Exciting days came to Skinner Valley. Gold was discovered far up the creek. A man furnished with funds by Mark Hemenway, who long had expressed faith in the locality, had “struck it rich,” and the general superintendent awoke one day to find himself wealthy.
The effect of this awakening was as immediate as it was startling. His commanding tones took on an added imperiousness, his clothing a new flashiness, and his whole demeanor an importance likely to impress the most casual of beholders. His veiled attentions to Miss Barrington gave way to a devoted homage that was apparent to all men, and so thick was his armor of self-conceit that her daily snubs fell pointless at his feet.
Miss Barrington had never before spent so long a time at The Maples, and Mr. Hemenway’s sudden accession to wealth resulted, as far as she was concerned, in hasty preparations to leave. Her guests were already gone.
On the day before her intended departure she started off by herself to enjoy one more sunset from the clearing beyond the Deerfield woods, the place where she and Dorothy were overtaken by that memorable thunder-shower.
Mark Hemenway did not confine himself so strictly to business these days as had heretofore been his custom, and he was upstairs in his room when he spied Miss Barrington’s lithe figure disappearing in the grove that skirted the grounds on the west.
The general superintendent had lately invested in a tall silk hat, and it was this impressive bit of headgear that he donned as he left the house and followed, at a discreet distance, the form of the woman he meant to marry.
Since Hemenway had become rich this idea of marriage had strengthened wonderfully. In a certain coarse way the man was handsome, and the only class of women with which he had ever come in contact had readily welcomed his attentions. He had supposed the lack of money would be the only drawback in the eyes of this his latest love, and now that the lack no longer existed he was confident of success.
Miss Barrington followed the path very leisurely, picking a flower or a fern here and there, and softly humming a tune. Upon reaching the clearing she settled herself comfortably under her favorite tree and opened her book to read. It was then that Hemenway approached from the shadows of the path she had just left.
At the snapping of a dry twig Miss Barrington glanced up. Her first impulse was to laugh, so absurd did the checkered trousers, flaming watch-charm and silk hat look to her against the background of the cool green woods. But the laugh was killed at birth by an angry objection that the man should be there at all. Even then she supposed him to be merely passing by and that he might stop for a word or two.
“Ah, good afternoon, Miss Barrington. What a surprise to find you here,” fibbed Hemenway, advancing with easy confidence.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hemenway.” Miss Barrington moved her book suggestively and lowered her eyes.
“Charming view you have here!” said the man.
No reply.
“You have an interesting book there, Miss Barrington?”
“I don’t know—I’m trying to find out,” replied Miss Barrington, with calm but ineffectual rudeness.
“Um—delightful place to read! Nice day, too.”
No answer.
Mr. Hemenway looked down approvingly at the lowered lids of the girl’s eyes and, blinded by his vast conceit, mistook the flush of annoyance for the blush of maidenly shyness. “I never did like a girl to fling herself in my face,” he mused, coming a little nearer.
“Well,” he said aloud, “if you have no objections, Miss Barrington, I’ll just stop a bit with you and enjoy this breeze,” and he cast himself at her feet in careful imitation of the attitude he had seen the fussy man with glasses assume only the week before.
Miss Barrington was speechless with indignation. Her first instinct was to spring to her feet, but the paralysis of amazement that had struck her dumb had also rendered her, for the moment, incapable of motion. A sudden determination to “teach the man a lesson and stop once for all this insufferable persecution”—as her mind expressed it—followed, and she remained passively quiet.
There was an uncomfortable silence that to any man but Hemenway would have proved embarrassing.
“Er—I believe I haven’t told you,” he finally began, “how kind I thought it was of you to interest yourself as you have in the miners.”
“It is not necessary that you should,” said Ethel icily.
“Very becoming modesty!” thought Hemenway. Aloud he said: “Oh, no, not necessary, perhaps, but I want to do it. It is a pleasure to me.”
“It is not one to me.”
Hemenway frowned. There was such a thing as carrying this modesty too far.
“Your singing, too—it was delightful!” he continued smoothly. “And so kind of you to do it!”
Miss Barrington turned a leaf of her book with an unnecessary rustling of the paper.
“Feigning indifference,” commented Hemenway to himself. “I’ve seen ’em do that before.”
“You looked so tired that night after the funerals. I actually worried about you—you looked sick,” he said next, in what was meant for tender tones.
Miss Barrington’s eyes narrowed ominously as she replied:
“Mr. Hemenway, my actions and my looks can have no possible interest for you. I should be obliged if you would cease to consider them.”
To Hemenway’s perverted fancy this was but a bit of shy bait. He promptly took advantage of it.
“On the contrary, I have the very greatest interest, my dear Miss Barrington—the very warmest interest. I—I—Miss Barrington, as you may be aware, I am a rich man now.”
“That does not concern me in the least,” retorted Ethel sharply.
A strange expression came over Hemenway’s face. For the first time a doubt shook his egotistical content. His eyes grew hard. No maidenly shyness prompted that speech. Still—possibly she had not understood.
“Miss Barrington, it has long been in my mind to ask you to be my wife. I love you, and now I am rich I am confident I can make you——”
“Stop! I won’t even listen to you!” Miss Barrington was on her feet, her eyes blazing.
Hemenway rose and faced her. All his polish dropped like a mask, and the real man looked out from beneath angrily frowning brows.
“You won’t listen, my fine lady? And why not, pray? Ain’t I good enough to speak to you?”
“I hate you—I despise you—oh, I loathe the very sight of you!” shuddered Ethel, losing all control of herself. “Now will you leave me in peace—or must I say more before you quite understand me?”
Hate—despise—loathe; these words Hemenway knew. The delicate shafts of society sarcasm fell powerless against his shield of self-conceit, but these heavier darts struck home and reached a vital point—his pride. His face grew livid.
“Will you go?” repeated Ethel impatiently, not a quiver of fear in the scorn of her eyes—“or shall I?” she added.
“Neither one!” he retorted insolently.
For answer Ethel wheeled and took two steps toward the path. Hemenway was at her side in an instant with a clutch on her wrist that hurt her.
“Coward!” she cried. “Would you force me to scream for protection?”
“Do so, if you like—there’s not ahouse within earshot, and the inhabitants of this region are not given to walking for pleasure!” He released her wrist and stepped again in front of her.
