Summer had waned from the coast and with it had passed the keenness of
local interest in the strangest victim of Lonesome Cove. Even the
indefatigable tongue of Elder Dennett had almost ceased to clack on the
topic, by the fall of the first snow. Other subjects of absorbing
interest supervened during the long winter: the wreck of the schooner
yacht off Dead Men's Eddy; the coming of the new Presbyterian minister
at Martindale Center whose wife was reported to be a suffragette; the
mysterious benefaction that had befallen old Mrs. Orcutt late in
February, enabling her to leave her home next to Annalaka churchyard and
take her asthma southward in search of a cure; the rumor that Hedgerow
House was to be sold before summer.
"And young Blair's body along with it, I expect," remarked the Elder
malevolently. "Seems to me, if I was a millionaire like Alexander Blair,
I wouldn't sell my own flesh and blood, dead or alive."
Of Alexander Blair himself, nothing had been seen in the neighborhood
since mid-July, nor of his daughter-in-law. Hedgerow House was in charge
of Gansett Jim as caretaker. Professor Kent had left about the same time
as the Blairs. But Francis Sedgwick had stuck to the Nook, studying
first the cold grays and browns of November, and later the wonderful
blazing whites and subtle blues of drift and shadow spread before him in
winter's endless panorama, with the same enthusiasm that he had devoted
to October's riot of color. Though the work prospered, the worker had
paled. It was the opinion of Martindale Center and Annalaka alike that
the "painter feller" was looking right peaky and piny, like one whose
conscience ached. But Sedgwick had nothing worse than a heartache, and
the fates were making medicine for that.
Wind-borne on the blast of a mid-March gale, Chester Kent dropped down
at the door of the Nook one wild afternoon, without warning. As always,
he was impeccably clad, though his stout boots showed the usage of
recent hard wear. Leaving Austin that morning, with his light valise
slung to his shoulder, he had footed the fifteen miles of soggy earth to
Sedgwick's place, in a luxurious tussle against the wind. Throwing open
the door, he called his friend's name.
Instantly the artist came loping down the stairs and had him by the
shoulders.
"I've got a caller up above," he said after the usual greetings and
questionings were over.
"Yes? Have you gone in for local society?"
"Not exactly local. It's Alexander Blair."
"Hel-lo!" said Kent in surprise. "What brings him?"
"Why, he came down to Hedgerow House to look after certain books and
papers, and ran over here to make his _amende honorable_ in form. Chet,
I hate being apologized to."
"Of course. Every one does. Nevertheless, it's good exercise for Mr. A.
Blair, Esquire. Brings into action some muscles of his soul that might
otherwise have atrophied from disuse."
"He's the grim-jawed, hard-bitted Blair of old. Just the same, he made
his apology as handsomely as need be. I'll bring him down here."
The fabric magnate descended from the studio and greeted Kent briefly,
then turned to his host. "You will excuse me if I ask Mr. Kent to step
outside. I have some business with him."
"Stay here," said the artist. "I'll go back to my studio." Which he did.
"When a man once declines employment with me," said Alexander Blair to
Kent, "I never give him a second chance. That rule I am going to break.
I need your assistance."
"Honored, indeed!" murmured Kent.
"Will you accept the commission?"
"Not if it is like your former offer."
"It is not. It is bona fide. Some one has been tampering with my son's
grave."
"You mean the grave at Hedgerow House?"
"Yes. Gansett Jim reports that there are signs of recent digging. It
looks as if ghouls had been at work there, with the idea of getting the
body and holding it for ransom. They would have had a fine surprise if
they had got the coffin out!"
"Because they'd have found no body in it, you mean?"
"Certainly. But suppose they discovered that there were no remains,
nothing but a punctured sand-bag. Do you see the potentialities of
blackmail?"
"No."
"Then you are stupider than I ever took you for," growled the magnate.
"Like most things, it depends on the point of view. I don't think that
you are in any danger of blackmail. But, if I understand the matter, you
want your mind relieved of anxiety on the point. Very well, I'll take
the case."
