Mr. Gabe Bearse lost another opportunity the next morning. The
late bird misses the early worm and, as Gabriel was still slumbering
peacefully at six A. M., he missed seeing Ruth Armstrong and her
brother emerge from the door of the Winslow house at that hour
and walk to the gate together. Charles was carrying a small
traveling bag. Ruth's face was white and her eyes were suspiciously
damp, but she was evidently trying hard to appear calm and cheerful.
As they stood talking by the gate, Jed Winslow emerged from the
windmill shop and, crossing the lawn, joined them.
The three talked for a moment and then Charles held out his hand.
"Well, so long, Jed," he said. "If all goes well I shall be back
here to-morrow. Wish me luck."
"I'll be wishin' it for you, Charlie, all day and all night with
double time after hours and no allowance for meals," replied Jed
earnestly. "You think Sam'll get your note all right?"
"Yes, I shall tuck it under the bank door as I go by. If he should
ask what the business was which called me to Boston so suddenly,
just dodge the question as well as you can, won't you, Jed?"
"Sartin sure. He'll think he's dealin' with that colored man that
sticks his head through the sheet over to the Ostable fair, the one
the boys heave baseballs at. No, he won't get anything out of me,
Charlie. And the other letter; that'll get to--to her?"
The young man nodded gravely. "I shall mail it at the post-office
now," he said. "Don't talk about it, please. Well, Sis, good-by--
until to-morrow."
Jed turned his head. When he looked again Phillips was walking
rapidly away along the sidewalk. Ruth, leaning over the fence,
watched him as long as he was in sight. And Jed watched her
anxiously. When she turned he ventured to speak.
"Don't worry," he begged. "Don't. He's doin' the right thing. I
know he is."
She wiped her eyes. "Oh, perhaps he is," she said sadly. "I hope
he is."
"I know he is. I only wish I could do it, too. . . . I would," he
drawled, solemnly, "only for nineteen or twenty reasons, the first
one of 'em bein' that they wouldn't let me."
She made no comment on this observation. They walked together back
toward the house.
"Jed," she said, after a moment, "it has come at last, hasn't it,
the day we have foreseen and that I have dreaded so? Poor Charlie!
Think what this means to him."
Jed nodded. "He's puttin' it to the touch, to win or lose it all,"
he agreed, "same as was in the poem he and I talked about that
time. Well, I honestly believe he feels better now that he's made
up his mind to do it, better than he has for many a long day."
"Yes, I suppose he does. And he is doing, too, what he has wanted
to do ever since he came here. He told me so when he came in from
his long interview with you last night. He and I talked until it
was almost day and we told each other--many things."
She paused. Jed, looking up, caught her eye. To his surprise she
colored and seemed slightly confused.
"He had not said anything before," she went on rather hurriedly,
"because he thought I would feel so terribly to have him do it. So
I should, and so I do, of course--in one way, but in another I am
glad. Glad, and very proud."
"Sartin. He'll make us all proud of him, or I miss my guess. And,
as for the rest of it, the big question that counts most of all to
him, I hope--yes, I think that's comin' out all right, too. Ruth,"
he added, "you remember what I told you about Sam's talk with me
that afternoon when he came back from Wapatomac. If Maud cares for
him as much as all that she ain't goin' to throw him over on
account of what happened in Middleford."
"No--no, not if she really cares. But does she care--enough?"
"I hope so. I guess so. But if she doesn't it's better for him to
know it, and know it now. . . . Dear, dear!" he added, "how I do
fire off opinions, don't I? A body'd think I was loaded up with
wisdom same as one of those machine guns is with cartridges. About
all I'm loaded with is blanks, I cal'late."
She was not paying attention to this outburst, but, standing with
one hand upon the latch of the kitchen door, she seemed to be
thinking deeply.
"I think you are right," she said slowly. "Yes, I think you are
right. It IS better to know. . . . Jed, suppose--suppose you
cared for some one, would the fact that her brother had been in
prison make any difference in--in your feeling?"
Jed actually staggered. She was not looking at him, nor did she
look at him now.
"Eh?" he cried. "Why--why, Ruth, what--what--?"
She smiled faintly. "And that was a foolish question, too," she
said. "Foolish to ask you, of all men. . . . Well, I must go on
and get Babbie's breakfast. Poor child, she is going to miss her
Uncle Charlie. We shall all miss him. . . . But there, I promised
him I would be brave. Good morning, Jed."
"But--but, Ruth, what-what--?"
