CHAPTER XXIX

"Where is that—where is John Trott?" he asked, panting, saliva like that of an idiot dripping from his shaking lip. "Where is he, I say?"

Tilly saw the negro staring curiously. She knew he was listening. Almost deprived of her wits, yet she was thoughtful, and she said:

"Come in, father; come in?"

"Oh, he is inside, is he?"

"Come in," Tilly answered, evasively. "Let's not talk out here."

She led the way into the sitting-room and tremblingly placed a chair for him, noting as she did so that his coarse shoes were untied, his hat without a band, his cravat awry, his shirt unclean. He refused the chair, and stood holding to the back of it with a besmudged hand. Then her alert eyes took in the bulge of the right-hand pocket of his short coat. A weighty article drew it sharply downward. She knew that it was a revolver, and her blood ran cold in her veins.

"Where is John Trott?" Whaley demanded, raspingly, and he looked toward the door leading into the dining-room. That room was darkened and he bent and peered toward it like a beast about to spring on its prey.

"He is not here, father," Tilly said, in almost a gentle whisper.

"Not here? Where has he gone?"

She hesitated and then answered, "Out in the country, father."

"I don't believe it." He turned, automatically laid his hand on his revolver, and left the room. She stood still. She heard him stalking from room to room, now striking against a chair or a table or tripping on a rug. Through the window she saw the cabman, his gaze on the cottage door. Whaley passed the window; he was walking around the house; his hand was in his right pocket; he stumbled over a tuft of grass, almost fell, and uttered a snort of fury. She raised a window at the side of the house, and saw him looking into the little woodshed in the rear of the lot. He turned and strode back to the cottage, entering at the kitchen door and clamping over the resounding floor back to her.

"Where is he? I say," he snarled.

"I told you, father," she said. "Why—what is the matter? What do you want? Why are you so excited?"

"You know well enough!" he cried. "Don't stand there and tell me that you don't know all or more than I do. Show him to me. I want to meet the white-livered atheistic agent of hell. And when I do meet him he'll never sneak into another respectable home like he did in mine. Do you know what is being said? Do you know what is spreading from county to county up home?"

"I can imagine," Tilly sighed. She felt faint. The objects in the room, the glaring fanatic, the sunny windows were swinging around her. She pulled herself together. She told herself she must be strong. Unless she conquered her weakness and held taut her wits her husband would be killed. What was to be done? Suddenly an idea came. She told herself that it might work. There was nothing else to do, and at any cost she must prevent the meeting of the two men. Another moment and the madman might be driving away in search for his victim.

"Father," she began, and she advanced to him and started to lay her hand on his arm, but he drew back and snarled like an infuriated beast.

"Did you know about that strumpet, Liz Trott, before you married her son?" he asked.

"No, father, I did not; but you don't understand John's position—"

"Understand the devil and all his imps! He'll understand me when I meet him; that will be enough."

"Father, sit down, please. John is away out in the country and won't be home for a long time. Please, please don't raise a row here and stir up this whole town. John is suffering enough without that. Now listen to me. You know I have some rights. I am a married woman now, and I've got a heart and soul in me. I've got the right as an innocent woman not to be dragged into a scandal like this. If you shot John in your present fury I'd have to be held as a witness, and you'd be put in jail. You are a religious man. Surely you ought to know that God would not forgive you for treating your own child as you are about to treat me. I am willing to go home with you right away—this minute! The cab is waiting, and we could catch the twelve-o'clock train. Surely you regretted that other shooting affair you had, and are grateful to God for sparing you from the worst. I'll pack up and go. It won't take me long."

Slowly and limply he sank into a chair. His soot-streaked hands clutched his knees and he groaned. She saw him shake his frowsy head and a tremor went through him. He was being twisted between the hands of two forces. He was silent for several minutes, save for his loud breathing. Glancing through the window, Tilly saw that the negro had approached the gate. She went to the window and leaned out.

"Can you tell me," she asked him, as he saw her and lifted his hat, "what time the Tennessee north-bound train leaves?"

"Twelve ten, miss," he answered, trying to read the suppressed mystery of her features. "Do you need me in dar? Dat man look' dangerous ter me, miss."

"Oh no." She shook her head and forced a smile. "But I want to ask—can you take us to the station, and a small trunk also?"

"Yes'm."

"Hold on!" It was Whaley's voice, and he had risen. "Tell that nigger to— Let me speak to him. Do you think I came down here to—"

Tilly thrust her small person between him and the window. She laid two opposing hands on his breast and checked him.

"I'm going to save you from murder— I will, I will!" she said, desperation filling her voice with power and causing his fierce stare to flicker. "If you meet my husband you will shoot him and the blood of a helpless, suffering, noble man will be on your head. You know what the brand on Cain was. You will bear it till you meet God with it on your brow. Do you think He'd forgive you? No, you'd have to burn for it in eternal torment, and you know it. You know you thanked God for sparing you before. Are you going to do even a worse thing now?"

He sank, half pushed down by her, into his chair. She saw the revolver, now exposed by his gaping pocket, and had an impulse to take it, but realized that the act would infuriate him anew. So she left it alone and stood squarely in front of him.

"You are not going to damn your soul," she went on, firmly. "Jesus, your Saviour and mine, forgave the guilty and you are refusing to pardon even the innocent. You are going to take me home. You are going to sit quietly there till I pack my trunk, and then we'll take the cab to the train."

He groaned under a vast inrolling wave of indecision, and stared at her like a helpless, thwarted child, and yet she knew that the flames smoldering within him were apt to burst at any moment.

"I want to go home," she said. "I'm giving you this chance to take me in a decent way. If you refuse, I don't know what I'll do, but you'd better take me. For your sake and mine, you'd better do it. Now, I am being driven to the wall, father, and down inside of me is your stubborn nature when it is roused. You harm my husband, and see what I'll do. I'll swear against you at the court of man. I'll appear against you on the Day of Judgment."

