The facts in detail which the Reverend John Baird had journeyed to
Delisle County in the hope of being able to gather, he had been
successful in gaining practical possession of. Having personal charm,
grace in stating a case, and many resources both of ability and manner,
he had the power to attract even the prejudiced, and finally to win their
interest and sympathies. He had seen and conversed with people who could
have been reached in no ordinary way, and having met them had been
capable of managing even their prejudices and bitterness of spirit. The
result had been the accumulation of useful and convincing evidence in
favour of the De Willoughbys, though he had in more than one instance
gained it from persons who had been firm in their intention to give no
evidence at all. This evidence had been forwarded to Washington as it had
been collected, and when Baird returned to the Capital it was with the
knowledge that his efforts had more than probably put the final touches
to the work which would gain the day for the claimants.
His train was rather late, and as it drew up before the platform he
glanced at his watch in some anxiety. His audience for the lecture must
already have begun to turn their faces toward the hall in which the
evening's entertainment was to be held. He had hoped to reach his
journey's end half an hour earlier. He had wanted a few minutes with
Latimer, whose presence near him had become so much a part of his
existence, that after an absence he felt he had lacked him. He took a
carriage at the depot and drove quickly to their rooms. They were to
leave them in a day or two and return to Willowfield. Already some of
their possessions had been packed up. The sitting-room struck him as
looking a little bare as he entered it.
"Is Mr. Latimer out," he asked the mulatto who brought up his valise.
"Yes, sir. He was called out by a message. He left a note for you on the
desk."
Baird went to the desk and found it. It contained only a few lines.
"Everything is prepared for you. The audience will be the best you have
had at any time. I have been sent for by the man Stamps. He is ill of
pneumonia and wishes to deliver some letters to me. I will be with you
before you go on the platform."
Since he had left Washington, Baird had heard from Latimer but once and
then but briefly. He had felt that his dark mood was upon him, and this
reference to letters recalled the fact.
"Stamps is the little man with the cattle claim," he commented to
himself. "He comes from the neighbourhood of the Cross-roads. What
letters could he have to hand over?"
And he began to dress, wondering vaguely.
* * * * *
Stamps had spent a sleepless night. He could not sleep because his last
interview with Linthicum had driven him hard, even though he had been
able to promise him the required five hundred dollars; he also could not
sleep because the air of the city had been full of talk about the
promising outlook of the De Willoughby claim. Over the reports he had
heard, he had raged almost with tears.
"The Dwillerbys is ristycrats," he had said. "They're ristycrats, an' it
gives 'em a pull even if they was rebels an' Southerners. A pore man ez
works hard an' ain't nothin' but a honest farmer, an' a sound Union man
ain't got no show. Ef I'd been a ristycrat I could hev got inflooence ez
hed hev pulled wires fur me. But I hain't nothin' but my loyal Union
principles. I ain't no ristycrat, an' I never aimed to be none."
The bitterness of his nervous envy would have kept him awake if he had
had no other reason for being disturbed, but most of all he was
sleepless, because he was desperately ill and in danger he knew nothing
of. Cold and weeks of semi-starvation, anxiety, excitement, and drenched
garments had done the little man to death, and he lay raging with fever
and stabbed with pain at each indrawn breath, tossing and gasping and
burning, but thinking only of Linthicum and the herds and the scraps of
paper which were to bring him five hundred dollars. He was physically
wretched, but even while he was racked with agonised fits of coughing and
prostrated with pain it did not occur to him to think that he was in
danger. He was too wholly absorbed in other thoughts. The only danger he
recognised was the danger that there might be some failure in his
plans--that Linthicum might give him up--that the parson might back out
of his bargain, realising that after all letters unsigned save by a man's
Christian name were not substantial evidence. Perhaps he would not come
at all; perhaps he would leave the city; perhaps if he came he would
refuse to give more than half or quarter the sum asked. Then Linthicum
would throw him over--he knew Linthicum would throw him over. He uttered
a small cry like a tortured cat.
