"You forget that you yourself would have paid it if I had not," Charles argued, "or rather, it would have been paid by—"
"No, there's where you are wrong," Mary protested. "My father tells me that the bank would not have cashed Albert's check that day. He has met with great losses in some enterprises, and is on the verge of bankruptcy. No, if it hadn't been for you all would have been lost. When your friend said just now that you were always doing kind deeds he said only what I already knew to be the truth. You are the most unselfish man I ever knew. Is it any wonder that I—" She did not finish, but suddenly turned and left him.
Two days later Rowland came back from the village. He brought the news that Keith was well on the road to recovery, and that he had had a talk with the district attorney, who had intimated discreetly that it was unlikely that grave charges would be made against his sons, owing to the disposition of the Keiths to drop the matter. The boys might be charged with disorderly conduct and fined, but an arrest would not be made and the case might not reach the court at all, owing to the sympathy of the judge, who felt that Kenneth and Martin had already been punished enough.
The next morning after this Charles found both the boys at the breakfast-table when he came down. To his surprise, they announced that they were going to help him in the field, that they were willing now to run the risk of being seen by passers-by, though they were going to keep out of sight as much as possible. So, accordingly, they both secured hoes and set to work in the cotton-field.
All that morning they worked with energy, which, no doubt, was due to their long confinement and the exhilarating sense of freedom. Mary came down herself at noon and brought them all a delightful lunch which she had prepared with her own hands. It was a warm day, with plenty of sunshine, and they all sat in the shade of some oaks which stood on the edge of the field. When the lunch was over Mary got ready to go home and the boys hastened for their hoes, to resume work.
"You are wonderful!" and Mary smiled up at Charles, who was helping her put the things back into her basket.
"Because I eat so much?" he jested.
"Because you are having the most remarkable effect on my brothers. Even Kenneth has changed. He says he wants to be like you. He sees what your industry is producing for us. We have never had such promising crops before. Then—then your talks have done them good. I mean your talks on moral lines."
"'Moral lines,'" he repeated, sadly. "Take it from me that I am a most unworthy adviser. I do not want to sail under false colors. Your brothers are fortunate in having had their lesson without fatal and lasting consequences. As I have told you—as I have tried to have you understand—I shall always be what I am—a man without a home, without a family, without a country, for I cannot legally cast a vote. What your brothers are escaping from—long imprisonment—I am in danger of every hour. So far I have escaped, but I may not be able to keep it up. Do you know—and I must say it now, so that you will understand thoroughly—do you know, while I dread being taken back home in shackles, I dread another thing far more, and that is being arrested here. Your friends would laugh at you for being hoodwinked by a criminal tramp in whom you have such absurd confidence as to give him food and shelter."
Mary's eyes were full of unshed tears. She hastily crammed the table-cloth into the basket. "Why are you talking to me like this to-day, when I was so happy?" she gulped.
"Because you insist on saying things about my—my worthiness, when I am so overwhelmingly unworthy," he answered, grimly, standing over her, his fine brow wrinkled with inner pain and bared to the sun. "Besides, as I say, you must be prepared for it if I suddenly leave without a hint of my intentions. If I could live a thousand years and be trained in the highest modes of expression I could never tell you how much peace and happiness I have found here. This," and he waved his hand over the growing crops—"this has been like the fields and meadows of Paradise into which I walked suddenly like a man who was born blind receiving sight. You say you believe in the existence of God. Sometimes I do, but I wonder really how He could have allowed me to grow unsuspectingly from infancy into dissolute manhood, and then send me here? Why did He direct my repentant steps to this spot—to this soul-soothing spot which I have enjoyed only to lose?"
"Oh, because of all you have been to us!" the gentle girl softly sobbed, as she stood by his side. She would have taken his hand but for the nearness of her brothers. "You say you have done wrong in your past. I don't believe it; but I shall not dispute with you over it. I only know that God could not make a man so helpful, so useful as He has you without eventually rewarding him. As Kenneth and Martin are escaping, so shall you escape. Your troubles will not last. As for your going away, you shall not. I say it. You shall not, I could not live without you. I know that as well as I know that you are standing there. I'd follow you to the end of the world. If you went to prison I'd go, too."
"You can't mean that." He bent toward the ground and uttered a low moan, and yet his face was ablaze with triumphant light.
"I do mean it," she reiterated, "and if you think your running away would save me from silly, weak-minded embarrassment, you must know that it would kill me. Yes, Charlie, I tell you now that if you leave me and I fail to see you again I'll end my life."
She had stepped close to him and he suddenly drew back.
"Your brothers are looking this way," he warned her.
"I don't care," she blurted out, desperately. "They may know. They adore you as I do. I'll tell them how I feel. They are human. They will understand."
"They would not want you"—Charles sighed—"want you to care for a man who may any day be thrust into jail. Brought up as you have been brought up, with your family back of you, they could not want you to care for a man whose life is the deplorable wreck mine is. Our parting is inevitable. I've tried to see it otherwise for a long time, but in vain. I am responsible for the blight that is on me, and I must bear it to the end. Maybe I can tell you more, honorably tell you more, some day, but I cannot do so now. But, after all, even that mild justification would do no good. I shall never forget you, but it is your duty to forget me. Women do forget such things, but I shall hold you in my mind and soul forever."
Kenneth was approaching to ask some question of Charles, and in order to hide her distraught face from her brother's view Mary lifted the basket and moved away.
That night the family, including the two boys, sat on the veranda after supper. Rowland deported himself as if nothing very remarkable had happened in the escape of his sons, but they themselves acted like persons completely changed in character. Kenneth had lost his vaunting air of self-assertion and overconfidence, and was very quiet. Martin was effervescing with the sense of his release from the dangers he feared and half lay, half sat with his head in his sister's lap. Mary's hands were gently stroking back his hair, and now and then she bent and whispered something mother-like and tender in his ear.
Dreading another reference from the family to the part he had played in their rescue, Charles got up and went to his room. He was tired, but not conscious of it, and not at all sleepy, for his brain was in a whirl with thoughts of what had happened, together with grim cogitations on the course he was trying to lay out for his future guidance.
His reason told him that two courses only lay before him. The more logical seemed to be his abrupt disappearance from the spot which had become so dear to him. The other alternative was to return to Boston and appeal to William to release him from his agreement. This temptation was by far the greater, and for a moment, in his fancy, it mastered him. That girl—that wonderful girl down-stairs with her brother's head in her lap—might then become his wife. "Wife! wife! wife!"—the very word thrilled him through and through. He was seated on the edge of his bed, his hardened hands clasped between his knees. His muscles were taut, his face was wet with perspiration; it trickled in cold drops down his neck onto his strong chest. Then another vision was spread before his mental sight. He pictured William as he had last seen him at his desk in the bank at night. He saw himself standing there telling the brother, whom he really loved, that he had come back to undo the thing that he himself had proposed. He saw the dumb appeal in the cowering man's eyes.
"But you were free," William seemed to say, "and this means death to me. Charlie, it means death!"
