the New York passengers had disembarked, but an old woman was standing
at the entrance and looking anxiously at the passers-by.
"Mrs. Smith?" said Ella, inquiringly.
"Thank heaven, you have come," was the joyous reply.
"Here," and she stepped to one side and revealed a little girl who was
gazing out at the tracks. "I've had such a time with that brat and I'll
never travel with another again. I've just got time to catch my train
for St. Paul. Good-bye!" Whereupon, disregarding Ella's cries and her
protestations, the woman rushed madly to the other end of the depot and
disappeared through a gate which closed behind her with a slam. It was
the last call for the St. Paul train.
Naturally, Ella did not know what to do. She hung around the depot for
half an hour, hoping someone would claim the child. Then she put the
little one in a cab and gave the Careys' address in Indiana Avenue.
* * * * *
Walter Haines went to the Lake Shore depot. One of the first passengers
to emerge from the New York train was a female, who seemed to answer the
general description furnished by Carey. She was breathless as if from
running faster than an old woman should run. As she reached Haines, she
stopped and glared at him.
"Mrs. Smith?" he inquired, lifting his hat.
The woman grabbed him by the arm. "I knew you would be here, but hurry,
that man is after me!"
"What man?" asked Haines in surprise.
"Hush, we cannot talk now," was the reply. "Get a carriage and drive
fast, fast; we must escape him."
"George couldn't come, he sent me. My name is Haines," said the puzzled
escort.
"I don't care if your name is Beelzebub" was the impatient retort. "You
get that carriage or I'll write to Roosevelt." And Mr. Haines, very much
astonished, complied.
He thought as he drove away that he heard someone shouting, but was not
sure; in fact, he paid no attention, for he was too busy thinking what a
queer old aunt his friend Carey had.
The "horrid man who belonged to the lodge" was named Perkins. He reached
the B. & O. depot half an hour ahead of time, so he went across the
street and had a drink. When he returned he discovered that No. 7 was
late, and so had another. Also, several more. By the time the train did
arrive he was in such a mellow state that he couldn't tell a parlor car
from a lake steamer--and he didn't care! He had likewise forgotten what
George's aunt looked like, but that, too, was a trivial matter. So he
stood at the gate, beaming blandly at every person that appeared.
"Are you Georsh's saunt?" he inquired of a tall man with white
side-whiskers and garbed in ministerial black. His answer was a look of
horror, but it had no effect on Perkins, who repeated his question at
intervals without result. His lack of success finally drove him to
tears.
"Poor Georsh!" he sobbed. "Dear old Georsh! Must have an naunt! Break
hish heart if he don't have an naunt! Can't fine his naunt! Get him one
myself!"
A gang of immigrants were passing at the time. Perkins grabbed one of
them by the arm.
"Be nish fellow," he said persuasively, "be Georsh's aunt."
The immigrant was obdurate, but Perkins was persistent. He drew a roll
of bills from his pocket and peeled off a five. This he pressed upon his
new-found friend.
"Be a good aunt," he said, "be a nish aunt, and I'll give you two more
like thish!"
The Italian, overcome by the sight of so much wealth, fell captive to
the eloquence of Perkins. The latter was delighted. He escorted his
victim to a saloon across the street and hurled six drinks into him in
rapid succession. The immigrant beamed and forgot all his troubles. He
lit a fifteen-cent cigar and puffed away as if he were used to it.
"Be your-a aunt," he said, "be-a anybody's aunt. You good-a feller."
This sentiment led to another round of drinks, and then the pair tumbled
into a cab, singing discordantly in two languages. Perkins fortunately
remembered the address of Haines, and was able to mumble it so that the
hackman could understand. Therefore there was no bar to his enjoyment.
Of course they stopped en route, for Perkins was brimming over with
gratitude and the cabman was included in their rejoicing. Long before
they reached Indiana Avenue, everybody was drunk except the horse.
In the meantime there was all sorts of trouble in the modest residence
of George Carey. The head of the household had fumed and fretted about
the Michigan Central depot, and finally started home, auntless. There he
met his wife, Mrs. Haines and Ella's young man with similar stories.
Five minutes later a carriage drove up and Ella and her charge alighted.
"Isn't she a dear little girl?" gurgled Miss Haines, who, being petite
and worried, didn't know anything else to do under the circumstances
except to gurgle.
Carey gazed at the young woman with distinct disapproval for the first
time in his life.
"I know the popular impression is that old ladies shrink," he said, "but
Aunt Mary could never have shrunk to that size. Where did you get her
and why?"