The sharp throb of terror that paled Ethel’s cheek was followed by one of joy that sent the color back in surging waves—Hustler Joe’s shanty just behind those trees! It was after six—he must be there. If worst came to worst——!
“Mr. Hemenway, this is altogether too theatrical. I ask you again—will you let me pass?”
“If you think I am a man to be loathed and hated and despised with impunity, young lady, you are much mistaken. No, I won’t let you pass—you’ll listen to me. I want none of your airs!” he finished sourly.
Ethel’s head bent in a scornful bow.
“Very well, suppose we walk on, then,” she said. “I’m tired of standing.” And she turned about and began walking in the opposite direction from the path that led toward home.
Mark Hemenway was suspicious of this sudden acquiescence. He hurried to her side and looked sharply into her face.
“None of your tricks, young lady! I mean business,” he snarled. “If you ain’t willing to hear what I’ve got to say by fair means, you shall by foul!” he added, bringing a small revolver into view, then slipping it back into his pocket.
Ethel was thoroughly frightened. She thought Hemenway must be mad.
“I should think you had stepped out of a dime novel, Mr. Hemenway,” she began, trying to steady her shaking lips. “Nobody wins a bride at the point of a pistol nowadays!” The trees that hid Hustler Joe’s shanty from view were very near now.
“Then you needn’t treat me as if I was nothing but the dirt under your feet,” he muttered sullenly, already regretting his absurd threat of a moment before.
Ethel suddenly darted forward and around the edge of the trees, ran across the lawn and sprang up the steps of the shanty. Hemenway was close at her heels when she flung the door open with a bang and stood face to face with Hustler Joe.
“Will you please take me home?” she asked, trying to speak as though she considered it a customary thing to invade a man’s house and demand his escort in this unceremonious fashion. “Mr. Hemenway is—busy and cannot go,” she added, with a cheerful assurance due to the presence of the big-bodied miner at her side.
Hustler Joe instantly accepted the part she had given him to play.
“I shall be glad to be of any service,” he said respectfully, with ready tact, but with a sharp glance at Hemenway.
The general superintendent bowed to Miss Barrington with uplifted hat, then turned and walked away.
“Please do not ask me any questions,” said Miss Barrington hurriedly to Hustler Joe as they left the house. “You had better take me by the path through the woods—it is the nearer way, and will be less embarrassing than the main road would be for—both of us. I know you think my conduct extraordinary, but, believe me, I had good reason for asking your escort. You—you always seem to be around when I need someone!” she concluded, with an hysterical little laugh—the tension to which she had been keyed was beginning to tell on her.
“No apology is needed,” demurred the man gravely. “I think I understand.”
That walk was a strange one. The sun had set and the woods were full of shadows, and of sounds unheard in the daytime. Ethel was faint and nervous. The miner was silent. Once or twice Ethel spoke perfunctorily. His answers were civil but short. At the edge of the private grounds the girl paused.
“Thank you very much; I shall not forget your courtesy,” she said, hesitating a moment, then resolutely offering her hand.
It was not the finger-tips the mantouched this time—it was the hand from nail to wrist; and his clasp quite hurt her with its fierceness.
“Miss Barrington, you thought me a brute the other day when you spoke so kindly to me, and no wonder. I can only beg your pardon—your words cut deep. I am going to the mines tomorrow—the gold mines, I mean. I’m glad I had this chance to speak to you. You were wrong, Miss Barrington—I—I’m not the good man you think!” He dropped her hand and turned away.
“I—I don’t believe it!” she called softly, and fled, swift-footed, across the lawn.
Mark Hemenway did not appear at The Maples that night. A message from him received by Mr. Barrington in the evening said that he had been suddenly called away on business connected with his gold mine; that he would return soon, however, and would like immediately to make arrangements whereby he could sever his connection with the Candria Mining Company, as his new interests needed all his attention.
“Humph!” commented Mr. Barrington. “I never saw a little money make such a dam fool of a man as it has of Hemenway!”
Ethel’s lips parted, then closed with sudden determination. Twelve hours later she left for Dalton without mentioning to her father her experience of the day before, and within a week she had sailed from New York on a steamer bound for Liverpool.
The discovery of gold had made all the miners at Skinner Valley restless, and Hustler Joe was among the first to take his wages and start for the promised bonanza.
Hustler Joe of the coal mines was still “Hustler Joe” of the gold mines. The same ceaseless, untiring energy spurred the man on to constant labor. The claim he staked out proved to be the richest in the place and wealth sought him out and knocked at his cabin door.
Strange to say, Hustler Joe was surprised. He had come to the mines simply because they promised excitement and change. He had thought, too, that possibly they harbored the peace and forgetfulness for which he so longed.
But peace had fled at his approach and wealth had come unasked. Man-like, he regarded the unsought with indifference and gazed only at the unattainable; whereupon wealth rustled her golden garments to charm his ears and flashed her bright beauty to dazzle his eyes. Still failing to win his heart, she whispered that she—even she—was peace in disguise, and that he had but to embrace her to find what he sought.
It was then that Hustler Joe yielded. In a year he had sold half his claim for a fabulous sum. The other half he retained, and leaving it to be developed under the charge of expert engineers, he left for Skinner Valley.
Hustler Joe had never forgotten the little hunchback pedler, nor the debt of gratitude he owed him. Many a time in the old days at the coal mines he had tried to pay this debt, but always, in his own estimation, he had failed. So it was of Pedler Jim that he first thought when this new power of wealth came into his hands.
The news of Hustler Joe’s good luck had not reached Skinner Valley, and the man was in the same rough miner’s garb when he pushed open the familiar door of the “Emporium” in search of Pedler Jim.
“Well, if it ain’t Hustler Joe!” exclaimed the hunchback delightedly. “You’re a sight good fur sore eyes. Come back ter stay?”
“Well, awhile, maybe. How’s the world using you these days, Jim?”
“Oh, fair—fair; ’tain’t quite ’s good as I’d like—but I ain’t complainin’.”
“I wonder if anything would make you complain—I never heard you,” remarked Joe, helping himself to a seat on the counter.
“Well, now that ye mention it, mebbe I don’t much—I hain’t no need to. My appetite’s good an’ my conscience is clear; an’ a clear conscience is——”
“Jim,” interrupted the miner sharply, “did you ever hear of Aladdin and his lamp?”
“Huh? Oh, the feller that rubbed it an’ got what he wanted?”
“That’s the chap.”
“Well—s’posin’ I have?”