"That is settled, then," said the older man briskly. "Now, this being a
strictly business deal, we will discuss terms."
"Oh, there is no room for discussion as to my terms," said Kent easily.
"I make them and you accept them, that's all."
Alexander Blair's eyebrows drew down in a heavy scowl.
"Do you know of an old lady named Orcutt in Annalaka?" pursued the
scientist.
"No."
"She owns the house just next to Annalaka churchyard, where your son was
buried as Jane Doe. She is a very worthy old lady. But she suffers
severely from asthma. In fact it keeps her awake most of the night. So
some interested persons have subscribed money, and sent her south to a
sanatorium. I'd like to get you interested in her case."
"You wish me to subscribe?"
"Oh, more than that. I think it would be a good idea if you were to
assume the entire expense of the proceedings."
"You mean reimburse the subscribers?"
"Exactly."
For a few seconds the millionaire studied Kent's candid face. "Very
well," he agreed. "How much?"
"Sheriff Schlager can tell you. He is keeping the accounts. You see, it
was necessary to get her out of the way. Her windows overlook the
churchyard."
"So you took occasion to indicate before."
"Repetition of a really relevant point is excusable. She left, two weeks
ago, very much mystified but pathetically thankful, poor old girl!"
"She has no monopoly on being mystified," observed Mr. Blair, with
pursed lips.
"Probably she never will understand. That's where you have the advantage
of her, for I think you'll see quite clearly the reason for her trip,
and the propriety of your footing the bills."
"Go on."
"When she was safely out of the way, and no longer overlooking Annalaka
churchyard by night, from her window, Schlager, Adam Bain and I paid a
visit to the place. Technically, what we did there amounts to grave
robbery, I suppose. But we covered our tracks well, and I don't think
anybody will ever discover what has been done."
"Well?" queried his hearer, with twitching jaw.
"What lay, nameless, in Annalaka churchyard," said Kent gravely, "now
rests in its own place at Hedgerow House. The marks found by Gansett Jim
were made by us. So your alarm is groundless. But I wish that you might
have heard the little prayer made by that simple country lawyer over
your son's grave. Once in a while I meet with a really,
through-and-through good man like Adam Bain, and then I have to
reconstruct my whole formula of the average cussedness of human nature."
Alexander Blair's clenched hands went to his temples in a singular
gesture, and dropped again. "What interest did Schlager and Bain have in
the matter?" he added in a low tone.
"Why, Schlager had done some dirty work for you, and wanted to even
accounts with his own conscience. As for Bain, we needed a third man we
could trust. I asked him and got him. It was no small risk for him. If
you felt that his risk is worth some reward, you might--"
"Yes, yes!" interrupted the other eagerly. "Do you think a thousand--or
perhaps more--"
Kent smiled. "By thinking hard I could think a thousand," he said. "But
not more, in this case. It wouldn't be safe. Bain might not survive the
shock. Thank you very much, Mr. Blair."
"And now," said the older man, "I am still in the dark as to your
interest in the matter."
"Mine? Why, for one thing, I dislike to leave any affair unfinished. I
have the satisfaction of knowing now that this is forever settled and
done with. Besides there was a promise--practically a promise--as near a
promise as I often permit myself to go, in a world of accidents, errors,
and uncertainties--made to Mrs. Blair. Is she back from Europe?"
"She is at Hedgerow House." Blair communed with himself for a time, then
said abruptly, "By the way, do you think your friend Mr. Sedgwick would
come over to a pick-up dinner before we leave?"
Kent's face lighted up. "Ask him," said he heartily, "and see!"
"I will, as soon as I get home. Good day." Blair hesitated. He seemed to
have difficulty in going and embarrassment in staying. He coughed and
cleared his throat, looked over Kent's head and down at his feet; and
finally got himself into words.
"Kent," he blurted, "I realize now why you won't take my money. I can
always buy brains; but I can't buy the bigger better thing. It isn't in
the market. Thank you!" He caught the scientist's hand in a swift hard
grip, and strode off down the road.
