the person who has caused the tears. Like a hurt child she rubbed her
ankle and huddled there in the snow.
"We never used to have secrets," she mourned dismally. "This place has
changed you so--oh, I am simply too miserable to care for anything any
more. Go on, Marion--I'll get home somehow. I shouldn't have followed,
but I was so hurt at your coldness and your lack of confidence! And I
was sure you were deceiving me. I simply could not endure the suspense
another day. You--you don't know what I have suffered! Go on--you'll
get cold standing here. I'll come--after awhile. But I'd as soon be
dead as go on in this way. Please go on!"
Kate may have been a bit hysterical; at any rate, she really believed
herself utterly indifferent to her sprained ankle and the chance of
freezing. She closed her eyes again and waved Marion away, and Marion
immediately held her closer and patted her shoulder and kissed her
remorsefully.
"Now, don't cry, dear--you'll have me crying in a minute. Be a good
sport and see if you can't walk a little. I'll help you. And once
you're back by the fire, and have your ankle all comfy, and a cup of
hot chocolate, you'll feel heaps better. Hang tight to me, dear, and
I'll help you up."
It was a long walk for a freshly sprained ankle, and the whiteness of
Kate's face stamped deeper into Marion's conscience the guilty sense
of being to blame for it all. She had started in by teasing Kate over
little things, just because Kate was so inquisitive and so lacking in
any sense of humor. She could see now that she had antagonized Kate
where she should have humored her little whims. It wouldn't have done
any harm, Marion reflected penitently, to have confided more in Kate.
She used to tell her everything, and Kate had always been so loyal and
sympathetic.
Penitence of that sort may go to dangerous lengths of confession if
it is not stopped in time. Nothing checked Marion's excited
conscience. The ankle which she bared and bathed was so swollen and
purple that any lurking suspicion of the reality of the hurt vanished,
and Marion cried over it with sheer pity for the torture of that long
walk. Kate's subdued sadness did the rest.
So with Kate, lying on the couch near the fire and with two steaming
cups of chocolate between them on an up-ended box that sturdily did
its duty as a table, Marion let go of her loyalty to one that she
might make amends to another. She told Kate everything she knew about
Jack Corey, down to the exact number of times she had bought
cigarettes and purloined magazines and papers for him. Wherefore the
next hour drew them closer to their old intimacy than they had been
since first they came into the mountains; so close an intimacy that
they called each other dearie while they argued the ethics of Jack's
case and the wisdom--or foolishness--of Marion's championship of the
scapegoat.
"You really should have confided in me long ago--at the very first
inkling you had of his identity," Kate reiterated, sipping her
chocolate as daintily as ever she had sipped at a reception. "I can
scarcely forgive that, dearie. You were taking a tremendous risk of
being maligned and misunderstood. You might have found yourself
terribly involved. You are so impulsive, Marion. You should have come
straight to me."
"Well, but I was afraid--"
"Afraid of Kate? Why, _dearie_!"
That is the way they talked, until they heard the professor scraping
the snow off his feet on the edge of the flat doorstep. Kate lay back
then on her piled pillows, placed a finger across her closed lips and
pulled her scanty hair braid down over her left shoulder. She shut her
eyes and held them so until the professor came in, when she opened
them languidly.
Marion carried away the chocolate cups, her heart light. She would not
have believed that a reconciliation with Kate and the unburdening of
her secret could work such a change in her feelings. She wished
fervently that she had told Kate at first. Now they could have Jack
down at the cabin sometimes, when the men were both away. They would
cook nice little dinners for him, and she could lend him all the
reading matter he wanted. She would not have to sneak it away from the
cabin. It was a great relief. Marion was very happy that evening.
Jack was not so happy. He was climbing slowly back to his comfortless
camp, wondering whether it was worth while to keep up the struggle for
sake of his freedom. Jail could not be worse than this, he kept
telling himself. At least there would be other human beings--he would
not be alone day after day. He would be warm and no worse off for food
than here. Only for his mother and the shame it would bring her, he
would gladly make the exchange. He was past caring, past the horror of
being humiliated before his fellows.
