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“Perhaps it might never seem to you necessary. Peter, boy, listen. You say: ‘She will be myself––my very own.’ Now what does that mean? Does it mean that when you are married, her personality will be merged in yours, and so you two will be one? If so, you will not be completed and rounded out, and she will be lost in you. A man does not reach his full manhood to completion until he has loved greatly and truly, and has found the one who is to complete him. At best, by ourselves, we are never wholly man or wholly woman until this great soul completion has taken place in us. Then children come to us, and our very souls are knit in one, and still the mystery goes on and on; never are we completed by being lost––either one––in the will or nature of the other; but to make the whole and perfect creature, each must retain the individuality belonging to himself or herself, each to each the perfect and equal other half.”
Peter Junior paused in his walk and stood for a moment looking down on his mother, awed by what she revealed to him of her inner nature. “I believe you have done this, mother. You have kept your own individuality complete, and father doesn’t know it.”
“Not yet, but my hand will always be in his, and some day he will know. You are very like him, and yet you understand me as he never has, so you see how our oneness is wrought out in you. That which you have in you of your father is good and strong: never lose it. The day may come when you will be glad to have had such a father. Out in the world men need such traits; but you must not forget that sometimes it takes more strength to yield than to hold your own way. Yes, it takes strength and courage137sometimes to give up––and tremendous faith in God. There! I hear him walking about. Go down and have your talk with him. Remember what I say, dear, and don’t get angry with your father. He loves you, too.”
“Have you said anything to him yet about––me––mother?”
“No. I have decided that it will be better for you to deal with him yourself––courageously. You’ll remember?”
Peter Junior took her again in his arms as she rose and stood beside him, and kissed her tenderly. “Yes, mother. Dear, good, wise mother! I’ll try to remember all. It would have been easier for you, maybe, if ever father’s mother had said to him the things you have just said to me.”
“Life teaches us these things. If we keep an open mind, so God fills it.”
She stood still in the middle of the room, listening to his rapid steps in the direction of the parlor. Then Hester did a thing very unusual for her to do of a Sunday. She put on her shawl and bonnet and walked out to see Mary Ballard.
No one ever knew what passed between Peter Junior and his father in that parlor. The Elder did not open his lips about it either at home or at the bank.
That Sunday evening some one saw Peter Junior and his cousin walking together up the bluff where the old camp had stood, toward the sunset. The path had many windings, and the bluff was dark and brown, and the two figures stood out clear and strong against the sky of gold. That was the last seen of either of the young men in the village.138The one who saw them told later that he knew they were “the twins” because one of them walked with a stick and limped a little, and that the other was talking as if he were very much in earnest about something, for he was moving his arm up and down and gesticulating.
139CHAPTER XIIMYSTERIOUS FINDINGS
Monday morning Elder Craigmile walked to the bank with the stubborn straightening of the knees at each step that always betokened irritation with him. Neither of the young men had appeared at breakfast, a matter peculiarly annoying to him. Peter Junior he had not expected to see, as, owing to his long period of recovery, he had naturally been excused from rigorous rules, but his nephew surely might have done that much out of courtesy, where he had always been treated as a son, to promote the orderliness of the household. It was unpardonable in the young man to lie abed in the morning thus when a guest in that home. It was a mistake of his wife to allow Peter Junior a night key. It induced late hours. He would take it from him. And as for Richard––there was no telling what habits he had fallen into during these years of wandering. What if he had come home to them with a clear skin and laughing eye! Was not the “heart of man deceitful above all things and desperately wicked”? And was not Satan abroad in the world laying snares for the feet of wandering youths?
It was still early enough for many of the workmen to be on their way to their day of labor with their tin dinner pails, and among them Mr. Walters passed him, swinging his pail with the rest, although he was master of his own foundry140and employed fifty men. He had always gone early to work, and carried his tin pail when he was one of the workmen, and he still did it from choice. He, too, was a Scotchman of a slightly different class from the Elder, it is true, but he was a trustee of the church, and a man well respected in the community.
He touched his hat to the Elder, and the Elder nodded in return, but neither spoke a word. Mr. Walters smiled after he was well past. “The man has a touch of the indigestion,” he said.
When the Elder entered his front door at noon, his first glance was at the rack in the corner of the hall, where, on the left-hand hook, Peter Junior’s coat and hat had hung when he was at home, ever since he was a boy. They were not there. The Elder lifted his bushy brows one higher than the other, then drew them down to their usual straight line, and walked on into the dining room. His wife was not there, but in a moment she entered, looking white and perturbed.
