The rosal glow of dawn tipped the mountains, and a russet haze lay on the still bosom of the lake. Warrington made a successful cast not far from the lily-pods. Zing! went the reel. But by the pressure of his thumb he brought the runaway to a sudden halt. The tip of the rod threatened to break! Hooked! Patty swung round the canoe, which action gave the angler freer play. Ah, wasn't that beautiful! Two feet out of the water! Here he comes, but not more swiftly than the reel can take him. Off he goes again—take care for the unexpected slack. Another leap, like a bronze flame, and then a dash for the shallow bottom. He fought gallantly for his life and freedom. Patty reached for the net. Inch by inch Warrington drew him in. Twice he leaped over the net, but Patty was an old hand. The third effort landed him.
"Two pounds," said Patty. "Plenty for breakfast now."
"Tell you what, this is sport. How many have we?"
"Seven in half an hour." Patty began using her paddle.
"Finest sport in the world!" Warrington settled down on the cushion and leisurely watched the brown arms of his guide.
"You're a good fisherman. And I like to see a good fisherman get excited. John is like a statue when he gets a strike; he reels them in like a machine. He becomes angry if any one talks. But it's fun to watch Kate. She nearly falls out of the boat, and screams when the bass leaps. Isn't it beautiful?"
"It is a kind of Eden. But I'm so restless. I have to be wandering from place to place. If I owned your bungalow, I should sell it the second year. All the charm would go the first season. God has made so many beautiful places in this world for man that man is the only ungrateful creature in it. What's that smoke in the distance?"
"That's the mail-boat, with your newspaper. It will be two hours yet before it reaches our dock. It has to zigzag to and fro across the lake. I'm hungry."
"So am I. Let me take the paddle."
The exchange was made, and he sent the canoe over the water rapidly. Patty eyed him with frank admiration.
"Is there anything you can't do well?"
"A good many things," he acknowledged.
"I should like to know what they are."
Neither spoke again till the canoe glided around the dock and a landing was made. Warrington strung the fish, and together he and Patty went toward the kitchen. At seven-thirty the family sat down to a breakfast of fried bass, and Patty told how the catch had been made.
"He's a better fisherman than you, John."
"Just as you say, Patty. I care not who catches bass, so long as I may eat them," in humorous paraphrase.
There was no little excitement over the arrival of the mail-boat. They were all eager to see what the Times had to say. There was a column or more on the first page, subheaded. Warrington's career was rather accurately portrayed, but there were some pungent references to cabbages. In the leader, on the editorial page, was the master-hand.
"In brief, this young man is to be the Republican candidate for mayor. Grown desperate these half-dozen years of ineffectual striving for political pap, Senator Henderson resorts to such an expedient. But the coup falls flat; there will be no surprise at the convention; the senator loses the point he seeks to score. Personally, we have nothing to say against the character of Mr. Warrington. After a fashion he is a credit to his native town. But we reaffirm, he is not a citizen, he is not eligible to the high office. If he accepts, after this arraignment, he becomes nothing more than an impertinent meddler. What has he done for the people of Herculaneum? Nothing. Who knows anything about his character, his honor, his worth? Nobody. To hold one's franchise as a citizen does not make that person a citizen in the honest sense of the word. Let Mr. Warrington live among us half a dozen years, and then we shall see. The senator, who is not without some wisdom and experience, will doubtless withdraw this abortive candidate. It's the only logical thing he can do. We dare say that the dramatist accepted the honor with but one end in view: to find some material for a new play. But Herculaneum declines to be so honored. He is legally, but not morally, a citizen. He is a meddler, and Herculaneum is already too well supplied with meddlers. Do the wise thing, Mr. Warrington; withdraw. Otherwise your profit will be laughter and ridicule; for the Republican party can never hope to win under such equivocal leadership. That's all we have to say."
Warrington, who had been reading the articles aloud, grinned and thrust the paper into his pocket.
"What shall you do?" asked John curiously.
"Do? Go into the fight tooth and nail. They dub me a meddler; I'll make the word good."
"Hurrah!" cried Kate, clapping her hands. She caught Patty in her arms, and the two waltzed around the dock.
The two men shook hands, and presently all four were reading their private letters. Warrington received but one. It was a brief note from the senator. "Pay no attention to Times' story. Are you game for a fight? Write me at once, and I'll start the campaign on the receipt of your letter."
"Patty, where do you write letters?" he asked. He called her Patty quite naturally. Patty was in no wise offended.
"In the reading-room you will find a desk with paper and pens and ink. Shall I go with you?"
"Not at all. I've only a note to scribble to Senator Henderson."
Warrington found the desk. Upon it lay a tablet. He wrote hurriedly:
"Start your campaign; I am in it now to the last ditch."