“Oh, I only wondered what you’d ask for if you had one to rub.”
“Gorry—I wish’t I had!”
“Well, what would you?” persisted Joe, his face alight.
“What would I? Well, I’ll tell ye. I’d buy the big house on the hill——”
“What—Barrington’s?” interrupted Joe.
“Gee whiz, no! I mean the empty one that Rotalick lived in; an’ I’d make it over into a hospital, an’ I’d add to it as I was able.”
“A hospital? Why, there is one.”
“Yes, I know—the company’s; but the boys always have ter quit there long ’fore they’re able. They can’t work, an’ if they laze ’round home it takes furever to git well—what with the noise an’ the children an’ all. They crawl down here to the store, an’ my heart jest aches fur ’em, they’re so peaked-lookin’. I’d have it all fixed up with trees an’ posies an’ places ter set, ye know, where they could take some comfort while they was gittin’ well.”
A moisture came into Joe’s eyes.
“But how about yourself?” he asked. “You haven’t rubbed out anything for yourself, Jim.”
“Fur me? Gorry—if I jest had that lamp, you’d see me rubbin’ out somethin’ fur me, all right. I’ve been wantin’ ter send home a box ter the old folks—’way back in Maine, ye know. Jiminy Christmas, man, there’d be no end ter the black silk dresses and gold-headed canes an’ fixin’s an’ fur-belows that I’d rub out an’ send to ’em!”
Hustler Joe laughed; then something came into his throat and choked the laugh back.
“But all this isn’t for you, Jim,” he remonstrated.
“Huh? Not fur me? Fur heaven’s sake, man, who is it fur, then?”
The miner laughed again and slid off the counter.
“You’ve got quite a store, Jim. Ever wish you had more room?” he asked abruptly.
Pedler Jim not only nibbled at the bait, but swallowed it.
“Well, ye see, I’m goin’ ter have the place next door when I git money enough and then I’ll jine ’em together. That’ll be somethin’ worth while,” he continued.
Hustler Joe easily kept him talking on this fascinating theme a full ten minutes, then he prepared to take his leave.
“Let’s see,” he mused aloud, “you came from Maine, you say. About where—the town, I mean?”
Jim named it.
“You say the old folks are living there yet?”
Jim nodded.
“Name is Powers, I suppose, same as yours; maybe you were named for your father, eh?”
“No; father’s name was Ebenezer, an’ mother objected—so it’s ‘Jim’ I am. Why? Goin’ ter dig up my family tree by the roots?” asked the little man whimsically.
“Not a bit of it!” laughed the miner, looking strangely embarrassed as he hurried out the door.
“Monte Cristo” had been Hustler Joe’s favorite tale in his boyhood days. He thought of it now, as he left the “Emporium,” and the thought brought a smile to his lips.
A few days later Pedler Jim was dumfounded to receive a call from a Westmont lawyer.
“Well, my friend,” the man began, “I have a few little documents here that demand your attention.”
Pedler Jim eyed the formidable-looking papers with some apprehension.
“Now see here, sir,” he demurred, “my conscience is perfectly clear. I don’t want nothin’ to do with sech devilish-lookin’ things as that!”—hiseyes on the big red seal. “I hain’t never harmed no one—’tain’t an arres’, is it?” he added, his voice suddenly failing him.
“Well, hardly!” returned the lawyer, chuckling to himself. “This, my friend, is the deed, filled out in your name, to the Rotalick property on the hill back here; and this,” he continued, taking up another paper and paying no attention to the little hunchback, who had dropped in limp stupefaction on to a packing-box, “this is the deed—also made out in your name—to the building adjoining this store on the south. Mr. Balch, the present occupant, has a lease which expires in two months. After that the property is at your disposal.”
“But where in thunder did I git it?” demanded Pedler Jim.
“That is not my business, sir,” said the lawyer, with a bow.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” murmured the hunchback, gingerly picking up one of the deeds and peering at it.
Pedler Jim was still further astounded to find that to his tiny bank account had been added a sum so large that he scarcely believed his eyes. It was entered under the name “Hospital Fund.”
Following close upon all this came a letter from the folks at home:
Dear Jimmie: What a good, good son we have, and how can we ever thank you! (“Dear Jimmie” looked blank.) The black silk, so soft and rich, will make up into such a beautiful gown—much too fine for your old mother, Jimmie, but I shall be proud of it. Father is already quite puffed up with his lovely gold-topped cane. Nellie and Mary and Tom and John have divided up the pretty ribbons and books and sweetmeats to suit themselves, as long as you didn’t single them out by name. (“No—I’m blest if I did!” murmured Jim.) We were proud and pleased to get the box, Jimmie, both because the things were so beautiful and because you thought to send them. (“I’ll be hanged if I did!” muttered the hunchback, scratching his head in his perplexity.) Why don’t you come on East and see us, dear? We wish you would.
Then followed bits of neighborhood gossip and family news, ending with another burst of thanks which left Pedler Jim helpless with bewilderment.
It was that night that Somers was talking in the store.
“Yes, he’s rich—rich as mud, they say, an’ I ain’t sorry, neither. There ain’t anyone I know that I’d as soon would have a streak o’ luck as Hustler Joe.”
Pedler Jim was across the room, but he heard.
“Rich! Hustler Joe rich!” he demanded, springing to his feet.
“That’s what he is!”
“Jiminy Christmas!” shouted the hunchback. “I’ve found him—he was the lamp himself!”
It was in Dalton, the nearest large city to Skinner Valley, that Hustler Joe began his career as a rich man.
He built him a house—a house so rare and costly that people came from miles around to stare and wonder. Society not only opened its doors to him, but reached out persuasive hands and displayed its most alluring charms. She demanded but one thing—a new name: “Hustler Joe” could scarcely be tolerated in the aristocratic drawing-rooms of the inner circle! He gave her “Westbrook,” and thenceforth “Mr. Joseph Westbrook” was a power in the city.
He was petted by maneuvering mamas, flattered by doting papas, and beamed upon by aspiring daughters; yet the firm lips seldom relaxed in a smile, and his groom told of long night rides when the master would come home in the gray of the morning with his horse covered with mud and foam. But society cared not. Society loves a Mystery—if the Mystery be rich.