“Peter!” she said, going up to her husband instead of taking her place opposite him, “Peter!” She laid a trembling hand on his arm. “I haven’t seen the boys this morning. Their beds have not been slept in.”
“Quiet yourself, lass, quiet yourself. Sit and eat in peace. ‘Evil communications corrupt good manners,’ but when doom strikes him, he’ll maybe experience a change of heart.” The Elder spoke in a tone not unkindly. He seated himself heavily.
Then his wife silently took her place at the table and he bowed his head and repeated the grace to which she had listened three times a day for nearly thirty years, only that141this time he added the request that the Lord would, in his “merciful kindness, strike terror to the hearts of all evildoers and turn them from their way.”
When the silent meal was ended, Hester followed her husband to the door and laid a detaining hand on his arm. He stood and looked down on that slender white hand as if it were something that too sudden a movement would joggle off, and she did not know that it was as if she had laid her hand on his very heart. “Peter, tell me what happened yesterday afternoon. You should tell me, Peter.”
Then the Elder did an unwonted thing. He placed his hand over hers and pressed it harder on his arm, and after an instant’s pause he stooped and kissed her on the forehead.
“I spoke the lad fair, Hester, and made him an offer, but he would none of it. He thinks he is his own master, but I have put him in the Lord’s hands.”
“Has he gone, Peter?”
“Maybe, but the offer I made him was a good one. Comfort your heart, lass. If he’s gone, he will return. When the Devil holds the whip, he makes a hard bargain, and drives fast. When the boy is hard pressed, he will be glad to return to his father’s house.”
“Richard’s valise is gone. The maid says he came late yesterday after I was gone, and took it away with him.”
“They are likely gone together.”
“But Peter’s things are all here. No, they would never go like that and not bid me good-by.”
The Elder threw out his hands with his characteristic downward gesture of impatience. “I have no way of knowing, more than you. It is no doubt that Richard has142become a ne’er-do-weel. He felt shame to tell us he was going a journey on the Sabbath day.”
“Oh, Peter, I think not. Peter, be just. You know your son was never one to let the Devil drive; he is like yourself, Peter. And as for Richard, Peter Junior would never think so much of him if he were a ne’er-do-weel.”
“Women are foolish and fond. It is their nature, and perhaps that is how we love them most, but the men should rule, for their own good. A man should be master in his own house. When the lad returns, the door is open to him. That is enough.”
With a sorrowful heart he left her, and truth to tell, the sorrow was more for his wife’s hurt than for his own. The one great tenderness of his life was his feeling for her, and this she felt rather than knew; but he believed himself absolutely right and that the hurt was inevitable, and for her was intensified by her weakness and fondness.
As for Hester, she turned away from the door and went quietly about her well-ordered house, directing the maidservant and looking carefully over her husband’s wardrobe. Then she did the same for Peter Junior’s, and at last, taking her basket of mending, she sat in the large, lace-curtained window looking out toward the west––the direction from which Peter Junior would be likely to come. For how long she would sit there during the days to come––waiting––she little knew.
She was comforted by the thought of the talk she had had with him the day before. She knew he was upright, and she felt that this quarrel––if it had been a quarrel––with his father would surely be healed; and then, there was Betty to call him back. The love of a girl was a good thing143for a man. It would be stronger to draw him and hold him than love of home or of mother; it was the divine way for humanity, and it was a good way, and she must be patient and wait.
She was glad she had gone without delay to Mary Ballard. The two women were fond of each other, and the visit had been most satisfactory. Betty she had not seen, for the maiden was still sleeping the long, heavy sleep which saves a normal healthy body from wreck after severe emotion. Betty was so young––it might be best that matters should wait awhile as they were.
If Peter Junior went to Paris now, he would have to earn his own way, of course, and possibly he had gone west with Richard where he could earn faster than at home. Maybe that had been the grounds of the quarrel. Surely she would hear from him soon. Perhaps he had taken their talk on Sunday afternoon as a good-by to her; or he might yet come to her and tell her his plans. So she comforted herself in the most wholesome and natural way.
Richard’s action in taking his valise away during her absence and leaving no word of farewell for her was more of a surprise to her. But then––he might have resented the Elder’s attitude and sided with his cousin. Or, he might have feared he would say things he would afterwards regret, if he appeared, and so have taken himself quietly away. Still, these reasons did not wholly appeal to her, and she was filled with misgivings for him even more than for her son.
