CHAPTER XIX. — KATHERINE DECIDES
It was some hours before definite information was to be had concerning the present condition of affairs. No one knew whether his side had won or lost, whether the M. & T. was a Weeks road or a Porter road, though in the excitement each claimed control and made immediate efforts to enforce orders relating to its conduct. Messages flew back and forth along the singing wires, and wrecking trains started almost simultaneously from Manchester and from Truesdale, with instructions to clear up the muss at Sawyerville, in order that the regular train service be resumed.
But before matters were more than fairly under way, there came a sudden suspension of action. The Weeks wreckers paused at Brushingham, and contented themselves with pulling Harvey's first capture back on the rails. That done, the conductor stuffed a bundle of somewhat contradictory but imperative orders into his pocket, and stretched himself on the little red bench on the Brushingham station platform; the engineer, after a shouted order, settled down to the nearest approach to rest known to an engineer on duty; the division car repairer and the roadmaster curled up in the caboose, for they had been routed out at an unseemly hour; the station agent amused himself reading the messages that rattled through to the South and back, telling of a muddle at headquarters. When a wrecking train is held for orders, it is safe to assume that something has happened.
Down the line there was a similar occurrence. The Truesdale repair crew was caught at Sawyerville and ordered back. But before the astonished conductor had read the message through, another came ordering him on, subject no longer to the Superintendent's orders, but to those of Colonel Wray, 3d N.G.
The Governor of the State, in the conduct of routine matters, was usually content to follow precedent, which means that the State House clerical force was let more or less severely alone to govern the community, while the executive directed the politics of his party with a view to coming elections. At times an emergency occurred, miners struck, excited citizens lynched a negro, henchmen of the other party strained the voting laws, municipal corporations endeavored to steal State privileges—in any of which cases he delayed definite action until public sentiment bayed at his heels, then he acted with shrewdness and despatch. At the time of the fight, this same noisy public was keen on the scent of the railroads. Certain street railway corporations had called out abuse by methods which were excusable only for their success, and the mass saw no reason to believe that one corporation was better than another. Discriminating freight tariffs, which had seemed to favor a neighboring State, had thoroughly antagonized the country districts—and the country districts' vote. From even the solid communities had come rumors of restlessness and discontent. Ward bosses were worried, county magnates were dodging reform committees instigated by the traditionally conscientious minority, and the Governor knew that certain bills which awaited his signature were not likely to increase his following.
So it was that the great man was watching, watching and waiting, for the opportunity to strike a blow which should swing public sentiment around in his favor. Up to the present the whole State had been quiet. The miners were as orderly as the Sunday-school over which he presided when in his native town. The great labor organizations he was so eager to conciliate perversely gave him no opportunity.
And so it was that when messages came pouring in upon him from bosses and chairmen and advisers urging immediate interference in the M. & T. fight, when the sheriff of Malden County sent in an hysterical report, all instigated by the pungent advices from mad and muddy Senator Sporty Jones—the Governor inclined his ear. He was a shrewd man, and he knew that in order to make a distinct impression on The Public his blow must be sudden and spectacular. The longer he thought on it, the more the opportunity pleased him, and before the evening was far advanced Colonel Wray was speeding to Truesdale.
The Third was not a city regiment. It was made up of men from the middle sections of the State, a company to every few counties with battalion headquarters in three of the smaller cities, Truesdale for one. In the city regiments was a blue-stocking element which did not fit the Governor's present needs.
As soon as Colonel Wray reached Truesdale, he established himself in the inhospitable warehouse which in reports was called an armory. Before midnight the local company was collected, uniformed, and in order. Later special trains arrived, and squads and companies marched through the echoing streets, to sit dozing about the armory. At three-thirty a train came in from the southern counties bringing the second battalion, three hundred husky farm lads who glowed with responsibility as they stacked arms and awaited orders.
Then came a telephone message that McNally's relief train had left for the North. Colonel Wray waited no longer but marched over to the station, seized the telegraph office and the telephone, placed guards at each entrance and about the train shed, ordered the yard master to make up another train, levied on the station restaurant for six hundred cups of coffee, and tore fly-leaves from the news-stand books to write special orders for the waiting adjutant.