As he re-read it, he observed a blur in the grain of the paper. On closer inspection he saw that it was a water-mark. He had seen one similar, but where? His heart began thumping his ribs. He produced the inevitable letter. The water-mark was identical. He even laid the letter unfolded on the tablet. It fitted exactly.
"Patty!" he murmured in a whisper.
Patty had never written him a single line; whenever she had communicated to him her commands, it had been by telephone. Patty Bennington! The window was at his elbow. He looked out and followed the sky-line of the hills as they rolled away to the south. Patty! It was a very beautiful world, and this was a day of days. It all came to him in that moment of discovery. He had drifted along toward it quite unconsciously, as a river might idle toward the sea. Patty! The light of this knowledge was blinding for a space. So Warrington came into his own romance. It was not the grand passion, which is always meteoric; it was rather like a new star, radiant, peaceful, eternal.
"Patty!" He smiled.
Chapter X
It was only when the whistle of the returning boat sounded close by that he realized he had been sitting there for nearly an hour. He roused himself, sealed and addressed his letter to the senator, and hurried down to the dock. Patty was alone, mending some tackle.
"It must be a long letter," she remarked, standing up and shaking her skirts.
"Why, this is only the beginning of it," he replied ambiguously. "It is never going to end."
"Mercy! It must be a postscript."
He had no retort handy, so he contented himself with watching the approach of the boat.
"Some men are never satisfied," she said owlishly. "If I were a successful dramatist, such as you are, a public office would look rather tawdry."
"But it's real, Patty; it's life and not mummery."
"I don't know," doubtfully; "from what I have read, there are more puppets in and about a City Hall than ever dangled in the puppet booth. Did I give you permission to call me Patty?" demurely.
"Not that I recollect." The boat came sweeping up to the dock, and he tossed the senator's letter to the boy. The boat went on with a musical gurgle. "But when I especially like anything, I usually appropriate it."
"I can see that you will make a good politician."
He laughed happily.
"Evidently you like the name. You have applied it to me three times this morning."
"Like it? Why, I think it is the most charming name I ever heard. It smells of primroses, garden-walls, soldiers in ragged regimentals, of the time when they built houses with big-columned porches."
"My!"
"May I not call you Patty?"
"Oh, if you ask my permission, you may."
"I do."
"That is better."
"Patty?"
"Well."
"Do you ever look in your mirror?"
"The idea! Of course I do. I look in it every morning and every night. And as often as I find the time. Why?"
"Nothing; only, I do not blame you."
"What's all this leading to?" frowning.
"Heaven knows! But I feel sentimental this morning. There is so much beauty surrounding me that I feel impelled to voice my appreciation of it."
"There is no remedy, I suppose."
"None, save the agony of extemporization."
"I have never heard you talk like this before. What IS the matter?"
"Perhaps it is the exhilaration I feel for the coming fight. Would you like to see me mayor?"
"Indeed I should. Think of the circus tickets you'd have to give away each year! You know they always give the mayor a handful for his personal use. No, Mr. Warrington, I shall be very proud of you when you are mayor."
"What's the matter with your calling me Richard or Dick?"
"We must not advance too suddenly."
"Is there anything the matter with the name?"
"Oh, no; Richard is quite musical in its way. But I am always thinking of the humpbacked king. If I called you anything it would be Dick."
"Richard was not humpbacked. Moreover, he was a valiant king, greatly maligned by Mr. Shakespeare."
"I see that I shall not dare argue with you on the subject; but we can not banish on so short a notice the early impressions of childhood. Richard Third has always been a bugaboo to my mind. Some day, perhaps, I'll get over it."
"Make it Dick, as a compromise."
"Some day, when I have known you a little longer. Has John ever told you about Mr. McQuade?"
"McQuade?" Warrington realized that he had been floating on a pleasant sea. He came upon the hidden shore rather soundly. "McQuade?" he repeated.
"Yes. He had the audacity to propose to mother shortly after father's death. Think of it! John wrote to him very definitely that his presence in the house would no longer be welcomed or tolerated. Father had some slight business transactions with Mr. McQuade, and he came up to the house frequently. He continued these visits after father's death. We treated him decently, but we simply could not make him feel welcome. The third time he called he proposed.
"Mother left the room without even replying. He understood. A few minutes afterward we heard the door slam. John wrote him the next morning. Did you ever hear of anything to equal the cold-bloodedness of it?"
Warrington looked at her in absolute amazement.
"Well, of all the nerve! Why the deuce didn't John punch his head?" savagely.
"Mr. McQuade is not a gentleman; John is," simply. "But Mr. McQuade hasn't forgotten; not he. He pays no attention to any of us; but that is no sign that he does not think a good deal. However, we do not worry. There is no possible chance for him to retaliate; at least John declares there isn't. But sometimes I grow afraid when I think it all over. To his mind I can see that he considers himself badly affronted; and from what I know of his history, he never lets an affront pass without striking back in some manner."
