V.

The day was still far from dawning when Northwick crept up the silent

avenue, in the dark of its firs, toward his empty house, and stealthily

began to seek for that home in it which had haunted his sleeping and

waking dreams so long. He had a kind of ecstacy in the risk he ran; a

wild pleasure mixed with the terror he felt in being what and where he

was. He wanted to laugh when he thought of the perfect ease and safety

of his return. At the same time a thrilling anxiety pierced him through

and through, and made him take all the precautions of a thief in the

night.

A thief in the night: that was the phrase which kept repeating itself to

him, till he said it over under his breath, as he put off his shoes, and

stole up the piazza-steps, and began to peer into the long windows, at

the blackness within. He did not at once notice that the shutters were

open, with an effect of reckless security or indifference, which struck

a pang to his heart when he realized it. He felt the evil omen of this

faltering in the vigilance which had once guarded his home, and which he

had been the first to break down, and lay it open to spoil and waste. He

tried the windows; he must get in, somehow, and he did not dare to ring

at the door, or to call out. He must steal into his house, as he had

stolen out of it.

One of the windows yielded; the long glass door gave inward, and he

stepped on the carpetless floor of the library. Then the fact of the

change that must have passed upon the whole house enforced itself, and

he felt a passionate desire to face and appropriate the change in every

detail. He lit one of the little taper matches that he had with him,

and, hollowing his hands around it, let its glimmer show him the

desolation of the dismantled and abandoned rooms. He passed through the

doors set wide between library and drawing-room and dining-room and

hall; and then from his dying taper he lit another, and mounted the

stairs. He had no need to seek his daughter's rooms to satisfy himself

that the whole place was empty; they were gone; but he had a fantastic

expectation that in his own room he might find himself. There was

nothing there, either; it was as if he were a ghost come back in search

of the body it had left behind; any one that met him, he thought, might

well be more frightened than he; and yet he did not lose the sense of

risk to himself.

He had an expectation, born of long custom, and persisting in spite of

the nakedness of the place otherwise, that he should see the pictured

face of his wife, where it had looked so mercifully at him that last

night from the portrait above the mantel. He sighed lightly to find it

gone; her chair was gone from the bay-window, where he had stood to gaze

his last over the possessions he was abandoning. He let his little taper

die out by the hearth, and then crept toward the glimmer of the window,

and looked out again. The conservatories and the dairies and the barns

showed plain in the gray of the moonless, starless night; in the

coachman's quarters a little point of light appeared for a moment

through the window, and then vanished.

Northwick knew from this that the place was inhabited; unless some

homeless tramp like himself was haunting it, and it went through his

confusion that he must speak to Newton, and caution him about tramps

sleeping in the barns anywhere; they might set them on fire. His mind

reverted to his actual condition, and he wondered how long he could come

and go as a vagrant without being detected. If it were not for the

action against vagrants which he had urged upon the selectmen the summer

before, he might now come and go indefinitely. But he was not to blame;

it was because Mrs. Morrell had encouraged the tramps by her reckless

charity that something had to be done; and now it was working against

him. It was hard: he remembered reading of a man who had left his family

one day, and taken a room across the street, and lived there in sight of

them unknown till he died: and now he could not have passed his own door

without danger of arrest as a vagrant. He struck another match, and

looked at himself in the mirror framed as a window at one side of the

bay; he believed that with the long white beard he wore, and his hair

which he had let grow, his own children would not have known him.

It was bitter; but his mind suddenly turned from the thought, with a

lightness it had, and he remembered that now he did not know where his

children lived. He must find out, somehow; he had come to see them; and

he could not go back without. He must hurry to find them, and be gone

again before daylight. He crept out to the stairs, and struck a match to

light himself down, and he carried it still burning, toward the window

he had left open behind him in the library. As soon as he stepped out on

the piazza he found himself gripped fast in the arms of a man.

