Elizabeth Fox was sitting alone in her room when the familiar chug from
the exhaust of the _Jennie P._ fell on her ears. She raised her
window-curtain, and watched the dim lights move out of the harbor in the
direction of the Sound. An unreasoning fear seized her, and it steadily
grew more and more acute as the exhaust from the engine exploded less
and less distinctly. As the lights went out of view into the rain-soaked
night, resentment replaced fear. The minister had doubtless heard of the
plans that were being laid by Sim Hicks for his forceful ejection from
Little River, and rather than face further trouble was slinking away
like a coward under cover of night and storm.
Her better judgment soon began to form excuses for his action. The
Athletic Club, thoroughly reorganized, had been placed under good
leadership, and Mr. McGowan doubtless thought that the members could
get on without his further aid. In all probability, he feared that his
presence might interfere with the promised consummation of fellowship
between the club and the church, and was leaving quietly so another man
less aggressive than he might accomplish the thing he had so well begun.
Had he remained, he would have been compelled to fight his way through
by brute force. He had been forsaken by all those who should have stood
by him. He was not a coward! He was taking the most difficult course.
His going was the most heroic act of all.
Why had every man's hand been against him? Why had her father not so
much as lifted a finger to stay the persecutors? She drew in her lip
between her teeth, and mercilessly bit the pretty Cupid's arch. She
kicked her foot against a stool till the piece of furniture lay beyond
reach of her toe. Her father had not made a single effort to prevent one
action of those who had set themselves against the minister. Instead, he
had aided them, and in many instances had even led in the opposition
against the young man.
One thought at length inhibited all others. She drew back from the
window, and sinking into a deep chair, covered her face with her arm.
Mack McGowan had gone out of her life! Suddenly, she knew that she loved
him, loved him as passionately as he had declared his love for her. Why
had she been unable to understand him that night on the beach? Had she
really tried? She classed herself with all the others who had been so
blind as to force this man to leave their village.
She jerked the pins from her hair, letting the fair mass fall over her
shoulders. The stand she had taken had been because of the attitude of
her father. He had no right to come between her and the man she loved.
Why had he done it? Her fingers paused in the act of delving for a
buried hairpin, and her arm fell limply over the wing of the chair. A
vision of her father's face had come before her, startling her
imagination. She saw him again as she had seen him that night when
Harold had announced his intended trip to Australia. She recalled his
ghostly features on the night of Harold's return from abroad. Could
there be some unknown reason for her father's actions against the young
minister? And did that reason justify his action?
Her conjectures were cut short by the sound of footfalls on the stair.
The tread was heavy, as though the climber were dragging himself up by
main force. On the top landing he halted, and turned toward her door.
What caprices emotion plays with judgment! One moment judgment may map
out a course as clear as the noonday, and the next moment emotion may
lead judgment into a blind alley. Thus did the emotions of Elizabeth
suddenly halt her judgment, leaving all her reason deaf, dumb, and
blind.
"Beth, are you asleep?" whispered a tired, husky voice.
"No, Father. I haven't retired yet. Come in."
She blindly felt that her father had need of her, and although she could
not understand the meaning of the battle he had been called upon to
general, she must give him her aid.
Mr. Fox entered and felt his way across the dark room. He found a chair
and dropped into it.
"You're in the dark, dear," he observed.
"Yes, Father. I've been thinking here since twilight. Lights always
interfere with my thoughts, and so I did not turn them on."
"Why, my dear, how long you have been sitting like this! It is now
nearly eleven o'clock. Your thoughts must have been pretty active."
"I had no idea it was that late!" she exclaimed. "I have been thinking a
great deal."
He stirred uneasily. Since the Captain's visit the Elder had been on the
verge of collapse.
"Pretty bad storm," he commented, and his voice trembled.
Elizabeth reached out into the darkness and took his hand. As she
pressed it to her lips she felt it shake.
"Thank you, Beth."
"Are you well, Father?"
"Not very. But it is nothing serious. At least, the doctor so assures
me. I presume he ought to know."
"Why don't you go to the city and consult a specialist? These country
doctors may not understand how to diagnose your case fully."
"All the specialists in Christendom couldn't help me."
"Father!"