"Don't you worry your head about McQuade. What do you think? He is so anxious to get me out of the political arena that he has sent a man down to New York to look into my past. Isn't that droll?"
Patty stooped again to the fishing-tackle.
"Such men as McQuade can invent. I should be very careful, if I were you. Your own conscience may prove you guiltless of scandal, but there are certain people who would rather believe bad than good—scandal than truth; and these are always in the majority. Don't laugh, but watch. That's my advice to you, Mr. Meddler." She smiled brightly at him as she threaded the line through the guides of the rod.
"I may not have lived as cleanly as I might have," he said soberly. "I have been knocked about so much. There were times when I grew tired of fighting. But I have never done anything that will not stand daylight. There was a time, Patty, when I came near making a fool of myself." He sat down, his legs swinging over the water. "I drank more than was good for me." He stared into the brown water and watched the minnows as they darted hither and thither. "I was alone; things went wrong, and I was cowardly enough to fall into the habit. But it was only periodically. You remember that letter I showed you?"
"Yes." Patty's voice was low.
"I believe I have read it a thousand times. It has caused me a great many regrets. I should like, some day, to meet the writer and disillusion her. One thing she may be sure of: I have never belittled the talent God has given me. I have striven for the ideal; I have even fought for it. That part of my life holds no stain."
"But the habit?" hesitant.
"It is gone, where all fool-habits go, when a man has will power to rid himself of them. Pride has something to do with it; and I have my share of pride. I shall never go back."
His head was turned away, but she could see the muscles in the jaws harden.
"You will never go back, I am sure, Richard."
That she had at last pronounced his given name did not stir him; in fact, it passed over his head and hearing. Like a dragon-brood, he saw in fancy his past follies springing up about him. Not yet could he tell this clean-minded, gentle-bred girl that he loved her. He must prove himself still further before he might utter what so thoroughly filled his heart and mind.
"Your brother's wife brought me to my senses. What I am to-day she in part has made. That is why I think so much of her; that is why I am happy to see that she is happy and has realized her heart's desire. Heigh-ho! I believe I am making you my confessor." He turned his face toward her now, and his smile was rather sad. "When I recall the worry I have given my poor old aunt, who loves me so, I feel like a contemptible scoundrel. How many countless sacrifices has she made for me, in the days when we had nothing! But she shall have all the comforts now, and all the love and kindness I am capable of giving her. I shall never leave her again."
There were tears in Patty's eyes. "It is never too late to mend; and when a man is penitent, truly and honestly penitent, much shall be forgiven him. It is only those who are by nature coarse who do not eventually surmount temptation. What you have told me I have known this long while."
"You have known?" he cried with sinking heart.
"Yes. We live in a city where gossip travels quickly and thoroughly. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was telling mother one afternoon that you drank. I suppose she felt it her duty."
"To be sure," bitterly. "Was it while I have been living at home?"
"No; when the rumor came that you were coming."
He shrugged expressively. "I ought to have known."
"But come; you are up here to be cheered, not lectured. Let us play billiards. I can hear John and Kate playing now. We'll play sides; and if we win against those two, I promise to call you Richard once a day while you are up here. Or, would you rather I played and sang?"
"Much rather," brightening up a bit. "There is always time to play billiards. But first, I want you to come with me into the reading-room. I have something to show you; I had almost forgotten."
"The reading-room?" puzzled.
"Yes. Will you come?"
She nodded her assent, and the two entered the house. Warrington, having arrived at the writing-desk, bade her sit down. He had an idea. Patty sat down.
"I want you to write something for me," he said, pushing the pen and tablet toward her.
"What's the matter with your hand?" she demanded.
"Nothing."
"Then why do you want me to write?"
"I have never seen your handwriting. I'm something of an expert in that line. I'll read your future."
"But I don't want my future read," rebelliously.
"Well, then, your past."
"Much less my past. Come; you are only beating about the bush. What is it you want?"
"I want to know," he said quietly, "why you have kept me in ignorance all this while." He laid the letter on the desk, and placed a finger on the water-mark. "It wasn't fair to let me compose panegyrics over it all the while you were laughing in your sleeve. Ah, I've caught you. You can't get away this time, Patty."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." But she looked at the letter and not at him.
"Do you see those water-marks?" he demanded.
"Yes. You will find them in a thousand tablets like this. I bought a dozen of them in New York; cheap and handy."
Warrington's confidence in his discovery began to shake. He braced himself and took a bold course.
"Patty, you wrote that letter; you know you did. You wrote it in New York, the day you bought the tablets."
