"'Though I be mad, I shall not wake;I shall not fall to common sight;Only the god himself may takeThis music out of my blood, this glory out of my breath,This lift, this rapture, this singing might,And love that outlasts death.'"
"'Though I be mad, I shall not wake;I shall not fall to common sight;Only the god himself may takeThis music out of my blood, this glory out of my breath,This lift, this rapture, this singing might,And love that outlasts death.'"
"'Though I be mad, I shall not wake;
I shall not fall to common sight;
Only the god himself may take
This music out of my blood, this glory out of my breath,
This lift, this rapture, this singing might,
And love that outlasts death.'"
When they went in, Wheaton was alone in the smoking compartment and they joined him to discuss their plans for the drive to Poindexter's place.
"We'd better push right on to the ranch house as soon as we get to Great River," said Saxton. "We're due there at three o'clock. We ought to get back to take the nine o'clock train home in any event."
"And what's going to happen if we find the man there?" asked Raridan. "We want the boy and him, too, don't we?"
Wheaton sat with his eyes turned toward the window, which the darkness made opaque.
"If he's cornered he'll be glad to drop the boy andclear out. But we want to take him home with us too, don't we, Wheaton?" asked Saxton.
"I should think we'd better make sure of the boy first," Wheaton answered. "That would be a good night's work."
The porter came to tell them that their berths were ready.
"It's hardly worth while to turn in," said Warry, yawning. "I shudder at the thought of getting up at three o'clock." "But," he added, "if we're on the right track, this time to-morrow night they'll probably be welcoming us home with brass bands and the freedom of the city. Perhaps they'll have a public meeting at the Board of Trade. Cheer up, Jim; those detectives will go out of business if we really take the boy home."
Wheaton smiled wearily; he did not relish Raridan's jesting.
"Will your imagination never rest?" growled Saxton, knocking the ashes from his pipe.
The night wind of the plain blew cold in their faces as they stepped out upon the Great River platform. There was a hint of storm in the air and clouds rode swiftly overhead. The voices of the trainmen and the throb of the locomotive, resting for its long climb mountainward, broke strangely upon the silence. A great figure muffled in a long ulster came down the platform toward the vestibule from which the trio had descended.
"Hello," called Raridan cheerily, "there's only one like that! Good morning, Bishop!"
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Bishop Delafield, peering into their faces. The waiting porter took his bags from him. "Has the boy been found yet?"
"No."
"I should have gone on home to-night if I had known that. But what are you doing here?"
Raridan told him in a few words. They were following a slight clue, and were going over to the old Poindexter place, in the hope of finding Grant Porter there. Saxton was holding a colloquy with the driver of the station hack who had come in quest of passengers, and he hurried off with the man to get a buckboard.
The conductor signaled with his lantern to go ahead, and the engine answered with a doleful peal of the bell. The porter had gathered up the bishop's things and waited for him to step aboard.
"Never mind," the bishop said to him; "I won't go to-night." The train was already moving and the bishop turned to Raridan and Wheaton. "I'll wait and see what comes of this."
"Very well," said Raridan. "We won't need our bags. We can leave them with the station agent." Wheaton stepped forward eagerly, glad to have something to do; he had not slept and was grateful for the cover of darkness which shut him out from the others.
"Gentlemen with flasks had better take them," said Warry, opening his bag. "It's a cold morning!"
"Wretchedly intemperate man," said the bishop. "Where's yours, Mr. Wheaton?"
"I haven't any," Wheaton answered.
When he went into the station, the agent eyed him curiously as he looked up from his telegraphing and nodded his promise to care for the bags. He remembered Saxton and Wheaton and supposed that they were going to Poindexter's on ranch business.
Saxton drove up to the platform with the buckboard.
"All ready," he said, and the three men climbed in, the bishop and Wheaton in the back seat and Raridan by Saxton, who drove.
"The roads out here are the worst. It's a good thing the ground's frozen."
"It's a better thing that you know the way," said Raridan. "I'm a lost child in the wilderness."
"If you lose me, Wheaton can find the way," said Saxton.
They could hear the train puffing far in the distance. Its passage had not disturbed the sleep of the little village. The lantern of the station-master flashed in the main street as he picked his way homeward. Stars could be seen beyond the flying clouds. The road lay between wire-fenced ranches, and the scattered homes of their owners were indistinguishable in the darkness of the night. A pair of ponies drew the buckboard briskly over the hard, rough road.
"How far is it?" asked the bishop.
"Five miles. We can do it in an hour," said Saxton over his shoulder.
"We'll be in Clarkson laughing at the police to-morrow afternoon if we have good luck," said Raridan. "If we've made a bad guess we'll sneak home and not tell where we've been."
The road proved to be in better condition than Saxton had expected, and he kept the ponies at their work with his whip. The rumble of the wagon rose above the men's voices and they ceased trying to talk. Raridan and Saxton smoked in silence, lighting one cigar from another. The bishop rode with his head bowed on his breast, asleep; he had learned the trick of taking sleep when and where he could.
Wheaton felt the numbing of his hands and feet in the cold night air and welcomed the discomfort, as a man long used to a particular sensation of pain welcomes a new one that proves a counter-irritant. He reviewed again the grounds on which he might have excused himself from taking this trip. Nothing, heargued, could be more absurd than this adventure on an errand which might much better have been left to professional detectives. But it seemed a far cry back to his desk at the bank, and to the tasks there which he really enjoyed. In a few hours the daily routine would be in progress. The familiar scenes of the opening passed before him—the clerks taking their places; the slamming of the big books upon the desks as they were brought from the vault; the jingle of coin in the cages as the tellers assorted it and made ready for the day's business. He saw himself at his desk, the executive officer of the most substantial institution in Clarkson, his signature carrying the bank's pledge, his position one of dignity and authority.
But he was on William Porter's service; he pictured himself walking into the bank from a fruitless quest, but one which would attract attention to himself. If they found the boy and released him safely, he would share the thanks and praise which would be the reward of the rescuing party. He had no idea that Snyder would be captured; and he even planned to help him escape if he could do so.
They had turned off from the main highway and were well up in the branch road that ran to the Poindexter place.
"This is right, Wheaton, isn't it?" asked Saxton, drawing up the ponies.
"Yes, this is the ranch road."
They went forward slowly. The clouds were more compactly marshaled now and the stars were fewer. Suddenly Saxton brought the ponies to a stand and pointed to a dark pile that loomed ahead of them.The Poindexter house stood forth somber in the thin starlight.
"Is that the place?" asked the bishop, now wide awake.
"That's it," said Wheaton. "This road ends there. The river's just beyond the cottonwoods. That first building was Poindexter's barn. It cost more than the court house of this county."
