation in a fiasco.
With a rush and a surge the room began to empty. Judge Henderson departed, well in advance, looking straight ahead, and acknowledging none of the greetings which met him. He evidently was above such work, even disgusted with the whole affair. Hod Brooks remained, his curious glance still riveted on Don Lane.
Don stood hesitating before the table of justice. He had not known before that his burly counsel had any acquaintance with his mother, but he saw plainly the glance of recognition which passed between them.
Aurora Lane and Miss Julia waited until the stair was clear, but as Don would have followed them, Hod Brooks beckoned to him, in his blue eyes a sort of puzzled wonderment, a surprise that seemed half conviction.
"I thank you, Mr. Brooks," said Don Lane, turning to his counsel. He wondered curiously why the big man should seem so red of face and so perturbed. "What can I do for you—I have not much——"
The great face of Hod Brooks flushed yet more. "Don't talk to me about pay, my boy," said he—"don't talk to me about anything. Wait till things straighten out a little. The prosecution's dropped. That's all—or that's enough. Now, listen. I knew you when I saw you come in here! They told me you were dead, but I knew you when first my eyes fell on you. You're like your mother. I've known your mother for years—I think a lot of her and her friend Miss Julia, don't you see? It's strange news to me you are alive, but you are, and that's enough. I must be going now. I'll see you and your mother both. But before I do, just come with me, for I've a little more counsel to give you—it won't cost you anything, and I think it will do some good."
He beckoned Don to join him once more in the hall, and what he said required but a moment. An instant later, and old Brooks had hurried down the stair. A part of his words to Don had been overheard by old Silas, but the latter could only wonder what it all might mean.
"Aaron," said he, "I ain't no detecative, and don't claim to be, but now, some day if anything should happen—well, I ain't sayin', but I know what I know, and some day, some day, Aaron, I may have to tell."
Brooks joined Aurora Lane and Miss Julia and walked with them along the shady street. They walked in silence, Aurora Lane still staring straight ahead, icy cold. It was not until they three halted at her little gate that she could find voice.
"How can we thank you?" said she. "How can we pay?"
The deep color came into the big man's moody face once more. He waved a hand. "You mustn't talk of that," said he. "I reckon I owe you that much and more—a lot more. I'm not done yet. I've done what I thought was right. But as for the case, I didn't fight it, and I didn't win it—the Judge and I, we just didn't make any fight at all, that's all. We settled it out of court, on terms that suited him, anyhow. I'm sorry for Blackman,—he was just honing to soak that boy the limit!Yourboy, Aurora—that ought to have stayed dead, I'm afraid, but didn't.
"But peace and dignity," he added—"listen to me—we'll make a Sabbath school out of this town yet! I can't talk very much more now."
With a great uproarious laugh, somewhat nervous, very much perturbed, he raised his hat clumsily, turned upon his heel clumsily, and would have walked off clumsily. An exclamation from Miss Julia stopped him.
"Where's Don?" asked she. "And what's that over yonder—what does the crowd mean?" She pointed down to the corner of the courthouse square, where indeed a closely packed group was thrusting this way and that, apparently about some center of interest.
"Oh, that?" said Hod Brooks, carelessly, turning his gaze thither; "that's nothing. Pray don't be excited—it's only my—my client, carrying out the last of my legal instructions to him."
"But what does it mean?" demanded Aurora Lane in sudden terror—"what's going on there? Is there more trouble?"
Hod Brooks broke off a spear of grass from its place between the sidewalk and the fence, and meditatively began to chew it.
"Oh, no, I think not," said he gently. "I don't think the boy will have much trouble. He's doing what I counseled him to do."
"What have you told him—what is he doing—what does it all mean?" demanded Aurora Lane.
"Nothing," said the big man, still gazing ruminatingly at the scene beyond. "As a member of the bar I was bound to give him such counsel as should be of most practical benefit to him—I swore that in my oath of admission to the bar. So I told him that as soon as court was adjourned he ought to take old Eph Adamson and thrash him this time good and proper. I told him nothing would come of it if he did. I told him it was his plain duty to do it, and if he didn't do it I'd do it myself, because the dogs have got to be put to sleep again now in this town.... I must say," he added, "I am inclined to believe that my client is following his instructions to the letter!" After which Hod Brooks strolled on away.
