It was only when the whistle of the returning boat sounded close by
that he realized he had been sitting there for nearly an hour. He
roused himself, sealed and addressed his letter to the senator, and
hurried down to the dock. Patty was alone, mending some tackle.
"It must be a long letter," she remarked, standing up and shaking her
skirts.
"Why, this is only the beginning of it," he replied ambiguously. "It
is never going to end."
"Mercy! It must be a postscript."
He had no retort handy, so he contented himself with watching the
approach of the boat.
"Some men are never satisfied," she said owlishly. "If I were a
successful dramatist, such as you are, a public office would look
rather tawdry."
"But it's real, Patty; it's life and not mummery."
"I don't know," doubtfully; "from what I have read, there are more
puppets in and about a City Hall than ever dangled in the puppet
booth. Did I give you permission to call me Patty?" demurely.
"Not that I recollect." The boat came sweeping up to the dock, and he
tossed the senator's letter to the boy. The boat went on with a
musical gurgle. "But when I especially like anything, I usually
appropriate it."
"I can see that you will make a good politician."
He laughed happily.
"Evidently you like the name. You have applied it to me three times
this morning."
"Like it? Why, I think it is the most charming name I ever heard. It
smells of primroses, garden-walls, soldiers in ragged regimentals, of
the time when they built houses with big-columned porches."
"My!"
"May I not call you Patty?"
"Oh, if you ask my permission, you may."
"I do."
"That is better."
"Patty?"
"Well."
"Do you ever look in your mirror?"
"The idea! Of course I do. I look in it every morning and every night.
And as often as I find the time. Why?"
"Nothing; only, I do not blame you."
"What's all this leading to?" frowning.
"Heaven knows! But I feel sentimental this morning. There is so much
beauty surrounding me that I feel impelled to voice my appreciation of
it."
"There is no remedy, I suppose."
"None, save the agony of extemporization."
"I have never heard you talk like this before. What IS the matter?"
"Perhaps it is the exhilaration I feel for the coming fight. Would you
like to see me mayor?"
"Indeed I should. Think of the circus tickets you'd have to give away
each year! You know they always give the mayor a handful for his
personal use. No, Mr. Warrington, I shall be very proud of you when
you are mayor."
"What's the matter with your calling me Richard or Dick?"
"We must not advance too suddenly."
"Is there anything the matter with the name?"
"Oh, no; Richard is quite musical in its way. But I am always thinking
of the humpbacked king. If I called you anything it would be Dick."
"Richard was not humpbacked. Moreover, he was a valiant king, greatly
maligned by Mr. Shakespeare."
"I see that I shall not dare argue with you on the subject; but we can
not banish on so short a notice the early impressions of childhood.
Richard Third has always been a bugaboo to my mind. Some day, perhaps,
I'll get over it."
"Make it Dick, as a compromise."
"Some day, when I have known you a little longer. Has John ever told
you about Mr. McQuade?"
"McQuade?" Warrington realized that he had been floating on a pleasant
sea. He came upon the hidden shore rather soundly. "McQuade?" he
repeated.
"Yes. He had the audacity to propose to mother shortly after father's
death. Think of it! John wrote to him very definitely that his
presence in the house would no longer be welcomed or tolerated. Father
had some slight business transactions with Mr. McQuade, and he came up
to the house frequently. He continued these visits after father's
death. We treated him decently, but we simply could not make him feel
welcome. The third time he called he proposed.
"Mother left the room without even replying. He understood. A few
minutes afterward we heard the door slam. John wrote him the next
morning. Did you ever hear of anything to equal the cold-bloodedness
of it?"
Warrington looked at her in absolute amazement.
"Well, of all the nerve! Why the deuce didn't John punch his head?"
savagely.
"Mr. McQuade is not a gentleman; John is," simply. "But Mr. McQuade
hasn't forgotten; not he. He pays no attention to any of us; but that
is no sign that he does not think a good deal. However, we do not
worry. There is no possible chance for him to retaliate; at least John
declares there isn't. But sometimes I grow afraid when I think it all
over. To his mind I can see that he considers himself badly affronted;
and from what I know of his history, he never lets an affront pass
without striking back in some manner."
