ANOTHER BLOW DESCENDS
The ride home from Belleport was a subdued one, bringing to an
afternoon that had been rich in sunshine a climax of shadow. The
Galbraiths were far too stunned by the startling revelations of the day
to wish to prolong a meeting that had lapsed into awkwardness, and
until they had had opportunity to readjust themselves they were eager
to be alone; nor did their delicacy of perception fail to detect a
similar craving in the minds of their guests. Therefore they did not
press their visitors to remain and tactfully arranged that one of the
servants instead of Roger should drive the Spences back over the Harbor
Road.
As the motor purred its way along, there was little conversation. Even
had not the chauffeur's presence acted as a restraint, none of the
party would have had the heart to make perfunctory conversation; the
tragedy of the moment had touched them too deeply. What a strange,
wonderful unraveling of life's tangled skeins had come with the few
fleeting hours. Each turned the drama over in his mind, trying to make
a reality of it and spin into the warp and woof of the tapestry time
had already woven this thread of new color. But so startling was it in
hue that it refused to blend, standing out against the duller tones of
the past with appalling distinctness; and never was it more
irreconcilable than when the familiar confines of the little fishing
hamlet by the sea were reached and those who struggled to harmonize it
saw it in contrast with this background of simplicity.
Each silently reconstructed Delight's life, now linking it with its
ancestry and its romantic beginnings. She had, then, sprung from
aristocratic stock; riches had been her right, and culture her
heritage. She had been the single flower of a passionate love, and the
hot-headed young father to whom she had been bequeathed when bereft of
the woman he had adored had taken her with him when he had sought the
sea's balm to assuage his sorrow. She was all that remained of that
tender, throbbing memory of his youth. Where he went she followed, all
unconscious of peril and with youth's God-given faith; and when the
great moment came and the supreme sacrifice was demanded, the man
voluntarily severed the bonds that bound them, leaving her to life
while he himself went forth into the Beyond. What must not that heroic
soul have suffered when he cast his child into the ocean's arms and
upon the mercies of an unknown future! What blind trust led him; what
unselfishness and courage lay in the choice he made! A smaller mind
would have followed the easier path and kept them united to the end,
happy in the thought that in their death they were not divided, and
that no years stretched ahead when she would be without his protection.
Might he not be performing a kinder act to let her go down into the sea
than to entrust her to the charity of strangers? He must have wrestled
with all these problems and temptations as he stood lashed to the mast
out there in the fateful storm.
Ah, his confidence in a fatherhood more omniscient than his own had not
been misplaced. Loving hands had borne his darling safely through the
waves to a home where, in an atmosphere of devotion, the beauty that
had been in her from the beginning had perfected in its maturity. Even
the homely surroundings of the environment into which she drifted could
not stifle her native fineness of soul. Bred up a fisherman's daughter
she had lived and moved among plain, kindly people, whom she had
learned to cherish and revere as if they were of her blood, and to whom
she had endeared herself to a corresponding degree.
And now what was her future to be? Was she suddenly to be snatched
back into her rightful sphere, the ties that linked her with the
present snapped asunder, and a new world with the myriad opportunities
she had until now been denied placed within her reach? That was the
query that agitated the minds of the silent thinkers who sped along the
Harbor Road.
Sunset was gilding the water, kissing the sands into rosy warmth and
casting glints of vermilion over the low buildings at the mouth of the
bay, where windows flashed forth a flaming reflection of fire. The
peace of approaching twilight brooded over the village. Little boats,
like homing doves, came flying across the vast expanse of waves, their
sails a splendor of copper in the fading light. With the hush of night
the breeze died into stillness until scarce a leaf of the
weather-beaten poplars stirred. From the tangle of roses, sweet fern
and bayberry that overgrew the fields the note of a thrush rose clear
on the quiet air. A whirling bevy of gulls circled the bar, left naked
and opalescent by the receding tide. Peace was everywhere, divine
peace, save in the breasts of those who gazed only to find a mockery in
the surrounding tranquillity.
Robert Morton's face was stern in meditation. How was this mighty
transformation in Delight's fortunes to affect the hopes he fostered?
To wed the daughter of a humble fisherman was a different matter from
offering a penniless future to the grand-daughter of the stately Madam
Lee. Even when the possibility of marriage with Cynthia had loomed in
his path, his pride had rebelled at the financial inequality of the
match. He did not wish to be patronized, to come empty-handed to a
princess whose hands were full. The thought had been a galling one.