The crowd at the farther corner of the square broke apart before long.
"By jinks! Silas," said old Aaron to his friend, "who'd a thought it? I've seen some fights, but that was the shortest I ever did see. And he made old Eph Adamson holler 'enough!' By criminy! he done that very thing. Looks to me, safest thing right is not to talk too much about 'Rory Lane!"
Don Lane emerged from the thick of the crowd, his coat over his arm, his face pale in anger, his eye seeking any other champion who might oppose him.
"Listen to me now, you people!" he said. "If there's another one of you that ever does what that man there has done, or says what he said, he'll get the same he did, or worse. You hear me, now—I'll thrash the life out of any man that raises his voice against anyone of my family. You hear me, now?"
He cast a straight and steady gaze upon Old Man Tarbush, who stood irresolute.
"No, you'll not arrest me again," said he. "You know you won't. You'll leave me alone. If you don't, you'll be the next. I don't love you any too well the way it is.
"Get out now, all of you—you most of all," he added, and gave Marshal Tarbush a contemptuous shove as he elbowed his own way on out of the crowd.
Old Hod Brooks passed on down the street and took the opposite side of the public square, paying no attention to all this. He ambled on until he found his own office at length. A half hour later he might have been seen in his customary attitude, slouched deep down into his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders, his feet propped up on the table, and his eyes bent on the pages of a volume of the law.
He had in his lap now no less an authority than "Chitty on Pleadings." He had sat there for some moments—and he had not seen a word on all the page.
By the time Don Lane had reached his mother's house he partially had pulled himself together, but his face was still pale and sullen, not yet recovered from the late encounter.
He cast himself down in a chair, his chin in his hand, looking everywhere but at his mother. His wounds, poor lad, were of the soul, slow to heal. The white-faced woman who sat looking at him had also her wounds, scarred though they were, these years. Her features seemed sharpened, her eyes larger for the dark shadows now about them. But she was first to speak.
"Wasn't it enough, Don," said she—"didn't I have enough without all this? And on the very day I have looked forward to so long—so long! You don't know how I have worked and waited for this very day. Why, it's the first time I've ever seen you, since you were a baby. You're a stranger to me—I don't know you yet. And then all this comes—now, on my one happy day."
"Well, how about it, then?" he demanded brusquely. "You know what they've been saying—I couldn't let it go. Ihadto fight!"
"Yes, yes, you have—and in a few hours you've undone twenty years of work for me. The sleeping dogs were lying. Why waken them this late?"
"Who was my father?" demanded the young man, now, sternly. "Come, it's time for me to know. I couldn't help loving you—no one could. But—him! Tell me—was it that man who defended me? Is my name Don Brooks?"
She made him no answer, though her throat throbbed and she half started as though at a blow.
"Oh, no, oh, no! What am I saying! Of course you understand, mother," he went on after a long, long silence, "I don't believe anything of this, not even what you have said to me about my being—well,filius nullius. There was a quick divorce—a hidden decree—you separated, you two—he was poor—that often happens. Women never like to talk about it. I can't blame you for calling me 'nobody's son,' for that sort of thing does happen—secret and suppressed divorces, you know. But as to that other——"
For a long time Aurora Lane sat facing a temptation to accept this loophole of escape which thus crudely her boy offered her—escape from the bitter truth. He would fight! He—and Hod Brooks—those two might defy all the town—might cow them all to silence even now. But—once more her inborn honesty and courage, her years-old resolution triumphed.
"I cannot tell you who your father was, Don," said she quietly, at length, ash pale, trembling.
"When were you married—when—where?"
"I wasnevermarried, Don! What I told you was true! Oh, you make me say a thing to you I ought never to have been asked to say, but it is the truth. You may believe it—you must believe it—it's—it's no good keeping on evading—for it's true, all of it." She was gasping, choking, now. "This is a ghastly thing to have to do," she cried at last. "Ah, it oughtn't ever to have been asked of me."
The boy's breath also came in a quick sob now.
"Mother, that's not true—itcan'tbe! Why, where does that leave you—where does it leaveme?"
Her voice rose as she looked at him, so young and strong, so fine, so manly.
"But I'm not sorry," she exclaimed, "I'm not—I'mnot!"
"So what they told me—what I made them all take back—it was true?" He sank back in his chair.