"I know, but I now love a noble woman," he heard himself pleading, "and for her sake I must live, and now I have learned what life really means. William, my brother, I have failed in what I undertook to do. I am not an angel. I'm only a man of flesh, blood, and bone—a primitive man who knows no law but that of his heart's desire."
He fancied that he saw William's head sink to his desk, the death stamp of agony on his face. He could hear him say: "You are right. I am the one to suffer, not you. Leave me alone this time. I have the same means here in my drawer. I won't fail now. Go home, say nothing, but be there to comfort them when the news is brought."
He saw himself turn away, pass out at the big door and into the lighted streets. It was the old walk home across the Common. Familiar objects were here and there. Celeste met him at the door. He led her into the parlor and turned on the light. They faced each other. She, too, had the shadow of death upon her face.
"I know why you've come," he heard her say, resignedly. "I've been expecting it. No man could be unselfish enough to accomplish what you undertook." The light of her affection for him had died out of her eyes. She quivered now in fear and dread.
"I had to do it," he imagined himself saying, in the tone of an executioner hardened to grim duty.
"I understand. We are ready—Ruth and I are ready."
"May I see the child? If she is asleep I won't wake her. But may I have just one look? I have her picture, but that is all of her that was left to me."
She seemed to lead him up the stairs. How like a dream it all was! Celeste moved through the space his thought created as silently as a creeping ray of moonlight. She opened the door of the child's room. The gas burnt low. There was the snowy bed. He dared not look at it quite yet. Around the room crept the eyes of his thought, seeking respite from his growing remorse. There hung dainty dresses. There in the open closet were other things—little boots, slippers, shoes with skates attached, toys, dolls—and there on the bed—how he loved the child! How he pitied her as she lay asleep with that pink glow of life's alluring dawn upon her, unconscious of the blade he had unsheathed.
"Yes, she must be told now," Celeste seemed to say, in vague, ethereal tones. "She is young to shoulder it, but justice must be done even by a child like her. She must not rob you of a single right or privilege."
The child waked. Startled joy blazed in her opening eyes. She uttered a scream of delight and held out her arms. He took her to his breast and clasped her tightly, her fragrant cheek against his own, her warm body filling his chilled soul with fresh life.
"I can't do it," he heard himself deciding, and forthwith, the pulsing thing on his breast became the cold drops of sweat which his agony had forced from him. "No, I can't do it," he repeated. "I'll wander again. I've given my word, and I'll keep it."
The voices on the veranda seemed louder now. He thought he heard Mary uttering a startled command of some sort; and then there were steps on the stairway and Kenneth and Martin softly knocked on his door. He opened it.
"Some one is driving up the road," Kenneth explained. "Sister thought it might be Albert Frazier coming to call on her. Anyway, she said, as he doesn't know that we are at home, we'd better keep out of sight. He may want to stay all night, and in that case we'll have to go to the barn again."
The three men went to a window and cautiously looked out. A horse and buggy were stopping at the gate. Frazier was alighting, while Rowland went down the walk to meet him in accordance with his hospitable habit.
"I can't stop long," Frazier was heard saying. "Leave the horse there. He'll stand, all right. I only want to see your daughter a few minutes."
"Thank God!" Kenneth exclaimed, in relief. "Then we can get to bed, Martin. Oh, how I hate that man!"
The boys left Charles alone. He heard them creeping down the hall to their room at the end of the house. Later he heard their father pass on his way to his room. Charles sat down on his bed again. A different mood was now on him. Hot fury raged through him as he thought of what might be taking place below. That man might be urging the gentle girl to marry him. He might still be holding threats over her, and Mary might accept him. He heard their low voices. Frazier's dominated. Its coarse monotone rumbled through the hall. He seemed to be explaining something. Charles closed his ears, for the sound was maddening.
"It is rather late to call," Frazier was saying, "but I had to see you, and this was the only time. I've thought it all over about me and you, little girl. I don't know, but maybe I'm not as tough a proposition as I appear to be. The truth is, I'm all in. I've lost every cent of money I had. I plunged too reckless. I lived too high. It was come-easy-go-easy with me. I've been a bad man, but you were always what I wanted. I reckon it is because you are so good at heart, but I knew that you'd never love me. I knew that, and so I resorted to that other game. I am sorry, for it was a sneaking thing to do. But, as I say, I'm all in financially. I could not maybe for many years give you what you deserve, and so I've decided to tell you about it and move away from here. I have a chance of getting something to do in Seattle. My mother's brother has an opening for me there and I am going at once. You never cared for me, did you, little girl? Now be honest."
"I don't think I ever loved you," Mary responded. "It was because you were so—so kind to me and father and the boys—that—"
"Oh, I know. That was part of my dirty work," Frazier sighed. "I was looking a long way ahead. Your father is as simple as a child, and I was using him, tempting him to let me indorse for him. However, he owes me nothing now. I am a bankrupt and the bank that advanced the money to him with my security will look to him for it. Your crops are good this year, and he will be able to make a substantial payment on account when they are marketed. That man you picked up is a wonder. My brother thinks there is something crooked about him and is looking him up. The fellow acts strangely, but he is doing your place no harm, and perhaps you ought to keep him. There is some mystery about him, but I've seen others like him who turned out all right in the end. I think he has secret associates. In fact, I have an idea that some friend of his advanced the money for Tobe Keith's operation. I started to make investigations on that line, but my crash came, and all that is off."
"Do you think Tobe's chance is good to recover?" Mary asked, falteringly.
"That is one thing I came to tell you," Frazier answered. "The latest news is even more favorable. I heard this afternoon from Doctor Harrison that he is doing splendidly."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" Mary cried. "You can't imagine how much it means to me!"
"I think I can, little girl, for you are a mother to the boys, young as you are. I came to say something else, too. I wanted to wipe my slate off as clean as possible before I go, and so I set to work on my brother. He now knows all about how I felt to you, and, as he is a good fellow, he promised to help all he could. He is sure now that the boys will never be seriously punished and has promised me not to arrest them."
"Does he know that they did not go West, after all?" Mary asked, anxiously.
"Yes, he does now. The boys were seen working in the field by a mischievous neighbor, who reported it, but no harm will come of it now. You can depend on my brother. He will not molest them. They've had their lesson. They never were a bad sort, but only a little wild. They have good blood in them and will come out all right in the end. My brother really hates to have me leave, and he will stand behind any friend of mine. I'm a rotten egg, little girl. Wanting to tie to you was my best point, and that was a doubtful one, for I was unworthy of you, and knew it all along—all along. I reckon a man ought to be as clean as the woman he marries, and I was wrong, too, in trying to get you by the methods I was using."
The horse at the gate was pawing the ground impatiently. Frazier looked over the landscape musingly. The moon was just appearing above a mountain-top. The old house which had blazed with the festive light and rung with the merriment of buried generations stood swathed in darkness, its roof-edge drawing a line against the dun sky. Ghosts of the past, earth-anchored by sweet memories, perchance, came and went through the old doorway and strolled about the moonlit grounds.
"It is time I was going," Frazier announced. "I don't know what has come over me of late, little girl, but I know that I am different from what I used to be. If I hadn't been I'd never have said what I've said to-night. I hope you will be happy. You'd never have been so with me—never! Good-by!"