Saxton gave the reins to Raridan and jumped out. "No more smoking," he said, throwing away his cigar. "You stay here and I'll reconnoiter a bit." He walked swiftly toward the great barn which lay between him and the house. There was no sign of life in the place. He crept through the barb-wire fence into the corral. He had barred and padlocked the barn door on his last visit, and he satisfied himself that the fastenings had not been disturbed. There were no indications that any one had visited the place. He reasoned that if Snyder had sought the ranch house for a rendezvous he had not come afoot. Saxton was therefore disappointed to find the barn door locked and the corral empty; there was little use in looking further, he concluded; but before joining the others he resolved to make sure that the house also was empty. It was quite dark and he walked boldly up to it. The wind had risen and whistled shrilly around it; a loose blind under the eaves flapped noisily as he drew near. The great front door was closed; he pushed against it and found it securely fastened. He had brought with him a key to a rear door, and he started around the house to try it and to make sure that the house was not occupied.
At the corner toward the river, glass suddenly crunched under his feet. The windows were deeply embrasured all over the house, and he could not determine where the glass had fallen from. The windows were all intact when he left, he was sure. He drew off his glove and tiptoed to the nearest panes, ran his fingers over the smooth glass, and instantly touched a broken edge. As he was feeling the frame to discover the size of the opening, the low whinny of a horse came distinctly from within.
He stood perfectly quiet, listening, and in a moment heard the stamp of a hoof on the wooden floor of the hall. He backed off toward the drive way, which swept around in front of the house, and waited, but all remained as silent and as dark as before. He ran back through the corral to the other men, who stood talking beside the blanketed ponies.
"There's something or somebody in the house," he said. He told them of the broken window and of the sounds he had heard. "Whoever's there has no business there and we may as well turn him out. I've thought of a good many schemes for utilizing that house, but the idea of making a barn of it hadn't occurred to me."
He threw off his overcoat and tossed it into the buckboard.
"I guess that's a good idea, John," said Raridan, following his example. Wheaton stood muffled in his coat. His teeth were chattering, and he fumbled at the buttons but kept his coat on, walking toward the house with the others.
"We may have a horse thief or we may have akidnapper," said Saxton, who had taken charge of the party; "but in either case we may as well take him with his live stock."
"Let us not be rash," said the bishop, following the others. "He may prove an unruly customer."
"He's probably a dude tramp who rides a horse and has taken a fancy to Poindexter architecture," said Warry.
"Quiet!" admonished Saxton, who had lighted a lantern, which he concealed under his coat.
"You two watch the corners of the house," he said, indicating Raridan and Wheaton; "and you, Bishop, can stand off here, if you will, and watch for signs of light in the upper windows. The big front doors are barred on the inside, and my key opens only the back door."
"I'll go with you," said Raridan.
"Not yet, old man. You stay right here and watch until I throw open the front doors."
"But that's a foolish risk," insisted Raridan. "There may be a dozen men inside."
"That's all right, Warry. It takes only a minute to cross the hall and unbar the front doors. There's no risk about it. I'll be out in half a minute."
Raridan felt that Saxton was taking all the hazards, but he yielded, as he usually did, when Saxton was decisive, as now.
"Good luck to you, old man!" he said, slapping Saxton on the back. He patrolled the grass-plot before the house, while Saxton went to the rear.
The door opened easily, and John stepped into the lower hall. The place was pitch dark. He rememberedthe position of the articles of furniture as he had left them on his last visit, and started across the hall toward the stairway, using his lantern warily. When half way, he heard the whinny of a horse which he could not see. A moment later an animal shrank away from him in the darkness and was still again. Then another horse whinnied by the window whose broken glass he had found on the outside. There were, then, two horses, from which he argued that there were at least two persons in the house. He found the doors and lifted the heavy bar that held them and drew the bolts at top and bottom. As the doors swung open slowly Raridan ran up to see if anything was wanted.
"All right," said Saxton in a low tone. "They're mighty quiet if they're here. But there's no doubt about the horses. You stay where you are and I'll explore a little."
Raridan started to follow him, but Saxton pushed him back.
"Watch the door," he said, and walked guardedly into the house again. The horses stamped fretfully as he went toward the stairway, but all was quiet above. He felt his way slowly up the stair-rail, whose heavy dust stuck to his fingers. Having gained the upper hall, he paused to take fresh bearings. His memory brought back gradually the position of the rooms. In putting out his hand he touched a picture which swung slightly on its wire and grated harshly against the rough plaster of the wall. At the same instant he heard a noise directly in front of him as of some one moving about in the chamber at the head of the stairs. The knob of a door was suddenly grasped from within.John waited, crouched down, and drew his revolver from the side pocket of his coat. The door stuck in the frame, but being violently shaken, suddenly pulled free. The person who had opened the door stepped back into the room and scratched a match.
"Wake up there," called a voice within the room.
Saxton crept softly across the hall, settling the revolver into his hand ready for use. A man could be heard mumbling and cursing.
"Hurry up, boy, it's time we were out of this."
The owner of the voice now reappeared at the door holding a lantern; he was pushing some one in front of him. The crisis had come quickly; John Saxton knew that he had found Grant Porter; and he remembered that he was there to get the boy whether he caught his abductor or not.
The man was carrying his lantern in his right hand and pushing the boy toward the staircase with his left. As he came well out of the door, Saxton sprang up and kicked the lantern from the man's hand. At the same moment he grabbed the boy by the collar, drew him back and stepped in front of him. The lantern crashed against the wall opposite and went rolling down the stairway with its light extinguished. Saxton had dropped his own lantern and the hall was in darkness.
"Stop where you are, Snyder," said Saxton, "or I'll shoot. I'm John Saxton; you may remember me." He spoke in steady, even tones.
The lantern, rolling down the stairway, startled the horses, which stamped restlessly on the floor. The wind whistled dismally outside. He heard Snyder, ashe assumed the man to be, cautiously feeling his way toward the staircase.
"You may as well stop there," Saxton said, without moving, and holding the boy to the floor with his left hand. He spoke in sharp, even tones. "It's all right, Grant," he added in the same key to the boy, who was crying with fright. "Stay where you are. The house is surrounded, Snyder," he went on. "You may as well give in."
The man said nothing. He had found the stairway. Suddenly a revolver flashed and cracked, and the man went leaping down the stairs. The ball whistled over Saxton's head, and the boy clutched him about the legs. A bit of plaster, shaken loose by the bullet, fell from the ceiling. The noise of the revolver roared through the house.
"It's all right, Grant," Saxton said again.
The retreating man slipped and fell at the landing, midway of the stairs, and as he stumbled to his feet Saxton ran back into the room from which the fellow had emerged. He threw up the window with a crash and shouted to the men in the darkness below:
"He's coming! Get out of the way and let him go! The boy's all right!"