Meanwhile Porter was feverish. He tried to bulldoze the sergeant in the telegraph office only to be hustled off by a corporal's guard. He finally reached the Colonel's ear, but was heard in courteous silence. He made an effort to call up the Oakwood Club to send a message to McNally, but the sunburned young fellow in the 'phone box leaned on his rifle and shook his head. The same thing happened when he tried to get out of the building—“Sorry, sir. Captain's orders”—and the baffled magnate paced up and down the waiting room between long files of light-hearted boys in blue. It was humiliating to consider that he had subscribed heavily toward fitting up the Truesdale armory, that half the officers knew him and feared his influence.
While he was racking his brain sudden orders were shouted through the building. The lounging groups came up with a jerk, there was a rattle of arms, and in ten seconds the farm boys had resolved into a machine, a set of rigid blue lines that reached the length of the waiting room. There was another order, and one after another the companies broke into columns of twos and swung through the glass doors, which were held open by a couple of scared but admiring waiters.
Porter followed the last company and stood in the doorway behind two crossed rifles watching the troops climb into the cars. The Colonel stood at the track gate as the men marched through, talking with his aids. Porter thought for a moment of calling to him, but realized the futility of it after the treatment he had just received. Besides, even a railroad president could hardly keep his dignity with those ridiculous guns under his nose. So he turned and walked slowly to his temporary headquarters in the station agent's office, but to find that the young captain left in command by Colonel Wray had made himself at home and was issuing orders to a snub-nosed lieutenant.
Porter took a chair and looked out of the window. For a moment he was too weary to be aggressive. Worry and loss of sleep had lined his face, and the absence of news from McNally kept his nerves strung. As he sat there gripping the arms of the chair, face a little flushed, hair disarranged, collar dusty, he looked ten years past his age. It was a critical moment in the fight, and he knew it, but cornered as he was, absolutely uninformed as to his position in the struggle, or the meaning of the military display, a sense of helplessness almost unnerved him. Heretofore his fights had been largely conducted through deferential employees. He was accustomed to bows and scrapes, to men who feared him, who watched his every move in awe, and to find himself utterly at the mercy of these tin soldiers was disgusting. It was twenty-four hours since he had had a wink of sleep and eighteen since he had eaten a full meal—facts which in no small measure lessened the stability of his mental poise. And there he sat waiting through the darkness and the dawn.
The reds and golds in the eastern sky spread and paled. The little green-clad city stretched down the gentle hill, now indistinct in the haze. An early electric car whirred and jangled past the station, and Porter was half conscious of the noise. He got up, straightened his stiff joints, and went to the lunch counter, where he had to jostle between two gawky privates before he could order a cup of smoky cereal coffee and a sandwich. After getting a place he could not eat, so he returned to the office. Now that some sort of routine was established, the Captain showed a willingness to meet him civilly.
“See here,” said Porter, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged, “how long is this going to keep up? There is no sense in holding me here.”
“Sorry, sir. I have no desire to inconvenience you, but my orders are to let no one out and no one in. And you know what orders are for.”
“Oh, that's all right,”—Porter leaned back in his chair and looked out the window,—“but there's such a thing as going to extremes. Sometimes common sense supersedes orders.”
“You forget, Mr. Porter, that you are here for the purpose of conducting a raid, and we are here to stop that raid. Under the circumstances it is my duty to hold you and every one connected with the affair until I am otherwise ordered.”
“But I am not a thief, man.”
“No, perhaps not.” The Captain turned to some papers on the desk, and Porter continued to look out, wearily, with a sudden dull ache above his eyes.
A corporal appeared in the doorway, saluting.
“There's a young lady, sir, says she's got to see Mr. Porter.”
“Who is she?”
“Don't know, but she sticks to it.”
“It's my daughter,” said Porter, with an effort to rise. “Where is she?”
“Wait,” the Captain said; “I'll speak to her,” and he followed the soldier.