"Yes, Don. We can't fight. We are ruined."
"Born out of wedlock!—But my father only ran away—you told me he was dead."
"Regard him so, Don."
"Where is he—who was he? Why did that man tell me to fight them all?"
"I will never tell you, Don, never."
Her dark eyes were turned upon him now, eyes unspeakably sad.
"But you must! You wouldn't deny me my own chance in the world?"
"You will have to make your own chance, Don, as I did. We all must. I have my secret. The door is closed. There is no power ever can open that door—not even my love for you, my boy. Besides, the knowledge could be of no use to you."
"Yes? Is that indeed so? You would debar me from the one great right of all my life? Tell me, is my guess right? I'll make that man marry you."
"Ah, you mean revenge?"
He nodded, savagely, his jaws shut tight. But his brow grew troubled. "But not if he came out and stood by me and you, even this late. I suppose——"
"There is no revenge for a woman, Don. They only dream there is—once I dreamed there might be for me. I don't want it now. I am content. There's more pity than revenge about me now. I only want to be fair now, if I can, and now I'm glad—this is my one glorious day. For you're mine. You are my boy—and I'll never say that I am sorry. Because I've got you. They can't help that, can they, Don?"
"He got us out of worse trouble, didn't he? Why did he do that, Mother? What made him look at us the way he did? And what made the other lawyer, Henderson, drop the case? How did they settle it out of court? Lucky for us—butwhy?" He spoke sharply, abruptly.
A trifle of color came to Aurora Lane's cheeks. "It was his way," she said. "He's a good lawyer—advancing right along, more and more every year, they say. He's always had a hard time getting a start. He's like me."
Don Lane sat silent for a time, but what he thought he held. He cast a discontented glance about him at the meager surroundings of his mother's home, with which he could claim no familiarity.
"How did you manage it, Mother?" he asked, at length. "How did you get me through—big, ignorant loafer that I've been all my life. You say he never helped any. Was he so poor as all that?"
"I couldn't have done it alone," said Aurora Lane, slowly. Mechanically she smoothed down the folds of her gown in her lap as she spoke.
"I have told you you had two mothers, if no father," said she at last, suddenly. "That's almost true. You don't know how much you owe to Miss Julia. She helped me put you through school! It was her little salary and my little earnings—well, they have proved enough."
"Go on!" said he, bitterly. "Tell me more! Humiliate me all you can! Tell me more of what I ought to know. Good God!" He squared his shoulders as if to throw off some weight which he felt upon them.
His mother looked at him in silence for some time. "Shall I tell you all about it, Don?" she said. "All that I may?"
He nodded, frowning. "Let's have it over and done with."
"When I came here I was young," said Aurora Lane, slowly, after a long time. "Julia was young, too, just a girl. We both had to make our way. Then—then—it happened."
"You didn't love me, Mother? You hated me?"
"Oh, yes, I loved you—you don't know what you say—you don't know how I loved you. But everything was very hard and cruel.... Well, one night I had made up my mind what I must do....
"I washed you all clean that night. I dressed you the best I could—I didn't have much for you. But you were a sweet baby, and strong. I was kissing you and saying good-by to you then, when Miss Julia came in, right at the door."
"You were going to put me in a home—in some institution?"
"No!" She spoke now in short, quick, sobbing breaths.... "Don, do you know the little stream that runs through the edge of the town? Do you know the deep pool beneath the bridge where the water turns around? Well, I had washed you and dressed you.... I was going to put youthere.... It was then that Julia came."
He turned upon her a face which it seemed to her never again could be happy and free from care.
"I didn't know all this, Mother," said he, quietly, whitely. "I ask your pardon. I ask you to forgive me."
"No, I have told you I wanted to spare you all this—I wanted that door to remain closed forever. But now it is open—you have opened it. I will have to tell you what there is behind."
It seemed many moments before she could summon self-control to go on.
"...So we two sat here in this little room, Julia and I. You were in my lap, holding up your hands and kicking up your feet, and we two wept over you—we prayed over you, too—she, that little crippled girl, hopeless, who could never have a boy of her own! I told her what I was going to do with you. She fought me and took you away from me.... And she saved you ... and she saved me.