She had not heard him. The door closed. Jed stood staring at it
for some minutes. Then he crossed the lawn to his own little
kitchen. The performances he went through during the next hour
would have confirmed the opinion of Mr. Bearse and his coterie that
"Shavings" Winslow was "next door to loony." He cooked a
breakfast, but how he cooked it or of what it consisted he could
not have told. The next day he found the stove-lid lifter on a
plate in the ice chest. Whatever became of the left-over pork chop
which should have been there he had no idea.
Babbie came dancing in at noon on her way home from school. She
found her Uncle Jed in a curious mood, a mood which seemed to be a
compound of absent-mindedness and silence broken by sudden fits of
song and hilarity. He was sitting by the bench when she entered
and was holding an oily rag in one hand and a piece of emery paper
in the other. He was looking neither at paper nor rag, nor at
anything else in particular so far as she could see, and he did not
notice her presence at all. Suddenly he began to rub the paper and
the rag together and to sing at the top of his voice:
"'He's my lily of the valley,
My bright and mornin' star;
He's the fairest of ten thousand to my soul--Hallelujah!
He's my di-dum-du-dum-di-dum--
Di--'"
Barbara burst out laughing. Mr. Winslow's hallelujah chorus
stopped in the middle and he turned.
"Eh?" he exclaimed, looking over his spectacles. "Oh, it's you!
Sakes alive, child, how do you get around so quiet? Haven't
borrowed the cat's feet to walk, on, have you?"
Babbie laughed again and replied that she guessed the cat wouldn't
lend her feet.
"She would want 'em herself, prob'ly, Uncle Jed," she added.
"Don't you think so?"
Jed appeared to consider.
"Well," he drawled, "she might, I presume likely, be as selfish and
unreasonable as all that. But then again she might . . . hum . . .
what was it the cat walked on in that story you and I was readin'
together a spell ago? That--er--Sure Enough story--you know. By
Kipling, 'twas."
"Oh, I know! It wasn't a Sure Enough story; it was a 'Just So'
story. And the name of it was 'The Cat Who Walked by His Wild
Lone.'"
Jed looked deeply disappointed. "Sho!" he sighed. "I thought
'twas on his wild lone he walked. I was thinkin' that maybe he'd
gone walkin' on that for a spell and had lent you his feet. . . .
Hum. . . . Dear, dear!
"'Oh, trust and obey,
For there's no other way
To be de-de-de-di-dum--
But to trust and obey.'"
Here he relapsed into another daydream. After waiting for a
moment, Babbie ventured to arouse him.
"Uncle Jed," she asked, "what were you doing with those things in
your hand--when I came in, you know? That cloth and that piece of
paper. You looked so funny, rubbing them together, that I couldn't
help laughing."
Jed regarded her solemnly. "It's emery paper," he said; "like fine
sandpaper, you know. And the cloth's got ile in it. I'm cleanin'
the rust off this screwdriver. I hadn't used it for more'n a
fortni't and it got pretty rusty this damp weather."
The child looked at him wonderingly.
"But, Uncle Jed," she said, "there isn't any screwdriver. Anyhow I
don't see any. You were just rubbing the sandpaper and the cloth
together and singing. That's why it looked so funny."
Jed inspected first one hand and then the other.
"Hum!" he drawled. "Hu-um! . . . Well, I declare! . . . Now you
mention it, there don't seem to be any screwdriver, does there? . . .
Here 'tis on the bench. . . . And I was rubbin' the sandpaper
with ile, or ilin' the sandpaper with the rag, whichever you
like. . . . Hum, ye-es, I should think it might have looked
funny. . . . Babbie, if you see me walkin' around without any
head some mornin' don't be scared. You'll know that that part
of me ain't got out of bed yet, that's all."
Barbara leaned her chin on both small fists and gazed at him.
"Uncle Jed," she said, "you've been thinking about something,
haven't you?"
"Eh? . . . Why, yes, I--I guess likely maybe I have. How did you
know?"
"Oh, 'cause I did. Petunia and I know you ever and ever so well
now and we're used to--to the way you do. Mamma says things like
forgetting the screwdriver are your ex-eccen-tricks. Is this what
you've been thinking about a nice eccen-trick or the other kind?"
Jed slowly shook his head. "I--I don't know," he groaned. "I
dasn't believe-- There, there! That's enough of my tricks. How's
Petunia's hair curlin' this mornin'?"