"I know he'll do it," he said. "I seen it in his eye yesterday, when he
let out on me an' said he was a-gettin' sick of the business. I shed hev
kept my mouth shut. I'd said too much an' it made him mad. He'll throw me
over Monday mornin' ef I don't take him the money on Sunday."
He ate nothing all through the day but lay waiting for the passing of the
hours. He had calculated as to which post would bring the letter from
Minty. He had written to tell her of the hiding-place in which he had
kept the bits of paper safe and dry through all the years. She was to
enclose them in a stout envelope and send them to him.
Through the long, dragging day he lay alone burning, gasping, fighting
for his breath in the attacks of coughing which seemed to tear his lungs
asunder. There was a clock in a room below whose striking he could hear
each hour. Between each time it struck he felt as if weeks elapsed.
Sometimes it was months. He had begun to be light-headed and to think
queer things. Once or twice he heard a man talking in a croaking wail,
and after a few minutes realised that it was himself, and that he did not
know what he had said, though he knew he had been arguing with Linthicum,
who was proving to him that his claim was too rotten to have a ghost of a
chance. By the time the afternoon post arrived he was semi-delirious and
did not know how it happened that he at last found himself holding
Minty's letter in his hand. He laughed hysterically when he opened it. It
was all right. There were the two yellowed sheets of paper--small sheets,
written close, and in a peculiar hand. He had often studied the
handwriting, and believed if he had seen it again he should know it. It
was small but strong and characteristic, though that was not what he had
called it.
"Ef I'd hed more time an' could hev worked it out more--an' got him to
write suthin' down--I could hev hed more of a hold," he said,
plaintively, "but Linthicum wouldn't give me no time."
The post arrived earlier than he had expected it, and this gave him time
to lie and fret and listen again for the striking of the clock in the
room downstairs. The waiting became too long, and as his fever increased
he became insanely impatient and could not restrain himself. To lie and
listen for his visitor's footsteps upon the stairs--to lie until seven
o'clock--if he did not come till then, would be more than he could
endure. That would give him too long to think over what Linthicum would
do if the whole sum were not forthcoming--to think of the reasons why the
parson might make up his mind to treat the letters as if they were
worthless. He lay and gnawed his finger-nails anew.
"I wouldn't give nothin' for 'em ef I was in his place," he muttered. "Ef
thar'd been anythin' in 'em that proved anythin' I should hev used 'em
long sence. But then I'm a business man an' he's a parson, an' doesn't
know nothin' about the laws. But he might go to some man--say a man like
Linthicum--who could put him up to things. Good Lord!" in a new panic,
"he mayn't come at all. He might jest stay away."
He became so overwrought by this agonising possibility that instead of
listening for the striking of the clock, he began to listen for the sound
of some passing footstep--the footstep of someone passing by chance who
might be sent to the parson with a note. With intolerable effort and
suffering he managed to drag himself up and get hold of a piece of paper
and a pencil to write the following lines:
"The letters hes come. You'd as well come an' get 'em. Others will pay
for 'em ef ye don't want 'em yerself."
His writing of the last sentence cheered his spirits. It was a support to
his small, ignorant cunning. "He'll think someone else is biddin' agen
him," he said. "Ef there was two of 'em biddin', I could get most
anythin' I axed."
After he had put the communication in an envelope he dragged himself to
the door almost bent double by the stabbing pain in his side. Once there
he sat down on the floor to listen for footsteps.
"It's hard work this yere," he panted, shivering with cold in spite of
his fever, "but it's better than a-lyin' thar doin' nothin'."
At length he heard steps. They were the running, stamping feet of a boy
who whistled as he came.
Stamps opened the door and whistled himself--a whistle of summons and
appeal. The boy, who was on his way with a message to another room,
hesitated a minute and then came forward, staring at the sight of the
little, undressed, shivering man with his head thrust into the passage.
"Hallo!" he said, "what d'yer want?"