He stared at her helplessly. His great mouth fell open and he groaned. "I understand, and—and you may be right," he faltered. "But you'd better hurry. I know myself, and I know that if I met him I'd put him out of the way if all hell stood between me and him. He has dragged my name down into the mire and made me a laughing-stock before all men. I'm pointed at, sneered at—called a senile fool."

"I'll hurry," she promised. "It won't take long."

In the little bedroom she threw open her trunk and began hastily to pack. New fears were now assailing her. What if John should suddenly come home for something he had left, as he had done once or twice? Indeed, there on the bureau lay the blue-and-white drawing which only the night before he had been studying. He might come for that, using Cavanaugh's horse and buggy, as he frequently did. The thought chilled her to the marrow of her bones. In her haste she all but tore her simple dresses from their hooks in the closet and stuffed them, unfolded, into the trunk. Now and then a little stifled sob escaped her. Her father sat still and soundless in the other room. She wanted to brush his clothes, tie his shoes, and fix his hatband before starting away, but time was too valuable.

There was a pad of writing-paper and a pencil on the bureau, and she told herself that she must write John a note and leave it. She closed and locked her trunk. Then she turned to the pad. She took up the pencil and started to write, but was interrupted. Her father crossed the hall and stood in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a suspicious gleam in the eyes which took in the pad and pencil.

"Nothing. I am ready," she replied, dropping the pencil and turning to a window. "Come in and get the trunk," she ordered the cabman.

Nothing was said by Whaley or herself now, for the negro, hat in hand, was entering. And when he had left with the trunk, Tilly said:

"Come on, father, let's go."

Sullenly and still with a haunting air of indecision on him, he trudged ahead of her out into the yard. She closed the door but did not lock it.

"How can I get a message to John?" she asked herself. "There is no way that I can see, and yet I must—oh, I must!"

Her father had gone to the cab, opened the door himself, and stood waiting for her. In the open sunshine, his unshaven face had a grisly, ashen look; his bloodshot eyes held flitting gleams of insanity. His lips moved. He was talking to himself. She saw him clench his fist and hammer the glass door of the cab.

The negro was immediately behind Tilly. She turned while her father's eyes were momentarily averted. "Listen," she said, in a low tone. "See my husband when he returns home to-night; tell him that my father came for me and that I had to leave. Tell him not to come up home."

The negro's bare pate nodded beside the trunk on his shoulder. He seemed to understand, but made no other response, for Whaley's suspicious eyes were now on him and his daughter.

"Get in! Get in!" Whaley gulped, and stood holding the cab door.

She obeyed, and he followed and crowded into the narrow seat beside her. Through the glass of the opposite door she saw the white tombstones of the town's burial-place, the roof of Lizzie Trott's house above the trees, and the jagged, boulder-strewn hills beyond. The next moment the cab had turned toward the station and was trundling along the rutted, seldom-used street. Whaley's gaping pocket was within an inch of her hand, and Tilly could have taken out the revolver, but she did not dare do so, for that might fire him anew, and she had determined to run no risks whatever. The smoke of factory chimneys streaked the horizon above the town. She heard the bell of a switch-engine in the distant railway-yard. They met a grocer's delivery-wagon. It was taking some ordered things to the cottage, but Tilly dared not stop to explain, and, as the grocer's boy did not recognize her, the two conveyances passed each other. In an open lot some boys were playing ball. How could they play so unconcernedly when to the young wife the whole universe seemed to be whirling to its doom?

A little street-car was rumbling down an incline not far away. It seemed to have a few passengers. What if one of them should be John? And what if, on finding her gone, he should hasten to town and meet her father before the train left?

"What time is it?" she asked her father, with forced nonchalance. He made no answer, and she reached over and drew his open-faced silver watch from the pocket of his waistcoat; but he had forgotten to wind it, and it had stopped at three o'clock. She put the timepiece back with difficulty, for he was leaning forward and made no effort to aid her.

They were soon within sight of the station. Groups of men and boys stood about. She shuddered at the thought of meeting their gaze. Cavanaugh might be among them, and she feared the consequences of her father's ire on seeing him. And when the cab had stopped and they had alighted Tilly noticed that the men were exchanging remarks and staring at her and her father. Surely they suspected something, and why? she wondered. Some of them came closer and eyed her attentively while pretending not to do so.

Tilly had her purse, and she sent the cabman for the tickets and ordered him to check her trunk. There was a little waiting-room, and, desiring more seclusion, she led her father into it. But they were not thus to escape the stare of the bystanders, for many of them walked past the door and looked in curiously. One of them wore the uniform of a policeman, and it seemed as if he were about to address some inquiry to her, but decided not to do so when he saw the cabman delivering the tickets and trunk-check to her. The clock on the wall indicated twelve. Ten minutes to wait. She was beginning to hope that all would be well when the ticket-seller came from his office and with a piece of chalk wrote on a blackboard bulletin:

"36 North-bound 15 minutes late."

The time dragged. More curious persons came to the door, stared, and even paused. The cabman came for his fare. She paid him for the use of his cab all the morning. "Don't forget," she whispered.

"I won't, miss," he said, comprehendingly, and thereupon she put some more money into his hand.

"Please, please, don't forget!" she repeated.

She watched him as he walked away, and then she saw the policeman join him, and the two turned to one side and began to talk earnestly together.

At last the train came. Through a gaping throng, ever increasing, she led her father to a seat in one of the coaches. There was only a short stop, and the train was soon moving again. The relief was great, and a vast sense of weakness came over her. She felt like crying, but she knew that would never do. She yearned for the opportunity to confide in some one. It could not be her mother, for she had never been understood by her mother. There was one friend who would understand, who had always understood, and that was Joel Eperson. Joel would be grieved. She was the wife of another, but that would make no difference to Joel Eperson, for that he was still faithful to her she did not doubt. She told herself that she must see Joel at once and get his advice. She could think of no one else upon whom she could so confidently rely, and she must go to some one, for all the initiative she had ever possessed seemed to have been ruthlessly destroyed along with every girlish dream, hope, and ideal.