"Good-by!" she echoed. She was crying. Why? She couldn't have answered. She went with him to the gate. She held his arm in a gentle grasp of pitying gratitude. They shook hands over the gate. He took up the reins, got into the buggy with his old ponderous movement, raised his hat, and the impatient horse bore him away.
She turned and glanced up at the window of Charles's room. He was standing there, looking at her, but she could not see him through the murky panes.
"Now go to bed, darling," a voice from the past whispered in her subconscious ear, "Mother is watching over you."
The next day, in the afternoon, Charles and the boys were in the blacksmith's shop repairing a plow that was to be used immediately. Kenneth was at the bellows, and Charles at the anvil, his sleeves rolled high on his brawny arms. Martin stood in the doorway. Presently he whistled softly, and ran to Charles just as he was about to strike the red-hot plowshare which he was holding on the anvil.
"Don't make any noise!" he said. "I see a buggy and horse stopping at the gate. It looks like the sheriff's rig, and I think he is in it."
Charles dropped his tools, and he and his companions crept to a crack in the wall and peered through it.
"That's who it is," Kenneth informed Charles, in a startled voice. "I wonder if—if Tobe has become worse, or—or—"
"I couldn't stand that," Martin cried out. "Oh, don't think it!"
Charles said nothing, and there was no response from Kenneth, who was grimly peering through the crack. They saw Rowland, bareheaded, walking leisurely from the veranda to the gate. They saw him shaking hands over the buggy-wheels with the sheriff. They could not, at that distance, read his face. Of what was taking place the three watchers could form no idea. Presently they saw Mary come down the walk, pass through the gate, and shake hands with the sheriff.
"Sister means to find out if anything has gone wrong, so she can warn us," Kenneth said. "Brown, this looks pretty tough on us. We were thinking everything was all right, but this looks bad."
Still Charles said nothing. His face, only half illumined by the light through the crack, which struck across his fixed eyes, was grim and perplexed.
They saw Mary at her father's side, but the hood of her sunbonnet hid her face from view. The three stood talking for several minutes; then Mary was seen leaving and turning in their direction.
"She's coming to tell us," Kenneth said. "Now, we'll know. Keep still. Maybe she is afraid we'll be seen or heard at work."
Mary appeared in the doorway. She removed her bonnet and smiled reassuringly. "Frightened out of your skins, I'll bet," she jested. "I came to tell you. He is not looking for you. He said so plainly, for he saw how worried I was. In fact, he said that Tobe was still improving, and hinted—he didn't say so in so many words—but he hinted that he knew you both were about the place, and that he was not going to molest you now that Tobe is out of danger."
Charles was staring at her fixedly; the animation that should have been in his face was absent. "Then he wanted to see your father about something else?" he said.
"Yes, some business, or—" Mary broke off, and with a sudden shadow across her face she stood staring at him. "I don't know what he wanted to see father about. It seemed to me that it was of a private nature, and so—so that's why I came away."
"Gee! what does it amount to, since he's letting us go?" said Martin. He stepped to his sister's side and stood with his arm around her waist. For once she seemed unaware of the boy's presence. She was recalling something Albert Frazier had said about the sheriff's opinion of Charles. Could the present visit pertain to him?
"Thank the Lord, he's off!" Kenneth exclaimed. "Bully boy, that chap!"
The brothers went to the doorway, looked all around, and then hastened away to meet their father, who was slowly coming toward the shop. They joined him.
"Where is your sister?" he asked. They told him, and he went on, as if only partially conscious of their eager questions.
"Oh, that's all right!" he said, impatiently. "He is not going to bother you. Oh, Mary, where are you?"
"Here, father," she answered, as she came out, accompanied by Charles. "Did you want me?" It seemed to her that he now glanced at Charles with a look of vague displeasure on his face.
"Yes, I want to see you. Come to the house with me, please."
Mary was sure now that something pertaining to Charles had happened, for her father was treating him in a manner that surely indicated it; the old man had taken no notice of him, and that was most unusual.
Leaving the others in the shop, Rowland led his daughter toward the house. "I wanted to see you about a little matter that may be rather serious," he began. "The sheriff didn't come to see me about the boys at all, but about Mr. Brown."
"About him!" Mary said, faintly. "What about him?"
"He put a lot of questions to me in regard to Mr. Brown," Rowland said, "but I couldn't answer a single one of them. He seemed surprised—astonished, in fact, for he said he didn't see how any sensible man could take in a stranger like Brown unless he had proper credentials. I couldn't even tell him where Mr. Brown came from, who he was, or anything. I tried to explain that Mr. Brown had been so gentlemanly and useful that we hadn't thought such a course necessary, but the sheriff only laughed at me for being so easily hoodwinked."
"Hoodwinked!" Mary protested. "He hasn't hoodwinked us, father. I'm sure he is all we have given him credit for being."
"Well, it seems that the sheriff thinks there is something very suspicious about him. Warrants are out for a number of men who left the circus when Mr. Brown did. The sheriff says that Mr. Brown has been leaving our house at night, and has been seen in town on several occasions. Quite recently he met a stranger at the hotel, a queer fellow with a Northern accent who had refused to register. They were out together the night the gift was made to Mrs. Keith that everybody is talking about, and the man that turned the money over to her answered the description of the stranger that Mr. Brown was with."
"But surely the sheriff is not fool enough to think that giving money away like that was a sign that Mr. Brown was—was a suspicious character!" protested Mary.
"The sheriff thinks that very thing is ground for suspicion," Rowland went on. "He says it may be that Tobe Keith knows more than he has ever let out. It seems that he was seen drinking with some of the circus men. The sheriff thinks that the money was paid over by persons who were afraid Tobe would make some sort of death-bed statement that would implicate Mr. Brown and others. The sheriff found out through one of his men that the same man who met Mr. Brown at the hotel was seen at the hospital in Atlanta where Keith is, and then again here with Mr. Brown. I don't want to be unfair or suspicious of innocent persons, but—now I must be plainer, daughter. I've been afraid that you and Mr. Brown—But I'm sure you know what I mean without my going into it."
"I know what you mean, father," Mary faltered.
"I don't want to offend you, my dear," Rowland went on, "but it seems to be my duty to bring it up. He is an educated man and has the manners of a refined gentleman. In fact, when I used to contrast him with Albert Frazier it seemed to me that a young girl like you could not fail to be impressed with him. He is a good talker and has seen something of the world, evidently. I must say I like him. I like him so much that I almost feel that it is my duty to be more open with him than I can be, for I promised the sheriff that I'd say nothing to him of this. He wants to have him watched for a week or so. In any case, he thinks that under some pretext or other he may arrest him and force him to give an account of himself."
"An account of himself!" Mary repeated the words to herself. Then, touching her father's arm appealingly, she said, aloud: "Do you think you ought—Surely, father, you will not let this change your manner toward Mr. Brown?"
"Why do you ask that?" he demanded.
"Because just now in the shop you treated him coldly. I'm sure he must have noticed it. He is an unhappy, lonely, sensitive man, who—I think—has had some great trouble."