When Joseph Westbrook’s mansion was finished and furnished from cellar to garret and placed in the hands of a dignified, black-robed housekeeper at the head of a corps of servants, and when his stables were filled with thoroughbreds and equipped with all things needful, from a gold-tipped whip to a liveried coachman, Mr. Joseph Westbrook himself was as restless and illat ease as Hustler Joe had been in the renovated shanty on the hillside.
The balls and the dinners—invitations to which poured in upon him—he attended in much the same spirit that Hustler Joe had displayed in loitering in Pedler Jim’s “Emporium”—anywhere to get rid of himself. But if the inner man was the same, the outer certainly was not; and the well-groomed gentleman of leisure bore little resemblance to the miner of a year before.
On the night of the Charity Ball Westbrook had been almost rude in his evasion of various unwelcome advances, and he now stood in the solitude for which he had striven, watching the dancers with sombre eyes. Suddenly his face lighted up; but the flame that leaped to his eyes was instantly quenched by the look of indifference he threw into his countenance. Coming toward him was Ethel Barrington, leaning on the arm of her father.
“Mr. Westbrook,” said the old gentleman genially, “my little girl says she is sure she has seen your face somewhere, so I have brought her over to renew old acquaintance.”
Someone spoke to John Barrington then, and he turned aside, while Westbrook found himself once more clasping a slim firm hand, and looking into a well-remembered pair of blue eyes.
“You are——?”
“Hustler Joe,” he supplied quietly, his eyes never leaving her face.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed, her pleasure frankly shown. “I never could forget your face,” she added impulsively, then colored in confusion as she realized the force of her words.
But his tactful reply put her immediately at ease and they were soon chatting merrily together, closely watched by many curious eyes. Society never had seen Mr. Joseph Westbrook in just this mood before.
“Father did not recognize you,” said Ethel, after a time.
“No; I was introduced to Mr. Barrington at the Essex Club a week ago. I hardly thought he would remember Hustler Joe. You have just returned, Miss Barrington?”
“A month ago—from Europe, I mean; mother is there yet. America looks wonderfully good to me—I have been away from it the greater part of the last two years, you know. When I came home to Dalton I found the name of Mr. Joseph Westbrook on every lip. You seem to be a very important personage, sir,” she laughed.
“A little gilding goes a long way, sometimes,” he replied, with a bitter smile.
“But there must have been something to gild!” she challenged. “Mr. Westbrook, for the last two weeks I have been at The Maples—have you been down to Skinner Valley lately?” she asked, with peculiar abruptness.
“Not for some months.”
“There are some changes in the village.”
“Yes?”
“That poor little deformed storekeeper has bought the Rotalick house and has turned it into the dearest little convalescents’ home imaginable.”
“Is that so?” murmured Westbrook, meeting Miss Barrington’s gaze with a face that was innocently noncommittal. “Pedler Jim always was kind to the boys.”
“So it would seem; still—someone must have helped him in this,” she suggested, her eyes on his again.
“Do you think so? Possibly! I am wondering, Miss Barrington, if we might not find it cooler over there by the window. Will you allow me to escort you?”
“Perhaps we might,” she smilingly assented. “Perhaps we could find some subject of conversation other than Hustler Joe’s generosity to Pedler Jim, too—we might try!” She threw him a merry glance, which he answered with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Indeed, Miss Barrington, you quite overestimate anything I may have had to do in the matter. It was entirely Pedler Jim’s idea. How about the reading-room?” he suddenly asked, mentioning Miss Barrington’s latest gift to the miners, “and the kindergarten class, and the——”
“Ah—please!” interrupted the girl,with hand upraised in laughing protest. “I acknowledge myself vanquished at my own game. I’ll talk about—the weather, now, if you like,” she finished dutifully.
Westbrook laughed, but before he could reply Miss Barrington was claimed by a tall young fellow for the next dance.
“I wonder,” he mused as he saw them glide gracefully into the waltz—“I wonder if dancing belongs to those things one never forgets. I’ll have to brush up my old steps—and learn some new ones,” he added, after a pause.
From the night of the Charity Ball the world appeared in new colors for Westbrook. He did not stop to question the cause of all this change. If wealth were lifting her disguise and showing a glimpse of peace, he was too rejoiced to care to ask the reason.
“I wish you’d come up to the house some time,” said John Barrington to Westbrook one evening soon after the Charity Ball. “I’d like to talk with you—we can’t make any headway in this infernal racket!”—the “infernal racket” in question being the high C’s and low G’s of some world-famous singers at a particularly exclusive musical.
Westbrook smiled.
“Thank you; I should be only too happy.”
“Then call it tomorrow night—to dinner. Seven o’clock.”
“I will—and thank you,” said Westbrook after a momentary hesitation.
To his daughter John Barrington said a little later:
“Oh, I’ve invited Mr. Westbrook up to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Mr. Westbrook!”
“Why, yes—why not? You seem surprised.”
“Gilding does count, doesn’t it, father dear?”
“Eh? Gilding? My dear, I don’t know what you mean. I know he’s rich as mud—if that’s what you’re talking about; but he’s got more than money—he’s got brains. He knows as much about mines as I do! I like him—he’s worth a dozen of the youths that usually flutter about you.”
“Perhaps he is,” laughed Ethel, the color in her cheeks deepening.
That was but the first of many visits. Barrington was urgent, Ethel charmingly cordial—and Westbrook, nothing loth.
“I’m in search of a good lawyer,” said Westbrook to John Barrington one day. “Can you recommend one to me?”
“Indeed I can. I have in mind the very man—he’s been doing a little work for me, and he is very highly spoken of.”
“That sounds about O. K. Who is he?”
“That’s just the point,” laughed the older man; “the name’s escaped me. He’s from the East—hasn’t been here very long. I’ll tell you what—I’ll bring him into your office tomorrow. Will that do?”
“It will—and thank you.”
Westbrook’s “office” was something new. A life of leisure was becoming wearisome; consequently he invested in various bits of real estate, opened an office, put a man in charge, and of late had himself tended strictly to business, such time as he could spare from his social engagements.
It was into this office that Mr. Barrington came one morning accompanied by a short, smooth-faced man whose garments were irreproachable in style and cut.
“Ah, Westbrook,” began Barrington, “let me introduce Mr. Martin, of Martin & Gray, the lawyer of whom I was telling you yesterday.”
Again the room and all it contained—save the figure of Martin himself—faded from Westbrook’s sight, and he saw the New England street with the lawyer’s sign in the foreground. The next moment the vision was gone, and he had extended a cordial hand.