Chester Kent went back into the house with a glow at his heart. He
shouted up-stairs to Sedgwick, "Go on with your work, Frank. I want to
loaf and invite my soul for an hour. Where's your reading matter?"
"Shelf in the corner," answered the artist. "You'll find a few things in
your line,--Darwin's _Origin of Species_, Le Conte's--"
"The devil take Darwin!" cried Kent impiously. "I want _Bab Ballads_, or
_Through the Looking-Glass_, or something like that, really fit for an
aspiring intellect. Never mind. I'll forage for myself."
Three minutes later he was stretched luxuriously on the divan, with the
window-shade pulled down and the big electric chandelier glowing,
immersed in the joyous nonsense of _Rhyme and Reason_. The wind
alternately shouted profane protests at the window because it couldn't
get in, and then fell silent, waiting for an answer. In one of these
lulls Kent heard footsteps outside.
He dropped his book. The footsteps approached the window. Then the gale
rose again, and the loose end of a garment flapped softly against the
glass. He half rose, listening. There was silence outside.
"Have I fallen into another mystery?" groaned Kent. "Is there no rest
for the weary?"
The footsteps mounted the side porch. Kent awaited a knock. None came.
"Odd!" he observed to his pillow. "Few people find the outside of a door
so fascinating that they stand for two minutes in a wet gale admiring
it."
Tiptoeing to the door, he threw it open. There was a startled cry from
without and an equally startled grunt from within. Chester Kent and
Marjorie Blair stood face to face.
"I--I--I beg your pardon," gibbered Kent, whelmed instantly in a morass
of embarrassment. "I--I didn't mean to frighten you."
Feminine-wise she built up her self-possession on the ruins of his. "I
wonder," she said with a smile, "whether I'm the worse-frightened one of
us."
"You see," he said lamely, "it was so sudden, your--your coming that
way. I didn't expect you."
"And for that reason you intend to bar me from the house? It's quite
disgustingly wet out here."
With a muttered apology Kent stepped aside, and she entered. Even amid
his ill-ease he could not but note how the girlish loveliness had
ripened and warmed, yet without forfeiting anything of that quaint
appealing wistfulness which made her charm unique. But there glinted now
in her deep eyes an elfish spirit of mischief, partly inspired by the
confusion of the helpless male creature before her, partly the reaction
from the mingled dread and desire of the prospective meeting with
Sedgwick; for she had come on a sudden uncontrollable impulse to see
him, and would have turned and fled at the last minute had not Kent
surprised her. Perhaps there was a little flavor of revenge for this,
too, in her attitude toward him.
"What a surprise to find you here, _Mrs._ Kent!" she remarked sweetly.
"Or are you calling youself Mr. Blair nowadays? And how is your poor
ear?"
Chester Kent immediately seized that unoffending member and clung to it
with much the lost and anguished expression of the pale martyr in the
once popular _Rock of Ages_ chromo. His tormentor considered him with
malicious eyes.
"Did any woman ever say 'Boo!' to him suddenly, I wonder?" she mused
aloud.
Like a saving grace, there came into Kent's mind a fragment of _The
Hunting of the Snark_, in which he had just been reveling. Said he
gravely:
"He would answer to 'Hi!' or to any loud cry
Such as 'Fry me' or 'Fritter my wig'!"
She caught up the stanza:
"To 'What-you-may-call-um' or 'What-was-his-name!'
But especially 'Thing-um-a-jig.'"
"So you know Lewis Carroll. How really human of you!"
"It is better to be humane than human," murmured Kent, relinquishing his
aural grip as he began to touch bottom.
"Is that a plea? Very well. I shall be very gentle and soothing. But,
oh," she burst out irrepressibly, "may the kindly fates give me to be
among those present when you fall in love!"
Kent favored her with an elaborate bow. "Your presence would be the one
essential."
"Really," she approved, "you're progressing. I begin to feel repaid for
my visit, already."
