The next morning, as Saunders sat at breakfast in the cafe of his club scanning the morning paper, his attention was fixed by the big-typed head-lines of a report of the school convention at the Capitol. The details and object of the meeting were given in only a few sentences, the main feature of the article being a sensational account of the brilliant speech of a young woman delegate in support of the bill before the Legislature favoring a much-needed appropriation for schools among the poor mountaineers.
The paper stated that the youthful beauty, vivacity, and eloquence of the speaker, the daughter of a Confederate veteran, had roused an enthusiasm seldom witnessed in the old State House. She was introduced by the Governor, who was chairman of the meeting, and fully three-fourths of the members of the Senate and the House were present. Miss Drake's speech was a rare combination of originality, humor, arid pathos. Her aptitude at anecdote, her gift for description and dialect had fairly astounded her audience. The applause was so constant and persistent that the brave young speaker had difficulty in pursuing her theme. And when it was over the members of the House and the Senate had pressed forward to congratulate her and pledge their support to the bill in question. Such a complete acceptance of any single measure had never been known before in the history of Georgia politics.
Following this account was the report of the reception to the convention of teachers at the Executive Mansion, which had been largely attended owing to the desire of many to see and meet the young heroine of the day. Saunders read and reread the article, in his excitement neglecting his breakfast and forgetting his morning cigar.
"God bless her!" he chuckled. "She is a brick. Put her anywhere on earth, against any odds, and she will win!"
When the hour approached for her train to leave he went down to the big station to see her off, finding her alone in the waiting-room looking quite as if nothing unusual had happened, though he thought he noticed a slight shade of uneasiness on her face.
"Anything gone wrong?" he inquired, anxious to help her if she needed assistance.
"I haven't seen my father," she answered. "You see, he went to a boarding-house. Rooms were in such demand that he didn't go with me and the other delegates to the hotel. Then, he had determined to economize as much as possible. I thought he would come around this morning, anyway. I don't want to go back home without seeing him; my mother would simply be wild with uneasiness."
"You have several minutes yet," Saunders answered. "He will be apt to turn up." Therewith Saunders began to smile. "Have you read the morning papers?"
"I haven't had time to read them carefully," Dolly declared. "Several of the men teachers sent copies up to my room before I came down for breakfast. The teachers had a lot to say about me and my talk. Really, I feel like a goose, and mean, too. It looks as if I thought I was the whole show. Why, there were women in the convention old enough to be the mothers of girls like me, and with a hundred times as much sense."
"But you turned the trick!" Saunders cried, enthusiastically. "You did more with that speech than a dozen conventions of men and women could have done. You hit the nail square on the head. You won. The bill will pass like a flash. It is a foregone conclusion."
"Oh, I wish I could think so," Dolly cried, hopefully, her fine eyes beaming. Then she began to smile reminiscently. "That was the strangest experience I ever had in all my born days. Talk about the debates we used to have in our club; they were simply not in it! When they put me up there on that platform, side by side with the Governor of the State and three senators, and they were all so nice and polite, I was scared to death. My tongue was all in a knot, and I was as cold as if I had my feet in ice-water. Then when the Governor introduced me with all those compliments about my looks, and I had to stand up and begin, I give you my word, Jarvis, that big stone building, solid as it was, was rocking like a cradle. Every seat, from the front to the back, had a man or a woman in it, but I didn't see a single face. They were all melted together in one solid mass-and quiet! Why, it was so still that I heard my mouth click when I opened it to catch my breath.It was simply awful.I remember thinking I would pray for help if I had time, but I didn't have time for anything. It was lucky I thought about beginning with a funny tale, for when they all laughed and clapped I felt better. Then I forgot where I was. There were some young men reporters at a table right under my feet, and they kept laughing in such a friendly, good-natured way that I found myself talking to them more than any of the rest. The audience really made it easier for me, for while they were applauding I had a chance to think of something else to say. I found out the sort of thing they liked, and piled it on thick and heavy. And when I sat down and they all packed round me to shake hands, I was more surprised than I ever was in my life."
"It was the hit of the day," Saunders replied. "It was as great a success in its way as the speech of Henry W. Grady at the New England banquet. I am proud of you, Dolly. You will let me say that, won't you?"
"If you really mean it." She raised her eyes frankly to his, and a flush of gratification suffused her sweet face. "I would not like to be an utter failure on my first visit to your city. I didn't want you to hear my speech, but I do wish I had asked you to that reception. It was nice. I can see now what you all find in social things. It was like a dream to me—the music, the lights, the jewels, the dresses, the flowers, the brilliant talk, the courtesy of men, and—yes, the congratulations and compliments. I did like to have so many say they liked my speech—I really did. I almost cried over it."
"You shall have them all." Saunders restrained the words which throbbed on his lips. "Be my wife, little girl, and I'll gratify your every desire." She was looking into his eyes, and he glanced aside, fearing that she might read his thoughts.
"I wish I could have gone," was all he said. "I should have enjoyed your triumph immensely."
"It won't spoil me—don't think that." He heard her sigh and saw a slight cloud pass over her face. "I am young in years, but I have had my share of suffering. You are almost the only one who knows my great secret. It makes me feel very close to you, Jarvis. You made it easier for me to bear when you helped me hide it on the night you prevented my father from making my humiliation public. That was good of you—good and brave and thoughtful."
"My God, she still loves him!" Saunders thought, with a pang which permeated his whole being. "His very weakness has made him dearer. She never has a word to say against him."
Saunders was trying to make some sort of outward response when he saw Dolly start suddenly, her eyes on the doorway. "I see my father. Oh, I'm glad, for now I can find out what he intends to do. I see him looking for me. Wait; I'll run over to him."
Saunders watched her graceful figure as it glided through the crowd to Drake's side. He saw the mountaineer turn a face full of pride and contentment upon his daughter; and Saunders knew, from her rapt expression, that he was telling her of his good fortune. The watcher saw Dolly put her hand in a gesture of tender impulsiveness on her father's arm, and stand eagerly listening, and yet with a frown on her face. A moment later they came toward him. Dolly was regarding him with a steady, almost cold stare. Was it vague displeasure? Was it wounded pride? Surely his act was contrary to her wishes, for she made no immediate reference to it.