"So now you have it." He heard her voice trailing on somewhere at a distance which seemed immeasurable. "You owe your life not to one woman, but to two, after all. Now you know why I called you Dieudonné. God sent you to me. As I have known how, I have resolved to pay my debt to God—for you. I want to pity, not hate. I want to be grateful. I want to be fair, if I can learn how."
Aurora spoke no more for some moments, nor did her son.
"We two talked it all over between us," said she after a time. "She asked me then, once, who was your father—Julia did. I said he was poor. I told her never to ask me again. She never has. Oh, a good woman, Julia Delafield—fine, fine as the Lord ever made!
"But she knew—we both knew—that I did not have the means of bringing you up. We put our hearts together—to own you. We put our little purses together—to bring you up. She took you away from me, pretty soon. She sent you to some of her people, very distant relatives. They were poor, too, but they took you in and they never knew—they died, both of them, who took you in.
"Then for a time we sent you to an institution for orphans. But we told everybody here that you had died. I told him so—your—your father—and I forbade him ever to speak to me again. I told you he was dead. I told him you were dead. Heisdead. So areyoudead. But all the dead have come to life. The lost is found. Oh, Don, Don, the lost is found! I've found so much today—so much, so much. You're my boy, my own boy. A man!"
He sat mute. At length she went on.
"We schemed and saved and contrived, all the little ways that we could to save our money—we have both done that all our lives for you. We wanted to educate you, your mothers did. And oh! above all things we wanted the secret kept. I did the best I knew. They all thought you died. I didn't want you to come here—it was Miss Julia. I didn't know you were coming till you wired. I was going to tell you not to come up—even from the depot. But you got in the bus. I was delayed there in the square by those men. And then all this happened. And after twenty years!"
She sat silent, using all her splendid command of her own soul to still the stubborn fluttering in her throat.
Dieudonné Lane looked everywhere but at her.
"Mother," said he at length, "did you—did you ever—love him?"
His own face flushed at the cruelty of this question, too late, after the words were gone. He saw her wince.
"I don't know, Don," said she, simply. "It happened. It couldn't again. You don't know about women. Seal your lips now, as mine are sealed. Never again a question such as that to me."
The sight of her suffering at his own words stirred the elemental rage in his heart.
"Tell me," he demanded again and again. "Who was he? Is that the man? I begin to see—I'd kill him if I knew for sure."
She only shook her head.
"But you must!" said he at last. "You are cruel. You don't know."
"What is that, Don? What do you mean? Oh, I see—it is because of her. It's Anne! There's someone else you love, more than you do me."
"Yes!" he confessed, "more than I do life.That'sthe reason I must know all about myself. Can't you see I've got to play fair? There's Anne!"
"Who is she, Don—you've never told me very much yet."
"Anne Oglesby—her family lived at Columbus before she was left alone. You know her—why, she's the ward of Judge Henderson, here in town. I believe she was left a considerable estate, and he handles it for her. She's been here. She's told me about this place—she's seen you, maybe—before I ever did. Yes—it's Anne! I've got to think of her. I don't dare drag her into trouble—my hands are tied."
He rose now, and in his excitement walked away from his mother, so that he did not note her face at the moment.
"You see, we met from time to time back East in our college town. I never told her much about myself, because I didn't know much about myself, really, when it comes to that. I said I was an orphan, and poor. But—I'd made all the teams—and I've studied, too. I was valedictorian, in spite of all, Mother. They don't amount to much, usually—valedictorians—but I was sure I would—when I knew that Anne——
"I didn't know about our caring for one another until we found we had to part—just now, today, this morning on the train before I got off here. Then we couldn't part, you know. So just before we passed through this town, right on the train—today, in less than half an hour before I met you—this morning, this very day, I—we—well——"
"Yes, Don," she said, "I know!" Her eyes were very large, her face very pale.
He choked.
"But now we've got to part," said he. "If I am nobody, or worse, I've got to be fair with her."
A look of pride came into his mother's face at his words. "I'm glad, Don," said she. "You've got honor in you. But in no case could I see you marry that girl."
He turned upon her in sudden astonishment. "Isn't she as good as we are? Isn't her family—don't you know the Oglesbys of Columbus—who they are and what they stand for—where they came from? Can we say as much?"