This time Kent looked her in the eye. "You're not very demanding in the
matter of returns for your trouble," he remarked. "To come through all
this wind and rain and then be content merely to contemplate the outside
of a door--that argues an humble spirit. To be sure, however, it's a
very good door; one of the most interesting features of our local
architecture, and may lead to--all sorts of things."
It was her turn to grow red.
"You haven't asked me about Sedgwick," he continued.
"Is he well?" she inquired formally, but with quickened breath.
"He is more than that. He is cured--and a man. A man," he added
meaningly, "for any woman to be proud of."
There was a step on the floor above. Marjorie Blair's hand went to her
heart.
"I didn't know he was here," she panted affrightedly. "I came just
to--look at the place. Then I saw the light, and I wanted so to come in;
but I didn't dare. I can't see him now! I must go! Don't tell--"
Chester Kent raised his voice. "Frank!" he called. "Come down here!
Quick!"
Not twice in his life had Sedgwick heard that tone in his friend's
voice. The bungalow shook to his long tread across the floor. The studio
door opened and flew shut behind him. He took the stairs at a leap, and
on the landing stopped dead.
"Marjorie!" he whispered.
She shrank back a little from the light in his eyes.
"What do you do here?" he said very low.
Still she did not speak, but stood, tremulous, her face half panic, half
passion.
Unobtrusively Kent slid along the wall, like a shadow, and vanished into
the night.
"Where have you been?" Sedgwick asked the woman of his love.
"Everywhere. Nowhere. What does it matter?" she faltered. "I've come
back."
He went forward and took her hands in his; cold little hands that clung
as they touched.
"Why did you never write me?" he asked gently.
"I don't know. I couldn't. Don't ask me to explain. It was just that
I--I felt I must come back to you as I had come to you first, unexpected
and without a word. Can you understand?"
"No," he said.
"No; I suppose not. A man couldn't."
"Good God!" he burst out. "Do you realize what it is to live in such a
hell of uncertainty and longing as I've lived in since you left; to
wait, and hope, and lose hope, and hope and wait again for a word that
never comes; to eat your heart out with waiting?"
A slow wonderful smile trembled on her lips. "My dear," she said; "I
have waited for you all my life."
Suddenly her arms were around him; her cheek was pressed to his own; the
breath of her whisper was at his ear.
"Oh, forgive me! I will make it up to you, my dear; my dearest!"
Out in the wind and the rain Chester Kent drew in the deep breath of
satisfied and rounded achievement. He had beheld, against the wide
window-shade two shadows, which, standing motionless for a moment, a few
feet apart, had drawn slowly together as by some irresistible magnetism,
and suddenly merged into one. The unintentional eavesdropper nodded, in
grave gratulation to the house, then turned away.
"Finished!" he said. "_C'est conclu. Finis. Telos. Das Ende._ And any or
all other words of whatever language, meaning a sound conclusion!"
Half an hour later he entered, with due preliminary stamping of mud from
clogged feet. Instantly Marjorie went over to him.
"Why, you're wet as a rag!" she cried with a sweetly unconscious
assumption of proprietary interest. "You must go and change at once!"
she added, patting his shoulder.
Kent reached for his ear, changed his mind midway, and scratched his
nose. "All right," he said meekly. Over his rather stern-set face there
came a singularly winning smile. "You two--" he said: "that's as it
should be. That's worth everything."
"No other congratulations will ever sound so good as that, Chet," said
Sedgwick in a low voice; "or so unselfish. You've had all the heat and
toil of the great game, and I have all the happiness."
"Not quite all, I fancy," returned Kent, smiling at Marjorie.
She took his wet hand between her own. "But it doesn't seem quite fair,"
she protested. "Frank and I have found each other. But you, who have
fought our battle for us so splendidly, what reward do you have?"
Chester Kent shook his head. "My dear," he said gently, "the great game
isn't played for prizes."
THE END
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Transcriber's Note
Spelling and punctuation inaccuracies were silently corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling is preserved.
The author's punctuation style is preserved.
Hyphenation has been made consistent.