Falteringly, Miss Haines explained. Then she cried. The child, who had
regarded them gravely up to this point, took it for a signal. She
screamed, then she roared. Nobody could comfort her or find out who she
was.
The arrival of another cab distracted their attention. The bell rang
loudly. As Carey opened the door, an old woman bounded in. Her hat was
on one side of her head and her eyes gleamed madly.
"Safe at last!" she cried. Then she ran upstairs, entered Mrs. Haines's
room, and locked the door. Through the panels came the sound of
hysterical laughter.
Walter Haines entered the house at this moment. His attitude was
distinctly apologetic.
"Remarkable old lady, isn't she?" he ventured.
"Who?" asked Mr. Carey.
"Why your aunt, of course; didn't you see her come in?"
Carey choked down his wrath out of respect to the ladies, but it was
hard work.
"I never saw that woman before," he remarked; "you brought her here
uninvited, now you take her away."
Naturally this provoked argument. Mrs. Haines sided with her husband,
Mrs. Carey flew to the aid of her worser half, Miss Haines wept, and the
little girl screamed. Upstairs, the bogus Aunt Mary was still laughing.
None of the interested parties could tell afterward how long the talk
continued. A louder noise outside drew them all to the front porch. In
front of the house was a hansom cab drawn by a disgusted-looking horse.
He looked and acted like one who had been compelled against his will to
mingle with disreputable associates.
The driver descended from his seat and fell full length upon the
pavement. He didn't try to get up, but chanted in a husky tone, "Hail!
hail! the gang's all here!!!"
Then the door of the cab opened and Mr. Perkins appeared. Nobody could
deny that he was very much the worse for wear. But Mr. Perkins bore
himself like a conqueror. He advanced hastily and embraced Carey with
enthusiasm. Carey recoiled.
"Dear Georsh," said Perkins. "Got you an naunt!"
Apprehensively, Carey ran to the carriage. Huddled upon the floor was an
object that moved faintly. From the atmosphere Sherlock Holmes would
have deduced that a whisky refinery had exploded in that cab a few hours
before. The onlooker gingerly touched the object. It rolled over, then
it rolled out of the cab and lay on the sidewalk beside the driver.
Perkins kept on smiling. "Your naunt," he remarked, blandly. "Couldn't
get you what you wanted. Got you thish one!"
At this moment, Carey remembered that he had a telephone. He spurned his
"aunt" with his foot and passed into the house. He called up Police
Headquarters. His friend, Sergeant Bob O'Rourke, was on duty, which made
it easier for him.
"Bob," he said, after greetings had been exchanged, "have you an alarm
out for a little girl kidnapped from the Pennsylvania station?"
"Yes."
"And does anybody want a crazy woman, last seen on a Lake Shore train?"
"Yes; her keeper was here half an hour ago," was the reply. "He was
taking her to Kankakee and she made a get-away. What do you know about
her?"
"They are both here," was the reply. "Send the wagon, and just for good
measure I'll throw in an Italian immigrant who came in over the B. & O.
and a cab-driver. They are both drunk, very drunk, and please take the
cab away too."
The next half hour gave Indiana Avenue residents plenty to talk about
for a month. But finally the combat was over, and Carey and his friends
sat down exhausted.
"But what I would like to know," remarked the head of the house, "where,
oh where is Aunt Mary?"
It was a messenger-boy who brought the answer--a telegram dated Niagara
Falls, current date and reading:
"Stopped over here. Isn't the view from Goat Island wonderful? Leave
for Chicago on the first train. Meet me."
There was a sudden painful silence.
"Does anybody know how many trains there are from Niagara Falls?"
inquired Mrs. Carey, speaking to the company generally. She didn't dare
to address her husband.
"Just about as many as there are from New York," replied Haines, with a
woebegone look. "But--"
"Don't finish it," returned Carey, "I am not going to ask you to try
again, and I am not going to do so myself. Aunt Mary can leave her money
to anybody she pleases. If I had another night like this the executors
would be compelled to mail me my cheque to an asylum."
And the next evening Aunt Mary, unattended, reached her nephew's house
without any trouble at all. She didn't disinherit him; in fact, she felt
so sorry because of his troubles that she bought Mrs. Carey a complete
spring outfit regardless of cost.
It's a good thing to have an Aunt Mary, even if she is indefinite in her
telegrams.
IX
THE VENGEANCE OF THE WOLF
A Drama in Wales
By J. AQUILA KEMPSTER
IN THE great stone hall of Llangarth, Daurn-ap-Tavis, the old Welsh Wolf
lay dying. Outside was the night and a sullen gale whose winds came
moaning down the hills and clung about the house with little bodeful
whispers that grew to long-drawn eerie wails, while pettish rain-squalls
spent their spite in futile gusts on door and casement.