Porter sat still. After a little he heard voices in the waiting room, and Katherine entered the office. At the sight of his worn, haggard face her annoyed expression vanished, and she drew the Captain's chair beside her father's and laid her hand upon his forehead.
“You are sick,” she said gently.
“Nonsense”—he made a feeble effort to shake off her hand—“I asked you not to come back. I'm tired, that's all.”
Katherine rose and looked about.
“Come into the waiting room, dad, and lie down. You must have some sleep or you won't be good for anything.”
“You must go back,” said Porter, shaking his head. “This is no place for you.”
Katherine looked quietly into his eyes. It was not the first time that the strain of his busy life had told upon her father's nerves, and she knew what was the matter.
“Come, dad,” she said. “Get a little sleep, and I'll stay by and wake you if there is any news.”
Porter scowled, then slowly rose. The Captain, who had been hesitating in the doorway, came forward to assist. Porter turned on him savagely. “Let me alone. I can walk, I guess.” But at a glance from Katherine the Captain took an arm, and Porter submitted, seemingly unconscious of his inconsistency.
Along the walls of the waiting room were benches, and on one of these they tried to make Porter comfortable. When she saw that his head must rest on the wooden seat, Katherine hesitated and looked at the Captain, who was following her with his eyes.
“I wish there was something for a pillow,” she said. “Perhaps”—she stood erect and looked slowly about the waiting room, then stepped to the door of the office, returning with a pretty frown. “I wonder”—she met the Captain's gaze smiling frankly—“if you would let me take your coat.”
He was not an old officer, and he was not a hermit, so with but slight hesitation he unbuckled his belt, removed the coat, rolled it up, and as Katherine raised her father's head he slipped it underneath.
“Will you send one of your men to a drug store for some camphor?” said Katherine, fumbling in the purse that hung from her belt.
The Captain beckoned to one of the soldiers who were clustered about the door, and placed him at Katherine's disposal. When he returned she soaked her handkerchief with the camphor and laid it on her father's forehead. He was already asleep.
“He'll be better as soon as he has had a little rest,” Katherine said. “You are very good to help us.” The Captain bowed with the expression of a man who has just been promoted, but said nothing.
For an hour Porter slept, and during that time Katherine stayed by him, moistening the folded handkerchief and chafing his wrists. The Captain, his importance and self-command oozing away a bit at a time as he watched the cool, quiet girl, hovered near as often as his dignity would permit with offers of assistance, most of which Katherine accepted. He put her horses and trap in charge of a militiaman, he brought out a rocking-chair for her, and when, a little after eight o'clock, Porter showed signs of waking, he sent out for some breakfast.
On Porter, the touch of sleep, the welcome cup of coffee, and more than anything else his daughter's soothing presence, seemed to have a marked effect. He sat up, leaning back heavily, and with a struggle collected his thoughts. Katherine joked with him, and fussed over him with a maternal solicitude that made the Captain smile.
At eight-thirty, as Porter was sipping another cup of coffee, the corporal appeared.
“A man says he's got to see Mr. Porter, sir. A Mr. McNally.”
“McNally,” cried Porter, starting up only to sink back, breathing heavily. “Bring him here. I've got to see him.”
The Captain hesitated.
“Did he state his business?”
“No, sir. But he has a pass through the lines at Sawyerville, signed by Colonel Wray.”
“Um—let him come in.”
It was not the Mr. McNally who had played for Katherine two nights before. That had been a well-groomed, self-possessed man of the world; this was a muddy, unshaven, angry man, who spoke in a loud voice and smothered an oath just too late to keep it from her ear.
He recovered somewhat, but even McNally could not lose sleep and temper for so many hours without a more or less immediate result. As she looked at him with a cool bow, Katherine thought of Harvey, and something caught in her throat.
“Well,” said Porter, “what about it? What's happened? Who's running this road?”
McNally looked curiously at the Captain before he replied. That officer, at an appealing glance from Katherine, left the group.
“The Governor is running it. He's played a game that knocks us silly. He's come down on us and cinched things for the senatorship at one crack.”
“What do you mean?” In his excitement Porter sat erect.
