"One look my way and his question was answered before he put it. Judge

Ostrander, the name under which I had lived in Detroit was not my real

one. I had let him court and all but marry my daughter, without warning

him in any way of what this deception on my part covered. But

others--one other, I have reason now to believe--had detected my

identity under the altered circumstances of my new life, and surprised

him with the news at this late hour. We are--Judge Ostrander, you know

who we are. This is not the first time you and I have seen each other

face to face." And lifting up a hand, trembling with emotion, she put

aside her veil.

VIII

WITH HER VEIL LIFTED

"MRS.--"

"You recognise me?"

"Too well." The tone was deep with meaning but there was no accusation

in it; nor was there any note of relief. It was more as if some hope

deeply, and perhaps unconsciously, cherished had suffered a sudden and

complete extinction.

The change this made in him was too perceptible for her not to observe

it. The shadow lying deep in her eyes now darkened her whole face. She

had tried to prepare him for this moment; tried to prepare herself. But

who can prepare the soul for the return of old troubles or make other

than startling the resurrection of a ghost laid, as men thought,

forever.

"You see that it was no fault of my own I was trying to hide," she

finally remarked in her rich and sympathetic voice.

"Put back your veil."

It was all he said.

Trembling she complied, murmuring as she fumbled with its folds:

"Disgrace to an Ostrander! I know that I was mad to risk it for a

moment. Forgive me for the attempt, and listen to my errand. Oliver was

willing to marry my child, even after he knew the shame it would entail.

But Reuther would not accept the sacrifice. When she learned, as she was

obliged to now, that her father had not only been sentenced to death for

the worst crime in the calendar, but had suffered the full penalty,

leaving only a legacy of eternal disgrace to his wife and innocent

child, she showed a spirit becoming a better parentage. In his presence,

and in spite of his dissuasions (for he acted with all the nobility one

might expect) she took off her veil with her own hands and laid it aside

with a look expressive of eternal renunciation. She loves him, sir; and

there is no selfishness in her heart and never has been. For all her

frail appearance and the mildness of her temper, she is like flint where

principle is involved or the welfare of those she loves is at stake. My

daughter may die from shock or shame, but she will never cloud your

son's prospects with the obloquy which has settled over her own. Judge

Ostrander, I am not worthy of such a child, but such she is. If John--"

"We will not speak his name," broke in Judge Ostrander, assuming a

peremptory bearing quite unlike his former one of dignified reserve. "I

should like to hear, instead, your explanation of how my son became

inveigled into an engagement of which you, if no one else, knew the

preposterous nature."

"Judge Ostrander, you do right to blame me. I should never have given my

consent, never. But I thought our past so completely hidden--our

identity so entirely lost under the accepted name of Averill."

"You thought!" He towered over her in his anger. He looked and acted as

in the old days, when witnesses cowered under his eye and voice. "Say

that you KNEW, madam; that you planned this unholy trap for my son. You

had a pretty daughter, and you saw to it that she came under his notice;

nay, more, ignoring the claims of decency, you allowed the folly to

proceed, if you did not help it on in your misguided ambition to marry

your daughter well."

"Judge Ostrander, I did not plan their meeting, nor did I at first

encourage his addresses. Not till I saw the extent of their mutual

attachment, did I yield to the event and accept the consequences. But I

was wrong, wholly wrong to allow him to visit her a second time; but now

that the mischief is done--"

Judge Ostrander was not listening.

"I have a question to put you," said he, when he realised that she had

ceased speaking. "Oliver was never a fool. When he was told who your

daughter was, what did he say of the coincidence which made him the

lover of the woman against whose father, his father had uttered a

sentence of death? Didn't he marvel and call it extraordinary--the work

of the devil?"

"Possibly; but if he did, it was not in any conversation he had with

me."

"Detroit is a large city and must possess hundreds of sweet young girls

within its borders. Could he contemplate without wonder the fact that he

had been led to the door of the one above all others between whom and

himself Fate had set such an insurmountable barrier? He must have been

struck deeply by the coincidence; he must have been, madam."

Astonished at his manner, at the emphasis he placed upon this point

which seemed to her so much less serious than many others, she regarded

him doubtfully before saying:

"I was if he was not. From the very first I wondered. But I got used to

the fact during the five months of his courtship. And I got used to

another fact too; that my secret was safe so far as it ran the risk of

being endangered by a meeting with yourself. Mr. Ostrander made it very

plain to us that we need never expect to see you in Detroit."

"He did? Did he offer any explanation for this lack of--of sympathy

between us?"

"Never. It was a topic he forbore to enter into and I think he only said

what he did, to prevent any expectations on our part of ever seeing

you."

"And your daughter? Was he as close-mouthed in speaking of me to her as

he was to you?"

"I have no doubt of it. Reuther betrays no knowledge of you or of your

habits, and has never expressed but one curiosity in your regard. As you

can imagine what that is, I will not mention it."

"You are at liberty to. I have listened to much and can well listen to a

little more."

"Judge, she is of a very affectionate nature and her appreciation of

your son's virtues is very great. Though her conception of yourself is

naturally a very vague one, it is only to be expected that she should

wonder how you could live so long without a visit from Oliver."

Expectant as he was of this reply, and resolved as he was, to hear it

unmoved, he had miscalculated his strength or his power of concealment,

for he turned aside immediately upon hearing it, and walked away from

her towards the further extremity of the room. Covertly she watched him;

first through her veil, and then with it partly removed. She did not

understand his mood; and she hardly understood her own. When she entered

upon this interview, her mind had been so intent upon one purpose that

it seemed to absorb all her faculties and reach every corner of her

heart; yet here she was, after the exchange of many words between them,

with her purpose uncommunicated and her heart unrelieved, staring at him

not in the interest of her own griefs, but in commiseration of his.

Yet when he faced her once more every thought vanished from her mind

save the one which had sustained her through the extraordinary measures

she had taken to secure herself this opportunity of presenting her lost

cause to the judgment of the only man from whom she could expect aid.

But her impulse was stayed and her thoughts sent wandering again by the

penetrating look he gave her before she let her veil fall again.

"How long have you been in Detroit?" he asked.

"Ever since--"

"And how old is Reuther?"

"Eighteen, but--"

"Twelve years ago, then." He paused and glanced about him before adding,

"She was about the age of the child you brought to my house to-day."

"Yes, sir, very nearly."

His lips took a strange twist. There was self-contempt in it, and some

other very peculiar and contradictory emotion. But when this semblance

of a smile had passed, it was no longer Oliver's father she saw before

her, but the county's judge. Even his tone partook of the change as he

dryly remarked:

"What you have told me concerning your daughter and my son is very

interesting. But it was not for the simple purpose of informing me that

this untoward engagement was at an end that you came to Shelby. You have

another purpose. What is it? I can remain with you just five minutes

longer."

Five minutes! It only takes one to kill a hope but five are far too few

for the reconstruction of one. But she gave no sign of her secret

doubts, as she plunged at once into her subject.

"I will be brief," said she; "as brief as any mother can be who is

pleading for her daughter's life as well as happiness. Reuther has no

real ailment, but her constitution is abnormally weak, and she will die

of this grief if some miracle does not save her. Strong as her will is,

determined as she is to do her duty at all cost, she has very little

physical stamina. See! here is her photograph taken but a short time

ago. Look at it I beg. See what she was like when life was full of hope;

and then imagine her with all hope eliminated."

"Excuse me. What use? I can do nothing. I am very sorry for the child,

but--" His very attitude showed his disinclination to look at the

picture.

But she would not be denied. She thrust it upon him and once his eyes

had fallen upon it, they clung there though evidently against his will.

Ah, she knew that Reuther's exquisite countenance would plead for

itself! God seldom grants to such beauty, so lovely a spirit. If the

features themselves failed to appeal, certainly he must feel the charm

of an expression which had already netted so many hearts. Breathlessly

she watched him, and, as she watched, she noted the heavy lines carved

in his face by thought and possibly by sorrow, slowly relax and his eyes

fill with a wistful tenderness.