"I?"
"Yes. Confess."
"My dear Mr. Warrington, you must prove it," lightly. "It would not be proper for me to admit that I had been so foolish as to write a letter like that."
"But you've praised it!"
"Simply because praising it would please you; for no other reason."
"Did you, or did you not write it?"
"Find out. You must prove that I wrote it. Certainly I have nothing to confess."
"You will not answer me one way or the other?"
"No."
"If you had not written it you would."
"I don't believe I shall sing this morning," rising.
"And I have wondered a thousand times who could have written it. And all the time it was you."
"Nor play billiards," went on Patty.
"If only I were all you hitherto believed me to be!"
"Nor fish to-morrow morning."
"This letter has been like an anchor. Immediately upon receiving it I began to try to live better."
"Nor fish the day after to-morrow."
"And I had forgotten all about Jack's having a sister!"
"Something I shall neither forget nor forgive. And if you persist in accusing me of writing that letter, I promise not to fish again while you are here." She walked toward the door, her chin held high.
"You wrote it. Come and sing. I'll say nothing more about it. There's nothing more to be said." He carelessly picked up a book and looked at the fly-leaf. "From Sister Patty to Brother John," he read. There was no mistake now. He laughed. Patty turned. "The writing is the same."
"Is it?"
"Will you sing?"
No answer.
"Please."
Patty stood between the door that led to the veranda and the door that led to the music-room—between Charybdis and Scylla, as it were, for she knew he would follow her whichever way she went. She turned into the music-room.
"Thanks," he said.
The days passed all too quickly for Warrington. He walked in the golden glow of his first romance, that romance which never leaves us till life itself departs. He spoke no word of his love, but at times there was something in his voice that thrilled Patty and subdued her elfish gaiety. Some girls would have understood at once, but Patty was different. She was happy one moment, and troubled the next, not knowing the reason. She was not analytical; there was no sophistry in her young heart. She did not dream that this man loved her; she was not vain enough for that.
John and Kate watched them approvingly. They knew the worth of the man; they were not at all worried over what was past. They saw their own romance tenderly reflected. Mrs. Bennington was utterly oblivious. Mothers never realize that their daughters and sons must some day leave them; they refuse to accept this natural law; they lament over it to-day as they lamented in the days of the Old Testament. The truth is, children are always children to the parents; paternal and maternal authority believes its right indefinite.
By this time all the newspapers, save the Telegraph, had made readable copy out of Warrington's candidacy. Why the Telegraph remained mute was rather mystifying. Warrington saw the hand of McQuade in this. The party papers had to defend the senator, but their defense was not so strong as it might have been. Not a single sheet came out frankly for Warrington. The young candidate smoked his pipe and said nothing, but mentally he was rolling up his sleeves a little each day. He had not yet pulled through the convention. Strong as the senator was, there might yet be a hitch in the final adjustment. So far nothing had come of Bolles' trip to New York. Occasionally newspapers from the nearby towns fell into Warrington's hands. These spoke of his candidacy in the highest terms, and belabored the editors of Herculaneum for not accepting such a good chance of ridding itself of McQuadeism.
Meantime, there was fishing, long trips into the heart of the forests, dancing at the hotel at the head of the lake, billiards and music. Warrington was already deeply tanned, and Patty's nose was liberally sprinkled with golden freckles.
One evening Kate and John sat on the veranda from where they could easily watch Warrington and Patty in the music-room.
"What do you think of it, John?"
"There's not a finer chap in the world. But I don't think Patty realizes yet."
"Dear Patty!" Kate reached over and took his hand in hers, laying it against her cold cheek. "What is it, John? You have been worried all day."
"Nothing; nothing to bother you with."
"The shops? It worries me when you don't confide in me in everything."
"Well, dear, the trouble I've been expecting for months is about to come. You know that young Chittenden, the English inventor, has been experimenting with a machine that will do the work of five men. They have been trying to force him to join the union, but he has refused, having had too many examples of unionism in his own country to risk his independence here. Well, I received a letter from the general manager this morning. Either Chittenden must join or go; otherwise the men will go out September first."
"What shall you do?"
"I shall keep Chittenden. I am master there," striking the arm of his chair; "master in everything. If they go out in September, it will be for good. I shall tear down the shops and build model tenements."
"John!"
"I am sick and tired, dear. I have raised the wages all over the district; my men work less than any other hands in town. I have built a gymnasium for them, given them books, pool-tables, and games, to say nothing of the swimming-tank. I have arranged the annual outings. I have established a pension-list. But all this seems to have done no good. I am at the end of the rope. Oh, the poor devils who work are all right; it's the men outside who are raising all this trouble; it's the union, not the men. There's no denying the power these men can wield, for wrong or right. Ignorance can not resist the temptation to use it at all times and for all purposes. But I am master at the Bennington shops; injustice shall not dictate to me. They'll use it politically, too. After all, I'm glad I've told you."
