A BRANCH CUT OFF.
At ten o'clock that night, there was not in all the State an uglier and
sorer man than H. Robinson.
He impatiently thumped Miss Gastonguay's binocular on his fat knee.
All the afternoon he had been searching the glittering surface of
Merry Meeting Bay. There was no steam yacht in sight carrying a blue
flag with a pine-tree on its fluttering folds. No brace of blue lights
appeared now that soft darkness had enveloped the Bay, although various
yachts and boats bearing lights of every other colour of the rainbow
had come slipping in from the sea to their resting-places beside the
wharves.
He had been tricked. The treacherous young woman and the slippery
sailor had thrown dust in his eyes. Well, he would make them pay for
their trickery before the dance was over, and he ground his teeth and
glowered at his two companions.
The chief of police, soothed by the calm beauty of the moonless night
and happy from the elaborate dinner that had been served to them here
on the roof of the boat-house, was peacefully snoring in a hammock.
He only partly understood the affair. There was some humbuggery about
it, and he could not rid himself of the conviction that H. Robinson was
slightly cracked, and that the volatile Captain White for some hidden
reason was aiding and abetting him in his delusion. Anyway, he didn't
like being sworn at, and although he would by no means defeat the ends
of justice, he earnestly hoped that Miss Gastonguay would land her
mysterious old woman and girl at some port down the coast, and let this
Boston fellow go home with his tail between his legs.
Captain White was not asleep. H. Robinson knew that he was only
pretending to nap in his big wicker chair, and that he heard every one
of the occasional sentences growled at him.
The detective fumed and fretted. He would wait one hour longer. He
would wait half an hour. He would only wait ten minutes. He would
announce his secret and receive city aid to go in search of the
criminal. But suppose he had lost him? At station one, station two,
and three, up to the last number of stations, he would be jeered at
in the city of Boston. Why had he not called in the help of some of
his former colleagues? Served him right for playing dog in the manger.
No one would ever trust him again. And he mused on miserably, his
wrath burning higher and higher. At last it reached a point where it
began to flicker. Self-pity and deadly weariness were overcoming him.
His throbbing head sank lower and lower, his aching limbs grew less
remindful. He thought drowsily of his subservient wife, his quiet home,
his comfortable bed. He would give five dollars for an hour's rest, and
with a gradual blending of all his emotions into peaceful oblivion he
fell sound asleep.
He slept he knew not how long, but he waked up with a jerk, and turned
his rubicund face up to Captain White's strangely pale one.
"Your prisoner has come," he said, in a low voice.
H. Robinson tottered to his feet and looked over the roof railing.
Down there was a smooth-lined, shapely yacht rubbing herself like a
snow-white duck against the narrow wharf. Two or three people were
standing about,--he could just make out their dusky outlines. They
were all wonderfully quiet. He must get below, and he hurried down the
steps, carefully placing his feet on the bright places indicated by the
lantern held up to him by Captain White.
Upon arriving on the wharf H. Robinson warily looked about him. Two men
who were evidently servants remained on board the yacht. An old lady,
who was Miss Gastonguay, the chief of police, and a pale youth known in
criminal circles as Sideboard Charlie stood on the boat-house veranda.
This latter had been a favourite and companion of the noted bank
breaker. He was not wanted now on any "count" of his own, and the
detective did not concern himself about him.
But where was his prey,--the lion of the chase?
Captain White pointed to the yacht. A motionless figure wrapped in a
cloak lay on a bench.
H. Robinson suspected a trap. It would not be like the matchless
dissembler to fall into his arms. "You come with me," he said to the
chief.
The latter stolidly accompanied him. "There is your man," he muttered.
The lion was asleep. H. Robinson could wake him, and he laid a hand on
the stiff shoulder, and drew aside the fold of cloth from the marble
face.
Then he stepped back, his face working stupidly. "Dead,--and I am
fooled." He had half suspected this, and he gave place to the two young
men who noiselessly and swiftly placed their hands under the dead man's
body and carried him on shore.
No one spoke; matters must have been prearranged, and in sullen silence
the detective kept up with the party, who in a body marched toward the
house.
To his surprise they did not enter it, but passed through a garden
toward a hillside. Here was a small cemetery. They entered the gate,
their burden was deposited on the grass, then the different members of
the party scattered.