In the egotism of her relief, she thought to deepen the impression she

had made by one vivid picture of her daughter as she was now. Mistaking

his temperament or his story, classing him in with other strong men, the

well of whose feeling once roused overflows in sympathetic emotion, she

observed very gently but, as she soon saw, unwisely:

"Such delicacy can withstand a blow, but not a steady heartbreak. When,

on that dreadful night I crept in from my sleepless bed to see how my

darling was bearing her long watch, this was what I saw. She had not

moved, no, not an inch in the long hours which had passed since I left

her. She had not even stirred the hand from which, at her request, I had

myself drawn her engagement ring. I doubt even if her lids had shut once

over her strained and wide-staring eyes. It was as if she were laid out

for her grave--"

"Madam!"

The harsh tone recalled her to herself. She took back the picture he was

holding towards her and was hardly surprised when he said:

"Parents must learn to endure bitterness. I have not been exempt myself

from such. Your child will not die. You have years of mutual

companionship before you, while I have nothing. And now let us end this

interview so painful to both. You have said--"

"No," she broke in with sudden vehemence, all the more startling from

the restraint in which she had--held herself up to this moment, "I have

not said--I have not begun to say what seethes like a consuming fire in

my breast. Judge Ostrander, I do not know what has estranged you from

Oliver. It must be something serious;--for you are both good men. But

whatever it is, of this I am certain: you would not wilfully deliver an

innocent child like mine to a wretched fate which a well-directed effort

might avert. I spoke of a miracle--Will you not listen, judge? I am not

wild; I am not unconscious of presumption. I am only in earnest, in

deadly earnest. A miracle is possible. The gulf between these two may

yet be spanned. I see a way--"

What change was this to which she had suddenly become witness? The face

which had not lost all its underlying benignancy even when it looked its

coldest, had now become settled and hard. His manner was absolutely

repellent as he broke in with the quick disclaimer:

"But there IS no way. What miracle could ever make your daughter, lovely

as she undoubtedly is, a fitting match for my son! None, madam,

absolutely none. Such an alliance would be monstrous; unnatural."

"Why?" The word came out boldly. If she was intimidated by this

unexpected attack from a man accustomed to deference and altogether able

to exact it, she did not show it. "Because her father died the death of

a criminal?" she asked.

The answer was equally blunt:

"Yes; a criminal over whose trial his father presided as judge."

Was she daunted? No. Quick as a flash came the retort.

"A judge, however, who showed him every consideration possible. I was

told at the time and I have been assured by many since that you were

more than just to him in your rulings. Such a memory creates a bond of

gratitude, not hate. Judge Ostrander"--He had taken a step towards the

hall-door; but he paused at this utterance of his name--"answer me this

one question. Why did you do this? As his widow, as the mother of his

child, I implore you to tell me why you showed him this leniency? You

must have hated him deeply--"

"Yes. I have never hated any one more."

"The slayer of your dearest friend; of your inseparable companion; of

the one person who stood next to your son in your affections and

regard!"

He put up his hand. The gesture, the way he turned his face aside showed

that she had touched the raw of a wound still unhealed. Insensibly, the

woman in her responded to this evidence of an undying sorrow, and

modulating her voice, she went on, with just a touch of the subtle

fascination which made her always listened to:

"Your feeling for Mr. Etheridge was well known. THEN WHY SUCH

MAGNANIMITY TOWARDS THE MAN WHO STOOD ON TRIAL FOR KILLING HIM?"

Unaccustomed to be questioned, though living in an atmosphere of

continual yes and no, he stared at the veiled features of one who so

dared, as if he found it hard to excuse such presumption. But he

answered her nevertheless, and with decided emphasis:

"Possibly because his victim was my friend and lifelong companion. A

judge fears his own prejudices."

"Possibly; but you had another reason, judge; a reason which justified

you in your own eyes at the time and which justifies you in mine now and

always. Am I not right? This is no court-room; the case is one of the

past; it can never be reopened; the prisoner is dead. Answer me then, as

one sorrowing mortal replies to another, hadn't you another reason?"

The judge, panoplied though he was or thought he was, against all

conceivable attack, winced at this repetition of a question he had hoped

to ignore, and in his anxiety to hide this involuntary betrayal of

weakness, allowed his anger to have full vent, as he cried out in no

measured terms:

"What is the meaning of all this? What are you after? Why are you raking

up these bygones which only make the present condition of affairs darker

and more hopeless? You say that you know some way of making the match

between your daughter and my son feasible and proper. I say that nothing

can do this. Fact--the sternest of facts is against it. If you found a

way, I shouldn't accept it. Oliver Ostrander, under no circumstances and

by means of no sophistries, can ever marry the daughter of John

Scoville. I should think you would see that for yourself."

"But if John should be proved to have suffered wrongfully? If he should

be shown to have been innocent?"

"Innocent?"

"Yes. I have always had doubts of his guilt, even when circumstances

bore most heavily against him; and now, as I look back upon the trial

and remember certain things, I feel sure that you had doubts of it,

yourself."

His rebuke was quick, instant. With a force and earnestness which

recalled the court-room he replied:

"Madam, your hopes and wishes have misled you. Your husband was a guilty

man; as guilty a man as any judge ever passed sentence upon."

"Oh!" she wailed forth, reeling heavily back and almost succumbing to

the shock, she had so thoroughly convinced herself that what she said

was true. But hers was a courageous soul. She rallied instantly and

approaching him again with face uncovered and her whole potent

personality alive with magnetism, she retorted:

"You say that, eye to my eye, hand on my hand, heart beating with my

heart above the grave of our children's mutual happiness?"

"I do."

Convinced; for there was no wavering in his eye, no trembling in the

hand she had clasped; convinced but ready notwithstanding to repudiate

her own convictions, so much of the mother-passion, if not the wife's,

tugged at her heart, she remained immovable for a moment, waiting for

the impossible, hoping against hope for a withdrawal of his words and

the reillumination of hope. Then her hand fell away from his; she gave a

great sob, and, lowering her head, muttered:

"John Scoville smote down Algernon Etheridge! O God! O God! what

horror!"

A sigh from her one auditor welled up in the silence, holding a note

which startled her erect and brought back a memory which drove her again

into passionate speech:

"But he swore the day I last visited him in the prison, with his arms

pressed tight about me and his eye looking straight into mine as you are

looking now, that he never struck that blow. I did not believe him then,

there were too many dark spots in my memory of old lies premeditated and

destructive of my happiness; but I believed him later, AND I BELIEVE HIM

NOW."

"Madam, this is quite unprofitable. A jury of his peers condemned him as

guilty and the law compelled me to pass sentence upon him. That his

innocent child should be forced, by the inexorable decrees of fate, to

suffer for a father's misdoing, I regret as much, perhaps more, than you

do; for my son--beloved, though irreconcilably separated from

me--suffers with her, you say. But I see no remedy;--NO REMEDY, I

repeat. Were Oliver to forget himself so far as to ignore the past and

marry Reuther Scoville, a stigma would fall upon them both for which no

amount of domestic happiness could ever compensate. Indeed, there can be

no domestic happiness for a man and woman so situated. The inevitable

must be accepted. Madam, I have said my last word."

"But not heard mine," she panted. "For me to acknowledge the inevitable

where my daughter's life and happiness are concerned would make me seem

a coward in my own eyes. Helped or unhelped, with the sympathy or

without the sympathy of one who I hoped would show himself my friend, I

shall proceed with the task to which I have dedicated myself. You will

forgive me, judge. You see that John's last declaration of innocence

goes farther with me than your belief, backed as it is by the full

weight of the law."

Gazing at her as at one gone suddenly demented, he said:

"I fail to understand you, Mrs.--I will call you Mrs. Averill. You speak

of a task. What task?"

"The only one I have heart for: the proving that Reuther is not the

child of a wilful murderer; that another man did the deed for which he

suffered. I can do it. I feel confident that I can do it; and if you

will not help me--"

"Help you! After what I have said and reiterated that he is guilty,

GUILTY, GUILTY?"

Advancing upon her with each repetition of the word, he towered before

her, an imposing, almost formidable figure. Where was her courage now?

In what pit of despair had it finally gone down? She eyed him

fascinated, feeling her inconsequence and all the madness of her

romantic, ill-digested effort, when from somewhere in the maze of

confused memories there came to her a cry, not of the disappointed heart

but of a daughter's shame, and she saw again the desperate, haunted look

with which the stricken child had said in answer to some plea, "A

criminal's daughter has no place in this world but with the suffering

and the lost"; and nerved anew, she faced again his anger which might

well be righteous, and with almost preternatural insight, boldly

declared:

"You are too vehement to quite convince me, Judge Ostrander. Acknowledge

it or not, there is more doubt than certainty in your mind; a doubt

which ultimately will lead you to help me. You are too honest not to.

