TWO WANDERERS RETURN.
The "young person" to whom Marshall referred in such contemptuous terms
was Lionel Percival Jones. He so announced himself, as he was ushered
into the presence of the great man.
"I've come to bring a letter from Amy Kaye."
"Indeed; would it not sound better if you said 'Miss Kaye,' or 'Miss
Amy'? She is a kinswoman of mine."
Lionel Percival was astonished. He had prepared himself for this visit
with the utmost care. He had oiled his curly auburn locks with a scented
pomatum, and parted them rakishly in the middle. He wore his most
aggressive necktie and his yellowest shoes, also his Sunday suit of
clothes. With the exception of the necktie and the pomatum, he would not
have attracted attention to himself anywhere, and so would have been
well dressed. With these, he seemed to be all-pervading. He had
instantly, by means of them, offended Mr. Wingate's taste, and put
himself at disadvantage.
"Why, I'd just as lief say 'Miss,' but she's a mill girl, same as my own
sister. I didn't go to mean no harm."
The mill owner winced. Then inquired:--
"Is there an answer expected?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Wait here."
The master of Fairacres limped into the adjoining room and turned his
back toward the door between, hiding his face from the lad's observation
as he read.
"Humph! She left it open, which is correct enough with reliable
messengers. Probably, though, he had the curiosity to read what she had
to say,"--in which he wholly wronged the bearer. But Mr. Wingate had yet
to learn that even lads who attire themselves atrociously may still be
true gentlemen at heart, and sin in taste through ignorance only.
This was the note:--
"DEAR COUSIN ARCHIBALD WINGATE: My father and Hallam will be very happy
to have thee dine with us to-morrow, Christmas Day. Cleena says that
dinner will be served at three o'clock. If thee knew her as well as I
do, thee would understand that she means not a minute before nor one
afterward. If thee pleases, I would rather not have any 'business' talk
of any sort to-morrow. I would like it to be a day of peace, as my
mother always kept it for us. Thee may meet some other guests, but we
will try to make thee happy.
"Good night,
"AMY."
It was a very cheerful and smiling old gentleman who returned to the
room where Lionel Percival waited for the reply, a brief but stately
acceptance of the invitation; for since Amy had set him the example, the
mill owner considered that she regarded such formality essential.
Then he called in Marshall and bade him see that the messenger had a bit
of supper before his return walk, which proceeding made the valet stare,
and the boy feel exceedingly proud. It would be something of which to
boast among his comrades at the mill.
The morning proved a cloudless one, mild and merciful to such as
suffered from gout, and Mr. Wingate drove himself to "Charity House" in
his own little phaeton. He felt this was an occasion when Marshall's too
solicitous attentions might be in the way. He held a debate with
himself, before setting off, whether he should or should not add to the
feast from his own larder, and he decided against so doing by the simple
test of "put yourself in his place."
But there was plenty and to spare. Teamster John did nothing by halves.
Those who have least of this world's goods are always the most generous.
Cleena had prepared each dish with her best skill and waited upon her
guests with smiling satisfaction. Afterward, in the kitchen, she and
John discussed the strange reunion of their "betters," and Cleena
speculated upon it in her own fashion:--
"Sure, there's never fish, flesh, nor fowl could withstand the loving
ways of me little colleen. And to hear them talkin' together, like lambs
in the field. Them--"
"I never heerd lambs talkin'," observed John, facetiously.
"Then it's deaf ye've been belike. Oh, me fathers, if here doesn't come
me own Gineral--Napoleon--Bonyparty! Where have ye been avick, avick?"
she demanded, pushing hastily back from the board and hurrying out of
doors. "Well, it's proof o' yer sense ye comes back in due time for a
bit o' the nicest turkey ever was roast. But it's shamefaced ye be,
small wonder o' that! Howsomever, it's a day o' good will. Come by. Wash
up, eat yer meat, an' give thanks. To-morrow--_I'll settle old scores_.
Come by."
Yet when Fayette entered the kitchen and learned from John who were the
guests in the dining room beyond, he scowled and would have gone away
again. However, he had forgotten Cleena. That good woman, having
received her prodigal back, did not intend to relinquish him. She saw
his frown, his hasty movement, and shutting the door put her back
against it.
"You silly omahaun! If your betters forgives an' eats the bread o'
peace, what's you to be settin' such a face on the matter? Come by. Be
at peace. There's the blessed little hunchback eatin' cranberry sauce
cheek by jowl with her 'boss,' an' can't you remember the Child was born
for such as you, me poor silly lad? Come by."
Fayette "came by" at last, silently and because he was half famished,
and could not resist the savory odors of the tempting food Cleena
offered him. Yet in his heart there was still anger and evil intent; and
though he was amazed to find Mary Reese a guest at the Kayes' table, as
well as their "mortal enemy," Mr. Wingate, he made no further comment,
and as soon as the meal was over retreated without a word to his chamber
and shut the door.