After the child left him he tried to prepare his dinner, but it was
as unsatisfactory a meal as breakfast had been. He couldn't eat,
he couldn't work. He could only think, and thinking meant
alternate periods of delirious hope and black depression. He sat
down before the little table in his living-room and, opening the
drawer, saw Ruth Armstrong's pictured face looking up at him.
"Jed! Oh, Jed!"
It was Maud Hunniwell's voice. She had entered the shop and the
living-room without his hearing her and now she was standing behind
him with her hand upon his shoulder. He started, turned and looked
up into her face. And one glance caused him to forget himself and
even the pictured face in the drawer for the time and to think only
of her.
"Maud!" he exclaimed. "Maud!"
Her hair, usually so carefully arranged, was disordered; her hat
was not adjusted at its usual exact angle; and as for the silver
fox, it hung limply backside front. Her eyes were red and she held
a handkerchief in one hand and a letter in the other.
"Oh, Jed!" she cried.
Jed put out his hands. "There, there, Maud!" he said. "There,
there, little girl."
They had been confidants since her babyhood, these two. She came
to him now, and putting her head upon his shoulder, burst into a
storm of weeping. Jed stroked her hair.
"There, there, Maud," he said gently. "Don't, girlie, don't. It's
goin' to be all right, I know it. . . . And so you came to me, did
you? I'm awful glad you did, I am so."
"He asked me to come," she sobbed. "He wrote it--in--in the
letter."
Jed led her over to a chair. "Sit down, girlie," he said, "and
tell me all about it. You got the letter, then?"
She nodded. "Yes," she said, chokingly; "it--it just came. Oh, I
am so glad Father did not come home to dinner to-day. He would
have--have seen me and--and--oh, why did he do it, Jed? Why?"
Jed shook his head. "He had to do it, Maud," he answered. "He
wanted to do the right thing and the honorable thing. And you
would rather have had him do that, wouldn't you?"
"Oh--oh, I don't know. But why didn't he come to me and tell me?
Why did he go away and--and write me he had gone to enlist? Why
didn't he come to me first? Oh. . . . Oh, Jed, how COULD he treat
me so?"
She was sobbing again. Jed took her hand and patted it with his
own big one.
"Didn't he tell you in the letter why?" he asked.
"Yes--yes, but--"
"Then let me tell you what he told me, Maud. He and I talked for
up'ards of three solid hours last night and I cal'late I understood
him pretty well when he finished. Now let me tell you what he said
to me."
He told her the substance of his long interview with Phillips. He
told also of Charles' coming to Orham, of why and how he took the
position in the bank, of his other talks with him--Winslow.
"And so," said Jed, in conclusion, "you see, Maud, what a dreadful
load the poor young feller's been carryin' ever since he came and
especially since he--well, since he found out how much he was
carin' for you. Just stop for a minute and think what a load
'twas. His conscience was troublin' him all the time for keepin'
the bank job, for sailin' under false colors in your eyes and your
dad's. He was workin' and pinchin' to pay the two thousand to the
man in Middleford. He had hangin' over him every minute the
practical certainty that some day--some day sure--a person was
comin' along who knew his story and then the fat would all be in
the fire. And when it went into that fire he wouldn't be the only
one to be burnt; there would be his sister and Babbie--and you;
most of all, you."
She nodded. "Yes, yes, I know," she cried. "But why--oh, why
didn't he come to me and tell me? Why did he go without a word?
He must have known I would forgive him, no matter what he had done.
It wouldn't have made any difference, his having been in--in
prison. And now--now he may be--oh, Jed, he may be killed!"
She was sobbing again. Jed patted her hand. "We won't talk about
his bein' killed," he said stoutly. "I know he won't be; I feel it
in my bones. But, Maud, can't you see why he didn't come and tell
you before he went to enlist? Suppose he had. If you care for him
so much--as much as I judge you do--"
She interrupted. "Care for him!" she repeated. "Oh, Jed!"
"Yes, yes, dearie, I know. Well, then, carin' for him like that,
you'd have told him just what you told me then; that about his
havin' done what he did and havin' been where he's been not makin'
any difference. And you'd have begged and coaxed him to stay right
along in the bank, maybe? Eh?"
"Yes," defiantly. Of course I would. Why not?"
"And your father, would you have told him?"
She hesitated. "I don't know," she said, but with less assurance.
"Perhaps so, later on. It had all been kept a secret so far, all
the whole dreadful thing, why not a little longer? Besides--
besides, Father knows how much Charlie means to me. Father and I
had a long talk about him one night and I--I think he knows. And
he is very fond of Charlie himself; he has said so so many times.
