THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER.
Chief of Police Gordon stood on the station platform of the Rossignol
branch of the Maine Central Railway.
He had been earnestly warned, adjured, and bribed to trust no deputy,
but to scrutinise himself the arrivals in every train-load of visitors
to Rossignol.
A certain criminal, whose full description was given him, might appear
before him at any time. He was also to keep under constant espionage
the households of Miss Gastonguay and Justin Mercer, for with one of
these two persons the criminal might be expected to communicate.
Chief Gordon did not know what the criminal's name was. The detective
with whom he had been corresponding called him "Blackhead," and for
"Blackhead" he was therefore looking as he stood in the sunshine with
hands clasped behind him, his gaze going quickly from one to another of
the members of an excursion party from up in the woods, who had come to
spend a day by the shore.
"Blackhead" would probably not be among them, although he might be. He
also might be in any disguise. The detective had warned him that there
was only one other being who could compete with him for dissimulation,
and that being was not an inhabitant of this mortal sphere.
He was in reality a man of middle age, but he might descend upon
Rossignol in the guise of an old man, an old woman, a bride, or a
bashful youth.
However, transformed as successfully as he might be, he surely would
attempt nothing as loud as this, and the chief smiled broadly, and
glanced past rows of happy farmers' wives tugging along swarms of
children, and accompanied by husbands stiff and uncomfortable in Sunday
coats and stiff collars, to a group beside the hack drivers.
These latter were splitting their sides in amusement. An old woman from
far away up the line had come to town for the day. Her dress reminded
the chief of pictures of his grandmother. How natural and old-fashioned
it was. Verily, reality was stronger than art. No one could counterfeit
so naturally an old resident from some clearing among the pines, a
little "high" from the prospect of her day's outing.
Her daughter, who was with her, was suffering agonies of mortification.
She was a pale, consumptive-looking girl with big feet, a scant dress,
and a white veil reaching only to her nose. This veil she kept
twitching nervously as she plucked at her mother's shawl and begged her
to come on.
The old mother, whose poke-bonnet was pushed far back from her crop of
bushy white hair, would not give up the pleasing excitement of making a
scene. Her cheeks grew redder and redder while she chaffered with the
hackmen. For how much would they take her out of town to see a friend?
Who was her friend, they asked, and how far was it?
This the old woman would not commit herself to revealing. She was not
going to walk in any trap with her eyes open, and, catching sight of
the chief, and impressed by his air of authority, she appealed to him.
He good-humouredly asked her where she wished to go.
To pay the interest on her mortgage, and she shook her bag.
"But where, to whom?"
"To the rich old lady, the French one."
"Miss Gastonguay,--yes, she has mortgages in plenty, but you want to
see her lawyer."
The old woman said she would see no lawyer. Her business was with Miss
Gastonguay.
The chief of police was not surprised. Miss Gastonguay's good nature
was well known. She had a large number of hangers-on.
"I guess you can make a special bargain with her, can't you, boys?" and
he appealed to the hackmen.
"I'll take you for fifteen cents apiece," spoke out one bolder than the
rest.
"Ma, ain't there a car line?" interrupted the girl, in a sudden access
of economy.
"Go 'way," exhorted her mother. "We don't have no fun only once in a
dog's age," and she sidled her hoop-skirted, beshawled figure into the
hack indicated, and dragged her protesting daughter after her.
The chief of police smiled and strolled away. "Blackhead" had not
arrived on this train. He would go down to the city hall, write up
yesterday's report, and then come back in time for the "noon" from
Bangor.
Meanwhile the old woman was lying in a corner of the vehicle, her face
like death, her hand pressed convulsively on her chest.
The hackman chuckled when he drew up his horse before the stone
steps. He would have some more fun here. To his disappointment, Miss
Gastonguay was in one of her grim humours. Remorselessly suppressing
the old woman, who had again grown hilarious, she speedily conducted
her into the house. There was nothing revealed to the hackman's
backward glance but a big closed door, and with no further news for his
comrades he drove slowly back to town.
Miss Gastonguay led the way to her own room. With an unfaltering step
she walked across it, threw open the door of her dressing-room, and
pointed to the pale daughter, no longer shrinking but kicking manfully
against her petticoats.