“The Old Man has declared the M. & T. under military rule until the courts choose to settle it to suit themselves. That throws us out, throws Weeks out, and the devil take the hindmost.”
“Has there been trouble?”
“They smashed into us at Sawyerville”—he suddenly remembered Katherine—“Excuse me, Miss Porter, I must see your father alone.”
“He cannot be excited, Mr. McNally.”
“There is no time to waste—”
Katherine turned abruptly and went into the office.
“Yes,” said McNally, “they ripped into us at Sawyerville and we had the hell of a time till Wray's guards came up and stopped it. Wray let me through,—it was just after daylight,—and I picked up a horse from a farmer and rode down. But we got West though, damn him!—caught him sneaking through the bushes.”
“Be careful, McNally, we've got to be careful. It's no time to get mixed up in a thing like that—we—we can't afford—”
“That's all right, Porter. We don't know where he is—I don't know, you don't know—and before we find out he'll be loose again.”
“But—Jim—Weeks don't forget that kind of thing, McNally—Jim Weeks—”
“Oh, damn Jim Weeks! I'll take care of him.”
Porter paused to drink at a gulp what was left of his coffee.
“Remember, McNally, I can't back you if you get careless—I can't back you, you know.”
“God, man! you've got to back me! You've got to back me through everything, or you'll go down with me. I tell you, Porter, we're too far in to back out, and it's nerve that's going to win. If you don't back me, if you don't draw on every cent you've got to shove it through, you'll be the one to be hit—not me.” He paced the floor. “Yes, sir. It's you if it's anybody.” Suddenly he stopped. He looked hard at Porter, then he turned quickly and strode into the office. Katherine was standing at the window.
“Miss Katherine—”
“Mr. McNally, my name is Miss Porter.”
“Miss—Miss Porter, I met a friend of yours this morning. I met him under peculiar circumstances. We had some words, I regret to say, and he left this with me.” The plump, dirty hand drew a blue envelope from McNally's coat pocket. “It has seemed to me that where your father's honor was as seriously involved as in this matter, you should have followed some other course than that of traitor.”
In his excitement, McNally misunderstood Katherine's silence.
“You have deliberately drawn out your father and me that you might aid our opponents. I have watched you—I have seen it—it is not your fault that we are not ruined—and for the sake of a man that I caught spying on us this morning, sneaking through the bushes in the dark—”
There was a groan from the doorway. Porter stood there with one hand over his eyes. Katherine looked for an instant, then she brushed past McNally, and with one arm about her father she called to the Captain, who stood at the other side of the waiting room. He came at once.
“Captain,” she said, “I must ask you to take care of my father. Please telephone for a doctor and a closed carriage, and see that he is sent home at once. I shall drive there in the trap to prepare for him. Don't let this man”—she turned contemptuously toward McNally—“speak to him or excite him in any way. Will you do this?” As she spoke her face softened, and she held out her hand. The Captain took it.
“Yes, Miss Porter, I will take care of him.”
Katherine, without looking again at McNally, walked to the door and called for her trap. As she waited on the steps, a newsboy came running down the walk, crying:—
“Nine o'clock Extry! All 'bout M. & T. riot!”
Katherine stopped him and bought a paper. The black headings told the story tersely, but one item stood out with vivid distinctness. She read, “Harvey West Disappears—Supposed that He Was Kidnapped—His Followers Swear Vengeance—Rumored that He Is Hidden Near The Oakwood Club.” For a moment the blood left her face, and her nerves tightened, but when the trap was pulled up she was herself, and the smile she gave the soldier in charge brought forth an earnest but amateurish salute.
Then Katherine drove home—it was her duty to go home. But, her duty done, she would drive straight to the Oakwood Club.
CHAPTER XX. — HARVEY
Before the dawn broke on Thursday morning Harvey was a prisoner. It was so absurd, so ridiculously theatrical, that had he not been too tired to think clearly, his sense of humor would have been equal to the occasion; as it was, he was angry, baffled, desperate. While held in the thicket by Wilkins's gang he had caught a voice too like McNally's to be easily mistaken, and when McNally struck the match that showed him the papers, Harvey had with an effort flopped over on the leaves, bound as he was, and through the bushes had caught a glimpse of McNally's face and figure.