He hurried back into the hall where he had left Grant, who crouched moaning in the dark.
"You stay here a minute, Grant. They won't get you again," he called as he ran down the steps. One of the horses below was snorting with fright and making a great clatter with its hoofs. From the sound Saxton knew that the fleeing man was trying to mount, and as he plunged down the last half of the stairway,the horse broke through the door with the man on his back.
"Let him go, Warry," yelled Saxton with all his lungs.
The horse was already across the threshold at a leap, his rider bending low over the animal's neck to avoid the top of the door. Raridan ran forward, taking his bearings by sounds.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Come on, Wheaton!" Wheaton was running toward him at the top of his speed; Raridan sprang in front of the horse and grabbed at the throat-latch of its bridle. The horse, surprised, and terrified by the noise, and feeling the rider digging his heels into his sides, reared, carrying Warry off his feet.
"Let go, you fool," screamed the rider. "Let go, I say!"
"Let him alone," cried Wheaton, now close at hand; but Raridan still held to the strap at the throat of the plunging horse.
The rider sat up straight on his horse and his revolver barked into the night twice in sharp succession, the sounds crashing against the house, and the flashes lighting up the struggling horse and rider, and Raridan, clutching at the bridle. Raridan's hold loosened at the first shot, and as the second echoed into the night, the horse leaped free, running madly down the road, past Bishop Delafield, who was coming rapidly toward the house. Wheaton and Saxton met in the driveway where Raridan had fallen. The flying horse could be heard pounding down the hard road.
"Warry, Warry!" called Saxton, on his knees by hisfriend. "Hold the lantern," he said to Wheaton. "He's hurt." Raridan said nothing, but lay very still, moaning.
"Who's hurt?" asked the bishop coming up. Saxton had recovered his own lantern as he ran from the house. It was still burning and Wheaton turned up the wick. The three men bent over Raridan, who lay as he had fallen.
"We must get him inside," said Saxton. "The horse knocked him down."
The bishop bent over and put his arms under Raridan; and gathering him up as if the prone man had been a child, he carried him slowly toward the house. Wheaton started ahead with the lantern, but Saxton snatched it from him and ran through the doors into the hall, and back to the dining-room.
"Come in here," he called, and the old bishop followed, bearing Raridan carefully in his great arms. The others helped him to place his burden on the long table at which, in Poindexter's day, many light-hearted companies had gathered. They peered down upon him in the lantern light.
"We must get a doctor quick," said Saxton, half turning to go.
"He's badly hurt," said the old man. There was a dark stain on his coat where Raridan had lain against him. He tore open Raridan's shirt and thrust his hand underneath; and when he drew it out, shaking his gray head, it had touched something wet. Wheaton came with a pail of water, pumped by the windmill into a trough at the rear of the house. He had broken the thin ice with his hands.
"Go for a doctor," said the bishop, very quietly, nodding to Saxton; "and go fast."
Wheaton followed Saxton to the hall, where they cut loose the remaining horse. Saxton flung himself upon it, and the animal sprang into a gallop at the door. Wheaton watched the horse and rider disappear through the starlight; he wished that he could go with Saxton. He turned back with sick terror to the room where Raridan lay white and still; but Wheaton was as white as he.
The bishop had rolled his overcoat into a support for Warry's head, and with a wet handkerchief laved his temples. Wheaton stood watching him, silent, and anxious to serve, but with his powers of initiative frozen in him.
"Get the flask from his pocket," said the old man; and Wheaton drew near the table, and with a shudder thrust his hand into the pocket of Raridan's coat.
"Shall I pour some?" he asked. Raridan had moved his arms slightly and groaned as Wheaton bent close to him. Wheaton detached the cup from the bottom of the flask and poured some of the brandy into it. The bishop, motioning him to stand ready with it, raised Raridan gently, and together they pressed the silver cup to his lips.
"That will do. I think he swallowed a little," said the bishop. "Bring wood, if you can," he said, "and make a fire here." Raridan's head was growing hot under his touch, and he continued to lave it gently with the wet handkerchief. There was a shed at the back of the house where wood had been kept in the old days of the Poindexter ascendancy, and Wheaton, glad ofan excuse to get away from the prostrate figure on the long table, went stumbling through the hall to find this place. There was a terrible silence in the old house,—a silence that filled all the world, a silence that could not be broken, it seemed to him, save by some new thing of dread. There beyond the prairie, day would break soon in the town where he had striven and failed,—not the failure that proceeds from lack of opportunity or ability to gain the successes which men value most, but the failure of a man in self-mastery and courage.
He felt his soul shrivel in the few seconds that he stood at the door looking across the windy plain,—like a dreamer who turns from his dreams and welcomes the morning with the hope that his dream may not prove true. He drew the doors together and turned to go on his errand, lighting a match to get his bearings, when a sound on the stairway startled him; there was a figure there—the wan, frightened face of Grant Porter looked down at him. He had forgotten the boy, whom Saxton had left in the hall above. Grant shrank back on the stairs, not recognizing him. It seemed to Wheaton that there was something of loathing in the boy's movement, and that always afterward people would shrink from him.
"Is that you, Grant?" he asked. The boy did not answer. "It's all right, Grant," he added, trying to throw some kindness into his voice. "You'd better stay upstairs, until—we're ready to go."
The boy turned and stole back up the stairway, and Wheaton, encouraged by the sound of his own voice,brought wood and kindled it with some straw in the dining-room fireplace.
"Let us try the brandy again," said the bishop. Again Wheaton poured it, and they forced a little between the lips of the stricken man. Raridan's face, as Wheaton touched it with his fingers, was warm; he had expected to find it cold; he had a feeling that the man lying there must be dead. If only help would come, Raridan might live! He would accept everything else, but to be a murderer—to have lured a man to his doom! The bishop did not speak to him save now and then a word in a low tone, to call attention to some change in Raridan, or to ask help in moving him. The dry wood burned brightly in the fireplace and lighted the room. The bishop asked the time.
"He could hardly go and come in less than two hours," said Wheaton. He lifted his head.
"They are coming now." The short patter of pony hoofs was heard and he went into the hall to open the doors. Two horsemen were just turning into the corral. Saxton had found the one doctor of the village at home,—a young man trained in an eastern hospital but already used to long, rough rides over the prairies. The two men threw themselves to the ground, and let their ponies run loose. Saxton did not speak to Wheaton, who followed him and the doctor into the house.
"Has he been conscious at all?" asked the doctor.