"It's like he might ha' just stepped out yesternight, he drops into ways
so quick," said Cleena.
"But he's not the same lad. He'll give somebody trouble before long. You
do wrong, woman, to harbor him. He's vindictive and dangerous."
The trustful Cleena laughed the teamster to scorn.
"Faith, give a dog a bad name an' he'll earn it. Let the lad be. In old
Ireland we call such the 'touched of God.' We judge not, an' that's the
size of a man--how he betreats the helpless ones. Put that in your pipe
an' smoke it."
Surely, John thought, there was a deal of good sense and heart kindness
in this stalwart daughter of Erin. He was Yankee himself, to the
backbone; yet, as he pushed back from the table, satisfied and at ease,
he pulled from his pocket a small paper parcel. It was his Christmas
gift for his hostess, and intended to suggest many things. She was
bright enough to comprehend his meaning, if she chose. Would she? She
gave no sign, if she did, as she unrolled the package and placed its
contents--a small flag of Ireland and its mate, in size, of the United
States--behind the kitchen clock, where the blended colors made a bit of
gayety upon the whitewashed wall.
"Long may they wave!" cried the donor.
"Troth, I'm not seein' no wavin'. They're best as they be, with the
timepiece betwixt. Each in its place, as the Lord wills, an' mine's
here. So here I bides till I'm no longer wanted."
"It's a biggish house," quoth the undismayed suitor. "There's room in it
for me, too, I cal'late."
But if Cleena heard this remark she ignored it, passing swiftly into the
dining room to remove the dishes of the first course, and substituting
the luxury of a basket of fruit which she had accumulated somehow, as
only herself could have explained.
Maybe there is no trivial thing that so greatly helps to bridge over a
trying situation as good breeding. The breeding which is really good,
out of the inner life: kindness and the reluctance to inflict pain. It
was such breeding that enabled the oddly assorted company at that
Christmas dinner table to pass the hours of their intercourse not only
in peace, but with absolute enjoyment.
Finally, when the elders pushed back their chairs, Mr. Kaye proposed
that Amy should sing some of the old-time ballads familiar to the
childhood of both himself and his kinsman. So Hallam took out his
mother's guitar and tuned it, and his sister placed herself beside him.
"Ah, how well I remember that little instrument," cried Mr. Wingate,
"and the commotion it caused among the Friends. Music used to be the
most 'worldly' and undesirable thing, but they are more tolerant now.
Give us 'Lang Syne,' youngsters. It's the song for the day and--this
hour."
It was. They sang it lustily, and Amy was amazed to hear how finely that
deep voice of their cousin could fill in the pauses of her own treble,
sweet but not strong. Then there was "Annie Laurie," and "Edinboro'
Toon," and "Buy my Caller Herrin'," and others; till Cleena drew John to
the door to listen and applaud, forgetting for once the big pile of
dishes standing unwashed upon her kitchen table.
"For, aye, it's a time o' peace, thank God. An' her that has gone is
among us never a doubt I doubt. What's a bit o' idlin' when a sight for
saints is afore ye? If Fayetty, now--"
But Fayette was not there. Neither was he in his own room when Cleena
sought him there. He had left it while she was off guard and had made
his escape unseen. Forces of good and evil were tormenting him: the
struggle to do right and please these good friends, and the greater
yearning to seek the wrong path to revenge.
Yet, after all, what was this poor human waif to these happier folk? So
he asked himself as he sneaked away in the twilight which hid his
departure.
Had Amy heard the question, she would have answered it promptly: "Much,
Fayette. Everybody one knows is something to one's self."
But she did not even hear of his brief visit, for, having discovered his
fresh defection, Cleena decided to keep the matter to herself.
It was getting quite late when Archibald Wingate drove away from
"Charity House" toward Fairacres, and as he went he pondered of many
things. Once or twice he fancied he saw a lurking shadow in the road,
that was not due to either bush or tree which bordered it. But he
thought little of the matter, so engrossed was he with the recollections
of the evening.
"Queer, what a pleasant time I had. Yet we are all, practically,
enemies. Each side feels that the other side has been at fault. Anyway,
I seem to hear Salome saying: 'Judge not my children by the mistakes of
their parents.' Nor will I; of that I am resolved. I'll give even that
top-lofty lad, Hallam, a fair show, by and by. I must test him a little
longer first, then I'll begin. That is, if he's made of the right stuff.
As for Amy, she's a witch. She's wheedled the heart right out of me with
her bright, unflinching, honest eyes. Talked to me about getting up a
'club' for the mill folks. 'The right sort of club, with books and
pictures and everything helpful.' The saucebox! and she earning the
mighty wage of two-fifty per week. Well, all in good course. I haven't
toiled a lifetime to attain my object, then relinquish it without a
little enjoyment of it; though, after all, possession isn't everything.