"Well," Drake said, "if you are goin' to put 'er on the train, I'll tell 'er good-by now. There's a feller waitin' for me at the front. Tell your mother, daughter, that I'll be up in a week or so. So long."
Drake was not a man given to embraces of any sort, and he was turning away when Dolly stopped him. "Kiss me, father," she said, raising her face to his; and, with a sheepish laugh, the mountaineer complied.
"She's like all the balance, Jarvis," he said, lightly. "They believe in things bein' done to the letter. You will be at the bank after a while, won't you?"
"Yes, as soon as the train leaves," Saunders, answered. Then he heard the porter announcing Dolly's train, and he took up her bag. She was silent as they walked along the pavement and down the iron stairs to the car, where he found a seat for her. Only a few minutes remained, and the feeling was growing on him that she was quite displeased with the arrangement he had made with her father. How could he part with her like that? The days of doubt and worry ahead of him as a consequence of what he had done seemed unbearable.
"Did your father mention the plan he and I—"
"Yes," she broke in, tremulously; "he told me all about it, Jarvis, and—and I want to ask you a question. I want you to be frank with me. I don't want the slightest evasion to—to save me from pain. I can't go up home without knowing the full truth. You are so—so kind and thoughtful, always wanting to—to domesome favor and aidmethat—Oh, Jarvis, I want to know this: Do you think my father is capable of filling that place as it ought to be filled?"
Saunders was sitting on the arm of the seat in front of her. The car was almost empty, no one being near. He bent forward and laid his hand on her arm. "He is the very man I want," he declared. "The work is not difficult; he is so popular with the average run of men that he will make a far better manager than Hobson, or any one else I could get."
He heard her catch her breath. He saw a light of joy dawn in her eyes. "If only I could believe that, Jarvis," she said, "I would be the happiest girl in all the world. I would—I would—I would."
"Then you may be," he answered, huskily, his emotions all but depriving him of utterance. "He is doingmea favor, Dolly. Of all men he is the first I would select."
The bell of the locomotive was ringing. Saunders stood up, now clasping the hand she held out. He felt her timid fingers cling to his. Her blood and his throbbed in unison. Looking into her eyes, he saw that they were full of tears. He remembered how she had kissed his hand on the night he had prevented her father from going to Atlanta, and as he hurried from the slowly moving car he was like a man groping through a maze of doubt and bewildering fears. She could feel and show gratitude, he told himself, but a heart such as hers could never be won twice to actual love. It is said that suffering deepens character, and it was perhaps the fall of her ideal which had made her the heroic marvel she was. Mostyn still loved her in secret; of that Saunders had little doubt, for how could a man once embraced by such a creature ever forget it? And Dolly suspected the man's constancy and had no room for aught but secret responsiveness. But no matter, he would still be her watchful and attentive friend. He had helped her to-day in the midst of her triumph, and he would help her again and again. To serve her unrewarded would have to suffice.
One morning, a week or so later, Mostyn found a note from Marie Winship in his mail. It was brief and to the point. It ran:
DEAR DICK,-I am going to leave Atlanta for good and all, never to bother you again (believe me, this is the truth), but I want to see you to explain in full. I shall be at my dressmaker's in the morning after ten. Please walk out that way. I shall see you from the window, and you won't have to come in. Don't refuse this last request. This is not a "hold-up"; I don't intend to ask for money. I only want to say good-by and tell you something. My last effort to get you to come to see me proved to me how altered you are. MARIE.
Mostyn turned the matter over in his mind deliberately, and finally decided that he would comply with the request. It rang true, and there was comfort in the assurance that she was about to leave Atlanta, for her presence and instability of mood had long been a menace to his peace of mind.
At the hour mentioned he found himself somewhat nervously nearing the cottage in question. She was prompt; he saw her standing at a window, and a moment later she came out and joined him.
"Let's walk down toward the woods," she suggested, with a smile which lay strangely on her piquant features. "It will look better than standing like posts on the sidewalk."
He agreed, wondering now, more than ever, what she had to say. She had barely touched his hand in salutation, and bore herself in a sedate manner that was all but awkward. They soon reached a shaded spot quite out of sight of any of the scattered residences in the vicinity, and she sat down on the grass, leaving him the option of standing or seating himself by her.
"You are wondering what on earth I've got up my sleeve"—she forced a little laugh—"and well you may wonder, Dick, for I am as big a mystery to myself as I could possibly be to any one else."
"I was wondering if you really do intend to leave Atlanta," he answered, sitting down beside her. "You seemed very positive about it in your note."
"Yes, I am going, Dick; but that is not themainthing. Dick, I'm going to be married."
"Married!" he exclaimed. "Are you joking?"
"I suppose you do regard it as a joke," she said, listlessly, and with a little sigh. "Such a serious step would seem funny in me, wouldn't it? But I am not what I used to be, Dick. I have been quite upset for a long time—in fact, ever since you married. Then again, your life, your ways, your constant brooding has had a depressing effect on me. Dick, it seems to me that you have been trying to—well, to be good ever since you married."
He shrugged his shoulders. "What is the use of talking about that, Marie?" he asked, avoiding her probing stare.
"It affected me a lot," she returned, thoughtfully. "I tried to keep up the old pace and care for the old things, but your turn about was always before me. Dick, you have puzzled me all along. You do not care a snap for your wife; what is it that makes you look like a ghost of your old jolly self?"
He shrank from her sensitively. "I really don't like to talk about such things," he faltered. "Tell me about your marriage."
"Not yet; one thing at a time." She dropped her sunshade at her feet and locked her white hands over her knee. "I shall never see you again after to-day, Dick, and Idowant to understand you a little better, so that when I look back on our friendship you won't be such a tantalizing mystery. Dick, you never loved me; you never loved your wife; but youhaveloved some one."