It was hard work climbing to the cave, but that was not the reason why
he had not wanted Marion to make the trip. He did not want Marion to
know that the cave was half full of snow that had blown in with the
wind, and that he was compelled to dig every stick of firewood out
from under a snowdrift. Only for that pile of wood, he would have
moved his camp to the other side of the peak that was more sheltered,
even though it was hidden from the mountain side and the lower valleys
he had learned to know so well.
But the labor of moving his camp weighed heavily against the comfort
he would gain. He did not believe that he would actually freeze here,
now that he had the bearskin; stiff and unwieldy though it was, when
he spread it with the fur next to his blankets it was warm--especially
since he had bent the edges under his bed all around and let the hide
set that way.
Marion would have been astonished had she known how many hours out of
every twenty-four Jack spent under the strong-odored hide. Jack
himself was astonished, whenever he came out of his general apathy
long enough to wonder how he endured this brutish existence. But he
had to save wood, and he had to save food, and he had to kill time
somehow. So he crawled into his blankets long before dark, short as
the days were, and he stayed there long after daylight. That is why he
smoked so many cigarettes, and craved so much reading.
Lying there under the shelter of a rock shelf that jutted out from the
cave wall, he would watch the whirling snow sift down through the
opening in the cave's roof and pack deeper the drift upon that side.
Twice he had moved his pile of supplies, and once he had moved his
wood; and after that he did not much care whether they were buried or
not.
Lying there with only his face and one hand out from under the covers
so that he might smoke, Jack had time to do a great deal of thinking,
though he tried not to think, since thinking seemed so profitless. He
would watch the snow and listen to the wind whistling in the roof, and
try to let them fill his mind. Sometimes he wondered how any one save
an idiot could ever have contemplated passing a winter apart from his
kind, in a cave on a mountain-top. Holed up with the bears, he
reminded himself bitterly. And yet he had planned it eagerly with
Marion and had looked forward to it as an adventure--a lark with a few
picturesque hardships thrown in to give snap to the thing. Well, he
had the hardships, all right enough, and the snap, but he could not
see anything picturesque or adventurous about it.
He could have given it up, of course. His two legs would have carried
him down to the valley in a matter of three hours or so, even with the
snow hampering his progress. He could, for instance, leave his cave in
the afternoon of any day, and reach Marston in plenty of time for
either of the two evening trains. He could take the "up" train, whose
headlight tempted him every evening when he went out to watch for it
wistfully, and land in Salt Lake the next night; or he could take the
"down" train a little later, and be in San Francisco the next morning.
Then, it would be strange if he could not find a boat ready to leave
port for some far-off, safe place. He could do that any day. He had
money enough in his pocket to carry him out of the country if he were
willing to forego the luxuries that come dear in travel--and he
thought he could, with all this practice!
He played with the idea. He pictured himself taking the down train,
and the next day shipping out of San Francisco on a sailing vessel
bound for Japan or Panama or Seattle--it did not greatly matter which.
He would have to make sure first that the boat was not equipped with
wireless, so he supposed he must choose a small sailing vessel, or
perhaps a tramp steamer. At other times he pictured himself landing in
Salt Lake and hiking out from there to find work on some ranch. Who
would ever identify him there as Jack Corey?
He dreamed those things over his cigarettes, smoked parsimoniously
through a cheap holder until the stub was no longer than one of
Marion's fingernails that Jack loved to look at because they were
always so daintily manicured. He dreamed, but he could not bring
himself to the point of making one of his dreams come true. He could
not, because of Marion. She had helped him to plan this retreat, she
had helped him carry some of the lighter supplies up to the cave, she
had stood by him like the game little pal she was. He could dream, but
he could not show himself ungrateful to Marion by leaving the place.
