Saunders was reading a letter one morning as he walked along the shaded
road from the store to his house. It was from James Wright, the cashier
of the bank, who was giving him some of the particulars in regard to
the double tragedy in Mostyn's life.
"The whole city is shocked," the letter ran. "Nothing else is spoken
of. Mostyn has the sympathy of all. He is bearing it like a man, but he
is terribly changed. He seems more dead than alive. You'd hardly know
him now. Of course, when Mitchell was unable to locate his daughter, to
inform her of the death of her child, everybody began to suspect the
truth, especially as Buckton's mother was almost prostrate, and made no
secret of her fears.
"Mitchell happened to be at the bank when the telegram came from
Buckton announcing the death of Mrs. Mostyn. Buckton called it
heart-failure, but everybody knew from the wording that it was suicide.
Mitchell did, I am sure. He read the telegram with scarcely a change of
face. I happened to be close to him at the moment, and heard him mutter:
"'It is better so!'
"He sat alone in Delbridge's office--seeming to shun Mostyn--without
saying a word for half an hour; then he asked me to telephone the facts
to Mrs. Buckton. I did so, and she drove down to the bank, so weak that
she had to be helped from her carriage. She and the old man held a
consultation. They agreed to go together to Charleston, and thought for
the present, at least, that it would be better to bury the poor woman
there, so as to avoid further publicity here.
"Mitchell returned to-day. Nobody knows exactly what took place between
him and the young man, but it is thought that out of consideration for
Mrs. Buckton he kept his temper. It is rumored that she and her son
have left for New York, and that they may not be back to Atlanta for a
long time.
"Mitchell's trouble seems to have strengthened his mind rather than
weakened it. He is not so flighty or talkative. He is offering his home
for sale, and has ordered it to be closed at once. He says he is going
to live with his nieces in Virginia, who will now, I presume, inherit
all his property. He is not likely to leave a penny to Mostyn, who, to
do him justice, does not want any of it, I'm sure.
"Mostyn is staying at his sister's. She is doing all she can to help
him bear up. His condition is truly pitiful, and it is made more
unbearable by old Henderson, who has made many bold efforts to see him.
Henderson is openly gloating over Mostyn's misfortune. He goes about
chuckling, telling everybody that the retribution for which he has
prayed so long has come at last. I had to drive him away yesterday. He
was peering through my window with a grin on his face, and started to
shout in at Mostyn. Mostyn saw him, I think, but said nothing. The poor
fellow is losing flesh; his eyes have a strange, far-off glare, and his
hands and knees shake. I see now that we must persuade him to go away
for a while. A man of iron could not stand up under such awful trouble."
Saunders folded the letter, and with a profound sigh walked on. A man
on a wagon loaded with hay passed. It was Tobe Barnett, who looked well
and prosperous. He was working on Saunders's plantation, and getting
good wages under the friendly direction of Tom Drake.
Tobe tipped his hat, as he always did to Saunders.
"Awful about Mr. Mostyn, ain't it?" he said. "I read it in the paper
yesterday."
Saunders nodded. "Very sad, Tobe. He is having hard lines."
"I never had nothin' agin the feller _myself,_" Tobe remarked. "He
always treated _me_ right. Some folks said he was sorter wild in his
ways, but I never blamed him much. He was young an' full o' blood. I've
knowed fellers as wild as bucks to settle down in the end."
Tobe drove on. Saunders pursued his way along the shaded road. How
peaceful the landscape looked in the mellow sunshine! How firm and
eternal seemed the mountains, the highest peaks of which pierced the
snowy clouds. Saunder's heart fairly ached under its load of sympathy.
"What can be done? What can be done?" he thought. "I'd like to help
him."
Presently down the road near his own house Saunders saw a trim form on
a black horse. It was Dolly. She was coming toward him. She had not
seen him, and he noted that she was constantly reining her restive
mount in while she kept her eyes fixed on the ground as if in deep
thought.
In a few minutes they met. She looked up, nodded, and bowed.
"I rode over to take a message to father," she announced. "He was in
the wheat-field. I didn't want to bother to go around to the gate, so
what do you think I did? I made my horse jump a fence eight rails high.