"They are better than we can claim to be, Don, yes," said she, ignoring his brutal frankness. "I know her, yes. I knew her years ago—the ward of Judge Henderson. Sometimes she has been here and kept his household for him—some day she'll live with Judge Henderson even if she marries. He's very fond of her. But as to your marrying Anne Oglesby, you must not think of it."
"What on earth!" he began. "What have you against her?"
"It is enough that I feel as I do about any girl who has been here and who knows about—about the way—the way I've lived. Will she know who I am when she knows whoyouare—and what you are not? Has she identified us two—have you really been fair with her?" Now the color began to rise in her paled cheeks.
"I've not had time yet! I told you it all happened just a moment ago." Then, still brutally, he went on. "Why, what do you know of love? What do you know about the way I feel toward Anne?"
"Be as cruel as you like," said she, flushing now under such words. "I presume you feel as all men think they feel sometimes. They see that woman for that moment—they think that they believe what they say—they think they must do what they do. You are a man, yes, Don, or you could not have said to me what you have."
He flung out his arms, impatient. "I am having a fine start, am I not? I'm a beggar, a pauper, and worse than that. I've got to pay you and Miss Julia. I've got to go on through life, with that secret on my mind. I can't confront that man and tell him. You and I—just today meeting—why, we begin to argue. And now I've got to face Anne Oglesby with that secret. It can't be a secret from her. I'd never ask her to join her life to one like mine. And—God! a woman like her.... I can't tell you.... Death—why, I believe this is worse."
"Don't tell me, Don, don't try." She turned to him, her voice hoarse and low. "It's a wrong thing for you to talk to me about things of that sort. Birds out of the nest begin all over again—this must begin again, I suppose—but it's too awful—too terrible. I don't want to hear any more talk about love. But rather than see you live with her, rather than see you talk that way of her, it seems to me I'd rather die. Because, she knows all aboutme—or will. What made you come? Why didn't you stay away? Why couldn't you find some other girl to love, away from here?"
"Which shows how much you really care for my happiness! I suppose, like many women, you are stubborn. Is that it, mother?"
She winced under this, wringing her hands. "If I could only lie—if I only could!"
"And if I only could, also!" he repeated after her. "But she's coming tomorrow, Mother—I've made her promise she'd come to see you. She said she'd make some excuse to come down and see her guardian. I'm going to meet her tomorrow. And when I do, I've got to tell her what I've learned today—every word of it—all—all! And I'll be helpless. I'll not be able to fight. I'll have to take it."
"That's right, Don, that's right. Even if I loved her as you do, even if it were the best thing in the world for you if you could marry her, I'd say that you should not. Don, whatever you do, don't ever be crooked with a woman. She's a woman, too. No matter what it cost, I couldn't see her suffer by finding out anything after it was too late."
"It won't take long," said he, simply. "We'll part tomorrow. But oh! Why did you save me—why did Miss Julia come that night? My place was under the water—there! Then the door would have been closed indeed. But now all the doors are closed on ahead, and none behind. I'll never be happy again. And I'm making her unhappy, too, who's not to blame. It runs far, doesn't it?—far and long."
"As you grow older, Don," said she, "you will find it doesn't so much matter whether or not you are happy."
He shook his head. "I'm done. It's over. There's nothing ahead for me. I never had a chance. Mother, you and Miss Julia made a bad mistake."
It seemed that she scarcely heard him, or as though his words, brutal, cruel though they were, no longer impinged upon her consciousness. She spoke faintly, as though almost breathless, yet addressed herself to him.
"Why, Don, it was here in this very room ... and you lay in my arms and looked up at me and laughed. You were so sweet.... But what shall I do? I love you, and I want you to love me, and you can't. What have I done to you? Oh, wasn't the world cruel enough to me, Don? Oh, yes, yes, it runs far—far and long, a woman's sin! You are my sin. And oh! I love you, and I will not repent! God do so to me—I'll not repent!"
He looked at her, still frowning, but with tenderness under the pain of his own brow. At last he flung himself on his knees before her and dropped his head into her lap.
He felt her hands resting on his head as though in shelter—hands that lay side by side, hands long and shapely once, but bruised and worn now with labor could he but have seen them—Aurora's hands—he could not have helped but realize her long years of toil. He heard her faint, steady sobbing now.
After a time she bent lower above his head as he knelt there, silent and motionless. Slowly her hand began once more to stroke his hair.