Truth to tell, when he could be with her he did not want to leave. But
the times when he could be with her were so dishearteningly few that
they could not hold his courage steady. She upbraided him for going so
far down the mountain to meet her--what would she have said if she
knew that once, when the moon was full, he had gone down to the very
walls of the cabin where she slept, and had stood there like a
lonesome ghost, just for the comfort her nearness gave him? Jack did
not tell her that!
Jack did not tell her anything at all of his misery. He felt that it
would not be "square" to worry Marion, who was doing so much for him
and doing it with such whole-souled gladness, to serve a fellow being
in distress. Jack did not flatter himself that she would not have done
exactly as much for any other likable fellow. It was an adventure that
helped to fill her empty days. He understood that perfectly, and as
far as was humanly possible he let her think the adventure a pleasant
one for him. He could not always control his tongue and his tones, but
he made it a point to leave her as soon as he saw her beginning to
doubt his contentment and well-being.
He would not even let Marion see that thoughts of his mother gnawed at
him like a physical pain. He tried to hold to his old, childish
resentment against her because she never spoke of his dad and did not
show any affection for his dad's boy. Once she had sighed and said, "I
never will forgive you, Jack, for not being a girl!" and Jack had
never forgotten that, though he did forget the little laugh and the
playful push she had given him afterwards. Such remarks had been
always in the back of his mind, hardening him against his mother. Now
they turned against Jack accusingly. Why couldn't he have been a girl?
She would have gotten some comfort out of him then, instead of being
always afraid that he would do something awful. She would have had him
with her more, and they would have become really acquainted instead of
being half strangers.
He would stare at the rock walls of the cave and remember little
things he had forgotten in his roistering quest of fun. He remembered
a certain wistfulness in her eyes when she was caught unawares with
her gaze upon him. He remembered that never had she seemed to grudge
him money--and as for clothes, he bought what he liked and never
thought of the cost, and she paid the bills and never seemed to think
them too large, though Jack was ashamed now at the recollection of
some of them.
Why, only the week before his world had come to an end, he had said at
dinner one evening that he wished he had a racing car of a certain
expensive type, and his mother had done no more than lecture him
mildly on the tendency of youth toward recklessness, and wonder
afterwards how in the world the garage was going to be made larger
without altogether destroying its symmetry and throwing it out of
proportion to the rest of the place. It would make the yard look very
cramped, she complained, and she should be compelled to have her row
of poinsettias moved. And she very much doubted whether Jack would
exercise any judgment at all about speed. Boys were so wild and rough,
nowadays!
Well, poor mother! She had not been compelled to enlarge the garage;
but Jack's throat ached when he thought of that conversation. What
kind of a mother would she have been, he wondered, if he had petted
her a little now and then? He had an odd longing to give her a real
bear-hug and rumple up her marcelled pompadour and kiss her--and see
if she wouldn't turn out to be a human-being kind of a mother, after
all. He looked back and saw what a selfish, unfeeling young cub he had
always been; how he had always taken, and had given nothing in return
save a grudging obedience when he must, and a petty kind of deception
when he might.
"Bless her heart, she'd have got me that racer and never batted an eye
over the price of it," he groaned, and turned over with his face
hidden even from his bleak cave. "I was always kicking over little
things that don't amount to a whoop--and she was always handing out
everything I asked for and never getting a square deal in her life."
Then, to mark more definitely the change that was taking place in
Jack's soul, he added a question that a year before would have been
utterly impossible. "How do I know that dad ever gave her a square
deal, either? I never saw dad since I was a kid. She's proud as the
deuce--there must be some reason--"
Once full-formed in his mind, the conviction that he had been a poor
sort of a son to a mother whose life had held much bitterness grew and
flourished. He had called her cold and selfish; but after all, her
life was spent mostly in doing things for the betterment of others--as
she interpreted the word. Showy, yes; but Jack told himself now that
she certainly got away with it better than any woman he knew. And when
it came to being cold and selfish, it struck Jack forcibly that he had
been pretty much that way himself; that he had been just as fully
occupied in playing with life as his mother had been in messing around
trying to reform life. When he came to think of it, he could see that
a woman of Mrs. Singleton Corey's type might find it rather difficult
to manifest tenderness toward a husky young son who stood off from her
the way Jack had done. Judgment is, after all, a point of view, and
Jack's viewpoint was undergoing a radical change.