“I’m very glad to meet Mr. Martin,”he said, looking the lawyer straight in the eye.
“Mr. Westbrook—delighted, I’m sure,” murmured the little man suavely; then, in a puzzled tone, “have I had the honor of meeting you before, Mr. Westbrook? There is something familiar about you.”
“Is there?” began Westbrook, but John Barrington interrupted.
“There, Martin, you’ve hit my case exactly! He’s puzzled me a thousand times with a little turn or twist that’s like someone I’ve seen. Dash it—who is it?”
“My features must be cast in a common mold,” laughed Westbrook, “to remind so many of one they know.”
“Um—ah—well—I shouldn’t want to say quite that!” retorted Barrington. “Well, gentlemen,” he resumed after a pause, “I’ll leave you to your own devices. I’m off—good morning.”
“Good morning, and thank you,” replied Westbrook, rising. “I’ve no doubt Mr. Martin will prove a credit to your introduction,” he concluded as he bowed the elder gentleman out. Then he turned to the lawyer and began the business at hand.
In his own room that night Westbrook carried a small mirror close to the light and scrutinized himself for some minutes.
“H’m,” he mused, “hair rather gray for a man not yet thirty; still—it looks less like that of a youth of twenty.”
He stroked his carefully trimmed beard meditatively.
“Hides the telltale mouth and chin pretty well,” he murmured. “Mr. Joseph Westbrook can stay where he is for the present, I think.”
The next evening Westbrook called at the Barringtons’. He found Ethel and Mr. Martin at the piano singing a duet which they continued at his solicitation. Then the two musicians drifted into a discussion of Martin’s favorite composer, which was like a foreign language to Westbrook.
After a half-hour of this the lawyer took his leave. Westbrook drew a long breath, but it was caught and stifled in half completion by Miss Barrington’s first remark.
“What a fine voice he has!”
“Er—yes, very.”
“And his knowledge of musical matters is most unusual, too.”
“That so?”
“Yes. He says he wanted to make music his profession, but his parents objected; so he took up law.”
“Indeed,” murmured Westbrook without enthusiasm.
“Yes, but he talks of musicians as glibly as though he had read Grove as much as Blackstone. I haven’t had so good a time discussing my pet composers for many a day.”
Westbrook stirred restlessly, and his hostess suddenly became aware of the hopelessly lost look in his eyes. She promptly changed the subject.
It was the very next day that Mr. Joseph Westbrook appeared in the leading book-store of the city.
“I want some lives of musicians,” he announced.
“I beg pardon?”
“Books, I mean—lives of musicians.”
“Oh, certainly, of course,” apologized the clerk. “Which ones?”
“Why—er—the best ones, to be sure.” Westbrook’s voice faltered at first, but it vibrated with the courage of his convictions at the last.
The clerk suddenly turned his back, and when Westbrook next saw his face it was an apoplectic shade of reddish purple.
“Certainly, sir. Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn, Mozart, Chopin——”
“Yes, yes, put me up one of each,” interrupted Westbrook hastily; he was growing suspicious of the clerk. He left the store with more dignity than he usually displayed.
The real estate business would have suffered in the next few days had it depended entirely upon Westbrook, for the greater share of his time was spent in poring over the recent addition to his library. At the end of a month hewas sadly entangled in a bewildering maze of fugues, sonatas, concertos and symphonies, in which the names of Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Handel, Mendelssohn, Mozart and Chopin were hopelessly lost.
Westbrook often met the lawyer at the Barringtons’ after that first visit. Martin’s music and Martin’s voice seemed to be unfailing attractions in the eyes of Miss Barrington. Westbrook studied his “lives” assiduously, but only once did he venture to take any part in the discussions of composers which were so frequent between Miss Barrington and the lawyer. That once was sufficient to show him how hopeless was the task he had set for himself; and ever after he kept a discreet silence on the subject of music and all that pertained thereto.
As the winter passed, Westbrook was seen more and more frequently in the company of Miss Barrington. His eye had lost its gloom and his step had gained a new springiness. Just why, Westbrook did not stop to consider. Indeed, the considering of anything was what the man most wished to avoid.
It was on a beautiful morning in May that he asked Miss Barrington to drive with him. The air that brushed his cheek was laden with the fragrance of green-growing things, and the girl at his side had never seemed so altogether lovely. He let the reins loosen in his hands as he settled back for an hour of unalloyed enjoyment.
“I am particularly glad to take this drive today,” remarked Miss Barrington, smiling into his eyes, “for, as I go away tomorrow, I may not have another opportunity of enjoying one at present.”
“What?” demanded Westbrook, suddenly sitting upright.
“I merely said I was going away tomorrow,” she returned merrily, picking out with intuitive skill that portion of her remark which had so startled him. Then something in his face made her add—“for the summer, you know.”
Westbrook pulled the reins taut and snapped the whip sharply. Going away! Of course; why not? What of it? Yes, what of it, indeed! Long days fraught with sudden emptiness loomed up before him and stretched on into weeks devoid of charm. He understood it all now—and he a felon! He could hear a girl’s voice saying, “I knew you were a good man the minute I saw your face!” Unconsciously he shrank into the corner of the carriage, and was only brought to a realization of his action by a voice—amused, yet slightly piqued—saying:
“Really, Mr. Westbrook, I hardly expected so simple a statement would render you speechless!”
“Speechless? No, oh, no—certainly not! I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” he said, talking very fast. “You’re going away, you tell me. It is needless to assure you that we shall all miss you very much. Where do you go, if I may ask—and how long are you to remain?” And he turned to her with eyes so full of misery that she could scarcely believe she had heard his words aright.
Before she could answer there came the wild, irregular clattering of unguided horses’ feet. Westbrook turned quickly to see two frightened animals rushing toward them dragging a swaying empty carriage. By a swift and skilful turn he just escaped the collision, but Ethel Barrington felt the hot breath of the beasts as they flew past. In another moment their own startled horse had dashed after the runaways with speed scarcely less than their own.
Westbrook brought all his great strength to bear, then—the right rein snapped. The horse swerved sharply, throwing the man to his knees. The next moment he was crawling cautiously, but rapidly, over the dashboard on to the thill, then to the back of the frightened animal, where he could grasp the dangling broken reins. One strong pull, and the horse stopped so suddenly that the man shot overher head to the ground; but he did not relax his hold, and the trembling animal stood conquered.