CHAPTER XXX

It was dark that evening when John arrived home. As he opened the gate he was surprised to see that the cottage was not lighted. That was indeed strange, for Tilly was usually in the kitchen or the dining-room at that hour. The next remarkable thing was the fact that the key was in the lock. He felt it and heard it rattle as he caught the door-knob. The hall was dark and silent. He went in hurriedly. What could have happened? Where could she be? He called out: "Tilly! Tilly!" but there was no response. A gray cat that belonged to the Carrols came and rubbed against his ankles as he stood in the kitchen. He lighted the gas. How odd! for there lay the unwashed breakfast-dishes, the uncleaned coffee-pot, and in the dining-room the breakfast table-cloth had not been removed. He put down his dinner-pail, and, with a great fear clutching his breast, a fear he could not have defined, he went into the sitting-room. Nothing here was out of place, and he turned into the bedroom. It was dark, and with unsteady hands he struck a match. It broke. A blazing globule fell to the mat. He swore impatiently and extinguished it with his foot. He struck another and lighted the gas. The open door of the closet, now empty, met his eyes. A crushed hat-box lay on the floor, the bureau drawers were wide open and contained but a few things. He looked for Tilly's trunk. It was gone. Then he began to look everywhere for some written communication, lighting all the gas-jets to facilitate his search. Then he gave it up. He went about extinguishing the gas as aimlessly and mechanically as a sleepwalker, unaware of the things he was touching.

He went out on the porch. He stepped down into the yard. Verbal expression of no sort was formed in his consciousness, for the pall of comprehension had not yet quite enveloped him. Something yet of hope might blaze forth out of his gloom. Ah, perhaps she had received a telegram from home that some one was ill and had not had time to inform him. Yes, it might be that—that and not the other—not the damnable, sinister conceit that somehow seemed to emerge from the home of his mother and come crawling like a designing monster across the intervening spaces toward him. He went to the gate and clutched it with the strong hand which all that day had lifted mortar and bricks till his muscles were sore. Then he heard the sound of wheels. A horse and cab were approaching from the direction of the town.

"Ah, a message is coming!" he cried, a vast rising relief driving the words from him.

"Is dat you, Mr. Trott?" The cabman was reining his horse in at the gate.

"Yes. What is it?" John went out to the cab and stood breathlessly waiting for the negro to speak.

"Why, yo' wife tol' me ter tell you, sir, dat—but, bless me if I wasn't so rattled dat I hardly remember what it was she said."

"My wife, my wife, what about her?"

"Why, I done fetch 'er father here, sir, dis morning," the man went on in stammering tones. "He was rampagin' up 'n' down de Square, askin' whar you was. He had a gun an' was out er his head. Dar wasn't no policeman about, en' nobody else knowed how ter handle him. He sure was dangerous! Seems like he done hear about—well, you know—about yo' ma, an' Miss Jane Holder, an'—an' de high jinks over dar night after night, an' fines, drinks, poker an' all dat. He didn't talk to me, sir, but some of de white folks dat he saw in de stores said he claimed dat you abdicated his young daughter 'fo' she was old enough ter decide fer herself. I didn't want ter fetch 'im here, for blood was in his eyes, but I was afraid not to, wid him settin' behind me wid dat gun in his pocket, so I driv' him over, knowin' you was out in der country at work an' safe fer a while, anyway."

"But my wife—my wife?" John all but pleaded. "What about her?"

"I don't know 'cept she tuck 'im inside an' sorter quieted 'im down and tol' 'im she wanted to go home ter her ma. Some a de white folks up-town say she didn't know what she was gettin' her foot into down here nohow, an', now she found out, she was glad ernough to get away. One an' all say she is plumb decent herself, just er plain country girl wid good up-bringin'. Some of 'em is b'ilin' mad at you an' yo' boss."

John stifled a rising groan. "Damn you," he said, "cut all that out and tell me if my wife left any message for me."

"Yes, sir, she did—now I remember, but she had ter give it ter me on de sly, an' I didn't git all of it. She said tell you she had ter go—dat she had stood it as long as she could, an'—oh yes, she said fer you not ter dare ter show yo'se'f up dar at 'er ol' home."

"And have they left town?" John asked, with strange calmness.

"Oh yes, sir! Dey tuck de twelve-ten train."

"That will do." John motioned for him to go. "I understand."

The negro turned his horse around and started back to town. John stood stock-still, his eyes on the cab disappearing in the gloom. He had stood that way for several minutes when a small hand was slipped into his from behind, and, looking around, he saw the soiled face and matted hair of Dora Boyles.

"Brother John," she faltered, "has Tilly left you—really—really left you?"

He dropped her hand and shoved her from him. "Go home!" he cried. "Go home, and don't bother me!"

She fell back a yard or so and stood staring at him. "I won't go till you tell me," she said, stubbornly. "I started over here this morning to show Tilly my doll and get her to help me dress it. I saw that crazy-looking old man come in a cab and take her and her trunk away. She was white—oh, she was as white as a sheet, and so pitiful-looking!"

"Go home, I tell you! Go home!" John gulped and snarled like a man goaded at once by grief and physical pain. "Go home, I tell you! Leave me alone!"

"I suppose that means she has left," the child reasoned aloud. "Well, brother John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, because I liked her awfully well. But I'm not surprised. Aunt Jane told your ma yesterday—and it made her mad. My! didn't the old girl rip and snort? Aunt Jane told her this thing would happen sooner or later. She said no woman alive could stay cooped up in a little box like this very long and not have a single soul go near her, and you off all day."

John laid his hand roughly on the child's shoulder and smothered an oath of fury. "You go home!" he panted. "If you don't, I'll—"

"You'll do nothing!" The child smiled fearlessly. "Your bark is worse than your bite, brother John. But I'm going. I'll come back, though. I'll be over to clean up and cook something for you. You won't come back to our old shack, I know."