When you see that I have some reason for the hopes I express, your sense

of justice will prevail and you will confide to me the point untouched

or the fact unmet, which has left this rankling dissatisfaction to

fester in your mind. That known, my way should broaden;--a way, at the

end of which I see a united couple--my daughter and your son. Oh, she is

worthy of him--" the woman broke forth, as he made another repellent and

imperative gesture. "Ask any one in the town where we have lived."

Abruptly, and without apology for his rudeness, Judge Ostrander again

turned his back and walked away from her to an old-fashioned bookcase

which stood in one corner of the room. Halting mechanically before it,

he let his eyes roam up and down over the shelves, seeing nothing, as

she was well aware, but weighing, as she hoped, the merits of the

problem she had propounded him. She was, therefore, unduly startled when

with a quick whirl about which brought him face to face with her once

more, he impetuously asked:

"Madam, you were in my house this morning. You came in through a gate

which Bela had left unlocked. Will you explain how you came to do this?

Did you know that he was going down street, leaving the way open behind

him? Was there collusion between you?"

Her eyes looked up clearly into his. She felt that she had nothing to

disguise or conceal.

"I had urged him to do this, Judge Ostrander. I had met him more than

once in the street when he went out to do your errands, and I used all

my persuasion to induce him to give me this one opportunity of pleading

my cause with you. He was your devoted servant, he showed it in his

death, but he never got over his affection for Oliver. He told me that

he would wake oftentimes in the night feeling about for the boy he used

to carry in his arms. When I told him--"

"Enough! He knew who you were then?"

"He remembered me when I lifted my veil. Oh, I know very well that I had

not the right to influence your own man to disobey your orders. But my

cause was so pressing and your seclusion seemingly so arbitrary. How

could I dream that your nerves could not bear any sudden shock? or that

Bela--that giant among negroes--would be so affected by his emotions

that he would not see or hear an approaching automobile? You must not

blame me for these tragedies; and you must not blame Bela. He was torn

by conflicting duties, and only yielded because of his great love for

the absent."

"I do not blame Bela."

Startled, she looked at him with wondering eyes. There was a brooding

despair in his tone which caught at her heart, and for an instant made

her feel the full extent of her temerity. In a vain endeavour to regain

her confidence, she falteringly remarked.

"I had listened to what folks said. I had heard that you would receive

nobody; talk to nobody. Bela was my only resource."

"Madam, I do not blame YOU."

He was scrutinising her keenly and for the first time understandingly.

Whatever her station past or present, she was certainly no ordinary

woman, nor was her face without beauty, lit as it was by passion and

every ardour of which a loving woman is capable. No man would be likely

to resist it unless his armour were thrice forged. Would he himself be

able to? He began to experience a cold fear,--a dread which drew a black

veil over the future; a blacker veil than that which had hitherto rested

upon it.

But his face showed nothing. He was master of that yet. Only his tone.

That silenced her. She was therefore scarcely surprised when, with a

slight change of attitude which brought their faces more closely

together, he proceeded, with a piercing intensity not to be withstood:

"When you entered my house this morning, did you come directly to my

room?"

"Yes. Bela told me just how to reach it."

"And when you saw me indisposed--unable, in fact, to greet you--what did

you do then?"

With the force and meaning of one who takes an oath, she brought her

hand, palm downward on the table before her, as she steadily replied:

"I flew back into the room through which I had come, undecided whether

to fly the house or wait for what might happen to you, I had never seen

any one in such an attack before, and almost expected to hear you fall

forward to the floor. But when you did not and the silence, which seemed

so awful, remained unbroken, I pulled the curtain aside and looked in

again. There was no change in your posture; and, alarmed now for your

sake rather than for my own, I did not dare to go till Bela came back.

So I stayed watching."

"Stayed where?"

"In a dark corner of that same room. I never left it till the crowd came

in. Then I slid out behind them."

"Was the child with you--at your side I mean, all this time?"

"I never let go her hand."

"Woman, you are keeping nothing back?"

"Nothing but my terror at the sight of Bela running in all bloody to

escape the people pressing after him. I thought then that I had been the

death of servant as well as master. You can imagine my relief when I

heard that yours was but a passing attack."

Sincerity was in her manner and in her voice. The judge breathed more

easily, and made the remark:

"No one with hearing unimpaired can realise the suspicion of the deaf,

nor can any one who is not subject to attacks like mine conceive the

doubts with which a man so cursed views those who have been active about

him while the world to him was blank."

Thus he dismissed the present subject, to surprise her by a renewal of

the old one.

"What are your reasons," said he, "for the hopes you have just

expressed? I think it your duty to tell me before we go any further."

It was an acknowledgment, uttered after his own fashion, of the truth of

her plea and the correctness of her woman's insight. She contemplated

his face anew, and wondered that the dart she had so inconsiderately

launched should have found the one weak joint in this strong man's

armour. But she made no immediate reply, rather stopped to ponder,

finally saying, with drooped head and nervously working fingers:

"Excuse me for to-night. What I have to tell--or rather, what I have to

show you,--requires daylight." Then, as she became conscious of his

astonishment, added falteringly:

"Have you any objection to meeting me to-morrow on the bluff overlooking

Dark---"

The voice of the clock, and that only! Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick! That

only! Why then had she felt it impossible to finish her sentence? The

judge was looking at her; he had not moved; nor had an eyelash stirred,

but the rest of that sentence had stuck in her throat, and she found

herself standing as immovably quiet as he.

Then she remembered. He had loved Algernon Etheridge. Memory still

lived. The spot she had mentioned was a horror to him. Weakly she strove

to apologise.

"I am sorry," she began, but he cut her short at once.

"Why there?" he asked.

"Because"--her words came slowly, haltingly, as she tremulously, almost

fearfully, felt her way with him--"because--there--is--no--other

place--where--I can make--my point."

He smiled. It was his first smile in years and naturally was a little

constrained,--and to her eyes at least, almost more terrifying than his

frown.

"You have a point, then, to make?"

"A good one."

He started as if to approach her, and then stood stock-still.

"Why have you waited till NOW?" he called out, forgetful that they were

not alone in the house, forgetful apparently of everything but his

surprise and repulsion. "Why not have made use of this point before it

was too late? You were at your husband's trial; you were even on the

witness-stand?"

She nodded, thoroughly cowed at last both by his indignation and the

revelation contained in this question of the judicial mind--"Why now,

when the time was THEN?"

Happily, she had an answer.

"Judge Ostrander, I had a reason for that too; and, like my point, it is

a good one. But do not ask me for it to-night. To-morrow I will tell you

everything. But it will have to be in the place I have mentioned. Will

you come to the bluff where the ruins are one-half hour before sunset?

Please, be exact as to the time. You will see why, if you come."

He leaned across the table--they were on opposite sides of it--and

plunging his eyes into hers stood so, while the clock ticked out one

slow minute more, then he drew back, and remarking with an aspect of

gloom but with much less appearance of distrust:

"A very odd request, madam. I hope you have good reason for it;" adding,

"I bury Bela to-morrow and the cemetery is in this direction. I will

meet you where you say and at the hour you name."

And, regarding him closely as he spoke, she saw that for all the

correctness of his manner and the bow of respectful courtesy with which

he instantly withdrew, that deep would be his anger and unquestionable

the results to her if she failed to satisfy him at this meeting of the

value of her POINT in reawakening justice and changing public opinion.

IX

EXCERPTS

One of the lodgers at the Claymore Inn had great cause for complaint the

next morning. A restless tramping over his head had kept him awake all

night. That it was intermittent had made it all the more intolerable.

Just when he thought it had stopped, it would start up again,--to and

fro, to and fro, as regular as clockwork and much more disturbing.

But the complaint never reached Mrs. Averill. The landlady had been

restless herself. Indeed, the night had been one of thought and feeling

to more than one person in whom we are interested. The feeling we can

understand; the thought--that is, Mrs. Averill's thought--we should do

well to follow.

The one great question which had agitated her was this: Should she trust

the judge? Ever since the discovery which had changed Reuther's

prospects, she had instinctively looked to this one source for aid and

sympathy. Her reasons she has already given. His bearing during the

trial, the compunction he showed in uttering her husband's sentence were

sufficient proof to her that for all his natural revulsion against the

crime which had robbed him of his dearest friend, he was the victim of

an undercurrent of sympathy for the accused which could mean but one

thing--a doubt of the prisoner's actual guilt.