He would have forgiven him, too, if I had asked him. He always
does what I ask."
"Yes, ye-es, I cal'late that's so. But, to be real honest now,
Maud, would you have been satisfied to have it that way? Would you
have felt that it was the honorable thing for Charlie to do? Isn't
what he has done better? He's undertakin' the biggest and finest
job a man can do in this world to-day, as I see it. It's the job
he'd have taken on months ago if he'd felt 'twas right to leave
Ruth--Mrs. Armstrong--so soon after--after bein' separated from her
so long. He's taken on this big job, this man's job, and he says
to you: 'Here I am. You know me now. Do you care for me still?
If you do will you wait till I come back?' And to your dad, to
Sam, he says: 'I ain't workin' for you now. I ain't on your
payroll and so I can speak out free and independent. If your
daughter'll have me I mean to marry her some day.' Ain't that the
better way, Maud? Ain't that how you'd rather have him feel--and
do?"
She sighed and shook her head. "I--I suppose so," she admitted.
"Oh, I suppose that you and he are right. In his letter he says
just that. Would you like to see it; that part of it, I mean?"
Jed took the crumpled and tear-stained letter from her hand.
"I think I ought to tell you, Maud," he said, "that writin' this
was his own idea. It was me that suggested his enlistin', although
I found he'd been thinkin' of it all along, but I was for havin'
him go and enlist and then come back and tell you and Sam. But he
says, 'No. I'll tell her in a letter and then when I come back
she'll have had time to think it over. She won't say 'yes' then
simply because she pities me or because she doesn't realize what it
means. No, I'll write her and then when I come back after enlistin'
and go to her for my answer, I'll know it's given deliberate.'"
She nodded. "He says that there," she said chokingly. "But he--he
must have known. Oh, Jed, how CAN I let him go--to war?"
That portion of the letter which Jed was permitted to read was
straightforward and honest and manly. There were no appeals for
pity or sympathy. The writer stated his case and left the rest to
her, that was all. And Jed, reading between the lines, respected
Charles Phillips more than ever.
He and Maud talked for a long time after that. And, at last, they
reached a point which Jed had tried his best to avoid. Maud
mentioned it first. She had been speaking of his friendship for
her lover and for herself.
"I don't see what we should have done without your help, Jed," she
said. "And when I think what you have done for Charlie! Why, yes--
and now I know why you pretended to have found the four hundred
dollars Father thought he had lost. Pa left it at Wapatomac, after
all; you knew that?"
Jed stirred uneasily. He was standing by the window, looking out
into the yard.
"Yes, yes," he said hastily, "I know. Don't talk about it, Maud.
It makes me feel more like a fool than usual and . . . er . . .
don't seem as if that was hardly necessary, does it?"
"But I shall talk about it. When Father came home that night he
couldn't talk of anything else. He called it the prize puzzle of
the century. You had given him four hundred dollars of your own
money and pretended it was his and that you had--had stolen it,
Jed. He burst out laughing when he told me that and so did I. The
idea of your stealing anything! You!"
Jed smiled, feebly.
"'Twas silly enough, I give in," he admitted. "You see," he added,
in an apologetic drawl, "nine-tenths of this town think I'm a prize
idiot and sometimes I feel it's my duty to live up--or down--to my
reputation. This was one of the times, that's all. I'm awful glad
Sam got his own money back, though."
"The money didn't amount to anything. But what you did was the
wonderful thing. For now I understand why you did it. You
thought--you thought Charlie had taken it to--to pay that horrid
man in Middleford. That is what you thought and you--"
Jed broke in. "Don't! Don't put me in mind of it, Maud," he
begged. "I'm so ashamed I don't know what to do. You see--you
see, Charlie had said how much he needed about that much money and--
and so, bein' a--a woodenhead, I naturally--"
"Oh, don't! Please don't! It was wonderful of you, Jed. You not
only gave up your own money, but you were willing to sacrifice your
good name; to have Father, your best friend, think you a thief.
And you did it all to save Charlie from exposure. How could you,
Jed?"
Jed didn't answer. He did not appear to have heard her. He was
gazing steadily out into the yard.