"Go in there," she said, "and stay till you are wanted. You will find
food and drink."
The pale girl went in, tossed her hat and veil in a corner, and,
seizing a handful of fruit, threw herself down on the lounge.
"When you take off those trappings, I will speak to you," said Miss
Gastonguay to her remaining guest, then, turning her back, she stared
at her empty hearth.
The old woman sank into a chair, detached her bonnet strings and
white wig, took off her shawl, then, getting up, stepped out of her
widespreading gown.
Miss Gastonguay looked around. Her first sensation was not one of
bitter shame and disgrace, but rather one of dull surprise. Was that
old man her brother?
He was doubled up in a paroxysm of coughing. When he recovered himself,
and the colour faded from his face, he asked, peevishly, "Will you get
me something hot?"
"Louis," she said, like one in a dream, "Louis, Louis."
"Yes, Louis,--and you are Jane. Good Heavens! Do I look as old as you
do?"
"And yesterday we were children," she said, with a gesture of
unspeakable despair. Her misery of expectation and sickening
apprehension was all gone. The trivial thought of his personal
appearance drove all deeper emotion from her mind. And in spite of the
change, how natural it seemed to have him here. How natural to take up
her old role of indulgent sister.
"Lie here," she said, arranging the pillows on a sofa, "and what shall
I bring you?"
"Brandy, brandy--and hot water. Be quick."
He was gasping for breath, and she hurried away.
"Chelda," she said, pausing an instant in the music-room, "I have some
guests. I do not wish to be disturbed."
Chelda bent her head lower over the broken string that she had just
discovered in her violin, and only waiting until her aunt's footsteps
had died away, she hurried out-of-doors.
Presently she saw Prosperity coming toward the avenue. "Where are you
going?" she asked.
"To send a boy from the cottages to Captain White with this," and he
displayed an envelope on which something was written.
"Give it to me. I, too, have a message to send him."
She read the scribbled words, "The two express parcels for Derrice have
arrived. Let her come up to lunch and see them."
"On second thoughts I won't send any message," she said, handing the
envelope back.
Prosperity trotted on, and Chelda, biting at her under lip, paced
nervously to and fro under the poplars.
The envelope was handed to Captain White, as he stood on one of the
wharves, vigorously scolding the crew of a sailboat for heating and
spoiling their fish by carrying too many in a load. It was a very busy
morning for him; yet, after reading the few lines, he left the boat's
crew, and, hastily making his way to Justin's bank, exchanged a few
words with him.
His second call was on the chief of police. He wished to find out
whether that official was displaying any unusual amount of energy. No,
he was not. He sat quietly at his desk, and only looked up with a yawn
when Captain White's head was stuck in the doorway, with a query as to
whether there was anything new going on.
There was nothing beyond the usual routine, and Captain White strolled
up to the station.
The telegraph operator was not a particular friend of his. Indeed, they
had lately quarrelled over some delayed telegrams with regard to an
order for sardines, and the red-headed operator glanced curiously at
the usually busy captain, who, in a strangely lazy way, lounged about
his office for the space of an hour and a half.
At the end of that time, however, Captain White disappeared. He had
been stretched on a bench reading a newspaper, but at the stroke of
twelve he got up, looked at his watch, and dawdled outside.
Once around the corner of the brick building, however, he hastily
entered a carriage, made some remark in a low voice to the driver, and
was conducted at a smart pace through the town, and at a rattling one
outside it, until he reached French Cross.
Without the formality of a ring he entered the old château, and ran
up-stairs to Miss Gastonguay's room.
"H. Robinson is on his way down!" he ejaculated, when the door was
thrown open. "He has got wind of the affair. I learned telegraphy when
I was young, and just heard the message humming over the wires. We must
get you out of this," and he looked at the man on the sofa as if he had
known him all his life.
The latter got up, and, in weary haste and without surprise, donned his
feminine garments.
Miss Gastonguay grew deathly pale. "What about Derrice?"
"What about Derrice's good name?" said Captain White, sharply. "Come,
let us get out of this. Where is the other one?" and he brushed past
her to the dressing-room.
Miss Gastonguay stared helplessly at her brother. His shaking hands
were pinning the shawl together. With a groan she seized a hat and
wrap for herself, and followed him as he slipped noiselessly down the
staircase.