"I didn't mean to treat him differently," Rowland said with regret. "Perhaps I was absorbed in what I had to tell you. But the truth is I must be careful, more careful with you than I have been. I see now that I was wrong to allow you to—to see quite so much of a stranger as you have of this one. You remember you and he were out one entire night—"
"Oh, don't bring that up!" Mary cried. "You know as well as I do how that came about."
"Oh yes, but, nevertheless, you and he were together, and, as I said, he is an attractive man. Right now you are defending him. Think of that, daughter, you are defending a man we know absolutely nothing about, and who I must frankly say has not treated our hospitality with due respect in not producing proper credentials. The profession he was in before he came to us was a queer one for an educated gentleman. You must admit that. Your future and your happiness is in my hands, and a young lady with the ancestry you have had ought to look—"
"Don't mention my ancestry, father," Mary broke in. "It interests you, but it does not interest me. Life, as it is, is too grim and earnest to spend any part of it in digging up the dry bones of dead lords and ladies."
"Blood will tell," Rowland frowned in sudden displeasure. "We are poor and have our troubles, but we know who we are. Yes, I must be more careful with you, my dear. And if Mr. Brown cannot show who and what he is he doesn't deserve my friendship nor your faith in him. Women are sentimental. Whatever they want to be right they think is right. The sheriff has set me to thinking. He just as good as told me that I was crazy to harbor this young man under the circumstances. I won't say anything to Mr. Brown, but I hope you will be careful. You must not let it be said—if the sheriffdoesarrest him—that you were ever anything more to the young man than—"
"I know nothing wrong about Mr. Brown," Mary broke out, now flushed with anger, "and I know much that is good—much that I cannot tell you. I do not intend to let a coarse man like that sheriff influence my opinion in the slightest. He doesn't know Mr. Brown and I do."
"Still, you must be careful," Rowland urged.
"I don't know what you mean," Mary said, stubbornly. "I don't know as I want to know. I shall have to treat Mr. Brown as my conscience tells me to treat him. I know what he has done and is doing for us, and that is enough for me."
"I know, but you must be careful," her father repeated. "Even the boys must be put on their guard."
"On their guard, indeed!" the girl sniffed. "If you haven't eyes to see that Mr. Brown is making men of them, I have. If you thought as much about your children as you do about your forefathers you would have noticed the wonderful change in their characters that Mr. Brown has brought about by his talks and his example."
"I take your rebuke, my dear, because in a way it is deserved. I have been too much absorbed of late in my history, but the book is about done now, and I shall have more time for other matters. If Mr. Brown has helped the boys I shall be grateful for it; still, good deeds sometimes are done by persons who, to say the least, are unsafe. That reminds me. A letter I once wrote to a branch of the Rowland family happened to reach a man by the name who was serving a long term in prison, and the fact is that he gave me more substantial help in what I wanted than many others who had their freedom and whose respectability was not questioned."
"Why not state in your book"—Mary half smiled—"that the best information you could get about the Rowlands was from a prison?"
"I call that flippant, daughter," Rowland answered, "but it doesn't matter. A sense of humor is a family heritage which has come down from the women of your mother's line, who were noted for their brilliant repartee. I have recorded scores of bright sayings in my book. Your great-great-great-grandmother once said to Washington—"
"I remember it," Mary said, crisply. "The same thing was told of a number of other Colonial dames. Bright remarks must have been scarce in that day of scalps and tomahawks."
Rowland was thinking of something else, and did not smile. They were at the house now, and with one of his unconscious bows he left her to go to his room.
One night, two days later, Rowland had retired early, and the boys, having worked hard all day, soon followed him. Charles was seated on a rustic bench on the lawn. He had noted the change in Rowland's manner toward him and had promptly coupled it with the sheriff's visit. That something of a serious nature was impending he did not doubt. Several times he had caught Mary's glance, and each time he had felt that she was trying to convey some hint that she wanted to speak to him, but that no suitable opportunity had presented itself. Something told him now that she would join him where he sat; he knew that she had not yet retired, for now and then she passed the window of the lighted sitting-room. The anticipation of meeting her was not that of unalloyed joy, for he felt more and more that he had no moral right to the trust she was so blindly placing in him. She had bared her soul to him; he was unable to do the same to her. Loving her as he did more than life itself, yet he was sure he had no right to foster love in her breast. The burning tobacco died in his pipe as he held it in his tense hand between his knees and again thought out the sinister situation. For the sake of his love's life and hers he might wreck the hope and happiness of a whole family to whom he had pledged fidelity; but if he did that even Mary herself would spurn him. Yes, for had she not been ready to sacrifice herself on a bare chance to save her brothers? No, she loved him for what she thought he was, not for what he would be if he failed in his righteous undertaking. He might tell her how he was bound, but that would sound like self-glorification and would do no good, since her only chance for happiness lay in forgetting him.
He felt rather than saw her as she approached soundlessly on the dewy grass. He stood up. The seat was short, and the wild thought flashed through his brain that he had no more right to sit close beside her than the humblest subject beside his queen; so he stood bowing, and with his hand mutely indicated the seat. She took it, and then, as he remained standing, she suddenly reached out, caught his hand, and drew him down beside her.
"What is the matter?" she asked, insincerely, for she knew the cause of his restraint.
"Nothing," he answered.
"Oh, I know there is; but never mind," she continued, still holding his hand. "I had to see you to-night, Charlie. I could not have waited longer."
"Is it about Albert Frazier?" he asked.
"No, you know it is not. Besides, he has gone away for good and all. He released me from my—my understanding with him. We are not even going to write to each other."
The heart of the listener bounded, but it sank a moment later, for, pressing his hand, as if to console him, Mary went on:
"I wanted to see you about yourself, Charlie—yourself."
"I can guess," he said, grimly. "It has to do with the sheriff's visit the other day. I felt that something was wrong from the way your father acted. He tries to treat me the same, but can't."
Mary lowered her head. She toyed with his big fingers as a nervous child might have done. "I think Albert started his brother's suspicions against you soon after you came to us," she said, gently.
"Suspicions?" Charles was speaking merely to fill awkward pauses.
"Yes, it is outrageous, but he has you mixed up with the men who left the circus when you did. I suppose his idea is to get information from you if he can—force it from you by unfair means. A man like him will balk at nothing to gain his point."
"I can give him no information," Charles answered, in a low, forced tone. "I knew such men were with the circus, and that they had left about the time I did, but I did not even know them personally."
"I know that," Mary said, her hand now like a lifeless thing in his clasp, "but you do not want to be arrested and—and questioned, do you?"
He started, stared steadily, and then released her hand. "No," he answered, after a pause, "I don't want to go through that. I am sorry to have to admit it to you, but it is a fact. I am—am really not prepared for—for that. In fact, that is why I left the circus just when I did. The report was out that the entire company was to be grilled, and I had reasons for—for—But I think you know what I mean. I've tried hard to make you understand that I am unworthy of—"
"Stop!" Mary cried, sharply. "This is no time to go through all that. I know you are worthy, and that settles it. But I have not told you all. Charlie, you are being watched day and night."
"Watched?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, the sheriff told father so, and I myself have seen the men. One in the day and another at night. At this very moment we may be under the eye of one of them."