"I've got you! What you doing in here, I'd like to know? Who are you,

anyway, you thief? Just hold that lantern up to his face, a minute,

'Lectra."

Northwick had not tried to resist; he had not struggled; he had known

Elbridge Newton's voice at the first word. He saw the figure of a woman

beside him, stooping over the lantern, and he knew that it was Mrs.

Newton; but he made no sort of appeal to either. He did not make the

least sound or movement. The habit of his whole life was reticence,

especially in emergencies; and this habit had been strengthened and

deepened by the solitude in which he had passed the last half-year. If a

knife had been put to his throat, he would not have uttered a cry for

mercy; but his silence was so involuntary that it seemed to him he did

not breathe while Mrs. Newton was turning up the wick of the lantern for

a good look at him. When the light was lifted to his face, Northwick

felt that they both knew him through the disguise of his white beard.

Elbridge's grip fell from him and let him stand free. "Well, I'll be

dumned," said Elbridge.

His wife remained holding the lantern to Northwick's face. "What are you

going to do with him?" she asked at last, as if Northwick were not

present; he stood so dumb and impassive.

"I d' know as I know," said Newton, overpowered by the peculiar

complications of the case. He escaped from them for the moment in the

probable inference: "I presume he was lookin' for his daughters. Didn't

you know," he turned to Northwick, with a sort of apologetic reproach,

"lightin' matches that way in the house, here, you might set it on fire,

and you'd be sure to make people think there was somebody there,

anyhow?"

Northwick made no answer to this question, and Newton looked him

carefully over in the light of the lantern. "I swear, he's in his

stockin' feet. You look round and see if you can find his shoes,

anywhere, 'Lectra. You got the light." Newton seemed to insist upon this

because it relieved him to delegate any step in this difficult matter to

another.

His wife cast the light of her lantern about, and found the shoes by the

piazza-steps, and as Northwick appeared no more able to move than to

speak, Elbridge stooped down, and put on his shoes for him where he

stood. When he lifted himself, he stared again at Northwick, as if to

make perfectly sure of him, and then he said, with a sigh of perplexity,

"You go ahead, a little ways, 'Lectra, with the lantern. I presume we've

got to take him to 'em," and his wife, usually voluble and wilful,

silently obeyed.

"Want to see your daughters?" he asked Northwick, and at the silence

which was his only response, Newton said, "Well, I don't know as I

blame him any, for not wantin' to commit himself. You don't want to be

afraid," he added, to Northwick, "that anybody's goin' to keep you

against your will, you know."

"Well, I _guess_ not," said Mrs. Newton, finding her tongue, at last.

"If they was to double and treble the reward, I'd slap 'em in the face

first. Bring him along, Elbridge."

As Northwick no more moved than spoke, Newton took him by the arm, and

helped him down the piazza-steps and into the dark of the avenue,

tunnelled about their feet by the light of the lantern, as they led and

pushed their helpless capture toward the lodge at the avenue gate.

Northwick had heard and understood them; he did not know what secret

purpose their pretence of taking him to his children might not cover;

but he was not capable of offering any resistance, and when he reached

the cottage he sank passively on the steps. He shook in every nerve,

while Elbridge pounded on the door, till a window above was lifted, and

Adeline's frightened voice quavered out, "Who is it? What is it?"

Mrs. Newton took the words out of her husband's mouth. "It's us, Miss

Northwick. If you're sure you're awake--"

"Oh, yes. I haven't been asleep!"

"Then listen!" said Mr. Newton, in a lowered tone. "And don't be scared.

Don't call out--don't speak loud. There's somebody here--Come down, and

let him in."

Northwick stood up. He heard the fluttered rush of steps on the stairs

inside. The door opened, and Adeline caught him in her arms, with

choking, joyful sobs. "Oh, father! Oh, father! Oh, I knew it! I knew it!

Oh, oh, oh! Where was he? How did you find him?"

She did not heed their answers. She did not realize that she was

shutting them out when she shut herself in with her father; but they

understood.