He lowered his startled glance to the ground. She saw a quiver pass over him and a slow flush rise in his face.
"What are you driving at?" he suddenly demanded. "All this is leading nowhere."
She smiled in a kindly, even sympathetic way. "It can't do any harm, Dick, for, really, what I have found out has made me sorry for you for the first time in my life—genuinely and sincerely sorry."
"What you have found out?" he faltered, half fearfully.
"Yes, and it doesn't matter how I discovered it, but I did. I happened to stay for a week at a little hotel in Ridgeyille last month, and a slight thing I picked up about your stay up there five years ago gradually led me on to the whole thing. Dick, I saw Dolly Drake one day on one of my walks. One look at her and the whole thing became plain. You loved her. You came back here with the intention of marrying her and leading a different life. You would have done it, too, but for my threats and your partial engagement to your wife. You went against your true self when you married, and you have never gotten over it."
He was unable to combat her assertions, and simply sat in silence, an expression of keen inner pain showing itself in his drawn lips.
"See how well I have read you!" she sighed. "I always knew there was something unexplained. You would have been more congenial with your wife but for that experience. You are to blame for her dissatisfaction. Not having love from you, she is leaning on the love of an old sweetheart. Dick, that pretty girl in the mountains would have made you happy. I read the article about her in the paper the other day. From all accounts, she is a remarkable woman, and genuine."
Mostyn nodded. "Sheisgenuine," he admitted. "Well, now you know the truth. But all that is past and gone. You forget something else."
"No, I don't," she took him up, confidently. "You are thinking of your boy."
Again he nodded. "Love for a woman is one thing, Marie, but the love for one's own child passes beyond anything else on earth."
"Yes, when the child is loved as you love yours, and when you fancy that he is being neglected, and that you are partly responsible for it. Oh, Dick, you and I both are queer mixtures! I may as well be frank. Your struggles to make amends have had their effect on me. For a long time I have not been satisfied with myself. I used to be able to quiet my conscience by plunging into pleasure, but the old things no longer amuse. That is why I am turning over a new leaf. Dick, the man I am to marry knows my life from beginning to end. He is a good fellow—a stranger here, and well-to-do. My brother sent him to me with a letter of introduction. He has had trouble. He was suspected of serious defalcation, and the citizens of his native town turned against him. All his old ties are cut. He likes me, and I like him. I shall make him a true wife, and he knows it. I am going to my brother in Texas and will be married out there. Dick, I shall, perhaps, never see you again, but, frankly, I shall not care. I want to forget you as completely as you will forget me. I only wish I were leaving you in a happier frame of mind. You are miserable, Dick, and you are so constituted that you can't throw it off."
"No, I can't throw it off!" His voice was low and husky. "I won't mince words about it. Marie, I am in hell. I know how men feel who kill themselves. But I shall not do that."
"No, that would do no good, Dick. I have faced that proposition several times, and conquered it. The only thing to do is to hope—and, Dick, I sometimes think there is something—alittlesomething, you know—in praying. I believe there is a God over us—a God ofsomesort, who loves even the wrong-doers He has created and listens to their cries for help now and then. But I don't know; half the time I doubt everything. There is one thing certain. The humdrum church-people, whom we used to laugh at for their long faces and childish faith, have the best of the game of life in the long run. They have—they really have."
He tried to blend his cold smile with hers, but failed. He stood up, and, extending his hand, he aided her to rise. "This is good-by, then, forever," he said. "Marie, I thinkyouare going to be happy."
"I don't know, but I am going to try at least for contentment," she said, simply. "There is always hope, and you may see some way out of your troubles."
Quite in silence they walked back to the cottage gate, and there, with a hand-shake that was all but awkward, they parted. He tipped his hat formally as he turned away. Ahead of him lay the city, a dun stretch of roofs and walls, with here and there a splotch of green beneath a blue sky strewn with snowy clouds.
He had gone only a few paces when he heard the whirring sound of an automobile, which was approaching from the direction of the city. It was driven by a single occupant. It was Andrew Buckton. Mostyn saw the expression of exultant surprise that he swept from him to Marie, and knew by Buckton's raised hat that he had seen them together. The car sped on and vanished amid the trees at the end of the road. Looking back, Mostyn saw that Marie was lingering at the gate. He knew from the regretful look in her face that she was deploring the incident; but, simply raising his hat again, he strode on.
All the remainder of the morning he worked at his desk. He tried to make himself feel that, now that Marie was leaving, his future would be less clouded; but with all the effort made, he could not shake off a certain clinging sense of approaching disaster. Was he afraid that Buckton would gossip about what he had just seen, and that the public would brand him afresh with the discarded habits of the past? He could not have answered the question. He was sure of nothing. He lunched at his club, smoked a dismal cigar with Delbridge and some other men, and heard them chatting about the rise and fall of stocks as if they and he were in a turbulent dream. They appeared as marvels to him in their unstumbling blindness under the overbrooding horrors of life, in their ignorance of the dark, psychic current against which he alone was battling.
All the afternoon he toiled at the bank, and at dusk he walked home. No one was about the front of the house, and he went up to his room. He had bathed his face and hands, changed his suit, and was about to descend the stairs when his father-in-law came tottering along the corridor and paused at the open door of the room.
"This is a pretty come-off," he scowled in at Mostyn. "Here you come like this as if nothing out of the way had happened, when your wife has packed up and gone off for another trip. She said she was going to write you—did you get a note?"
"No; where has she gone?" Mostyn inquired. "She didn't even mention it to me."
"One of her sudden notions. The Hardys at Knoxville are having a big house-party, and wrote her to come. I tried to get her to listen to reason, but she wouldn't hear a word. She is actually crazy for excitement—women all get that way if you give them plenty of rein, and Irene has been spoiled to death. I have never seen her act as strange as she did to-day. She cried when I talked to her, and almost went into hysterics. She gave the servants a lot of her clothes, and kept coming to me and throwing her arms around me and telling me to forgive her for this and that thing I forgot long ago. When she started for the train I wanted to go with her or telephone you, but she wouldn't let me do either—said I was too feeble, and she did not want to bother you. Say, do you know I'm to blame? I had no right to influence you and her to marry, nohow. You have never suited each other—you don't act like man and wife. You might as well be two strangers hitched together. Something is wrong, awfully wrong, but I can't tell what it is."