"What is the sheriff's object?" Charles asked, in a tone of dead despair. "I mean in having me shadowed this way?"
"I think he has an idea that the friend of yours who was here the other day is in some way connected with the men he is after, and that he may return to see you."
"Thank Heaven, Mike is gone, and is out of it!" Charles said, half to her and as much to himself. "It would have been terrible if that poor chap had been drawn into it. Well, well, you see what I have brought down on you for so kindly giving me work and shelter and treating me as an equal when I am simply an outlaw trying to escape imprisonment."
"Hush! hush!" Mary cried, fiercely. "I shall not listen to you."
He had made a movement as if to rise, but again she caught his hand and detained him.
"I know what you are at heart, and that is all I want to know of your affairs. You have said you were bound by honor not to tell everything, and I would not want you to break your word even to enlighten me."
His face was set and pale, his lips twisted awry. Again he drew his hand away. "Have you any idea when they will arrest me?" he asked, hollowly.
"Not for a week or so, anyway," Mary responded. "The sheriff said that you would not be allowed to leave here. Do you want to get away, Charlie?"
"It would do no good to try," he sighed, and yet bravely, for he was not thinking of himself at all. "It would be an open admission that I was avoiding the law." He sighed again and stood up. "Pardon me," he said, "but I mustn't let you compromise yourself like this. You say I am watched, and it would be unfair to you—to your father—to your brothers—for your name to be associated in the slightest with mine."
"Oh, what can I do?" Mary was standing by him now, her hand upon his arm. "I thought I was unhappy over my brothers, but, now that they are out of trouble, I am in agony over you. Oh, Charlie, don't you see—don't you understand—"
Her voice broke in a sob. He was swayed by a storm of emotion. He was about to take her in his arms, when the thought of being seen by a hidden observer checked him.
"You must go in now," he said. "See how the dew is settling on your hair."
She nodded mutely, and side by side they went to the house. The sitting-room on the left of the hall was lighted, the parlor on the right was dark.
"Come into the parlor," she said, in a low, firm tone. "No one could see us there, and—and—oh, Charlie! I can't part with you like this! I can't bear it. I'd lie awake all night."
In the silence of the big room they stood facing each other. Their hands met like drowning persons afloat in a dark, calm sea. He could see her eyes in the gloom. They seemed like portals of escape from a living hell. Her quick breath fanned his face; the warmth of her being drove the deathlike chill from his body. He took her face into his hands, and bent and kissed her lips. She put her head on his breast, her arms about his neck, and held him tightly.
"They shall not part us," she whispered against his cheek. "Never, never, never!"
The Boston family were at breakfast. William was in his place next to his wife, and his uncle, who now lived in the house, sat opposite him. The two men were talking of stocks, bonds, securities, and insurance rates. Celeste was taking no part in the conversation. In her morning dress she looked as frail and dainty as ever.
Presently the maid who was waiting at the table bent over her shoulder and, smiling, whispered something to her.
"Oh, is he!" Celeste exclaimed. "Tell him to wait. I want to see him after breakfast."
"Who is it, dear?" William asked.
"It is Michael," she returned. "He has got back from New York. I want to find out how his mother is. He has been away longer than usual. I am afraid she may be worse."
Raising his coffee-cup to his lips, William dismissed the subject and continued his chat with his uncle.
"We certainly have made the bank pay," the older man said. "As you know, it was not in the best condition when I took hold of it. I had no idea running a bank was so interesting. I have handled my end well and you have yours. I have heartily enjoyed my work, but sometimes I am in doubt about you."
"About me?" William's eyes met the upward glance of his wife, and both looked at the old man inquiringly.
"Yes. You always seem nervous, overworked, and worried. I've tried to make it out. Are you sure you are entirely well? You are getting gray, my boy, and your signature often has a shaky look. You don't smoke too much, do you?"
"I think not," said William, and his eyes fell under the calm, penetrating stare of his wife. "But Iamnervous, and seem to be getting more so. I am thinking of a vacation."
"That is right, take it," his uncle said. "I can run the old boat awhile by myself."
Celeste remained at the table after they had left the room. She listened attentively and heard them closing the door as they went out into the street. No sooner were they away than she rang for the maid.
"Please tell Michael that I want to see him," she said to the girl. "He is still there, is he not?"
"Yes, madam."
In a moment Michael appeared, his hat in hand.
"When did you get back?" Celeste asked, after she had greeted him and he stood at the end of the table, the dust of travel on his gray suit and in the hollows of his earnest blue eyes.
"At four o'clock this morning, madam; I'm pretty well done up."
"How did you leave your mother?" asked Celeste, and her eyes swept him from head to foot. It was plain to the servant that her questions were merely perfunctory.
"Very well, thank you, madam. It is very kind of you to ask."
"I am glad to hear it, Michael." Celeste faced him more directly now. "I was afraid she was worse, for you know you were gone longer than usual."
"A few days longer, madam," Michael said. "I had no idea of being detained, but I actually ran across a trace of Mr. Charles, and, knowing your anxiety, I—"
"You have found him—you have seen him!" Celeste interrupted. "I know it from the way you look, Michael."
"Yes, madam, I found him. After some trouble and quite a journey I located him and managed to meet and talk with him."
"Sit down, Michael, sit down; you are tired."
He drew a chair back from the table and sat in it, his travel-stained hat on his knee.
"Now tell me about him. Is he well?"
"A perfect picture of health, madam," Michael beamed. "He is living on an old plantation down in the mountains of Georgia, working like a common laborer, but he seemed satisfied."
"Like a common laborer!" Celeste repeated, sadly. "Go on, tell me everything, Michael."
At some length the old servant recounted his experiences from the moment of his meeting with Mason in New York till he had joined Charles in the South.
"And the girl you speak of—the planter's daughter. You say she is—"
"The most beautiful and refined young lady I ever met, madam. I cannot tell you how well she impressed me. You could see by a look at her that she was of fine stock. She was very nice to me. I saw her father, too, but I did not meet him—a fine figure of a gentleman. A little run down in appearance, madam, but a courtly gentleman at bottom. The house was a fine old place. You could not blame a young man like Mr. Charles for wanting to settle there, after all the roving he had had to get away from—You understand what I mean, madam?"
Celeste nodded breathlessly. "You must tell me, Michael," she urged, "if, in your opinion, Charles is in love with the young lady."
Michael hesitated; he fumbled the rim of his hat; he blinked under her steady stare.
"Answer me, Michael," Celeste insisted. "Surely he would not object to my knowing it if he is. You see, I am anxious to hear that he has found such happiness."
"I may as well tell you that he made no secret of it, madam, but I regret to say that it has not brought him full contentment."
"Then she cares for some one else," Celeste said, regretfully.
"On the contrary, madam, I am sure that the feeling is mutual. I could see it in the way she looked at him, and in the way she treated me merely because I was a friend of his, as he told her in my presence."
"But I don't understand," Celeste pursued. "If they love each other—" She went no further, knitting her brows perplexedly.
"It is this way, madam. Oh, Mr. Charles spoke plainly enough that night at the little hotel when he came to see me! You see, madam, he is conscientious—Mr. Charles is remarkably so, and he will not, he says, think of asking such a young lady to be his wife when he is—well, under a cloud."