Peter Junior she trusted absolutely and Richard she loved as a son; but there was much of his father in him, and the Irish nature was erratic and wild, as the Elder said. Where144was that father now? No one knew. It was one of the causes for anxiety she had for the boy that his father had been lost to them all ever since Richard’s birth and his wife’s death. He had gone out of their lives as completely as a candle in a gale of wind. She had mothered the boy, and the Elder had always been kind to him for his own dead sister’s sake, but of the father they never spoke.
It was while Hester Craigmile sat in her western window, thinking her thoughts, that two lads came hurrying down the bluff from the old camp ground, breathless and awed. One carried a straw hat, and the other a stout stick––a stick with an irregular knob at the end. It was Larry Kildene’s old blackthorn that Peter Junior had been carrying. The Ballards’ home was on the way between the bluff and the village, and Mary Ballard was standing at their gate watching for the children from school. She wished Jamie to go on an errand for her.
Mary noticed the agitation of the boys. They were John Walters and Charlie Dean––two chums who were always first to be around when there was anything unusual going on, or to be found. It was they who discovered the fire in the foundry in time to have it put out. It was they who knew where the tramps were hiding who had been stealing from the village stores, and now Mary wondered what they had discovered. She left the gate swinging open and walked down to meet them.
“What is it, boys?”
“We––we––found these––and––there’s something happened,” panted the boys, both speaking at once.
She took the hat of white straw from John’s hand. “Why! This is Peter Junior’s hat! Where did you find145it?” She turned it about and saw dark red stains, as if it had been grasped by a bloody hand––finger marks of blood plainly imprinted on the rim.
“And this, Mrs. Ballard,” said Charlie, putting Peter Junior’s stick in her hand, and pointing to the same red stains sunken into the knob. “We think there’s been a fight and some one’s been hit with this.”
She took it and looked at it in a dazed way. “Yes. He was carrying this in the place of his crutch,” she said, as if to herself.
“We think somebody’s been pushed over the bluff into the river, Mrs. Ballard, for they’s a hunk been tore out as big as a man, from the edge, and it’s gone clean over, and down into the river. We can see where it is gone. And it’s an awful swift place.”
She handed the articles back to the boys.
“Sit down in the shade here, and I’ll bring you some sweet apples, and if any one comes by, don’t say anything about it until I have time to consult with Mr. Ballard.”
She hurried back and passed quickly around the house, and on to her husband, who was repairing the garden fence.
“Bertrand, come with me quickly. Something serious has happened. I don’t want Betty to hear of it until we know what it is.”
They hastened to the waiting boys, and together they slowly climbed the long path leading to the old camping place. Bertrand carried the stick and the hat carefully, for they were matters of great moment.
“This looks grave,” he said, when the boys had told him their story.
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“Perhaps we ought to have brought some one with us––if anything––” said Mary.
“No, no; better wait and see, before making a stir.”
It was a good half hour’s walk up the hill, and every moment of the time seemed heavily freighted with foreboding. They said no more until they reached the spot where the boys had found the edge of the bluff torn away. There, for a space of about two feet only, back from the brink, the sparse grass was trampled, and the earth showed marks of heels and in places the sod was freshly torn up.
“There’s been something happened here, you see,” said Charlie Dean.
“Here is where a foot has been braced to keep from being pushed over; see, Mary? And here again.”
“I see indeed.” Mary looked, and stooping, picked something from the ground that glinted through the loosened earth. She held it on her open palm toward Bertrand, and the two boys looked intently at it. Her husband did not touch it, but glanced quickly into her eyes and then at the boys. Then her fingers closed over it, and taking her handkerchief she tied it in one corner securely.
“Did you ever see anything like it, boys?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. It’s a watch charm, isn’t it? Or what?”
“I suppose it must be.”
“I guess the fellah that was being pushed over must ’a’ grabbed for the other fellah’s watch. Maybe he was trying to rob him.”
“Let’s see whether we can find anything else,” said John Walters, peering over the bluff.
“Don’t, John, don’t. You may fall over. It might have been a fall, and one of them might have been trying to save147the other, you know. He might have caught at him and pulled this off. There’s no reason why we should surmise the worst.”
“They might ha’ been playing––you know––wrestling––and it might ’a’ happened so,” said Charlie.
“Naw! They’d been big fools to wrestle so near the edge of the bluff as this,” said the practical John. “I see something white way down there, Mrs. Ballard. I can get it, I guess.”
“But take care, John. Go further round by the path.”
Both boys ran along the bluff until they came to a path that led down to the river. “Do be careful, boys!” called Mary.
“Now, let me see that again, my dear,” and Mary untied the handkerchief. “Yes, it is what I thought. That belonged to Larry Kildene. He got it in India, although he said it was Chinese. He was a year in the British service in India. I’ve often examined it. I should have known it anywhere. He must have left it with Hester for the boy.”