The bishop shook his head. The doctor was already busy with his examination, and the three men stood and watched him silently. Saxton steppedforward and helped, when there was need, to turn the wounded man and to strip away his clothing. The skilled fingers of the surgeon worked swiftly, producing shining instruments and sponges as he needed them, from the blue lining of his pea-jacket. Suddenly he paused and bent down close to the stricken man's heart. He poured more brandy into the silver cup and Saxton lifted Warry while the liquor was forced between his lips. The doctor stood up then and put his finger on Raridan's wrist. He had not spoken and his face was very grave. Saxton touched his arm.
"Is there nothing more you can do now?" The doctor shook his head, but bent again over Raridan, who gave a deep sigh and opened his eyes.
"John," he said in a whisper as he closed them again wearily. The doctor put Warry's hand down gently, and the others, at a glance from him, drew nearer.
"John," he repeated. His voice was stronger. The white light of dawn was struggling now against the flame of the fireplace. John stood on one side of the table, the doctor on the other. The old bishop's tall figure rose majestically by the head of the dying man. Wheaton alone hung aloof, but his eyes were riveted on Warry Raridan's face.
"It was another—another of my foolish chances," said Warry faintly and slowly, the words coming hard; but all in the room could hear. He looked from one to another, and seemed to know who the doctor was and why he was there.
"The boy's safe and well. We got what we came for. Just once—just once,—I got what I came for. Itwasn't fair—in the dark that way—" His voice failed and the doctor gave him more brandy. He lay very still for several minutes, with his eyes closed, while the three men stood as they had been, save that the surgeon now kept his finger on Warry's wrist.
"I never—quite arrived—quite—arrived," he went on, with his eyes on the old bishop, as if this were something that he would understand; "but you must forgive all that." He smiled in a patient, tired way.
"You have been a good man, Warry, there's nothing that can trouble you."
"I was really doing better, wasn't I, John?" he went on, still smiling. "You had helped,—you two,"—he looked from his young friend to the older one, with the intentness of his near-sighted gaze. "Tell them"—his eyes closed and his voice sank until it was almost inaudible,—"tell them at the hill—Evelyn—the light of all—of all—the year."
The doctor had put down Warry's wrist and turned away. The dawn-wind sweeping across the prairie shook the windows in the room and moaned far away in the lonely house. The bishop's great hand rested gently on the dying man's head; his voice rose in supplication,—the words coming slowly, as if he remembered them from a far-off time:
Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit thee.Saxton dropped to his knees, and a sob broke from him.The Lord bless thee, and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee.The old man's voice was very low, and sank to a whisper.The Lord lift up his countenanceupon thee and give thee peace, both now and evermore.
No one moved until the doctor put his head down to Warry's heart to listen. Then Wheaton watched him with fascinated eyes as he gathered up his instruments, which shone cold and bright in the gray light of the morning.
There was much to do, and John Saxton had been back and forth twice between the ranch house and the village before the sun had crept high into the heavens. The little village had been slow to grasp the fact of the tragedy at its doors which had already carried its name afar. There was much to do and yet it was so pitifully little after all! Warry Raridan was dead, and eager men were scouring the country for his murderer; but John Saxton sat in the room where Warry had died. It seemed to John that the end had come of all the world. He sharpened his grief with self-reproach that he had been a party to an exploit so foolhardy: they should never have attempted a midnight descent upon an unknown foe; and yet it was Raridan's own plan.
It was like Warry, too, and the thought turned John's memory into grooves that time was to deepen. This was the only man who had ever brought him friendship. The first night at the club in Clarkson, when Raridan had spoken to him, came back, vivid in all its details. He recalled with a great ache in his heart their talk there in the summer twilight; the charm that he had felt first that night, and how Warry had grown more and more into his life, and brightened it.He could not, in the fullness of his sorrow, see himself again walking alone the ways they had known together. Even the town seemed to him in these early hours an unreal place; it was not possible that it lay only a few hours distant, with its affairs going on uninterruptedly; nor could he realize that he would himself take up there the threads of his life that now seemed so hopelessly broken.
Saxton had ministered to the boy Grant with characteristic kindness. Grant knew now of Warry's death, and this, with his own sharp experiences, had unnerved him. He clung to Saxton, and John soothed him until he slept, in one of the upper chambers.
Wheaton stood suddenly in the door, and beckoned to Saxton, who went out to him. They had exchanged no words since that moment when the old bishop's prayer had stilled the room where Warry Raridan died. Through the events of the morning hours, Wheaton had been merely a spectator of what was done; Saxton had hardly noticed him, and glancing at Wheaton now, he was shocked at the look of great age that had come upon him.
"I want to speak to you a minute,—you and Bishop Delafield," said Wheaton. The bishop was pacing up and down in the outer hall, which had been quietly cleaned and put in order by men from the village. Wheaton led the way to the room once used as the ranch office.
"Will you sit down, gentlemen?" He spoke with so much calmness that the others looked at him curiously. The bishop and Saxton remained standing, and Wheaton repeated, sharply, "Will you sit down?" Thetwo men sat down side by side on the leather-covered bench that ran around the room, and Wheaton stood up before them; and so they met together here, the three men left of the four who had come to the ranch house in the early morning.
"I have something to say to you, before you—before we go," he said. Their silence seemed to confuse him for a moment, but he regained his composure. He looked from Saxton to the bishop, who nodded, and he went on:
"The man who killed Warry Raridan was my brother," he said, and waited.
Saxton started slightly; his numbed senses quickened under Wheaton's words, and in a flash he saw the explanation of many things.
"He was my brother," Wheaton went on quietly. "He had wanted money from me. I had refused to help him. He carried away Grant Porter thinking to injure me in that way. It was that, I think, as much as the hope of getting a large sum for the boy's return."
"But—" began the bishop.
"There are many questions that will occur to you—and to others," Wheaton resumed, with an assurance that transformed him for the moment. He spoke as of events in ages past which had no relation to himself. "There are many things that might have been different, that would have been different, if I had not been"—he hesitated and then finished abruptly—"if I had not been a coward."
A great quiet lay upon the house; the two men remained sitting, and Wheaton stood before them with his arms crossed, the bishop and Saxton watching him,and Wheaton looking from one to the other of his companions. Contempt and anger were rising in John Saxton's heart; but the old bishop waited calmly; this was not the first time that a troubled soul had opened its door to him.
"Go on," he said, kindly.
"My brother and I ran away from the little Ohio town where we were born. Our father was a harness maker. I hated the place. I think I hated my father and mother." He paused, as we do sometimes when we have suddenly spoken a thought which we have long carried in our hearts but have never uttered. The words had elements of surprise for James Wheaton, and he waited, weighing his words and wishing to deal justly with himself. "My brother was a bad boy; he had never gone to school, as I had; he had several times been guilty of petty stealing. I joined him once in a theft; we were arrested, but he took the blame and was punished, and I went free. I am not sure that I was any better, or that I am now any better than he is. But that is the only time I ever stole."