Mostyn made no reply. He heard little Dick's voice in the hall below, and had a sudden impulse to take him up. Leaving him, old Mitchell passed on to his own room, and Mostyn went down the stairs to the child, who was playing on the veranda.
"Poor child! Poor child!" he said to himself.
The next morning at the bank a financial disappointment met him. A telegram informed him of the sudden slump in some stocks in which he was interested. The loss was considerable, and the tendency was still downward. He was wondering if he ought to confide this to Saunders, when his partner, of his own accord, came into his office and sat down by his desk.
"Busy just now?" Saunders inquired.
"No; what is it?" Mostyn returned. "Fire away."
Saunders seemed to hesitate. Through the partition came the clicking of a typewriter and an adding-machine, the swinging of the screened door in front. "It is a somewhat personal matter," Saunders began, awkwardly. "I have been wanting to mention it for a month, but hardly knew how to bring it up. You may know, Mostyn, that I have been thinking of giving up business here altogether. I have become more and more interested in my farming ventures, and my life in the country has taken such a grip on me that I want to quit Atlanta altogether."
"Oh, I see." Mostyn forced a smile. "I thought you would get to that before long. You are becoming a regular hayseed, Saunders. You are like a fish out of water here in town. Well, I suppose you want to put a man in your place so you will have freer rein in every way."
"Not that, exactly, Mostyn. The fact is, I want to realize on my bank stock. There are other things I'd like to invest in, and I need the money to do it with. I am planning a cotton-mill in my section to give employment to a worthy class of poor people."
Mostyn drew his lips tight. He stabbed a sheet of paper on the green felt before him, and there was a rebellious flash from his eyes.
"Come right out and be frank about it," he said, with a touch of anger. "Are you afraid your investment in this bank is not a safe one?"
Saunders looked steadily at him. "That certainly is not a businesslike question, Mostyn, and you know it."
"Perhaps it isn't, but what does it matter?" Mostyn retorted. "At any rate, that is a shrewd evasion of the point. Well, do you want to sellmeyour stock?"
"I would naturally give you the preference, and that is why I am mentioning it to you."
Mostyn sat frowning morbidly. There was a visible droop to his shoulders. "There is no use having hard feelings over it," he said, dejectedly. "You have a right to do as you please with your interests. But the truth is, I am not financially able to take over as big a block of stock as you hold."
Saunders hesitated for a moment, then began: "I was wondering if Mr. Mitchell—"
"Leave him out of consideration, for God's sake," Mostyn broke in. "He has grown horribly suspicious of me. He would have a regular spasm if you tried to sell to him. He would be sure we are on the brink of failure, and talk all over town. Don't mention it to him."
"And you say you are not in a position to—"
"No; many things have gone against me recently, but that needn't bother you. You can find a buyer."
"I have already found one, and the offer is satisfactory." Saunders glued his glance to the rug at his feet. "In fact, I have been approached more than once, Delbridge wants to buy me out."
"Delbridge!" Mostyn started. His lips parted and his teeth showed in a cold grimace. "Ah, I see his game!"
"I don't understand," Saunders said, wonderingly.
"Well, I do, if you don't. I suspected something was in the wind last month when he took over Cartwright's stock at such a good figure. Do you know if he gets your stock that he will hold a larger interest than mine?"
"I hadn't thought of it."
"I see his plan plainly. He wants to be the president of this bank, and he can elect himself if he buys you out. He has always wanted exactly this sort of thing to back up his various schemes. You must give me a little while to think it over, Saunders. I don't like to give in to him. He has always fought me, you know, and this would be a feather in his cap. Perhaps I can induce some one else to make the investment."
"Take all the time you want," Saunders answered. "I want you to be satisfied."
"Well, I'll let you know to-day, or to-morrow, at furthest," Mostyn said, wearily. "If I can't make some arrangement I'll have to give in, that's all. My affairs are getting pretty badly tangled, but I'll come out all right."
When Saunders had left him and the door had closed, Mostyn leaned his head on his hand and tried to collect his wits, but to no avail. What was the intangible thing which had haunted him through the night, causing him to lie awake, reciting over and over old Mitchell's account of the scene with his daughter just before her departure? What was it that kept coupling this hurried trip of hers with Buckton? Was thought-transference a scientific fact, as many hold, and was the insistent impression due to the bearing of culpable minds upon his? He might telephone here and there and find out if Buckton was in town—but no, no, that would not do.
The porter opened the door and came in with a bundle of letters and papers which he put down before him and withdrew. A grim foreboding settled on him. Something seemed to whisper from the mute heap that here lay the revelation—here was the missing communication from Irene of which her father had spoken. A bare glance at the bundle was enough, for he recognized the pale-blue envelope belonging to Irene's favorite stationery. With bloodless fingers, breathlessly, he drew it out. It had been posted the night before. Surely, he told himself, there was meaning in this slower method of delivery, for what had prevented her from leaving it at home in his room or in her father's care? Or, for that matter, why had she not telephoned him? He laid the communication down, unopened. He was afraid of it. Had the skies been stone, their supports straws, his dread could not have been greater. He went to the door and softly turned the key. There should be no eye upon him. He came back. Taking a paper-knife, he slit the envelope and spread out the perfumed sheet. It read:
DEAR DICK,—There is no use keeping up this senseless farce any longer. I am sick to death with my very existence. I have been hungry for love all my life, and never had it. When I married I mistreated the only man I ever cared for, and I have resolved to do so no longer. Andy and I are leaving together. God only knows if we shall find the happiness we are seeking, but we are going to try. Father thinks I have gone to the Hardys'. Perhaps he may as well be kept in ignorance for a few days longer. The truth will leak out soon enough. Though you may do as you like about this. As for your following us and making things unpleasant, I have no fears, for, as you well know, I am entitled to my liberty in this matter. You have certainly not been molested by me in your own private life. I now know all about the cottage in the outskirts of town, but I am not blaming you in the least. I confess that I thought you had ceased your attentions in that quarter, but that was because I attributed a certain spiritual and remorseful quality to you which you do not possess. I am not blaming you at all—at all. In fact, somehow the discovery has had a soothing effect on me. It has confirmed the feeling that both you and I have been and are the mere playthings of Fate. As I see it, I am doing my duty. I led poor Andy on before my marriage. I kissed him—I've kissed him a thousand times, both before and since my marriage. He can't live without me, and I can't live without his love and future companionship. Life is too short to spend it in the sheer misery I have been in of late. He and I are going out into the great world to live, enjoy, and die together. People will talk, but we can't help that—the truth is, we don't care. You will blame me for leaving the child, for you do love him, but I can't help that. He was born out of love, and was always a reproach to me. You will take care of him; I know that, and better than if I were there.