“Poor Larry! And it has come to this. I remember it on Richard’s chain when he came out there to meet us in the grove. Bertrand, what shall we do? They must have been here––and have quarreled––and what has happened! I’m going back to ask Betty.”
“Ask Betty! My dear! What can Betty know about it?”
“Something upset her terribly yesterday morning. She was ill and with no cause that I could see, and I believe she had had a nervous shock.”
“But she seemed all right this morning,––a little pale, but otherwise quite herself.” Bertrand turned the little148charm over in his hand. “He thought it was Chinese because it is jade, but this carving is Egyptian. I don’t think it is jade, and I don’t think it is Chinese.”
“But whatever it is, it was on Richard’s chain Saturday,” said Mary, sadly. “And now, what can we do? On second thought I’ll say nothing to Betty. If a tragedy has come upon the Craigmiles, it will also fall on her now, and we must spare her all of it we can, until we know.”
A call came to them from below, and Bertrand hastily handed the charm back to his wife, and she tied it again in her handkerchief.
“Oh, Bertrand, don’t go near that terrible brink. It might give way. I’m sure this has been an accident.”
“But the stick, Mary, and the marks of blood on Peter Junior’s hat. I’m afraid––afraid.”
“But they were always fond of each other. They have been like brothers.”
“And quarrels between brothers are often the bitterest.”
“But we have never heard of their quarreling, and they were so glad to see each other Saturday. And you know Peter Junior was always possessed to do whatever Richard planned. They were that way about enlisting, you remember, and everything else. What cause could Richard have against Peter Junior?”
“We can’t say it was Richard against Peter. You see the stick was bloody, and it was Peter’s. We must offer no opinion, no matter what we think, for the world may turn against the wrong one, and only time will tell.”
They both were silent as the boys came panting up the bank. “Here’s a handkerchief. It was what I saw. It149was caught on a thorn bush, and here––here’s Peter Junior’s little notebook, with his name––”
“This is Peter’s handkerchief. P. C. J. Hester Craigmile embroidered those letters.” Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “Bertrand, we must go to her. She may hear in some terrible way.”
“And the book, where was that, John?”
“It was lying on that flat rock. John had to crawl along the ledge on his belly to get it; and here, I found this lead pencil,” cried Charlie, excited and important.
“‘Faber No. 2.’ Yes, this was also Peter’s.” Bertrand shut it in the notebook. “Mary, this looks sinister. We’d better go down. There’s nothing more to learn here.”
“Maybe we’ll find the young men both safely at home.”
“Richard was to leave early this morning.”
“I remember.”
Sadly they returned, and the two boys walked with them, gravely and earnestly propounding one explanation after another.
“You’d better go back to the house, Mary, and I’ll go on to the village with the boys. We’ll consult with your father, John; he’s a thoughtful man, and––”
“And he’s a coroner, too––” said John.
“Yes, but if there’s nobody found, who’s he goin’ to sit on?”
“They don’t sit on the body, they sit on the jury,” said John, with contempt.
“Don’t I know that? But they’ve got to find the body, haven’t they, before they can sit on anything? Guess I know that much.”
“Now, boys,” said Bertrand, “this may turn out to be a150very grave matter, and you must keep silent about it. It won’t do to get the town all stirred up about it and all manner of rumors afloat. It must be looked into quietly first, by responsible people, and you must keep all your opinions and surmises to yourselves until the truth can be learned.”
“Don’t walk, Bertrand; take the carryall, and these can be put under the seat. Boys, if you’ll go back there in the garden, you’ll find some more apples, and I’ll fetch you out some cookies to go with them.” The boys briskly departed. “I don’t want Betty to see them, and we’ll be silent until we know what to tell her,” Mary added, as they walked slowly up the front path.
Bertrand turned off to the stable, carrying the sad trophies with him, and Mary entered the house. She looked first for Betty, but no Betty was to be found, and the children were at home clamoring for something to eat. They always came home from school ravenously hungry. Mary hastily packed them a basket of fruit and cookies and sent them to play picnic down by the brook. Still no Betty appeared.
“Where is she?” asked Bertrand, as he entered the kitchen after bringing up the carryall.
“I don’t know. She may have gone over to Clara Dean’s. She spoke of going there to-day. I’m glad––rather.”
“Yes, yes.”
A little later in the day, almost closing time at the bank, James Walters and Bertrand Ballard entered and asked to see the Elder. They were shown into the director’s room, and found him seated alone at the great table in the center. He pushed his papers one side and rose, greeting them with his grave courtesy, as usual.