"Oh! Oh! That is it!"
"Oh yes, madam, and in that respect he is to be pitied. Even if he were willing to keep his—his little mistake from the young lady herself, he could not show her family proper credentials as to who he is. You see, he is at present a common farm-hand. The young lady seems to understand him, I should say, but her people and the community don't. You would be sorry for him if you could see him and hear him talk in his brave, manly, and patient way."
At this point Michael told of the timely aid which had been given to Keith, the motive behind it, and the successful outcome of the operation. As he told it, it was a dramatic story which held Celeste spellbound.
"And he gave eventhatmoney away!" Celeste cried. "I know he loves her, Michael, but, as you say, he is only a farm-hand and the other thing hangs over him. I know him well enough to understand that he'd never think of marriage in his condition. Oh, he must be unhappy, Michael! As you say, she may be the one woman in all the world for him, and yet he has to give her up. Poor, dear Charlie!"
"Yes, he is unfortunate, madam. He no longer drinks. All that is over. He is a man among men, madam. His simple life and regular habits have improved him wonderfully. He is a young giant of a man. His skin is clear, and his eye bright, but he is sad—yes, he is sad and thoughtful, especially when he speaks of home and the little girl. He cautioned me not to mention him to her. He wants her to think of him as dead, because the young soon forget those who die."
Celeste rose suddenly. "I'll see you again," she said, clearing her husky throat. "I must go now. I thank you, Michael. No one else could have done what you have done." At the door she suddenly wheeled on him. "Michael, wait, please!" she said. Her lips were twitching, her brows were contracted as if in deep, disturbed thought. She rested her thin white hands on the back of a chair and grasped it as for support. "Michael," she continued, "did it ever occur to you that Charles may have been drawn into that trouble by others and may not have beenwhollyto blame?"
"I can't say that I thought that, madam," said Michael, swinging awkwardly from one foot to the other and blinking. "I did always think, and believe, too, that he wasn't at himself when it happened. I told him I thought that once, and he did not deny it. That is why I've been so sorry for him, for a man ought not to be punished all his life for a thing that was done when he was—well, like Mr. Charles used to get."
"I see; I see what you think," and Celeste nodded as if in affirmation of some thought of her own. "And you say you think the two are in love with each other?"
"Oh yes, madam, and that is the sad part of it."
"And that but for Charles's secret trouble they would be married?"
"Yes, madam. I have no doubt of it."
"Thank you, Michael. You may have done him a great service by—by going to see him when you did. I mean," she added, starting as from some inner fear, "that reaching him just when you did with that money—"
"Oh yes, madam, Mr. Charles spoke of that a dozen times. You see, as I have tried to explain, it lifted a load from the young lady."
"I understand that," Celeste said, musingly. "And she is very pretty and sweet and gentle, you say?"
"She is everything a lady ought to be, madam, and, oh, I must say my heart ached for her, too, for I could see how she felt about him. She is full of spirit. She is the kind that would fight for a man to the last ditch and drop of blood. But, oh, madam, it seemed so sad! There he was in a farmer's clothes, his hands as hard as stone, and she—why, madam, he treated her like she was a princess of royal rank, and all the time with that old, sad look he used to have when he was scolding himself to me after one of his little sprees around town. Almost the last thing he said to me, madam, was that when he had helped her all he could he intended to slip away, for her own good, and take up his life somewhere else among strangers. It was then, madam, I assure you, that I almost lost my religion. I've been taught, madam, from my mother's knee—and she is a saint, if one ever lived—I say I've been taught that our Saviour died to help men who repent, and there was Mr. Charles bowed down like that without a hand held out to him. He gave up all he loved here—you, the little girl—his 'Sunbeam,' as he called her down there—and his brother, and now, when he has found some one that he loves, he must give her up also and start to roving again. I shed tears. I couldn't help it, and it moved him. I could see that. We were in my room at the hotel. His face turned dark as he sat there on my bed trying to be calm. He stood up and shook himself and smiled. 'Mike,' he said, 'nothing counts that we do for ourselves. It is only by forgetting ourselves and helping others that we accomplish anything worth while.'"
"Thank you, Michael, I'll see you again soon," Celeste said, moving toward the door.
"'Nothing counts that we do for ourselves,'" Celeste repeated, as she was ascending the stairs to her daughter's room. At the door she paused and listened for a moment, then, softly turning the bolt, she entered the room. The blinds were down to exclude the sunlight which was growing warm. On the great white bed Ruth lay asleep. One plump bare arm, shapely wrist, and hand lay against the mass of golden hair. Celeste stood at the foot of the bed, and with a mother's parched thirst drank from the picture before her eyes. How beautiful the child was! How exquisite the patrician brow, the neck, the contour of nose, mouth, and chin! How temperamentally sensitive, imaginative, and high-strung! How proud of her father, of his social and financial standing and his old name of Puritan respectability! How affectionate she was with her mother, how adored by the servants and by her absent uncle!
"She is all I have now!" thought Celeste, as she choked down a sob, "Can I do it—am I able to do it?"
She sat in a rocking-chair near the bed, her gaze still on the child's face. A sudden breeze fanned the shades of the windows inward. She locked her hands in her lap, her thin, blue-veined, irresolute hands in a lap of stone. "'Nothing counts that we do for ourselves,'" she quoted, uncompromisingly. "If I refuse I'll not be acting for myself, but for her—my baby—my darling baby! Charlie loved her enough to undertake her rescue, and I must help him carry it through. Yes, I can do that conscientiously. It would kill her to learn that her father was a convict. She couldn't grow up under it. It would blight her whole existence. At school she would hear it. In society it would be whispered behind her back and thrown in her face. Oh, it can't be! God would not allow it to be. He would not allow the sins of a father to fall on shoulders so frail and helpless. Some coarse children would think nothing of it; it would kill my baby. She would brood over it—oh, I know my child! She would hold it in her mind night and day. From what she now is she would become an embittered cynic, soured against life and her Creator. She would never marry. She would not want to bring children into a world so full of pain. And yet, and yet—" Celeste rose and went to a window and stood looking out, peering through the small panes as a hopeless prisoner might.
"And yet—justice must be done." Her white lips framed the words which shrank from utterance. "Charlie hashisrights, and so has the girl he loves. He undertook our rescue without knowing the cost. He was full of repentance at the time over his trivial mistakes, but now he must see it differently. Shall we drive him to roving again? Would God give my child a happy life at such a cost? Would He blight the lives of two of His children for one—and those two wholly innocent? No, justice must be done. It must! It must! It must! But I can't be her executioner. Why, I'm her mother! She is all I have in the world!"
Celeste crept back to the bed and bent over the sleeping child. Her hand went out as if to caress the white brow, but her fingers lifted only a fragrant lock of hair, and this she bent and kissed as soundlessly as the sunlight's vibration on the rug-strewn floor.