Good-by. IRENE.
Mostyn folded the sheet and thrust it into his pocket. Going to a window, he stood looking out on the dusty street. Drays and cabs were trundling by. Had his back been bared to the thonged scourge of the public whipping-post and the blows been falling under the strokes of a giant, he could not have cringed more. He saw himself the laughing-stock of the town, the fool provider for another man's passion. He saw his adored child, now worse than motherless, growing up into open-eyed consciousness of his hereditary shame. He saw his wreck of a father-in-law glaring at him in senile indignation. What was to be done—whatcouldbe done? Nothing—simply nothing. Men of honor in the past had been able to wipe out stains like those and keep their heads erect, but to assume that he was "a man of honor," as matters stood, would be the height of absurdity. He certainly would not announce the news to Mitchell. He would ward off the disclosure as long as possible, and then—well, there was no knowing what would happen.
Going to the door, he unlocked it and peered into the busy bank. His glance fell on Saunders's desk. Saunders was not there. He had decided to speak to him with finality in regard to the disposition of his stock. What mattered it now who held the office of president? In fact, the unsullied name of a man like Delbridge might rescue the institution from the actual ruin which was apt to follow such a scandal and the accompanying report of old Mitchell's financial estrangement from his son-in-law.
Mostyn approached Wright, the cashier, with the intention of inquiring where Saunders was when he heard Wright speaking to a man through the grating as he turned a check over in his hand. "I am sorry," he was saying, "but, while it is small, we could not cash it without identification."
"That's why I brought it to you," the man answered. "I know Mr. Saunders. I've seen him several times up in the mountains. He cashed a check for me up there once, and said if I ever happened to be down here to drop in to see him."
"He is out just now, but will be in very soon," Wright said. "Won't you come into the waiting-room and take a seat?"
Stooping down a little, Mostyn was enabled to see the face of the applicant. It was that of John Leach, the tramp preacher. Their eyes met. Mostyn bowed and smiled. Then he touched Wright on the arm just as he was about to shove the check back to its owner. "I know him," he said. "It is all right."
Mostyn noticed a look of astonishment struggling on the tanned features of the preacher, but he turned away just as Wright was counting out the money. He would go out and find Saunders, he decided, and get the detail pertaining to the sale of stock off his mind. Outside he looked up the street, seeing Saunders and Delbridge standing on the corner in conversation.
"Delbridge is crazy to make the deal," he said, bitterly. "That is what he is talking about now. Well, he may have it. I am down and out. I am in no shape to attend to business. Besides, I'll want to hide myself from the public eye. Yes, he will protect my interest, and I shall need all the funds I can rake together. Great God! how did this ever come about? Only the other day I had some hope, but now not a shred is left. Delbridge was my financial rival. Neck and neck we ran together, the talk of the town; but now—yes, he can wipe his feet on me. Look at him—he's grinning—he's laughing—he is telling one of his funny yarns to pretend to Saunders that he is indifferent about the stock. Huh! Well he may laugh. Who knows, perhapshisluck will turn? The man that counts on luck is God's fool."
Mostyn took out a cigar as he approached the two men. "Match?" he asked Delbridge. The financier gave him one, and Mostyn struck it on the canvas back of a small check-book and applied it to the end of his cigar. "Saunders says you have made him an offer for his block of bank stock," he puffed, slowly.
"Yes, I made him a proposition." Delbridge's face fell into sudden shrewd rigidity. "I have about that amount of money idle just now. Saunders says he feels that you are entitled to a preference of the stock, and that until you decide what you want to do my offer must hang in the air."
Mostyn flicked at the ashless tip of his cigar. "I have thought it over," he said, "and, on the whole, Delbridge, I am sure your name will help the bank's standing, and I hope you and Saunders will make the deal."
"Oh, that's all right, then," Delbridge beamed. "Well, Saunders, I'll consider it settled, then. I'll walk into the bank with you now. I may be too busy later in the day."
Mostyn moved on. He crossed the viaduct over the railway tracks and walked aimlessly for several squares, bowing to acquaintances on the way. Presently he turned and began to retrace his steps, without any plan of action other than keeping his legs in motion.
At the corner of the street he came face to face with Leach. The man smiled cordially and brushed his long hair back over his ear with his delicate hand. "I was just wondering where I've seen you before." He extended his hand. "You certainly surprised me in the bank just now when you stood for me like you did."
Mostyn explained that he had heard him preach at Wartrace's store five years before.
"Say, I remember now," Leach cried. "Wasn't you sitting on the porch of the store?"
Mostyn nodded. "Yes, and I enjoyed your talk very much. I have thought of it a good many times since."