"But, John, I'm afraid for you. They may hurt you."
John answered with a sound that was more of a growl than a laugh.
"Don't you worry about me, honey; I'm no weakling. I wish Dick could be with me when the fight comes, but he will have his hands full, and the strike will not help him any. Don't you worry. Father always felt that there would be trouble some day. He held a large bundle of bank-stock and railroad bonds, and the income from these alone will take care of us very comfortably. There's a good deal of real estate, too, that may be reckoned on. If the crash does come, we'll pack up, take the mother, and go abroad for a year or so. But before I'm done I'll teach local unionism a lesson it will not forget soon. Don't you worry," he repeated again; "you just leave it to me."
She did not speak, but kissed his hand. She knew that no pleading could move him; and besides, he was in the right.
"I don't understand the lukewarmness of the party papers," he said. "They ought to hurrah over Dick. But perhaps the secret machinery is being set to work, and they've been told that there will be trouble at the convention. The senator never backs down, and I've never seen anybody that could frighten Dick. There'll be some interesting events this fall. Herculaneum will figure in the newspapers from Maine to California, for everybody is familiar with Warrington's name and work. It's a month yet before the delegates get together; either Warrington will run or he won't. Calling him a meddler is good. If the Times isn't a meddler, I never saw one and have misunderstood the meaning of the word."
In the music-room Patty was playing Grieg and MacDowell, and Warrington was turning the pages. The chords, weird and melancholy, seemed to permeate his whole being; sad, haunting music, that spoke of toil, tears, death and division, failure and defeat, hapless love and loveless happiness. After a polonaise, Patty stopped.
"If music were only lasting, like a painting, a statue, a book," she said; "but it isn't. Why these things haunt me every day, but I can recollect nothing; I have to come back to the piano. It is elusive."
"And the most powerful of all the arts that arouse the emotions. Hang it! when I hear a great singer, a great violinist, half the time I find an invisible hand clutching me by the throat ... Patty, honestly now, didn't you write that letter?"
"Yes," looking him courageously in the eyes. "And I hope you were not laughing when you said all those kind things about it."
"Laughing? No," gravely, "I was not laughing. Play something lively; Chaminade; I am blue to-night."
So Patty played the light, enchanting sketches. In the midst of one of them she stopped suddenly.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I thought I heard the boat's whistle. Listen. Yes, there it is. It must be a telegram. They never come up to the head of the lake at night for anything less. There goes John with a lantern."
"Never mind the telegram," he said; "play."
A quarter of an hour later John and Kate came in.
"A telegram for you, Dick," John announced, sending the yellow envelope skimming through the air.
Warrington caught it deftly. He balanced it in his hand speculatively.
"It is probably a hurry-call from the senator. I may have to go back to town to-morrow. I have always hated telegrams."
He opened it carelessly and read it. He read it again, slowly; and Patty, who was nearest to him, saw his face turn gray under the tan and his lips tremble. He looked from one to the other dumbly, then back at the sheet in his hand.
"Richard!" said Kate, with that quick intuition which leaps across chasms of doubt and arrives definitely.
"My aunt died this afternoon," he said, his voice breaking, for he had not the power to control it.
Nobody moved; a kind of paralysis touched them all.
"She died this afternoon, and I wasn't there." There is something terribly pathetic in a strong man's grief.
"Dick!" John rushed to his side. "Dick, old man, there must be some mistake."
He seized the telegram from Warrington's nerveless fingers. There was no mistake. The telegram was signed by the family physician. Then John did the kindliest thing in his power.
"Do you wish to be alone, Dick?"
Warrington nodded. John laid the telegram on the table, and the three of them passed out of the room. A gust of wind, coming down from the mountains, carried the telegram gently to the floor. Warrington, leaning against the table, stared down at it.
What frightful things these missives are! Charged with success or failure, riches or poverty, victory or defeat, births or deaths, they fly to and fro around the great world hourly, on ominous and sinister wings. A letter often fails to reach us, but a telegram, never. It is the messenger of fate, whose emissaries never fail to arrive.
Death had never before looked into Warrington's life; he had viewed it with equanimity, with a tolerant pity for those who succumbed to it, for those whose hearts it ravaged with loneliness and longing. He had used it frequently in his business as a property by which to arouse the emotions of his audiences. That it should some day stand at his side, looking into his eyes, never occurred to him. He tried to think, to beguile himself into the belief that he should presently awake to find it a dream. Futile expedient! She was dead; that dear, kind, loving heart was dead. Ah! and she had died alone! A great sob choked him. He sank into a chair and buried his face in his arms. The past rushed over him like a vast wave. How many times had he carelessly wounded that heart which had beat solely for him! How many times had he given his word, only to break it! He was alone, alone; death had severed the single tie; he was alone. Death is kind to the dead, but harsh to the living. Presently his sighs became less regular, and at length they ceased entirely.