Westbrook turned to look into the shining eyes of the girl, who had leaped from the carriage and come close to his side.
“Oh, that was wonderful! But—my God! I thought you’d be killed,” she cried, holding out two trembling hands, then sinking to the ground and sobbing out her nervousness and relief.
The man looked down at her with yearningly tender eyes. Involuntarily he extended his hand as though to caress the bowed head; but he drew back shuddering—that hand had forfeited all right to such a touch. The look in her eyes had thrilled him to his finger-tips, but it as quickly stabbed him with the revelation that not he alone would suffer.
“Miss Barrington, don’t, I beg of you,” he said finally, in a voice that was stem with self-control. “You are completely unnerved—and no wonder.” Then he continued more gently, “But see—Firefly is quiet now. Will you dare to drive home behind her if I can manage somehow to mend the reins?”
A vivid color flamed into the girl’s cheeks and she rose unsteadily to her feet.
“Yes, indeed,” she asserted, forcing her trembling lips to speak firmly. “I am ashamed of myself. I hope you will pay no attention to my babyishness, Mr. Westbrook.”
“You were not babyish, Miss Barrington,” objected Westbrook gravely; “on the contrary you were very brave.” But as he helped her into the carriage he averted his eyes and refused to meet her questioning gaze.
All the way home Ethel Barrington talked with a nervous volubility quite unlike herself. Westbrook made an effort to meet her brilliant sallies with something like an adequate return, but after two or three dismal failures he gave it up and lapsed into a gloomy silence broken only by an occasional short reply.
“I expect my friends will come this evening to say good-bye—I shall see you, shall I not?” she asked gaily as she gave him her hand in alighting at her own door.
Before Westbrook fully realized what the question was, he had murmured, “Yes, certainly”; but when he drove away he was muttering, “Fool, what possible good can it be to you now? Just suppose she knew you for what you are?”
Ethel entered her door and slowly climbed the stairs to her room.
“He cares; I know he does!” she exclaimed under her breath. “But why—why couldn’t he—?” Then the conscious red, that was yet half in pique, flamed into her cheeks and she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
When Westbrook called that night she gave him a gracious hand and looked frankly into his eyes with the inward determination to “have no more nonsense”; but her eyelids quickly fell before his level gaze and she felt the telltale color burning in her cheeks. She was relieved when her father broke the awkward silence.
“Well, Westbrook, we shall miss you—we’ve got so we depend upon seeing you about once in so often. We shall be in Skinner Valley in August. You must plan to run down to The Maples then and make us a visit. I should like to show you the mines.”
“Thank you,” replied Westbrook, glancing toward the door and, for the first time in his life, welcoming the appearance of Martin.
Martin advanced, smilingly sure of his welcome, nor did he notice that Miss Barrington’s greeting was a shade less cordial than usual. His coming was the signal for an adjournment to the music-room, and there Westbrook sat with clouded eyes and unheeding ears while the air about him rang with melody. After a time he was conscious that the music had stopped and that Ethel was speaking.
“I think I never heard of anything so horrible!” she said.
From Martin’s next words Westbrook gathered that they were talkingof a particularly atrocious murder that had been committed in the city the night before. Then the girl spoke again, her voice vibrating with feeling.
“Oh, but Mr. Martin—only think of a human being fiendish enough to attack his own son!”
Westbrook tried to rouse himself, to speak, to move; but he seemed bound by invisible cords. His head was turned away from the speakers, but he saw their reflection in the mirror facing him, and he noticed that the lawyer’s gaze was fixed across the room upon himself with a peculiar intentness as he said:
“Yes, incredible, I grant, Miss Barrington; and yet, in a little New England town of my acquaintance a boy of twenty shot down his own father in cold blood at their own fireside.”
“Oh, don’t, Mr. Martin—the human fiend!” shuddered Ethel.
The lawyer’s eyes did not waver; a strange light was coming into them.
“A human fiend, indeed,” he repeated softly, half rising from his chair.
Something seemed to snap in Westbrook’s brain, and he forced himself to his feet.
“Your music set me to day-dreaming,” he began, with a smile as he crossed the room, “and your creepy murder stories awoke me to a realization that the sweet sounds had stopped. Come”—he looked straight into Martin’s eyes—“some time you may tell me more of this gruesome tale—I am interested in studies of human nature. No doubt you meet with many strange experiences in your business; but now I want you to sing ‘Calvary’ for me. Will you, please? Then I must go.”
Martin rose to his feet with a puzzled frown on his face and picked up a sheet of music from the piano.
“Thank you,” said Westbrook, when the song was finished. Then he turned to Ethel with extended hand. “I hope you will have a pleasant summer,” he said in stilted politeness.
“You are very kind. Shall I wish you the same?”
Her voice and her fingers were icy. Her pride was touched, and she expressed no hope as to their future meeting, and certainly Westbrook dared not. He left the house with a heart that was bitterly rebellious, and the blackness outside seemed to him symbolical of his own despair.
That night, and for long nights afterward, he rode over the hills outside the city. Little by little his life dropped back into the old rut. All the new warmth and brightness faded with the going of Miss Barrington, and he threw himself into business with a zeal that quickly brought “Westbrook & Company” into the front rank and filled his purse with yet greater wealth—wealth which he had come to hate, and for which he had no use.
One morning, long after sunrise, Westbrook entered the outskirts of the city and allowed his tired beast to slow to a walk. In one of the poorest streets of the tenement district he saw a white-faced woman, a group of half a dozen puny children and a forlorn heap of clothing and furniture. He was off his horse in a moment, and a few kindly questions brought out the information that they had been evicted for arrears in rent amounting to thirty dollars because the woman had been too ill to work. He straightway paid the sleek little agent not only the amount due, but also a year’s rent in advance and rode away, followed by a volley of thanks and blessings from the woman. He did not know that Martin was the landlord and that he came out of the tenement in time to hear the details of the incident fresh from his agent.
As Westbrook turned the corner of the dingy street a curious elation took possession of him. How the sun shone—how exhilarating the air was! How his heart beat in tune with it all! What was this new joy that seemed almost to choke and suffocate him? Was this the shadow of peace at last?
He threw the reins to the groom with so beaming a smile that the manscratched his head meditatively for a full half-minute.
“Faith, an’ what’s got into the master?” he muttered as he led the horse to the stable.