But her faith had been sorely shaken in the interview just related. He

was not the friend she had hoped to find. He had insisted upon her

husband's guilt, when she had expected consideration and a thoughtful

recapitulation of the evidence; and he had remained unmoved, or but very

little moved, by the disappointment of his son--his only remaining link

to life.

Why? Was the alienation between these two so complete as to block out

natural sympathy? Had the separation of years rendered them callous to

every mutual impression? She dwelt in tenderness upon the bond uniting

herself and Reuther and could not believe in such unresponsiveness. No

parent could carry resentment or even righteous anger so far as that.

Judge Ostrander might seem cold,--both manner and temper would naturally

be much affected by his unique and solitary mode of life,--but at heart

he must love Oliver. It was not in nature for it to be otherwise. And

yet--

It was at this point in her musing that there came one of the breaks in

her restless pacing. She was always of an impulsive temperament, and

always giving way to it. Sitting down before paper and ink she wrote the

following lines:

My Darling if Unhappy Child:

I know that this sudden journey on my part must strike you as

cruel, when, if ever, you need your mother's presence and care. But

the love I feel for you, my Reuther, is deep enough to cause you

momentary pain for the sake of the great good I hope to bring you

out of this shadowy quest. I believe, what I said to you on

leaving, that a great injustice was done your father. Feeling so,

shall I remain quiescent and see youth and love slip from you,

without any effort on my part to set this matter straight? I

cannot. I have done you the wrong of silence when knowledge would

have saved you shock and bitter disillusion, but I will not add to

my fault the inertia of a cowardly soul. Have patience with me,

then; and continue to cherish those treasures of truth and

affection which you may one day feel free to bestow once more upon

one who has a right to each and all of them.

This is your mother's prayer.

DEBORAH SCOVILLE.

It was not easy for her to sign herself thus. It was a name which she

had tried her best to forget for twelve long, preoccupied years. But how

could she use any other in addressing her daughter who had already

declared her intention of resuming her father's name, despite the

opprobrium it carried and the everlasting bar it must in itself raise

between herself and Oliver Ostrander?

Deborah Scoville!

A groan broke from her lips as she rapidly folded that name in, and hid

it out of sight in the envelope she as rapidly addressed.

But her purpose had been accomplished, or would be when once this letter

reached Reuther. With these words in declaration against her she could

not retreat from the stand she had therein taken. It was another

instance of burning one's ships upon disembarking, and the effect made

upon the writer showed itself at once in her altered manner. Henceforth,

the question should be not what awaited her, but how she should show her

strength in face of the opposition she now expected to meet from this

clear-minded, amply equipped lawyer and judge she had called to her aid.

[Illustration: AFTER ONE LOOK HE ASSUMED SOME SHOW OF HIS OLD

COMMANDING PRESENCE AND ADVANCED BRAVELY DOWN THE STEPS.]

"A task for his equal, not for an ignorant, untried woman like myself,"

she thought; and, following another of her impulses, she leaped from her

seat at the table and rushed across to her dresser on which she placed

two candles, one at her right and another at her left. Then she sat down

between them and in the stillness of midnight surveyed herself in the

glass, as she might survey the face of a stranger.

What did she see? A countenance no longer young, and yet with some of

the charm of youth still lingering in the brooding eyes and in the

dangerous curves of a mobile and expressive mouth. But it was not for

charm she was looking, but for some signs of power quite apart from that

of sex. Did her face express intellect, persistence and, above all,

courage? The brow was good;--she would so characterise it in another.

Surely a woman with such a forehead might do something even against

odds. Nor was her chin weak; sometimes she had thought it too pronounced

for beauty; but what had she to do with beauty now? And the neck so

proudly erect! the heaving breast! the heart all aflame! Defeat is not

for such; or only such defeat as bears within it the germ of future

victory.

Is her reading correct? Time will prove. Meanwhile she will have

confidence in herself, and that this confidence might be well founded

she decided to spend the rest of the night in formulating her plans and

laying out her imaginary campaign.

Leaving the dresser she recommenced that rapid walking to and fro which

was working such havoc in the nerves of the man in the room below her.

When she paused, it was to ransack a trunk and bring out a flat wallet

filled with newspaper clippings, many of them discoloured by time, and

all of them showing marks of frequent handling.

A handling now to be repeated. For after a few moments spent in

arranging them, she deliberately set about their complete reperusal, a

task in which it has now become necessary for us to join her.

The first was black with old head-lines:

[Illustration: CRIME IN DARK HOLLOW]

CRIME IN DARK HOLLOW

----

Algernon Etheridge, One of Our Most Esteemed

Citizens, Waylaid and Murdered at Long Bridge.

----

A DIRECT CLUE TO THE MURDERER

----

The Stick With Which the Crime was Committed

Easily Traced to Its Owner.

The Landlord of Claymore Tavern

in the Toils. He Denies His

Guilt But Submits Sullenly

to Arrest.

Particulars followed.

"Last evening Shelby's clean record was blackened by outrageous crime.

Some time after nightfall a carter was driving home by Factory Road,

when just as he was nearing Long Bridge one of his horses shied so

violently that he barely escaped being thrown from his seat. As he had

never known the animal to shy like this before, he was curious enough to

get down and look about him for the cause. Dark Hollow is never light,

but it is impenetrable after dark, and not being able to see anything,

he knelt down in the road and began to feel about with his hand. This

brought results. In a few moments he came upon the body of a man lying

without movement, and seemingly without life.

"Long Bridge is not a favourite spot at night, and, knowing that in all

probability an hour might elapse before assistance would arrive in the

shape of another passer-by, he decided to carry his story straight to

Claymore Tavern. Afterwards he was heard to declare that it was

fortunate his horses were headed that way instead of the other, or he

might have missed seeing the skulking figure which slipped down into the

ravine as he made the turn at the far end of the bridge--a figure which

had no other response to his loud 'Hola!' than a short cough, hurriedly

choked back. He could not see the face or identify the figure, but he

knew the cough. He had heard it a hundred times; and, saying to himself,

'I'll find fellers enough at the tavern, but there's one I won't find

there and that's John Scoville,' he whipped his horse up the hill and

took the road to Claymore.

"And he was right. A dozen fellows started up at his call, but Scoville

was not among them. He had been out for two hours; which the carter

having heard, he looked down, but said nothing except 'Come along, boys!

I'll drive you to the turn of the bridge.'

"But just as they were starting Scoville appeared. He was hatless and

dishevelled and reeled heavily with liquor. He also tried to smile,

which made the carter lean quickly down and with very little ceremony

drag him up into the cart. So with Scoville amongst them they rode

quickly back to the bridge, the landlord coughing, the men all grimly

silent.

"In crossing the bridge he made more than one effort to escape, but the

men were determined, and when they finally stooped over the man lying in

Dark Hollow, he was in their midst and was forced to stoop also.

"One flash of the lantern told the dismal tale. The man was not only

dead, but murdered. His forehead had been battered in with a knotted

stick; all his pockets hung out empty; and from the general disorder of

his dress it was evident that his watch had been torn away by a ruthless

hand. But the face they failed to recognise till some people, running

down from the upper town where the alarm had by this time spread, sent

up the shout of 'It's Mr. Etheridge! Judge Ostrander's great friend. Let

some one run and notify the judge.'

"But the fact was settled long before the judge came upon the scene, and

another fact too. In beating the bushes, they had lighted on a heavy

stick. When it was brought forward and held under the strong light made

by a circle of lanterns, a big movement took place in the crowd. The

stick had been recognised. Indeed, it was well known to all the Claymore

men. They had seen it in Scoville's hands a dozen times. Even he could

not deny its ownership; explaining, or trying to, that he had been in

the ravine looking for this stick only a little while before, and

adding, as he met their eyes:

"'I lost it in these woods this afternoon. I hadn't anything to do with

this killing.'

"He had not been accused; but he found it impossible to escape after

this, and when at the instance of Coroner Haines he was carefully looked

over and a small red ribbon found in one of his pockets, he was

immediately put under arrest and taken to the city lock-up. For the

ribbon had been identified as well as the stick. Oliver Ostrander, who

had accompanied his father to the scene of crime, declared that he had

observed it that very afternoon, dangling from one end of Mr.