Mr. Walters, a shy man of few words, looked silently at151Mr. Ballard to speak, while the Elder urged them to be seated. “A warm day for the season, and very pleasant to have it so. We’ll hope the winter may come late this year.”
“Yes, yes. We wish to inquire after your son, Elder Craigmile. Is he at home to-day?”
“Ah, yes. He was not at home––not when I left this noon.” The Elder cleared his throat and looked keenly at his friend. “Is it––ahem––a matter of business, Mr. Ballard?”
“Unfortunately, no. We have come to inquire if he––when he was last at home––or if his cousin––has been with you?”
“Not Richard, no. He came unexpectedly and has gone with as little ceremony, but my son was here on the Sabbath––ahem––He dined that day with you, Mr. Ballard?”
“He did––but––Elder, will you come with us? A matter with regard to him and his cousin should be looked into.”
“It is not necessary for me to interfere in matters regarding my son any longer. He has taken the ordering of his life in his own hands hereafter. As for Richard, he has long been his own master.”
“Elder, I beg you to come with us. We fear foul play of some sort. It is not a question now of family differences of opinion.”
The Elder’s face remained immovable, and Bertrand reluctantly added, “We fear either your son or his cousin, possibly both of them, have met with disaster––maybe murder.”
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A pallor crept over the Elder’s face, and without a word further he took his hat from a hook in the corner of the room, paused, and then carefully arranged the papers he had pushed aside at their entrance and placing them in his desk, turned the key, still without a word. At the door he waited a moment with his hand on the knob, and with the characteristic lift of his brows, asked: “Has anything been said to my wife?”
“No, no. We thought best to do nothing until under your direction.”
“Thank you. That’s well. Whatever comes, I would spare her all I can.”
The three then drove slowly back to the top of the bluff, and on the way Bertrand explained to the Elder all that had transpired. “It seemed best to Mary and me that you should look the ground over yourself, before any action be taken. We hoped appearances might be deceptive, and that you would have information that would set our fears at rest before news of a mystery should reach the town.”
“Where are the boys who found these things?”
Mr. Walters spoke, “My son was one of them, and he is now at home. They are forbidden to speak to any one until we know more about it.”
Arrived at the top of the bluff the three men went carefully over the ground, even descending the steep path to the margin of the river.
“There,” said Bertrand, “the notebook was picked up on that flat rock which juts out from that narrow ledge. John Walters crawled along the ledge to get it. The handkerchief was caught on that thorn shrub, halfway up, see? And the pencil was picked up down here, somewhere.”
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The Elder looked up to the top of the bluff and down at the rushing river beneath, and as he looked he seemed visibly to shrink and become in the instant an old man––older by twenty years. As they climbed back again, his shoulders drooped and his breath came hard. As they neared the top, Bertrand turned and gave him his aid to gain a firm footing above.
“Don’t forget that we can’t always trust to appearances,” he urged.
“Some heavy body––heavier than a clod of earth, has gone down there,” said the Elder, and his voice sounded weak and thin.
“Yes, yes. But even so, a stone may have been dislodged. You can’t be sure.”
“Ay, the lads might have been wrestling in play––or the like––and sent a rock over; it’s like lads, that,” hazarded Mr. Walters.
“Wrestling on the Sabbath evening! They are men, not lads.”
Mr. Walters looked down in embarrassment, and the old man continued. “Would a stone leave a handkerchief clinging to a thorn? Would it leave a notebook thrown down on yonder rock?” The Elder lifted his head and looked to the sky: holding one hand above his head he shook it toward heaven. “Would a stone leave a hat marked with a bloody hand––my son’s hat? There has been foul play here. May the curse of God fall on him who has robbed me of my son, be he stranger or my own kin.”
His voice broke and he reeled backward and would have fallen over the brink but for Bertrand’s quickness. Then, trembling and bowed, his two friends led him back to the154carryall and no further word was spoken until they reached the village, when the Elder said:––
“Will you kindly drive me to the bank, Mr. Ballard?”
They did so. No one was there, and the Elder quietly unlocked the door and carried the articles found on the bluff into the room beyond and locked them away. Bertrand followed him, loath to leave him thus, and anxious to make a suggestion. The Elder opened the door of a cupboard recessed into the wall and laid the hat on a high shelf. Then he took the stick and looked at it with a sudden awakening in his eyes as if he saw it for the first time.
“This stick––this blackthorn stick––accursed! How came it here? I thought it had been burned. It was left years ago in my front hall by––Richard’s father. I condemned it to be burned.”