In the days that followed society was treated to a new sensation—the Mystery turned into a Philanthropist. A school, a library and a hospital were under way in a wonderfully short time. Did Westbrook hear of anyone wanting anything—from a toy to a piano or a dinner to an education—he promptly bought and presented it. The result was disastrous. There came a constant stream of beggars to his door, varying from those in rags asking a nickel to bank presidents demanding a million—for “investment,” of course; furthermore, he was obliged to hire two private secretaries to attend to his mail.
In August came a cordial note from Mr. Barrington inviting him to The Maples for a two weeks’ visit. The stiffly worded refusal which Westbrook despatched by return mail threw John Barrington into a state of puzzled dissatisfaction, and John Barrington’s daughter into a feeling of unreasoning anger against the world in general and Joseph Westbrook in particular. The anger was not less when, two months later, Westbrook called on the Barringtons just four weeks after they had come up to their town residence in Dalton.
It was not a pleasant call. Westbrook was stilted, Mr. Barrington plainly ill at ease, and Ethel the personification of chill politeness; yet she became cordiality itself when Martin appeared a little later. She chatted and laughed with the lawyer and sent merry shafts of wit across the room to Westbrook and her father. But when Westbrook had gone she lapsed into bored indifference and monosyllables.
Mr. Barrington was called from the room after a time, leaving his daughter and Martin alone. The lawyer broached subject after subject with unvarying ill success, even music itself failing to awaken more than a passing interest. At last he said abruptly:
“Queer chap—that Westbrook!”
“Queer? Why?” almost snapped Miss Barrington.
Martin raised his eyebrows.
“How can you ask?” he returned. “You’ve seen him—you know him!”
Miss Barrington gave the lawyer a swift glance. Just what did he mean? Had he noticed the change in Westbrook’s manner—his indifference—his coldness? Did he think that she——?
Miss Barrington laughed softly.
“Indeed, yes, Mr. Martin, I do know him—slightly, perhaps; but ‘queer’ is not the adjective I would have applied to him.”
The lawyer leaned forward.
“Miss Barrington,whatdo you know of him? Did it ever occur to you how very little any of us know of this man?”
The lady stirred uneasily.
“Really, Mr. Martin, I know him for a gentleman, as you do—I might also add that he is quite a noted philanthropist, of late,” she added teasingly.
“‘Philanthropist!’” scorned the lawyer.
Miss Barrington’s manner instantly changed.
“Mr. Westbrook is doing a world of good with his money; I admire him for it,” she said with decision.
“Oh, of course,” returned the man smoothly. “Still, I wonder why—this sudden generosity!”
“Sudden? It’s a long time since I first heard of Mr. Westbrook’s good deeds, Mr. Martin,” replied Miss Barrington, a vision of Pedler Jim and his hospital rising before her eyes.
“H’m-m,” murmured the lawyer, his level gaze on her face, “you knew him before, perhaps—this man they—er—call ‘Westbrook.’”
The lady sprang to her feet and crossed the room to the piano.
“Oh, fie, Mr. Lawyer!” she laughed nervously. “I’m no poor victim on the witness stand. Come—let’s try this duet.”
The man followed her and leaned his elbow on the piano, but he did not pick up the music nor take his eyes from her face.
“You have known him before, then—underhis other name, of course,” he hazarded.
A swift red came into Ethel’s cheeks.
“Perhaps—perhaps not! I really do not care to discuss it.” And she wheeled around upon the piano-stool and dashed into the prelude of the duet.
Martin waited until her hands glided into the soft ripple of the accompaniment.
“Then you, of all people, Miss Barrington,” he began again, “should know that this philanthropic mummery is nothing but a salve for his conscience. Admirable, I’m sure!”
The music stopped with a crash.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “I don’t know what you are talking about, with your miserable innuendoes.”
Martin’s face paled.
“Innuendoes!” he burst out, losing his temper; “then I’ll speak plainly, since you demand it! Since when, Miss Barrington, have you made a practice of shielding—murderers?”
He regretted the word the instant it had left his lips, but he forced himself to meet Miss Barrington’s horrified gaze unflinchingly.
“Murderer!” she gasped. “Hustler Joe was no murderer!”
At that moment Mr. Barrington re-entered the room and Martin turned to him in relief. Five minutes later he had made his adieus and left the house.
Murderer!
Ethel fled to her room and locked the door, but the word laughed at bolts and bars. It looked from the walls and the pictures and peeped at her from the pages of the book she tried to read. She opened the window and gazed up at the stars, but they, too, knew the hated word and spelled it out in twinkling points of light.
Murderer?
Ah, no, it could not be—and yet——
Away back in Ethel’s memory was a picture of the Deerfield woods that skirted the lawn at The Maples. She saw the tall, grave-faced miner and the imperious girl, and even now the words rang in her ears—“I’m not the good man you think, Miss Barrington!” Half-forgotten tales of “Hustler Joe’s queerness” came to her, too, and assumed an appearance of evil.
And was this to be the explanation of that ride—that ride on which she had almost betrayed herself only to be met by stern words of conventionality? Was this the meaning of the infrequent calls, the averted face, the eyes so misery-laden if by chance they met her own?
A murderer?
Ah, no, no! He was so good—so kind—so brave! There were Pedler Jim, the miners whose lives he had saved, and the multitudes of the city’s poor to give the lie to so base a charge; and yet—Martin had said that these very benefactions were but a lullaby to a guilty conscience.
The night brought Ethel no relief. The dark was peopled with horrid shapes; and sleep, when it came, was dream-haunted and unrefreshing. In the morning, weary and heavy-eyed, she awoke to a day of restless wandering from room to room. Twenty-four hours later her trunk was packed and she was on her way to The Maples.
It was at about this time that Westbrook’s philanthropy took a new turn. He began to spend long hours in the city prison while society looked on and shrugged disdainful shoulders. The striped-garbed creatures behind the bars seemed to possess a peculiar fascination for him. He haunted their habitation daily, yet he never failed to shudder at every clang of the iron doors.
Particularly was he kind to those outcasts from human sympathy—the murderers. So far did he carry this branch of his charity that the authorities ventured to remonstrate with the great man one day, telling him that he was putting a premium on the horrible crime. They never forgot the look that came over the beneficent Mr.Joseph Westbrook’s face as he turned and walked away.