The next day was Sunday. Leaving her husband and his uncle smoking over their papers in the dining-room, her child in the care of a maid, Celeste slipped away unnoticed. She did not often attend church, but she was going to-day. Why, she could not have explained. It was as if a building with a spire and chimes, altar and surpliced clergyman, white-robed choristers and bowed suppliants, would help her make the decision that a long, sleepless night had withheld. She felt faint as she entered the family pew and bowed her head, for she had taken little nourishment since her travail began. Somehow her own death seemed a near thing, but she did not care. There were other things so much worse than mere death.
She failed to comprehend any part of the sermon which the gray-haired minister was delivering in that far-off, detached tone. She noticed some rings on his stout fingers and wondered how such mere trinkets could be worn by an ordained helper of the despairing and the God-forsaken. As soon as the service was over she hastened homeward. She told herself that she would act at once and face her husband with a demand that either he or she should perform the bounden duty. But as she entered the door and heard the voices of the two men in the dining-room, and smelled the smoke of their cigars, her courage oozed from her. She could not tell them both. Her talk must be for William alone; it would be for him to inform his uncle, and he would do it. William, once shown the right road, would take it. She knew him well enough for that. His wavering for the past year had been like hers, but when he knew all and was faced with the call of justice, as she was facing it, he would obey.
At the foot of the stairs in the hall she paused. Should she go back to the two men, or—It was the rippling laugh of her child up-stairs, who was being amused by a maid, the joyous clapping of a small pair of hands, that drew Celeste up the carpeted steps and into the child's presence.
"Oh, mother, see what she has put on me!" Ruth cried, gleefully, as she sprang into the middle of the room robed in a filmy pink gown which had been made for her use in a class in interpretative dancing, and held out the skirt, forming wings like those of a fairy floating over beds of roses. A circle of artificial flowers rested on the golden tresses. Ruth's eyes were sparkling with delight as she bowed low in one of the postures she had been taught, and then glided gracefully into her mother's arms.
"Oh, we've had so much fun! Haven't we, Annette?"
"Madame will pardon me," the French maid said. "I know it is Sunday, but she was so full of joy when she waked that—"
"It doesn't matter," Celeste said. "You may go. I'll dress her for dinner myself."
And as she did it, that morning of all mornings to be remembered, Celeste was the most pitiable of all pitiable creatures. Her coming sacrifice was not like that of Abraham in his offering of Isaac to his God, for, while he was a child of God, Abraham was not a mother.
"Justice must be done!" she kept saying. "The happiness of two against the misery of one—two againsttwo, in reality; but I don't count, I mustn't count. Charlie said to Michael that nothing counts that we do for ourselves, and this protesting ache within me is self, for my baby is myself. Sweet, sweet little daughter! Mother has the blade ready and must thrust it deep into your joyous heart. Oh, if my cup would only pass, and my will might be done instead of God's!" She held her child on her knees as she took off the pink symbol of dawn and robed her anew. She was laying her child on an altar before God and no sacrificial ram was in sight.
All the rest of the day Celeste was with Ruth. She walked with her in the Public Gardens. She stayed away from home, fearing that some one might call, and she felt unequal to the mocking convention. Surely this was no time for smirking formalities. When, as the sun was going down, she and the child returned home she found no one there except the servants. She felt relieved, for she was not prepared yet to meet her husband's eye, for surely he would know that something unusual had happened to her. She was glad that he did not return till just before the supper was served. She took Ruth down-stairs and into the dining-room as soon as the meal was announced. William and his uncle had met again in the parlor and were talking there in low tones. She and Ruth were in their places at the table when they came in.
"Yes, we certainly put it over on them," the old man said, with a chuckling laugh. "I felt sure the market was firm and sent my wire at once."
"I was confident, too," William answered, "but I never knew you to take a risk, and it may have been due to that fact that I was so undisturbed."
"Well, I think I can say as much for you, William," the old man answered. "Since I have been with you at the bank you have been the most conservative business man I ever knew. I have sometimes thought you were too careful, but caution can never be a fault."
They took seats. The business talk continued. The bank was to become the greatest in the state—every indication was in its favor. Celeste failed to hear Ruth's pretty prattle at her side. As she looked at the two men her determination, which had been held so firmly all day, grew weak and vacillating. How could she carry out her plan before them? She sank more deeply into the mire of misery than ever. The whole world seemed black and mad under the contending forces of right and wrong. How frail was the spirit flag she was striving to hold aloft in all that clash and rush of evil!
No, the right thing could not be done—by her, at any rate. Charles would have to remain the self-elected lifelong victim that he was. After all, he would be saving her; he would be saving Ruth; he would be saving his brother whom he had always loved.Savinghis brother! But was he? Could it be done so vicariously? And as this question pounded upon her brain she looked for the first time with scaleless eyes at her husband. Why had she not noticed it before? William was the mere withering husk of the man he had once been. His deep-sunken, shadowy eyes told his story; his parchment-like skin, his furtive, haunted look, repeated it; his constantly enforced attention to what was being said by others, his Judas-like manner, the quivering of his mentally handcuffed hands, confirmed it again and again. Why, William was dying—dying from the sheer poison of his putrefying soul. Only his great, staring eyes seemed alive, and they lived only in their dumb quest of mercy. Poor William! No one could save him but himself. Charles's nobility, Charles's sacrifice, would not do it. He must do it himself. Ah yes, that was the key, and it had dropped down from heaven! The thing was settled now. She would see him before the dawn of another day. She would suffer. Ruth would suffer, but William would be saved. Ah, that was the point too long overlooked! His only child would be paying the price, but in the far-off future Ruth herself, with the spiritual wisdom of age, might thank the memory of her mother for the opportunity given her.
The family retired before ten o'clock that night. Celeste sat by her daughter's bed, and with a soft, soothing song lulled her child to sleep. Gradually she felt the tiny fingers losing their grasp upon her own. Shortly afterward Celeste heard William ascending the stairs to his room adjoining hers. She heard him close his door. He always closed his door. At night or in the day he closed his door. Even at the bank he closed the door of his private office, perhaps in order that he might release the drawn cords to those perpetual curtains of his secret self.
There was another door between her room and his. Even that was shut. If she wished to see him before he retired she must hasten. She went into her own room, but did not turn on the electric light. She stood in the center of the room, shivering from head to foot as from cold. Presently she knocked on his door. Then there was a moment of tense silence. The sound must have startled her husband; and when at last he did fumblingly turn the bolt and open the door he stood there in the dark, facing her wonderingly, speechlessly.
"I—I didn't know who it was—at first!" he stammered. "I thought—thought—"
"Excuse me," she said, stroking the death-damp sweat from her brow and sliding past him into his room, "but I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you. It is something important, it seems to me. I couldn't do it before uncle, and you were with him all day. May we have a—a light?"
"Need we?" fell from his lips impulsively, then: "Yes, dear, of course. I quite forgot. I—I sometimes undress in the—the dark in the summer-time." He groped for the button on the wall. "Yes, I was right," he thought. "She has had something on her mind all day and last night, and she says it is important. My God! important! Only one thing is important—can it have come up again?"