And through the night from time to time a horseman came, spurring hard
and spitting out strange Welsh oaths at the winds that harried him. Five
had passed the door since sun-down, four worthy sons and a nephew of the
Wolf. They stood now booted and spurred about the old man's couch, a
rough-looking crew with the mud caking them from head to foot, while the
leaping flames from the log fire flung their shadows black and distorted
far up among the rafters.
They hung around him sullenly, but as he looked them up and down the
sick man's eyes took on a new keenness and a low, throaty laugh that was
half a growl escaped him.
"Well, Cedric, man, what devil's game have you been playing of late?
and, Tad, you black rascal--ah, 'twas a pity you were born to Gruffydd
instead of me. Well, well, boys, the old Wolf's cornered at last,
cornered at last, and Garm, Levin, Rhys--the Cadwallader's going to live
and laugh, aye, he's going to live and laugh while a Tavis roasts in
hell."
Garm started with a low growl, while Cedric kicked savagely at a hound
that lay beside the logs.
"Aye, Ced, kick the old dog, but it won't stop the Cadwallader's laugh."
Cedric clenched his fists at the taunt and his face grew purple in the
fire glow, but old Daurn went on remorselessly: "Twenty years he's
laughed at the Wolf and his whelps, an' think you he'll stop now? He was
always too lucky for me. I thought when my lads grew strong---- But
there, he laid me low, the only man that ever did, curse him! There's
the mark, boys; see the shamed blood rise to it?"
He loosened his shirt with a fretful jerk and they bent over and
glowered at the red scar which ran across his chest. They had all seen
it times before, knew the dark quarrel and the darker fight, had tingled
with shame again and again, but to-night it seemed to hold an added
sting, for the Wolf was going out with his debt unpaid.
Cedric, the elder, gaped and shuddered, then fell to cursing again, but
Daurn drew back the quilt and went on talking: "I swore by the body of
God to get even, and day and night I've watched my chance. I tried at
Tredegar, and that night ye all mind at Ebbu Vale. Yes, I tell you a
dozen times, but he's a fox, curse him! a sly old fox, and now the
Wolf's teeth are broken. What's that, Ced? Look to him, Tad--aye, look
to all thy cousins. Fine grown lads, big, brave, and fierce, but the
Cadwallader still lives and laughs; yes, laughs at old Daurn and his
boys. My God! to think of it."
"Curse me! choke me!" Cedric stormed out in spluttering fury, gripping
his sword with one hand while he dragged at his coat with the other.
"I'll cut--cut his bl-black gizzard, blast him. I'm a c-c-coward, eh!
Right in my t-teeth! Well, wait till th'-th' dawn an' see."
He had crammed his hat over his eyes and with coat buttoned all awry was
half way to the door before Tad caught and held him, whispering in his
ear: "Steady, Ced, steady. He's got some plan or I'm a fool. Come back
an' wait a bit, an' if I'm mistaken I'll surely ride along with ye."
Cedric yielded, doubtful and sullen, but Daurn greeted him bravely:
"God's truth, lad, you've the spirit of the Wolf at least, but you've
got no brains to plan. Come close an' listen, an' if ye truly want a
fight thy father'll never balk thee."
Then with faltering breath but gleaming eyes he unfolded the plan he had
conceived to make his dying a thing of greater infamy than all his
bloody days.
The beginnings of the feud between the House of the Wolf and that of
Llyn Gethin, the Cadwallader, were so remote that probably both had
forgotten, if they ever knew them, for the old Welsh chieftains passed
their quarrels on from generation to generation and their hot blood
rarely cooled in the passing. Llyn was about the only man in the country
who had been able to hold his own against "the Tavis," but hold it he
had with perhaps a trifle to spare. Indeed, of late years he had let
slip many an opportunity for reprisals, and thrice had made overtures of
peace which had been violently rejected. Llyn had fought fair at least,
even if he had struck hard, but the life of the Wolf had been as
treacherous as it was bloody. And day by day and year by year, as
Daurn's strength began to fail and brooding took the place of action,
the bitterness of his hatred grew, and out of this at last the plan. It
was simple.
Daurn was old, dying, and weary of the strife. He would pass at peace
with the world and particularly with his ancient foe. A messenger should
be sent inviting Llyn and his sons to Llangarth. They would suspect
nothing, for all Wales knew the Wolf lay low--would probably come
unarmed and needs must, as time was short, travel by night. Well, there
was a convenient and lonely spot some three miles from Llangarth--did
the lads understand? Aye, they understood, but their breath came heavily
and they glanced furtively each at the other, while the youngest, Rhys,
shivered and drew closer to Tad.