Saxton remembered that Warry had once said of James Wheaton that he would not steal.
"I wanted to be honest; I tried my best to do right. I never expected to do as well as I have—I mean in business and things like that. Then after all the years in which I had not seen anything of my brother he came into the bank one day as a tramp, begging, and recognized me. At first I helped him. I sent him here; you will remember the man Snyder you found here when you came," turning to Saxton. "I knewyou would not keep him. There was nothing else that I could do for him. I had new ambitions," his voice fell and broke, "there were—there were other things that meant a great deal to me—I could not have him about. It was he who assaulted me one night at Mr. Porter's two years ago, when you," he turned to the bishop, "came up and drove him away. After that I gave him money to leave the country and he promised to stay away; but he began blackmailing me again, and I thought then that I had done enough for him and refused to help him any more. When Grant Porter disappeared I knew at once what had happened. He had threatened—but there is something—something wrong with me!"
These last words broke from him like a cry, and he staggered suddenly and would have fallen if Saxton had not sprung up and caught him. He recovered quickly and sat down on the bench.
"Let us drop this now," said Saxton, standing over him; "it's no time—"
"There's something wrong with me," said Wheaton huskily, without heeding, and Saxton drew back from him. "I was a vain, cowardly fool. But I did the best I could," he passed his hand over his face, and his fingers crept nervously to his collar, "but it wasn't any use! It wasn't any use!" He turned again to the bishop. "I heard you preach a sermon once. It was about our opportunities. You said we must live in the open. I had never thought of that before," and he looked at the bishop with a foolish grin on his face. He stood up suddenly and extended his arms. "Now I want you to tell me what to do. I want to bepunished! This man's blood is on my hands. I want to be punished!" And he sank to the floor in a heap, repeating, as if to himself, "I want to be punished!"
There are two great crises in the life of a man. One is that moment of disclosure when for the first time he recognizes some vital weakness in his own character. The other comes when, under stress, he submits this defect to the eyes of another. James Wheaton hardly knew when he had realized the first, but he was conscious now that he had passed the second. It had carried him like a high tide to a point of rest; but it was a point of helplessness, too.
"It isn't for us to punish you," the bishop began, "and I do not see that you have transgressed any law."
"That is it! that is it! It would be easier! I would to God I had!" moaned Wheaton. John turned away. James Wheaton's face was not good to see.
"Yes, it would be easier," the bishop continued. "Man's penalties are lighter than God's. I can see that in going back to Clarkson many things will be hard for you—"
"I can't! Oh, I can't!" He still crouched on the floor, with his arms extended along the bench.
"But that is the manly thing for you. If you have acted a cowardly part, now is the time for you to change, and you must change on the field of battle. I can imagine the discomfort of facing your old friends; that you will suffer keen humiliation; that you may have to begin again; but you must do it, my friend, if you wish to rise above yourself, and you may depend upon my help."
The old man had spoken with emphasis, but withgreat gentleness. He turned to Saxton, wishing him to speak.
"The bishop is right. You must go back with us, Wheaton." But he did not say that he would help him. John Saxton neither forgot nor forgave easily. He did not see in this dark hour what he had to do with James Wheaton's affairs. But the Bishop of Clarkson went over to James Wheaton and lifted him up; it was as though he would make the physical act carry a spiritual aid with it.
"We can talk of this to better purpose when we get home," he said. "You are broken now and see your future darkly; but I say to you that you can be restored; there's light and hope ahead for you. If there is any meaning in my ministry it is that with the help of God a man may come out of darkness into the light again."
There was a moment's silence. Wheaton sat bent forward on the bench, with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.
"They are waiting for us," said Saxton.
A special train was sent to Great River, and the little party waited for it on the station platform, surrounded by awed villagers, who stood silent in the presence of death and a mystery which they but dimly comprehended. Officers of the law from Clarkson came with the train and surrounded Bishop Delafield, Wheaton and Saxton as they stood with Grant Porter by the rude bier of Warry Raridan. The men answered many questions and the sheriff of the county took the detectives away with him. Margrave had sent his privatecar, and the returning party were huddled in one end of it, save John Saxton, who sat alone with the body of Warry Raridan. The train was to go back immediately, but it waited for the west-bound express which followed it and passed the special here. There was a moment's confusion as the special with its dark burden was switched into a siding to allow the regular train to pass. Then the special returned to the main track and began its homeward journey.
John sat with his arms folded, sunk into his greatcoat, and watched the gray landscape through the snow that was falling fast. The events of the night seemed like a hideous dream. It was an inconceivable thing that within a few hours so dire a calamity could have fallen. The very nearness of the city to which they were bound added to the unreality of all that had happened. But there the dark burden lay; and the snow fell upon the gray earth and whitened it, as if to cleanse and remake it and blot out its dolor and dread. The others left Saxton alone; he was nearer than they; but late in the afternoon, as they approached the city, Captain Wheelock came in and touched him on the shoulder; Bishop Delafield wished to see him. John rose, giving Wheelock his place, and went back to where the old man sat staring out at the snow. He beckoned Saxton to sit down by him.
"Where's Wheaton?" the bishop asked.
John looked at him and at the other men who sat in silence about the car. He went to one of them and repeated the bishop's question, but was told that Wheaton was not on the train. He had been at the station and had come aboard the car with the rest; buthe must have returned to the station and been left. John remembered the passing of the west-bound express, and went back and told the bishop that Wheaton had not come with them. The old man shook his head and turned again to the window and the flying panorama of the snowy landscape. John sat by him, and neither spoke until the train's speed diminished at a crossing on the outskirts of Clarkson. Then suddenly, hot at heart and with tears of sorrow and rage in his eyes, Saxton said, so that only the bishop could hear:
"He's a damned coward!"
The Bishop of Clarkson stared steadily out upon the snow with troubled eyes.
It was Fenton who most nearly voiced the public sorrow at the death of Warrick Raridan. His address at the memorial meeting of the Clarkson Bar Association surprised the community, which knew Fenton only as a corporation lawyer who rarely made speeches, even to juries. Fenton put into words the general appraisement of Warry Raridan—his social grace and charm, his wit and variety. People who hardly knew that Raridan had been a lawyer were surprised that the leader of the Clarkson bar dwelt upon his instinctive grasp of legal questions, "the thoroughness of his research and the clarity and force with which he presented legal propositions." Raridan was a lawyer with an imagination, Fenton said, thus seizing what had been considered a weakness of character and making it count as an element of strength. Fenton was not given to careless praise, and what he said of Raridan had much to do with formulating the opinion that was to pass into Clarkson history. The last few months of Warry's life had won him this eulogy—the work which he had done for Evelyn. Fenton had learned to know him well after the appointment of Saxton as receiver. He had thrown a number of importantquestions to Warry to investigate, and he had been amazed at his young lieutenant's capacity and industry. He did not know that a woman had been the inspiration of this work; he thought that it proceeded from Saxton's influence and the pleasure Warry found in labor that brought him near his friend.