"Don't grow alarmed," he said, with a short nervous laugh. "The only
thing any doctor ever removes from his patient is what is worth the
doctor's while. Present day physicians get away with a lot that is no
credit to their profession. The main thing that interests them is not
the disease, but the sufferer's pocketbook. If they can remove the
latter, they will keep coaxing the former along."
"I suppose it is the spirit of the age to want to get all the money one
can. Others, besides doctors, do that."
"Yes. Yes. There are still others who are grossly misjudged simply
because they have money, too."
"Of course there are. But let's forget both those classes and talk
about you. Please, tell me all about your troubles. It hurts me to see
you suffering so, and I want to help you. I'll try very hard."
"I can't tell you everything, Beth."
"Oh! Yes, you can. I'll be your doctor, and I'll promise not to remove
more of your money than is absolutely necessary for a new frock. Try me
this once, and see how well I'll prescribe."
"Money is not troubling me, and I'll see that you get all the new frocks
you wish. But I fear you would not understand if I should tell you
all."
"I shall try most awfully hard, Father. You have told me lots of times
that for a girl I have excellent ideas about business dealings. Please,
tell me. It will at least help you to unburden your mind."
"But I have told you already that what is troubling me has nothing
whatever to do with business. I tried to talk with you the other
evening, and you failed to understand. We must not quarrel again. That
is harder for me to bear than all else."
"I am very sorry for that, Daddy. I fear I lost my head. I am ashamed of
the way I acted, and of what I said. Will you not forgive me?"
"Yes, my dear. We were both pretty severe. We are living too much on our
nerves of late."
"Now, that the past is cleared up, tell me what is troubling you
to-night."
"You say you have been sitting here for a long while?"
"Since twilight. It didn't seem so long, though."
"Did you see anything strange, or hear anything familiar?"
"I saw Uncle Josiah's boat leave the harbor."
"Didn't it strike you as being rather odd that he should be going out
this time of night, and in such a storm? He went out last night, too."
"Yes, it did seem very strange to me."
"Beth?" The Elder's voice wavered.
"What is it, Father?"
"I know I've no right to worry you like this, but I don't stand
reverses like I once did."
"Reverses! You told me it wasn't money! And, anyway, what does Uncle
Josiah's action have to do with your reverses?" She switched on the
light at her desk. When she saw her father's face she gave a little
cry.
"I have told you the truth, Beth. It isn't money. I wish to God it were
nothing more than that! There are reverses far harder to bear than
financial ones."
Her father appeared older than she had ever seen him. Dejection showed
through every line of his haggard face. The side-whiskers, which to his
daughter's mind he had worn with great distinction, now gave to his worn
features a grotesque expression.
"I feel pretty well worn out to-night, my dear,"--weariness was in every
word he uttered,--"and as if I need some one to lean on. If I did not
need you to help me, I should not be bothering you at this hour of the
night."
The girl drew before her father's chair the footstool which earlier in
the evening she had kicked into a far corner. She sat at his knee, and,
taking his hand in hers, pressed it against her cheek. For some time
they sat thus in silence. Her father broke in on the quietness of the
room with a peculiar question.
"The Bible tells us that we should love our enemies, doesn't it, Beth?"
"But, Father, you have no enemies worth worrying about! Why should you
ask such a question?"
"They may not be worth worrying about, but as I said before I don't seem
able to fight off worry as I once could."
"Nonsense! When all this blows over you will see where you have been
very foolish to have worried in the least bit. You are not strong, and
everything appears worse than it really is."
"I don't know about that, my dear. I'm not so certain, either, that my
enemies are not worth worrying about."
"Of course they're not. Just think how all the people have honored you
for what you have done for Little River. Your gifts will not be so
quickly forgotten that a total stranger can change the feeling of
respect for you among your lifelong friends."
"I'm aware of all that, and I appreciate it."
"What has all this to do about Uncle Josiah's leaving town?"
"I'm coming to that. Suppose one of those you called my lifelong friends
proved to be just the opposite?"
"That can't be true about Uncle Josiah!"
"Public expressions of gratitude can never atone for the knife which a
supposedly close friend drives into one's heart."
Elizabeth unconsciously drew away. The movement was slight, but her
father noticed it.
"Beth, Josiah has gone to the city to-night for no good purpose."