"Don't you worry your head about McQuade. What do you think? He is so
anxious to get me out of the political arena that he has sent a man
down to New York to look into my past. Isn't that droll?"
Patty stooped again to the fishing-tackle.
"Such men as McQuade can invent. I should be very careful, if I were
you. Your own conscience may prove you guiltless of scandal, but there
are certain people who would rather believe bad than good--scandal
than truth; and these are always in the majority. Don't laugh, but
watch. That's my advice to you, Mr. Meddler." She smiled brightly at
him as she threaded the line through the guides of the rod.
"I may not have lived as cleanly as I might have," he said soberly. "I
have been knocked about so much. There were times when I grew tired of
fighting. But I have never done anything that will not stand daylight.
There was a time, Patty, when I came near making a fool of myself." He
sat down, his legs swinging over the water. "I drank more than was
good for me." He stared into the brown water and watched the minnows as
they darted hither and thither. "I was alone; things went wrong, and I
was cowardly enough to fall into the habit. But it was only
periodically. You remember that letter I showed you?"
"Yes." Patty's voice was low.
"I believe I have read it a thousand times. It has caused me a great
many regrets. I should like, some day, to meet the writer and
disillusion her. One thing she may be sure of: I have never belittled
the talent God has given me. I have striven for the ideal; I have even
fought for it. That part of my life holds no stain."
"But the habit?" hesitant.
"It is gone, where all fool-habits go, when a man has will power to
rid himself of them. Pride has something to do with it; and I have my
share of pride. I shall never go back."
His head was turned away, but she could see the muscles in the jaws
harden.
"You will never go back, I am sure, Richard."
That she had at last pronounced his given name did not stir him; in
fact, it passed over his head and hearing. Like a dragon-brood, he saw
in fancy his past follies springing up about him. Not yet could he
tell this clean-minded, gentle-bred girl that he loved her. He must
prove himself still further before he might utter what so thoroughly
filled his heart and mind.
"Your brother's wife brought me to my senses. What I am to-day she in
part has made. That is why I think so much of her; that is why I am
happy to see that she is happy and has realized her heart's desire.
Heigh-ho! I believe I am making you my confessor." He turned his face
toward her now, and his smile was rather sad. "When I recall the worry
I have given my poor old aunt, who loves me so, I feel like a
contemptible scoundrel. How many countless sacrifices has she made for
me, in the days when we had nothing! But she shall have all the
comforts now, and all the love and kindness I am capable of giving
her. I shall never leave her again."
There were tears in Patty's eyes. "It is never too late to mend; and
when a man is penitent, truly and honestly penitent, much shall be
forgiven him. It is only those who are by nature coarse who do not
eventually surmount temptation. What you have told me I have known
this long while."
"You have known?" he cried with sinking heart.
"Yes. We live in a city where gossip travels quickly and thoroughly.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was telling mother one afternoon that you drank.
I suppose she felt it her duty."
"To be sure," bitterly. "Was it while I have been living at home?"
"No; when the rumor came that you were coming."
He shrugged expressively. "I ought to have known."
"But come; you are up here to be cheered, not lectured. Let us play
billiards. I can hear John and Kate playing now. We'll play sides; and
if we win against those two, I promise to call you Richard once a day
while you are up here. Or, would you rather I played and sang?"
"Much rather," brightening up a bit. "There is always time to play
billiards. But first, I want you to come with me into the
reading-room. I have something to show you; I had almost forgotten."
"The reading-room?" puzzled.
"Yes. Will you come?"
She nodded her assent, and the two entered the house. Warrington,
having arrived at the writing-desk, bade her sit down. He had an idea.
Patty sat down.
"I want you to write something for me," he said, pushing the pen and
tablet toward her.
"What's the matter with your hand?" she demanded.
"Nothing."
"Then why do you want me to write?"
"I have never seen your handwriting. I'm something of an expert in
that line. I'll read your future."
"But I don't want my future read," rebelliously.
"Well, then, your past."
"Much less my past. Come; you are only beating about the bush. What is
it you want?"
"I want to know," he said quietly, "why you have kept me in ignorance
all this while." He laid the letter on the desk, and placed a finger
on the water-mark. "It wasn't fair to let me compose panegyrics over
it all the while you were laughing in your sleeve. Ah, I've caught
you. You can't get away this time, Patty."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." But she
looked at the letter and not at him.
