BACK AT NORTHFIELD
After a long absence, Sir Donald and Esther are back at Northfield. Many
parts of Europe and the Orient were visited. Father and daughter saw
much of interest. Their stops had been sufficiently prolonged for
comfort and intelligent impression.
Though in regular communication with the London office, Sir Donald knows
nothing about the present location of either Lanier.
That William Dodge disappeared from Calcutta seems certain. After the
death of Nellie this unfortunate man was released. News of her illness
and of his boy's death at length reached Dodge through the doctor. All
attempts of Mary Dodge to hear from her husband while he was in prison
were unavailing. Little Nellie's appeals to see "papa" had failed.
Under patrol of verbal promise the prisoner was permitted to attend the
burial. He returned according to pledge. In about ten days thereafter he
was released. The family soon moved, and there is no clew to present
whereabouts.
Neither Sir Donald nor Esther heard anything from Oswald Langdon. Since
Oswald's departure from Calcutta, Sir Donald anxiously had waited for
notice of clew to Lanier guilt. He believed London agents honestly were
seeking more decisive results, but there was little immediate or remote
prospect of success. At the last Calcutta conference, Sir Donald
promised Oswald to spare no zeal in bringing these villains to swift
accounting.
Convinced that absence from England and India was essential to success
of plans then in operation, Oswald hesitated not, but promptly sailed.
It was agreed between them that any decisive act or clew should be
communicated by letter to Paris, thence forwarded to whatever point they
should direct. Sir Donald's letters would be directed to an agreed
alias. Both would use guarded terms, but to them intelligible. There
would be no letter from Sir Donald except "upon some important
development." Should Oswald stop long at any point, he was to write,
that unnecessary delay might be avoided.
They had decided that any attempt of Oswald at ferreting out these
crimes would be dangerous. Such action might hamper the London bureau
and hasten a crisis exculpating the Laniers.
Sir Donald had told Esther the cause of Oswald's sudden departure. She
was saddened, but made no protest. That the innocent should suffer such
unjust banishment shocked Esther's ideas of right providence. Why were
such straits permitted?
Esther begins to see that the world groans beneath weight of unmerited
burdens. Under fairest skies gleam sacrificial blades. Balmiest airs
minister to altar-fires. Bird-carols and zephyr-murmurs are but medley
variations to minor chords of vicarious pain.
Esther now has occasional convictions that some wrongs may continue
indefinitely. Can it be that transient evil is lasting good? Are there
more clamorous voices than those of physical need? Shall the less
ravenous, yet infinitely more real, soul-hunger wait on alms and
ambulance?
That such moods of questioning thought bear intimate reference to
Oswald's hard fate no way lessens their deep sincerity. Heart queries
are wonderfully profound.
No word of complaint escapes Esther's lips, nor does she doubt the
wisdom of their proposed course. Deeply solicitous for Oswald's
vindication, this loyally sympathetic girl would hesitate at no personal
sacrifice in his behalf. It is hard that she can do nothing to help him.
Aware of her father's interest in her every wish and aspiration, Esther
refrains from any suggestion which may cause additional care.
Sir Donald's observing vision notes each emotional clew. Many unspoken
queries find vocal reply. Delicate points are cleared by suggestive
indirection. Neither completely yields to profitless conjecture. They
magnetize Northfield.
One bright day Sir Donald and Esther take a stroll about the familiar
grounds. The air is laden with perfume of flowers. Both are charmed with
exquisite plant and foliage shades. Many exclamatory comments are
uttered by the enthusiastic daughter, more gravely confirmed by her
gently reserved father. They quit the mansion grounds for a stroll along
the wood-fringed lake. Past the family graves, where a pensive hour is
spent, they walk to where a small sail is locked fast by the pebbly
shore. Sir Donald fails to loosen the fastening. Farther down is a
rowboat, in which they start out on the lake.
Moving along with the breeze, both yield to meditation. Former tragic
happenings upon this peaceful lake come to mind. Each ripple is
tremulous with saddened retrospect. Every voice of wind and branch is
keyed to minor utterance. These, with monotonous swish of slow waves,
blending with notes of leaf-hid birds, seem miserere and requiem.
At this projecting shrub, bright-eyed, sweet-voiced, vivacious, loving,
impulsive Alice Webster had been rescued by Oswald Langdon; yonder is
the wooded point toward which Paul Lanier was sailing when, maddened by
her frightened resistance and stinging protests, he roughly pushed Alice
overboard. Here is the bank upon which the body again became instinct
with life's returning pulses.
Such panorama, with varying lines of sorrowful perspective, passed
before Sir Donald's and Esther's view. Each colored the pathetic
pictures with like yet different hues, from peculiar tints of inner
consciousness.
Sir Donald is struck by singular grouping of assault, projecting shrub,
knotted tie, Oswald's sail and opportune rescue; Esther's memory reverts
to that eloquent avowal beyond the distant ravine. Some misgivings as to
her own conduct on that occasion are now felt. There is an accusing
sense of vague responsibility for after tragic happenings. That true
penitence often means restitution is a cardinal tenet in Esther's creed.
This is now most soothing conscience specific.
If Esther wrongfully withheld from that earnest, masterful, persuasive
suitor his just dues, she now feels such ethical qualms as to prompt
payment with usury.
Moving with the breeze, the boat is nearing the point where Esther,
Alice Webster, and Oswald Langdon were seated when Paul Lanier listened
to that proposed London trip made necessary by the suit of William
Dodge.
Soon are heard tones of impassioned declamation. With unearthly unction
the voice repeats those dream-lines so dramatically uttered in hearing
of Paul Lanier at Bombay.
Again and again come the words, "Fierce avenging sprite," "till blood
for blood atones," "buried from my sight," "and trodden down with
stones." Then follow loud, hollow, unnatural guffaws, succeeded by, "And
years have rotted off his flesh." There are muttered curses, a
blood-curdling, demoniacal yell, then in solemn, guttural tones, "The
world shall see his bones."
These disconnected yet coherent utterances cease. Soon are heard
retreating footsteps.
Profoundly moved, Sir Donald turns the boat and vigorously rows back to
the shore. Both are glad to reach land, and rapidly walk homeward.
Neither is superstitious, but such ghostly utterances, with all drapings
of time and place, weirdly tinted by so pensive, reminiscent sentiments,
rouse dormant fancies. Each feels a mystic sense of some impending
crisis.