"How could you, Jed?" repeated Maud. "It was wonderful! I can't
understand. I--"
She stopped at the beginning of the sentence. She was standing
beside the little writing-table and the drawer was open. She
looked down and there, in that drawer, she saw the framed
photograph of Ruth Armstrong. She remembered that Jed had been
sitting at that desk and gazing down into that drawer when she
entered the room. She looked at him now. He was standing by the
window peering out into the yard. Ruth had come from the back door
of the little Winslow house and was standing on the step looking up
the road, evidently waiting for Barbara to come from school. And
Jed was watching her. Maud saw the look upon his face--and she
understood.
A few moments later she and Ruth met. Maud had tried to avoid that
meeting by leaving Jed's premises by the front door, the door of
the outer shop. But Ruth had walked to the gate to see if Babbie
was coming and, as Maud emerged from the shop, the two women came
face to face. For an instant they did not speak. Maud, excited
and overwrought by her experience with the letter and her interview
with Jed, was still struggling for self-control, and Ruth, knowing
that the other must by this time have received that letter and
learned her brother's secret, was inclined to be coldly defiant.
She was the first to break the silence. She said "Good afternoon"
and passed on. But Maud, after another instant of hesitation,
turned back.
"Oh, Mrs. Armstrong," she faltered, "may I speak with you just--
just for a few minutes?"
And now Ruth hesitated. What was it the girl wished to speak
about? If it was to reproach her or her brother, or to demand
further explanations or apologies, the interview had far better not
take place. She was in no mood to listen to reproaches. Charles
was, in her eyes, a martyr and a hero and now, largely because of
this girl, he was going away to certain danger, perhaps to death.
She had tried, for his sake, not to blame Maud Hunniwell because
Charles had fallen in love with her, but she was not, just then,
inclined toward extreme forbearance. So she hesitated, and Maud
spoke again.
"May I speak with you for just a few minutes?" she pleaded. "I
have just got his letter and--oh, may I?"
Ruth silently led the way to the door of the little house.
"Come in," she said.
Together they entered the sitting-room. Ruth asked her caller to
be seated, but Maud paid no attention.
"I have just got his letter," she faltered. "I--I wanted you to
know--to know that it doesn't make any difference. I--I don't
care. If he loves me, and--and he says he does--I don't care for
anything else. . . . Oh,' PLEASE be nice to me," she begged,
holding out her hands. "You are his sister and--and I love him so!
And he is going away from both of us."
So Ruth's coldness melted like a fall of snow in early April, and
the April showers followed it. She and Maud wept in each other's
arms and were femininely happy accordingly. And for at least a
half hour thereafter they discussed the surpassing excellencies of
Charlie Phillips, the certainty that Captain Hunniwell would
forgive him because he could not help it and a variety of kindred
and satisfying subjects. And at last Jed Winslow drifted into the
conversation.
"And so you have been talking it over with Jed," observed Ruth.
"Isn't it odd how we all go to him when we are in trouble or need
advice or anything? I always do and Charlie did, and you say that
you do, too."
Maud nodded. "He and I have been what Pa calls 'chummies' ever
since I can remember," she said simply.
"I don't know why I feel that I can confide in him to such an
extent. Somehow I always have. And, do you know, his advice is
almost always good? If I had taken it from the first we might, all
of us, have avoided a deal of trouble. I have cause to think of
Jed Winslow as something sure and safe and trustworthy. Like a
nice, kindly old watch dog, you know. A queer one and a funny one,
but awfully nice. Babbie idolizes him."
Maud nodded again. She was regarding her companion with an odd
expression.
"And when I think," continued Ruth, "of how he was willing to
sacrifice his character and his honor and even to risk losing your
father's friendship--how he proclaimed himself a thief to save
Charlie! When I think of that I scarcely know whether to laugh or
cry. I want to do both, of course. It was perfectly
characteristic and perfectly adorable--and so absolutely absurd. I
love him for it, and as yet I haven't dared thank him for fear I
shall cry again, as I did when Captain Hunniwell told us. Yet,
when I think of his declaring he took the money to buy a suit of
clothes, I feel like laughing. Oh, he IS a dear, isn't he?"
Now, ordinarily, Maud would have found nothing in this speech to
arouse resentment. There was the very slight, and in this case
quite unintentional, note of patronage in it that every one used
when referring to Jed Winslow. She herself almost invariably used
that note when speaking of him or even to him. But now her
emotions were so deeply stirred and the memories of her recent
interview with Jed, of his understanding and his sympathy, were so
vivid. And, too, she had just had that glimpse into his most
secret soul. So her tone, as she replied to Ruth's speech, was
almost sharp.