When she had left he went into the cottage, but he did not light the gas again. The darkness seemed more suitable to his mood. He sat down on the edge of his and Tilly's bed. His massive hand sank into her pillow. It was past his supper hour, but he had no desire to eat. The sheer thought of the kitchen where his young wife had worked, somehow suggested her death. A little round metal clock on the mantel was ticking sharply. He got up and wound it, as usual, at that hour. He went into the sitting-room. Here he sat down, lurched forward in unconscious weakness, and then, swearing impatiently, he steadied himself. He remained there only a minute. Rising, he went into the dining-room, felt about, as a blind man might, for a chair, and sank into it. Crossing his arms on the table, he rested his head on them. Had he been a weaker man he might have pitied himself. He had always contended that a man who could not bear pain and adversity had a "yellow streak" in him. He had once had a painful operation performed without an anesthetic, and he now told himself that he simply must master the things within and without him which had combined to overthrow him. He ground his teeth together. He clenched his fingers till the nails of some of them broke.

He closed his eyes. He tried to imagine that he was becoming drowsy and that he would soon sleep, but a thousand pictures floated through his brain and dug themselves in like burrowing animals. Chief among them was a view of Whaley striding about the Square, uttering slobbering anathemas against him. Another scene was that of Tilly's receiving the revelation he himself had shrunk from making. He saw the blight fall on her bonny face and her calm and inevitable consent to abandon him forever. And yet how could he bear that—exactly that? He groaned against the smooth surface of the table. He was ashamed of his frailty, for the mastery of himself seemed farther off, almost an impossibility.

The iron latch of the gate clicked. A heavy step grated on the gravel walk. He sat up straight and listened. The cast-iron door-bell rang. There was a pause, then a step sounded in the hall. Some one was entering unbidden and stalking into the house.

"Oh, John—Johnny, my boy! Where are you?" It was Cavanaugh's voice filled with fluttering grief, tenderness, dismay.

"Here I am!" John did not rise. "Here, in the dining-room."

"But the light—the light. Why don't you—"

Cavanaugh broke off as he stood in the doorway. He paused there for a moment, as if wondering what state a light would reveal the crouched form of his friend to be in.

"I don't want a light, Sam," John muttered. "You can have one if you want it. Here are some matches—but, no, I'll light up. When I came in I was so tired that I sat down here a minute, and—well, I must have—have dropped asleep. But what the hell's the use to lie to you?" He struck a match and held it to the gas-jet over the table beneath the gaudy porcelain shade. His writhing face, in the sudden flare of light, was white, holding a tint even of green. He sank back into his chair. "No, I won't lie, Sam. Besides, if you haven't already heard you will soon enough."

"I have heard," Cavanaugh admitted. "I heard it at home from a neighbor. Then I went to the Square to make sure, and—"

"I know. It's town talk, a delicious tidbit for women and loafers," John sneered. "Well, well, it is done, Sam. It has happened, and that is all there is to it."

"I hurried over to see you and talk with you," Cavanaugh went on. "I don't know what step you want to take."

"I'll take none," John answered, grimly. "You don't think I want to kill anybody, do you? She is his daughter, and he had her before I got her. I tell you there is no fight in me, Sam. I can fight, as you know, when it has to be done, but there is no call for it in this case. Knowing Tilly as I know her, and now knowing my own plight as it has been made plain to me since I brought her here, I would think any man a damned idiot that would allow his daughter to marry me. God! God! No, never! Sam, Sam, I never found fault with you before, but you ought to have told me. By God! you ought to have opened my damned sightless eyes!"

"Don't! don't! my boy!" Cavanaugh cried, huskily. "You are breaking my heart. I wanted you with me. I saw how you two loved one another, and I thought I was acting right. I—I couldn't pull the bad conduct of others between you and that sweet little girl. I am not satisfied to let it rest as it is, either. You may not want to take any steps, but it is my duty to try to do something."

"Something? What the hell could you or any one do?"

"Well, I'll tell you what struck me, my dear boy. I'm going up to Cranston to-night and see how the land lies. I don't intend to rest idle and know no more than I've picked up in the wild talk of men on the streets up-town and a stupid negro cab-driver. This is a serious matter, and I have a big duty to perform."

"It won't do any good," John groaned, softly, and he shook his head. "I've been thinking it all over. I began to get my eyes open as soon as we got here. I've been a fool—a boy, a blind boy, at that, and what has happened to-day is not such a great surprise. You needn't go up there and beg for me, Sam. Say what you will, I am not worthy of her—that's the whole damned truth in a nutshell."

"Not worthy of her?" Cavanaugh protested. "How ridiculous, my boy!"

"No, I'm not. I don't know a man that is, but I'm sure that I never can be. Do you know that in meeting me and marrying me as she did that sweet child never had a fair deal? Other girls not as good as she is have married men with plenty of means, not a—a stain on them, with respectable friends and honorable blood-kin. But what have I done—my God! what have I done? Sam, I've committed a crime. No matter how I felt—how much I wanted her—I had no sort of right to her. No man has a right to lay a filthy load like mine on unsuspecting, frail shoulders. It is done, but if I could undo it and make her as free as she was when—when I first saw her up there, I'd do it if it plunged me into the eternal hell of flames her daddy believes in."

Cavanaugh's sympathies were wrung dry. He sat blinking as if every word from his protégé were a blow well aimed at him. Once he started to speak, but his voice broke and he desisted, sitting with his arms grimly folded, his legs awkwardly crossed, a broad, dust-coated shoe poised in mid-air.