The detective watched the austere old lady who remained by the dead
body. He had made it his business to inquire into her peculiarities,
and it did not altogether surprise him that she should take an interest
in a criminal. But would she allow him to be buried in her private
cemetery?
An eerie shiver ran up and down his backbone. He did not like this
midnight work. The solemn quietness, the air of respectability and yet
of secrecy about this last act of a criminal career offended him and
grated against his official sense of propriety.
He approached Captain White, who had just reappeared, carrying a spade
in his hand. "You lay out to bury this man?"
"Yes."
"I protest--" the detective was just beginning when Captain White put
up his hand.
"Hush up; wait a bit."
Several lanterns stood about on the grass, and some one had hung the
largest of them on the projecting toe of Louis Gastonguay's granite
boot. By the reddish yellow glare of this light on the monument, H.
Robinson saw a white figure approaching. The white figure was supported
by a dark one. Ah, here was the daughter. She certainly was no shady
character, and his eye ran critically over her snowy figure.
But what distress!--he had never seen anything like it, and a secret
thrill pervaded him. That little beauty had lost her father. Bank
robber or no bank robber, he must have been all the world to her. What
would she say if she knew he had been the one to run him down? and he
uneasily stepped behind one of the Scotchmen from the yacht.
He had witnessed some pretty trying scenes, but he had never seen
anything like this. The Longlegs with her was her husband. Reverently
he escorted her to the dead body and put a supporting arm around her as
she fell on her knees.
This was awful, and the detective turned away. Then, compelled by
the same fascination, he looked again. So young to suffer. Poor slip
of a girl,--not more than half as old as his wife. Evidently she had
been told not to shriek or cry out. Her fingers were locked in a
painful grasp, her pitiful moans were barely audible. Frantically and
repeatedly she kissed the cold face, and her tearless eyes sought her
husband's in dumb entreaty.
Why had it happened? Who was to blame? Why had she not been with
him? Her father--oh, her father! and the detective, though not a man
given to much emotion, involuntarily voiced her mute and heart-broken
pleadings.
"Do you still protest?" asked a grim voice in his ear.
"Confound you, no," he said, snappishly, to Captain White.
One of the Scotchmen quickly ran his spade over a scant grass plot
designated by Miss Gastonguay. When the first earth was turned up, the
girl sprang to her feet with an agonised cry, "Must I forgive them?
Justin, I cannot."
H. Robinson watched her husband trying to comfort her, then crossing
his hands behind his back he went for a short turn around the outside
of the cemetery. Forgive whom? The man who had hunted her father to
death. Poor thing,--she did not know what a villain he had been. Women
were unreasonable. Well, the same end came to all. Some day some one
would be digging a grave for him, and he uneasily surveyed his ample
proportions. He had had some queer pains about his heart lately. Bah!
what was the good of living anyway? What was the good of anything? Why
had he been following up this affair at such a breakneck pace? For
money, celebrity,--a paragraph in the newspapers.
Here in the solemn stillness of the night, and under the melancholy
mystery of the stars, the chase seemed fruitless, the rewards
worthless. He would go home to his wife. Let the poor devil sleep in
peace. Why didn't they take that girl away? and he peered through the
iron railing at her.
He was quite near her now. "I forgive, I forgive--" he heard her
articulate. "Dear father, they did not mean to make you suffer."
The tearlessness of her grief was over. Her whole frame was shaken by
violent weeping. Soon she would sob hard enough to tear her in two. He
had seen women in crying spells before.
"I guess I'll go," he muttered, and pulling out his watch he entered
the cemetery and approached one of the lanterns.
The grave was nearly ready. Captain White, the two Scotchmen, and the
pale young man worked by turns, and the soft earth of the hillside was
easy to move.
Why didn't they take that girl away? and in nervous irritability he was
just turning on his heel when the austere old lady spoke in his ear.
"Wait--I wish to speak to you."
He shrugged his wide shoulders. He guessed he could stand it if women
could, and he again went outside the iron railing and took his place
where no sickly gleam from the lanterns played over the moist grass.
When the men went to take her father from her, the girl's sobs died
away. With marvellous composure she kissed his face for the last time.