Oh, it was fine! I rose like an arrow in the breeze and came down on
the other side as light as a feather."
He caught her bridle-rein and held it to steady the impatient animal.
"You really mustn't take such risks," he said, firmly. "If the horse
had caught his feet on the top rail he would have thrown you. Don't,
don't do it any more. Don't, please don't!"
She avoided his burning upward glance. Suddenly a shadow swept over her
face. "Of course, you've heard about Mr. Mostyn?" she said, softly.
"Isn't it simply awful?"
He nodded, telling her about the letter he had just received. When he
had concluded she sat in silence for a moment, then he heard her sigh.
"I thought I'd had trouble myself, but, really, Jarvis, if I tried I
could not imagine a more horrible situation. He is proud, and his
humiliation and grief combined must be unbearable. Losing his son was
the hardest blow. I think you told me he loved the boy very much."
"He adored the little chap," Saunders said. "And well he might, for the
boy was wonderfully bright and beautiful. He doted on his father."
Dolly was silent. Saunders saw her white throat throbbing. "It is bound
to produce a change in him," she said. "It will either kill him or
regenerate him. He has a queer nature. He is a two-sided man. All his
life he has been tossed back and forth between good and bad impulses.
How awful it must be for him to have to remain in Atlanta and be thrown
with so many who know what has happened! His friends ought to beg him
to go off somewhere."
"I am going to write him a letter to-day," Saunders said. "I shall
assure him that my home is his, and beg him to come. Nature is the best
balm for keen sorrow, and here in the mountains--"
"Oh, how good and sweet and noble of you!" Dolly broke in, tremulously.
"You are always thinking of others. Yes, that would do him good. A city
is no place for one in his trouble. I imagine that nothing will help
him much, but you can do more for him here than any one can down there."
Saunders tried to meet her eyes, but they were steadily avoiding his.
"My God, does she still care for him?" the planter thought. "Does she
still actually love him, and will not this trouble and his presence
here unite them again? She has too great a heart to harbor resentment
at such a time, and she may suspect that he still loves her. If that is
so, I am simply joining their hands together--I who, if I lose her,
will be as miserable as he. Oh, I can't give her up! I simply can't.
She is my very life."
Dolly seemed to feel the force back of his agonized stare, for she kept
her eyes averted.
"He will come, I'm sure," she said, musingly, and, as he thought,
eagerly. "When will the letter reach him?"
"To-night," Saunders said. "I'll urge him to come at once. I'll make
the invitation as strong as I can. Shall I--mention you--that is, would
you like for me to express your--sympathies?"
"Oh no, I have already written him. I wrote as soon as I heard. I
couldn't help it. I cried till the paper was damp. Oh, he will know how
sorry I am."
"You have written!" Saunders formed the words in his brain, but they
were not uttered. A storm of despair swept through him. He shook from
head to foot. She and the horse floated in a swirling mist before him.
"He will appreciate your letter," he managed to say, finally. "He will
value it above all else."
"Oh no, I don't think that." She gave him her eyes in what seemed to
him to be a questioning stare. "In a deep, heartrending sorrow like his
he will scarcely remember my words from one day to another. Do you know
what I think, Jarvis? Down inside of him he has a deeply religious
nature, and I predict that he will now simply have to turn to God.
After all, God is the only resort for a man in his plight."
"You may be right," Saunders returned. "His whole spirit is broken. But
hope will revive. In fact, all this, sad as it is, in the long run may
be good for him."
Dolly shook her rein gently. "I must go," she said, smiling sadly.
"Good-by."
The horse galloped down the road. Like a fair, winged creature she
floated away in the sunlight.
"Am I to lose her at last?" he groaned. "After all these years of
patient watching and waiting is she going back to the man who could
have had her but would not? God knows that is not fair. Surely I
deserve better treatment--if--if I deserve anything. Can I urge him to
come--will it be possible for me sincerely to pen the words which may
seal my doom? Yes, I must--if I don't I would not be worthy of her
respect, and that I must have, even if I lose her."