Etheridge's watch-chain where it had been used to fasten temporarily a

broken link.

"As we go to press we hear that Judge Ostrander has been prostrated by

this blow. The deceased had been playing chess up at his house, and in

taking the short cut home had met with his death.

"Long Bridge should be provided with lights. It is a dangerous place for

foot passengers on a dark night."

A later paragraph.

"The detectives were busy this morning, going over the whole ground in

the vicinity of the bridge.

"They were rewarded by two important discoveries. The impression of a

foot in a certain soft place halfway up the bluff; and a small heap of

fresh earth nearby which, on being dug into, revealed the watch of the

murdered man. The broken chain lay with it.

"The footprint has been measured. It coincides exactly with the shoe

worn that night by the suspect.

"The case will be laid before the Grand Jury next week."

* * * * *

"The prisoner continues to deny his guilt. The story he gives out is to

the effect that he left the tavern some few minutes before seven

o'clock, to look for his child who had wandered into the ravine. That he

entered the woods from the road running by his house, and was searching

the bushes skirting the stream when he heard little Reuther's shout from

somewhere up on the bluff. He had his stick with him, for he never went

out without it, but, finding it in his way, he leaned it against a tree

and went plunging up the bluff without it. Why he didn't call out the

child's name he doesn't know; he guessed he thought he would surprise

her; and why, when he got to the top of the bluff and didn't find her,

he should turn about for his stick instead of hunting for her on the

road, he also fails to explain, saying again, he doesn't know. What

circumstances force him to tell and what he declares to be true is this:

That instead of going back diagonally through the woods to the lone

chestnut where he had left his stick, he crossed the bridge and took the

path running along the edge of the ravine: That in doing this he came

upon the body of a man in the black recesses of the Hollow, a man so

evidently beyond all help that he would have hurried by without a second

look if it had not been for the watch he saw lying on the ground close

to the dead man's side. It was a very fine watch, and it seemed like

tempting Providence to leave it lying there exposed to the view of any

chance tramp who might come along. It seemed better for him to take it

into his own charge till he found some responsible person willing to

carry it to Police Headquarters. So, without stopping to consider what

the consequences might be to himself, he tore it away by the chain from

the hold it had on the dead man's coat and put it in his pocket. He also

took some other little things; after which he fled away into town, where

the sight of a saloon was too much for him and he went in to have a

drink to take the horrors out of him. Since then, the detectives have

followed all his movements and know just how much liquor he drank and to

whom, in tipsy bravado, he showed the contents of his pockets. But he

wasn't so far gone as not to have moments of apprehension when he

thought of the dead man lying with his feet in Dark Hollow, and of the

hue and cry which would soon be raised, and what folks might think if

that accursed watch he had taken so innocently should be found in his

pocket. Finally his fears overcame his scruples, and, starting for home,

he stopped at the bluff, meaning to run down over the bridge and drop

the watch as near as possible to the spot where he had found it. But as

he turned to descend, he heard a team approaching from the other side

and, terrified still more, he dashed into the woods, and, tearing up the

ground with his hands, buried his booty in the loose soil, and made for

home. Even then he had no intention of appropriating the watch, only of

safe-guarding himself, nor did he have any hand at all in the murder of

Mr. Etheridge. This he would swear to; also, to the leaving of the stick

where he said.

"It is understood that in case of his indictment, his lawyer will follow

the line of defence thus indicated."

* * * * *

"To-day, John Scoville was taken to the tree where he insists he left

his stick. It is a big chestnut some hundred and fifty feet beyond the

point where the ravine turns west. It has a big enough trunk for a stick

to stand upright against it, as was shown by Inspector Snow who had

charge of this affair. But we are told that after demonstrating this

fact with the same bludgeon which had done its bloody work in the

Hollow, the prisoner showed a sudden interest in this weapon and begged

to see it closer. This being granted, he pointed out where a splinter or

two had been freshly whittled from the handle, and declared that no

knife had touched it while it remained in his hands. But, as he had no

evidence to support this statement (a knife having been found amongst

the other effects taken from his pocket at the time of his arrest), the

impression made by this declaration is not likely to go far towards

influencing public opinion in his favour.

"A true bill was found to-day against John Scoville for the murder of

Algernon Etheridge."

* * * * *

A third clipping:

"We feel it our duty, as the one independent paper of this city, to

insist upon the right of a man to the consideration of the public till a

jury of his peers has pronounced upon his guilt and thus rendered him a

criminal before the law. The way our hitherto sufficiently respected

citizen, John Scoville, has been maligned and his every fault and

failing magnified for the delectation of a greedy public is unworthy of

a Christian community. No man saw him kill Algernon Etheridge, and he

himself denies most strenuously that he did so, yet from the first

moment of his arrest till now, not a voice has been raised in his

favour, or the least account taken of his defence. Yet he is the husband

of an estimable wife and the father of a child of such exceptional

loveliness that she has been the petted darling of high and low ever

since John Scoville became the proprietor of Claymore Tavern.

"Give the man a chance. It is our wish to see justice vindicated and the

guilty punished; but not before the jury has pronounced its verdict."

"The Star was his only friend," sighed Deborah Scoville, as she laid

this clipping aside and took up another headed by a picture of her

husband. This picture she subjected to the same scrutiny she had just

given to her own reflection in the glass: "Seeing him anew," as she said

to herself, "after all these years of determined forgetfulness."

It was not an unhandsome face. Indeed, it was his good looks which had

prevailed over her judgment in the early days of their courtship.

Reuther had inherited her harmony of feature from him,--the chiselled

nose, the well-modelled chin, and all the other physical graces which

had made him a fine figure behind his bar. But even with the softening

of her feelings towards him since she had thus set herself up in his

defence, Deborah could not fail to perceive under all these surface

attractions an expression of unreliability, or, as some would say, of

actual cruelty. Ruddy-haired and fair of skin, he should have had an

optimistic temperament; but, on the contrary, he was of a gloomy nature,

and only infrequently social. No company was better for his being in it.

Never had she seen any man sit out the evening with him without effort.

Yet the house had prospered. How often had she said to herself, in

noting these facts: "Yet the house prospers!" There was always money in

the till even when the patronage was small. Their difficulties were

never financial ones. She was still living on the proceeds of what they

had laid by in those old days.

Her mind continued to plunge back. He had had no business worries; yet

his temper was always uncertain. She had not often suffered from it

herself, for her ascendency over men extended even to him. But Reuther

had shrunk before it more than once--the gentle Reuther, who was the

refined, the etherealised picture of himself. And he had loved the child

as well as he could love anybody. Great gusts of fondness would come

over him at times, and then he would pet and cajole the child almost

beyond a parent's prerogative. But he was capable of striking her

too--had struck her frequently. And for nothing--an innocent look; a

shrinking movement; a smile when he wasn't in the mood for smiles. It

was for this Deborah had hated him; and it was for this the mother in

her now held him responsible for the doubts which had shadowed their

final parting. Was not the man, who could bring his hand down upon so

frail and exquisite a creature as Reuther was in those days, capable of

any act of violence? Yes; but in this case he had been guiltless. She

could not but concede this even while yielding to extreme revulsion as

she laid his picture aside.

* * * * *

The next slip she took up contained an eulogy of the victim.

"The sudden death of Algernon Etheridge has been in more than one sense

a great shock to the community. Though a man of passive rather than

active qualities, his scholarly figure, long, lean and bowed, has been

seen too often in our streets not to be missed, when thus suddenly

withdrawn. His method of living; the rigid habits of an almost ascetic

life; such an hour for this thing, such an hour for that--his smile,

which made you soon forget his irascibility and pride of learning; made

up a character unique in our town and one that we can ill afford to

spare. The closed doors of the little cottage, so associated with his

name that it will be hard to imagine it occupied by any one else,

possess a pathos of their own which is felt by young and old alike. The

gate that never would latch, the garden, where at a stated hour in the

morning his bowed figure would always be seen hoeing or weeding or

raking, the windows without curtains showing the stacks of books within,

are eloquent of a presence gone, which can never be duplicated. Alone on

its desolate corner, it seems to mourn the child, the boy, the man who

gave it life, and made it, in its simplicity, more noted and more

frequently pointed at than any other house in town.

"Why he should have become the target of Fate is one of the mysteries of

life. His watch, which aside from his books was his most valuable

possession, was the gift of Judge Ostrander. That it should be

associated in any way with the tragic circumstances of his death is a

source of the deepest regret to the unhappy donor."