"So thin, so pitifully thin," the detective heard her murmur. "You
will rest now, my darling. Good-bye, good-bye," and she crossed his
hands and folded them on his breast, then unwinding the silken sash
from her waist she wrapped it tenderly around his head.
A knot formed in the detective's throat. And now the old lady was
going at it, too. She did not do the affectionate like the girl, but
she took a rug that some one had brought her from the house and folded
it all around the dead man's body. There was no time to have a coffin
made. They must do the best they could. The rug was a costly one.
The detective could see the gold threads shining in it. Foreign work
probably. She was burying up a poor man's salary with that rogue.
Stay,--they were going to have a burial service. The girl's last
lingering caress was over. She had fallen on her knees on the soft
earth, and was looking down into the yawning cavity. The men stood
around with uncovered heads, while her husband repeated from memory
portions of the burial service.
It was a long time since he had been to a funeral,--not since his old
father died up in Aroostook County, and the detective drew the back
of his hand across his eyes as he listened to the words spoken in a
choking voice.
"'If a tree fall toward the south or toward the north, in the place
where the tree falleth there it shall be.
"'There is hope of a tree if it be cut down, that it shall sprout
again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.... Man's
days are as grass, as a flower of the field so he flourisheth.... I am
the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth on me, though he were
dead, yet shall he live. I know that my Redeemer liveth, and though
worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God'--"
The speaker's words ceased suddenly. His young wife had fallen fainting
at his feet, and hurriedly lifting her in his arms he started toward
the house.
A few minutes later the little group stood silently beside the
heaped-up grave. The old lady was going to speak now.
"Friends," she said, sadly and harshly, "we separate now. I thank you
all. Captain White will speak to you on my behalf. One favour I have to
request of you six men. Let this night's occurrence rest in oblivion.
For the sake of that heart-broken girl I ask you. I have no doubt you
will respect my request. Good-night and good-bye. There are some of you
I shall never see again. Lead honourable lives; there is no happiness
in any other."
She went from one to another with a stern, immovable face, shaking
hands in a manner that made the detective's flesh crawl nervously. Was
she, too, going to give up the ghost?
"McTavish and Stevens," whispered Captain White to the two men from the
yacht, "call on me in a day or two. There are pretty considerable sums
to be placed to your credit in the bank. Look here you, H. Robinson,"
and he approached the detective, "what are your sentiments now?"
They were all struggling toward the house, with the addition to the
party of a ghostly white pony, who thrust his nose over Captain White's
arm.
"My sentiments are to get to bed," said H. Robinson, peevishly.
"You are afraid you'll do something unbusinesslike while you are
feeling soft," said Captain White, "but let me ask you a question. What
do you expect to get out of this thing now?"
"Satisfaction, if I like," snapped his companion.
"Satisfaction, yes,--you can blurt out what Mrs. Mercer's father was.
What follows? Remarks to the effect that you were a hound and your hare
escaped you. What then? You think you have disgraced a family, but
Justin Mercer will jump himself and his wife to some place across the
world so quick that you couldn't see 'em go."
"Don't she suspect anything?"
"Not a syllable. Couldn't a man that gulled a man like you easily fool
a girl? Call her up as she knelt there just now. Think that some day
she may have children of her own. What kind of satisfaction would it
give you to think you'd made that pretty head hang down in shame?"
The detective grunted something unintelligible.
"Miss Gastonguay approves of you so far, but she's mighty clever, and
she is figuring this whole thing out. I guess from something she let
slip she suspects her niece. Anyway, she thinks you have done your
duty, but if you'll let everything slide and go home quietly, like a
good boy, I'm instructed to give you a little sweetener, a check for--"
and he murmured the rest of his sentence in his companion's ear.
The sum mentioned in one instant consoled H. Robinson for loss of
sleep, loss of celebrity, loss of temper, and all other losses. He had
been soaring above things mercenary during the last few hours, but now
he felt himself speedily drawn back to them.
"All right," he said, "but one question,--did he suicide?"
"No, he did not."
"What was he going to be fool enough to come back here for? I guess he
knew I was on his track."
"He wasn't coming,--he was going to be brought."
"Oh! that's why you were so plumb sure."