“Peter Junior was using that in place of his crutch, no doubt because of its strength. He had it at my house, and I recognize it now as one Larry brought over with him––”
“Peter was using it! My God! My God! The blow was struck with this. It is my son who is the murderer, and I have called down the curse of God on him? It falls––it falls on me!” He sank in his chair––the same in which he had sat when he talked with Peter Junior––and bowed his head in his arms. “It is enough, Mr. Ballard. Will you leave me?”
“I can’t leave you, sir: there is more to be said. We must not be hasty in forming conclusions. If any one was thrown over the bluff, it must have been your son, for he was lame and could not have saved himself. If he struck any one, he could not have killed him; for evidently he155got away, unless he also went over the brink. If he got away, he must be found. There is something for you to do, Elder Craigmile.”
The old man lifted his head and looked in Bertrand’s face, pitifully seeking there for help. “You are a good man, Mr. Ballard. I need your counsel and help.”
“First, we will go below the rapids and search; the sooner the better, for in the strong current there is no telling how far––”
“Yes, we will search.” The Elder lifted himself to his full height, inspired by the thought of action. “We’ll go now.” He looked down on his shorter friend, and Bertrand looked up to him, his genial face saddened with sympathy, yet glowing with kindliness.
“Wait a little, Elder; let us consider further. Mr. Walters––sit down, Elder Craigmile, for a moment––Mr. Walters is capable, and he can organize the search; for if you keep this from your wife, you must be discreet. Here is something I haven’t shown you before. It is the charm from Richard’s watch. It was almost covered with earth where they had been struggling, and Mary found it. You see there is a mystery––and let us hope whatever happened was an accident. The evidences are so––so––mingled, that no one may know whom to blame.”
The Elder looked down on the charm without touching it, as it lay on Bertrand’s palm. “That belonged––” his lips twitched––“that belonged to the man who took from me my twin sister. The shadow––forever the shadow of Larry Kildene hangs over me.” He was silent for some moments, then he said: “Mr. Ballard, if, after the search, my son is found to be murdered, I will put a detective on156the trail of the man who did the deed, and be he whom he may, he shall hang.”
“Hush, Elder Craigmile; in Wisconsin men are not hanged.”
“I tell you––be he whom he may––he shall suffer what is worse than to be hanged, he shall enter the living grave of a life imprisonment.”
157CHAPTER XIIICONFESSION
By Monday evening there were only two people in all the small town of Leauvite who had not heard of the tragedy, and these were Hester Craigmile and Betty Ballard. Mary doubted if it was wise to keep Hester thus in ignorance, but it was the Elder’s wish, and at his request she went to spend the evening and if necessary the night with his wife, to fend off any officious neighbor, while he personally directed the search.
It was the Elder’s firm belief that his son had been murdered, yet he thought if no traces should be found of Peter Junior, he might be able to spare Hester the agony of that belief. He preferred her to think her son had gone off in anger and would sometime return. He felt himself justified in this concealment, fearing that if she knew the truth, she might grieve herself into her grave, and his request to Mary to help him had been made so pitifully and humbly that her heart melted at the sight of the old man’s sorrow, and she went to spend those weary hours with his wife.
As the Elder sometimes had meetings of importance to take him away of an evening, Hester did not feel surprise at his absence, and she accepted Mary’s visit as one of sweet friendliness and courtesy because of Peter’s engagement to Betty. Nor did she wonder that the visit was made without Bertrand, as Mary said he and the Elder had business158together, and she thought she would spend the time with her friend until their return.
That was all quite as it should be and very pleasant, and Hester filled the moments with cheerful chat, showing Mary certain pieces of cloth from which she proposed to make dainty garments for Betty, to help Mary with the girl’s wedding outfit. To Mary it all seemed like a dream as she locked the sad secret in her heart and listened. Her friend’s sorrow over Peter Junior’s disagreement with his father and his sudden departure from the home was tempered by the glad hope that after all the years of anxiety, she was some time to have a daughter to love, and that her boy and his wife would live near them, and her home might again know the sound of happy children’s voices. The sweet thoughts brought her gladness and peace of mind, and Mary’s visit made the dream more sure of ultimate fulfillment.
Mary felt the Elder’s wish lie upon her with the imperative force of a law, and she did not dare disregard his request that on no account was Hester to be told the truth. So she gathered all her fortitude and courage to carry her through this ordeal. She examined the fine linen that had been brought to Hester years ago from Scotland by Richard’s mother, and while she praised it she listened for steps without; the heavy tread of men bringing a sorrowful and terrible burden. But the minutes wore on, and no such sounds came, and the hour grew late.