The portiere rustled slightly, and Patty's face became visible. Her eyes were wet. She had tried to keep away, but something drew her irresistibly. Her heart swelled. If only she might touch his bowed head, aye, kiss the touches of grey at the temples; if only she might console him in this hour of darkness and grief. Poor boy, poor boy! She knew not how long she watched him; it might have been minutes or hours; she was without recollection of time. A hand touched her gently on the arm. Kate stood by her side.
"Come," she whispered; "come, Patty."
Patty turned without question or remonstrance and followed her up stairs.
"Kate, dear Kate!"
"What is it, darling?"
"He is all alone!"
At midnight John tiptoed into the music-room. Warrington had not moved. John tapped him on the shoulder.
"You mustn't stay here, old man. Come to bed."
Warrington stood up.
"Would you like a drop of brandy?"
Warrington shook his head.
"It is terribly hard," said John, throwing his arm across the other's shoulders. "I know; I understand. You are recalling all the mistakes, all the broken promises, all the disappointments. That is but natural. But in a few days all the little acts of kindness will return to your memory; all the good times you two have had together, the thousand little benefits that made her last days pleasant. These will soften the blow, Dick."
"I wasn't there," Warrington murmured dully. His mind could accept but one fact: his aunt had died alone, without his being at the bedside.
It rained in Herculaneum that night. The pavement in Williams Street glistened sharply, for a wind was swinging the arc-lamps. The trees on the Warrington lawn sighed incessantly; and drip, drip, drip, went the rain on the leaves. Not a light shone anywhere in the house; total darkness brooded over it. In one of the rooms a dog lay with his nose against the threshold of the door. From time to time he whined mournfully. In another room an Angora cat stalked restlessly back and forth, sometimes leaping upon a chair, sometimes trotting round and round, and again, wild-eyed and furtive, it stood motionless, as if listening. Death had entered the house; and death, to the beast, is not understandable.
Chapter XI
Everybody had gone down the winding road to the granite entrance of the cemetery; the minister, the choir, the friends and those who had come because they reveled in morbid scenes. These were curious to see how Warrington was affected, if he showed his grief or contained it, so that they might have something to talk about till some one else died. There are some people in this merry world of ours who, when they take up the evening paper, turn first to the day's death notices; who see no sermons in the bright flowers, the birds and butterflies, the misty blue hills, the sunshine, who read no lesson in beauty, who recognize no message in the moon and the stars, in cheerfulness and good humor. On the contrary, they seem to abhor the sunshine; they keep their parlors for ever in musty darkness, a kind of tomb where they place funeral wreaths under glass globes and enter but half a dozen times a year. Well, even these had finally dragged themselves away from the grave, and left Warrington standing alone beside the brown roll of damp fresh earth. No carriage awaited him, for he had signified his intention of walking home.
All about him the great elms and maples and oaks showed crisp against the pale summer sky. Occasionally a leaf fell. A red squirrel chattered above him, and an oriole sang shrilly and joyously near by. The sun was reddening in the west, and below, almost at his feet, the valley swam in a haze of delicate amethyst. The curving stream glittered. From where he stood he could see them bundling up the sheaves of wheat. All these things told him mutely that the world was going on the same as ever; nothing had changed. In the city men and women were going about their affairs as usual; the smoke rolled up from the great chimneys. When all is said, our griefs and joys are wholly our own; the outsider does not participate.
Yes, the world went on just the same. Death makes a vacancy, but the Great Accountant easily fills it; and the summing up of balances goes on. Let us thank God for the buoyancy of the human spirit, which, however sorely tried, presently rises and assumes its normal interest in life.
Warrington looked dreamily at the grave, and the philosopher in him speculated upon the mystery of it. Either the grave is Heaven or it is nothing; one can proceed no farther. If there was a Heaven (and in the secret corner of his heart he believed there was), a new star shone in the sky at night, a gentle, peaceful star. Just now the pain came in the knowledge that she was gone; later the actual absence would be felt. For a month or so it would seem that she had gone on a journey; he would find himself waiting and watching; but as the weeks and months went by, and he heard not her step nor her voice, then would come the real anguish. They tell us that these wounds heal; well, maybe; but they open and reopen and open again till that day we ourselves cease to take interest in worldly affairs.