"He didn't do it for Charlie," she declared. "That is, of course
he did, but that wasn't the real reason."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Don't you know what I mean? Don't you really know?"
"Why, of course I don't. What ARE you talking about? Didn't do it
for Charlie? Didn't say that he was a thief and give your father
his own money, do you mean? Do you mean he didn't do that for
Charlie?"
"Yes. He did it for you."
"For me? For ME?"
"Yes. . . . Oh, can't you understand? It's absurd and foolish and
silly and everything, but I know it's true. Jed Winslow is in love
with you, Mrs. Armstrong."
Ruth leaned back in her chair and stared at her as if she thought
her insane.
"In love with ME?" she repeated. "Jed Winslow! Maud, don't!"
"It's true, I tell you. I didn't know until just now, although if
it had been any one but Jed I should have suspected for some time.
But to-day when I went in there I saw him sitting before his desk
looking down into an open drawer there. He has your photograph in
that drawer. And, later on, when you came out into the yard, I saw
him watching you; I saw his face and that was enough. . . . Oh,
don't you SEE?" impatiently. "It explains everything. You
couldn't understand, nor could I, why he should sacrifice himself
so for Charlie. But because Charlie was your brother--that is
another thing. Think, just think! You and I would have guessed it
before if he had been any one else except just Jed. Yes, he is in
love with you. . . . It's crazy and it's ridiculous and--and all
that, of course it is. But," with a sudden burst of temper, "if
you--if you dare to laugh I'll never speak to you again."
But Ruth was not laughing.
It was a cloudy day and Jed's living-room was almost dark when Ruth
entered it. Jed, who had been sitting by the desk, rose when she
came in.
"Land sakes, Ruth," he exclaimed, "it's you, ain't it? Let me
light a lamp. I was settin' here in the dark like a . . . like a
hen gone to roost. . . . Eh? Why, it's 'most supper 'time, ain't
it? Didn't realize 'twas so late. I'll have a light for you in a
jiffy."
He was on his way to the kitchen, but she stopped him.
"No," she said quickly. "Don't get a light. I'd rather not,
please. And sit down again, Jed; just as you were. There, by the
desk; that's it. You see," she added, "I--I--well, I have
something to tell you, and--and I can tell it better in the dark, I
think."
Jed looked at her in surprise. He could not see her face plainly,
but she seemed oddly confused and embarrassed.
"Sho!" he drawled. "Well, I'm sure I ain't anxious about the
light, myself. You know, I've always had a feelin' that the dark
was more becomin' to my style of beauty. Take me about twelve
o'clock in a foggy night, in a cellar, with the lamp out, and I
look pretty nigh handsome--to a blind man. . . . Um-hm."
She made no comment on this confession. Jed, after waiting an
instant for her to speak, ventured a reminder.
"Don't mind my talkin' foolishness," he said, apologetically. "I'm
feelin' a little more like myself than I have for--for a week or
so, and when I feel that way I'm bound to be foolish. Just gettin'
back to nature, as the magazine folks tell about, I cal'late 'tis."
She leaned forward and laid a hand on his sleeve.
"Don't!" she begged. "Don't talk about yourself in that way, Jed.
When I think what a friend you have been to me and mine I--I can't
bear to hear you say such things. I have never thanked you for
what you did to save my brother when you thought he had gone wrong
again. I can't thank you now--I can't."
Her voice broke. Jed twisted in his seat.
"Now--now, Ruth," he pleaded, "do let's forget that. I've made a
fool of myself a good many times in my life--more gettin' back to
nature, you see--but I hope I never made myself out quite such a
blitherin' numbskull as I did that time. Don't talk about it,
don't. I ain't exactly what you'd call proud of it."
"But I am. And so is Charlie. But I won't talk of it if you
prefer I shouldn't. . . . Jed--" she hesitated, faltered, and then
began again: "Jed," she said, "I told you when I came in that I had
something to tell you. I have. I have told no one else, not even
Charlie, because he went away before I was--quite sure. But now I
am going to tell you because ever since I came here you have been
my father confessor, so to speak. You realize that, don't you?"
Jed rubbed his chin.
"W-e-e-ll," he observed, with great deliberation, "I don't know's
I'd go as far as to say that. Babbie and I've agreed that I'm her
back-step-uncle, but that's as nigh relation as I've ever dast
figure I was to the family."
"Don't joke about it. You know what I mean. Well, Jed, this is
what I am going to tell you. It is very personal and very
confidential and you must promise not to tell any one yet. Will
you?"