“They may have gone out of town. Bertrand said something about it, and told me to stay until he called for me, if I stayed all night.” Mary tried to laugh over it, and Hester seized the thought gayly.
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“We’ll go to bed, anyway, and your husband may just go home without you when he comes.”
And after a little longer wait they went to bed, and Hester slept, but Mary lay wakeful and fearing, until in the early morning, while it was yet dark, she heard the Elder slowly climb the stairs and go to his room. Then she also slept, hoping against hope, that they had found nothing.
Betty’s pride and shame had caused her to keep her trouble to herself. She knew Richard had gone forever, and she dreaded Peter Junior’s next visit. What should she do! Oh, what should she do! Should she tell Peter she did not love him, and that all had been a mistake? She must humble herself before him, and what excuse had she to make for all the hours she had given him, and the caresses she had accepted? Ah! If only she could make the last week as if it had never been! She was shamed before her mother, who had seen him kiss her. She was ashamed even in her own room in the darkness to think of all Peter Junior had said to her, and the love he had lavished on her. Ought she to break her word to him and beg him to forget? Ah! Neither he nor she could ever forget.
Her brothers had been forbidden to tell her a word of the reports that were already abroad in the town, and now they were both in bed and asleep, and little Janey was cuddled in Betty’s bed, also in dreamland. At last, when neither her father nor her mother returned and she could bear her own thoughts no longer, she brought drawing materials down from the studio and spread them out on the dining room table.
She had decided she would never marry any one––never.160How could she! But she would study in earnest and be an illustrator. If women could never become great artists, as Peter Junior said, at least they might illustrate books; and sometime––maybe––when her heart was not so sad, she might write books, and she could illustrate them herself. Ah, that would almost make up for what she must go without all her life.
For a while she worked painstakingly, but all the time it seemed as though she could hear Richard’s voice, and the words he had said to her Sunday morning kept repeating themselves over and over in her mind. Then the tears fell one by one and blurred her work, until at last she put her head down on her arms and wept. Then the door opened very softly and Richard entered. Swiftly he came to her and knelt at her side. He put his head on her knee, and his whole body shook with tearless sobs he could not restrain. He was faint and weak. She could not know the whole cause of his grief, and thought he suffered because of her. She must comfort him––but alas! What could she say? How could she comfort him?
She put her trembling hand on his head and found the hair matted and stiff. Then she saw a wound above his temple, and knew he was hurt, and cried out: “You are hurt––you are hurt! Oh, Richard! Let me do something for you.”
He clasped her in his arms, but still did not look up at her, and Betty forgot all her shame, and her lessons in propriety. She lifted his head to her bosom and laid her cheek upon his and said all the comforting things that came into her heart. She begged him to let her wash his wound and to tell her how he came by it. She forgot everything, except161that she loved him and told him over and over the sweet confession.
At last he found strength to speak to her brokenly. “Never love me any more, Betty. I’ve committed a terrible crime––Oh, my God! And you will hear of it Give me a little milk. I’ve eaten nothing since yesterday morning, when I saw you. Then I’ll try to tell you what you must know––what all the world will tell you soon.”
He rose and staggered to a chair and she brought him milk and bread and meat, but she would not let him talk to her until he had allowed her to wash the wound on his head and bind it up. As she worked the touch of her hands seemed to bring him sane thoughts in spite of the horror of himself that possessed him, and he was enabled to speak more coherently.
“If I had not been crazed when I looked through the window and saw you crying, Betty, I would never have let you see me or touch me again. It’s only adding one crime to another to come near you. I meant just to look in and see if I could catch one glimpse of you, and then was going to lose myself to all the world, or else give myself up to be hung.” Then he was silent, and she began to question him.
“Don’t! Richard. Hung? What have you done? What do you mean? When was it?”
“Sunday night.”
“But you had to start for Cheyenne early this morning. Where have you been all day? I thought you were gone forever, dear.”
“I hid myself down by the river. I lay there all day, and heard them talking, but I couldn’t see them nor they me. It was a hiding place we knew of when our camp was there––Peter162Junior and I. He’s gone. I did it––I did it with murder in my heart––Oh, my God!”
“Don’t, Richard. You must tell me nothing except as I ask you. It is not as if we did not love each other. What you have done I must help you bear––as––as wives help their husbands––for I will never marry; but all my life my heart will be married to yours.” He reached for her hands and covered them with kisses and moaned. “No, Richard, don’t. Eat the bread and meat I have brought you. You’ve eaten nothing for two days, and everything may seem worse to you than it is.”
“No, no!”