And now once again he was in a similar position. Of course, Madam Lee
and the Galbraiths would desire to make good the past; he knew them
well enough for that. Delight would be elevated to the same plane with
Cynthia, and he would be faced with the old irritating inferiority of
fortune. Moreover, in her recently acquired station, the lady of his
dreams might scorn such a humble suitor. Who could tell? Wealth
worked great changes in individuals sometimes, and at best human nature
was a frail, assailable, and incalculable factor. Furthermore the girl
had never pledged him her love. There had been no spoken word between
them. The vision that had made a Utopia of his world had been, he
reflected, of his own creating.
He glanced at Delight, but she did not meet his eye.
Her gaze was vacantly following the rapidly shifting landscape.
Although the glory from the sky shone on her face the radiance that
glowed there came only from without and was the result of no inward
exultation. Even the gray cottage had assumed a false splendor in the
rosy twilight and was lighted with a beauty not its own.
When the car stopped, Willie clambered stiffly out and he and Bob
helped the women to alight. Then the motor rolled away and they were
alone.
"Well!" burst out Celestina, her pent-up feeling taking vent, "did you
ever know of such a to-do? I've been stiflin' to talk all the way
home! Why, you're goin' to be rich, Delight! You'll be aunts, an'
uncles, an' cousins with them Galbraiths--picture it! Likely they'll
take you to New York with 'em an' to goodness knows where!"
The girl did not answer but moved to Willie's side and slipped her hand
into his, as if certain of his understanding and sympathy.
"You don't seem much set up by your good luck," went on the breathless
Celestina.
"Delight's kinder bowled over by surprise, Tiny," Willie explained
gently. "It's took all our breaths away, I guess."
Tenderly he pressed the trembling fingers that clung to his.
"You ain't got to worry about it, dearie," whispered he in a caressing
tone. "No power can make you do anything you don't choose to; an'
what's more, nobody'll want to force you into what won't be for your
happiness."
"I shall never leave Zenas Henry," Delight said with determination.
"An' nobody'll urge you to, dear heart. Don't fret, child, don't fret.
To-morrow we'll straighten this snarl all out an' 'til then you've got
nothin' to fear. Them as love you shall stay by, I give you my word on
it."
"Hadn't I better go home to-night and tell them?"
The old inventor considered a moment.
"I don't believe I would," he answered at last. "They ain't expectin'
you, an' if you was to go lookin' so white an' frightened as you do
now, 'twould anger Zenas Henry an' upset 'em all. Wait an' see what
happens to-morrow. 'Twill be time enough then. You're tired,
sweetheart. Stay here an' rest to-night. What do you say, Bob?"
"I think it would be much wiser."
"Course 'twould," nodded Willie. "You stay right here, like as if
nothin' had happened, an' think calmly about it a little while, child.
You ain't got to decide a thing at present; furthermore, there may not
be anything for you to decide. We've no way of figgerin' what
your--your--relations mean to do. Just trust 'em a bit. They're Bob's
friends an' I guess we can count on 'em to act as is fair an' right."
"They _are_ Bob's friends, aren't they?" repeated the girl, her face
brightening as if the fact, hitherto forgotten, gave her confidence.
"And splendidly loyal friends too," the young man put in eagerly.
"Then I will trust them," she said. "It isn't as if they were
strangers."
How Robert Morton longed to go to her, to tell her in her sweet
dependence how eager he was for the day when no friend of his should be
a stranger to her; when their lives would be so closely intertwined
that every interest, every hope, every thought of his should be hers
also. Perhaps the unuttered wish that trembled on his lips was
reflected in his eyes, for after looking up at him she suddenly dropped
her lashes and, turning away, followed Tiny into the house.
"I've cautioned Celestina not to go talkin' to her any more just now,"
announced the little old man when she had gone. "Your aunt's an awful
good woman; no better lives. But there's times like today when things
don't strike her as they do me an' Delight. She's so fond of the girl
that her first thought would be for the money an' all that; but that
would be the last consideration in the world in Delight's mind. She's
awful loyal an' affectionate. Things go deep with her, an' she sets a
heap of store by the folks she cares for. Why, Zenas Henry is like her
own father. Since she was a wee tot she ain't known no other. While
this old lady, her grandmother--what is she? Why, she don't mean
nothin'--not a thing!"
They walked on toward the shop door, each occupied with his own
reveries; then suddenly Willie roused himself.
"Why, if here ain't Janoah!" he exclaimed.