It was on that night that the servants said he sat up until morning in his library, raging around the room like some mad creature, so that they were all afraid, and one came and listened at the door. There he heard his master cry out:
“My God—is it not enough? Is there no atonement—no peace?” Then there was a long, quivering sigh, and a noise as of a clinched hand striking the desk, and a low muttered, “Oh, the pitiless God of Justice!”
In the morning Westbrook left the house before breakfast and boarded the eight o’clock train for Skinner Valley.
Westbrook had gone back to Skinner Valley for a talk with Pedler Joe, having it in his mind to tell the little hunchback his life story as that of a friend of his and so get the benefit of sound advice without quite betraying his secret. But the door opened suddenly and Bill Somers burst into the store.
“There’s another blow-up at the mine!” he gasped thickly. “An’ the old man’s daughter—she——”
“What old man’s daughter?” demanded Westbrook, his lips white.
“She—Barrington’s girl—is down there in that hell! She went in with her friends at two o’clock. They——”
“Which entrance?” thundered Westbrook, with his hand on the door.
“Beachmont! They——”
Westbrook dashed down the steps and across the sidewalk, whipped out his knife and cut loose a horse from the shafts of a wagon in front of the store. The next moment he had mounted the animal and was urging it into a mad run toward the Beachmont entrance of the Candria mine.
Again did he face a crowd of weeping women and children crazed with terror; but this time there stood among them the bowed form of the great mine-king himself. John Barrington’s lips were stern and set, and only his eyes spoke as he grasped Westbrook’s hand.
Once more did a band of heroic men work their way bit by bit into the mine, fighting the damp at every turn under Westbrook’s directions.
Barrington had looked at the preparations in amazement.
“How comes it that this Westbrook, this millionaire, knows the mine so well?” he stammered.
A woman standing near—Bill Somers’s wife—answered him.
“That’s Hustler Joe, sir,” she said softly.
Hustler Joe! John Barrington drew a deep breath as the memories of the Bonanza catastrophe came to him.
“Thank God for Hustler Joe!” he breathed fervently. “If anyone can save my little girl, ’tis he!”
“You’re right, sir—an’ he’ll do it, too,” returned the little woman, her eyes full of unshed tears.
Slowly, so slowly, the rescuers worked their way into the mine. One by one the unconscious forms of the miners were borne back to fresh air and safety. But no trace could be found of Miss Barrington and her band of sightseers.
At last, far down a gallery, Westbrook heard a faint cry. With an answering shout of reassurance he dashed ahead of the others and came face to face with Ethel Barrington.
“You!” she cried.
“Yes, yes; you’re not hurt?”
She shook her head and leaned heavily against the wall. The reaction was making her head swim.
“And your friends?”
“Here”—she pointed to the ground almost at her feet. “They’re not hurt—they fainted.”
Stalwart miners poured into the narrow chamber and lifted the prostrate forms, leaving Westbrook to follow with Miss Barrington. That young lady still leaned against the wall.
“I—we should be going; can you—let me help you,” stammered Westbrook.
“Oh, I can walk,” she laughed nervously, making a vain attempt to steady her limbs as she moved slowly away from her support.
Westbrook caught her outstretched hand and passed his disengaged arm around her waist.
“Miss Barrington, you’re quite unnerved,” he said, his voice suddenly firm. “Pardon me, but you must accept my assistance.” And he half carried, half led her down the long gallery, at the end of which they could hear the steps and voices of their companions.
All the misery of the last few days fled from Ethel’s mind. She was conscious only of the strength and bravery and tenderness of the man at her side. Martin’s hated words became as phantoms of a past existence.
“You—you haven’t told me how you came to be here today, Mr. Westbrook,” she began again, a little hysterically. “I thought you were in Dalton.”
“I came down this morning,” he said. Then added softly, “Thank God!”
Ethel was silent for a moment. When she spoke again her voice shook.
“As usual, Mr. Westbrook—you are near when I need you! If I am ever in danger again, I shall promptly look for you. Now see that you do not disappoint me!” she added with assumed playfulness, trying to hide her depth of feeling.
They had almost reached the turn when a distant rumble and vibrating crash shook the walls about them, throwing Westbrook and Miss Barrington to the ground. It was some time before the man could stagger to his feet and help his companion to stand upright.
“What—what was it?” she gasped.
Westbrook advanced two steps only to come sharply against a wall of earth and timbers.
“My God—the roof is fallen!” he cried.
She came close to his side.
“Then there was another explosion?”
“Yes.”
“But they will find us?”
“That wall may be—” he stopped abruptly.
“Many feet in thickness, I know,” she supplied.
“And the damp—if it should enter the gallery from the rear—” his voice choked into silence.
“I know—I understand. But—we are together!” She laid her hand on his arm.
He caught the hand and held it in both his own, then slowly raised it and laid the soft palm against his lips.
“Ethel—Ethel—may God forgive me!” he whispered brokenly.
She swayed dizzily, and he caught and held her close.
“I—I think I am going to faint,” she murmured. “I——”
His arms tightened their clasp and her head drooped until it lay in the hollow of his shoulder.
“Ethel, darling—only one little word! Ah, sweetheart—I’ve loved you so!”
She raised her hand and just touched his cheek with her fingers, then let her arm fall about his neck. His head bent low and his lips closed over hers as she drew a long, quivering sigh.
“May God forgive me,” he breathed, “but ’tis the end—the end!”
When Ethel Barrington regained consciousness she was in her own bed at The Maples, but it was a full two days after that before they let her ask the questions that so often came to her lips. It was her father who finally answered her.
“Yes, dear, you were unconscious when the miners found you. Westbrook could barely speak. Why, girlie, when that second crash came and the miners realized that Hustler Joe—as they insist upon calling that remarkable man—was himself imprisoned,they swarmed into that mine like ants and attacked the fallen wall like madmen! Those that had no pickaxe clawed at the dirt and stones with their naked fingers.”
“And—Mr. Westbrook?”
“Is all right and has been here every day to inquire for you and to bring you these,” replied Mr. Barrington, with a wave of his hand toward the sumptuous red roses on the table.
The girl’s eyes lingered on the flowers and her cheeks suddenly glowed with a reflection of their vivid color.
“He is very kind,” she murmured as she turned her face away.
For a week Westbrook and his roses made daily calls. At the end of that time it was reported to him that Miss Barrington was feeling quite like herself. The next morning Westbrook did not appear, but his roses came in charge of a boy together with a note for Miss Barrington.
The missive bore no date, no salutation, but plunged at once into its message.