"Do you think he went alone?" With a savage leap the question got beyond
the bounds of her lips.
"I doubt it. Just what part the other will play, I don't know. But of
one thing I'm certain, Josiah is bent on ill."
Elizabeth felt that her old friend was being weighed in the balances.
She could not trust her words to the emotion she felt.
"Do you think you are in a position to understand what I'm trying to
tell you?"
"Father," she said, speaking slowly that she might not lose control of
herself, "if you were not so serious about this, I should be tempted to
laugh at your little melodramatic farce. It is the most ridiculous thing
in all the world for you to imagine that Uncle Josiah would play double
with us! He is too good-hearted for even one evil suggestion to get into
his mind."
"I did not want to tell you the fact, but I fear I must. Of late he has
been openly hostile to every suggestion I have made. I presume he thinks
I should have secured a boat for him. That may account for his action."
"What dreadful thing has he done? I can't imagine----"
"Crookedness comes from the most unexpected sources," cut in her father,
curtly.
"But such a thing would not be unexpected from Uncle Josiah, it would be
impossible."
The Elder lowered his eyes to meet those peering at him from the tangle
of fair hair. "As I have already suggested, you might not understand me.
It seems that you are determined not to understand. It would be very
hard for me to have another falling out with my little girl. Maybe I
should say nothing further."
"If you are intending to say something against Uncle Josiah, perhaps you
had better not say it. I'm afraid I wouldn't understand."
She turned from her father and tried to gaze through the window. The
beating storm, and the light from within, made the pane opaque. She
stared against this till her eyes ached.
"Beth!" There was a note of command in his tone.
She turned to face her father.
"Come here," he ordered.
"Uncle Josiah untrue to us!" she said, without moving from her place at
the window. "I cannot believe it. There must be some mistake."
"There is absolutely no mistake about it. I should like to believe it
more than you. I have even tried to make myself believe that my
imagination was getting the better of me. But he was up here only last
night, and confirmed all my fears."
"Uncle Josiah untrue! He could not be after all you have done for
him. You loaned him money, and helped him fix up his place. Why,
Father,----"
"That is the thing that makes it hurt so," broke in the Elder. "He seems
ungrateful for all I have done. I don't care half as much for the
praises of people inspired by a crowd as I do for one kind word from an
individual whom I have helped."
"Some one has influenced Uncle Josiah, if he has taken this attitude
against you."
"I have had the same fear. But even that would not excuse him for
cursing me and threatening me with violence under my own roof."
Elizabeth looked doubtful.
"It amounts to that, my dear. The things he said to me last night are
too vulgar to repeat. He swore vengeance against me. I am compelled to
take a certain action against him, and naturally he is not able to
see----"
"Father!" cried the girl. "Then, it is you who are threatening to do
something against him."
"So it seems to him on the face of the action I must take. But at bottom
it is an act of true friendship. He does not know the particulars, and I
am in no position to explain."
"What is it you are going to do?" she asked, drawing farther into the
corner near the window.
"I must request that you ask me no questions. You are not familiar
enough with the law to comprehend."
Her gaze was fixed on him, and the Elder hitched sidewise in his chair,
vainly trying to avoid her eyes. Failing in this, he attempted to meet
her look squarely. His eyes shifted unsteadily, and he looked above her
head. But the eyes of his child continued to bore into his guilty soul.
"Why do you stare at me in that manner, Beth?" he questioned, motioning
her to his side.
"I don't know." She gave no evidence that she saw his effort to draw her
near him.
"Then, stop glaring like that. How many times have I told you that it is
unladylike?"
"You're going to take his place from him because he cannot pay that
loan!" she whispered. "How can you be so cruel?"
Mr. Fox was left without excuse or reply. When he spoke, his voice was
harsh, and his words were sharp.
"I see, I have been unwise in telling you."
"You didn't tell me, but I could not help guessing the truth."
"I'm doing it for his good, and unless you believe me,----"
"For his good! You can't mean that! You shall not stoop----"
"Stoop!" He caught up the word with a hiss. But he soon controlled his
anger, and dropped his pale face into trembling hands. "God help me!
They that hurt me are even of my own household!"
"Father, I don't want to hurt you. I'm not your enemy!" she cried. "I'm
only your little Beth trying so hard to see why you must do this
terrible thing."