It was not alone Warry's death, but the sharp, tragic manner of it, so wretchedly inconsonant with his life, that grieved and shocked the community. But this too had its compensations; for many read into his life now a recklessness and daring which it had lacked. They spoke of him as though he had been a young soldier who had fallen at the first skirmish, without having been tried in battle; all spoke of his promise and mourned that his life had been harvested before he had finished sowing. On every hand his good deeds were recounted; many unknown witnesses rose to tell of acts of generosity and kindness which would never have been disclosed in his lifetime. Those who had really known him no longer lamented his erratic habits. They now magnified his talents; and his whimsical, fanciful ways they attributed to genius.
It was much easier to account for Raridan than to explain Wheaton. Most of the people of Clarkson did not understand his flight, if he had neither stolen the bank's money nor killed Warry Raridan. There was a disposition for a time to reject the story of the tragedy at the Poindexter ranch house as it had been given out by Bishop Delafield and John Saxton; but the bishop's word in the matter was final; he was not a man to conceal the truth. Those who had seen most of Wheaton were the most puzzled. The men whoremained at The Bachelors' were stunned by the whole affair, but in particular they failed to grasp the curious phase presented by Wheaton's connection—or lack of connection—with it. They expected him to return, and even discussed what should be their attitude toward him if he came back. As the days passed and nothing was heard, they gradually ceased talking of him; but by silent assent no one took the seat he had occupied at their table. When presently the landlord sent Wheaton's things to be stored in the cellar, and new men appeared in the places of Raridan and Wheaton, they exchanged the oblong table for a round one, to take away whatever ill luck might follow the places of the lost members of their board.
The chief shock to William Porter was a shock to his pride. He had trusted Wheaton as implicitly as he trusted any man, and while his trust at all times had limitations, he had extended these beyond precedent in James Wheaton's case. Saxton and Bishop Delafield had gone to him as soon as possible, with Fenton. It was important for Porter to understand exactly what had occurred at the Poindexter ranch house. The newspapers had now announced Wheaton's flight; it was natural that the bank should fall under suspicion, and that all of Porter's interests should be jeopardized. A cashier implicated in some way in a murder, and in full flight for parts unknown, created a situation which could not be ignored. But Porter met the issue squarely and sanely.
The expert accountants who were put to work on the bank's books made an absolutely clean report, and theminutest scrutiny of the securities of the bank proved everything intact. Wheaton had been a master of order and system. The searching investigation of experts and directors revealed nothing that was not creditable to the missing cashier.
"Well, sir," said Porter, "you've got me. I guess Jim was crooked some way, but he didn't do us up. I guess there's nothing we can say against him."
"His case is unusual," said Fenton. "I think we'd better leave it to the psychologists."
It was necessary to fill Wheaton's place, and while they were casting about for a cashier Porter and Thompson received offers from a Chicago syndicate for their stock in the bank. The offer was advantageous; both of the founders were old and both were in broken health. They debated long what they should do. The bank was a child of their own creating; Porter was particularly loath to part with it; but Evelyn, to whom he brought the matter in a new spirit of dependence on her, finally prevailed upon him. They closed with the offer of the syndicate, parting with the control but remaining in the directorate. Porter had other interests that required his attention, chief among which was the Traction Company; and after the bank question had been determined, he gave himself to a careful study of its affairs.
"I guess this thing ain't so terribly rotten after all," he said one day, at a conference with Saxton and Fenton. The earnings were steadily increasing.
"No, it's making a showing now, and unless you want to keep it for a long run you had better sell it before you get into a strike or a row with the cityauthorities or something like that, to spoil it. And I fancy that Saxton's making a showing that the next fellow can't beat. One thing's sure," said Fenton, "some extensions and improvements have got to be made the coming summer, and they will take money."
"Well, we won't make them," Porter declared. "We'll reorganize and bond and get out."
While the newspapers, and the judge of the court to whom he reported, praised Saxton, Porter never praised him. It was not his way; but Fenton took care that Porter should understand fully the value of Saxton's services. Praise had not often been John Saxton's portion, and he was not seriously troubled by Porter's apparent indifference. He was not working for William Porter, he told himself, at times when Porter's attitude annoyed him; he was working for the United States District Court; and he went on doing his duty as he saw it. He was, however, anxious to be relieved, but Fenton begged him to remain through the reorganization. He liked Saxton and admired his steady persistence. Together they worked out the problem of the proposed new company, and managed it with so much tact and self-effacement that Porter believed all their suggestions to have originated with himself.
"It's simpler that way," said Fenton, speaking to Saxton one day of the necessity of this method of procedure. "He's a perfect brick, and he'll like us a lot better if we let him think he's doing all the work."
"He is a brick all right," said John thoughtfully, "but he's a peculiar brick."
In the days that followed, John Saxton knew again the heartache and loneliness which he had known before Warry Raridan came into his life. He had lost the first real friend he had ever had, and his days were once more empty of light and cheer. His work still engrossed him, but it failed to bring him the happiness which he had found in it when he and Warry discussed its perplexities together. His memory sought its old ruts again; the hardship and failure of his years in Wyoming were like fresh wounds. He talked to no one except Bishop Delafield, who had reasoned him out of his self-indictment for Warry's death. He did not know that his own part in the recovery of Grant Porter, as Bishop Delafield described it, was touched with a fine and generous courage, and he would have resented it if he had known.
Warry was constantly in his thoughts; but he thought much of Evelyn too; through all the years to come, he told himself, he would remember them and they would be his ideals. Echoes of the gossip which connected Warry's name and Evelyn's reached him, and he felt no shock that such surmises should be afloat. Warry and he had understood each other; they had talked ofEvelyn frequently; Warry had come to him often with the confidences of a despairing lover, and John had encouraged and consoled him. He predicted his ultimate success; it had always seemed to him an inevitable thing that Warry and Evelyn should marry.
Three weeks passed before he saw her, and then he went to her with an excuse for his visit in his mind and heart. Warry had left a will in which the bulk of his property—and it was a respectable fortune—was given for the endowment of a hospital for children. Saxton was named as executor and as a trustee of the fund thus set apart. Warry had never mentioned the matter to any one; he had probably never thought of it very seriously, and John wished to talk to Evelyn about it.