He stooped and picked up one of the roses which she had held in her hand. Reverently he pressed his lips to it and put it away in his wallet. Then he turned and went slowly down the hill. He had never really known her till these last few months; not till now did he realize how closely knit together had been their lives and affections. He lighted a cigar, and with his hands behind his back and his chin in his collar, he continued to the gates. The old care-taker opened and closed the gates phlegmatically. Day by day they came, and one by one they never went out again. To him there was neither joy nor grief; if the grass grew thick and the trees leaved abundantly, that was all he desired.
It was a long walk to Williams Street, and he was tired when he entered the house. Jove leaped upon him gladly. Warrington held the dog's head in his hands and gazed into the brown eyes. Here was one that loved him, wholly and without question. You will always find some good in the man who retains the affection of his dog. In good times or bad, they are stanch friends; and they are without self-interest, which is more than human. In the living-room he found the Angora curled up on a sofa-cushion. He smoothed her, and she stretched her lithe body luxuriously and yawned. There is no other animal which so completely interprets the word indifference. Warrington wondered what he should do with her, for he was not very fond of cats. But his aunt had loved her, so he passed on to the dining-room without deciding what to do.
It was a lonely supper. He kept his eyes on his plate as well as he could; for whenever he saw the back of her chair, his food choked him. He wondered why he did not take the decanter of whisky down from the sideboard; a generous tumblerful. ... No. This was the first time in months that the desire to drink deeply came to him. No; he would leave it there. Supper done, he went to his den and took down a book. Could he live here now? He doubted it, for it was a house of empty doors. He settled himself in a chair and turned the pages of the book to a place he loved well. It was where D'Artagnan, representing Planchet and Company, returns to the grocer with the bags of English gold which, for several good reasons, Charles Second has given him for General Monk's sword. He was well along toward the fainting of the honest Planchet on the money-bags, when the telephone rang. He took up the receiver.
"Well?"
"Mama wants you to come over and spend the night with us. John and Kate will be here, too."
He recognized Patty's voice.
"I shall be very glad to," he replied. "Good-by." He rang for Mary, who came in, her eyes red and swollen; Poor soul, she had also lost her best friend. "I am going over to the Benningtons' to spend the night, Mary.
"Very well, sir; just as you think best."
The Benningtons were very kind to him. They engaged his interest the moment he entered the house. They talked of a thousand and one things diverting: the foreign news, the political outlook, the September horse-show at which Patty would ride and jump, what was contemplated in society for the fall and winter, the ice-carnival, and the engagements.
"Why don't you enter your Irish hunter?" asked John, when the talk veered around to horses again.
"I ride for the mere pleasure of it," replied Warrington; "or, if you will, I'm too lazy to learn the judges' catechism."
Presently they had him telling how he had written his first play, and how completely Mrs. Jack had fooled him on their first meeting.
"No, I have not the slightest desire to return to the stage," said Mrs. Jack, in answer to a casual inquiry made by Warrington.
"Not while I'm around," supplemented John.
"Why, nothing could lure me back to it," Mrs. Jack declared emphatically. "I am happy. I am very happy. I have nothing to wish for, save that my happiness may endure."
Mrs. Bennington, who had long since grown to love her daughter-in-law, smiled benignly.
"You will always be happy, my dear; you were born to be. It is the just reward for making those around you happy."
"Patty," said Warrington, "would you like the Angora?"
"I should love it dearly."
"Then I'll send it over to you in the morning."
And that was as near as they approached the subject they were tacitly avoiding.
At a quarter of nine, to the consternation of every one, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was announced.
"Take me up stairs to the billiard-room," said Warrington; "I am not in the mood to meet that woman to-night."
"Come on, then," cried John, willing enough. "There's the servants' stairs. I'll give you a handicap of twenty in a hundred points."
"I'll beat you at those odds."
"That remains to be seen."
And the two hurried up the stairs just as the hall-door closed. The billiard-room was situated at the head of the front stairs. Warrington won the bank, and he ran a score of ten. While he was chalking his cue he heard voices.
"It is very sad." It was Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene talking. "We shall miss her in church work. It is a severe blow to Mr. Warrington."
"That was a good draw, John. Three cushions this time. Good. You're playing strong to-night."
"Did you think to bring over your pajamas?" John asked irrelevantly.
Warrington smiled in spite of himself.
"I forgot all about them," he admitted.
"Thought you would, so I brought over two sets. We're about the same size. Pshaw! that was an easy one, too."
Warrington missed his shot; He heard voices again.
"And I want you to help me." It was Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene again. "We shall reorganize the Woman's Auxiliary Republican Club, and we shall need you. It is principally for that that I came over."
"I take very little interest in anything outside my home," replied Mrs. Bennington.
"Did you get that?" whispered John, as he drew back for a carom.
"But this is very important for the city's welfare," pursued Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene.