"Eh? Why, sartin, of course."
"Yes. I hope you may be glad to hear it. It would make you glad
to know that I was happy, wouldn't it?"
For the first time Jed did not answer in the instant. The shadows
were deep in the little living-room now, but Ruth felt that he was
leaning forward and looking at her.
"Yes," he said, after a moment. "Yes . . . but--I don't know as I
know exactly what you mean, do I?"
"You don't--yet. But I hope you will be glad when you do. Jed,
you like Major Grover, don't you?"
Jed did not move perceptibly, but she heard his chair creak. He
was still leaning forward and she knew his gaze was fixed upon her
face.
"Yes," he said very slowly. "I like him first-rate."
"I'm glad. Because--well, because I have come to like him so much.
Jed, he--he has asked me to be his wife."
There was absolute stillness in the little room. Then, after what
seemed to her several long minutes, he spoke.
"Yes . . . yes, I see . . ." he said. "And you? You've . . ."
"At first I could not answer him. My brother's secret was in the
way and I could not tell him that. But last night--or this
morning--Charlie and I discussed all our affairs and he gave me
permission to tell--Leonard. So when he came to-day I told him.
He said it made no difference. And--and I am going to marry him,
Jed."
Jed's chair creaked again, but that was the only sound. Ruth
waited until she felt that she could wait no longer. Then she
stretched out a hand toward him in the dark.
"Oh, Jed," she cried, "aren't you going to say anything to me--
anything at all?"
She heard him draw a long breath. Then he spoke.
"Why--why, yes, of course," he said. "I--I--of course I am. I--
you kind of got me by surprise, that's all. . . . I hadn't--hadn't
expected it, you see."
"I know. Even Charlie was surprised. But you're glad, for my
sake, aren't you, Jed?"
"Eh? . . . Yes, oh, yes! I'm--I'm glad."
"I hope you are. If it were not for poor Charlie's going away and
the anxiety about him and his problem I should be very happy--
happier than I believed I ever could be again. You're glad of
that, aren't you, Jed?"
"Eh? . . . Yes, yes, of course. . . ."
"And you will congratulate me? You like Major Grover? Please say
you do."
Jed rose slowly from his chair. He passed a hand in dazed fashion
across his forehead.
"Yes," he said, again. "The major's a fine man. . . . I do
congratulate you, ma'am."
"Oh, Jed! Not that way. As if you meant it."
"Eh? . . . I--I do mean it. . . . I hope--I hope you'll be real
happy, both of you, ma'am."
"Oh, not that--Ruth."
"Yes--yes, sartin, of course . . . Ruth, I mean."
She left him standing by the writing table. After she had gone he
sank slowly down into the chair again. Eight o'clock struck and he
was still sitting there. . . . And Fate chose that time to send
Captain Sam Hunniwell striding up the walk and storming furiously
at the back door.
"Jed!" roared the captain. "Jed Winslow! Jed!"
Jed lifted his head from his hands. He most decidedly did not wish
to see Captain Sam or any one else.
"Jed!" roared the captain again.
Jed accepted the inevitable. "Here I am," he groaned, miserably.
The captain did not wait for an invitation to enter. Having
ascertained that the owner of the building was within, he pulled
the door open and stamped into the kitchen.
"Where are you?" he demanded.
"Here," replied Jed, without moving.
"Here? Where's here? . . . Oh, you're in there, are you? Hidin'
there in the dark, eh? Afraid to show me your face, I shouldn't
wonder. By the gracious king, I should think you would be! What
have you got to say to me, eh?"
Apparently Jed had nothing to say. Captain Sam did not wait.
"And you've called yourself my friend!" he sneered savagely.
"Friend--you're a healthy friend, Jed Winslow! What have you got
to say to me . . . eh?"
Jed sighed. "Maybe I'd be better able to say it if I knew what you
was talkin' about, Sam," he observed, drearily.
"Know! I guess likely you know all right. And according to her
you've known all along. What do you mean by lettin' me take that--
that state's prison bird into my bank? And lettin' him associate
with my daughter and--and . . . Oh, by gracious king! When I think
that you knew what he was all along, I--I--"
His anger choked off the rest of the sentence. Jed rubbed his eyes
and sat up in his chair. For the first time since the captain's
entrance he realized a little of what the latter said. Before that
he had been conscious only of his own dull, aching, hopeless misery.
"Hum. . . . So you've found out, Sam, have you?" he mused.