Daurn's burning eyes questioned them one by one, and one by one they
bowed their heads but spake never a word.
"Ye'll swear to it, lads," he whispered hoarsely, and drew a long dagger
from beneath his pillow. For answer there came the rattle of loosened
steel, and as he again bared his breast they drew closer in a half
circle, laying their blades flat above his heart, his own dagger adding
to the ring of steel.
And then they swore by things unknown to modern men to wipe out the
shame that had lain so long upon their house, and that before their
father died.
As their voices ceased the wind outside seemed to take up the burden of
their bloody oath as if possessed, for it shrieked and wailed down the
great chimney like some living thing in pain. And then, in a little lull
following on the sobbing cry, there came a curious straining push that
shook the closed oak door.
They stood transfixed, for a moment daunted, with their swords half in
and half out their scabbards, till with a warning gesture to his
cousins, Black Tad stole softly across the floor and, lifting the heavy
bar cautiously, opened the door.
He paused an instant on the lintel, motionless and rigid to the point of
his sword, his eyes fixed on the white face of a girl who was cowered
back against the further wall. For a fraction of time he hesitated, but
the awful anguish of the face and the mute, desperate appeal of the
whole pose settled him. With a rough clatter he sprang into the dim
passage, rattling his sword and stamping his feet, at the same time
giving vent with his lips to the yelp of a hound in pain, and following
it with rough curses and vituperation. Then, without another glance at
the girl, he re-entered the hall and slammed to the door, grumbling at
Rhys for not keeping his dogs tied up.
By one o'clock the great hall was still. The men were lying scattered
about the house, for the most part sleeping as heavily as many jorums of
rum made possible.
But the firelight flickering in the hall caught ever an answering gleam
from the old Wolf's eyes as he lay there gray, shaggy, and watchful.
From time to time his bony fingers plucked restlessly at his beard, and
now and again his lips stretched back over yellow teeth in an evil smile
as he gloated over the details of his coming vengeance.
And out in a chill upper hall Gwenith, the fair daughter of a black
house, sat in a deep embrasure, her arms clinging to the heavy oak bars
desperately. The wind moaned and sighed about her while her white
terrified lips echoed the agony of her heart. And the burden of her
whispered cry was ever, "Davy!--Davy!" and then: "For the Christ's sake!
Davy!--Davy!--Davy!"
So the night drew on with the men and dogs sleeping torpidly; with the
old Wolf chuckling grimly as the shadows closed about him, and with the
child in the cold above sobbing out pitiful prayers for her lover, for
only yesterday she had plighted her troth to Davy Gethin, the
Cadwallader's youngest son.
These two had met in the early days when she wandered free over the
rolling hills, a wild young kilted sprite, fearful of nothing save her
father and his grim sons. And Davy had wooed her ardently, though in
secret from the first. It had been charming enough in the past despite
the fear that ever made her say him nay. Then yesterday he had won her
from her tears and fears, won her by his brave and tender front, and she
had placed her little hands on his breast and sworn to follow him
despite all else when once her father had passed away. And now, twelve
short hours after her fingers had touched him, her fear had caught her
by the throat, for they would kill him surely, her prince, the only joy
she had ever known.
So went the night, with desperate distracted plans, and the dumb agony
of cold despair. And in the very early dawn, when men and things cling
close to sleep, she heard a gentle stirring--a muffled footfall on the
stairs, and Black Tad stood at her side, a great shadow, questioning
her.
"Mistress, what heard you?"
And she answered quick with loathing: "All! all the vile, shameful
thing!"
"They are our foes" he muttered moodily.
"Foes! Foes! Nay, none of you are worthy any foe--save the hangman! Ah,
God will curse you! Cruel! Cruel!"
She leaned out of her seat toward him, her panting breath and fierce
words lashing him so that he stepped back a pace, dazed--she was ever
such a gentle child.
"What would you, Gwen?"
"What would I! My God!--a fair fight at least. Oh, Tad, and I thought
you were a brave man."
"I--I--damme, I, what can I do?--and what does it matter?"
"Matter?--a foul blot!--matter to you and Ced and father--nothing!
Murderers! I hate you all! What has the Cadwallader done? All Wales
knows 'twas ever father set on him, not he on father--Always!--always, I
say! Aye, I remember that bloody night at Ebbu Vale. Shame! Shame! And
the harrying and burning at Rhyll, when the mother and her babes
perished. No, you weren't there, Tad, but you know and I know who was.