That very change added much to his misery, because it robbed him of
the comfort of pitying himself. He could do nothing now but pity his
mother. As he saw it now, the crime of lying to her about that
Sunday's frolic loomed blacker than the passive part he had played in
the tragedy of the night. He had lied to her and thought it a joke. He
had taken a car worth more than five thousand dollars--more than his
young hide was worth, he told himself now--and he had driven it
recklessly in the pursuit of fun that nauseated him now just to
remember. Summing up that last display of ingratitude toward the
mother who made his selfish life soft and easy, Jack decided that he
had given her a pretty raw deal all his life, and the rawest of all on
the tenth of last May.
All the while he was coaxing his fire to burn in the little rock
fireplace he had built near his bed; all the while, he was whittling
off a slice of frozen bear meat and broiling it over the fire for his
supper, Jack was steeped in self-condemnation and in pity of his
mother. More than was usual she haunted him that night. Even when he
crept shivering under the bearskin and blankets, and huddled there for
warmth, her face was as clear before him as Marion's. Tears swelled
his eyelids and slid down his cheeks. And when he brushed away those
tears others came--since boyhood these were the first tears he had
ever shed because of a poignant longing for his mother.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HANK BROWN PROVES THAT HE CAN READ TRACKS
To begin with, Kate knew Mrs. Singleton Corey, just as well as a
passably popular elocutionist may expect to know one of the recognized
leaders of society and club life. Kate had recited at open meetings of
the clubs over which Mrs. Singleton Corey had presided with that
smiling composure which was so invulnerable to those without the
favored circle. Kate had once talked with Mrs. Singleton Corey for at
least five minutes, but she was not at all certain that she would be
remembered the next time they met. She would like very much to be
remembered, because an elocutionist's success depends so much upon the
recognition which society gives to her personality and her talents.
Now, here was Jack Corey hiding in her very dooryard, one might say;
and his mother absolutely distracted over him. How could she make any
claim to human sympathy for a mother's sorrow if she withheld the
message that would bring relief? She was astonished that Marion had
been so thoughtless as never once to think of the terrible distress of
Mrs. Singleton Corey. Of course, she had promised--but surely that
did not exclude the boy's mother from the solace of knowing where he
was! That would be outrageous! Very carefully she sounded Marion upon
the subject, and found her unreasonable.
"Why, Jack would murder me if I told his mother! I should say I
wouldn't tell her! Why, it was because his mother was going to be so
mean about it and turn against him, that Jack ran away! He'd go back,
if it wasn't for her--he said so. He'd rather go to jail than face
her. Why, if I thought for a minute that you'd take that stand, I
never would have told you, Kate! Don't you _dare_--" Then Marion
dropped a saucer that she was wiping, and when her consternation over
the mishap had subsided she awoke to the fact that Kate had dropped
the subject also and had gone to read her limp little _Sonnets from
the Portuguese_, that Marion never could see any sense in.
Marion must have had a remarkably trustful nature, else she would have
been suspicious. Kate was not paying any attention to what she read.
She was mentally rounding periods and coining new phrases of sympathy
that should not humiliate but draw close to the writer the soul of
Mrs. Singleton Corey when she read them. She was planning the letter
she fully intended to write. Later that evening, when Marion was
curled up in bed with a book that held her oblivious to unobtrusive
deeds, such as letter-writing, Kate put the phrases and the carefully
constructed sentences upon a sheet of her thickest, creamiest
stationery. She did not feel in the slightest degree disloyal to
Marion or to Jack. Hot-headed, selfish children, what did they know
about the deeper problems of life? Of course his mother must be told.