"Maybe I ought to have had a talk with you—maybe," he finally said. "I—I prayed over it, John, but no light seemed to come to justify me in judging anybody in the matter—not your poor, misguided mother even, for our Lord and Saviour told us not to judge her sort. As I interpret Him, He said them that judged was the ones that needed judgment most of all. So on that I acted. My wife saw it a little bit different at first, but she finally said I was right, and sanctioned it. It seems to me that your ma is—is what she is just on the outside, anyway. The other day out at the work, after she had said all that in hot passion, it seemed to me that I noticed a look of shame and regret in her face, like she realized she had gone too far. You may remember that me and her stepped to one side just before she left, and—well, she started to cry. She did that, John, and it meant a lot. I was seeing her with her veil off—as you might say—I was looking beneath the paint, powder, and coming wrinkles. You know I knew her when she was a girl. I must speak plain. She was a beauty then, and that was her ruin, for all the hellish designs of the sharpest of men was centered on her. Your pa was clean, straight as a die, and loved her, but he was helpless. She loved attention and would have it. She fell. It had to come. It meant your pa's ruin, and it meant this blight that is on you and Tilly now; but, my boy, I stand here as a confident witness before God Almighty and state that nothing but good can come out of it in the long run. Peace out of the turmoil; joy out of the shame and grief; the fragrance of Elysian fields out of the moral stench under your mother's roof."

"Good?" John sniffed. "Sam, don't talk to me of a God—yours or any other man's. When you have been where I am now, you'll know more about God than you do. God? God? God? You say he is everywhere. He's here to-night, isn't he? Here in this room? There in the kitchen where she left the dishes unwashed? Here where she left the door unlocked and ran away, disgusted with me for leading her into such a mess."

"Hush, hush, my boy!" entreated Cavanaugh, a dry sob rasping his throat. "Don't say any more! It is almost time for my train. I'm going up there to-night and see what can be done. Tilly will talk to me. What could she say here to these strangers? Now, don't go to work to-morrow. Things will move along all right for one day without us, and you won't feel like working, anyhow. I'll get back to-morrow night at ten o'clock. Wait for me here."

The grim silence which now brooded over John gave consent, and Cavanaugh rose and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't give up," he said. "I'm sure I'll bring back good news. God will see to that."

"I'll wait for you, Sam," John consented, "but it won't be as you hope. There is no God to see to anything. God didn't help my father, did he? Neither will he help me. The whole thing is blind chance. 'Lead us not into temptation'! What a pitiful prayer! My mother, you say, was led in when she was not more than a girl. Were the designing men on her track God's agents, and is my fate, and my young wife's, a part of some plan laid in heaven?"

"Wait, wait!" Cavanaugh reached down and took John's inert hand and pressed it. "I'll see you to-morrow night."

CHAPTER XXXI

He said nothing, but as he turned away a faint sense of gratitude seemed to enter the aching void within him. A little later she called him to the dining-room. He had eaten no supper the night before, and his physical being demanded nourishment. He sat down and the child waited on him. The coffee was good and bracing, the eggs and steak were prepared to his taste, the toast brown and crisp.

Somehow he now regarded Dora with pity. How frail, wan, and anemic she looked! How thin and bloodless her hands and cheeks! She had the making of a good woman in her, but she, too, was losing her chance. How sad! How pitiful!

"You work too hard," he suddenly said, and he wondered if that touch of refined consideration for another had come from his contact with his wife. "You are too little and young. Sit down yourself and eat."

She shrugged her peaked shoulders and laughed. "I'm not hungry. I'm not a bit hungry here lately. The only thing I care for is syrup and bread, and they say too much of that as a regular diet will get you down in the long run."

He stared, his impulse toward her betterment oozing out of him. The whistles of the factories reminded him that he was not to work that day—that he was not to return at dark to Tilly, as had been his wont, and he rose and went back to the bedroom. What was to take place? Why, the day would drag by and Cavanaugh would return with some verdict or other—some report that would settle his fate forever.

Leaving Dora at work in the kitchen, he went outside. Desiring not to meet any one, he made his way to the nearest wooded hillside beyond his mother's house and the bleak, white-capped cemetery. From that coign of vantage he saw the town stretched out beneath him. He found a great moss-grown boulder and half lay, half sat on it. The sun climbed higher and higher; the din of the town and its industries beat in his ears, the buzz of a planing-mill, the clang of hammered iron. He ought not to have attempted to pass that particular day in absolute solitude and inactivity, but he knew naught of his own psychology. He watched for the coming and going of trains, telling himself again and again that Cavanaugh's return would decide his fate forever. What would he be informed? How could he face the thing that he had told Cavanaugh actually was to happen—that Tilly and he were to be parted forever?

At noon he crept down the hill, keeping himself hidden till the way was clear, then he hastened across the open to the cottage. The child, still there, had given it a semblance of order, and his lunch was on the table. She refused to sit with him, though he asked her in a tone that was full of consideration and that odd, abashed tenderness for her which seemed to be rooting in the loam of pained humility which filled him.

"I want to know, brother John," she said, her deep-sunken eyes staring earnestly—"I want to know if you think she is coming back?"

He gulped down his hot coffee, and as he replaced his cup in his saucer he said, with a touch of his old fatalistic recklessness: "I don't know. I think not. Sam is up there to-day to—to see about it. He will be back to-night. I don't know. I'm leaving it all to him, and—and to—her."

Later, as he sat and smoked in the parlor he tried to read the daily newspaper that had been left at his door, but even the boldest head-lines foiled to catch and rivet his attention. Taking a hammer and nails, he went into the back yard to repair a fence; but he had scarcely started to lift the first plank into place when the incongruity of the thing clutched him as in a vise. What was he doing? Why was he thinking of a thing so inconsequential as that? And for whom was he putting the fence to rights? With an oath born of sheer bleak agony, he threw the hammer from him and dropped the nails and plank to the ground. He had loved the place; he and Tilly had called it their "Cottage of Delight"; he had thought he would keep it in order, and even improve it, but all that was gone. He went back to the hillside. He watched the afternoon melt away, saw the sun go down into a bed of crimson and pink and the filmy cloud-curtains being drawn about the molten sleeper.