"What you doin', Jan? Was you after somethin'? I reckon you found the
place pretty well deserted an' were wonderin' what had become of us
all."
"I warn't doin' no wonderin', Willie Spence," the man replied. "I
knowed where you'd gone 'cause I saw you ridin' away like a sheep bein'
led to the sacrifice."
"Like a what?" repeated the inventor with a grin.
"An innocent lamb, or a rat in a trap," Janoah said with solemn
emphasis.
"What are you drivin' at, anyhow?" questioned Willie.
"You didn't suspect nothin'?"
"Suspect anything? No, of course not. Why?"
"You hadn't a suspicion the whole thing was a decoy?"
"What whole thing?"
"The trip an' all."
Willie studied his friend's face in puzzled silence.
"Whatever are you tryin' to say?" demanded he at last.
Janoah swept his hand dramatically round the shop.
"You've been betrayed, Willie!" he announced with tragic intensity.
"Betrayed by them as you thought was your friends, an' who you've
trusted. I warned you, but you wouldn't listen, an' now the thing I
told you would happen has happened." Triumphant pleasure gleamed in
the sinister smile. "They tricked you into leavin'," went on the
malicious voice, "an' then they came here an' stole what was
yours--your invention. I caught 'em doin' it. I hid outside an'
overheard 'em tell how they'd been waitin' days for the chance when
everybody should be gone. 'Twas that Snelling an' another like him, a
draughtsman. They laughed an' said that now the old man was out of the
way they could do as they pleased. Then they took all the measurements
of your invention, made some sketches, an' took its picter."
Willie listened, open-mouthed.
"You must be crazy, Janoah," he slowly observed.
"I ain't crazy," Janoah replied, with stinging sharpness. "The whole
thing was just as I say. It was part of a plot that Snellin' an'
Galbraith have been plannin' all along; an' either they've used this
young feller here [he motioned toward Robert Morton] as a tool, or else
he's in it with 'em."
Bob started forward, but Willie's hand was on his arm.
"Gently, son," he murmured. Then addressing Janoah he asked: "An' what
earthly use could Mr. Galbraith have for--"
"'Cause he sees money in it," was the prompt response.
A thrill of uneasiness passed through Robert Morton's frame. Had not
those very words been spoken both by the capitalist and Howard
Snelling? They had uttered them as a laughing prediction, but might
they not have rated them as true? With sudden chagrin he looked from
Willie to Janoah and from Janoah back to Willie again.
"I've been inquirin' up this Galbraith," went on Janoah. "It 'pears
he's a big New York shipbuilder--that's what he is--an' Snellin' is one
of his head men."
If the mischief-maker derived pleasure from dealing out the fruit of
his investigations he certainly reaped it now, for he was rewarded by
seeing an electrical shock stiffen Willie's figure.
"It ain't true!" cried the little inventor. "It ain't true! Is it,
Bob?"
Robert Morton's eyes fell before his piercing scrutiny.
"Yes," was his reluctant answer.
"You knew it all along?"
"Yes."
"An' Snellin'?"
"He is in Mr. Galbraith's employ, yes."
"An'--an'--you let 'em come here--" began the old man bewildered.
"You let 'em come here to steal Willie's idee," interrupted Janoah,
wheeling on Bob. "You helped 'em to come, after his takin' you into
his home an' all!"
"I didn't know what they meant to do," Robert Morton stammered. "I
just thought they were going to lend us a hand at working up the thing."
"A likely story!" sniffed Janoah with scorn. "No siree! You came here
as a tool--you were paid for it, I'll bet a hat!"
"You lie."
"Prove it," was the taunting response.
"I--I--can't prove it," confessed the young man wretchedly, "but Willie
knows that what you accuse me of isn't so."
With face alight with hope he turned toward the old man at his elbow;
but no denial came from the expected source. Willie had sunk down on a
pile of boards and buried his face in his hands.
"An' I thought they were my friends," they heard him moan.
Robert Morton hesitated, then bent over the bowed figure, and as he did
so Janoah, casting one last look of gloating delight at the ruin he had
wrought, slipped softly from the room.
As he went out he heard a broken murmur from the inventor:
"I'll--I'll--not--believe it," asserted he feebly.
But despite the brave words, the seed of suspicion had taken root, and
Robert Morton knew that Willie's confidence in him had been shaken.
Still the little old man clung with dogged persistence to his sanguine
declaration:
"_I'll not believe it_!"