"Do you see those water-marks?" he demanded.
"Yes. You will find them in a thousand tablets like this. I bought a
dozen of them in New York; cheap and handy."
Warrington's confidence in his discovery began to shake. He braced
himself and took a bold course.
"Patty, you wrote that letter; you know you did. You wrote it in New
York, the day you bought the tablets."
"I?"
"Yes. Confess."
"My dear Mr. Warrington, you must prove it," lightly. "It would not be
proper for me to admit that I had been so foolish as to write a letter
like that."
"But you've praised it!"
"Simply because praising it would please you; for no other reason."
"Did you, or did you not write it?"
"Find out. You must prove that I wrote it. Certainly I have nothing to
confess."
"You will not answer me one way or the other?"
"No."
"If you had not written it you would."
"I don't believe I shall sing this morning," rising.
"And I have wondered a thousand times who could have written it. And
all the time it was you."
"Nor play billiards," went on Patty.
"If only I were all you hitherto believed me to be!"
"Nor fish to-morrow morning."
"This letter has been like an anchor. Immediately upon receiving it I
began to try to live better."
"Nor fish the day after to-morrow."
"And I had forgotten all about Jack's having a sister!"
"Something I shall neither forget nor forgive. And if you persist in
accusing me of writing that letter, I promise not to fish again while
you are here." She walked toward the door, her chin held high.
"You wrote it. Come and sing. I'll say nothing more about it. There's
nothing more to be said." He carelessly picked up a book and looked at
the fly-leaf. "From Sister Patty to Brother John," he read. There was
no mistake now. He laughed. Patty turned. "The writing is the same."
"Is it?"
"Will you sing?"
No answer.
"Please."
Patty stood between the door that led to the veranda and the door that
led to the music-room--between Charybdis and Scylla, as it were, for
she knew he would follow her whichever way she went. She turned into
the music-room.
"Thanks," he said.
The days passed all too quickly for Warrington. He walked in the
golden glow of his first romance, that romance which never leaves us
till life itself departs. He spoke no word of his love, but at times
there was something in his voice that thrilled Patty and subdued her
elfish gaiety. Some girls would have understood at once, but Patty was
different. She was happy one moment, and troubled the next, not
knowing the reason. She was not analytical; there was no sophistry in
her young heart. She did not dream that this man loved her; she was
not vain enough for that.
John and Kate watched them approvingly. They knew the worth of the
man; they were not at all worried over what was past. They saw their
own romance tenderly reflected. Mrs. Bennington was utterly oblivious.
Mothers never realize that their daughters and sons must some day
leave them; they refuse to accept this natural law; they lament over
it to-day as they lamented in the days of the Old Testament. The truth
is, children are always children to the parents; paternal and maternal
authority believes its right indefinite.
By this time all the newspapers, save the Telegraph, had made readable
copy out of Warrington's candidacy. Why the Telegraph remained mute
was rather mystifying. Warrington saw the hand of McQuade in this. The
party papers had to defend the senator, but their defense was not so
strong as it might have been. Not a single sheet came out frankly for
Warrington. The young candidate smoked his pipe and said nothing, but
mentally he was rolling up his sleeves a little each day. He had not
yet pulled through the convention. Strong as the senator was, there
might yet be a hitch in the final adjustment. So far nothing had come
of Bolles' trip to New York. Occasionally newspapers from the nearby
towns fell into Warrington's hands. These spoke of his candidacy in
the highest terms, and belabored the editors of Herculaneum for not
accepting such a good chance of ridding itself of McQuadeism.
Meantime, there was fishing, long trips into the heart of the forests,
dancing at the hotel at the head of the lake, billiards and music.
Warrington was already deeply tanned, and Patty's nose was liberally
sprinkled with golden freckles.
One evening Kate and John sat on the veranda from where they could
easily watch Warrington and Patty in the music-room.
"What do you think of it, John?"
"There's not a finer chap in the world. But I don't think Patty
realizes yet."
"Dear Patty!" Kate reached over and took his hand in hers, laying it
against her cold cheek. "What is it, John? You have been worried all
day."