It was growing dark when he went back to the cottage. Dora was in the kitchen, preparing his supper. He was vaguely angered by her attention to him. He appreciated her doglike fidelity, but it made him impatient, for she was too small, young, and weak to do all that she was doing.

"You must go home," he blurted out, standing in the doorway and surveying her. "I'm able to look out for myself. I'm not hungry, anyway, now, for you have filled me up to the neck."

She smiled wistfully. There was a smudge of soot on her nose which gave her face a grotesque look. Her bare legs and feet were dust-coated and scrawny.

"I want to be here when Mr. Cavanaugh comes back," she contended, almost defiantly, a shadow of rigid doggedness in her eyes.

"But you can't," he retorted with irritation. "It will be late at night and you should be in bed."

"I want to know what he has to say," Dora persisted, putting more wood into the range. "Tilly was nice and good to me, and I want to know if she is coming back. Besides—besides, you want her."

"You can't sit up around here," he said, firmly. "You've got to go home."

She said nothing. He thought he had offended her and was sorry for it, but when supper was over he prevailed upon her to go. "Poor little rat!" he mused, as he stood at the gate and watched her vanish in the night. "She's never had a chance, and she'll never have one. Huh! Sam's God and old Whaley's is busy counting the hairs of her head and no harm will ever come to her—oh no, none at all!"

John paced back and forth in the little front yard. Eight o'clock came; nine; ten, and a little later he heard the whistle of the south-bound train as it drew near the town. The last street-car for the night would be leaving the Square in a few minutes. Cavanaugh would take it. He seldom rode in a cab, and time was too valuable for him to walk to-night.

The minutes passed. Presently he heard the rumble of the little car as it crossed an elevated trestle a half-mile away, then he saw its lighted windows flitting through the pines and oaks which bordered its tracks. It paused at the terminus. John heard the driver ordering his horse around to the other end, and he retreated into the house. Sam should not catch him there watching as if life or death hung on his report. It was one thing to feel a thing, and another to show it like weak women who weep openly for the dead, or men who cry out in pain like spoiled children. He went into the parlor and sat down. The outer night was very still, so still that he heard Cavanaugh's heavy tread when he was yet some distance away. Thump, thump, thump! John found himself counting the steps.

"Why am I like this?" he questioned himself. "If it is to be, it is to be, and that is the end of it. I can bear it. Why not? Why shouldn't a man bear anything that comes his way—anything, anything, even—even this?"

Cavanaugh was at the gate now. He was noiselessly opening and closing it as if fearful of waking some one asleep in the house.

"Is that you, Sam?" John called out from the parlor.

"Yes, yes, my boy, it is me. I—I thought you might be in bed," and the contractor now tiptoed into the hall and stood in the parlor doorway.

"Oh no, I thought I'd wait up," John replied. "Like a fool, I didn't work to-day, and you see I'm not so tired as I usually am. Come in. Got a match? I'll light the gas. I didn't light it because it is warm to-night and I was smoking. Did you bring any cigars with you? I've hung on to my pipe all day and wouldn't mind a change."

"No, I plumb forgot," Cavanaugh answered. "I had to hurry to get my train. I didn't go about any of the stores, either—too many idle gossipmongers hanging about. Don't light up for me. I—I— We can talk just as well without that. I really ought to be at home. I just thought I'd stop by and—and—"

He went no farther. John heard him feeling about for a chair and saw his dim bulk sink into it. There was no doubting the man's agitation, and why was he agitated? John thought he knew, and bared his mental breast to the hot iron of revelation.

"You say you didn't go out to the work to-day?" Cavanaugh said, irrelevantly enough to explain his mien and mood.

"No, I ought to have gone, but I didn't. I was a fool to hang around here like this, eating my head off and making a smoke-house of my lungs. It is the first day off I've had for a long time."

This remark was followed by silence. Cavanaugh broke it with a slowly released sigh. "I may as well tell you what I did," he faltered.

"You can't tell me anything I don't know already," John quickly interposed. "Remember, Sam, that I told you last night—"

"I know, but I wasn't satisfied to let it rest there. I'm not satisfied yet to—to let it rest even where it is now. I'm not done with it by a long shot. I—I'm going back up there in—in a few days. I've got to look deeper into the law dealing with such extraordinary cases as—"

"The law?" John leaned back in his chair in a swift gesture of contempt. "What the hell has the law got to do with it, Sam? Law, I say, law! Did you ever hear of any justice dealt out by the law? Don't talk law to me. Tell me, man to man, what you did up there."

"What I did? Why, my boy"—Cavanaugh was floundering about in search for a word, a phrase with which to meet the blunt attack on his resources—"I did all I could think to do."

"Well, out with it, Sam. I know it went against me. There is no use beating about the bush. You saw Tilly, and she said—"

"Oh no, I didn't see her, my boy!" The contractor leaned eagerly upon the denial, small as it was. "I tried to, but it was impossible. She is housed up at home like a prisoner. John, Whaley is in a dangerous mood. I was advised not to go near the house. I started there anyway, but the sheriff stopped me—gave me orders to stay away. I don't know how to—to make it all plain to you, John. You see, I love Tilly and you so much that—that this thing cuts deep. It has almost knocked out my faith in a just Providence."

John leaned forward; his hands hung between his knees and he clasped them near the floor. He uttered a ghastly laugh meant to show indifference, but which missed its mark. "You are beating about the bush," he said, huskily, and another rasping laugh issued. "Out with it. I'm able to have a tooth pulled. Go ahead. Get it off your chest, old man."

"As I said just now," Cavanaugh began again, "I'm going back to Cranston after—after I get some legal advice down here where there is no public excitement."

"Excitement?" John said. "What do you mean by public excitement?"

Cavanaugh hesitated again, and John rose and stood towering above him in the gloom. He repeated his question, and this time there was no pretense in his tone or mien.