* * * * *

This excerpt she hardly looked at; but the following she studied

carefully:

"Judge Ostrander has from the first expressed a strong desire that some

associate judge should be called upon to preside over the trial of John

Scoville for the murder of Algernon Etheridge. But Judge Saunders'

sudden illness and Judge Dole's departure for Europe have put an end to

these hopes. Judge Ostrander will take his seat on the bench as usual

next Monday. Fortunately for the accused, his well-known judicial mind

will prevent any unfair treatment of the defence."

* * * * *

"The prosecution, in the able hands of District Attorney Foss, made all

its points this morning. Unless the defence has some very strong plea in

the background, the verdict seems foredoomed. A dogged look has replaced

the callous and indifferent sneer on the prisoner's face, and sympathy,

if sympathy there is, is centred entirely upon the wife, the able,

agreeable and bitterly humiliated landlady of Claymore Tavern. She it is

who has attracted the most attention during this trial, little as she

seems to court it."

* * * * *

"Only one new detail of evidence was laid before the jury to-day.

Scoville has been known for some time to have a great hankering after a

repeating watch. He had once seen that of Algernon Etheridge, and was

never tired of talking about it. Several witnesses testified to his

various remarks on this subject. Thus the motive for his dastardly

assault upon an unoffending citizen, which to many minds has seemed

lacking, has been supplied.

"The full particulars of this day's proceedings will be found below."

* * * * *

We omit these to save repetition; but they were very carefully conned by

Deborah Scoville. Also the following:

"The defence is in a line with the statement already given out. The

prisoner acknowledges taking the watch but from motives quite opposed to

those of thievery. Unfortunately he can produce no witnesses to

substantiate his declaration that he had heard voices in the direction

of the bridge while he was wandering the woods in search of his lost

child. No evidence of any other presence there is promised or likely to

be produced. It was thought that when his wife was called to the stand

she might have something to say helpful to his case. She had been the

one to ultimately find and lead home the child, and, silent as she had

been up to this time, it has been thought possible that she might swear

to having heard these voices also.

"But her testimony was very disappointing. She had seen nobody, heard

nobody but the child whom she had found playing with stones in the old

ruin. Though by a close calculation of time she could not have been far

from Dark Hollow at the instant of the crime, yet neither on direct or

cross-examination could anything more be elicited from her than what has

been mentioned above. Nevertheless, we feel obliged to state that,

irreproachable as her conduct was on the stand, the impression she made

was, on the whole, whether intentionally or unintentionally,

unfavourable to her husband.

"Some anxiety was felt during the morning session that an adjournment

would have to be called, owing to some slight signs of indisposition on

the part of the presiding judge. But he rallied very speedily, and the

proceedings continued without interruption."

* * * * *

"Ah!"

The exclamation escaped the lips of Deborah Scoville as she laid this

clipping aside. "I remember his appearance well. He had the ghost of one

of those attacks, the full force of which I was a witness to this

morning. I am sure of this now, though nobody thought of it then. I

happened to glance his way as I left the stand, and he was certainly for

one minute without consciousness of himself or his surroundings. But it

passed so quickly it drew little attention; not so, the attack of

to-day. What a misfortune rests upon this man. Will they let him

continue on the bench when his full condition is known?" These were her

thoughts, as she recalled that day and compared it with the present.

There were other slips, which she read but which we may pass by. The

fate of the prisoner was in the hands of a jury. The possibility

suggested by the defence made no appeal to men who had the unfortunate

prisoner under their eye at every stage of the proceedings. The shifty

eye, the hang-dog look, outweighed the plea of his counsel and the call

for strict impartiality from the bench. He was adjudged guilty of murder

in the first degree, and sentence called for.

This was the end; and as she read these words, the horror which

overwhelmed her was infinitely greater than when she heard them uttered

in that fatal court room. For then she regarded him as guilty and

deserving his fate and now she knew him to be innocent.

Well, well! too much dwelling on this point would only unfit her for

what lay before her on the morrow. She would read no more. Sleep were a

better preparation for her second interview with the judge than this

reconsideration of facts already known to their last detail.

Alas, when her eyelids finally obeyed the dictates of her will, the

first glimmering rays of dawn were beginning to scatter the gloom of her

darkened chamber!

X

THE SHADOW

Bela was to be buried at four. As Judge Ostrander prepared to lock his

gate behind the simple cortege which was destined to grow into a vast

crowd before it reached the cemetery, he was stopped by the sergeant who

whispered in his ear:

"I thought your honour might like to know that the woman--you know the

one I mean without my naming her--has been amusing herself this morning

in a very peculiar manner. She broke down some branches in the

ravine,--small ones, of course,--and would give no account of herself

when one of my men asked her what she was up to. It may mean nothing,

but I thought you would like to know."

"Have you found out who she is?"

"No, sir. The man couldn't very well ask her to lift her veil, and at

the tavern they have nothing to say about her."

"It's a small matter. I will see her myself to-day and find out what she

wants of me. Meanwhile, remember that I leave this house and grounds

absolutely to your protection for the next three hours. I shall be known

to be absent, so that a more careful watch than ever is necessary. Not a

man, boy or child is to climb the fence. I may rely on you?"

"You may, judge."

"On my return you can all go. I will guard my own property after to-day.

You understand me, sergeant?"

"Perfectly, your honour."

This ended the colloquy.

Spencer's Folly, as the old ruin on the bluff was called in memory of

the vanished magnificence which was once the talk of the county,

presented a very different appearance to the eye in broad daylight from

what it did at night with a low moon sending its mellow rays through the

great gap made in its walls by that ancient stroke of lightning. Even

the enkindling beams of the westering sun striking level through the

forest failed to adorn its broken walls and battered foundations. To the

judge, approaching it from the highway, it was as ugly a sight as the

world contained. He hated its arid desolation and all the litter of

blackened bricks blocking up the site of former feastings and reckless

merriment, and, above all, the incongruous aspect of the one gable still

standing undemolished, with the zigzag marks of vanished staircases

outlined upon its mildewed walls. But, most of all, he shrank from a

sight of the one corner still intact where the ghosts of dead memories

lingered, making the whole place horrible to his eye and one to be

shunned by all men. How long it had been shunned by him he realised when

he noticed the increased decay of the walls and the growth of the

verdure encompassing the abominable place!

The cemetery from which he had come looked less lonesome to his eyes and

far less ominous; and, for a passing instant, as he contemplated the

scene hideous with old memories and threatening new sorrows, he envied

Bela his narrow bed and honourable rest.

A tall figure and an impressive presence are not without their

disadvantages. This he felt as he left the highway and proceeded up the

path which had once led through a double box hedge to the high, pillared

entrance. He abhorred scandal and shrank with almost a woman's distaste

from anything which savoured of the clandestine. Yet here he was about

to meet on a spot open to the view of every passing vehicle, a woman

who, if known to him, was a mystery to every one else. His expression

showed the scorn with which he regarded his own compliance, yet he knew

that no instinct of threatened dignity, no generous thought for her or

selfish one for himself would turn him back from this interview till he

had learned what she had to tell him and why she had so carefully

exacted that he should hear her story in a spot overlooking the Hollow

it would beseem them both to shun.

There had originally been in the days of Spencer's magnificence a lordly

portico at the end of this approach, girt by pillars of extraordinary

height. But no sign remained of pillar, or doorway--only a gap, as I

have said. Towards this gap he stepped, feeling a strange reluctance in

entering it. But he had no choice. He knew what he should see--No, he

did not know what he should see, for when he finally stepped in, it was

not an open view of the Hollow which met his eyes, but the purple-clad

figure of Mrs. Averill with little Peggy at her side. He had not

expected to see the child, and, standing as they were with their backs

to him, they presented a picture which, for some reason to be found in

the mysterious recesses of his disordered mind, was exceedingly

repellent to him. Indeed, he was so stricken by it that he had actually

made a move to withdraw, when the exigency of the occasion returned upon

him in full force, and, with a smothered oath, he overcame his weakness

and stepped firmly up into the ruins.

The noise he made should have caused Deborah's tall and graceful figure

to turn. But the spell of her own thoughts was too great; and he would

have found himself compelled to utter the first word, if the child, who

had heard him plainly enough, had not dragged at the woman's hand and so

woke her from her dream.