The commonplace sound of the telephone's ring broke the silence in the little room. Aurora Lane arose and passed into the adjoining room to answer it. Her son regarded her with lackluster eyes when she returned.
"It was Miss Julia," said she, "at the library. She wanted to know if you were here. She says we must be sure to come out tonight."
"Come out—to what?"
"It's her annual jubilee, when she reports progress to the town. She is very proud of her new books and rugs and pictures. Everybody will be there. You see, Don, we don't have much in a town like this to entertain us. Why, if I could see a real theater once—I don't know how happy I would be. We've had movies, and now and then a lecture—and Miss Julia."
"I don't want to go, mother."
"Neither do I, Don; so I'm going."
"Why should we go? It's nothing to us."
"It's everything to Miss Julia—and it's everything to us, Don. Stop to think and you will realize what I mean. We can't run away under fire."
"There's something in that," he rejoined after a time, slowly. "Besides, what Miss Julia wishes we both ought to do."
Hands in pockets, he began once more gloomily to pace up and down the narrow room. "I can't stand this much longer, mother," said he. "I've got to get out—I've got to get hold of some money somehow."
"Yes," said she. "As for me, I have collected the last money due me—it went for your graduation suit. I don't know how you saved your railway fare home. I didn't want you to know these things, of course, but as things have happened, you had to know. A great many things today—well, they've gotten away from me."
"It's I who have spoiled everything, too. But how could I help it—I just couldn't submit."
"It's hard to submit, Don," said she slowly. "Perhaps a man ought not to learn it. A woman has to learn it."
He turned to look at her wonderingly, and at length went over and put a hand on her shoulder.
"Dear Mom!" said he gently. "You're wonderful. You are fine—splendid! I'm just getting acquainted with you, am I not? You're a good woman, mother; I'm so glad."
She looked at him now with eyes suddenly wet, her face working strangely, and turned away.
"Come, Don," said she after a time. "We must get ready for our little supper. Spring Valley, you see," she added, gaily, "dines at six and goes to the movies at seven."
Presently she left him to his own devices for a time, before calling him out into the little kitchen which served her also as a dining-room.
"It's not much," said she, shrugging and spreading out her hands, "but it's all I'd have had—bread and milk and cereal. I don't use much sugar or butter." Then, hurriedly, seeing the pain she had caused him, she went on.
"You soon get used to such things. Why, I have only two gowns to my name, and I put on my best one to meet you, when you wired you were coming, and I saw I'd have to meet you. This hat has been fixed over I don't know how many times—once more, for you. You will see, I'll not be at much trouble to dress for the entertainment tonight."
She opened upon the table cover her little pocket book and showed its contents—one small, tightly-folded, much-creased bill, which still lay within its depths.
"My last!" said she, grimacing. "That's our capital in life, Don! And we have all the world against us now. We must fight, whether or not we want to fight."
"But now," she added, "I can't talk any more. Let us go. It may do us good. Miss Julia at least will be glad to see us, if no one else is."
Early as they were, they were not the first arrivals at the library room where Miss Julia Delafield had devised her entertainment. She had borrowed certain benches from the public school, certain chairs as well. Already a goodly portion of Spring Valley's best people filled these. The seats made back from the little raised platform which usually served as the librarian's desk place. This now was enlarged by the removal of all the desks.
Back of this narrow dais was draped a large flag of our Union, and in the center of its folds was the campaign portrait of Judge Henderson, chief speaker of the evening.
Aurora Lane and her son entered unnoticed for the time, and quietly took seats in the last row of benches at the rear, near to some awkward youths who had straggled in and seemed uncomfortable in their surroundings. Not even Miss Julia noted them, for presently it became her flushing duty to escort Judge Henderson, and several of her other speakers, to the edge of the little platform, where they took their places back of the conventional table and pitcher of water.
The leader in the town's affairs bent over affably to speak with his associates—three ministers of the gospel, Reverend Augustus Wilson, of the U. P. Church, Reverend Henry Fullerton, of the Congregationalist Church, and Reverend William B. Burnham, of the Methodists. There were many other ministers of the gospel in Spring Valley, which rejoiced exceedingly in the multiplicity of its churches; but to these, in the belief of Miss Julia, had more specially been given the gift of tongues.