"Want ye to carry this yere letter to a man," Stamps got out hoarsely.
"I'll give ye a quarter. Will ye do it?"
"Yes." And he took both note and money, still staring at the abnormal
object before him.
When the messenger arrived Latimer was reading the letters which had
arrived by the last delivery. One of them was from Baird, announcing the
hour of his return to the city. Latimer held it in his hand when Stamps's
communication was brought to him.
"Tell the messenger that I will come," he said.
* * * * *
It was not long before Stamps heard his slow approach sounding upon the
bare wooden stairs. He mounted the steps deliberately because he was
thinking. He was thinking as he had thought on his way through the
streets. In a few minutes he should be holding in his hand letters
written by the man who had been Margery's murderer--the letters she had
hidden and clung to and sobbed over in the blackness of her nights. And
they had been written twenty years ago, and Margery had changed to dust
on the hillside under the pines. And nothing could be undone and nothing
softened. But for the sake of the little old woman ending her days
quietly in Willowfield--and for the sake of Margery's memory--yes, he
wanted to save the child's memory--but for these things there would be no
use in making any effort to secure the papers. Yet he was conscious of a
dread of the moment when he should take them into his hand.
Stamps turned eager, miserable eyes upon him as he came in.
"I thought mebbe ye'd made up yer mind to let the other feller hev them,"
he said. "Hev ye brought the money in bills?"
Latimer stood and looked down at him. "Do you know how ill you are?" he
said.
"Wal, I guess I kin feel a right smart--but I don't keer so's things
comes my way. Hev ye got the money with ye?"
"Yes. Where are the papers?"
"Whar's the money?"
Latimer took out a pocket-book and opened it that he might see.
Stamps's countenance relaxed. The tension was relieved.
"Thet's far an' squar," he said. "D'ye wanter know whar I found 'em? Tom
Dwillerby never knowed I hed more than a envelope--an' I tuk care not to
tell him the name that was writ on it. Ye was mighty smart never to let
no one know yer name; I don't know how you done it, 'ceptin' that ye kept
so much to yerselves."
Latimer remained silent, merely standing and letting him talk, as he
seemed to have a feverish, half-delirious tendency to do. He lay plucking
at the scanty bed-covering and chuckling.
"'Twas five years arter the child was born," he went on. "I was ridin'
through Blair's Holler an' it come to me sudden to go in an' hev a look
round keerful. I looked keerful--mighty keerful--an' at last I went on my
hands an' knees an' crawled round, an' there was a hole between the logs,
an' I seen a bit of white--I couldn't hev seen it ef I hadn't been
crawlin' an' looked up. An' I dug it out. It hed been hid mighty secret."
He put his hand under his wretched pillow. "Give me the money," he
wheezed. "When ye lay it in my hand I'll pass the envelope over to ye.
Count it out first."
Latimer counted the bills. This was the moment. Twenty years gone by--and
nothing could be changed. He put the money on the bed.
Stamps withdrew his hand from under the pillow. A stout, ill-directed
envelope was in its grasp and he passed it over to Latimer. He was
shivering and beginning to choke a little, but he grinned.
"I reckin' it's all right," he said. "D'ye want to read 'em now?"
"No," Latimer answered, and putting them in his breast-pocket walked out
of the room.
He passed down the stairs and into the avenue where the lamps were
lighted and which wore its usual somewhat deserted evening air. He walked
along quietly for some minutes. He did not quite know where he was going.
Having left a line for Baird explaining his absence, he had time to
spare. If he wished to be alone, he could be so until the hour of the
beginning of the lecture. For certain reasons it would be necessary that
he should see Baird before he went upon the platform. Yes, he must be
alone. His mood required it. He would go somewhere and look at the two
yellowed letters written twenty years ago. He did not know why it was
that he felt he must look at them, but he knew he must. They would
satisfy no curiosity if he felt it, and he had none. Perhaps it was the
old tragic tender feeling for Margery which impelled him. Perhaps he
unconsciously longed to read that this man had loved her--that she had
not given her life for nothing--that the story had not been one of common
caprice and common treachery. As he walked his varied thoughts surged
through his brain disconnectedly. Every now and then he involuntarily put
his hand to his breast-pocket to feel the envelope. Once there crossed
his mind a memory of the woman whose boy had died and who dare not let
herself recall him, and so be swept back into the black maelstrom of woe.