"Found out! You bet I've found out! I only wish to the Lord I'd
found out months ago, that's all."
"Hum. . . . Charlie didn't tell you? . . . No-o, no, he couldn't
have got back so soon."
"Back be hanged! I don't know whether he's back or not, blast him.
But I ain't a fool ALL the time, Jed Winslow, not all the time I
ain't. And when I came home tonight and found Maud cryin' to
herself and no reason for it, so far as I could see, I set out to
learn that reason. And I did learn it. She told me the whole
yarn, the whole of it. And I saw the scamp's letter. And I
dragged out of her that you--you had known all the time what he
was, and had never told me a word. . . . Oh, how could you, Jed!
How could you!"
Jed's voice was a trifle less listless as he answered.
"It was told me in confidence, Sam," he said. "I COULDN'T tell
you. And, as time went along and I began to see what a fine boy
Charlie really was, I felt sure 'twould all come out right in the
end. And it has, as I see it."
"WHAT?"
"Yes, it's come out all right. Charlie's gone to fight, same as
every decent young feller wants to do. He thinks the world of Maud
and she does of him, but he was honorable enough not to ask her
while he worked for you, Sam. He wrote the letter after he'd gone
so as to make it easier for her to say no, if she felt like sayin'
it. And when he came back from enlistin' he was goin' straight to
you to make a clean breast of everything. He's a good boy, Sam.
He's had hard luck and he's been in trouble, but he's all right and
I know it. And you know it, too, Sam Hunniwell. Down inside you
you know it, too. Why, you've told me a hundred times what a fine
chap Charlie Phillips was and how much you thought of him, and--"
Captain Hunniwell interrupted. "Shut up!" he commanded. "Don't
talk to me that way! Don't you dare to! I did think a lot of him,
but that was before I knew what he'd done and where he'd been. Do
you cal'late I'll let my daughter marry a man that's been in
state's prison?"
"But, Sam, it wan't all his fault, really. And he'll go straight
from this on. I know he will."
"Shut up! He can go to the devil from this on, but he shan't take
her with him. . . . Why, Jed, you know what Maud is to me. She's
all I've got. She's all I've contrived for and worked for in this
world. Think of all the plans I've made for her!"
"I know, Sam, I know; but pretty often our plans don't work out
just as we make 'em. Sometimes we have to change 'em--or give 'em
up. And you want Maud to be happy."
"Happy! I want to be happy myself, don't I? Do you think I'm
goin' to give up all my plans and all my happiness just--just
because she wants to make a fool of herself? Give 'em up! It's
easy for you to say 'give up.' What do you know about it?"
It was the last straw. Jed sprang to his feet so suddenly that his
chair fell to the floor.
"Know about it!" he burst forth, with such fierce indignation that
the captain actually gasped in astonishment. "Know about it!"
repeated Jed. "What do I know about givin' up my own plans and--
and hopes, do you mean? Oh, my Lord above! Ain't I been givin'
'em up and givin' 'em up all my lifelong? When I was a boy didn't
I give up the education that might have made me a--a MAN instead
of--of a town laughin' stock? While Mother lived was I doin' much
but give up myself for her? I ain't sayin' 'twas any more'n right
that I should, but I did it, didn't I? And ever since it's been
the same way. I tell you, I've come to believe that life for me
means one 'give up' after the other and won't mean anything but
that till I die. And you--you ask me what I know about it! YOU
do!"
Captain Sam was so taken aback that he was almost speechless. In
all his long acquaintance with Jed Winslow he had never seen him
like this.
"Why--why, Jed!" he stammered. But Jed was not listening. He
strode across the room and seized his visitor by the arm.
"You go home, Sam Hunniwell," he ordered. "Go home and think--
THINK, I tell you. All your life you've had just what I haven't.
You married the girl you wanted and you and she were happy
together. You've been looked up to and respected here in Orham;
folks never laughed at you or called you 'town crank.' You've got
a daughter and she's a good girl. And the man she wants to marry
is a good man, and, if you'll give him a chance and he lives
through the war he's goin' into, he'll make you proud of him. You
go home, Sam Hunniwell! Go home, and thank God you're what you are
and AS you are. . . . No, I won't talk! I don't want to talk! . . .
Go HOME."
He had been dragging his friend to the door. Now he actually
pushed him across the threshold and slammed the door between them.
"Well, for . . . the Lord . . . sakes!" exclaimed Captain Hunniwell.
The scraping of the key in the lock was his only answer.