"Ah, Judge Ostrander," she exclaimed in a hasty but not ungraceful

greeting, "you are very punctual. I was not looking for you yet." Then,

as she noted the gloom under which he was labouring, she continued with

real feeling, "Indeed, I appreciate this sacrifice you have made to my

wishes. It was asking a great deal of you to come here; but I saw no

other way of making my point clear. Come over here, Peggy, and build me

a little house out of these stones. You don't mind the child, do you,

judge? She may offer a diversion if our retreat is invaded."

The gesture of disavowal which he made was courteous but insincere. He

did mind the child, but he could not explain why; besides he must

overcome such folly.

"Now," she continued as she rejoined him on the place where he had taken

his stand, "I will ask you to go back with me to the hour when John

Scoville left the tavern on that fatal day. I am not now on oath, but I

might as well be for any slip I shall make in the exact truth. I was

making pies in the kitchen, when some one came running in to say that

Reuther had strayed away from the front yard. She was about the age of

the little one over there, and we never allowed her out alone for fear

of her tumbling off the bluff. So I set down the pie I was just putting

in the oven, and was about to run out after her when my husband called

to me from the front, and said he would go. I didn't like his tone--it

was sullen and impatient, but I knew he loved the child too well to see

her suffer any danger, and so I settled back to work and was satisfied

enough till the pies were all in. Then I got uneasy, and, hearing

nothing of either of them, I started in this direction because they told

me John had taken the other. And here I found her, sir, right in the

heart of these ruins. She was playing with stones just as Peggy dear is

doing now. Greatly relieved, I was taking her away when I thought I

heard John calling. Stepping up to the edge just behind where you are

standing, sir--yes, there, where you get such a broad outlook up and

down the ravine, I glanced in the direction from which I had heard his

call--Just wait a moment, sir; I want to know the exact time."

Stopping, she pulled out her watch and looked at it, while he, faltering

up to the verge which she had pointed out, followed her movements with

strange intensity as she went on to say in explanation of her act:

"The time is important, on account of a certain demonstration I am

anxious to make. You will remember that I was expecting to see John,

having heard his voice in the ravine. Now if you will lean a little

forward and look where I am pointing, you will notice at the turn of the

stream, a spot of ground more open than the rest. Please keep your eyes

on that spot, for it was there I saw at this very hour twelve years ago

the shadow of an approaching figure; and it is there you will presently

see one similar, if the boy I have tried to interest in this experiment

does not fail me. Now, now, sir! We should see his shadow before we see

him. Oh, I hope the underbrush and trees have not grown up too thick! I

tried to thin them out to-day. Are you watching, sir?"

He seemed to be, but she dared not turn to look. Both figures leaned,

intent, and in another moment she had gripped his arm and clung there.

"Did you see?" she whispered, "Don't mind the boy; it's the shadow I

wanted you to notice. Did you observe anything marked about it?"

She had drawn him back into the ruins. They were standing in that one

secluded corner under the ruinous gable, and she was gazing up at him

very earnestly. "Tell me, judge," she entreated as he made no effort to

answer.

With a hurried moistening of his lips, he met her look and responded,

with a slight emphasis:

"The boy held a stick. I should say that he was whittling it."

"Ah!" Her tone was triumphant. "That was what I told him to do. Did you

see anything else?"

"No. I do not understand this experiment or what you hope from it."

"I will tell you. The shadow which I saw at a moment very like this,

twelve years ago, showed a man whittling a stick and wearing a cap with

a decided peak in front. My husband wore such a cap--the only one I knew

of in town. What more did I need as proof that it was his shadow I saw?"

"And wasn't it?"

"Judge Ostrander, I never thought differently till after the trial--till

after the earth closed over my poor husband's remains. That was why I

could say nothing in his defence--why I did not believe him when he

declared that he had left his stick behind him when he ran up the bluff

after Reuther. The tree he pointed out as the one against which he had

stood it, was far behind the place where I saw this advancing shadow.

Even the oath he made to me of his innocence at the last interview we

held in prison did not impress me at the time as truthful. But later,

when it was all over, when the disgrace of his death and the necessity

of seeking a home elsewhere drove me into selling the tavern and all its

effects, I found something which changed my mind in this regard, and

made me confident that I had done my husband a great injustice."

"You found? What do you mean by that? What could you have found?"

"His peaked cap lying in a corner of the garret. He had not worn it that

day."

The judge stared. She repeated her statement, and with more emphasis:

"He had not worn it that day; for when he came back to be hustled off

again by the crowd, he was without hat of any kind, and he never

returned again to his home--you know that, judge. I had seen the shadow

of some other man approaching Dark Hollow. WHOSE, I AM IN THIS TOWN NOW

TO FIND OUT."

XI

"I WILL THINK ABOUT IT"

Judge Ostrander was a man of keen perception, quick to grasp an idea,

quick to form an opinion. But his mind acted slowly to-night. Deborah

Scoville wondered at the blankness of his gaze and the slow way in which

he seemed to take in this astounding fact.

At last he found voice and with it gave some evidence of his usual

acumen.

"Madam, a shadow is an uncertain foundation on which to build such an

edifice as you plan. How do you know that the fact you mention was

coincident with the crime? Mr. Etheridge's body was not found till after

dark. A dozen men might have come down that path with or without sticks

before he reached the bridge and fell a victim to the assault which laid

him low."

"I thought the time was pretty clearly settled by the hour he left your

house. The sun had not set when he turned your corner on his way home.

So several people said who saw him. Besides--"

"Yes; there is a BESIDES. I'm sure of it."

"I saw the tall figure of a man, whom I afterwards made sure was Mr.

Etheridge, coming down Factory Road on his way to the bridge when I

turned about to get Reuther."

"All of which you suppressed at the trial."

"I was not questioned on this point, sir."

"Madam,"--he was standing very near to her now, hemming her as it were

into that decaying corner--"I should have a very much higher opinion of

your candour if you told me the whole story."

"I have, sir."

His hands rose, one to the right hand wall, the other to the left, and

remained there with their palms resting heavily against the rotting

plaster. She was more than ever hemmed in; but, though she felt a trifle

frightened at his aspect which certainly was not usual, she faced him

without shrinking and in very evident surprise.

"You went immediately home with the child after that glimpse you got of

Mr. Etheridge?"

"Yes; I had no reason in the world to suppose that anything was going to

happen in the ravine below us. Of course, I went straight on; there were

things to be done at home, and--you don't believe me, sir."

His hands fell; an indefinable change had come over his aspect; he bowed

and seemed about to utter an ironic apology. She felt puzzled and

unconsciously she began to think. What was lacking in her statement?

Something. Could she remember what? Something which he had expected;

something which as presiding judge over John's trial he had been made

aware of and now recalled to render her story futile. It couldn't be

that one little thing--But yes, it might be. Nothing is little where a

great crime is concerned. She smiled a dubious smile, then she said:

"It seems too slight a fact to mention, and, indeed, I had forgotten it

till you pressed me, but after we had passed the gates and were well out

on the highway, I found that Reuther had left her little pail behind her

here, and we came back and got it. Did you mean that, sir?"

"I meant nothing; but I felt sure you had not told all you could about

that fatal ten minutes. You came back. It is quite a walk from the road.

The man whose shadow you saw must have reached the bridge by this time.

What did you see then or--hear?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing, judge. I was intent on finding the baby's

pail, and having found it I hurried back home all the faster."

"And tragedy was going on or was just completed, in plain sight from

this gap!"

"I have no doubt, sir; and if I had looked, possibly John might have

been saved."

The silence following this was broken by a crash and a little cry.

Peggy's house had tumbled down.

The small incident was a relief. Both assumed more natural postures.

"So the shadow is your great and only point," remarked the judge.

"It is sufficient for me."

"Ah, perhaps."

"But not enough for the public?"

"Hardly."

"Not enough for you, either?"

"Madam, I have already told you that, in my opinion, John Scoville was a

guilty man."

"And this fact, with which I have just acquainted you, has done nothing

to alter this opinion?"

"I can only repeat what I have just said."

"Oh, Reuther! Oh, Oliver!"

"Do not speak my son's name. I am in no mood for it. The boy and girl

are two and can never become one. I have other views for her--she is an

innocent victim and she has my sympathy. You, too, madam, though I

consider you as following a will-o'-the-wisp which will only lead you

hopelessly astray."

"I shall not desist, Judge Ostrander."