There came presently and seated himself on the bench next to Aurora Lane yet another minister of the gospel, old Mr. Rawlins, of the Church of Christ, the least important denomination of the village, so few of numbers and so scant of means that its house of worship must needs be located just at the edge of town, where land was very cheap. A kindly man, Parson Rawlins, and of mysterious life, for none might say whence came his raven-brought revenue. Questioned, Brother Rawlins admitted that he was not in the least sure whether or not he had a definite creed. He held out his hand smilingly to Aurora Lane.... An old man he was, with white hair and a thin face, his chin shaven smooth and shining between his bushy white side whiskers. His eyes were very mild.
"How do you do, Aurora?" said he. "Now, don't say a word to me—I know this boy." And he shook hands with Don also. "I know him," said he, "and I know all he has done today—we all know all about it, Aurora, so don't talk to me. Tut, tut, my son! But had I been in your place very likely I should have done the same thing—I might have whipped old Eph Adamson. You know, sometimes even a minister asks, 'Lord, shall we smite with the sword?'"
The face of the old man grew grave as he looked from one to the other. Some presentiment told him that a change had come across Aurora Lane's manner of life. Could it be possible that she had grown defiant—was she restive under the weight of the years? Had this sudden and sensational resurrection of her past brought rebellion to her heart, all these years so patient, so gentle?
He waved a hand towards the backs of the assemblage. "I suppose you recognize some of your own handicraft, don't you, 'Rory?" said he, laughing.
Aurora laughed, also. "A good many," said she frankly. "But the mail order business in ready-trimmed hats has cut into my trade a great deal of late. Then there are excursions into Columbus. Still, I see some of my bonnets here and there—even now and then a gown."
They both laughed yet again, cheerily, both knowing the philosophy of the poor. Further conversation at the time was cut off by the entrance of the musicians of the evening, an organization known as the Spring Valley Cornet Band. These young men, a dozen in number, made their way solemnly to a place adjacent to the platform, where presently they busied themselves with certain mild tapping of drums and soft moanings of alto horns and subdued tootlings of cornets.
The leader of the band was the chief clerk in the First National Bank, Mr. Jerome Westbrook by name, himself Spring Valley's glass of fashion and mold of form, and not unconscious of the public attention attracted to himself in his present capacity. Now and again he looked out over the audience to see if he could locate a certain young lady, none less than Sallie Lester, the daughter of the president of his bank, upon whom he had bestowed the honor of his affections. He was willing to add thereto eke the honor of his hand.
It was as Aurora Lane had said—this annual gathering of Miss Julia's was the social clearing house of the community. And this typical attendance, representative of the little city at its best, offered that strange contrast of the sexes so notable in any American assemblage. The men were ordinary of look and garb, astonishingly ordinary, if one might use the term; stalwart enough, but slouchy, shapeless, and ill-clad. Not so the women, who seemed as though of another and superior social world. If here and there the face of a man seemed stolid, cloddish, peasant-like, not so any of the half dozen faces of the women next adjoining him. Type, class—call what you like that which is owned by the average American woman, even of middle class—that distinction was as obvious as is usual in all such gatherings. Scattered here and there through this audience, as in any audience of even the humblest sort in America, were a half dozen faces of young women, any of whom must have been called very beautiful, strikingly beautiful—beautiful as Aurora Lane must once have been.
The apparel of the men was nondescript. That of the women, however or wherever secured, made them creatures apart. The men, too, sat uncommunicative, silent; whereas their daughters or spouses turned, chattering, laughing, waving a hand to this or that friend. In short, the women availed themselves fully, as women will, of this opportunity of social intercourse. And always, as head turned to head, there was a look, a whispered word, of woman to woman. Little by little, in the mysterious way of such assemblages, every woman in the house came to know that Aurora Lane and her boy—who had only been hid, and not dead, all these years—were seated on the back seat, next to Old Man Rawlins. Did anyone ever hear the like ofthat? In reality Spring Valley was out to hear the rest of the news about Aurora Lane and her unfathered boy as soon as possible. Gossip covers all the nuances, the shades, the inner and hidden things of information, especially when information may be classified as scandal. This is the real news. It never needs wings. It needed no wings now.