"I remember you now powerful well—powerful well. I seldom forget a face, and if a man shows that he is listening close, as you did that day, it helps me along. Do you know, I put you down as about the best listener I ever had. I saw it in your face and eyes. You got up and left before I was through, or I'd have spoken to you. It seemed to me that you was bothered powerful over something. Being in prison as long as I was gave me what you might call second-sight. You may not believe it, but I can actually feel a stream of thought coming from folks now and then. I can detect trouble of any spiritual sort in the face or in the touch of a hand. It isn't any of my affair, but right now I have a feeling that you are bothered. I reckon you business men have a lot to trouble you in one way and another."
"Yes, it is constant worry," Mostyn answered, evasively.
"This ain't no time to preach," Leach went on, with his characteristic laugh; "but I feel like scolding every town man I meet. This place is no better suited to real happiness than a foundry is for roses to bloom in. If you want to breathe God's breath, smell the sweet perfume of His presence, and walk in the wonderful light of His glory, throw this dusty grind off and go out into nature. Get down on your all-fours and hug it. Stop making money. When you've got a pile of it as high as that sky-scraper there you haven't got as much actual wealth as a honey-bee carries in one single flight through the sunlight. I never saw Heaven's blaze in the eye of a money-maker, but Ihaveseen it in the black face of a shouting nigger at a knock-down-and-drag-out revival. I intimated that I was happy when you heard me five years ago, I reckon. Well, since then I have become so much more so that that time seems like stumbling-ground, full of ruts and snags. Oh, I could tell you wonders, wonders, wonders! There never was an emperor I'd swap places with. If you ever get in trouble, come talk to me. Hundreds of men and women have opened their hearts to me and cried their troubles out like little children. I couldn't tell you how to get the best of a man in a speculation here in this hell-hole of iniquity, but I can show you how you can tie a thousand of God's spirit-cords to you and be drawn so high above all this that you won't know it is in existence. Going to the country this summer? I am. I'm headed for the mountains now. I just dropped in here to collect the little money that comes to me every quarter. I see you are in a hurry; well, so long. God be with you, friend. I'm going to pray for you. I don't know why, but I am. I'm going to pray for this whole rotten town, but I'll mention you special. Good-by."
"He may be right," Mostyn mused, as he strode on toward the bank. "Heisright—heis!"
Irene was on the train bound for Charleston. She was seated in one of the big easy-chairs in the parlor-car, idly scanning a magazine and looking out at the dingy and sordid outskirts of Atlanta through which the train was moving with increasing speed. The conductor passed, punched her ticket, and went on. He had glanced at her with masculine interest, for she showed by her sedate dignity, smallest detail of attire, and every visible possession, that she was a passenger of distinction.
Presently Buckton came in at the front door and approached her. An exultant smile swept his flushed face as he bent down over her.
"Thank God, we are off!" he chuckled. "I was simply crazy at the station—first with fear that you would not come, and next that we'd be noticed, but I don't believe a soul recognized us. I was seated behind a newspaper in the waiting-room watching for you like a hawk. I saw you get out of the cab and come in. God, darling, you don't know how proud I felt to know that you were actually coming to me! At last you are mine—all mine; after all these years of agony you are mine!"
She raised a pair of eyes to his in which a haunting dread seemed to lie like a shadow. "Oh, I feel so queer!" she sighed. "I realized that we had to hide and dodge, but I did not like the role. For the first time in my life I felt mean and sneaking. Already I am worried about father and the boy—father, in particular. He is getting old and feeble. Perhaps the shock to him may seriously harm him."
Buckton smiled, but less freely. He sat down in the chair in front of her and turned it till he faced her. "We have no time to bother about them, dear," he said, passionately. "We deserve to live in happiness, and we are going to do it. I am so happy I can hardly speak. Oh, we are going to have a glorious time! You should have been mine long ago. Nature intended it. We are simply getting our dues."
"I am doing it solely for your sake," she faltered. "Because you've suffered so on my account."
"And not for yourownsake? Don't put it that way, sweetheart." He took her hand; but, casting a furtive glance at the backs of the few other passengers in the car, she withdrew it.
"Don't," she protested, smiling. "We must be careful." She dropped a penetrating gaze into his amorous eyes, and applied her handkerchief to her drooping lips. "I've been thinking, Andy, about a certain thing more seriously since the train started than I ever did before. Do you know, many persons believe that if a woman acts—acts—well, as I am doing now, the man to whom she gives in will, down at the bottom of his heart, cease to respect and love her—in time—in time, I mean?"
"Bosh and tommyrot!" Buckton fairly glowed. "Never, never, when the case is like ours. We are simply doing our duty to ourselves. Love you? Why, I adore you! You have saved my life, darling. I would have killed myself. I've been on the very brink of it more than once. I've suffered agonies ever since you married. The birth of your child fairly drove me insane. I groveled in blackest despair. It made me feel that—that you were, or had been, actually his. Oh, it was awful! Don't regret our step. Think of what is before us. We'll stop in Charleston, see the quaint old town, go on to Savannah, stop a day or so, and then sail for New York. The ships are good, and at this season the sea is as smooth as glass. When we get to New York we will simply paint the town red, and if you wish, then, we'll go on to Europe. What could be more glorious? Why, the whole world is ours."
She smiled, almost sadly, and then, as if to avoid his gaze, she glanced out of the window. He saw her breast heave. He heard her sigh. "You are a man and I am a woman," she muttered. "I suppose that makes a difference. In a case like ours a man never is blamed by society, but the woman is. They class her with the lowest. Oh, won't they talk at home? Nothing else will be thought of for months. Old-fashioned persons will say it was the life we led. Do you suppose it could possibly—in any way—injure Dick's business?"
"How could it?" Buckton said, with caustic impatience. "What has this to do with his affairs?"
"Oh, I don't know!" She exhaled the words, heavily. "I have heard my father say that depositors sometimes take fright at the slightest things concerning the private lives of bankers. Andy, I would not like for this to—cost Dick a cent. I couldn't bear that."
"Do you think you ought to entertain such fine-spun ideas in regard to him when—when he is living as he is?"