Ah, Tad, she's crying to God--that mother, and holding the little dead
things in her hands, close up to his face. And now you'd murder Llyn,
for all he's ever been for peace."
"Hush-s-sh! not so loud, Gwen."
"Not so loud! not so loud!" she jibed bitterly. "If you fear my poor
voice now, what will it be when all Wales is ringing with this last foul
deed?"
Tad breathed hard, then caught her wrists suddenly, crushing them in his
fierceness: "Listen, Gwenith. After all I'm no Tavis--I'm Gruffydd, and
I love you."
She shrank away with wide, fearful eyes, her breath coming in little
painful gasps.
"What--what do you mean, Tad?"
"I love you, Gwen."
"And----?"
"Well, I'm no Tavis--I'm Gruffydd."
Slowly the meaning which he himself hardly understood dawned on her.
"You'll save them, Tad?"
"Na, na. A fair fight is what you said. 'Tis all I can do."
"And you will?"
"I love you," he persisted stubbornly.
She closed her eyes tightly and leaned back against the wooden shutter,
her hands still held close in his grasp. And she strove to see clearly
through the mist of horror and pain. It was a chance, at least a
fighting chance, to save Davy, her prince; the only chance, the only
way, and outside that what else mattered?
Her eyes opened and her lips trembled; then she got her strength back
and faced him in the dim dawn.
"My life for theirs, Tad,--is that it?"
Her eyes and her question shamed him, but he clung to his text doggedly,
for he had loved her long and hopelessly in his wild, stubborn way, and
this was his first and only desperate chance.
"I love ye, Gwenith, I love ye!"
There came a stir in the far hall, a long-drawn yawn; and at the sound
the girl whispered fiercely: "Well, it's a bargain; give them fair
warning and I'll--I'll do--give you your will. Yes, I swear it by the
dear Saint David. Quick! let me go--no, not now!--Tad, I command you,
I--I--Quick! that's Garm's voice; let me go."
* * * * *
"Llyn Gethin! a word in your ear before we ride on."
It was Tad who spoke to the old Cadwallader out in the moonlight. Llyn
had answered Daurn's urgent message for peace, and a few miles north of
Llangarth had met Tad. At the words the old man looked at him curiously,
but reined his horse in, while his sons watched the pair suspiciously,
for they were young, their blood and their hate still ran hotly, and
save for their father would have had none of this death-bed
reconciliation.
"Well, lad, what is it?" asked Llyn, when they were out of earshot.
"A word of warning, sir--from one who hates you."
"Ah! You were ever a good hater, boy. What is it?"
"'Tis a trick o 'mine, sir--this visit--and you'd better ride back."
"I think not, Tad."
"Well, have your way, but if you ride with me you ride to hell."
"We ride with you, Tad."
"Your blood be on you and your sons, then, Llyn Gethin. You're safe to
the stone bridge; after that fend for yourself. I--I'm a cursed traitor,
but, by David, I strike with my house. There, I've warned you, and God
forgive me."
"Amen, lad! Will you shake hands before we ride?"
"No, choke me! I'd sooner ding my dagger in your neck."
So they rejoined the waiting group and rode forward, Tad moodily in
advance, Llyn and his sons in a whispering bunch some yards behind. It
had been Tad's own suggestion that he ride forward and meet the Gethins
so they might be lured the more easily to the turn beyond the bridge.
Now they followed on till they saw the white masonry gleaming in the
moonlight, and then the dark form of Tad's horse crossing it, when there
was a halt and a grim tightening of belts and loosening of swords. And
as the man on the bridge threw up his arm, Llyn answered the sign
hoarsely: "God keep thee, son of Gruffydd!" he cried. Then as his sons
closed in he turned on them sternly: "Remember, lads! who touches him
touches me. Ah! steady now! Forward!"
Even as they clattered on the bridge Tad's challenge and signal to his
kinsmen rang out furiously:
"The Wolf! The Wolf and Saint David!"
Then came a rush of horse and steel and wild-eyed men, which but for
their preparation would have swept the Gethins down. As it was they met
it fiercely as it came. They had not come unarmed--perhaps wise old Llyn
distrusted such late penitence even as did his sons. Be that as it may,
the cry of "Cadwallader!" rose against "The Wolf!" and bore it back, for
even in the first wild rush, Cedric fell away before a long, swift
thrust, and a moment later Rhys, the youngest of the house went down and
died beneath the stamping iron hoofs.