"What made you so plumb sure he would come here?"
"I've heard how he was set on his daughter, and a sick man like a sick
animal runs for his home."
"His home?"
"By home, I mean family. He came of a swell lot according to himself;
but those fellows always like to strut. I guess he was a Westerner."
"I guess so. Look here, I'll tell you how he died. His pig-iron will
kept him up till he got here; when he heard you were coming it nearly
finished him. But he was a cool one. He managed to get on the yacht;
then he told me the doctors said, if he had an attack like the one he'd
just had, he could only last a few hours after it. When all was over
he would get Miss Gastonguay to chuck him in the sea. I was to stay
and keep you at bay. He held on till they got abreast of Dove Harbour,
then,--well, I don't know what happened. Miss Gastonguay was alone with
him. She's a good lot,--I knew she'd bring him back to bury him."
"That she is," said the detective, cheerfully. "You needn't bother with
any more explanations. So long," and he stepped ahead in order to give
his companion a chance with the chief of police.
"Chief," said Captain White, diplomatically, "you can't explain
everything on this globe, can you?"
"I guess not."
"If a rich old lady chooses to bury nobody knows who in her cemetery,
it's just as well to have nothing said?"
"I'll agree to that."
"You've got a wife?"
"I'm pretty sure of that."
"You don't tell her all your secrets?"
"Couldn't very well."
"Then keep on not telling her. Don't drop a hint that I'm going to call
to-morrow at eleven about this business of to-night, and, by the way,
help that tired butter-tub roll himself down to the hotel."
"All right," and Chief Gordon hastened to overtake the stranger.
The pale youth plodding seriously through the darkness did not avert
his face from the lantern held up to scrutinise it.
"You've followed that man," said Captain White. "You've been faithful
to him. What are you going to do now?"
The young man's labouring heavy step did not become more light, but his
face became illumined by a cynical gleam. "I'm not at the end of my
resources."
"What's your name?" asked Captain White abruptly.
"I'd be a fool to tell you."
"I'll tell you," said Captain White, shifting his lantern from one
hand to the other, and giving him a resounding slap on the back.
"Charlie White--own cousin to me, Micah White. Just from his home in
the West--sad on account of his guardian's death. Is it a bargain,
young man?"
The criminal stopped short. "Do you mean it?"
"Am I in a humour for jokes with that behind me?" and Captain White
pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Isn't my blood going creepy,
crawly through my veins? Come on, young man. Behind you is death,
damnation,--a cursed life. Before you is honesty, a chance to win men's
approval, a loophole to enter kingdom come."
The young man paced slowly on. The weird cry of a bird disturbed by
those in front pierced the night. Something rooted in his nature
called as shrilly for the troubled mystery and excitement of his city
life. He hated the quiet, the unintoxicating calm of such a peaceful
place as this, and yet--and yet--suppose he plunged again into his
criminal career. He would go down, down to what? To a hunted life, to a
dishonoured grave.
"I'll try it," he said, at last, and without enthusiasm. "Have I to
thank the old lady?"
"Yes," said Captain White, briefly, and seizing him by the arm as if
fearful that a delay might change his resolution, he fairly ran him
through the dark streets to the parsonage.
The young criminal forbore to ask a question even after a long delay at
the door. Captain White rang the bell persistently and loudly, and at
last an upper window was opened. "Who's there?"
"Micah White."
"Oh, I'll be right down," and in a few minutes Mrs. Negus, smiling, and
shading a candle in her hand, appeared in nondescript costume.
"A new boarder for you," ejaculated Captain White, pushing the young
man in. "Own cousin of mine--used up from a journey--going to be
assistant superintendent in the canneries, to fill the place Pottses
have long been clamouring to fill, and that I out of obstinacy
wouldn't. A good clean boy, but delicate. Coddle him a bit, let the
children play with him. Name, Charles White."
The new Charles White bit his lip, and in a tired fashion shook hands
with the beaming Mrs. Negus.
"I'm real glad to get a boarder," she assured him. "I've been lonely
since my minister left. Here's his room," and conducting him up-stairs,
she opened the door of a nestlike apartment with pink roses on the
wall, and mild-faced china figures of lambs and dogs on the mantel.