"I doubt it. So long as we do not vote—"
"That's just it. We can't vote, but we can get together and control the male vote in the family. That's something."
John grinned at Warrington, who replied with a shrug.
"And they all call me the meddler!" he said.
"What's the matter with your staying on here a few days, Dick?"
"I should be nothing but a bother to you."
"Rot! You can't stay alone over there."
"I'll have to; I can't leave those poor old souls alone. They are broken-hearted. I sent her two hundred every month regularly, just for pin-money; and what do you think she did with it? Hoarded it up and willed something like two thousand to Mary and her husband. I'm all in, Dick. But go on; I'll finish the game."
"All right. But whenever you feel lonesome, come here or over to my house. There'll always be a spare room for you in either house."
"It's mighty kind of you, John. My shot?" Warrington ran four and missed.
Voices again.
"I never believe what I hear, and only half of what I see." That was Mrs. Jack speaking.
Murmurs. The billiard-balls clicked sharply as John played for position.
"The stage doesn't appeal to you any more, then?" Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene.
"Not in the least. It never did appeal to me. I am so far away from it now that I am losing the desire to witness plays."
"And for whom will Mr. Warrington write his plays now?"
"The vacancy I made has long ago been filled. I was but one in a thousand to interpret his characters. There is always a lack of plays, but never of actors."
"Excuse me for a moment." It was Patty this time.
"Certainly, my dear."
Warrington heard nothing more for several minutes.
"Is it true what I hear about Patty and that rich young Mr. Whiteland, of New York?"
"What is it that you have heard?"
"Why, that their engagement is about to be announced."
Warrington stood perfectly still. Whiteland had been a guest at the Adirondack bungalow earlier in the summer. He waited for the answer, and it seemed to him that it would never come.
"I am not engaged to any one, Mrs. Haldene, and I hope you will do me the favor to deny the report whenever you come across it." Patty had returned. "It seems incredible that a young man may not call upon a young woman without their names becoming coupled matrimonially."
"Nevertheless, he is regarded as extremely eligible."
"I have often wondered over Haldene's regular Saturday night jag at the club," said John, stringing his count, "but I wonder no longer. They say she never goes out Saturdays."
Warrington heard the words, but the sense of them passed by. He could realize only one thing, and that was, he loved Patty better than all the world. He could accept his own defeat with philosophy, but another man's success!—could he accept that? How strangely everything had changed in the last few days! He had never known real mental anguish; heartaches in others had always afforded him mild amusement and contempt. It was one thing, he reflected, to write about human emotions; it was entirely another thing to live and act them. He saw that his past had been full of egotism and selfishness, but he also saw that his selfishness was of the kind that has its foundation in indifference and not in calculation. The voices went on down stairs, but he ceased to pay any attention to them.
"John, there's been something in my mind for many months."
"What is it?"
"Do you recollect the night you came into my rooms in New York?"
"I shall never forget it," quietly.
"Your wife was there."
"I know it. I found her gloves." He made a difficult masse. "She told me all about it. At the time, however, I had a pretty bad case of heart-trouble. But I understand. She was in the habit of dropping in on you. Why not? Your cooperation made you both famous. A man in love finds all sorts of excuses for jealousy. But I'm glad you've spoken. I can readily understand how you felt when you found the gloves gone.
"You're a good man, John," said Warrington.
"Kate loves me; it ought to make any man good to have a wife who loves him. I have no use for a man who sees evil in everything and good in nothing. Say no more about it, boy."
"I hadn't seen you in so long that I was confused. If I had reflected ... But you see, I didn't know that you were engaged, or even that you knew her. I never understood, until you were gone, why she wanted to hide herself. I'm glad I've relieved my mind." Warrington sighed.
"It's all right. There! I told you that I'd win even at those odds."
Presently they heard a stir down stairs. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was going. The door closed. The family came up to the billiard-room. Warrington looked at Patty, whose cheeks were flushed and whose eyes flashed.
"Why, what's the matter, Pat?" John asked.
"Nothing."
"Mrs. Haldene has been making herself useful as usual," said Mrs. Jack, slipping her arm around Patty's waist.
Patty was in a rage about something; nobody seemed to know what it was.
"You are not going to join the Auxiliary, are you, mother?" John inquired, putting the cues in the rack.
"Indeed I am not. The men in my family always used their own judgment in politics. They have always been Whigs or Republicans."
"Did you ever meet a woman, Dick, who was a Democrat?" laughed John.
"Perhaps," was the reply, "but it has escaped my recollection."
But he was thinking: after all, he had a right to win Patty if he could. It was not what he had done in the past, it was what he was capable of doing from now on that counted.
"You're going to have a stiff fight at the convention," said John.
"I know it. But a fight of any kind will keep my mind occupied. The senator has assured me that I shall get the nomination."