"Well, you know how a narrow-minded, backwoods community like that can get when it is wrought up high," the contractor said, gingerly. "You know how they are inclined to make a mountain out of a molehill. I can't say that I met one cool-headed person up there. Men and women were so crazy that they were frothing at the mouth. I hate to say it, John, but they actually threatened me with bodily harm. They asked me if what had been reported against your poor ma was true, and when I said that most of it was they wanted to tear me limb from limb. I'll tell you the truth and be done with it. There is no other way as I see it between friends such as we are. My boy, a mob was forming to tar-and-feather me. The sheriff came and warned me. He took me to the junction five miles this side of town in his buggy and put me on the train. I saw I would harm your interests if I stayed longer and so I took his advice. He is a smart man, well versed in the law, and as we drove along he told me what old Whaley is up to."

"I can guess," John said, grimly, "and, Sam, if I was in his place I'd do the selfsame thing. He is going to undo this marriage. I know— I see. Tilly is just a girl and I didn't tell her or him what to expect down here. Am I right, Sam?"

Cavanaugh hung fire, then he nodded his head. John could see the tangled shock of hair moving up and down.

"I knew that would be it," John said, returning to his chair. He sat down, crossed his legs, and tugged at the strap of one of his shoes. It broke off and he sat twisting it between his fingers.

"Yes, the sheriff called it 'annulment,'" Cavanaugh resumed, more calmly. "He said that Whaley would have no trouble putting it through the court which is in session, now, as it happens. Even the judge is prejudiced—seems that he had heard of your ma. They ought not to fetch in religion, but Whaley is going to prove that you are an atheist, so they say. So you see, my boy, that what is to be done by us must be done in a big hurry. I am going to see Fisher and Black the first thing in the morning. They are the best lawyers in the South. I'll be there when they open the office. I've got money enough to plank down a good retaining fee. You helped me make it on that court-house. Just think of it, we are going to win our case in that very building."

"You will not go to those lawyers, Sam."

"You say I won't?"

"No. I'm the one to decide that, and I've already done it."

"What do you mean, my boy? Surely you don't intend to sit quiet and let a lot of mountain roughnecks—"

"You are hot-headed like the mob up at Cranston," John broke in, and then made an apparent effort to proceed calmly. He took out his pipe and began to knock its bowl against the heel of his shoe to prepare it for a refilling. His nonchalant shrug was that of a thwarted school-boy. His smile was little more than a grimace which the darkness further distorted. "You are 'kicking against the pricks.' What is to be has to be, and if you oppose it you get the worst of it. Besides, you are an old fogy, Sam—you are out of date, moth-eaten. You have got some sort of a Romeo love idea in your head. You are trying to make yourself believe that—that Tilly will be unhappy the rest of her life if—if the old man wins. Shucks! I know women. How long does a young widow wear black these days? Old Whaley is right. That Cranston judge is right, the sheriff, and all the damned mob, too. If death will free a woman from a long life with a drunkard, the Cranston court can free one from—well, from what I pulled Tilly into. No, sir, Sam. I am not the man for her. I can't give her enough of what she ought to have. She deserves respectability, recognition as a lady in this or any other town. It is a good thing that it happened so soon. It will blow over all the quicker. She will—she will feel bad for a while, maybe, but time heals all wounds. Now go home to your wife, Sam. She is not well, and—"

Cavanaugh stood up. "Yes, I'll go," he faltered, "but I'm going to talk to Fisher and Black in the morning."

"Don't do it, Sam." John was smoking now. "I refuse to fight this case before the public. It is bad enough as it is without forcing my poor little—without forcing Tilly to hear more of it. She is too young and sensitive to go through it, and I won't let her. If I don't appear it will go through quietly. I know— I heard of a case like that. The judge picked a time when just a few people were present, and it was over right away."

"John, are you in earnest?" Cavanaugh asked, at the end of his resources, and he shambled out to the porch.

John followed and stood at his side. "I am, Sam; in fact, I insist on it. I know Tilly's rights and she shall have them. I owe her a million apologies. I'm doing all I can do. I wish I could do more. The time will come, Sam, when she will—will not want to think of me. She will do her best to forget me and all the rest of the awful mess."

"Hush, hush! I'll see you in the morning, after I've slept on it," Cavanaugh said, from the gate. "I don't see how I can give in to you, my boy. You and Tilly were too happy for it to end like this."

CHAPTER XXXII

She sat down on the door-step, her eyes glued on him.

"What did he say?" she inquired. "I want to know. Is she coming back to you?"

"No, she's gone for good, kid," he answered. "But don't you bother; it is all right."

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Stay on here in this house? I'll cook and clean for you, if you do. You can get another wife. If she wouldn't stay I'd let her go. There are plenty of others. Was she after some other fellow, brother John?"

"Oh no, no!" he jerked out. "It is not that. Don't you understand? But I see you don't. How could you?"

"You didn't say whether you are going to stay on here in this house or not," the child pursued. "That is the main thing."

Suddenly he leaned forward and stared straight at her. "Listen, kid," he began. "I tried you once and you kept my secret, so I know I can trust you. If I now tell you something I don't want a soul to know, will you promise to keep it?"

"Yes, yes," she agreed. "I won't tell, brother John. I'd cut out my tongue first."

"You see, I don't want Sam to know," John went on. "I don't want my mother or Jane to know—or Tilly, or any one alive. It is important. Sam will be as much surprised as any of them. Kid, I've made up my mind to pack my grip and catch the four-o'clock north-bound train. I'm going to cut this thing out forever. I'll cover my tracks. Not a living soul shall know where I am. I've thought it all out, and it is the only thing to do."

Dora was silent. He saw her fixed gaze shift itself from his eyes to the gate. Then he noted that her little hands were raised to her face. She was softly crying. He heard a low sob, and it cut through him like a gapped and rusty blade. He was surprised. He had never seen her like that before. "What is the matter?" he inquired. But she did not answer, and he saw that she was making a strong effort to control her emotion, as if she realized that it was distinctly out of place there and then. But he had determined to understand her better, and he went and sat beside her on the step. He took her hand and tried to fondle it, but, as if ashamed of her weakness, she drew it away and continued to sob, swallow, and quiver.