"Nothing; nothing to bother you with."
"The shops? It worries me when you don't confide in me in everything."
"Well, dear, the trouble I've been expecting for months is about to
come. You know that young Chittenden, the English inventor, has been
experimenting with a machine that will do the work of five men. They
have been trying to force him to join the union, but he has refused,
having had too many examples of unionism in his own country to risk
his independence here. Well, I received a letter from the general
manager this morning. Either Chittenden must join or go; otherwise the
men will go out September first."
"What shall you do?"
"I shall keep Chittenden. I am master there," striking the arm of his
chair; "master in everything. If they go out in September, it will be
for good. I shall tear down the shops and build model tenements."
"John!"
"I am sick and tired, dear. I have raised the wages all over the
district; my men work less than any other hands in town. I have built
a gymnasium for them, given them books, pool-tables, and games, to say
nothing of the swimming-tank. I have arranged the annual outings. I
have established a pension-list. But all this seems to have done no
good. I am at the end of the rope. Oh, the poor devils who work are
all right; it's the men outside who are raising all this trouble; it's
the union, not the men. There's no denying the power these men can
wield, for wrong or right. Ignorance can not resist the temptation to
use it at all times and for all purposes. But I am master at the
Bennington shops; injustice shall not dictate to me. They'll use it
politically, too. After all, I'm glad I've told you."
"But, John, I'm afraid for you. They may hurt you."
John answered with a sound that was more of a growl than a laugh.
"Don't you worry about me, honey; I'm no weakling. I wish Dick could
be with me when the fight comes, but he will have his hands full, and
the strike will not help him any. Don't you worry. Father always felt
that there would be trouble some day. He held a large bundle of
bank-stock and railroad bonds, and the income from these alone will
take care of us very comfortably. There's a good deal of real estate,
too, that may be reckoned on. If the crash does come, we'll pack up,
take the mother, and go abroad for a year or so. But before I'm done
I'll teach local unionism a lesson it will not forget soon. Don't you
worry," he repeated again; "you just leave it to me."
She did not speak, but kissed his hand. She knew that no pleading
could move him; and besides, he was in the right.
"I don't understand the lukewarmness of the party papers," he said.
"They ought to hurrah over Dick. But perhaps the secret machinery is
being set to work, and they've been told that there will be trouble at
the convention. The senator never backs down, and I've never seen
anybody that could frighten Dick. There'll be some interesting events
this fall. Herculaneum will figure in the newspapers from Maine to
California, for everybody is familiar with Warrington's name and work.
It's a month yet before the delegates get together; either Warrington
will run or he won't. Calling him a meddler is good. If the Times
isn't a meddler, I never saw one and have misunderstood the meaning of
the word."
In the music-room Patty was playing Grieg and MacDowell, and
Warrington was turning the pages. The chords, weird and melancholy,
seemed to permeate his whole being; sad, haunting music, that spoke of
toil, tears, death and division, failure and defeat, hapless love and
loveless happiness. After a polonaise, Patty stopped.
"If music were only lasting, like a painting, a statue, a book," she
said; "but it isn't. Why these things haunt me every day, but I can
recollect nothing; I have to come back to the piano. It is elusive."
"And the most powerful of all the arts that arouse the emotions. Hang
it! when I hear a great singer, a great violinist, half the time I
find an invisible hand clutching me by the throat ... Patty, honestly
now, didn't you write that letter?"
"Yes," looking him courageously in the eyes. "And I hope you were not
laughing when you said all those kind things about it."
"Laughing? No," gravely, "I was not laughing. Play something lively;
Chaminade; I am blue to-night."
So Patty played the light, enchanting sketches. In the midst of one of
them she stopped suddenly.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I thought I heard the boat's whistle. Listen. Yes, there it is. It
must be a telegram. They never come up to the head of the lake at
night for anything less. There goes John with a lantern."
"Never mind the telegram," he said; "play."
A quarter of an hour later John and Kate came in.
"A telegram for you, Dick," John announced, sending the yellow
envelope skimming through the air.
Warrington caught it deftly. He balanced it in his hand speculatively.
"It is probably a hurry-call from the senator. I may have to go back
to town to-morrow. I have always hated telegrams."