"Come to me," he begged.
She took her place on the footstool, and took his hand.
"I shall try to tell you all about it, if you will listen. I didn't
intend to, but it is more than I can bear to have my own daughter
question my honesty and integrity. Harold's unjust insinuations are
almost more than I can bear. Now, if you----"
"Don't say it, Father! I have not doubted your word yet. I don't want to
now. I won't doubt you. Tell me all, and I'll try to see this from your
point of view."
"You guessed rightly about what I have to do. The mortgage on Josiah's
place----"
"You can certainly extend that, if only for six months. You don't need
the money."
"Don't interrupt me again, please. It's a far more serious thing than
the small loan I made to Josiah to repair his place with. The old
homestead was willed to Josiah's half-brother, providing he should
outlive Josiah. Josiah knew nothing about that fact, and when he was so
informed by his friends years ago, refused to listen to any of us. The
half-brother left the country rather than quarrel with him over the
estate. Later, this half-brother was in serious financial trouble, and I
happened to come across him when he was in dire need of money. Knowing
of the will, I loaned him all he needed, and took out a first mortgage
on his property. Owing to peculiar circumstances, I put in a provision
that there was to be no foreclosure so long as the interest was paid. I
even went beyond the request which the man made, by including another
clause which prevents me or my heirs from foreclosing before the
expiration of two years after the last payment of interest. Have you
followed me closely?"
She nodded.
"Well, each year the interest has been paid in full up to the last two.
As long as it was forthcoming I said nothing. I have not mentioned a
word of this transaction between the half-brother and me, for I knew his
hot temper would get the better of him. He thinks the man was drowned
at sea, and it is best that he continue to think so. I have misled him
into the belief that I was foreclosing because of the small loan I made
last spring, and I trusted to his usual secrecy and apparent ignorance
to say nothing about it to any one. But from the arrogant manner he
maintained toward me last night I fear he has said more than is good for
him. And I have every reason to think that the meddler is the minister.
I doubt not but that is the reason why he has gone to the city to-night,
and I don't think he has gone alone."
"When must that interest be paid?"
"Before midday, Saturday. The other loan does not come due for more than
two weeks, but the time was so near that I did not think of Josiah
questioning it."
"Who has been paying the interest on the other loan?"
"I do not know, but it has doubtless been coming from some estate of the
father-in-law of Josiah's brother."
"Why was it dropped?"
"That I cannot tell you. I should have done nothing even now had I not
learned that this half-brother has come into that estate through the
death of the wife's father. I have every reason to believe that he could
pay not alone the interest, but the principal as well, if he so
desired."
"Perhaps this half-brother does not know about the inheritance."
"That is absurd. He does know, or should. The fact is, he is an outlaw
and is hiding from justice."
"But why should you make Uncle Josiah suffer for what his half-brother
did?"
"That is the very thing I am trying not to do. Can't you see where it
would place him if I told him the truth?"
"Yes. But I see no reason why you can't let things go on as they have,
and forget the unpaid interest."
"I have no power to do that. I put the matter in the hands of my lawyers
in order to force the hidden rascal to take action."
"I think it would be best to tell Uncle Josiah all about it, and let him
help you find the one who should pay."
"Such action would be senseless for two reasons: it would give Josiah
grief and pain, and he would be unable to meet the obligation. It was
larger than what the place would cover when first made, and with the
deterioration in the value of the property it now far exceeds its worth.
Then, there is the interest for two years."
"Why don't you offer to buy the place, even paying more than the
mortgage calls for? It would be a kindness."
"I made such an offer through my lawyer, but Josiah refused."
"Then, why not cancel it altogether?"
"That would be very unbusiness-like," he declared curtly. "But even if I
so desired, it would be impossible now. I have permitted my lawyers to
use the foreclosure as a threat, and I'm duty bound to see it through."
"If it is absolutely necessary to go through with this, I don't see that
it would make it any more terrible if we should tell Uncle Josiah the
whole story. It would, at least, save his thinking ill of us. Then,
there is the chance that he might suggest something."
"Beth, I'm bound by my word to say nothing. That was the one promise I
made to Adoniah."
"Adoniah!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes growing wide.