His fingers touched the button. He pushed it in and the white glare filled the room like a photographer's flash-light, revealing their set visages to each other. William certainly looked old now, for a storm of terror was laying waste his whole suppressed being. She turned from him in sheer pity of his swaying frailty. She sat down in a chair, and, like the ill man that he was, he sank into another. He had unfastened his scarf and collar and the ends of both hung in disorder on his breast.
"You say it is something important?" he muttered, and with his hand he made a pretext of shading his eyes.
"Yes, William, it is important, as I see it," she answered, her stare on the floor, her bloodless hands in her lap, tightly clasped. "It is about—about a subject we have not mentioned between us lately."
"I think I understand," he breathed low. "Then you have heard from him, or at least you know where he went."
"Yes, and through Michael," she added. "Michael owed him some money and so he searched for him till finally—"
"Oh!" burst eagerly from her listener. "Then it was not the detectives—not the police. You see—you see, I thought—"
"No, he is safe in that respect, for a while, at any rate," Celeste said. "Michael found him in a retired place down in the mountains of Georgia, and—"
"Why, I—I thought he had gone abroad!" and there was no mistaking the sudden uneasiness in William's tone. "But you say he is still here in this country? Are you sure about that?"
"Yes, Michael has seen and talked with him. William, Charlie is very unhappy. Don't think that he is complaining, for he is not, but a new life has opened out before him and he is still young. William, justice must be done to him."
The hand-shade fell lower over William's eyes, but she could still see their fixed pupils just beneath the flesh-line of his palm.
"Justice!" he gasped. "Surely you are not going to—to hint at that suspicion of yours again. Haven't I shown you—told you that it would make you miserable for life?"
"It is not merely a suspicion now, William," she said, grimly. "I know it to be a fact that Charlie is wholly innocent, and that you—But, oh, you know what I mean!"
Like a murderer faced by skilled accusers confident of his guilt, William could formulate no denial. His sheer silence condemned him, that and the furtive flight of his eyes from object to object in the room. They reached everything except her set face. He and she were silent for a moment; then William spoke:
"So he talked to Michael. Probably he said a lot of things to him, and Michael has come back full of—of—"
"He said nothing of that sort to Michael," Celeste corrected, quickly. "Charlie is still true to his agreement with you. He lets Michael think that he did it when under the influence of drink. Michael hasn't the slightest idea that another is to blame."
"I see, and in spite of all this, and even Charlie's confession over his own signature, which I showed you, you still hold the idea that—"
"Yes, I know that the poor boy was innocent, and that he did it all—the written confession, the going away, the shouldering of the disgrace here, and the nameless life among strangers as a common laborer—he did all that for your sake and mine and Ruth's. Don't—don't deny it any more, William—don't lie to me! I won't stand for it! I won't! I won't! Ican't!"
He gave in. He could have crawled like a worm before her in his weltering despair.
"You know it is true, don't you, William?" There were pity, gentleness, and even abiding love in her tone.
He was conquered. He covered his ashen face with his gaunt hands, and, with his elbows on his knees, he sat leaning forward, dumb and undone. Then she told him his brother's story. It fell from her lips like the sweet consolation of a consecrated nun to a dying penitent, and yet it rang full and firm with Heaven's demand for justice. With a wand of flaming truth she pointed the way—the only way. He sobbed. William for the first time sobbed in her presence. His lips hung loose and quivered like those of a whimpering child.
"Have you realized the cost?" he asked, presently. "Do you know what it will mean to you and to Ruth? As God is my judge, Lessie, I am not thinking of myself. In fact, I was thinking only of you when I did it!" Here he made a confession of how he had prepared to kill himself that she might escape the long-drawn publicity of his trial, and how his brother had thwarted the effort.
"Yes, I realize the cost," Celeste answered, "but Ruth and I must pay it. It seems to me now that a greater thing in God's sight than paying our own debts is paying the debts of others. Charlie is trying to pay our debts, but he shall not. William, he shall not. You are dying under the strain that is on you. It is God's way of blighting His fruitless trees."
"You are right," he faltered. "A felon's cell, a convict's chains, would furnish relief compared with the tortures I have been enduring. But you and the baby—oh, Lessie, that is unbearable! That thought has haunted me for over a year."
"I know, but don't think of it now," she said. "Act at once. See uncle to-night before he retires. He is still in the library. He said he had something to read."
"I'll tell him at the bank in the morning," William said. "It is the proper place for it. Yes, yes, I'll tell him. You look as if you doubt it, but I'll keep my word. If you stop to think of it, you will see that there is nothing else to do."
"Wait!" Celeste rose and went out into the hallway. She leaned over the balustrade and peered downward; then she came back. "I see the light in the library," she said. "He is there now. Go. It must be settled to-night. I am holding myself to it with all the strength of my soul. I am afraid I will weaken. Another night and I might. Charlie's rights and Ruth's are in a balance, and they are seesawing up and down. Hurry! Hurry! Go this minute!"
He rose and staggered from the room. Celeste sat down and leaned forward. She listened, all her soul in her ears. She remembered that the old stairs had a harsh habit of creaking when one went down or up them. They were uttering no sound now. Why? she wondered. Softly she got up and crept out into the hall. There in the darkness stood William on the first step, a hand on the railing. His face was turned toward the foot of the stairs. The narrow strip of carpet stretched down toward the dim light below. He was staring at the light as if turned to stone by its gruesome import. She crept to him, touched him on the arm. He turned his death-mask of a face to her, and moved his flabby lips soundlessly.
"Go on," she said.
"You forget one thing, Lessie." His voice came now in a rasping whisper. "You forget that this thing was Charlie's own suggestion. He proposed it. He would expect me to live up to it, as well as he himself. You mentioned Ruth. She was in his mind at the time, as well as you and me. Then there was another thing. He had—he said so himself—he had disgraced himself here. He had acted in a way that made him want to disappear, never to be heard of again. This would bring all that up again. I have no doubt that he would want the matter to rest just as it is."
"Yes, he would, and for that very reason it shall not," Celeste flashed out. "He loves a good girl, and she loves him. If you are silent to-night they will be parted forever. The thing is killing you; it will kill me, too. Are you trying to force me to be your accomplice?"
His head rocked negatively like a stone poised on a pivot, but still he did not move forward. Gently she caught his hand, the one still on the railing, and as she did so his fingers automatically clutched the wood as if he were afraid of falling down the stairs.
"I'll go," he said. "You see, I was wondering just how to put it to uncle. He will be humiliated in a peculiar way. I hardly know how to say it, but he has all along felt the—the stigma of Charlie's—of what he thinks Charlie did—felt it so keenly that he has overdone his—his praise of me. You understand—ofme. He has boasted of my—my moral stamina and ability on all occasions, in that way, you see, to make up for Charlie's—or what he thinks was Charlie's bad conduct. It will upset him terribly. It will fill him with chagrin, for—for I and the bank and its success have become his very life. I dread the effect on him. He is old, you know, and not so very strong. What would we do if it were to result disastrously—I mean to him, you understand? If Charlie hadn't done this thing of his own accord—"
"Stop, William," Celeste said, with a resolute sigh. "I see how hard it is for you to do. Let me do it. I'll know what to say perhaps better than you. Besides, if you consent to my going to him it will be the same as if you did it. In fact, I'll tell him you sent me."