It seemed strange that the Porter drawing-room was the same, when everything else had changed; he had not been there since the afternoon when he walked home with Evelyn through the cold. He despised himself for that now; it was an act of disloyalty to Warry; but he would now be more loyal to the dead than he had been to the living.
As they talked together he saw no change in her; and he felt himself wondering what manner of change it was that he had expected to find. He had heard of people who aged suddenly with grief, but Evelyn was the same, save for a greater composure, a more subdued note of manner and voice. She bent forward in her deep interest in what he told her of Warry's bequest. He wished her help, and asked for it as if it were her right to give it. Surely no one had a better claim than she, he thought.
"It is so like Warry," she said. "It will be a beautiful memorial, and there is enough to do it very handsomely."
"He liked things to be done well," said John. He marveled that she could speak of it so quietly. Failure and grief possessed his eyes, and Evelyn was conscious of a deepening of the pathos she had always seen and felt in him, as he sat talking of his dead friend. She pitied him, and was obedient to his evident wish to talk of Warry.
John spoke of Warry's last photographs, and Evelyn went and brought a number which he had never seen. Several of them dated back to Warry's boyhood. They were odd and interesting—boyish pictures which the spectacles made appear preternaturally old. One of these, that John liked particularly, Evelyn asked him to take, and his face lighted with pleasure when she made it plain that she wished him to have it. She told of some of Warry's pranks in their childhood, and they laughed over them with guarded mirth.
"It was wonderful that so many kinds of people were fond of Warry," said Evelyn. "He never tried to please, and yet no man in town ever had so many friends."
"It's like genius, I suppose," said John. "It's something in people that wins admiration. No one can define it or explain it. I think, though," he added in a lower tone, "I know how it was in my own case. I had always wanted a friend like him to take me out of myself and help me; but a man like Warry had never come my way before; and if he had he would probably have been in a hurry."
He laughed and then was very grave. "But Warry always had time for me." At his last words he looked up at her and saw tears shining in her eyes.
"Oh, forgive me—forgive me!" he cried. "It must—I know it must hurt you to talk of him. But I couldn't help it. I thought you must understand what he meant to me. Dear old Warry!"
He held in his hand the little card photograph she had given him, and he rose and thrust it into his pocket.
"He was a charming, gentle spirit," said Evelyn. "It will mean a great deal to us that we knew him. You meant a great deal to him, Mr. Saxton. You helped him. It was—" She halted, confused, and had evidently intended to say more. The color suddenly mounted to her face. She did not offer him her hand which he had stepped forward to take, and he dropped his own, which he had half extended.
"Good night." Her eyes followed him to the hall.
On his way home—he still lived at the club—John reviewed, sentence by sentence, his talk with Evelyn. He had not expected her to speak so frankly of Warry; but, he told himself, it was like her. He touched the photograph she had given him, and held it up as he passed under an arc lamp to be sure of it. He was surprised that she had given it to him; he did not think a girl would give away a rare picture of a dead lover, which must have a peculiar sacredness for her. Then he was angry with himself for a thought that criticised her. She had given it to him because he was Warry's friend!
When he reached his room he put the photograph of Warry on his table and took another similar card from a drawer. It was the little picture of Evelyn which hehad often seen on Warry's dressing-table. It showed her standing by a tall chair; her hair hung in long braids. It was very girlish and quaint; but it was unmistakably Evelyn.
Warry in his will had directed that John should have such of his personal effects as he might choose; the remainder he was to destroy or sell. John chose a few of the books that Warry had liked best, and the picture. He put it down now beside the photograph of Warry. They bore the name of the same photographer, and had probably been taken in the same year. He lighted his pipe and tramped back and forth across the floor, occasionally stopping at his desk to look at the cards carefully. He had no right to Evelyn Porter's picture, he told himself. He was taking advantage of his dead friend's kindness to appropriate it. He would not destroy it; he would give it to some one—to Mrs. Whipple, to Evelyn herself! Yes, it should be to Evelyn; and having reached this conclusion, he put the two pictures away together and went to bed.
The next day he was called away unexpectedly to Colorado to close a sale of the Neponset Trust Company's interest in the irrigation company. The call came inopportunely, as the plans for the reorganization of the Traction Company were not yet perfected; but the matter was urgent, and Fenton told him to go. There was not time, he assured himself, to return the photograph before leaving, so he carried both the little cards away with him, with a half-formed intention of sending Evelyn's to her from Denver; but when he returned to Clarkson he still carried the photographs in his pocket.
"It is cruel of them to say it!"
Evelyn was at the Whipples'. It was a morning in May. Spring possessed the valley. The long vistas across the hills were closing as the leaves crept into the trees again. The windows were open, and the snowy curtains swayed to the wind. Lilacs again in the Whipples' dooryard bloomed, and the general's young cherry trees were white with blossoms. It was not well that any one should be heavy of heart on such a morning, but Evelyn Porter was not happy. She sat leaning forward with both hands resting on the ivory ball of her parasol. A querulous note crept into her voice. It is strange how the heartache to which the face never yields finds a ready prey in the voice.
"It is cruel of them to say it!"
"But it is natural too, dear," said Mrs. Whipple. "Many people must have wondered about you and Warry. If it will help any, I will confess that I wondered a good deal myself. Now you won't mind, will you? It seems hard, now that he has gone—but before—before, it was not unreasonable!"
"But the gossip! I don't care for myself, but it is cruel to him, to his memory, that this should be said.If it had been true; if—if we had been engaged, it would not be so wretched; but this—oh, it hurts me!" She lay back in her chair. Her eyes were over-bright; her words ended in a wail.
Mrs. Whipple felt that Evelyn's view of the matter was absurd. If the people of Clarkson were trying to read an element of romance into Warry Raridan's death, they were certainly working no injury to his memory. Such a view of the matter was fantastic. Evelyn did not know that another current story coupled her name with that of James Wheaton, who was spoken of in some quarters, and even guardedly in newspapers outside of Clarkson, as Raridan's rival for the affections of William Porter's daughter. Mrs. Whipple had shuddered hourly since the tragedy at Poindexter's when she remembered how much Wheaton had been about with Evelyn. He had been with her almost as much as Warry. Mrs. Whipple recalled the carnival of two years ago with shame. Her heart smote her as she watched the girl. It was a hideous thing that evil should have crept so near her life. Wheaton had been a strange species of reptile among them all.
"Poor dear! You must not take it so!" The silence had grown oppressive. It was incumbent upon her to comfort the girl if she could.
"It isn't a thing that you can help, child. There's no way of stopping gossip; and if they persist in saying such things, they will have to say them, that's all. If you wish—if it will help you any, I will refute it when I can—I mean among our friends only."