To-night, with these things on his breast, it was not twenty years since
he had heard Margery's dying cries--it was last night--last night--and
the odour of the pine-trees was in his nostrils--the sough of their
boughs in his ears.
He stopped near the entrance to the grounds of the Smithsonian Institute.
They were as secluded as a private park at this time, but here and there
was a seat and a light. He turned in and found his way to the most
retired part where he could find these things--a bench to sit down on, a
light to aid him to read. He heard his own breathing as he sat down; he
felt the heavy, rapid pulsations of his heart, as he took the papers from
his breast his hand was shaking, he could not hold it still. He took out
more papers than the envelope Stamps had given him. He drew forth with
this the letter which had arrived from Baird, and which he had been
reading when the messenger arrived. He had abstractedly put it in his
pocket. It fell from his shaking hand upon the ground at his feet, and he
let it lie there, forgetful of its existence.
Then he withdrew the two letters from the large envelope and opened one
of them.
* * * * *
He read them through once--twice--three times--four. Then he began again.
He had read them a dozen times before he closed them. He had read them
word by word, poring over each character, each turn of phrase, as a man
might pore over an enigma or a document written in a foreign language of
which he only knew stray words. If his hands had shaken at first, he had
not turned a page before his whole body was shaking and his palms, his
forehead, his hair were damp with cold dew. He had uttered one sharp,
convulsed exclamation like a suffocated cry--then he went on
reading--reading--reading--and shuddering as he read. They were not long
letters, but after he had read them once he understood them, and each
time he read them again he understood them better. Yes, he could
translate them. They were the farewells of a man tossed by a whirlwind of
passionate remorseful grief. The child had been loved--her very purity
had been loved while she had been destroyed and deceived. The writer
poured forth heart-sick longing and heart-sick remorse. He had not at
first meant to conceal from her that he was not a free man--then he had
lost control over his very being--and he had lost his soul. When she had
discovered the truth and had not even reproached him but had stood
silent--without a word--and gazed at him with her childish, agonised,
blue-flower eyes--he had known that if men had souls his was damned.
There was no pardon--he could ask none--pardon would not undo--death
itself would not undo what he had done. "Margery! Margery! Oh! child--God
hear me if there is God to hear--I loved you--I love you--Death will not
undo that either."
He was going abroad to join his wife. He spoke of the ship he sailed on.
Latimer knew its name and who had sailed in it. In the second letter he
besought her to let him see and speak one word to her--but knew she would
not grant his prayer. He had seen her in the street, and had not dared to
approach. "I did not fear what a man might fear from other women," he
wrote. "I felt that it might kill you, suddenly to see me near when you
could not escape."
And after he had read it a third time Latimer realised a ghastly truth.
The man who wrote had gone away unknowing of the blackness of the tragedy
he had left behind. He plainly had not known the secret Death itself had
helped to hide. Perhaps when he had gone Margery herself had not known
the worst.
Latimer, having finished his reading, rested his head on his hand for a
dull moment and stared down at the letter lying upon the ground at his
feet--the letter he had dropped as he took out the others. He felt as if
he had not strength or inclination to pick it up--he had passed through a
black storm which had swept away from him the power to feel more than a
dull, heavy, physical prostration.
But after a few minutes he stooped and picked the letter up. He laid it
on his knee by the other two and sat gazing again.
"He did not know," he said, in a colourless voice. "I told him. He heard
it first from me when I told him how she died."
The handwriting of the letters was Baird's--every character and word and
phrase were his--Baird was the man who had written them.