"That has bothered me, too," she said, quickly. "Somehow I can't believe that he ever really went back to that woman—that is, to live with her. I met her only a week ago on the street. She looked straight at me, and, somehow, I was sure that he and she were not as they used to be. Call it intuition if you like, but intuition is sometimes reliable. It may have been by accident that they were together when you saw them out there. He takes lonely walks in all sorts of directions. He is a strange combination. His love for little Dick, his constant worrying about him is remarkable. It used to make me mad, but in a way I respected him for it."
"Let's not talk about him," Buckton implored. "All this rubbish is giving you the blues. They have called dinner. Let's go back to the dining-car. The service is fairly good on this line."
"I couldn't eat a bite," Irene answered.
"Well, let us go in, anyway. It will be a change," he said, "and will take your mind off this gloomy subject. Think of what is ahead of us, darling, not behind."
She rose, and, with a smile of resignation to his will, she followed him through the vestibule into the dining-car. As they went in they met a portly man who stood aside for them to pass.
"How are you, Mr. Buckton?" the man smiled, cordially.
"Oh, how are you?" Buckton answered, with a start and a rapid scrutiny of the passenger's face. Moving on, he secured seats at a table for two. As they sat down facing each other he noticed that the man, who had paid the cashier for his meal and was waiting for his change, was eying him and Irene with a curious, almost bold stare.
"Who is that man?" Irene questioned, rather coldly, as she spread out her napkin.
"His name is Hambright," Buckton answered, with assumed lightness. "He is a whisky salesman. Somebody brought him to the club the other night, and he told a lot of funny stories. He seems to have plenty of money; his house may give it to him for advertising purposes. He fairly throws it about to make acquaintances."
"I don't like his looks at all," Irene said, her lips curled in contempt. "Just then he stared at me in the most impertinent way. His hideous eyes actually twinkled. Do you suppose he could possibly know who I am?"
The compliment that every visitor to Atlanta would know her, at least by sight, rose to his lips, but he suppressed it as decidedly inappropriate to her mood.
"It isn't at all likely," Buckton answered, instead. "Besides, even if hedid, what ground would he have for thinking that our being together on a train like this—you know what I mean."
"I know what youwantto mean," Irene said, disconsolately. "I also know what such a creature as that would go out of his way tothink."
"There, you are off again!" Buckton laughed in a mechanical tone, which betrayed his uneasiness. "You are going to keep me busy brushing away your fancies. I see that now. Pretty soon you will expect the engineer to shut off steam and come back to take a peep at us. Your imagination is getting the upper hand of you. Stop short now and smile like your true, sweet self. I am happy and care-free, and I want you to be so."
She said nothing, but gave him a faint, childlike smile. "You are a dear, good boy, Andy," she faltered. "I am going to try to be sensible. It isn't the first time persons have acted this way and come out all right, is it? I don't want anything but tea. Get a pot. I think it will do me good."
Half an hour later they returned to their seats in the other car. The tea seemed to have exhilarated her, for she smiled more freely. There was a touch of rising color in her cheeks, a faint, defiant sparkle in her eyes. In passing from one car to the other she had allowed him to take her hand, and he pressed it ardently. He was swinging back into his joyous and triumphant mood.
They had not been seated long when the train came to a sudden stop. There was no station near, and several of the passengers looked out of the windows, and one or two left the car to see what had happened.
"Wait, and I'll see what is the matter," Buckton said. "I hope we won't be delayed. It is my luck to be behind on every trip. I'm a regular Jonah."
The stop had been made evidently to take on passengers, for a wretchedly clad woman and a little barefooted girl in ragged clothing were courteously helped into the car by the conductor. Both the woman and the girl were weeping violently, their sobs and wailings being distinctly heard as they sat locked in each other's arms. The sight was indeed pitiful. The conductor bent over them, said something in a crude effort at comfort, and then left them alone. Buckton came back, a look of annoyance on his face.
"What is wrong?" Irene questioned him as he sat down by her.
"It seems that the woman's husband was a track-hand," Buckton explained. "He worked down the road a few miles from here, and was run over and killed about an hour ago. They nagged our train to take her and his daughter to him."
"Oh, how awful—how awful!" Irene cried, in dismay. "You can see she is broken-hearted."
"Yes, they both take it hard," Buckton said, frowning. "I wonder what we'll run up against next. I wouldn't care for myself, but such things upset you. Don't look at them. What is the use?"
"I can't help it," Irene answered. "She is the most wretched-looking woman I ever saw. I am going to—to speak to her."
He put out a detaining hand, but she rose, a firm look of kindly determination on her face. Going to the weeping woman, Irene sat down in a chair opposite her, and as she did so the woman raised her anguish-filled eyes.
"I am so sorry to hear of your trouble," Irene began. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"
The woman, who was thin, short, and of colorless complexion, wiped her eyes on a soiled apron. The scant knot of brown hair at the back of her head seemed a pathetic badge of feminine destitution. The eyes, peering from their red and swollen sockets, held an appeal that would have shaken sympathy from the heart of a brute.
"Thar is nothing you kin do, Miss." The voice was a wail which rose, swelled out, and cracked like floating ice against the shore of a mighty stream. "Thar ain't nothin' nobody kin do. My John is dead. Even God can't do nothin'. It's over, I tell you. Dead, dead! I can't believe it, but they say it is so. He wasn't well when he left the house this mornin', but he was afeard he'd lose his job if he didn't report for work. He was so sick he could hardly drag one foot after the other. But he just would go. We had no money. Thar was only a little dab o' meal in the box, and just a rind o' hog meat. Thar is two more littler children than this un, an' they was cryin' for some'n' to eat. I know how it was; John was jest too weak to git out o' the way o' the wheels. Oh, don't mind me, Miss! He's dead—he's dead—dead—dead! Oh, God, have mercy! Kill me—kill us all an' put us out o' pain."
Tears stood in Irene's eyes. Her breast shook and ached with sympathy. She was trying to think of something to say when the whistle of the locomotive sounded.
"Here's the place now!" the woman screamed. "Oh, God! oh, God! Where have they put 'im—where have they put 'im? Maybe he is mashed so bad I won't know 'im. Oh, God! oh, God—kill me!"