“Richard, I’ll go away from you and leave you here alone if you don’t eat.”
“Yes, I must eat––not only now––but all the rest of my life, I must eat to live and repent. He was my dearest friend. I taunted him and said bitter things. I goaded him. I was insane with rage and at last so was he. He struck me––and––and I––I was trying to push him over the bluff––”
Slowly it dawned on Betty what Richard’s talk really meant.
“Not Peter? Oh, Richard––not Peter!” She shrank from him, wide-eyed in terror.
“He would have killed me––for I know what was in his heart as well as I knew what was in my own––and we were both seeing red. I’ve felt it sometimes in battle, and the feeling makes a man drunken. A man will do anything then. We’d been always friends––and yet we were drunken with hate; and now––he––he is better off than I. I must live. Unless for the disgrace to my relatives, I would give163myself up to be hanged. It would be better to take the punishment than to live in such torture as this.”
The tears coursed fast down Betty’s cheeks. Slowly she drew nearer him, and bent down to him as he sat, until she could look into his eyes. “What were you quarreling about, Richard?”
“Don’t ask me, darling Betty.”
“What was it, Richard?”
“All my life you will be the sweet help to me––the help that may keep me from death in life. To carry in my soul the remembrance of last night will need all the help God will let me have. If I had gone away quietly, you and Peter Junior would have been married and have been happy––but––”
“No, no. Oh, Richard, no. I knew in a moment when you came––”
“Yes, Betty, dear, Peter Junior was good and faithful; and he might have been able to undo all the harm I had done. He could have taught you to love him. I have done the devil’s work––and then I killed him––Oh, my God! My God!”
“How do you know you pushed him over? He may have fallen over. You don’t know it. He may have––”
“Hush, dearest. I did it. When I came to myself, it was in the night; and it must have been late, for the moon was set. I could only see faintly that something white lay near me. I felt of it, and it was Peter Junior’s hat. Then I felt all about for him––and he was gone and I crawled to the edge of the bluff––but although I knew he was gone over there and washed by the terrible current far down the river by that time, I couldn’t follow him, whether164from cowardice or weakness. I tried to get on my feet and could not. Then I must have fainted again, for all the world faded away, and I thought maybe the blow had done for me and I might not have to leap over there, after all. I could feel myself slipping away.
“When I awoke, the sun was shining and a bird was singing just as if nothing had happened, and I thought I had been dreaming an awful dream––but there was the wound on my head and I was alive. Then I went farther down the river and came back to the hiding place and crept in there to wait and think. Then, after a long while, the boys came, and I was terrified for fear they were searching for me. That is the shameful truth, Betty. I feared. I never knew what fear was before. Betty, fear is shameful. There I have been all day––waiting––for what, I do not know; but it seemed that if I could only have one little glimpse of you I could go bravely and give myself up. I will now––”
“No, Richard; it would do no good for you to die such a death. It would undo nothing, and change nothing. Peter was angry, too, and he struck you, and if he could have his way he would not want you to die. I say maybe he is living now. He may not have gone over.”
“It’s no use, Betty. He went down. I pushed him into that terrible river. I did it. I––I––I!” Richard only moaned the words in a whisper of despair, and the horror of it all began to deepen and crush down upon Betty. She retreated, step by step, until she backed against the door leading to her chamber, and there she stood gazing at him with her hand pressed over her lips to keep herself from crying out. Then she saw him rise and turn toward the door without looking at her again, his head bowed in grief,165and the sight roused her. As the door closed between them she ran and threw it open and followed him out into the darkness.
“I can’t, Richard. I can’t let you go like this!” She clung to him, sobbing her heart out on his bosom, and he clasped her and held her warm little body close.
“I’m like a drowning man pulling you under with me. Your tears drown me. I would not have entered the house if I had not seen you crying. Never cry again for me, Betty, never.”
“I will cry. I tell you I will cry. I will. I don’t believe you are a murderer.”
“You must believe it. I am.”
“I loved Peter Junior and you loved him. You did not mean to do it.”
“I did it.”
“If you did it, it is as if I did it, too. We both killed him––and I am a murderer, too. It was because of me you did it, and if you give yourself up to be hung, I will give myself up. Poor Peter––Oh, Richard––I don’t believe he fell over.” For a long moment she sobbed thus. “Where are you going, Richard?” she asked, lifting her head.
“I don’t know, Betty. I may be taken and can go nowhere.”
“Yes, you must go––quick––quick––now. Some one may come and find you here.”
“No one will find me. Cain was a wanderer over the face of the earth.”
“Will you let me know where you are, after you are gone?”