While the shooting and the uproar sounded from the cut Harvey was held in the woods, but before the second encounter his captors jerked him to his feet, tied his handkerchief across his eyes, and led him stumbling away. In a few moments Harvey lost all sense of direction. He figured that he was still on the east side of the track, and in all probability was going southeast on the river road. For a short while he tried to keep the direction, but realizing that he might be turned without knowing it, he gave up and decided to rely upon a chance opportunity to escape. Undoubtedly his guards were acting simply as agents, and it occurred to him that he might be able to influence them; but as his occasional attempts at conversation brought only profanity in reply, he fell back upon silence.
Through his thin bandage he could feel that the light was growing brighter. Then he was led from the road, splashing through a ditch and sprawling over another fence. He bumped into a tree. The men jerked him roughly away and led him forward, twisting and stepping from side to side. Occasionally his foot struck a fallen log. Evidently they were in a heavy wood.
At best their progress was very slow and was marked with numerous haltings and delays. Finally, about two hours after the start, Harvey was thrust through a doorway and a lock clicked behind him. He tore off the handkerchief and found himself in a small office, evidently deserted, for the rusted stove, the broken chair, and the floor were thickly coated with dust. There was one window, empty of glass and boarded up from the outside. He looked through a crack and saw the caved-in shaft house and the straggling waste heap of a worked-out mine. “Wonder how long they're going to try this game,” he thought. He picked up the remains of a chair and tipping it over sat on the rounds.
Harvey was nearly done for. Aside from the strain of the week, and particularly of the night just ended, he was wet to the knees, and his head ached from a chance blow received during his brief struggle near the Sawyerville station. His eyelids drooped, and for fear of dropping off to sleep he rose and walked the floor. Gradually his head cleared. It occurred to him that McNally would have run the risk involved in kidnapping him only because it was very important he should be gotten out of the way. Therefore, he reasoned, it was equally important from his point of view that he remain decidedly in the way. He looked through the crack and saw three men standing a few yards from the window talking excitedly. Their voices were gradually rising.
“What you goin' to do with him?” asked one. “We can't keep him here.”
“Well, it's only for a few days.”
“But who's goin' to feed him?”
“Yes,” said the third, “an' how about us?”
“Oh, you'll be all right,” from the big man, who seemed to be the leader; “that's all fixed.”
“Who's goin' to do it—McNally?”
“Ssh!” the leader looked around, and all three lowered their voices.
Finally they seemed to reach an agreement; for the first speaker turned and walked rapidly toward the woods, and the others took to patrolling the small building.
Again Harvey walked the floor. If he was to be of any service to Jim Weeks during what was left of the fight, it was absolutely necessary that he escape as soon as possible. In the course of his work as Jim's private secretary he had become fairly well acquainted with the details of his employer's many interests. Nearly all the mines along the M. & T. were owned or controlled by the capital which Jim represented, and Harvey knew the location of each of these. There was but one abandoned mine in the Sawyerville district, the Valley Shaft; it was about four miles from Sawyerville station and perhaps three or four from the Oakwood Club.
Therefore, he reasoned, if he once broke loose from this galling restraint, he would soon be in a position to communicate with Jim.
Outside, the big man stood directly before the window; his fellow could be heard walking to and fro in the rear of the building. Harvey looked about the room. There was nothing to serve as a weapon, except some part of the stove. He bent down and removed one of the small iron legs, taking care to make no noise. Then he examined the window. The boards were half-inch stuff, nailed on with little idea of security, probably because the office contained nothing worth stealing. He figured that it would be no difficult matter for a man of his weight and strength to force an exit. For the moment he forgot his weariness.
Accordingly he drew back across the room, and bracing for a second against the wall, he ran forward and threw himself at the boards. They gave way more easily than he had supposed, and a rapid effort landed him squarely on the leader, who had turned at the noise. The struggle was short. Each had received a few hard blows when the man jerked his right arm loose and reached back for his revolver.