"Yes. I did not mean to speak his name, but it can do no harm."
"Why,--that was the first name----Is he the same man Harold is trying to
find?"
"I'm sorry to say that he is."
"The one whose last name was Phillips?"
"Yes. But why do you take such interest in him?"
"And he is a brother of Uncle Josiah?"
"A half-brother," he replied, showing that he was becoming nettled.
Elizabeth rose from her stool, and crossed over to the door that led
into the hall. She did not seem to sense just what she was doing till
her hand touched the cold knob. With a start, as though wakened from a
bad dream, she turned about and faced her father.
"Father,"--her breath came in short gasps,--"you have no right to keep
your word to such a man as you say this Phillips person is. There is
but one thing for us to do: go at once to Uncle Josiah. I'm certain he
can get enough money to pay the interest, if that is what you want."
"But, Beth, I cannot do that. My business honor is at stake, and I must
permit the law to take its course."
"You may be right about the legal part. But how about the moral side? Is
there not something at stake there, too?"
"It does seem a moral injustice, but I cannot help that. It is hard, for
Josiah will see only the moral side of it, and the people of the village
will think it unjust. Josiah may find out the facts, that is, enough of
them to prove to his mind that I can't foreclose on his property because
of the little loan. What more he may discover, I cannot even guess. It
will depend somewhat on the lawyer who advises him. But no matter what
he discovers, my conscience will be clear in that I did not break faith
with his renegade brother."
"What right have you to keep faith with him?"
"My little Beth, please do not question my action," he entreated. "It
will all be clear to you some day. I'm willing to wait for my
vindication, but I must know that my little girl trusts her daddy to do
what is right. If you don't, it will kill me!"
There was such deep pathos in his voice that she recrossed the room. She
laid her hand on the arm of her father's chair.
"After all, Father, I am only a girl, and know very little of law and
business. Forgive me if I have hurt you. I don't see why you feel as you
do about carrying this thing through at so great a sacrifice of lifelong
friendships. But I believe that you must be doing the best you can as
you see your duty."
"I can hope for no more than that, my dear."
Suddenly she shook the hair from her shining eyes.
"Father!"
"Yes?"
"I tell you what I'm going to do!" she cried. "I'm going to Uncle Josiah
just as soon as he gets back, and tell him as much as I think he ought
to know. May I?"
"Certainly, if you wish. I'll trust to your discretion. He will listen
to you. I think you know what must not be said, from our conversation
this evening."
"I'll do it!" she exclaimed eagerly, and stooped above the chair to kiss
her father's forehead. "Now, you go right to bed. That is my first
remedy. My second is like unto it: don't do one single bit of worrying.
Remember! Good night."
The Elder rose and smiled benignly on his daughter. At the door he
paused, and turned back.
"Beth, this may affect the minister."
"Affect the minister? Affect Mr. McGowan? How can it do that?"
"He has doubtless urged Josiah to take this rash step to consult a
lawyer, and when all the facts come out he may be forced to leave Little
River. As you know, his popularity is quite dubious as matters stand at
present."
"But I hardly see----"
"We'll say nothing more about that. Good night, my dear."
Her door closed, and her father crossed the hall. She was no sooner
alone than a rush of unbidden thoughts and emotions swept over her,
carrying all her promises like chaff before a hurricane. While her
father had been in the room she had thought herself quite determined to
take the hard step of explaining to Uncle Josiah just enough to remove
the blame from the one she loved to the half-brother. But now that the
Elder had gone her will to explain seemed gone, too. Again he rose
before her imagination, a white trembling figure. She heard Harold speak
the name of Adoniah Phillips, and saw her father stagger from the table.
Had these two things been a mere coincidence? Doubts began to rise. Why
must the mortgage be foreclosed on Uncle Josiah's place? Why had her
father acted so on the evening when Harold had spoken his client's name?
Had her father told her all? Why should all this involve the minister,
even though he had advised the Captain to seek the counsel of a lawyer?
Long into the night she puzzled her brain in seeking for answers to her
many questions. Of one thing she felt sure, Mr. McGowan would not leave
Little River. Just between waking and sleeping she at length recalled
the words of love which he had spoken to her on the beach, spoken as she
had never heard them before, and they carried her along dreamy paths
into a happy visionary future.