He opened it carelessly and read it. He read it again, slowly; and
Patty, who was nearest to him, saw his face turn gray under the tan
and his lips tremble. He looked from one to the other dumbly, then
back at the sheet in his hand.
"Richard!" said Kate, with that quick intuition which leaps across
chasms of doubt and arrives definitely.
"My aunt died this afternoon," he said, his voice breaking, for he had
not the power to control it.
Nobody moved; a kind of paralysis touched them all.
"She died this afternoon, and I wasn't there." There is something
terribly pathetic in a strong man's grief.
"Dick!" John rushed to his side. "Dick, old man, there must be some
mistake."
He seized the telegram from Warrington's nerveless fingers. There was
no mistake. The telegram was signed by the family physician. Then John
did the kindliest thing in his power.
"Do you wish to be alone, Dick?"
Warrington nodded. John laid the telegram on the table, and the three
of them passed out of the room. A gust of wind, coming down from the
mountains, carried the telegram gently to the floor. Warrington,
leaning against the table, stared down at it.
What frightful things these missives are! Charged with success or
failure, riches or poverty, victory or defeat, births or deaths, they
fly to and fro around the great world hourly, on ominous and sinister
wings. A letter often fails to reach us, but a telegram, never. It is
the messenger of fate, whose emissaries never fail to arrive.
Death had never before looked into Warrington's life; he had viewed it
with equanimity, with a tolerant pity for those who succumbed to it,
for those whose hearts it ravaged with loneliness and longing. He had
used it frequently in his business as a property by which to arouse
the emotions of his audiences. That it should some day stand at his
side, looking into his eyes, never occurred to him. He tried to think,
to beguile himself into the belief that he should presently awake to
find it a dream. Futile expedient! She was dead; that dear, kind,
loving heart was dead. Ah! and she had died alone! A great sob choked
him. He sank into a chair and buried his face in his arms. The past
rushed over him like a vast wave. How many times had he carelessly
wounded that heart which had beat solely for him! How many times had
he given his word, only to break it! He was alone, alone; death had
severed the single tie; he was alone. Death is kind to the dead, but
harsh to the living. Presently his sighs became less regular, and at
length they ceased entirely.
The portiere rustled slightly, and Patty's face became visible. Her
eyes were wet. She had tried to keep away, but something drew her
irresistibly. Her heart swelled. If only she might touch his bowed
head, aye, kiss the touches of grey at the temples; if only she might
console him in this hour of darkness and grief. Poor boy, poor boy!
She knew not how long she watched him; it might have been minutes or
hours; she was without recollection of time. A hand touched her gently
on the arm. Kate stood by her side.
"Come," she whispered; "come, Patty."
Patty turned without question or remonstrance and followed her up
stairs.
"Kate, dear Kate!"
"What is it, darling?"
"He is all alone!"
At midnight John tiptoed into the music-room. Warrington had not
moved. John tapped him on the shoulder.
"You mustn't stay here, old man. Come to bed."
Warrington stood up.
"Would you like a drop of brandy?"
Warrington shook his head.
"It is terribly hard," said John, throwing his arm across the other's
shoulders. "I know; I understand. You are recalling all the mistakes,
all the broken promises, all the disappointments. That is but natural.
But in a few days all the little acts of kindness will return to your
memory; all the good times you two have had together, the thousand
little benefits that made her last days pleasant. These will soften
the blow, Dick."
"I wasn't there," Warrington murmured dully. His mind could accept but
one fact: his aunt had died alone, without his being at the bedside.
It rained in Herculaneum that night. The pavement in Williams Street
glistened sharply, for a wind was swinging the arc-lamps. The trees on
the Warrington lawn sighed incessantly; and drip, drip, drip, went the
rain on the leaves. Not a light shone anywhere in the house; total
darkness brooded over it. In one of the rooms a dog lay with his nose
against the threshold of the door. From time to time he whined
mournfully. In another room an Angora cat stalked restlessly back and
forth, sometimes leaping upon a chair, sometimes trotting round and
round, and again, wild-eyed and furtive, it stood motionless, as if
listening. Death had entered the house; and death, to the beast, is
not understandable.