"You are going to pursue this Jack-o'-Lanthorn?"

"I am determined to. If you deny me aid and advice, I shall seek another

counsellor. John's name must be vindicated."

"Obstinacy, madam."

"No; conscience."

He gave her a look, turned and glanced down at the child piling stone on

stone and whimpering just a little when they fell.

"Watch that baby for a while," he remarked, "and you will learn the

lesson of most human endeavour. Madam, I have a proposition to make you.

You cannot wish to remain at the inn, nor can you be long happy

separated from your daughter. I have lost Bela. I do not know how, nor

would I be willing, to replace him by another servant. I need a

housekeeper; some one devoted to my interests and who will not ask me to

change my habits too materially. Will you accept the position, if I add

as an inducement my desire to have Reuther also as an inmate of my home?

This does not mean that I countenance or in any way anticipate her union

with my son. I do not; but any other advantages she may desire, she

shall have. I will not be strict with her."

"Judge Ostrander!"

Deborah Scoville was never more taken aback in her life. The recluse

opening his doors to two women! The man of mystery flinging aside the

reticences of years to harbour an innocence which he refused to let

weigh against the claims of a son he has seen fit to banish from his

heart and home!

"You may take time to think of it," he continued, as he watched the

confused emotions change from moment to moment the character of her

mobile features. "I shall not have my affairs adjusted for such a change

before a week. If you accept, I shall be very grateful. If you decline,

I shall close up my two rear gates, and go into solitary seclusion. I

can cook a meal if I have to."

And she saw that he would do it; saw and wondered still more.

"I shall have to write to Reuther," she murmured. "How soon do you want

my decision?"

"In four days."

"I am too disturbed to thank you, judge. Should--should we have to keep

the gates locked?"

"No. But you would have to keep out unwelcome intruders. And the rights

of my library will have to be respected. In all other regards I should

wish, under these new circumstances, to live as other people live. I

have been very lonely these past twelve years."

"I will think about it."

"And you may make note of these two conditions: Oliver's name is not to

be mentioned in my hearing, and you and Reuther are to be known by your

real names."

"You would--"

"Yes, madam. No secrecy is to be maintained in future as to your

identity or my reasons for desiring you in my house. I need a

housekeeper and you please me. That you have a past to forget and

Reuther a disappointment to overcome, gives additional point to the

arrangement."

Her answer was:

"I cannot take back what I have said about my determined purpose." In

repeating this, she looked up at him askance.

He smiled. She remembered that smile long after the interview was over

and only its memory remained.

XII

SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT

Dearest Mother:

Where could we go that disgrace would not follow us? Let us

then accept the judge's offer. I am the more inclined to do

this because of the possible hope that some day he may come

to care for me and allow me to make life a little brighter

for him. The fact that for some mysterious reason he feels

himself cut off from all intercourse with his son, may prove

a bond of sympathy between us. I, too, am cut off from all

companionship with Oliver. Between us also a wall is raised.

Do not mind that tear-drop, mamma. It is the last.

Kisses for my comforter. Come soon.

REUTHER.

Over this letter Deborah Scoville sat for two hours, then she rang for

Mrs. Yardley.

The maid who answered her summons surveyed her in amazement. It was the

first time that she had seen her uncovered face.

Mrs. Yardley was not long in coming up.

"Mrs. Averill--" she began in a sort of fluster, as she met her strange

guest's quiet eye.

But she got no further. That guest had a correction to make.

"My name is not Averill," she protested. "You must excuse the temporary

deception. It is Scoville. I once occupied your present position in this

house."

Mrs. Yardley had heard all about the Scovilles; and, while a flush rose

to her cheeks, her eyes snapped with sudden interest.

"Ah!" came in quick exclamation, followed, however, by an apologetic

cough and the somewhat forced and conventional remark: "You find the

place changed, no doubt?"

"Very much so, and for the better, Mrs. Yardley." Then, with a

straightforward meeting of the other's eye calculated to disarm whatever

criticism the situation might evoke, she quietly added, "You need no

longer trouble yourself with serving me my meals in my room. I will eat

dinner in the public dining-room to-day with the rest of the boarders. I

have no further reason for concealing who I am or what my future

intentions are. I am going to live with Judge Ostrander, Mrs.

Yardley;--keep house for him, myself and daughter. His man is dead and

he feels very helpless. I hope that I shall be able to make him

comfortable."

Mrs. Yardley's face was a study. In all her life she had never heard

news that surprised her more. In fact, she was mentally aghast. Judge

Ostrander admitting any one into his home, and this woman above all!

Yet, why not? He, certainly, would have to have some one. And this woman

had always been known as a notable housekeeper. In another moment, she

had accepted the situation, like the very sensible woman she was, and

Mrs. Scoville had the satisfaction of seeing the promise of real

friendly support in the smile with which Mrs. Yardley remarked:

"It's a good thing for you and a very good thing for the judge. It may

shake him out of his habit of seclusion. If it does, you will be the

city's benefactor. Good luck to you, madam. And you have a daughter, you

say?"

* * * * *

After Mrs. Yardley's departure, Mrs. Scoville, as she now expected

herself to be called, sat for a long time brooding. Would her quest be

facilitated or irretrievably hindered by her presence in the judge's

house? She had that yet to learn. Meanwhile, there was one thing more to

be accomplished. She set about it that evening.

Veiled, but in black now, she went into town. Getting down at the corner

of Colburn Avenue and Perry Street, she walked a short distance on

Perry, then rang the bell of an attractive-looking house of moderate

dimensions. Being admitted, she asked to see Mr. Black, and for an hour

sat in close conversation with him. Then she took a trolley-car which

carried her into the suburbs. When she alighted, it was unusually late

for a woman to be out alone; but she had very little physical fear, and

walked on steadily enough for a block or two till she came to a corner,

where a high fence loomed forbiddingly between her and a house so dark

that it was impossible to distinguish between its chimneys and the

encompassing trees whose swaying tops could be heard swishing about

uneasily in the keen night air. An eerie accompaniment, this latter, to

the beating of Deborah's heart already throbbing with anticipation and

keyed to an unusual pitch by her own daring.

Was she quite alone in the seemingly quiet street? She could hear no

one, see no one. A lamp burned in front of Miss Weeks' small house, but

the road it illumined (I speak of the one running down to the ravine)

showed only darkened houses.

She had left the corner and was passing the gate of the Ostrander

homestead, when she heard, coming from some distant point within, a low

and peculiar sound which held her immovable for a moment, then sent her

on shuddering.

It was the sound of hammering.

What is there in a rat-tat-tat in the dead of night which rouses the

imagination and fills the mind with suggestions which we had rather not

harbour when in the dark and alone? Deborah Scoville was not

superstitious, but she had keen senses and mercurial spirits and was

easily moved by suggestion.

Hearing this sound and locating it where she did, she remembered, with a

quick inner disturbance, that the judge's house held a secret; a secret

of such import to its owner that the dying Bela had sought to preserve

it at the cost of his life.

Oh, she had heard all about that! The gossip at Claymore Inn had been

great, and nothing had been spared her curiosity. There was something in

this house which it behooved the judge to secrete from sight yet more

completely before her own and Reuther's entrance, and he was at work

upon it now, hammering with his own hand while other persons slept! No

wonder she edged her way along the fence with a shrinking, yet

persistent, step. She was circling her future home and that house held a

mystery.

And yet, like any other imaginative person under a stress of aroused

feeling, she might very easily be magnifying some commonplace act into

one of terrifying possibilities. One can hammer very innocently in his

own house, even at night, when making preparations to receive fresh

inmates after many years of household neglect.

She recognised her folly before reaching the adjoining field. But she

went on. Where the fence turned, she turned, there being no obstruction

to her doing so. This brought her into a wilderness of tangled grasses

where free stepping was difficult. As she groped her way along, she had

ample opportunity to hear again the intermittent sounds of the hammer,

and to note that they reached their maximum at a point where the ell of

the judge's study approached the fences.

Rat-tat-tat; rat-tat-tat. She hated the sound even while she whispered

to herself:

"It is just some household matter he is at work upon;--rehanging

pictures or putting up shelves. It can be nothing else."

Yet on laying her ear to the fence, she felt her sinister fears return;

and, with shrinking glances into a darkness which told her nothing, she

added in fearful murmur to herself:

"What am I taking Reuther into? I wish I knew. I wish I knew."