And of course, Kate was the person who could best write so difficult a
letter. So she wrote it, and explained just how she came to know about
Jack. But the professor was a conscientious man. He believed that the
authorities should be notified at once. Jack Corey was a fugitive from
the law, and to conceal the knowledge of his whereabouts would be
nothing short of compounding a felony. It was thoughtful to write his
mother, of course. But duty demanded that the chief of police in Los
Angeles should be notified also, and as speedily as possible. By
George, the case warranted telegraphing the news!
Now, it was one thing to write sympathetically to a social leader that
her wayward son has been found, but it is quite another thing to turn
the wayward son over to the police. Kate had not considered the moral
uprightness of the professor when she showed him the letter, but she
managed the difficulty very nicely. She pleaded a little, and
flattered a little, and cried a good deal, and finally persuaded the
professor's conscience to compound a felony to the extent of writing
Fred instead of wiring the chief of police. Fred could notify the
authorities if he chose--and Kate was wise enough to pretend that she
was satisfied to leave the matter in Fred's hands.
She thought it best, however, to add a postscript to her letter,
saying that she feared for Jack's safety, as the authorities had begun
to be very inquisitive and hard to put off; but that she would do all
in her power to protect the poor boy. She did not feel that it would
be wise to write Fred, because the professor would think she was
working against him and would be angry. Besides, she knew that it
would be of no use to write Fred. He would do as he pleased anyway; he
always did.
In the face of a keen wind the professor started down the mountain to
leave the letters at Marston with the agent, who was very obliging and
would see that they were put on the "down" train that evening.
Marion did not see any sense in his going away that day, and she told
Kate so very bluntly. With the professor gone she could not meet Jack
and have those broiled bear steaks, because some one had to stay with
Kate. When Kate suggested that she have Jack come to the cabin with
his bear steaks, she discovered that she could not do that either. She
was afraid to tell Jack that Kate knew. Of course, it was all
right--Kate had promised faithfully never to tell; but Jack was
awfully queer, lately, and the least little thing offended him. He
would refuse to see that it was the best to take Kate into the secret,
because it gave Marion more freedom to do things for his comfort. He
would consider that she had been tattling secrets just because she
could not hold her tongue, and she resented in advance his attitude.
Guiltily conscious of having betrayed him, she still believed that she
had done him a real service in the betrayal.
It was a complicated and uncomfortable state of mind to be in, and
Kate's state of mind was not much more complacent. She also had broken
a promise and betrayed a trust, and she also believed she had done it
for the good of the betrayed. To their discomforting sense of guilt
was added Marion's disappointment at not meeting Jack, and Kate's
sprained ankle, which was as swollen and painful as a sprained ankle
usually is. They began by arguing, they continued by reminding each
other of past slights and injuries, they ended by speaking plain
truths that were unpalatable chiefly because they were true. When the
professor tramped home at sundown he walked into an atmosphere of icy
silence. Kate and Marion were not on speaking terms, if you please.
The next day was cold and windy, but Marion hurried the housework in a
way that made Kate sniff disgustedly, and started out to signal Jack
and bring him down to their last meeting place. Flash after flash she
sent that way, until the sun went altogether behind the clouds and she
could signal no more. Not a glimmer of an answering twinkle could she
win from the peak. The most she did was to stimulate old Mike to the
point of mumbling wild harangues to the uneasy pines, the gist of
which was that folks better look out how they went spyin' around after
_him_, an' makin' signs back and forth with glasses. They better look
out, because he had good eyes, if Murphy didn't have, and they
couldn't run over _him_ and tromp on him.
He was still gesticulating like a bear fighting yellow-jackets when
Marion walked past him, going up the trail. She looked at him and
smiled as she went by, partly because he looked funny, waving his arms
over his head like that, and partly by way of greeting. She never
talked to Mike, because she could not understand anything he said. She
did not consider him at all bright, so she did not pay much attention
to him at any time; certainly not now, when her mind was divided
between her emotions concerning Jack and her fresh quarrel with Kate.