"Cale, I want to talk with you."
"All right, Marcia. I see you 've had something on your mind, thet 's
been worryin' you, since you 've come home; better get it off. Nothin'
like lettin' off a little steam when there 's too many pounds pressure
on."
"Cale, you _are_ a comfort."
"Am I? Wal, it's 'bout time I was something ter you."
"Cale, have you any idea where my mother fled to when she left her
home?"
"No; an' nobody else."
"You said George Jackson could get no trace of her?"
"Tried four months, detectives an' all; 't was n't no use. She was
gone."
"But did you have any idea in your own mind, I mean, as to where she
might have gone?"
"Wal, I can't say exactly. I _did_ think 'bout thet time, thet mebbe
they 'd crossed the line inter Canady; but it ain't likely they 'd go
north with the winter before 'em. Fact is, George was in such a state,
I did n't think nor care much 'bout Happy, if _he_ could only keep his
head level through it all. An' he did; he had grit, an' no mistake.
'T was an awful blow, Marcia."
"It's my belief she came into Canada."
"'Tis, is it? What makes you think thet?" he asked in genuine surprise.
"Circumstantial evidence that is convincing. I believe she has been in
this very house--for months too."
He looked at me suspiciously. (We were in the dining room; one on each
side of the table.) I saw his forehead knit; then he spoke in a low
voice, but rather anxiously:
"Here in this house? Ain't you got your circumstantial evidence a
little mixed, Marcia?"
"No; listen."
I told him all, linking event to event, incident with incident till the
chain was complete. I fitted his story into the Doctor's which he
heard for the first time from me; I added Delia Beaseley's story, then
Andre's, and, last, Mere Guillardeau's. I made no mention however of
the marriage certificate and the Doctor's last talk with me.
"Now, what do you think of it, Cale?"
"I see which way you 're heading, Marcia, but--" he brought his fist
down hard on his knee,--"you 're on the wrong track."
"You think so?"
"I know it." He spoke with loud emphasis.
"You have no idea, now, who my father was, or is? Not now, after I
have brought in all the evidence available; except--"
"Except what?" He asked quickly.
"Never mind that now. Tell me, have you any idea who he was, or is?"
"No, and nobody else thet I know of. She had high ideas, Happy had. I
never believed she took up with any low cuss, not much! She was n't
the kind to fall des'pritly in love with anybody like thet. Besides,
had n't she had a man that was a man, even if he was only a boy in his
years, to love the very ground she trod on? Happy was one of the
uncommon kind of gals; she would n't take up with anyone thet come
along. Now thet I know all this from you, I guess her love for thet
man, whoever he was, or is, went 'bout as deep with her, as George's
love for her went with him. Oh, Lord! It makes me sick to think of
Happy Morey tryin' to throw herself inter the North River."
"Then,"--I spoke slowly, hesitatingly; I gathered all my strength to
ask the crucial question--"you don't think that Mr. Ewart is my father?"
He stared at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. He swallowed
hard twice. He leaned forward on the dining-room table, both fists
pressed rigidly upon it.
"Do _you_ think thet? Have you been thinkin' thet all this time,
Marcia Farrell?"
"No. I not only do not think it, I do not believe it. I was told so."
"Who told you?" he demanded. He continued to stare at me; his attitude
remained unchanged.
"Doctor Rugvie."
"What the devil does he know about it?"
"He has the certificate--my mother's marriage certificate."
"To which one?"
"To my father."
"An' he says Ewart is your father?"
"He believes he is from the evidence--"
"Evidence be damned. Has he shown you the name?"
"No, I could n't--I would n't let him tell me."
"I glory in your spunk, Marcia."
"Then you do not believe it, Cale?"
"Believe!" He spoke in utter scorn, and I laughed out almost
hysterically; the tension was relieved too quickly.
"Look here, Marcia Farrell, or whatever your name happens to be, he is
no more your father than I am." He lifted both fists and brought them
down on the table with the solidity of a stone-breaker's hammer. "It's
God's truth, I am tellin' you."
I laughed again in the face of this statement that so suddenly
buttressed, as with adamant, my broken life, my wrecked hopes.
"Can you prove it, Cale?" I, too, leaned across the table, my hands
gripping the edge.
"Prove it? Wal, I guess I ain't takin' any chances at jest _this_
cross roads. I ain't makin' any statements that I can't take my oath
on."
"Prove it, then, Cale--in mercy to me, prove it."
He looked at me with inexpressible pity. His eyes filled.
"You poor child! As if you had n't had enough, 'thout bein' murdered
this way. What in thunder was the Doctor thinkin' of?"
"He wanted to save me--"
"Save you, eh? Wal, the next time he wants to save you he 'd better
borrow the life-preserver from me. You can tell him thet."
"Prove it, Cale."
He drew a long breath and, reaching over, laid his right hand over mine.
"Marcia, I ain't no right to speak--to break a promise; but, by God, I
'll do it this time to save you--whatever comes! Gordon Ewart ain't no
more your father 'n I am, for he was your mother's husband."
"My mother's husband?" I echoed, but weakly. I failed for a few
seconds to comprehend.
"Yes, your mother's husband. Gordon Ewart is George Jackson--George
Gordon Ewart Jackson, thet is what he was christened, an' I 've known
it sence the furst minute I set eyes on him in full lamplight, here in
this very house on the fifteenth day of last November. Do you want any
more proof?"
There is a limit to human suffering; a time when a surcharge of misery
leaves mind and heart and soul numb. It was so with me upon hearing
Cale's statement.
"Did he know you?" I asked almost apathetically.
"Yes, but it took him twenty-four hours. I 've changed more 'n he has."
"Why did n't he use his own name?"
"It is his own. He sloughed off thet part of it thet hindered him from
cuttin' loose from all thet old life, he said, an' made the new one
legal."
"Did he know me?"
"I don't know for sure. He ain't the kind to rake over a heap of dead
ashes for the sake of findin' one little spark. But, Marcia, I believe
he knew you from the minute he first see you there in the passageway."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because you are the livin' image of your mother, as I told you once
before. But you act different. An' he loved her so, he could n't help
but seein' her in you--"
"Oh, my God!"
I think it was a groan rather than an exclamation. My head dropped on
Cale's hand, as it lay over mine. The flashlight of intuition showed
me the truth: this man, my mother's husband, the man who was dearer to
me than life itself, was again loving her, whom he had loved only to
lose, in me--her daughter! He was loving me because of her, not
because of myself.
Oh, I saw it in every detail! I saw every ugly feature in every act of
the whole tragedy; and I saw myself the dupe of that Past from which I
had tried so hard to escape.
I raised my head. My decision was made. I looked at Cale defiantly.
I think every fibre of me, moral, physical, mental, spiritual, revolted
then and there against being made longer a mere shuttlecock for the
battledores of Fate.
"Cale, when does the next afternoon train leave the junction--the one
that connects with the Southern Quebec for New England?"
"Don't, Marcia, in the name of all that's holy, don't do nothing rash.
I meant it for the best--"
"I know you did; but that won't prevent my going."
"But, hear to reason, Marcia; wait till Ewart comes---hear what he has
to say--I 'm placed where I can't speak. Wait a few days."
His hand felt clammy cold under mine. I pulled mine away. I hurt him,
but I did not care.
"There is nothing to be said. I am going. When does that train leave?"
"Seven-five. What will Ewart say? You are doing him a bitterer wrong
than your mother before you."