The struggle was about as enjoyable as the result. But I succeeded! I am
master of Fairacres, of Ardsley Mills, of half all Ardsley township. The
old family is still on top. But, I'll buy Cuthbert's great picture and
burn it up--sometime. Hmm. Wonder where that visionary Frederic Kaye is,
of whose unpractical schemes I am reaping the benefit. Odd--buried
himself in California, so to speak, and the only visible proofs that he
had ever reached that happy land are a couple of braying burros.--Hello!
hello, I say! Who's that? What's up?"
The shadow which had dogged the track of the mill owner's phaeton had
suddenly become a reality. His horse was seized, forced backward, the
horsewhip wrenched from its socket, and before he could defend himself
Mr. Wingate's head and shoulders felt the cuts of the whip, delivered in
swift and furious intensity.
"Hold on! hold--on! What--who--stop, stop, _s-t-o-p_! You're killing me!
What's wanted? It's murder--_murder_!"
And again after another visitation of stripes, that awful cry of
"mur-der!"
The word holds its own horror. No one can thus hear it shouted, in the
stillness of the night, unmoved. It affected even the ferocious
assailant of the lonely old man, and arrested his further blows.
"Murder." That meant death, prison, everything that was hateful. Even to
Fayette's dull brain there penetrated some realization of what his
present deed implied. For this was he who had waylaid an "enemy" on the
highroad and beaten him into unconsciousness.
Then he remembered his own wrongs, and his anger flamed afresh.
"Thought you could do all the lickin', did ye? How many times did _you_
have _me_ thrashed? What did you care if the man who thrashed me 'bout
killed me? What was I, only 'Bony,' out o' the poor farm! Ugh, you old
rascal! Take that, and that, and that. Huckleberries! but it's fun to
settle such scores."
The old horse which Mr. Wingate drove stood quiet in the road, else the
matter might have had a different ending; for had she run and dragged
her now helpless master, he would surely have been killed. As it was,
she did not move, so there was nothing to deaden the sound of the sharp
blows Fayette administered; and in the silence of the place and night
this sound carried far.
It reached the ears of a foot passenger, toiling up the mill road toward
Fairacres and quickened his pace. So that when the half-wit finally
paused for breath, he felt himself caught by his collar and heard a
stern voice demanding:--
"What's this? Hold! Stop! This--_here_, in _Ardsley_?"
Fayette looked up. The man who had gripped him was much taller than he,
and seemed in that dim light a giant for strength. The capture brought
back all those visions of punishment and the prison. In a twinkling the
agile lad had writhed himself free from his short coat and leaped away
into the darkness.
The newcomer heard a sound of retreating footsteps and mocking laughter,
then turned his attention to the injured man in the phaeton.
"An old fellow, too, he seems. Hello! Are you alive? Hey! Can't you
speak? That's serious."
The stranger's actions were alert and decided. He gently raised the bent
figure of the unconscious Mr. Wingate to as comfortable a position as he
could, stepped into the vehicle, and took up the reins.
"If nothing is changed, the nearest house is old Fairacres. But I didn't
look for such a home-coming. Get up there, nag!"
Not since the days of her youth had the sorrel mare been forced into
such a pace as then. The rescuer drove for life and death, and as if all
turnings of the old road were familiar to him. Nor did he slacken rein
until he reached the front door of the mansion, and sung out in a voice
to wake great echoes:--
"Hello, there! Come out! A man in distress!"
This hello reached the stable, where Fayette was loosing Balaam, and
roused that intelligent beast to speak his opinion concerning these
disturbances of his rest.
Marshall, hurrying to answer the imperative demand at the front door,
heard the burro's bray of protest, though he paid it small attention
then, because of the nearer demand. Holding his candle high above his
head, he slid back the bolts and peered out, but the sight which met his
gaze set him trembling like an aspen.
"Why--my land! Master, what--what's happened? Have they murdered you out
of hand? Ah, but my mind misgave me how 'twould be. To think it--to
think it!"
"Hush! Put down the candle. Give a lift; he's powerful heavy. Is this
your master?"
The servant retreated. This might be the very person who had done the
mill owner such terrible injury. He would put his own precious anatomy
out of harm's reach.
"Oh, you fool! Come back. You're safe. Leave that door open. I'll bring
him in myself. Make way there--quick!"
Marshall tried to barricade the entrance to the room beyond the hall by
means of his own plump body, and was promptly kicked aside, as the
stranger strode past him, bearing the unconscious man upon his
shoulder, very much as if he had been a bag of meal.
"Is this your master?"
"Y-ye-s. Who--are you--ordering--"
"Hot water--lights--a doctor--everything--_at once_. I'm Frederic Kaye."