Naturally, it was incumbent upon Judge Henderson to introduce a minister of the gospel to open the meeting with prayer—we Americans apologize to Providence at all public occasions, even our political conventions. Naturally thereafter Judge Henderson rose once more, took a drink of water, and signaled to the leader of the Spring Valley Silver Cornet Band; whereupon Mr. Jerome Westbrook, wiping all previous trace of German silver from below his mustache, essayed once more the leadership in concord of sweet sounds. This brought Judge Henderson up to his introductory remarks, properly so-called.
He made no ill figure as he stood, immaculately clad as was his custom, his costume still being the long black coat, his white waistcoat, the white tie, which he had worn that afternoon in court. It was charged against him, by certain of his enemies, that Judge Henderson had been known to change his shirt twice in one day, but this was not commonly believed. That he changed it at least once every day had, however, come to be accepted in common credence, although this also was held as his sheer eccentricity.
His face was smooth-shaven, for really he was shaved daily, and not merely on Saturday nights. His wide, easy, good-humored mouth, his large features, his well-defined brows, his full eye, his commanding figure, gave him a presence good enough for almost any stage. He stood easily now, accepting as his right the applause which greeted him, and smiled as he placed on the table beside him the inevitable glass of water at which he had sipped. Some said that in his own office Judge Henderson did not confine himself to water—but any leading citizen must have his enemies.
The worthy Judge made precisely what manner of address must be made on precisely such occasions. To him his audience was made up of fellow citizens, ladies and gentlemen. He accosted them with the deference and yet the confidence of some statesman of old. Indeed, he might have been scarce less a figure than Senator Thomas Hart Benton himself, so profuse—and so inaccurate—were the classical quotations which he saw fit to employ. It had grown his custom to do this with care-free mind. Indeed, there was but one here in this audience tonight who perhaps might have chided him for his Greek—a young man who sat far back in the rear, in a place near the door—a young man who none the less, it must be confessed, paid small attention to the Hendersonian allusions which had to do with literature, with history, the gentle arts, the culture, the progress of our proud republic, and of this particular American community.
So now it came on to the time of Reverend Henry B. Fullerton, who likewise spoke of literature and culture, patriotism and the glories of our republic. The other ministers also in due course, after certain uneasy consultation of the clock upon the opposite wall, spoke much in similar fashion.
After these formidable preliminaries, it was time for Judge Henderson to give the real address of the evening—this latter now delivered with frequent consultations of the large watch which he placed beside him on the table. So presently he came to such portion of his speech as requires the orator to say, "But, my friends, the hour grows late." Whereafter presently, figuratively, he dismissed the audience with his blessing, well satisfied from the applause that his campaign was doing well. He had but casually and incidentally allowed it to be known that his own annual check to the city library was for a thousand dollars—no more than would cover the librarian's salary.
By this time, it was a half-hour past midnight, and none present might say that he had not had full worth of all the moneys expended for this entertainment. It had been a great evening for the candidate. Moreover, most of the old ladies present had enjoyed themselves in social conversation regarding the absorbing news of the day. As for the half dozen young village beauties present, there was not one who did not know precisely where Don Lane sat—not even Sally Lester, who irritated Jerome Westbrook beyond measure when he saw her pretending to look at the clock at the back of the hall to see what time it was. Really, as Jerome Westbrook knew very well, she was only trying to see Don Lane, the newest young man in town—wholly impossible socially, but one who had made sudden history of interest in feminine eyes.
Moody and intent upon his own thoughts, Don Lane himself by no means realized the importance of the occasion so far as he himself and his mother were concerned. He did not know that he was on trial here, that they two were on inspection. His ears were deaf to the impassioned words of all and several of the orators of the evening. Before his eyes appeared only one face. It was that of a young girl with a face clean-cut and high-browed, with sweet and kindly eyes—the girl he was to meet tomorrow, to whom he was to say good-by—Anne Oglesby. "Anne! Anne!" his heart was exclaiming all the time. For now he knew that he in turn must bruise yet another human heart, because of what had been, and in his brain was room now for no other thought, no other scene, no other face. There swept down upon him, if he thought of it at all now and then, only a feeling of the insufficiency, the narrowness, the unworthiness, the tawdriness, of all this which lay about him. And yet it was this to which he must come back—this was his world—this at least was the world in which his mother had made her own battle—had won for a time, and now had lost.