Harvey took advantage of his open guard to strike a quick blow with the stove leg and brought the fellow to the ground. Harvey rolled him over, took the revolver from his pocket, and picked up his own hat. A noise from behind the building called to mind the other man, and he hurried forward. The other was walking stealthily toward the shaft house.
“Say,” called Harvey.
The man turned sullenly.
“Your friend there—he doesn't feel well,” Harvey laughed nervously and gestured with the revolver; “you'd better look after him. I've got to go now.” He paused to glance back at the big man, who was lying on one elbow and rubbing his head, then he turned and ran toward the woods.
Once on the way, however, Harvey's sudden nervous strength deserted him. One of his opponent's blows had cut his scalp, and he was surprised to feel blood trickling down his face. He ran until his breath gave out, then he walked, struggling to overcome the dizziness that was coming on him. After going some distance he found a bridle path, and soon saw the river road before him. The need of hurry urging him on, he left the path to cut across a meadow. With some difficulty he drew himself upon the fence, and paused for breath with one leg thrown over the top rail. Then he felt a wave of dizziness, and, his muscles relaxing, he pitched forward into the long grass.
Good nursing, proper food, and a brief rest were enough to pull together Porter's yielding nerves. There was some delay at first in getting a physician, and Katherine was obliged to wait for the greater part of an hour before the slowly driven carriage brought her father home. Considerable time passed before his improvement justified her in leaving the house, and then it was so near noon that she decided to wait until after lunch.
Once on the road behind Ned and Nick, and beside the erect groom, Katherine realized the delicacy of the situation. Up to this moment she had been acting frankly upon impulse. It was so clear to her mind that McNally had been instrumental in the kidnapping of Harvey, and the sudden emotion aroused by the whole affair had so overwhelmed her, that for the time her only thought had been to get to Harvey, to be near him and of some service to him. But Katherine's impulse on this occasion was not far in advance of her reason, and what had begun in a whirl of excitement was continued in a spirit of quiet persistence. To be sure, there was a moment of wavering, but even then she did not think seriously of turning back. Anyway, there was nothing marked or unusual in frequent drives to the club during this crisp golfing weather.
It was after two o'clock when she reached the club. The links were dotted here and there with golfers, and the usual autumn quiet hung about the verandas and halls of the building, but in the office there was bustle and excitement. Katherine stood near the wide fireplace in the lower hall drawing off her gloves and looking through the office door. A man was telephoning, a big man with a quiet voice. In a moment he rang off and turned around. His face interested Katherine and she watched him as he talked to the steward; she could not help hearing the conversation.
“I've got to have another horse,” the big man was saying. “I'll pay you whatever your time is worth. I want this whole county stirred up in half an hour.”
“But, sir, I cannot leave the club. We are short of help as it is, and the caddies are busy.”
“I've no time to talk. A man has been kidnapped and very likely injured. You get a rig—any kind, a farm wagon, if the horses are good—and have it here in fifteen minutes. Figure your time at whatever you like and send the bill to me.”
He handed a card to the steward, who looked at it with a slight start, and murmuring, “Certainly, Mr. Weeks,” started down the hall. Katherine stopped him.
“What is it, Perry?”
“Jim—Mr. Weeks. He wants a horse.”
“You may lend him my trap—And, Perry, say nothing of it.” Without waiting for a reply, she went into the reading room, picked up a magazine, and, throwing open her jacket, sat on the broad window-seat. A moment later Ned and Nick were pulled up on the drive, Jim Weeks climbed in beside the groom, and they hurried down toward the bridge.
The magazine lay open in Katherine's lap. She rested an elbow on the window-sill and sat for a long time looking out across the valley. Not two weeks before this day she had stood on the veranda with Harvey, looking at the same picture through the haze of twilight. Then it had seemed like summer; now it was unmistakably autumn. Then the leaves were only beginning to yield to the touch of the waning year; now they were aflame and dropping—as she looked a whirl of them danced across the sloping lawn, the stragglers settling in the grass already marked by little dabs of red and russet brown. Farther off, in the valley, were corn-fields, now squares of yellow and bronze and gold. It was a glowing picture, but to Katherine it meant only that summer was dead, and she viewed it with vague regret.
The afternoon wore on, but Katherine took no account of it. At a little after four, when Jim Weeks drove up and entered the building, she was startled into looking at her watch. She heard the telephone bell ring, and realized that he was talking. Then he paced up and down the hall. She wanted to go out there and ask him about Harvey, whether he was found, or whether—she shuddered a little at the thought of injury—but a feeling of helplessness possessed her. She realized that the time was slipping rapidly away. Jim Weeks might go, and she would have learned nothing, would have done nothing. But she had not come altogether in vain. She recalled with half-defiant pride that Jim had used her horses.
“You are Miss Porter?”
Katherine started, and turned with a slow blush. Weeks stood gravely looking at her.
“I understand that I have to thank you,” he continued. “They were your horses, I believe. I hope I have not inconvenienced you by keeping you here. But it was an emergency.”
“Has Mr. West been found?” Katherine struggled to keep the anxiety out of her voice.
“No.” Weeks sat down. “It seems impossible to get any word. I've roused things pretty effectively though, I think. There's a reward up. The sheriffs of both counties are at work, and the farmers are all stirred up. There's nothing to do but wait. If he's found, and by any chance is hurt, they're to bring him here.”
“Wouldn't it be a good plan to have a doctor here, in case—”
“I don't think it is necessary. Of course the probability is that he is locked up somewhere and is being held for a day or so. If he is knocked out, it was not done intentionally. They wouldn't dare.”
At the word “they” Katherine winced a little, but Weeks apparently was entirely impersonal. There was a silence, Weeks sitting with slightly drawn brows but with an otherwise impassive face, Katherine looking out the window. A little later a wagon came slowly up the roadway. Two men were on the seat and a third reclined in the box. They were driving carefully, and Jim did not hear the sound of the wheels until a subdued exclamation from Katherine drew his attention. She was sitting erect, her hands gripping a cushion. Jim followed her gaze, then without a word he rose and hurried from the room.
A moment later Katherine saw the wagon pull up at the steps, Weeks running down to meet it. The man beside the driver dropped back into the wagon box and raised the reclining figure; then he and Jim helped him to the ground.
In spite of the soiled clothes, the matted hair, and the bandage across the forehead, Katherine recognized Harvey. When she saw that he could walk, even though leaning heavily on the others, her heart bounded. The three came slowly up the steps. Then she could hear Jim's voice in the hall, evidently issuing an order, and the steward slid one of the hall settees into the room and piled rugs upon it.
Katherine rose in some doubt as they entered. She had taken up two of the cushions, one in each hand, and stood holding them. By now it was nearing five o'clock. The sun was about setting, and while outdoors it was still light, the long low room was already dim with approaching evening, so that not until he was close at hand could she see Harvey distinctly. But when she did distinguish the pale face and the weary eyes, her hesitation vanished and she hastened to lay the cushions on the settee. Harvey evidently had not observed her, for he suddenly drew back.
“Really, Miss Porter, I'm not such an invalid as these people are trying to make out. I don't need to lie down.” He laughed slightly as Jim drew him forward. “It's just a little stiffness. See here—” he broke away from his helpers and walked somewhat uncertainly to the settee, sitting on the edge. “What's the matter with that?”
“Lie down, West,” said Jim, quietly. Katherine glanced at him quickly. It was a peremptory order, but delivered in a quiet friendly tone whose calm assertiveness admitted of no debate. With an impatient gesture Harvey obeyed. Indeed, as Katherine looked almost shyly at this big, self-contained man she wondered if it would be possible to disobey him. And with the sudden realization of his secure authority came a wave of pity for her own father, the man who had thrown himself against this human rock and who was suffering for it. She turned away an instant for fear that her face would reveal her emotion.
“Well,” said Jim, looking at his watch, “by starting now I can catch the early train to Chicago. Be careful, West; there's no hurry. I'll wire you in the morning if there is anything important. Miss Porter, may I ask you to see that the steward takes care of Mr. West? I'll send a doctor out. I'm sorry to trouble you—there's no one else.”
Katherine inclined her head. And then she realized that Harvey and she were alone.
“Won't you draw up a chair?” said Harvey. “I want to talk to you. I'm glad you're here. It's an awful bore to be alone when you're this way.”
His attempt at an easy manner gave Katherine a sense of relief. She sat beside him.
“I'm sorry you are hurt. How did it happen?”
“I think I fell off a fence. Wonder if I lost my handkerchief?” He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a revolver, clasping it by the barrel. “That's funny. I don't remember—oh, yes.” He stuffed it back into his pocket.
“What is it? Tell me about it.”
Harvey looked thoughtfully at her. It occurred to him that to let her know of McNally's actions, which presumably were instigated by Porter himself, would be bringing matters too close home.
“No,” he replied, “it's rather a disagreeable story. If you were a good nurse you would try to make me forget it. I'm glad you are here—very glad. How did you happen to come?”
“I often drive out. It is growing dark. I must think about getting back.”
“No,” said Harvey, quickly, “don't go. I don't want you to go. I want to talk to you.” His voice dropped as he spoke, and both suddenly became conscious of a change that had come over them, between them. Katherine sat still, turning her head toward the window, and though she could not see him she knew that Harvey was looking at her. The room was darker now.
“Have you thought how odd this is,” Harvey went on, “this conversation? We are talking just as though nothing had happened, just as though we were the same people who—who bought things at Field's; but we aren't. There's no use in thinking we are.” He paused to raise himself on his elbow. “Do you know it is just twelve days since we were here?”
Katherine laughed a little.
“You have counted them?”
“Yes. Last night when I was coming down on the special I thought about it—you know it seems longer, it seems a year ago. You remember we talked about the M. & T. And the next day when you drove me to the station—do you remember? I've wondered since then, a good many times, what you meant, whether you really wanted to see us win.” She started to speak, but he broke in: “If I dared think so—”
“You think I am weak.”
“No, if you really want to know what I think—I think you are the strongest girl I ever knew. Katherine,”—he reached impulsively for her hand, but she drew it away,—“I think you are—well, I might as well say it, you probably know it anyhow. I love you. I—I don't know that there is anything else to say.”
Katherine leaned back and looked at him. Her back was toward the window, and he could see only the outline of her head.
“Are you sure?” she asked slowly.
“You mean—you think I'm not well, that I haven't control of myself—I do love you, Katherine, so much that I can't get along without you. You believe me, don't you? You must believe me!”
“Yes,” very slowly, “I believe you.”
“Then—”
“I don't know what to say. I'm afraid I—Oh, don't say any more! It isn't right.” She rose suddenly as if to move away, but Harvey caught her dress and then her hand.
“Katherine, you aren't going to leave me this way. Perhaps you don't want me, perhaps I have been mistaken and foolish, but I love you, and that ought to count for something.”
“It does—you don't understand—” She looked out the window for a moment: the first low-lying stars were out. “Don't you suppose,” she said at last, in a labored voice, “that I have feelings? Don't you suppose that I—I don't mean that, either. You have been fighting my father—I have helped you. I have helped you to injure him, my own father. He is sick now, and I left him to-day, because—” Harvey's grasp tightened. “I have been disloyal to him, I have been dishonest—and that counts for something, too. No—we have been good friends, we can still be good friends. Perhaps, if it had been different—but it wasn't.”
“You don't mean this, Katherine.”
She drew her hand away and stood erect, dignified now and calm.
“I am going home. I know that you love me, and I know that you will not hurt me any longer; for it does hurt me, I will tell you that.”
“But I shall see you—” With an effort, he raised himself to his feet and stood, weak and giddy, leaning on the back of the chair. “I won't give you up!”
“Lie down. You mustn't tire yourself. We don't know what may happen,” she steadied his arm as he sat down on the couch; “we only know what is right for us now. Good-by. I will speak to the steward.”
With throbbing head Harvey sank back on the cushions. A few moments later the doctor came in.