"I see, you don't want your brother John to go away. Is that it, kid?"

"Yes," she muttered, nodded, and then remained silent, her face tightly covered by her hands.

He stood up. He went to the fence and took some steps along it irresolutely. Suddenly he stood facing her, his arms folded as Cavanaugh had seen him stand studying the masonry he was building, an arch, a pillar, or cornice.

"Why haven't I thought of it before?" he reflected. "It would be a crime to leave the poor little mouse over there. She doesn't know what is in store for her, but her eyes will be opened some day, as mine are, and—and what has come to me may come to her. And who knows? It might hurt the poor little mite every bit as bad. I wonder if she— I wonder—" He went back and sat by her side.

"Listen, Dora," he began. "I've got to go—there is no way out of it—but I don't want to leave you like this. I didn't know till to-day how much I care for you. You seem, somehow, like a real sister. Say, I'll tell you—how about this? Come, go with me. I don't know where yet, but away off somewhere where we can start out right. I want to send you to school and give you a chance."

"Oh, you don't mean it—you can't mean that!" and she uncovered her face and sat staring, her quivering lips parted. Impulsively she put one of her hands against his breast, and with the other slowly wiped her wet eyes.

"Yes, I mean it, and there is no time to lose," he went on, gravely. "I want it settled, and when we are once on that train all this will be cut out forever. It will be better for me, and for you, and for Tilly."

"But Aunt Jane—" Dora faltered, letting her hand slide slowly down his shirt-front till it lay in her lap. "She needs me and—"

"You will have to leave her for good and all," he said. "You must decide between her and me. At any rate, she is doing nothing for you, and I am willing to work for you. It is odd, kid, but, now I come to think of it, I want you with me. It seems like leaving would be easier along with you."

"I don't know what to do," the world-old child said, undecidedly, but her eyes were dry, the sobs had left her voice.

"Then do as I say," he threw out firmly. "Go home and get your best dress on and your shoes and stockings, and some hat or other. Don't bother about a valise. I have two, and we'll stop on the road somewhere and I'll buy you some clothes. We are to be brother and sister, you know. From this on you are Dora Trott."

The child was still undecided, though her face was lighted with growing expectation. "Oh, it would be nice—scrumptious!" she half laughed, "but your ma and Aunt Jane—"

"Forget them!" he ordered, sharply. "They are not thinking of you to-night, are they? Huh! I guess not! Hurry! Get your things and come back. I'll be ready. We'll have to walk to the station, and I don't want to meet anybody on the way, either. We may have to take the back and side streets, and cut through an alley or two."

"May I bring my doll?" she asked. "I don't want to leave her."

"I'll get you a new one—never mind it," he answered, impatiently, stifling one of his old oaths.

"But I want her. I love her and she'd miss me. They would kick her about over there."

"Then bring her. I'll pack her away somewhere. Get a move on you. See how quick you can be."

"I'll hurry," Dora said, now completely resigned to his will. "I'll be ready in time."

When she had passed out at the gate he went into the bedroom, lighted the gas, and began to pack his clothes into two valises, leaving room for Dora's use.

"It is the thing to do," he argued. "I can't leave the poor little rat over there with those women. She needs attention. She is not strong and they are working her to death. Great God! she might grow up and be like them! Who knows? How could she keep from it? Who would be there to warn her? I was ignorant till it was too late. So would she be. No, this is the right thing to do. I'll adopt a sister. Huh! what a joke when they say I'm just a boy! But I'll do it. As for Tilly, she will now be doubly free. The old man can claim desertion. He can add that charge to his complaints in court. If I had some way to make everybody think I was dead, that would be even better. The main thing is for her to forget—wipe out and start in fresh, and she would do it quicker if she thought I was under the sod. Any woman would. Then she would marry again. I know who she will marry—" He winced, shuddered, and pressed down on the things he was packing. "She will end up by marrying Joel Eperson. I'd lay heavy stakes on that. My God! I can't find fault with him—not now, anyway! He is white to the bottom, that fellow. I have to admit it. He bore up like a man, though I was robbing him. I slid in between him and her after she had become the poor devil's very life. Then, then—I have to admit that, too—he never would have got her into this awful mess. He has too much sense for that—sense or honor, which? Well, well, they say turn about is fair play, and old, patient Joel will get his innings. He'll—he'll come home to her after his day's work. He'll take her in his— O my God!" John stood motionless. The old primitive fires were kindling in his blood. Had the room been dark his eyes might have gleamed like those of a tiger. He sat down on the bed. He was quivering and his heart was pounding like a trip-hammer. Presently he mastered himself and resumed his packing. "Don't be a fool, John Trott," he said, sharply. "You are up against it. Be a man, if it is in you."

Here the open closet caught his attention. One of Tilly's dresses hung in view, and he took it into his hands reverently. A pair of worn shoes lay on the floor. He picked up one of them. It was so small that he could have hidden it in his pocket. He turned it over in his great hand. His throbbing fingers caressed the soft leather. She would never need it. Why not put it in with his things? He started to do so. He made space for it in one corner of a valise, and then, all at once exclaiming, "What t'ell!" he threw it back into the closet and continued to swear at himself in low, vexed tones.

Dora was entering at the front. She seldom wore her shoes, and, as she now had them on, she used her feet clumsily and made a great clatter in the hall.

"'Sh! for God's sake!" he cried, angrily, and then he turned his impatience off with an apologetic laugh. "Never mind, kid. Make all the noise you want. It won't do any harm. Are you ready? Give me that doll."

She handed it to him roughly wrapped in a newspaper. "Don't mash her!" she pleaded. "Her face is soft as putty in warm weather."

"There, there!" he laughed, "she will be all right. As snug as a bug in a rug. Now, let's go."