"Oh, no! That would make it worse. Please don't say anything!"
Mrs. Whipple did not accept solicitude for Warry's memory as a sufficient explanation of Evelyn's troubles; nor was it like Evelyn to complain of gossip about herself. The girl had naturally felt Warry's death deeply; she made no secret of her great fondness for him. But if Evelyn had really cared for Warry with more than a friendly regard, she would never have come to her in this way. She assumed this hypothesis as she made irrelevant talk with the girl. Then she thought of Wheaton; if Wheaton had been the one Evelyn had cared for—if Warry had been the friend and he the lover! She gave rein for a moment to this idea. Perhaps Evelyn followed the man now with sympathy—the thought was repulsive; she rejected it instantly with self-loathing for having harbored an idea that wronged Evelyn so miserably.
"What father feels is that his mistake in Wheaton argues a great weakness in himself," Evelyn was saying. She was more tranquil now. Mrs. Whipple noticed that she spoke Wheaton's name without hesitation; she had dropped the prefix of respect, as every one had. We have a way of eliminating it in speaking of men who are markedly good or bad.
"Father takes it very hard. He isn't naturally morbid, but he seems to feel as if he had been responsible—Grant being back of it all. But we didn't know those men were going out there—we knew nothing until it was all over!" The girl spoke as if she too felt the responsibility. "And he thinks he ought to have known about Wheaton—ought to have seen what kind of man he was!"
Evelyn's blue foulard was beyond criticism and itmatched her parasol perfectly; the girl had never been prettier. Mrs. Whipple inwardly apologized for having admitted the thought of Wheaton to her mind.
"We can all accuse ourselves in the same way. To think of it—that he has actually passed tea in this very room!" Her shrug of loathing was so real that Evelyn shuddered.
Then Mrs. Whipple laughed, so suddenly that it startled Evelyn.
"It's dreadful! horrible!" Mrs. Whipple continued, "to find that a person you have really looked upon with liking—perhaps with admiration—has been all along eaten with a moral leprosy. If it weren't for poor Warry we should be able to look upon it as a profitable experience. There aren't many like Wheaton. The bishop thinks we ought to be lenient in dealing with him—that he was not really so bad; that he was simply weak—that his weakness was a kind of disease of his moral nature. But I can't see it that way myself. The man ought not to go scot-free. He ought to be punished. But it's too intangible and subtle for the law to take hold of."
Evelyn had picked up her card-case. It was a pretty trifle of silver and leather; she tapped the handle of her parasol with it. Something had occurred to Mrs. Whipple when she laughed a moment before, and seeing that Evelyn was about to rise, she said casually:
"Mr. Saxton doesn't share the bishop's gentle charity toward Wheaton." She watched Evelyn as she applied the test. The girl did not raise her eyes at once. She bent over the parasol meditatively, still tapping the handle with the card-case.
"What does Mr. Saxton say?" Evelyn asked, dropping the trinket into her lap and looking at her friend vaguely, as people do who ask questions out of courtesy rather than from honest curiosity.
"Mr. Saxton says that Wheaton's a scoundrel—a damned scoundrel, to be literal. He told the general so, here, a few nights ago. He seemed very bitter. You know what close friends he and Warry were!"
"Yes; it was an ideal kind of friendship. They were devoted to each other," said Evelyn very earnestly; there was a little cry in her voice as she spoke. It was as though happiness, struggling against sorrow, had almost gained the mastery.
"It's fine to see that in men. I sometimes think that friendships among them have a quality that ours lack. I think Mr. Saxton is very lonely. I wasn't here when he called, but the general saw him. You know the general likes him particularly."
"Yes."
"You and he both knew and appreciated Warry."
Evelyn had grasped her parasol, and she took up the card-case again. Mrs. Whipple was half ashamed of herself; but she was also convinced. She took another step.
"Of course you see him; he must be reaching out to all Warry's friends in his loneliness."
Mrs. Whipple's powers of analysis were keen, but there were times when they failed her. She did not know that her question hurt Evelyn Porter; and she did not know that Evelyn had seen John Saxton but once since the day they all stood by Warry's grave.
Mrs. Whipple disapproved of herself as she followed Evelyn to the door. She had no business to pry into the girl's secrets in this way; the sweep of the foulard touched her, and she sought to placate her conscience by burying her new-found knowledge under less guilty information.
Evelyn spoke of the place which her father had bought at Orchard Lane, on the North Shore, and told Mrs. Whipple that she and the general were expected to spend a month there.
"You will be away all summer, I suppose. It's fine that your father has taken the course he has. He might have felt that he must stay at home closer than ever, to look after his interests."
"It's more for Grant than for himself," said Evelyn; "but he realizes too that he must take care of himself."
"That's a good deal gained for a Western business man. It's been a terrible year for you, dear,—your father's illness and these other things. You need rest."
She took the girl's cheeks in her hands and kissed her, and Evelyn went out into the spring afternoon and walked homeward over the sloping streets.
Mrs. Whipple pondered long after Evelyn left. Evelyn was not happy. She was not mourning a dead lover, nor one whose life was eclipsed in shame; but another man disturbed her peace, and Mrs. Whipple wondered why. She was still pondering when the general came in. He had been out to take the air, and after he had brought his syphon from the ice-box he was ready to talk.
"Evelyn has been here," said Mrs. Whipple. "Sheasked us to come to them for a visit. You know Mr. Porter has bought a place on the North Shore."
"It sounds like a miracle. Jim Wheaton didn't live in vain if he's responsible for that."
They debated their invitation, which Mrs. Whipple had already accepted, she explained, from a sense of duty to Evelyn. The general said he supposed he would have to go, with a show of reluctance that was wholly insincere and to which Mrs. Whipple gave no heed. They were asked for July. They discussed the old friends whom they would probably see while they were East, until the summer loomed pleasant before them, and then the talk came back to Evelyn.
"The child doesn't look well," said Mrs. Whipple.
"I shouldn't think she would, with all the row and rumpus they've been having in their family. Abductions and murders and abscondings at one's door are not conducive to light-heartedness."
"She's annoyed by all this gossip about her and Warry. She doesn't know that Wheaton is supposed to have taken more than a friendly interest in her."
"Well, I wouldn't tell her that, if I were you—if Wheaton didn't."
"Of course he didn't!"
"Well, he didn't then." The syphon hissed into the glass.
"Evelyn and Warry weren't engaged," said Mrs. Whipple. The general held up the glass and watched the gas bubbling to the top.
"It's just as well that way," he said. "It saves her a lot of heartache."
"That's what I think," said Mrs. Whipple promptly.In such conversations as this she usually combated the general's opinions. An exception to the rule was so noteworthy that he began to pay serious attention.