The conductor, his face set and pale with pity, had come to aid her to alight. Through the window Irene saw a stretch of wheat-fields, a red-clay embankment, a wrecking-car, a group of earth-stained laborers leaning on their picks and shovels, and something lying beneath a sheet on bare ground. Hastily opening her purse, Irene took out a roll of bills amounting to a hundred dollars and pressed it into the woman's hand.
"Keep it," she said, huskily.
"Thank you, Miss," the woman said, without looking at the money or seeming to realize that she had taken it. She dropped it to the floor as she rose to go, and the conductor picked it up and gave it back to her.
"Keep it," he said; "you will need it."
Irene watched the three pass out at the door of the car and then turned her face from the window. All was still outside for a moment, and then a loud scream, followed by a fainter one, rent the air. Irene covered her face with her hands and remained in darkness till the train moved on. Buckton came and sat beside her, a disturbed look on his face. He waited for several minutes. Then she dropped her hands and sighed.
"I'm sorry this has happened, darling," Buckton said, softly. "You are so sympathetic that such things unstring you."
She bent toward him. There was a haunted, groping expression in her eyes. "I'll never forget this as long as I live," she half sobbed. "It will cling to me till I die. The very pores of my soul seemed to open to that wretched woman's spirit. If she had been my sister I couldn't have felt—"
A welling sob checked her words. He stared at her blankly. He tried to formulate some helpful response, but failed. It was growing dark outside. The porter was lighting the overhead lamps, using a step-ladder to reach them and moving it from spot to spot between the chairs.
"I want to—to ask you something—something serious," Irene said, presently. "Do you believe in omens?"
He saw her drift and forced a smile. "Yes, in this way," he said, lightly. "Things go by opposites all through life. Something good or jolly always follows on the heels of gloom. We are going to be so happy that we won't have time to think of anything disagreeable."
She sighed audibly. That was all.
It was past midnight when they reached Charleston. He led her, still silent and abstracted, to a cab and helped her in. He then gave the name of their hotel to the driver and got in beside her. He took her gloved hand and held it tenderly as the cab rumbled over the cobble-stones through the deserted streets.
"It is too warm for gloves, dear," he said, his hot breath on her cheek; and with throbbing, eager hands he drew one off. He kissed the soft fingers and felt them, flutter like a captured bird. A moment later he put his arm about her and drew her head down to his shoulder. She resisted feebly, turning from him once or twice, and then allowed him to kiss her on the lips.
As they were nearing the hotel he suddenly bethought himself of something he had intended to say by way of precaution.
"You must understand that I sent separate telegrams for rooms," he said. "I took the precaution for absolute safety. I ordered yours in your name and mine in my name."
"I understand," she replied. His arm was still about her, but she shook it off. "Was it—was it wise for us to arrive like this—in the same cab?"
"Oh, that is all right," he answered, confidently. "I am a friend of your family, you know, and I have often traveled with ladies. It will not excite comment. Besides, we know no one here."
Leaving her at the ladies' entrance to go alone up to the parlor, he went into the office. A sleepy-eyed clerk bowed, turned the register around, and, dipping a pen, handed it to him.
"Lady with you, sir?" he inquired.
"In my care, yes." Buckton wrote the two names rather unsteadily. "She and I both telegraphed for your best rooms. Please show her to hers at once. She seems to be quite tired."
"I should think so, on a stuffy day like this," said the clerk, affably, "and coming south, too. I see you are from Atlanta. That is a higher altitude than ours."
"You bet it is." The voice was at Buckton's elbow; and turning, he saw Hambright, his fellow-passenger, smiling on him familiarly. "Well, I see you got through all right."
Though highly displeased by again meeting the man, Buckton nodded and forced a casual smile.
"It was pretty dusty and hot," he said.
"Won't you take a smoke before you turn in?" the drummer asked, extending a cigar.
"No, thanks; not to-night," Buckton declined.
"Take a drink? I've got the best samples on earth. My customers say I carry better samples than stock, but that's a joke. Name the brand and I'll lay it before you. I'm some drink-mixer, I am."
"Not to-night; thank you, all the same."
"Show the lady to suite seventy-five," the clerk called out to a bell-boy. "The gentleman goes to seventy-four. See to the ice-water for both parties."
"Dandy rooms you got," Hambright said, his eyes twinkling significantly. "I know this house like a book. I swear you Atlanta bloods are sports. You certainly keep the old fogies of the town wondering what prank you will play next."
Buckton thought rapidly. To a certain extent he was a judge of human nature, and he realized that no explanation to such a man was safer than the most adroit and elaborate one, so he elected to ignore the obvious innuendo. Chatting with him a few minutes longer, he turned away.
Half an hour later Buckton was in his little sitting-room, seated under a drop-light, with a newspaper spread out before him. Through the rather thin partition he heard Irene moving about the adjoining chamber. He sat for a moment longer; then, rising, he went to the connecting door. He caught his breath and held it as he rapped softly, very softly. The sound of movement on the part of Irene ceased. All was quiet for a moment; then he rapped again. He heard her coming. She unlocked the door, turned the bolt, and opened the door the width of her face. She had changed her dress. She now wore a pretty flowing kimono which she held over her white neck with her jeweled hand.
"What is it?" she asked.
He leaned against the door-jamb, and gazed into her eyes. "I must see you," he panted. "There is—is something I want to tell you."
She hesitated, holding the door. "I'm tired," she faltered. "Besides—Oh, Andy, I've been thinking that perhaps I ought to take the first morning train for the Hardys'! I could get there soon enough to—"
He leaned his flaming face closer to hers. He caught her hand and drew it down from her fluttering throat. "No, it is too late, sweetheart," he said. "We have burnt our bridges behind us. We can't go back now. We don'twantto. We couldn't if we tried. We are human. You were cruel to me once; you can't be cruel enough to close this door to-night.You know you can't, darling."
He saw her glance waver. Her hold on the door was less firm. He pushed against it. She fell back, and he took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers.