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_The_ HILLS OF REFUGE
A NOVEL
BY WILL N. HARBEN
AUTHOR OF "ANN BOYD," "ABNER DANIEL," "THE TRIUMPH," ETC.
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
[Illustration: AS SHE NEARED HER HOME THE SUN'S RAYS WERE DYING OUT OF
THE LANDSCAPE AND THE DUSK WAS GATHERING]
THE HILLS OF REFUGE
PART I
CHAPTER I
The house, a three-story red-brick residence, was on Walnut Street, near
Beacon. Its narrow front faced the state Capitol with its gold-sheeted
dome; from its stoop one could look down on the Common and, from the
corner of the street, see the Public Gardens. It was a Sunday morning
and the Browne family were at breakfast in the dining-room in the rear
of the first floor, just back of the drawing-room. The two rooms were
separated by folding-doors painted white, as was the wainscoting of the
dining-room. There was a wide bay window at the end, the sashes of which
were up, and the spring air and sunshine came in, feeding the plants
which stood in pots on the sill.
William Browne, the head of the family, a banker of middle age, slender,
sallow of complexion, partially bald, and of a nervous temperament, his
mustache and hair touched with gray, sat reading the _Transcript_ of the
evening before.
Opposite to him sat his wife, Celeste, a delicate woman somewhat under
thirty years of age. She had once been beautiful, and might still be
considered so, for her face was a rare one. Her eyes were deeply blue,
and now ringed with dark circles which added to the beauty of her olive
skin. The hand filling her husband's coffee-cup was thin, tapering, and
almost as small as a child's. Her lips had a drawn, sensitive expression
when she spoke as he lowered his paper to take the coffee she was
holding out to him.
"You have not told me how your business is," she said.
"Why do you want to know?" His irritation was obvious, though he was
trying to hide it, as he dropped his paper at his side and all but
glared at her over his cup.
"I think I ought to know such things," she answered. "Besides I worry
considerably when--when I think you are upset over financial matters."
"Upset?" He stared, it seemed almost fearfully, at her, and then began
to eat the brown bread and fish-cakes on his plate. "Why do you think
that I am upset?"
"I can always tell," she faltered. "When you are disturbed over business
you don't notice Ruth when you come in. You almost pushed her from your
lap last night when she went to you in the library. It hurt the little
thing's feelings. She did not know what to make of it."
"A position like mine is full of responsibility," he said, doggedly.
"Hundreds of things go wrong. Mistakes are made sometimes. We are
handling other people's money. The directors are harsh, puritanical men,
and they are very hard to please. They want me to do it all, and they
think I am infallible, or ought to be."
"You didn't sleep well last night," Celeste continued, still timidly. "I
heard you walking to and fro. I smelled your cigars. I couldn't sleep,
for it seemed to me that you were unusually disturbed. You may not
remember it, but you ate scarcely anything at supper, and, although I
asked you several questions, you did not hear me."
He bolted the mouthful of bread he had broken off. His eyes flashed
desperately. "Oh, I can't go into all the details of our ups and downs!"
he blurted out, shrugging his shoulders with impatience. "When I leave
the bank I try to shut them in behind me. If I go over them with you it
is like living through them again."
"Then--then it is not your brother this time," Celeste ventured. "I
thought perhaps the directors had spoken of his conduct again."
"Oh no. On my account they allow him to go and come as he likes. When he
is not drinking he does splendid work--as much, often, as two men. The
directors know he is worth his pay even as it is. Sometimes he gets
behind with his work, but soon catches up again. In fact, they all seem
to like him. They think he can't help it. It is hereditary, you know.
Both of his grandfathers were like that."
"You knew that he was drinking yesterday, did you?" Celeste inquired,
with concern in her voice and glance.
"Oh yes. He wasn't at his desk at all. I heard him come in and go to his
room about three this morning. I knew by his clatter on the stairs that
it was all he could do to get along. I think he came home in a cab; I
heard wheels."
"Yes, he came in a cab," Celeste said. "Some friend brought him. I was
awake. I heard them saying good night to each other. So it was not
_that_ that worried you?"
William shrugged his shoulders. "I have given him up," he said. "I
almost envy him, though--he has so little to worry about."
"How can you say such things?" his wife demanded. "I shall never give
him up. He has such a great heart. He is absolutely unselfish. He has
given away a great deal of money to people who needed it. You know that
he helped Michael send funds to his mother in New York last month.
Michael worships him--actually worships him."
Browne took up his paper again. It was plain that he had dismissed his
younger brother from his mind. At this moment the servant just
mentioned, Michael Gilbreth, came to remove the plates. He was a stout,
red-faced Irishman of middle age and wore the conventional, though
threadbare, jacket of a family butler.
"Have you inquired if Mr. Charles wants any breakfast?" Mrs. Browne
asked him, softly, as he bent beside her for the coffee-urn.
"Yes, m'm," he said. "I was up just this minute. He wants coffee and
eggs and toast. He said to say that he would not be down to breakfast."
"Is he sober? Is he at himself?" the banker asked, in a surly tone, from
behind his paper.
For a bare instant the servant hesitated. His entire bent body seemed to
resent the question. "Yes, sir, he is all right; a little sleepy, I
think, but that is all. He'll be around later. He is a fine young man,
sir; he has a big heart in 'im, sir. He is a friend to the poor as well
as the rich."
"A very poor one to himself, and us," Browne retorted, irritably. "But
it can't be helped. He is done for. He will keep on till he is in the
gutter or a madhouse."
"Take the coffee and warm it again, Michael," Celeste said, a subtle
stare of resentment in her eyes. "He was to go to church with Ruth and
me, but say to him, please, that we are not going this morning."
"Very well, madam, I'll tell him, though he will be ready to go, I'm
sure. He always keeps his engagements. He intended to go, I know, for he
had me get out his morning suit and brush it."
"Tell him I have other things to do and won't have time to get ready
this morning," Celeste said, firmly. "Remember to say that, Michael."
The butler had just left when a child's voice, a sweet, musical voice,
came from the first landing of the stairs in the hall.
"Mother, please let me come as I am. I have my bathrobe on, and my
slippers. I have bathed my face and hands and brushed my hair."
"Well, come on, darling--this time!"
"When will you stop that, I wonder?" The banker frowned as he spoke.
"What will she grow up like? What sort of manners will she have? You are
her worst enemy. A habit like that ought not to fix itself on her, but
it will, and it will foster others just as bad."
"Leave her training to me," Celeste said, crisply. "You don't see her
once a week. She is getting to be afraid of you. You are upset now by
some business or other, and it is making you as surly as a bear."
"Do you think so--do you really think that?" He laid the paper down and
gave her a steady, almost anxious look. "I don't want to get that way. I
know that hard, mental work and worries do have a tendency to spoil
men's moods."
"Oh, it is all right," Celeste said, her eyes on the doorway through
which her daughter, a golden-haired, brown-eyed child of five years, was
approaching. She was very graceful, in the long pink robe--very dainty
and pretty. She had her mother's slender hands and feet, the same
sensitive lips and thoughtful brow. She ran into her mother's arms, was
fondly, almost passionately embraced, and then she went to her father,
timidly, half shrinkingly kissed his lowered cheek, and then pushed a
chair close to her mother's side.
"Shall I have coffee this morning?" she whispered.
"Yes, but not strong, dear." Celeste's lips formed the words as they
played over the brow of the child. "I must put a lot of milk in it."
Browne bent forward tentatively. It was as if the sight of his child had
inspired him with a softer mood, as if her sunlight had vanquished some
of the clouds about him. He smiled for the first time that morning.
"Don't you think you could have dressed before you came down?" he gently
chided the child, reaching out and putting his hand on her head
caressingly. "Naughty, careless little girls act as you are doing."
"I didn't have time," the child said, leaning against her mother's
shoulder and causing his hand to fall from her head. "If I had dressed,
both of you would have been gone from the table before I got ready, and
I don't like to eat alone; besides, Uncle Charles was talking to me."
"Talking to you? Where?" Celeste asked, surprised.
"In my room. What is the matter with him, mother?"
"Matter? Why do you ask that?" Celeste inquired, her face grave, her
voice sinking low.
"Because, mother, he acts so strangely. He came in while I was asleep. I
don't know how long he was there. When I waked up he was seated on the
foot of my bed. He didn't see me looking at him, for he had his hands
over his face, pushing his fingers into his eyes, this way." The little
girl put her hands to her face, the wide sleeves of her robe falling
down to her shoulders and baring her beautiful dimpled arms. "He was
talking to himself in the strangest way, almost ready to cry. 'I'd like
to be a child!' I heard him say that, mother--I'm sure I heard him say
that. I closed my eyes, for I didn't know what to do. Then I think--I
think he must have been praying or something. He bent down a minute, and
then sat up. I could feel him moving and I heard him groaning. Presently
he was still and I peeped at him. He was looking at me with tears in his
eyes, mother--great big tears. They came on his cheeks and fell down on
his hands. He saw that I was awake, and put his hand on my head and
brushed back my hair. Oh, I was so sorry for him, and I don't know why!
He kissed me. He took me in his lap and hugged me, holding my face to
his. Then he put me back, and I heard him say: 'I have no right to touch
her. She is pure, and I am'--he said some word that I do not know. He
got my robe and slippers and helped me put them on, awfully sweet and
nice, mother. Then I told him I was going down to breakfast. I offered
to kiss him, and at first he wouldn't let me. He stood shaking his head
and looking so sad and strange. 'You ought not to kiss me, if you _are_
my little niece,' he said. 'I am not a good uncle, Ruth. You will be
ashamed to own me when you are a young lady and go to balls and parties.
People will not mention me to you. But I will go away and never come
back. Mother, is he going off? I hugged him and begged him not to leave,
and he began to cry again. He was trying not to, and he shook all over.
Presently he said he might not go away if I wanted him to stay. Oh,
mother, what is the matter with him? What is the matter with _you_? Why,
you are crying, too! Don't, mother, don't!"
Celeste, her handkerchief to her eyes, had turned her face aside.
"Oh, why do you do this?" Browne asked, impatiently. "Don't you see how
emotional the child is? All this can't be good for her. Charles ought to
be kicked, the rascal! Why doesn't he keep his remorse to himself? He is
like this after every spree, and he will do it all over again."
Celeste, as if regretting her show of emotion, wiped her eyes,
straightened up, and forced a smile. "You must eat an egg this morning,
darling," she said to her daughter. "Don't worry about your uncle. He is
not very well, but he will be all right soon."
"And he won't go away?" Ruth asked, anxiously.
"No, he won't go away, dear," Celeste said. "We'll keep him. You must
love him and be kind to him."
CHAPTER II
With a tray holding the breakfast of the other member of the family,
Michael ascended the stairs, the heavy carpet muffling his steps. In a
room at the end of the house, on the second floor, he found the younger
brother of his master nervously walking to and fro across the room. He
was tall, strongly built, and had a well-shaped head. He was
clean-shaven, blue-eyed, and had a fine shock of brown hair through
which he was constantly pushing his splaying fingers.
"Come in, come in! Thank you, Mike!" he said, drawing his long gray robe
about him and retying the silken cord at the waist. "I can't eat a bite,
but I want the coffee. Wait; I'll clear the table."
He made an effort to move some books from the small table, but he
fumbled them and they slid from his trembling hands to the floor, where
he let them lie in a heap. The servant heard him sigh dejectedly and
then he said:
"I'm all in, Mike; I'm done for."
"Oh no, sir!" Michael said, with emotion, as he put the tray on the
table and proceeded to gather up the books. "You feel bad, I know, sir,
but it will wear off by to-morrow."
A low groan escaped the young man's lips. "No, it is too late now, Mike.
Give me a cup of coffee, please--strong and hot. Oh, Mike, you can't
imagine how I feel. Mike, I am at the end of my rope. I am the greatest
failure in Boston. My old college friends shun me. Ladies I used to know
drop their eyes when I pass, as if they are afraid of me. The other day
I insulted one by staring in her face, not conscious of what I was
doing. Her brother resented it yesterday in a cafe before several
people. He struck me--I struck him. We went to the police court. I was
fined, and scolded like a dirty street loafer."
"Here is your coffee, sir," Michael said, sympathetically. "Drink it
right down, sir. You are nervous again."
Charles obeyed, as a child might. "Thank you. You are too good to me,
Mike," he said, returning the empty cup and beginning to stride back and
forth again. The butler was about to leave, but he stopped him. "Don't
go yet," he pleaded. "Oh, I must talk to somebody--I must get it out. It
is killing me. I've been awake here since three o'clock. I can't sleep.
Yesterday they turned me out of my club. I'm no longer a member. I am
the only man who has ever been expelled. I've been a gambler, Mike. I've
been everything except dishonest. I'm rotten. I don't blame the club. I
deserved it long ago. I ought to have had the common decency to send in
my resignation."
"You need money, I'm sure," Michael broke in, "and I owe you five
hundred dollars. I've been hoping--"
"Don't mention that," Charles broke in. "I'm glad I lent it to you. If
I'd had it it would have been thrown away, and, as it was, it helped
your mother, you say. No, no, never bring it up again. Let it go."
"I'll never let it go," the servant gulped. "I'll pay that debt if I
work my fingers to the bone to do it. Everybody else refused to let me
have it; even your brother didn't have it to spare. My oldest and best
friends turned me down."
"Cut it out! cut it out!" Charles frowned. "Give me another cup of
coffee. Yes, I thought it all out here this morning, Mike. I am imposing
on William. They keep me at the bank only on his account. He used to
protest against the way I am acting, but he has given me up--actually
given me up."
"I've heard him say you did a lot of work," objected the servant. "Don't
underrate yourself. It isn't right."
"Oh yes! I work when I am at it," Charles admitted. "Remorse is a great
force at times, but it is the other thing, Mike. The damnable habit gets
hold of me. For hours, days, and weeks I fight against it. I've even
prayed for release, but to no purpose. Last night I was consorting with
the lowest of the low. I had the money and they had the rags, the dirt,
and the thirst. A friend found me and brought me home, or God only knows
where I would have been by this time. They say it is in my blood; two
grandfathers fell under it--one killed himself. Yes, I've decided--at
last I've decided."
"Decided what, sir?" anxiously questioned Michael, as he took the empty
cup and placed it on the tray.
"I've decided to be man enough to leave Boston forever. I shall not
inflict myself longer on William and his wife and that angel child.
Listen to me, Mike. There is such a thing as a conscience, and at times
it burns in a man like the fires of hell itself. Do you know--you must
know it, though--I practically killed my mother? She used to spend night
after night awake on my account. Worry over me actually broke her down.
She was always awake when I was out like I was last night. Mike, I was
drunk the day she was buried--too drunk to go to the service. Yes, I am
going to leave Boston before I am discharged from the bank, and I shall
go away never to return. I want to--to blot my name from the memories of
all living men. I am a drunkard and I may as well live like one. I am a
disgrace to every one of my family. Uncle James, when he was here last,
told me that he had cut me out of his will and was praying for my death.
Great God! I was drinking at the time and I told him I didn't want his
money, and I don't, Mike, for I am unworthy of it. He is a harsh old
Puritan, but he is nearer right than I am or ever can be. Yes, don't be
surprised if you miss me some day. This cannot go on."
"Surely--surely you can't be in earnest, sir--"
"Oh yes, I am. Mike, do you believe in dreams--in visions, or anything
of that sort?"
"I think I do, sir--to some extent, at least. Have I never told you?
Well, when I was trying to get the money for my mother, and was so
miserable about it, I went to bed one night and prayed to the Lord to
help me, and do you know, sir, I dreamed that a young girl all dressed
in pure white, and shining all over with light, came and handed me the
money. And it seemed to come true, for you gave me the money at
breakfast the very next morning. Do you have dreams, sir?"
"Always, always, Mike. I am always dreaming that I am alone among
strangers, away from kindred and friends, but always happy and
care-free. I can't describe the feeling; it is wonderful! I know what I
want to say, but I can't express it. Say, Mike, William is a good old
chap. You may not believe it, but I love him. He has other troubles
besides me. I don't know what they are--financial, I think. He never
speaks to me of his ventures. In fact, I think he tries to keep me from
knowing about them. I find him at the bank late in the night, sometimes.
Yes, he is all right, Mike. I would have been kicked out of my job long
ago but for him. Yes, Mike, I'll turn up missing one of these days. I've
had enough."
"You'll feel differently by to-morrow, sir," the servant said, gently.
"You are nervous and upset now, as you always are after--"
"After making a hog of myself," Charles said. "No, I'll not feel better,
Mike. It is my very soul that is disgusted. I know that I'll never
change, and I shall not inflict myself on my family any longer. Don't
speak of this, Mike--it is just between you and me. Oh, they will be
glad that I've left! Ruth will miss me for a little while, maybe, for
the child seems to love me, but children soon forget, and I don't want
her to grow up and know me as I really am. If I stay she will hear about
me and blush with shame. Think of what a crime that would be,
Mike--killing the ideals of a sweet, innocent child. Yes, I'm going, old
man. It will be best all around. I'll be dead to everybody that has ever
known me. I've lacked manhood up till now, Mike, but I'll use all I have
left in trying to make restitution. Obliteration--annihilation! that is
the idea, and somehow a soothing one."
The kind-hearted servant was deeply moved and he turned his face toward
the open window, through which the cries of the newsboys came from the
streets below.
"Anything I can do for you before I go down?" he asked.
"Nothing, thank you," was the answer. "I shall stay here all day, Mike.
I don't want to show myself in town. The news of my expulsion from the
club will be known everywhere. I don't want to look in the faces of my
old friends. Some of them have tried to save me. This will be the last
straw. They will give me up now--yes, they will be bound to."
"You will be all right by to-morrow, sir," Michael said, huskily. "Lie
down and sleep. You need it. You are shaking all over."
When the servant had left the room, closing the door behind him, Charles
began to walk to and fro again. Presently he paused before the old
mahogany bureau and stood hesitating for a moment. "I must--I must," he
said. And opening a drawer, he took out a flask of whisky and, filling a
glass, he drank. Then holding the flask between him and the light, he
muttered, "Oh, you yellow demon of hell, see what you have done for one
spineless creature!"
Restoring the flask to the drawer, he sat down in an easy-chair, put his
hands over his face and remained still for a long time.
CHAPTER III
He threw himself on his bed. He was lying with his dull stare on the
white ceiling when he heard the voices of his sister-in-law and her
child in the hall below. The front door opened. They were going out--out
into the open air with free consciences, he told himself, with a pang of
fresh pain. He stifled a groan with the end of a pillow into which he
had turned his face. Then he sat up to listen. It was a step on the
stair--a step he had known from childhood. It was that of his brother
William.
"He is coming! He is coming up here," Charles muttered, aghast. "Well,
it is his right. He waited till the others went out so that he can rave
and storm to his heart's content. Yes, he is coming. He has heard about
the club, and all the rest. This time he will kick me out. He has stood
me long enough, in God's name."
Charles sat erect and adjusted his dressing-gown with nervous hands. The
step was now near. The top of the flight of stairs was almost reached.
Charles stood up as a gentle rap was sounded on the door.
"Come in," he called out, his husky voice cracking in his parched
throat. The door was slowly opened and William Browne, pale, haggard,
and trembling nervously, entered.
"Sit down, old man," Charles said, indicating a chair. "Sit down. I
thought you'd come."
"Thank you." The movement toward the chair conveyed an idea of almost
helpless groping.
"I am sorry I wasn't fit to come down," Charles faltered. "I don't show
your house much respect, Billy, but at least I can hide myself when I
have sense enough left."
The banker groaned as he sank into the chair and sat staring at the
floor. His brother took another chair close to the table. He lowered his
tangled head to the table and waited. But no further sound came from his
companion.
"Oh, I've hit him hard--I've hit him hard this time!" Charles thought to
himself. "He has lost all hope of me now. It is hard for him to say what
he has to say, but he is going to say it. He looks like Uncle James now,
with those grim lines about his mouth. Poor Billy! he deserves a better
deal from me, for God knows he has been a good brother. No one else
would have borne with me as he has all these years. But he has reached
his limit. His endurance is ended. In the first place, I must leave the
bank. Yes, that is first--then, then, yes, I must leave this house. He
will say I have turned it into a hog-pen. He is calm. God! how calm he
is! He is choosing his words. He has determined to speak gently. I can
see that."
"Lessie and Ruth have gone out," William presently said, without raising
his eyes. "Michael said you were here, and I took this opportunity
to--to--"
"I know; I expected you," Charles heard his own voice as from a great
distance, so faint was his utterance. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I
knew you'd come. There was nothing else for you to do."
William's head rocked to and fro despondently.
"I don't think you know why I've come," he said, grimly, and he raised
his all but bloodshot eyes and fixed them on his brother's lowered head.
"Oh yes, you have heard of this last debauch of mine, and the damnable
acts that went with it--my expulsion from the club, the trial at the
police court, along with other common loafers, and--"
"I hardly know whether I heard of them or not," William said, his stare
now on his brother's face. "You speak of yourself. What about me? My
God! Charlie, what about me?"
"Oh, I know that you've gone the limit."
"Gone the limit? Then you know," William broke in, his lower lip hanging
helplessly from his gleaming teeth. "You know about _me_--but how could
you know? It is my own private matter, and--"
"I know that your patience is exhausted, Billy. I know that you are
sensible enough to see that I am no fit occupant of your house. Your
wife is a sensitive, delicate woman. Your child is--"
"Oh, _that_ is what you think I mean!" William broke in. "Great God! you
think that I am worried about _that_! Listen to me, Charlie. You sit
there accusing yourself, perhaps feeling that you have committed
unpardonable sins, but look straight at me. As God is my judge, I'd be
the happiest man alive if I could exchange places with you this morning.
You have done this, and you have done that, but you have been
honest--honest--honest--honest! I've seen you tried. I've seen you need
money badly, but you have never touched a penny that was not your own.
Charlie, I am a thief!"
Charles straightened up in his chair. He laid his slender hand with the
long fingers and curving nails on the table and stared, as if bewildered
by what he had heard.
"I don't know what you mean, Billy," he said, slowly shaking his head.
"You can't be in earnest."
"But I am," the banker groaned. "I have wanted to tell you for a week
past, and I would have done so if you hadn't begun to drink again. Do
you remember when I came to your desk Friday afternoon? I wanted then to
ask you into my office, but I saw you had been drinking, and I knew that
you'd not understand. I've taken money from the vaults, Charlie. I'm
short sixty thousand dollars, and there is no chance now to avoid
detection."
It was as if the declaration had completely sobered the younger man. He
rose to his feet, towering above the shrunken form in the chair.
"You can't mean that seriously," he faltered, his drink-flushed face
paling. "Oh, you can't, Billy!"
"But I do. My transactions have been secret; through a broker in New
York I bought copper on a margin. It kept going against me till all my
funds and available collateral were used up. I was sure it would win.
All hell told me it would win. I couldn't stand the disgrace of failure.
It meant losing my position, too. I struggled with it all one night in
the bank, and the next morning, when the time-lock opened the vaults, I
took the money and, with it in my pocket, I went to New York and put it
up."
"You did? You did? My God! Billy, and lost it!"
"Within twenty-four hours. Charlie, you have been a drunkard, but your
soul has remained clean. But I'm lost--I'm lost. I'll be sent to jail.
My wife will shrink in shame from the public gaze. My child will grow up
to see that I have set her, by my own act, into a despised class. Great
God! that little trusting thing will have to bear my just punishment!
So--so you thought I'd come here to reproach you, eh? You say you have
been turned _out_ of a club. I am being turned _into_ a prison. Charlie,
I was a coward when I took that money. I am a coward now, and I cannot
face this thing. You must not object to what I have to do. It is
dishonorable, but it is more honorable than the other."
"You don't mean--you _can't_ mean--"
"There is nothing else to do, Charlie. Don't you see that in this way it
will be all over at once? Think of the arrest, the long trial, the
certain conviction, the parting, the stripes, the clipped hair! No, no,
you must not oppose me. Ruth will forget me then, but, alive and in
jail, I'd be a canker on her young soul. Lessie could marry again. God
knows I'd want her to do so. Yes, it is the only way out, Charlie."
The drunkard seemed a drunkard no longer. He might have been an
impassioned young priest full of a holy desire to comfort as he stood
before the wilted man and clasped his hands. He knelt at his brother's
knees, he caught the tense fingers in his.
"You shall not kill yourself!" he cried. "God will show you a way to
avoid it. I feel it within me. There must be a way--there must!"
"There is no other way!" William groaned. "I've thought of everything
under heaven till I'm crazed with it all." He stood up. He put his limp
arm about the shoulders of his brother.
"Will it be known at once? Do the directors suspect?" Charles asked.
"Not yet, but you know the bank examiner will be here Thursday. It can't
be kept from him. If I were unmolested for three months I could replace
the money. I'm sure more than that amount will come out of the Western
mining lands I hold. The sale is made, and only a legal technicality
holds back the final settlement."
"Ah, then if you confessed the truth to the directors, and promised to
replace the money, would they--"
"They would send me to jail, just the same," William answered. "They are
that sort, every man of them. In their eyes a man who will steal once
will steal again, and they may be right--they may be right."
"Nevertheless, you must not think of--the--the other thing, Billy. For
God's sake, don't!" Charles pleaded.
"What else can I do?" William swayed in his brother's embrace and turned
toward the door. Charles released him, and stood speechless in sheer
helplessness as his brother stalked to the door, opened it, and went
slowly down the stairs.
Left alone, the younger man turned to a window and stood staring blankly
out into the sunshine. Presently he went to the bureau, opened a drawer,
and took out the flask of whisky. Taking a glass, he poured some of the
fluid out and then stood staring at it in surprise. A strange thing had
happened. It was like a miracle, and yet psychologists have said that it
belongs to the regular order of nature. Charles was conscious of no
desire for the drink before him; in fact, he was averse to it. He was
under the sway of a high spiritual emotion, which the thing in his hand
seemed vaguely to oppose. He marveled over the change in himself as he
held the glass up to the light.
"I'm asking poor Billy to be a man," he said, "while I am less than one
myself. Strange! strange!" he muttered, wonderingly, "but I feel as if I
shall never drink again--never, never!" With a hand that was quite
steady he took the glass to the window and emptied its contents on the
grass in the little plot below. Then he began to shave himself, and
after that was done he dressed himself carefully.
The church-bells were ringing.
"Oh, I must save him--I must save them all!" he kept saying. "Something
must be done. But what?"
CHAPTER IV
It was Wednesday night. William Browne had not come home to dinner.
Charles looked into the dining-room. Celeste and Ruth were in their
places at the table.
"William telephoned that he could not come up," Celeste said, as he sat
down. "He says he has work to do at the bank to-night."
"Yes. I'm going back myself at once," Charles answered. "In fact, I am
not a bit hungry. I had something late this afternoon--sandwiches and
tea. If you will excuse me, I won't stay."
As he rose, Celeste lifted an odd stare to his face, but simply nodded
as he was leaving the room.
"Don't go, Uncle Charlie," the child protested. "Stay for your dinner."
"No, I must go." He came back, bent over her chair, and kissed her on
the cheek, and then hurried away.
It was eight o'clock when he reached the bank. The outer doors were
closed, but a dim light could be seen through a plate-glass window in
front. Softly inserting his key, he turned the bolt and entered.
"My God! he may not be here, after all!" Charles thought, as he shut the
door noiselessly. Then he saw a light in the direction of his brother's
private office and went toward it, now more hopefully. He was near the
office door when he heard a sound like the hurried closing of a desk
drawer.
"Who is that?" a startled voice called out.
"It is I, Billy. May I come in?"
There was no reply, and Charles pushed the door open. The banker sat at
his desk in the glare of a green-shaded electric lamp. His face was
ghastly pale, and rendered more so by the greenish light that fell upon
it.
"What did you come for?" he asked, almost doggedly, and yet without a
trace of impatience or anger.
"Because you didn't come to dinner, and because--"
"Because you are still watching me. Say it and be done with it," broke
in William, in a tone which was scarcely audible as it rose from his
husky throat.
"Yes, Billy. That's it. You have scarcely been out of my sight since
Sunday morning. The examiner will be here to-morrow. I know how you feel
about that, you see. You told me what you wanted to do. I have seen the
thought in your eyes often since then. But it shall not be so, Billy. I
love you. You are the only one in the world whom I do love very much.
You shall not kill yourself, Billy."
William lowered his head. His chin rested on his chest. "There is
nothing else to do," he groaned. "I cannot face this thing. They say men
are always insane who do such things, but it is not so. I am mentally
sound. I see all that lies ahead of me--everything, even the thoughts
that will spring to life in the minds of my wife and child. Go away and
leave me, Charlie. I want to be alone."
"What did you put into that drawer just as I entered?" Charles asked,
leaning forward.
"Never mind," William said. "Go away."
"I want to know what it was," Charlie protested. He reached down and
caught the handle of the drawer.
William made a slight movement as if to stop him, but desisted, uttering
a low groan as he did so. Charles opened the drawer. A long revolver lay
on the papers within. He took it out, and shuddered as he held it behind
him.
"You are not going to shoot yourself, Billy," he said, firmly. "I am not
going to permit it."
William made no reply, and with the revolver in his hand, Charles went
into the adjoining counting-room and turned on the light at his own
desk. For twenty minutes he sat resting his head on his hand, his elbow
on the desk, the weapon before him. Presently his eyes began to glow,
his face was flushed, his pulse was throbbing. "I have it," he said. "I
have it."
Laying the revolver on the desk, he turned back to his brother's office.
William sat as he had left him, his limp hands on the arms of his chair,
his disheveled head lowered.
"Listen, Billy, listen!" Charles began. "I want to tell you something
about myself first, and then about you. You must listen. It is
important. It is your chance, and a splendid one."
"My chance?" echoed the banker. "What chance?"
"Billy, I am down and out. I've lost all my friends and social standing.
I don't want to remain here longer. I want to go away off somewhere
among strangers and begin life over again."
"Well, well, why tell me about it when you see that I--"
"Because it concerns you, Billy. Listen, it is both your chance and
mine. I want to live a decent, sober life, and you say if you could
stave this thing off for a few months you could replace the missing
money."
"I could, but--"
"Then it will be done, and I'll tell you how. It is very simple. I am
just now the talk of the town on account of the life I have been
leading. People will not be surprised at anything reported of me, the
directors least of all. You know they would have discharged me long ago
but for your relation to me."
"I don't understand. I can't see what you are driving at," William
stared with his bloodshot eyes. "You say you see a way. For God's sake,
for God's sake--"
"Yes, but you are not listening. I am coming to it. I am going away
to-night, Billy. I'm going away never to return. I am going out of your
life as completely as if I'd never been in it. I'll never write back.
You will never know whether I'm dead or alive."
"_You_ are going away? Why are _you_ going? I thought of it myself, but
I couldn't stand it. No, there is no other way than to end it all."
"Don't you see what I mean, Billy? It is known that I have access to the
vaults during business hours, and when I turn up missing to-morrow the
examiner will logically couple me and my bad record with the money that
is gone. Now you understand."
With his hands on the arms of his revolving-chair the banker drew
himself to his feet. A wild look of hope was in his eyes and on his
ghastly face. He groped his way to his brother, his hands outstretched
as if to prevent himself from falling.
"You--you can't mean it, Charlie!" he said in his throat. "And if you
_do_ mean it I can't let you--I can't, I can't!"
"You must, because I wish it. I want to be of some use to you and to
Lessie and the baby. Oh, I owe you a lot--a lot! Think how you have
borne with me--how I have disgraced you."
"I can't let you--I can't," William cried, and yet he was panting with a
vast new joy. His eyes bored into those of his brother. "What, let you
do _that_? No, no. I could not permit it."
"Billy, you see, I want to do it as much for myself as you. I want to be
absolutely free from old associations. You can replace the money. You
can claim that you are doing it, you see, because you were responsible
for my staying on when I ought to have been discharged. It will all seem
so--so plausible--so very natural."
Turning, his eyes on the floor, William stalked back to his desk. He
drew his chair around. "My God! My God!" his brother heard him muttering
as he lowered himself into it. Dropping his head to the desk, he was
still for a moment. Charles went to him.
"You have nothing to do with it." He touched his brother's bowed head.
"I am going, whether you consent or not. I am going to-night. When I am
missed in the morning that will tell the tale. You won't even have to
explain. They will sympathize so much with you that they will not ask
you many questions. Oh, it is all right now! You will have a chance to
pay a just debt and I'll have a chance to make a new life for myself.
They can't catch me, Billy. I know how to dodge the slickest detectives
on my trail. The world is big and full of adventures. Do you know,
Billy, I have always been haunted with the idea of freedom like this?
Don't you worry. I'll be all right, whatever happens. And listen, Billy.
I swear to you by the memory of our mother that I'll never tell a living
soul of this agreement of ours. Never!"
William raised his head. He clasped his brother's hands and pressed them
convulsively. "Oh," he gulped, "if I want to escape my just punishment,
forgive me--forgive me, Charlie, for I am afraid of death. I have faced
it for more than a week. It is an awful thing to think of all that it
means, its effect on Lessie and the baby. Oh, Charlie, Charlie!" His
lower lip was twisted by suppressed emotion. His eyes were filling with
tears.
"I am going. That is settled," Charles said, with feeling. "And there is
no time to lose. I'll hurry home and pack a few things. There is a train
for New York at midnight. I can hide there safely enough for a while. I
know the ropes. Good-by, old chap."
William stood up. He clung to his brother's hands for a moment, then put
his arms around him. "Good-by," he gulped. "I hate to let you do it, but
I am a coward--not only a thief, but a weakling and a coward. You must
have money. Wait. I'll--"
"No, no, Billy." The other shook his head. "I sha'n't take a cent from
the bank, under any consideration. You must begin anew as I am going to
begin anew. You will owe to these men every cent you can get till that
debt is paid. Besides, I have a little money and I shall not need much,
for I am going to work for my living. I'll find something to do. It
won't be an indoor job like this, for I am tired of it. I want to use my
body instead of my brain. I want to tramp from place to place in the
open sunlight and free air. I want to be a hobo. I want to put myself
down on the level of the most unfortunate of men. I want to wring the
poison of my past out of me. This chance seems a godsend to me. It will
save Lessie and little Ruth from great sorrow and humiliation, and you
from a desperate act. Life is a short thing, anyway, isn't it, Billy?
Don't ever expect to hear from me again. In addition to the risk, it
will be best for your state of mind. Think of me as dead."
William made a feeble effort to detain him, but he was gone. The banker
heard him softly closing the big front door, and he sank back into his
chair, tingling under a growing sense of vast relief. To be sure, he was
losing his only brother, but he was retaining countless other things. He
told himself that the plan was a marvelous one. Every flagrant act of
his dissipated brother gave color to the implied charge against him,
while his own high standing and the agreement of restitution he was to
make would lift him above all possible suspicion.
CHAPTER V
Outside, the sky was clear. The stars were coming out. Their light was
pale by contrast to the street-lamps. A cool breeze fanned Charles's hot
face as he made his way with a step that was almost buoyant toward the
Common. Some students on one of the walks were singing a college song he
used to love in those gay days which now seemed so far away.
He was passing a little wine-room where he had been fond of going with
certain friends, and almost by habit he paused and faced its lighted
windows. Then he was conscious again of that strange experience which
had immediately followed the tragic revelation his brother had made to
him. He had no desire to drink. He laughed as he turned and strode
onward across the street to the Common. Was there really such a thing as
a new birth in which, under stress of some rare spiritual experience, a
man was completely changed? It might really be so, he told himself, for
nothing like this had ever come to him before. He was happy. Indeed,
something like ecstasy had come upon him; it was in his very veins,
hovering over him like indescribable light. He thought of William's dumb
look of relief, and a joyous sob rose and hung in his throat. It was
pain and yet it was not pain. How wonderfully beautiful the whole world
seemed! There was really nothing out of order. Till a few minutes ago
all was meaningless chaos and tragic despair, and yet now--now--he could
not put it into words. He thought of the action of the club which had
turned him out, and smiled. Why, the officials were merely puppets of
convention, and he had been a naughty child. The police court! How funny
the grave, fat judge looked as he delivered that fatherly lecture and
imposed that fine! Oh, it was all in life, and life was a mosaic of rare
beauty!
When he reached Beacon Street a night policeman was on the corner.
Charles saluted him and gave him a cigar. "Fine night, fine night!" he
said.
"It is indeed," the man answered.
Charles found the house dark, save for the gas which was turned low in
the hall. He let himself in softly, and ascended the thickly carpeted
stairs to his room. Turning on the electric light, he looked about him.
He must hurry.
"Yes, I'll write a note and leave it here for William," he reflected.
"It will help him explain to-morrow. He need only direct the examiner's
attention to it, and they will understand, or think they understand."
He sat down at a little table, drew some paper toward him, and began to
write.
MY DEAR BROTHER [ran the note],--When you get this I shall be
gone. I need not explain. When the examiners get to the vaults
they will see why I had to leave. I have been going from bad to
worse, as every one knows. I have abused your confidence, love,
and hospitality. You will never see me again. Sixty thousand
dollars is a large amount, I know, but on my honor I am not
taking all of it with me. Most of it is gone already. Good-by.
C.
He put the note into an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to his
brother. He had just done so when he heard a soft step on the stairs
leading down from the servants' rooms above. There was a rap on the
door. He opened it. It was Michael.
"I thought I heard you come in," Michael said, lamely. "I was about to
go to bed, sir. But is there anything I can do for you to-night--a cup
of something to drink--coffee or tea?"
"Not to-night, Mike," Charles answered. "The truth is that I am off for
Springfield--on a little business of my own. I must get away at once. I
may have to stay there a short while--several days, in fact, and I want
to pack a few things. Pull out my dress-suit case from the closet, will
you, and dust it off. Then put in half a dozen shirts and underwear."
"Your evening suit, sir?"
"No, oh no, not that," Charles smiled. "I'm not going into society on
_this_ trip. I'll get out what I need."
Taking the articles from a drawer of the bureau, Charles tossed them on
the bed near the suitcase which the servant had brushed and opened. "Put
them in, please, Mike. It will save time."
The suitcase was packed and locked. Charles suddenly observed that Mike
was eying the addressed envelope curiously.
"Oh, that note?" the young man said, averting his eyes oddly. "That is
for my brother. Will you hand it to him--not to-night, I mean--at the
breakfast-table in the morning? Don't fail, Mike. It is rather
important."
The servant took it up. He held it tentatively. He hesitated. "He does
not know that you are going, sir?" he asked.
Charles stared straight at the floor. "This will tell him all that he
need know, Mike."
Putting the note into his pocket, Michael stolidly faced his companion.
"Of course it does not concern me," he faltered, "but somehow you talk
and act like--?" He went no further.
"Oh, you are afraid I'm off on another spree, eh?" Charles laughed. "But
I'm not, Mike. It is business, this time, and serious business at that."
The servant was not satisfied, as was evident from his unsettled glances
here and there, now on the young man's face, again on the suitcase or
the floor.
"You may have forgotten it, sir, but only the other day you spoke of
wanting to go away for a long stay, and the little unpleasantness at
your club and the police court--"
"I see, I see, you don't forget things. You put two and two together,"
Charles interrupted. "What is that?"
It was a child's startled scream from Mrs. Browne's room, followed by
the assuring tones of the mother.
"It is Ruth," Michael explained. "She screams out like that now and then
when she is dreaming."
"I wish I could see the little thing," Charles seemed to be speaking to
himself now. "They are a beautiful pair--that mother and child. Ah, and
they have been sweet and good to me!"
"Now, I _am_ afraid, sir. Indeed, I am," Michael said, with feeling.
"Afraid of what, Mike?"
"I am afraid it is not Springfield you are going to, sir."
"Ah, you are suspicious!" Charles said, in ill-assumed lightness.
"I haven't known you from boyhood up for nothing, sir," Mike said, with
emotion. "Ever since your talk Sunday I have been afraid you'd leave."
"Well, then, what if I am going, Mike? The world is big and full of
opportunities, and I am tired of this--I really am."
"But why leave like this, sir?" Mike demanded, gently. "Surely you won't
go without telling your folks of it and saying good-by! Why, this note
to your brother looks as if--as if--"
"Well, I do want to slip away, Mike, and I'm going like a thief in the
night. You will understand to-morrow. Everybody in Boston will. As for
that, Mike, a drinking-man will do many things that he ought not to do,
and--and I handle money at the bank. Don't push me further now. Let's
drop it. I have to go, and that settles it."
Michael failed to understand, for he was thinking of something else.
"You will need the money I owe you, sir, and I've been trying to get it
up. I see a chance now, sir. My sister out West feels that she owes at
least half of that debt to you, and her husband has been doing well. She
wrote me--"
"Drop that, Mike," Charles cried. "I don't need that money. You shall
never pay it--never. I've given that to your mother, do you understand,
not to you, but to her?"
"It shall not be that way, sir," the other pleaded. "I will send it to
you. But as for your doing anything wrong at the bank"--Charles's
statement was dawning on him slowly--"nobody on earth could make me
think so."
"Well, never mind about that, Mike. The fact is that I must go--now and
at once. Let me out at the front door."
"Do you want a cab, sir?"
"A cab?" Charles smiled. "Not to-night. In fact, I am going through the
darkest streets I can get into. I know every alley in this old town.
Good-by, Mike. Deliver the note to my brother in the morning."
CHAPTER VI
It was near midnight when he reached the station. He had met no one on
the way whom he knew. He was tired and his arm ached from the weight of
the bag, for he had taken a long, roundabout way to avoid being seen.
Few persons were at the station, for it was not a popular train that he
was to take. He bought his ticket at the little window, glad that the
clerk was too busy to look up as he pushed the exact fare in to him.
This done, he took up his bag and hastened for the train. He sought the
smoking-car, feeling that he would be less conspicuous there than in the
coaches set aside for the accommodation of women and children. He had
the car almost to himself and was glad of the fact. Seated in one
corner, he lighted a cigar. Somehow he was impatient for the train to
move. He was not guilty of the crime he had shouldered, but he had a
guilty man's fear of detection at that moment. He almost felt as if he
and William were identical, for, after all, would not William's arrest
and exposure have been quite as painful to him? The train did not start.
He was becoming seriously alarmed now. He went to a window and looked
out. An attendant with a lantern stood close by.
"What is the delay?" Charles asked.
"Accident ahead," the man answered. "Train off the track ten miles away.
The wrecking-train has gone on. They will have the road clear before
long. May as well wait here as farther on."
Charles went back to his corner. Why was he nervous? he argued. What was
there to fear, since the exposure would not be made till the following
morning after the bank opened? Why, nothing--nothing at all. He puffed
at his cigar. The only thing was to avoid being seen by any passing
acquaintance; but his face was known to many of all classes and he must
be careful. He pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes; he raised
the collar of his light overcoat above his ears, and crouched down as
low as possible. The train still lingered. His watch told him that it
was two o'clock. He stretched his legs out on the seat in front of him
and tried to sleep. He was quite fatigued, and yet his brain was too
active to permit it. He thought of little Ruth. Again he heard her
startled cry and pictured the child as lying in his arms and being
soothed back to sleep. A sob filled his throat. Was it possible that she
was going out of his life forever? Was it possible that he was actually
renouncing home and home ties and going out into a new world in which he
would be absolutely unknown, a veritable babe of mature age born among
strangers? A mood of deep dejection was on him and it seemed to thicken
and become more depressing as the hours stretched along. Then terror
filled him, for he had a facile imagination which reached out for the
disagreeable as well as the pleasant. What if the train were not to go
for hours? What if the dawn of day found him still in Boston? He sat up.
He rose and went to the platform of the car. The brakeman with the
lantern was chatting with a man at a trunk-truck several car-lengths
away. He descended and sauntered up to them.
"Any news?" he asked the man with the light.
"Yes. We will move soon," was the answer. "I see you are sticking to it.
Most of the passengers went home, to take a morning train. You could
take it yourself, if you are bound for New York, and get there almost as
soon as by this train."
"Oh, I'm here now and will go this way," Charles answered. He turned
away, for he realized that he had made his first serious mistake in
talking to the man about his destination. The fellow might remember it
later. He might even give the information to the police when they got on
his trail. If the train were delayed between Boston and New York a
telegram might be sent on and he would be arrested upon his arrival. He
shuddered--not for himself, but for his brother. How the news would
stagger William! He would confess, then. He would tell it all rather
than permit the punishment to fall where it was not merited. Poor
haggard, nerve-torn William! He would kill himself, and the black
tragedy would settle upon the old home. Charles went back to his seat in
the corner. His brain was whirling and pounding like that of a madman
capable of half reasoning. Another hour passed. It was three o'clock. A
desperate idea flashed into his mind. What if he should leave the train
and take to the country roads? Might he not escape arrest in that way?
He was about to resort to it when he heard a shout outside:
"All aboard!" A bell on the locomotive rang. Steam was heard escaping.
The cars began to jerk one against the other, then to move steadily and
to pick up speed. He looked through the open window. Through a shower of
fine cinders and wisps of steam and smoke he saw the street-lamps
dancing past, whirling, waltzing to the roar and clatter of the cars.
Soon they were left behind. Fields and country roads lay dimly visible
in the darkness. He was now conscious of a feeling of boundless elation.
It amounted almost to ecstasy. He chuckled. After all, his brother and
the others would escape the thing William had dreaded. They would live
in happiness, and why should not he manage to exist in the new life
before him? There must be a God, and a God of love and pity and mercy;
surely some one, something, was holding the black curtain of fate aside
for both William and himself, that he might enter upon a further
probation and have one more chance to make good.
The conductor was coming, his ticket-punch in hand.
"What time shall you arrive in New York?" Charles asked, as casually as
was in his power.
"About eight o'clock," the conductor answered, punching the ticket and
handing it back. "That is the best we can do now."
CHAPTER VII
Reclining on the two benches, Charles managed to fall asleep, and in
spite of his worries he slept soundly. The gray morning light crept in
at the open window and swept his dust-coated face, but still he did not
wake. The light grew yellow and warm as the sun rose, but still he
slept. He waked and sat up as the train was entering the suburbs of New
York.
"Safe--still safe!" was his first thought, as he looked about him. The
car was now half-full of passengers, many of them commuters going in to
work. How fresh, clean, and contented they looked with their cigars and
damp papers, and what a dismal tramp was he, at least in his own eyes!
There was a little lavatory at the end of the car, and his first impulse
was to go to it, wash the dust from his face and hands, and brush off
his clothing; then it occurred to him that, as he was, he was less
recognizable than otherwise, and he gave up the idea.
Slowly the long train clattered over the switches and crossings and
pulled into the station at Forty-second Street. The vast roof cut off
the direct rays of the sun and the forms and faces of the passengers
became indistinct in the shadow. He followed the others down the packed
aisle and joined the stream of passengers on the platform, all forging
their way to the street. Covertly, as he hurried along, holding his bag
in his right hand, he watched the crowd of bystanders to see if any one
wore a police uniform. He was gratified to notice that the way seemed
clear in that respect. And then he smiled at his imagined fears, for how
could the police be on his track before the opening of the bank? No, no,
he was safe so far, and he would soon be hidden from sight in the slums
of the great city, for it was the slums that were to shelter him. There
no one would look for a man of his type.
He was soon out in the crowded thoroughfare. Somehow it appealed to him
to-day more than ever before. He walked along the street until he
reached Fifth Avenue, and then he realized that he was not going in the
direction he desired and turned back. He walked on till the buildings
began to look more antiquated and shabby, and then he turned south. He
pursued this direction till he had reached Twenty-eighth Street,
and then turned east again. The surroundings were now decidedly
squalid. The street was unclean and thronged. The houses were old
three-story-and-basement residences, the ground floors of many having
been turned into shops, the upper floors being rented as sleeping
quarters at a very low rate as was shown by the soiled cards placed
against the window-panes to catch the eye of passers-by.
Suddenly he became aware that he was hungry, and he looked about him for
a place to break his fast, for he had eaten scarcely anything since noon
the day before. Presently he descried a restaurant. It was located on
the first floor immediately above a delicatessen shop. The street in
front of it was unclean, ash-cans and garbage-pails flanking the
crumbling brownstone steps to the entrance; and yet his aversion to
these unsavory surroundings was conquered by his hunger and the security
that such a place afforded him.
He went in and was surprised at the inviting appearance of the room. It
was clean. The walls were snow white. White-clothed tables stood close
together, some small, some long and narrow. He put down his bag and hung
his hat and overcoat on an upright rack. The tables were nearly all
filled with a motley assortment of human beings. The table near his bag
had a single occupant, a young man of about his own age. Charles sat
down opposite him. The fellow's face appealed to him vaguely, as
reminding him of some countenance he had once seen and forgotten. It was
a rather round face, blue-eyed, clean shaved, and crowned by light-brown
curly hair.
A waitress in spotless apron and cap came to Charles. "You forgot to get
your check," she said.
"Check? What is that?" he asked.
"Oh, I'll get it for you," the girl said, hurriedly, and she went to the
glass-inclosed desk by the door at which another girl sat.
The stranger across the table held up his own check and smiled. "It's
like this," he explained. "You see the prices, from five cents up to one
dollar, are printed on it. The girl who waits on you punches the amount
you order, and that is what you pay as you turn the check over at the
desk when you go out."
"Oh, I see! Thank you!" Charles liked the face more than ever. Its
underlying humor and good nature at once soothed and attracted him. The
waitress came back with the check, and with it brought a printed bill of
fare which she gave to Charles. While he was looking it over she bent
near the man across the table.
"You can't keep this up," she said, gently. "It will kill you. I've been
watching you for a week."
"Oh, leave that to me," he answered, with a smile that Charles now saw
was drawn and twisted by manly embarrassment. "I've been this way before
and pulled through."
The waitress sighed. "I wish I could manage it," she said in an
undertone, "but I can't. That woman at the desk is a cat. She has it in
for me."
"You don't think I'd let you do anything like that for me, I hope," he
said, sensitively. "I appreciate it very much, but no working-girl shall
lose through me."
Without replying she came around and bent over Charles. "Ready to
order?" she asked.
"Eggs and bacon and coffee with cream," he said. As he spoke he noticed
that his table companion had apparently ordered nothing but the few
slices of bread and butter which he was slowly eating. A goblet of water
was all the man had to drink. Charles now understood the situation and
he wanted to assist, but Boston men of his class are not as free with
strangers as Western and Southern people, and he found himself unable
tactfully to accomplish what he desired.
"You are not quite on to the ropes," the stranger remarked, his eyes on
the dress-suitcase which Charles had put down. "It was all new to me
when I came here, but it doesn't take long to get the run of things. God
knows it is simple enough if you have the money to do it with."
"I suppose so," Charles responded. "I've just come in."
The waitress was bringing his breakfast. She placed it before him,
handing him a paper napkin and leaving spoons and knife and fork.
"Anything else?" she asked.
"Nothing now, thank you," Charles answered.
Instead of going on to the next table at which a man and a woman with
drink-flushed faces were seating themselves amid the soiled dishes left
by others, she leaned again over the shoulder of the young man opposite
Charles.
"You must let me help," she whispered. "I know you are all right, and
you will never get work if you are underfed. You see, I know because
I've been there myself."
"Please, please, don't mention it," the young man said, his face drawn
and flushed with chagrin. "I assure you I am all right. That's a good
girl--let it drop."
She said nothing, but moved on to the new arrivals and began to place
the soiled things onto a tray preparatory to taking their order.
"Do you intend to stop in the city awhile?" the young man asked Charles.
"I may," the Bostonian returned. "I am looking for a room in this
neighborhood."
"Oh, there are plenty of them," the other smiled, "but you don't always
run across clean ones. I've tried several places and left. The house
where I am now is clean and cheap, and I think there are plenty of
vacancies. I have the landlady's card, if you care to look her up."
"Thank you, I'd like to do so." Charles had the feeling that he would
like to see more of the stranger, and living in the same house might
afford him the opportunity. The young man took a card from his pocket,
and as he got up he laid it before Charles. "I hope you will find a room
you like," he said, wearily, as he reached up for his hat, which Charles
noticed was dented and frayed on the edges of the brim. As he went out
Charles watched him, and saw him push a five-cent piece across the desk
to the cashier. He looked very thin and his step seemed uncertain, like
that of a convalescent.
The waitress came back to Charles. "He is in bad shape," she sighed. "He
has been coming here for two weeks and eating like that. He is silly. He
won't take help from any one. He has been well brought up, I'll bet."
"I wanted to help him, but I didn't see an opening for it," Charles
said. "It was kind of you to offer it."
"Oh, I'd break if I owned this joint," she laughed. "I see things like
that every day. Our cook used to make pancakes in the window. It was
pitiful to see the people stand watching him with their poor mouths
open."
Her voice shook and she suddenly turned away. As he was leaving the
restaurant a wonderful sense of peace and quiet was on him. Already his
new life was full of attractive novelty. How could he account for it
logically? He was a fugitive from law, without any income to provide for
his needs; he had renounced every tie of blood and former associate; he
was a man without a home, without a prop to lean upon, and yet an
inexpressible content was his. Was it due to his disgust over his past
life and the sense of having put it behind him, or was it on account of
the sacrifice he had made for his brother? He could not have said.
Glancing at the card, he saw that the rooming-house was quite near, and
he turned toward it.
CHAPTER VIII
The house was a red-brick building like all the others in the block. The
steps were of the conventional brownstone with rusty iron railings. The
front door over the basement entrance was open, and he rang a jangling
bell, the handle of which was so loose in its socket that it was drawn
almost out of place. While he waited he looked into the hall. It was
clean, though the carpets on the floor and visible stairs were worn and
the massive hat-rack of walnut leaned forward from the wall as if about
to fall. The basement door was opened and a portly woman with a red face
and tousled yellow hair climbed the stair to the sidewalk and approached
him.
"I understand you have rooms to rent," Charles said.
The woman eyed him curiously, evidently surprised at the elegance of his
clothing and the politeness of his attitude, for he had taken off his
hat in greeting her.
"Top floor back, three a week; hallroom back, next to it, two," she
answered, wiping her fat hands on a white apron. "Want to see 'em?"
"If you please," Charles said.
"No trouble. That's what I'm here for," she smiled pleasantly. She came
up the steps and led him into the hall. "Three flights up," she
explained. "Will you leave your bag? If you do I'll have to lock the
door. Roomers can't leave overcoats or hats on the rack now. Thieves are
as plentiful as mosquitoes in Jersey--some in the house, as for that. My
folks keep their rooms locked."
"I'll take the bag up with me," he said, feeling that, no matter what
the rooms were like, he would take one.
The stairs were dark. A wire hanging down the shaft was attached to a
bell at the top in order that it might be rung from the basement by the
landlady as a signal to her few servants who might be working above when
needed below. Immediately over the stairs in the roof was an oblong
skylight of variegated glass through which the tinted rays of sunlight
came. The woman pushed open the door of the larger room.
"The girl hasn't had a chance to get at it yet," she apologized. "The
bed hasn't been made up, and the man that is in it has left his things
lying around. He is going away this afternoon. If you like the room I'll
put his things out. He is unable to pay and I can't run my house on
nothing."
Charles saw an open unpacked trunk of very cheap quality in the center
of the room. The sight of the chamber in its disorder was decidedly
unpleasant, and Charles did not enter it. "What is the other like?" he
asked.
"I'll show you," said the woman, and she opened the door of the
adjoining room. It was very small, and it had only a single chair and
one window with a torn shade and cheap cotton-lace curtains. The only
place to hang clothing was the back of the door, into which hooks had
been screwed. There was a tiny wash-stand with a bowl in which a pitcher
stood, and a rack holding two thin cotton towels.
"This will do very well," he said. "It is large enough for me. I want to
cut down expenses. I am out of work at present."
"Oh, I see!" the landlady said, sympathetically. "A good many young men
are out of work. That is what is the matter with the fellow next door!"
Charles paid for a week in advance, and when she was about to leave she
said:
"Is your trunk coming? If it is, I'll send it up."
"No, I don't happen to have one," he said, trying to summon a casual
smile.
"Oh," she exclaimed, avoiding his eyes, "I make a rule to insist on
that. I've had trouble with some roomers, and it was always them that
just had hand-baggage."
"I can pay you more in advance, if you wish," he proposed, anxiously. "I
don't want you to break any rules on my account."
"Oh, never mind!" she said. "I know you are all right. I'm a pretty good
judge. The Lord knows I see all sorts of folks in my business, and most
of them will do me whenever they can. I've had thugs and counterfeiters
in my house. One man that said he was studying to be a minister had six
wives scattered over the country. They arrested him one afternoon while
I was giving him a cup of tea down-stairs--the smoothest talker that
ever lived, by all odds. I missed some trinkets, but, being a widow, I
never mentioned it to the officers. You see, it was all in the papers
and any little thing like that might have put my name on the list of his
victims; as it was, the number of my house was all that got into print."
When she had left him Charles closed the door and softly locked it. He
sat down in the chair and leaned back. The little walled space gave him
an odd sense of security. It was his own, for the time being, at least.
The window was open and a cooling breeze came in, fanning back the white
curtains. He took out his cigarettes and began to smoke, and as he
smoked his mind became very active in dealing with recent events. Two
marvelous things had taken place. He was free from future contact with
his Boston friends and acquaintances, who knew of his recent escapades
and their humiliating consequences, and he had released his brother from
conditions that were even worse. The memory of William's open-mouthed
stare of hope as he clutched at life anew drenched his soul with joy
inexpressible. What did it matter that he was never again to see
William, or his wife or child, or that he was never again to walk the
historic streets of his native city? What was to become of him he knew
not. Somehow it did not seem to matter. For the first time in his
existence life had taken on a meaning that was worth consideration. It
meant that by his persistent self-obliteration another man might reach
readjustment, and a woman and a child would escape pain and disgrace.
"Good! good!" Charles exclaimed, and slapped his knee. "I haven't lived
in vain, after all--that is," was his afterthought, "if I am not caught;
but I shall escape. The infinite powers could not will it otherwise.
William shall be a new man, and--why, I am already one! It is strange,
but I am. This room"--he swept the walls with exultant eyes--"seems as
natural to me as one in a fashionable club or hotel. It is all owing to
one's point of view. I now live on this plane, and it is good. How
amusing that woman was just now! How remarkable that I should feel
inclined to laugh at her drollery! Another week and she would have been
the seventh wife. The tea in the basement proves it. She is funny. I
like her."
Then his facile mood changed. What was happening at the bank at that
very moment? He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. The bank
examiners were at work. The discovery was made. Poor, crushed William at
his desk had only to say that the brother he had trusted had fled, and,
understanding all, they would leave him alone.
CHAPTER IX
At nine o'clock that morning William Browne came down to breakfast.
Celeste was already in her place, and smiled as he bent down and kissed
her. As he drew out his chair he noticed on his plate the envelope in
his brother's handwriting. He was not expecting any communication from
Charles, and the sight of the letter startled him. What could it mean,
his morbid fears suggested, unless it was that Charles had changed his
mind, after all, and had not left the city? Perhaps he was now in his
room, sleeping late, as usual. The thought was unbearable, for it
brought back all the terrors which had beset him during the weeks just
past. He sat down, and for a moment let the envelope lie on the plate
untouched. Celeste was busy pouring his coffee.
Michael came in bringing toast. He indicated the note with a wave of his
pudgy hand. "Mr. Charles asked me to hand it to you," he said, in a
grave tone which caught the attention of Celeste and caused her eyes to
linger on his face inquiringly.
"Is he coming down?" she asked.
For the first time in his experience as a family servant Michael
deliberately decided not to answer. He pretended not to have heard and
turned from the room.
William took grim notice of the failure on the man's part. He tore off
the end of the envelope, drew out the note, and read it. A thrill of
joyous relief went over him. With tingling fingers he folded it and put
it back into the envelope, and then placed it in his pocket. The rays of
the sun falling in at the window on the plants and flowers held a beauty
he had never seen before. Life--life! After all, he was to live! Charles
was gone and all would yet be well. His wife was looking straight at him
now.
"Good news of some sort," she smiled, as she spoke.
"Why, why do you think that?" he inquired, his beaming eyes steadying
into an uneasy stare.
"Because I saw it in your face just then," she answered. "But why is he
writing you when he could have come down and seen you? Is--is he all
right?"
William wondered what he could now say. Why had it not occurred to him
that he must be as adroit in his explanations to his wife as to the bank
examiners, the directors, the public in general?
His brain seemed too heavy to deal adequately with a situation so
delicate and fraught with pitfalls, for Celeste had a subtle intuition.
"Yes, he is all right," William said. "That is, he is not--was not
drinking yesterday or last evening when I saw him at the bank. In this
note he tells me that he has left town. I don't think he slept here last
night. Did he, Michael?" The butler was entering with the eggs and
bacon. "Did my brother sleep in his room last night?"
"I think not, sir," Michael answered, stiffly, avoiding the straight
gaze of his mistress as he put the platter down by his master. "At least
he was not there half an hour ago."
"But he gave you the note," Celeste put in, insistently.
"That was last night," Michael said. "He gave it to me when he came in.
I was to hand it to you, sir, at breakfast."
"It is all right," William said, evasively. He took up a spoon to help
himself to the eggs, but awkwardly dropped it. Michael served him with
steady hands and unruffled mien. "Yes, he is all right. He says he wants
to leave Boston for a while. You know he has had some troubles of late."
"Gone without saying anything to me or Ruth?" Celeste said, her thin
lips twitching. "Why, I can't understand it! Is there anything in the
note about the length of time he will be away?"
"I can't explain now," William returned, frowning over his coffee-cup.
"Perhaps later to-day I may tell you more. I--I don't want to talk about
it now. I have hard work before me to-day at the bank--a meeting of the
directors, and other things of importance."
Celeste stared stolidly. She sat a moment erect in her chair, then said,
crisply, "If you will excuse me, I'll go attend to Ruth."
William half rose as she got up, and then with a limp attitude of relief
he sank back into his chair. He had not touched his eggs and toast. He
drank his coffee rapidly and signaled the butler to fill his cup again.
"Strong," he said; "no cream or sugar."
"Very well, sir." Michael obeyed with sympathetic deliberation. He
evidently wanted to talk to his master about his brother, but he could
find no plausible excuse for so doing. William bolted a few mouthfuls of
the food on his plate, finished his third cup of coffee, and rose.
"I shall not be here to lunch," he said. "We'll have something served in
the bank."
"Very well, sir." Michael drew his chair back and bowed as his master
left the room.
William was getting his hat from the rack in the hall when Celeste came
to the top of the stairs. "Do you want to see Ruth before you go?" she
called down. "She is awake, but not quite dressed."
"Not now, dear. I am in an awful hurry," he said, impatiently. "I have
no time to lose."
"Very well," Celeste coldly replied, and disappeared.
Outside the sun was shining brightly; the air was invigorating with its
bare hint of dewiness on the trees and sward of the Common which he was
crossing. A wondrous haze draped the Public Gardens some distance away
on his right. On his left, the golden dome of the State House blazed
under its reflected fire. The city's dull hum fell upon his ears,
punctuated by the far-off peal of a bell.
Was Charles safely away? he asked himself. If only he had one more day
between him and discovery how much better it would be! But that was out
of the question. The thing that was to be done must be done at once.
After all, what was there so terrible about it? Charles would make his
way in some fashion, and the family disgrace would be avoided. Suicide?
Nothing could be worse than suicide. Ah, but Charles might be followed
and detained! In that case he would be put on trial for the crime, and
of course he could no longer play the part he had undertaken. Then it
would be suicide for himself; yes, suicide was even yet a possible
contingent. He shuddered; the sunlight lost its charm, the air its
bracing quality. He plunged on now, glancing neither to the right nor to
the left, and his step was heavy as he entered the bank. It was open for
business, and very active in the counting-rooms. Typewriting and adding
machines were clicking. In the office of the president, a raised voice
could be heard dictating a letter in studied paragraphs. William hung up
his hat in the little anteroom and sat down at his desk. Automatically
he felt in his pocket for the note Charles had written. He understood
the afterthought which had inspired its writing, but he shrank from
availing himself of it. He must appear to be busy, he told himself, and
yet what could be done by a man in his state of suspense? Could one
dictate a letter or add a column of figures while momentarily expecting
the verdict of a jury as to whether he should live or die? The bank
examiners would soon come. The ordeal of meeting their experienced
scrutiny would be impossible in his present state of mind. How could he
escape it? The note! Ah yes, the note! With the revelation once made to
the president, his privacy would be respected. It was a terrible thing
for a brother to do, but as a matter of sheer self-preservation, it had
to be done. The dictating in the president's office had ceased. The girl
stenographer, with her notes in hand, was hurrying past his open door.
Now was the time, but he must first set the scene for the drama. He got
up, went to the vault, drew open the massive door, busied his distraught
brain over a combination, opened an inner safe. He remained there for a
moment and then came out. A clerk glanced up from a big book of
commercial reports, bowed respectfully, and then stared almost in alarm
at his superior.
"My God!" he heard the banker say. "My God!"
With Charles's note in his hand William moved on to the office of the
president. The door was partially open. He pushed it aside and entered.
A heavy-set gentleman past sixty years of age, with a reddish face and
iron-gray hair, raised a pair of frank blue eyes. "Well, Browne, we've
got to show a clean record to-day," he began, jestingly. "This fellow
McCurdy thinks he is a regular Sherlock Holmes. You know he was the
slick chap that exposed--" He suddenly checked himself. The jovial smile
left his facile mouth, for William was now in the full light of the
electric lamp on the desk.
"I have bad news, Bradford," William gulped, putting his bloodless hand
on the roll-top of the mahogany desk, the hand clutching his brother's
note.
"Bad news?" Bradford repeated, in slow amazement. "Why, what's happened?
You look--look--"
"The safe has been robbed!" William's words tripped over one another, as
they tumbled from his pallid lips. "I found this note, and went to see
if--if what it says could be true. See! Look!"
William spread out the crumpled note, and laid it before Bradford's
widening eyes, and then stepped back and stood still and silent behind
him. There was only a moment's pause. Bradford whirled around in his
revolving-chair.
"My God!" he cried. "Your brother! I was afraid something might go
wrong. Several of us were; but on your account--"
"I understand," William leaned forward. There was almost unexpected
support in the president's tone and phrasing, laden as it was with
sympathy. "I have made a great, great mistake, Bradford, and I will do
all in my power to make up for it. In a short while--a month, six
weeks--I can replace that money out of my own funds, and I want to do
it--I _must_ do it. I want the directors and you to understand that.
Will you tell them? Will you do that for me? The money is almost in
sight. I'm sure it is coming. I only need a little time."
"That will be considered later." Bradford stood up. His hand was
extended to the limp man before him. "I sympathize with you, Browne. I
have been sorry for you all along on account of your brother's conduct,
and of course I am more so now. You need not fear that the matter will
impair your own standing with us. The fact that you propose to return
the money is sufficient proof of your personal integrity. Now--now,
leave everything to me. You are in no shape for business. Why, you have
gone all to pieces! Leave it all to me. If I were you I'd go home. This
will create a sensation--it can't be avoided--and why should you be in
the midst of it?"
William heard himself muttering subdued words of thanks. He felt his
hand warmly pressed; the arm of a friend and old associate was around
his shoulders as he turned away.
Reaching his office, William entered, closed the door, and sat down at
his desk, his fixed stare on the large, spotless green blotting-pad.
What ailed him? Why was he so filled with excruciating agony? A better
way of escape than he had hoped for had opened out before him. The bank
examiners, the directors, the depositors would respect his feelings and
think nothing prejudicial to him for absenting himself from the scene.
They would regard him as a well-meaning man impoverished by the
irresponsible acts of a drunkard relative. If anything, their respect
would be heightened by his generous offer of reimbursement. He told all
this to his benumbed consciousness, but it failed to revivify the soul
within him.
"Sixty thousand dollars!" It was a voice from a telephone-booth near by,
a voice unwittingly raised too high, through excitement. It was Bradford
speaking to one of the directors at his suburban home.
"Yes, Davis, you must hurry in. We'll wait for you." Here some words
became indistinct in the tread of hurried feet in the counting-room and
corridors, then: "Oh yes, poor fellow! he is all broken up over it.
Surprised him like all the rest. I must say I didn't think it of
Charlie. I loved the boy, in a way, but I presume he got entangled in
some--Well, you know what I mean. It will get the best of 'em down
sooner or later. Yes. All right. Good-by. Oh, say, hurry in. We must
decide what we are going to do about the police. We must be quick about
that. Unpleasant as it will be for Browne, the boy must be caught. At
least that is my opinion, and I think we ought to offer a reward. Think
it over and hurry in. We need you. Good-by."
William, his stare still on the green pad before him, heard Bradford
closing the door of the booth. He recognized the voice of one of the
directors who had just come in and had met the president in the
corridor.
"It has taken me off my feet," the man said, angrily. "What a bunch of
fools we were! The young villain! What other bank would have allowed him
to be around, after--"
"'Sh!" Through the very walls and closed door William saw the
president's considerate thumb jerked in his direction. "'Sh! He'll hear.
There'll be no permanent loss to us, you know. The newspapers must put
that in. It will prevent a run on us. McCurdy is in my office. We'll get
together soon."
Their voices died down. The telephone-bells were jingling from all
directions.
"Is that police headquarters? Well, this is--"
William would have stood up, his ear to the door, had he not known so
well all that was flying over the wires. The clerk at the 'phone in the
nearest booth was now in communication with the editorial office of a
leading daily.
"Yes, you can send him around," the clerk said. "I'll tell him all I
know about it."
William clasped his hands between his gaunt knees. He had once
deliberately planned suicide to avoid facing his accusers. Yet now, with
safety in his grasp, how could he face the defamers of his innocent
brother? Strange, but this was agony--even greater agony than the other
situation. He told himself that he must get away from it, for the
moment, anyway. Bradford had suggested a loophole. No man of refinement
would want to be present during the investigation of his own brother's
ill conduct. No, he would go out, home, for a walk--somewhere, anywhere.
He had left Charles's note with Bradford. That was sufficient in all
reason to absolve William from any suspicion whatever. Yes, he would go.
There were situations under which a man's leaving such a scene would
suggest complicity, but this would imply naught else than broken-hearted
innocence burdened beyond physical endurance. Taking his hat, he went
out into the street. As he passed the main counting-room many eyes were
lifted from ponderous tomes and machines. Curiosity and sympathy
combined were in the awed and stealthy glances. Outside, at the door, a
group had gathered. It was as if a telepathic sense of the tragedy
within had permeated the walls.
"There he goes! That's his brother!" reached William's ears as he
elbowed his way to the pavement. "Hey! there comes the chief of police!"
the same voice said. "Quick action, if he _is_ fat, eh?"
William did not care to see the official in question even at a distance.
He kept his eyes on the ground and hurried away. Home? he asked himself.
No, not now--not now. Celeste would wonder. She would have to be told,
and how could he tell her the thing that his reason assured him she
would never believe? A woman's intuition! Ah, it was to be dreaded! It
did not lend itself readily to practical subterfuge. Business men, bank
examiners, skilled detectives would be led by mere physical evidence--a
man's written confession, his open flight, his reckless past and
inebriety, but a woman's faith was too deep and well-informed for that.
What was to be done--what? He crossed the Common; he plunged into the
Public Gardens; he strode through into Commonwealth Avenue, and on and
on. He knew not where he was going or with what object in view, but he
must keep in motion. He wanted to put a certain thing behind him, but
that thing was in his brain and it was producing a thousand
pictures--pictures of his boyhood with Charles as a toddling infant
beside him; of his later young manhood with Charles, a careless
school-boy shirking his studies for open-air sport; Charles as he
entered the bank under his protection; Charles in the beginning of his
reckless career; Charles as he had last seen him, drawing the
accumulated burthen of another man's folly upon his sturdy, repentant
shoulders. Great God! How could he go through with it? And yet it must
be done. The terrible game must be played to a finish. After all, was
the whole thing not right? Through this sacrifice were not a good woman
and a helpless child escaping shame and misery? True, he had made a
misstep, but so had Charles. It would be comforting to know that, in a
sense, he and Charles were on a sort of level. Ah, but they were
not--they were not! Pragmatically tested, they were different. Charles
was now living in the joyful consciousness that a great good was to come
out of his self-renunciation; but it was vastly different with the man
for whom the renunciation had been made. William had never loved his
brother so much as now. He had never before been capable of such a love.
From the depths of the pit into which he had fallen Charles appeared as
a far-off superman. William might have wept, but men do not weep while
in terror, and William was afraid. After all, he asked himself, with a
start, how could he be sure that his secret transactions in stocks might
not be ferreted out by this same McCurdy, or some one else? These facts
brought to light and the authorities would readily see through the thin
ruse that was being perpetrated.
For more than two hours he walked, here and there. He crossed the bridge
to Cambridge. His dull stare swept the various college buildings and
stately clubs, but they only reminded him of Charles and what Charles
was doing for him. Why, the day Charles was graduated his friends had
honored him with--But why think of trivialities? Perhaps at the bank
some further discovery was being made. Had he covered his tracks
completely? How could he tell? He turned abruptly homeward. He would
plead a headache; he would shut himself in his room; he would explain
nothing to Celeste. She would wonder, but the newspapers would tell her
all.
CHAPTER X
Alone in his little room, Charles became conscious of a vast sense of
fatigue, induced, no doubt, by the fact that his fears concerning his
brother's fate were now allayed. Removing his coat and shoes, he threw
himself on the hard, narrow bed and was soon soundly asleep. He did not
awaken till three o'clock in the afternoon, and might have slept longer
but for the harsh sound of a truck delivering coal through a sheet-iron
chute into the basement of a house next door. He lay for several minutes
trying to recall some vaguely delectable and flitting dreams he had just
been enjoying. Somehow, by sheer contrast to their evanescent quality,
the sordid little room and its meager furnishings produced a depression
that had not come to him since the beginning of his flight. His thoughts
were on his home, and he was all but faint under the sharp realization
that it was his home no longer.
Presently he heard a step on the stairs. It was a slow, discouraged one,
and the man who made it opened the room adjoining his and went in,
leaving the door open. Feeling the need of fresh air, Charles got up and
opened his own door. And as he did so he saw the inmate of the other
room standing over the open trunk. To his surprise he recognized him as
the man whose acquaintance he had made at the restaurant. Their eyes
met.
"I see you got fixed," the stranger said, with a smile that seemed
forced. "Well, you will like it, all right, I think. As for me, I'm
bounced. I've had my walking-papers. Mrs. Reilly is a good soul, but she
has to live, and I don't blame her. Do you know, she was awfully good
about it--tried to let me down easy, says I can take my trunk and all
that, and forget what I owe her. Take my trunk! Huh! as if I'd carry it
out on my shoulder, which I'd have to do or cheat the expressman out of
his dues."
"I'm sorry you are going," Charles said. "I wish we could be neighbors."
"Well, so am I," the other responded, listlessly, "but we can't have
everything our way. After all, the sleeping is good in the parks such
weather as this. I've done it, and I can do it again, but I sha'n't need
a trunk. I'll leave it. And I'll pay Mrs. Reilly some day. I've always
paid my way."
Some one was coming. It was the landlady herself. Her face was very
grave and full of feeling. She seemed slightly surprised at finding the
two men together. Charles explained how they had met at breakfast.
"And he sent you to me?" she said. "He recommended me?"
"Yes, that is how I got the address," Charles returned.
She turned on the young man suddenly. She was trying to smile, though
her face was full of contradictory emotions. "Mr. Mason," she faltered,
as she touched him on his arm, "I must tell you the truth, and I'll do
it right here, facing this gentleman. I hardly slept a wink last night,
tired as I was from house-cleaning and beating carpets, because I said
what I did yesterday about you leaving. And now I hear in this
roundabout way that you have been trying to help me. Humph!" she
laughed, making a sound in her throat like a suppressed sob, "do you
think I'm going to let you go? Not on your life. I've never had a young
man under my roof that I liked better. I'd rather keep you here for
nothing than to get money for the room from some of the scamps that are
floating about."
"You are very good, Mrs. Reilly," Mason said, with emotion on his part,
"but I don't think, owing you for three weeks already, that--"
"Three weeks nothing! Cut that out!" she exclaimed. She strode to a
window and examined the tattered shade. "There is no demand for rooms
now, anyway. Do you hear me, you are going to stay? I've got to have new
shades here, that's all there is about it. Yes, I want you to stay, Mr.
Mason, and that settles it. You will find work, I'm sure of it. It is a
dull season, that's all. Business will pick up later. It always does."
Mason was blandly protesting, his color high in his cheeks, when she
suddenly whirled from the room.
"You are to stay!" she called back from the head of the stairs. "You
talk to him, sir," she added to Charles. "He is a nice young man and
needs a home of some sort."
The situation being embarrassing, Charles went into his own room. Mason,
now without his coat and his shirt-collar open, stalked in after him.
"Sorry you had to hear all that," he said with wincing, tight-drawn
lips. "Great God! do you know, sir, that the hardest thing on earth for
an able-bodied man to do is to receive help from a working-woman? God!
it stings like fire--it kills me!"
"I see, I see," Charles answered. "Your feeling is natural to your
particular temperament. In your case you'd better owe it to a man. I
want to be frank with you, Mr. Mason. You can do me a favor. I have the
money to spare, and I want you to let me advance it for you."
"You? You? Great God! man, you are not in earnest! You don't mean it!"
"But I do," Charles said, firmly. "It is selfish on my part, too, for I
don't want you to go away. I'm a stranger here and I'm lonely. I'm out
of work myself; I want your companionship; strangers though we are to
each other, I feel as if we were old friends. I can't tell why this is,
but I do."
"I know, I guess," said the astounded man as he sank into the chair near
the window. "I suppose we are both troubled to some extent. I thought
you looked bothered a little at breakfast this morning. I'd like to be
with you, too, but I couldn't start out in any stranger's debt like
that, you know. It is--is almost as bad, you see, as owing a woman."
"You mustn't feel as you do in regard to me, at least," Charles said. "I
am without a home. I don't want to be alone. I would love to share the
little I have with you. Something draws me to you like ties of blood."
It was significant that Mason made no reply. He leaned forward, clasping
his big freckled hands between his knees. He dropped his head, his
reddish-brown curls lopped over his wide brow. He was silent. Charles
saw his shoulders rise and fall convulsively, as if he were trying to
suppress a tumult of feeling. Presently he raised his head. His
hunger-pinched lips were twisted awry.
"My God!" he gulped, "I didn't know I'd ever run across a fellow like
you. I thank you! I thank you! I thank you!" He got up; his knees, in
his frayed, bulging trousers, shook visibly. He moved to the door,
passed through it, and went into his own room. From his position near
the door Charles saw him reel past the trunk, totter, and clutch a post
of the old-fashioned bed. Holding it, he stood swaying back and forth,
his head hanging low on a limp neck. Charles ran to him, caught his arm,
and made him lie down on the bed. Mason was ghastly pale.
"It is nothing," he said, trying to smile carelessly. "It will pass
over. I had it once yesterday in the street."
"I know what it is." Charles bent over him tenderly. "You are weak from
hunger."
"Do you think that is it?" Mason asked, resignedly, doggedly.
"Yes, and it has to end right here and now. We are friends, aren't we?
I'm going down and bring you something this minute. It is not a woman
that is offering it, Mason. It is a friend who knows what suffering is.
Wait! Lie still. I'll hurry back."
From the restaurant where he had breakfasted that morning Charles
secured some hot chicken broth with bread and coffee. As he was hurrying
back, he met a newsboy selling afternoon papers. The thought darted
through his brain that the papers might contain an account of his flight
which had been telegraphed from Boston, and he bought a paper and thrust
it into his pocket. He met Mrs. Reilly as he was entering the front
door. Hurriedly he explained the reason for his bringing the food.
"Good gracious!" she cried. "I thought he looked bad. One of my roomers
said it was dope, but I didn't believe him. And I was turning him out in
that condition! Think of it--just think of it!"
"I am to pay the back rent he owes, Mrs. Reilly," Charles said, putting
the things down on a step of the chair and taking out his purse.
"You? Not on your life!" she threw back, warmly. "Do you think I'll let
a stranger come and do more for that poor boy than I've done, when he
was going about drumming up trade for me after what I said to him? Not
on your life! I'll feed him, too, from this on. I'll bring him his
breakfast if he ain't able to come down in the morning."
Seeing that she would not receive the money, Charles took up the things
and ascended the stairs. He found Mason seated at the window in the
cooling breeze from the open space in the rear.
His eyes held the eager gleam of a starving man shipwrecked on a raft.
He tried to make light of his hunger as Charles hurriedly placed a small
table near him and filled a soup-plate with the rich broth, which
contained tender fragments of chicken.
"Here, tackle this, you chump!" said Charles, and he laughed as he used
to laugh in his school-days. "The idea of your letting yourself starve
in this great, enlightened, Christian city!"
Mason obeyed. A warm look of reviving health was in his face as he drank
the soup. The plate was soon empty. Charles filled it again, and poured
out the hot coffee. As he did so he felt the folded newspaper in his
pocket, and a sudden cool shock of dismay went through him. What might
not the paper say? Some one might have seen him take the train in
Boston. Some one might have watched him on his arrival in New York. The
very house he was in might already be shadowed by instructed officials.
Men nowadays were captured easily enough in the vast network of the
detective system.
As he crumbled his bread into the broth Mason's satisfied glance swept
the face of his companion. "What are you worried about?" he asked. "I
saw you change all at once like you was thinking of something
unpleasant. I hope it ain't me. My God! I don't want to be a burden on a
man as kind as you are!"
"You? No, no! But I have my little troubles, Mason," Charles admitted,
frankly. "I try to keep my mind off of them, but they will sneak back at
times. Don't think it is money; it is not that, and instead of being a
burden you are just the reverse. You are a great help to me."
"I'm sorry you have worries," Mason responded, with a sigh. "But it
seems to me that every one I meet has some trouble or other. The thing
has its funny side, too. I could dance and sing with this feed in me,
thanks to you. This morning, after I left you, I went looking for a job,
as usual. I had failed to see the firms I had in view in Wall Street,
and was standing in front of an old church down there when a shabbily
dressed man with a red nose came up to me.
"'Say, boss,' he began, 'can you give a feller a dime to pay his carfare
home? I'm stranded here and got to get back.'
"It struck me as funny--his wanting money to get booze with, and me
without bread, and I laughed in his face. 'Say,' I said, 'I was about to
ask you the same question, but I've never begged in my life, and I don't
know how to go about it.'
"'Oh, is that it? New hand, eh?' he said, very cordially. 'Well, young
feller, I don't mind giving you a tip or two to start you out. I was
green at it once myself. Now look here. You are too timid. Brace up.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Pick 'em out as they come along. Take
the best-dressed first. Learn to know the labels on cigars and make a
break for the costly smokers. If you see a feller smiling, he's your
game. If you see two prosperous-looking guys chatting in a friendly way,
strike 'em both. One will try to outdo the other. I won a dollar in a
game like that once out of two fellers getting in a fine auto. Women are
all right, too, but when you see one coming you'd better just hang your
head and look sadlike, especially if you are at the lead-pencil game.'
"I thanked him," Mason finished, "but I never profited by his advice. I
simply can't beg. Say, is that an afternoon paper in your pocket? I
wonder if it carries want ads?"
"I don't really know," Charles replied, drawing the paper out slowly and
awkwardly, for in some way it seemed to cling to his pocket and his
fingers were not apt as usual. He spread it out, and as he held it
toward his companion some large head-lines on the first page caught his
attention and a cold wave of despair swept over him.
"Robbery of a Boston Bank! Absconding Clerk Makes Away with Sixty
Thousand Dollars. Ten Thousand Dollars Reward Offered!"
Mason was taking the paper into his extended hand. It seemed to Charles
as if the dismal room were enveloped in a mist. He heard Mason saying
something as if from a great height or depth as he opened the rustling
sheet.
"Excuse me," Charles managed to say. "I'll come back in a moment."
Mason made some reply which he did not hear, and Charles went into his
own room, where he stood at the window, looking out over the back yards
below. Why, he asked himself, was he so terribly alarmed all at once?
Was not all this to be expected? To do him full credit, he was not even
then thinking of himself. It was William. It was Celeste. It was little
Ruth. They were first in his thoughts. Ah, after all, was his vicarious
effort at rescue to fail totally? He stood at the window a long time,
lost in a flood of reflections. It was now sundown. Lights in the rear
rooms of the buildings across the court were flashing up. He heard a
match being struck in Mason's room and the rustling of the tell-tale
paper. He crept to the door, glanced in, and saw his new friend standing
under a flaring gas-jet, with the first page of the paper before his
eyes. Was he reading the Boston news? Would he couple his new friend's
arrival on that particular train with the events described? Well, what
did it matter? Something told him that even were he a murderer his
secret would be safe with Mason; and yet, if possible to avoid it, Mason
must not know, for Charles had promised his brother that no
circumstances should wring the truth from him. Mason remained at the
jet, reading as if wholly absorbed. There could be no doubt now that it
was the Boston report that had caught his attention.
Suddenly, while he watched him, Mason lowered the paper, and Charles had
barely time to step back to the window before Mason was on the
threshold, the paper in his hand.
"Pardon me," he said, staring through the dusk at Charles, "I did not
mean to take your paper from you. I was expecting you back every minute
and got to reading about--about"--there was a slight pause here as it
seemed to Charles's overwrought fancy--"about a poor chap in Boston who
got away with a pile of boodle. It is interesting, the whole tale.
Booze, booze! The old, old story--secret speculations, and women. Family
broken-hearted. Went back on his best friend, his only brother, who
stands at the top socially. Gosh! I've been reckless myself, but not
like that, thank God! I've been my own worst enemy, but I never hurt my
people like that. I'm sorry for the poor devil! I really am sorry! This
paper speaks of the chap as having had lots of friends before he got to
the bottom. They are usually like that, free and easy and kind-hearted.
Oh, I guess he was tempted, poor devil! And he will be caught, they
think. Left for New York last night and is hiding here."
Mason was offering him the open paper and Charles took it. Before a man
so genuine as his new friend had shown himself to be, he could not bring
himself to play a part. Silently he dropped the paper on his bed. He sat
down by it, leaving Mason standing with a sort of dumb inquiry in his
eyes. It was significant that Mason was now silent. It was significant
that he seemed to be studying Charles's features in the dim light from
the gas, studying them with an awkward, reluctant stare.
"I'll read it later--later," Charles said, faintly, taking up the paper
and laying it on the pillow of his bed. "I hope you feel better since
you've eaten," he went on, lamely. "I--I thought the soup would do you
good, weak as you are."
The natural thing for Mason to have done would have been to reiterate
his appreciation, but he only stood staring helplessly at Charles.
Afterward Charles understood. The paper contained an accurate
description of him--appearance, age, manner, and the very suit he was
then wearing. Mumbling some excuse, Mason went back to his room. Charles
heard him moving about, and now and then he saw his shadow flit across
the floor of the hall.
Some one was coming up the stairs. Could it be an officer of the law?
Why not? He stood up to meet whatever fate was in store. He dared not
look toward the stairs. He pretended to be unconcerned. Then he saw that
it was only Mrs. Reilly.
"You must have fresh towels," she smiled, genially. "I almost forgot
them. I hope you like your room, Mr.--Mr.--I didn't get your name. I
like to know who my roomers are, for parcels and mail are always
coming."
"Browne," he answered, impulsively, and then bit his lip to keep the
word back. But it was too late, and the situation was complicated by the
sudden appearance of Mason in the doorway of his room behind Mrs.
Reilly. The startled look in his face and the fact that he disappeared
at once showed that he had caught the name and grasped its significance.
"Brown? That's common enough," Mrs. Reilly laughed. "I've had Browns and
Whites and Blacks all at the same time. How is Mr. Mason? I'm going in
to see him."
Turning, she went into Mason's room, and Charles heard her laughing and
talking in her voluble way. He wanted her to leave so that he might read
the printed condemnation of himself from his old home. She seemed to
linger unnecessarily. Presently, however, she went down the stairs, and,
lighting the gas, he read the article. Mason had given him a compact
summary of the whole thing, but the details lashed him like whips of
fire. It is one thing to make a sacrifice for a loved brother, but it is
quite another to bear calmly such consequences as he was facing. It was
plain now that even if he escaped he was forever lost to his past.
He heard Mason coming back. What could the fellow want?
"I see," Mason began, almost huskily, "that I am more deeply in your
debt than I thought. Mrs. Reilly told me that you wanted to pay my back
dues. I don't know what to say to show my appreciation. I have never, in
all my knocking about, met a man with such a kind heart."
"Oh, don't mention that!" Charles replied. "It was nothing."
"But it is--it is to me, you may be sure. I'll never forget it as long
as I live. I want to serve you. I want to be your friend as you have
been mine. I've come here now to tell you that"--Charles knew what he
meant in full--"that I will stick to you through thick and thin. I think
I understand the--the trouble you spoke of just now. You will need a
friend now, and I will be that friend."
Their eyes met. They both understood.
"Yes, I need a friend," Charles said, thickly, "and it is good to find
such a one in you. Some time I may be able to speak more freely about
myself than I can now, but I will say that, as I see it, I am not--not
quite as bad as one would think."
"I know that. I'd bet my very life on it," Mason declared, warmly. "But
let all that drop. Don't tell me anything. I know men, and I know you
are pure gold. I want to help you and I will do it if it is possible."
Turning back, he entered his own room. A wonderful sense of security,
blended with a sense of new-found comradeship, descended on the lonely,
pursued man. He now had an adviser, a friend whom he could trust, and it
was one who was capable of suffering, who even now was suffering.
That night he slept soundly, strangely free from the fear of arrest.
CHAPTER XI
When William Browne reached home, after his aimless walk which he had
taken on leaving the bank that tumultuous morning, he endeavored to
reach his room unnoticed by any member of the family, but on the landing
of the second floor he met Celeste. She regarded him with a slow look of
tentative surprise.
"I've been worried", she said.
"Worried, why?" he questioned, with a start.
"Because Mr. Bradford telephoned me two hours ago that you had started
home and that you were not feeling very well. He seemed worried, from
the excited way he spoke. Of course I looked for you at once. How could
I tell but that you were seriously ill somewhere?"
"I thought a walk would do me good, and I took it," William bethought
himself to say. "If I'd known he was telephoning I would have come
directly home."
He started to pass her, but, touching his arm, she detained him. Her
cheeks were pale, her thin lips were quivering.
"What _is_ the matter?" she demanded.
"I told you I was not feeling very well," he answered, lamely, trying to
meet her penetrating stare with an air of complete self-possession.
"I've had a lot of head-work to do at night. I'm afraid I am near a
breakdown. Bradford noticed it and advised me to come home."
He passed her now, and went into his room. She followed close behind
him, and when he turned he saw her.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, in surprise, for he thought he had left her outside.
"What is it now, Lessie? You know you are acting strangely."
The window-shades were drawn down, but she resolutely raised one,
letting the sunlight stream in on him.
"If I am acting strangely, so are you--so are you," she said,
desperately. "Something has happened, William, and you can't keep it
from me. I have a right to know and I will know." She sat down in an
arm-chair and folded her white hands in her lap.
He tried to smile, but his smile was such a ghastly failure that he gave
it up. He turned to the bureau. He began to unbutton his collar and
untie his cravat. His brain had never been more active than now. She
would soon know the whole story through the afternoon papers, why keep
it from her now? The only explanation was that William Browne could not
find within himself the power and poise openly to accuse his brother.
His conscience was against it and something else was against it--the
fear of Celeste's shrewd condemnatory intuition. She did not leave him
long to his turbulent reflections. "You may as well tell me," he heard
her say. "I shall sit right here till you do. Is it about Charles?"
He was glad that she was behind him, since he had to speak.
"Yes, it concerns him," William answered. "He has gone away, no one
knows where. You know how he has been acting of late? Well, well, he is
gone this time for good, it seems."
"But that isn't all--it isn't all, and you know it isn't!" Celeste
leaned forward and fixed him with a demanding stare. "That wouldn't make
you act as you are now acting, or look as you look."
William jerked his cravat from his neck and stood folding it with
unsteady fingers. "You may as well know the--the rest," he stammered.
"It will be in the papers. He has been reckless. Half the time he did
not know what he was doing. He must have been out of his head, for a
large amount of money is missing from the vault. He had free access to
it. The examiners were due here to-day, and--and the thing could not
have been kept from them, so--so he left last night."
"I know. You told me this morning at breakfast," Celeste's tone was
firm, impersonal, impatient. "He wrote you a note. Was it about
that--about the missing money?"
William's eyes sought the carpet as he answered: "Yes, he didn't have
much else to say. He seemed to think that would be sufficient to--to
thoroughly explain why--why he was leaving."
Celeste stood up. She sighed. Her husband had never seen in her face the
expression that was in it now.
"William, I am not a child. I am not a fool!" she said, fiercely. "I
want you to be frank with me. He is your brother and we love him. Why
are you not perfectly--perfectly, absolutely open about this?"
"Open? Am I not open?" he evaded, as stupidly as a guilty child facing
indisputable proof. "What--what is wrong now? Haven't I told you all
that I know about it? You ought not to--to expect me to be in a natural,
normal state of mind after a thing like this has happened. Surely you
see that it was all due to me--I mean that but for me the directors
would not have allowed Charlie to be about the bank after he became so
dissipated. As it is--as it is, I have agreed to repay the missing
money. It will almost bankrupt me, but I shall do it some way or other."
"You did not know it before you got his note at breakfast?" Celeste
asked.
"No, not till then. It was like a bolt from a clear sky," said William,
slightly more at ease.
"I don't believe it--I don't believe a word of that," Celeste said,
firmly.
"You don't? You think I am lying, then?" William gasped. "My God! that
you should say that to me!"
"I don't believe it," Celeste repeated. "I don't, because this morning
when you came down you were very dejected. I have never seen you look so
much so. It lasted till you read Charles's note. Then your face fairly
blazed with relief. If Charles told you for the first time in that note
that he was a thief, you could not have looked like that. You say you
are all upset now over it. Why were you not then?"
"I was--I was, but I tried to hide it from you," was the slow answer.
"I know you did, in a way, but you did not assume that first look of joy
and relief. I see that you are bent on keeping me in the dark. I see a
reason for it, but I won't mention it now. When you feel like putting
complete confidence in your wife, let me know. This is our first
misunderstanding, but it is a serious one."
She left him stupefied, unable to formulate any defense. He was aware,
too, that his helplessness was in its way a confession that she was
right in her contention against him, but what was he to do? Retaining
her respect and love meant much to him, but the other horror quite
forced it into the background. Celeste must wait. The first thing to be
considered was the retention of his high standing at the bank and the
respect of the public. The seed of suspicion and disrespect was sown in
his own home, but that could not be avoided. Celeste had defended her
brother-in-law before; she was doing the same now. She was pitying the
absent man too much for the absolute safety of William's plans. The
feeling Celeste was entertaining might leak out into public channels,
flow here and there, and create dangerous pools of suspicion. William
threw himself on his bed. He really needed sleep, but his brain was too
active for repose. He was listening for the ring of the 'phone in the
hall below--or, worse than that, the ring of the door-bell. What was to
keep those shrewd men at the bank from seeing through a pretense already
half punctured by a woman? William thought of the revolver, but that was
at the bank. He thought of quick poisons, but he had none, then of gas,
but the room was too large and airy. Suddenly he sat up on the bed, his
stockinged feet on the floor, his ears strained to catch a sound which
came from the street.
"Extra! Extra! Extra! Big Bank Robbery! Sixty Thousand! Thief in High
Social Standing!"
The front door below was opened, but not closed. He crept to a window
over the stoop and peered through the ivy hanging from the wall. It was
Celeste buying a paper from a newsboy. She was reading it. Only the top
of her head was visible, outlined against the paper. How unlike Celeste
to stand like that on the stoop, in the view of people passing by! An
automatic pang of pity went through the storm-tossed man. Could that
really be the young girl whom he had loved so passionately--the frail,
tender feminine creature he had taken from the care and protection of
devoted parents, and brought to this? A dead ivy-leaf was swinging by a
spider's web and spinning before his eyes. How odd that he should note
it, that he should notice how the rays of the sun fell on the dome of
the Capitol, that he should find his brain estimating how many copies of
the paper the shouting boy could dispose of in that street! Celeste was
coming into the house. She was out of his view now. He knew that she was
in the hall below, still reading, still wondering, still bent on knowing
more than the paper could reveal.
When she had finished reading the account, Celeste, white in the face
and yet steady in her step, went back to the dining-room. Michael was
there at work, a cleaning-cloth and metal-polish in hand, rows of
knives, forks, and spoons ranged in perfect order on the table in front
of him. His mistress faced him.
"Did you know, Michael," she began, spreading out the paper on the
table, "that this paper says that Charles has stolen a large amount of
money and run away?"
Instead of answering, he bent over the paper. His kindly eyes took in
the head-lines at a glance and he looked up, slowly shaking his head.
"Yes, yes, I see it is here," he answered. "I was afraid something would
be said. I was afraid last night that something was wrong, but I don't
believe he took any money. I don't! I never will believe it."
Celeste stepped to him. He was merely a servant, but she put an eager
hand on his arm and looked into his face steadily.
"I don't believe it, either, Michael," she said, huskily. "I'll never
believe it. He's gone--he's gone, but something else was at the bottom
of it. It may have been like this--don't you see? Don't you see my idea?
I know that he was thoroughly disgusted over his dissipation--over what
they say happened at the police station and his club; he made up his
mind that perhaps he was a burden on us and determined that he would go
away. And it just happens, you see, that the money was missing and they
all connect him with the loss because he is gone?"
"It does look like that, madam," Michael said almost eagerly.
"But, Michael, Michael, what do you think of _this_?" and she pointed to
a paragraph in the paper. "Here is what they say was in the note you
handed Mr. Browne at breakfast. See! See! Look! Read it!"
Michael obeyed stolidly, then he looked up. "I know," he said, "and I
think he wrote it. I think so from something he said to me about bank
money last night, but still I don't think he is guilty. He didn't look
it, madam."
"You say he didn't?" Celeste's fine features held an incipient fire
which glowed through her thin skin and was focused in her eyes.
"No, madam, he was too--I might say, too happy-looking. Oh, I know the
difference between the looks of a guilty man and an innocent one! I've
run against both brands."
"And you say he was happy--happy over leaving us, perhaps never to
return? Don't you think that is strange, Michael?"
"Yes, madam, that was odd. I must say that I could not make it out. He
was jolly, and he was not drinking, either. If I never see him again,
I'll never forget how he looked."
"I've been to his room," Celeste went on. "He took very few things, but
do you remember the last photograph of Ruth that he had, in a silver
frame on his bureau? He took that; at least it is missing."
"Yes, I saw him put it into his bag," said the servant. "Oh, he thinks a
lot of the child!"
"And she almost worships him"--Celeste's voice shook at its lowest
depths--"and she will never understand his absence. How am I to tell
her? What am I to say? She may hear this"--indicating the paper with a
gesture of contempt--"from other children. Oh, Michael, to think that
her ideal is to be destroyed, and unjustly destroyed, for, as you say,
and as I say, our Charlie is not a thief!"
Michael had taken up his cleaning-cloth and a silver platter. "I shall
never believe that he is, madam," he faltered. "I shall not read that
paper, either. It would upset me--make me mad."
"I had to," Celeste replied, dejectedly. "I see now that I'll have to
read other things about him. He may be brought back to Boston, Michael.
You see the mention of the big reward? They will search everywhere, and
Charlie is too unsuspecting, too innocent, to get away--that is, if he
really _wants_ to get away. Did it strike you last night that he wanted
to get away unhindered, Michael?"
"Yes, madam, he was anxious about that, and that is strange, too."
"Yes, it is strange," Celeste said, "for he is not guilty. He must have
had a reason, but what could it have been, Michael?"
"I can't say, madam," answered the servant, applying his polish and
rubbing the platter vigorously.
Celeste folded the paper. "This talk is just between us," she said, half
questioningly.
"I understand, madam, I understand," Michael said, bowing as she was
leaving the room.
In the hall she met her husband coming down the stairs, his trembling
hand sliding on the walnut balustrade as for support. Their eyes met. "I
am going back to the bank," he explained. "It is after closing-time, but
the directors may be holding a consultation. It would be better, I
think, for me to offer any assistance in my power. Bradford suggested
that I stay away for a while, but I have thought it over and I think I
ought to be there."
"Yes, it might be better," Celeste agreed, or seemed to agree. "If you
hear anything bearing on--on Charlie's innocence--if they discover that
the money was taken by some one else--I wish you would telephone me at
once."
"Some one else?" he said, staring blankly. "But you see they have his
note. Bradford wanted that to--to show to the rest."
"Yes, I know about the note"--Celeste was turning into the parlor, her
eyes averted--"but something else may come up to throw light on even the
note."
"Yes, perhaps," he admitted, stupidly, "and in that case I'll 'phone
you."
She vanished through the door, and he stalked down the steps into the
street. He walked slowly and with a self-imposed limp. He kept his head
down.
"Something is wrong with her," he mused, turbulently. "She does not
believe it all. She may never be satisfied, and in that case what am I
to do? I can't keep this up. It is as unbearable as the other thing from
which Charlie saved me. But I must not give in--I must not! He has given
me his word of honor never to reveal our compact and never to return. If
he is not caught I shall escape. I may lose my wife, but I'll escape."
CHAPTER XII
Two weeks passed by. For the most of the time Charles stayed close in
the larger room, which he and Mason now occupied together, with a view
to the utmost economy. They had become warm friends. When Charles's
funds were almost exhausted Mason received a check for fifty dollars in
payment of a debt owed him by a brother-in-law in the West, and Charles
had to share it.
Mason never again alluded to the discovery he had made in regard to the
trouble Charles was in, excepting once, when they were walking together
in a crowded street on the East Side, and he had noticed that Charles
seemed to be slightly nervous.
"Leave it to me," said Mason, suddenly. "I'll keep a sharp watch out,
and I'll let you know if I see the slightest thing that looks fishy.
Keep your mind off of it. I don't want to know any more about it,
either. From what you say I gather that you are bound by some promise or
other to keep your mouth eternally closed, even to a friend like me.
That's all right. I admire you all the more for it. You may be a thief
to those Boston folks, but you are not to me. The fact that you don't
even deny the charge means nothing to me."
Upon another occasion, one rainy evening Mason took up the framed
photograph of Ruth which Charles always had on the bureau, table, or
mantelpiece, and stood admiring it.
"Say, pal," he said, suddenly, as he wiped the glass over the little
face with his handkerchief, "if I ever leave you I'll want to steal this
thing. It has grown on me. She must be a beauty, and so sweet and
gentle."
Charles rose, took the picture into his hands, and stood looking at it
steadily. "I wouldn't take the world for it," he said.
"I think I know something about her--I can guess. You say you used to
drink hard at one time, though you don't now."
"Yes, that's true, but what else?" Charles went on, still feasting his
homesick eyes on the picture.
"I don't want to bring up things that will pain you for no good in the
world," Mason said, "so let's drop it."
"No, go ahead," Charles urged, half smiling. "I want you to finish, for
I think, from some little things you have dropped now and then, that you
are mistaken about me--in one particular, at least."
"Well," Mason went on, "I have an idea that you were once happily
married and that--well, the old habit got the upper hand so far that
your wife took the little girl and went away."
"Wrong, old man," Charles said, with a weary smile. "I've never been
married."
"Ah, then she is a little sister?"
"No, only a niece," Charles interrupted, "but I love her and I think she
loved me at one time, and may still, perhaps. They say that children
soon forget those they love, and, as I shall never see Ruth again, she
is sure to forget me; but I shall never forget her. Do you know, old
man, that that very little angel has seen me drunk. She has crept into
my arms and hugged me tight when I was too drunk to know she was near. I
came to myself one day when she was crying in alarm because she could
not wake me up. Oh, if I could blot that out! Perhaps when Ruth is grown
she will recall that, scene more vividly than any other associated with
me. It is odd, but I don't feel as if I shall ever drink a drop
again--the desire has left me completely. I don't know why, but it has."
"Our talk is on the wrong line to-night," Mason said, sympathetically.
"You said once that it was absolutely impossible for you ever to go back
to your old friends, and if that is so this talk is doing you no good at
all."
"No, it is doing no good," Charles admitted. "When I think of those old
days my very soul seems torn apart. Lost opportunities--the 'what might
have been' but wasn't! Yes, let's talk of the present. What chance for
work now?"
Mason lighted his pipe, which he had been carefully filling. "There is a
chance, but not here in New York. To tell you the truth, I rather like
the idea, for it is the only thing I have seen in which we could stay
together."
"A chance? What is it?" Charles demanded, putting the picture back into
its place.
"You may laugh, but this monotony is killing me, and I am thinking
seriously of taking the plunge," Mason said, as he puffed away. "I want
you to come, but not if you don't like it. This morning I met a man in
Union Square who told me he was taking a week off from a job with a
traveling circus and menagerie. It is now in Philadelphia. It will be in
Newark, New Jersey, the day after to-morrow. He says men who are willing
to do hard manual labor can always get employment, good food, fair
sleeping-quarters on the train, and two dollars a day promptly paid.
I've always liked outdoor work. The thing fairly charms me, for I want
to see more of the country, but I don't want to throw you over. I've got
used to you. I'd be lost without you. I've never had a real pal before."
Charles lighted his own pipe. He frowned as if in deep reflection. "I'm
going to be frank," he said, presently. "I am like you. I like the idea
of that sort of life immensely, and I am dying of dry rot. But I am
wondering, would a man--well, a man like me, for instance--be as safe
there as here."
"Safer, in my opinion," Mason declared, eagerly. "In a roundabout way I
dug it out of the chap that many of the hangers-on were fellows who, for
different reasons, were dodging officers of the law. He said he did not
like that feature of the life, but that you don't have to associate with
them unless you like. Gosh! you know, I like the idea, and I wish you
did!"
"Newark, day after to-morrow," Charles said, thoughtfully. "That's
close. Well, I'll think it over. It looks inviting, doesn't it? Yes,
I'll think it over. What will we have to do?"
Mason laughed. "Feed the animals; drive stakes and pull them up; help
about the big tent-kitchen; dress up like Turks or some other outlandish
creature and march in the street processions, and Heaven only knows what
else."
"It is getting interesting," Charles smiled. "I'll let you know soon.
Keep it in view. It is the only thing in sight, and we will starve at
this rate."
The two friends happened to be in Madison Square the following
afternoon, and were attracted by the sight of several groups of people
gathered around some "soap-box" orators in the space set aside by the
city for such meetings. Speeches were made daily by the men and women on
religion, science, philosophy and every form of politics from crass
anarchy to ideal socialism. For the most part, the speakers were of
foreign birth or the descendants of foreigners. Presently they were
drawn into a group that was gathering about a blond-bearded philosopher
who had the ascetic face of a mystic and who was telling how he had
forsaken a life of practical activity and had found infinite peace. Men
in the group who openly avowed themselves to be atheists began to laugh
and jeer and ask pertinent questions. The speaker replied to them. A
fierce argument arose. The noise of the discussion attracted persons in
the other groups and Mason and Charles found themselves hemmed in by the
close-pressing human mass. Charles, who was deeply interested in the
man's theory of renunciation, suddenly felt his friend nudging him with
his elbow. Looking into his face he detected a queer expression in it.
"Let's get out," Mason said, in a low voice. There was no mistaking the
insistent note of warning which it held, and, sure now that something
was wrong, Charles quickly assented and began worming his way through
the crowd. It was difficult to do so, for the spectators were all deeply
interested in the argument and did not care to stand aside. As they
laboriously moved forward, inch by inch, Charles noticed that Mason now
and then cast a furtive backward glance into the throng, as if anxious
to avoid some one.
"Come on, come on!" he kept urging. Finally they were free and on the
open sidewalk. "Come on!" Mason repeated, his eyes on the ground.
"What is the matter?" Charles asked, bewildered.
Looking back toward the crowd, Mason suddenly lowered his head again and
said, warningly: "Don't look back. I see him watching us. He followed us
out of the crowd." Mason swore under his breath. "I don't like the looks
of this a bit--not a bit!"
Further along he explained. "I was looking over that bunch of men just
now when all at once I saw a short man a little behind us watching you
like a hawk. He evidently didn't think we were together. He never let
your face leave him for a minute. I saw his eyes gleaming, as if he had
just discovered you and was studying your features."
"And you think--" Charles did not finish.
"He looked to me like a detective in plain clothes. I have seen some of
them, and he was of that type. He couldn't hide his interest. You know
your picture has been published. It looked to me like this fellow was
comparing you to it in his mind. I don't know, but I am sure we must
dodge him if we can."
"I ought not to have come out like this," Charles sighed, gloomily.
"I've been a fool."
"Never mind, come on," Mason said, looking back. "I don't see him now.
We'll give him the shake."
They went up to Central Park; they sat there on one of the benches till
sundown, and then went back to their room. Both were very grave and
neither had much to say.
CHAPTER XIII
At seven o'clock Mason proposed that he should go out and get something
for them to eat, while Charles stayed in the house to avoid the
possibility of being seen by any one who might be searching for him.
Charles consented, but when his friend was gone his sheer loneliness
became all but unbearable. The tawdry room with its cheap gas-fixtures
of rusted cast iron, the machine-made oil-paintings, the tattered,
dust-filled carpet, the cracked furniture, seemed a sort of prison cell
in which he was confined. Not since his disappearance from Boston had
the outlook seemed so hopeless. He told himself that it would only be a
question of a day or so now before he would be caught and taken back to
his old home. He shuddered at the thought of the scandal in the mind of
the public. William, who no doubt had felt somewhat secure for the past
two weeks, would find himself on that black brink again. Celeste--poor,
gentle, sensitive Celeste--would suffer now in reality, and little Ruth!
Why, the child might even ask to see him there in jail, and what reason
could he give her for his incarceration? He paced the floor back and
forth. How long Mason was in returning! Had anything detained him?
Presently Mason came back. He brought nothing with him. He looked too
much concerned to have thought of his errand.
"Say, it's serious," he began. "I didn't have time to go to the
restaurant. As I went out, old man, I saw that same fellow standing in
front of our door, across the street. He was in the shadow, but I saw
him and recognized him by his build. I couldn't doubt it, for when he
saw me come out he bolted. He turned and went straight to the corner and
down the avenue. I've been watching outside ever since to see if he was
coming back."
"Then he followed us," Charles said.
"Every step of the way to the Park. He had us under his eye while we
were there, and he dogged our steps back here. Say, you've got to listen
to me."
"I'm ready," Charles said, gloomily. "You can decide better than I can."
"Here is my idea," Mason said. "He evidently intends to get a warrant
for you, but it may not be possible till to-morrow. We must get away
from here to-night--at once. There is no time to lose. We are going to
Newark."
"The circus?" Charles said, inquiringly.
"Yes, but we must not be followed by that fellow, or any one else. Now
I'll pack a few things, and you do the same. Make a small parcel. Don't
bother with your bag. Thank God, our rent is paid. We are not going by
train. That would be risky. We are going to walk most of the way through
the country. It will be safer than in the trains that may be watched by
the police. Hurry now!"
Mason was soon ready. "Listen," he said, impressively. "I'm going
outside now. You bring both parcels with you. I'll stroll along the
street and make sure that the coast is clear. When you come out, if you
see me with a newspaper in my hand it will mean that you are to follow
me, and you do it. If I have no paper you are to go back and wait here
till I come."
Ten minutes later Charles descended the stairs. He deemed it lucky that
he met no one. A clock below was striking ten. Outside he looked up and
down the street. Presently he saw Mason on the first corner. He was in
front of a laundry, a newspaper in hand. He saw that Mason had seen him,
for he turned suddenly and began to walk westward. Charles followed for
several blocks. Presently Mason stopped in a spot where there was little
light, and waited for him to come up.
"Coast is clear, I think," Mason softly chuckled. "That skunk thinks his
game is safe till to-morrow, for he doesn't dream we are on to him."
"Where are we going now?" Charles asked, vastly relieved by his friend's
confident tone, and the sudden sense of the freer life into which they
were going like two children of Fate.
"We must cross the Hudson somewhere," Mason answered. "We could take the
ferry at One Hundred and Thirtieth Street. It is less apt to be watched
than the others, but still I want to avoid even that chance of
detection. There are some small boat-houses near One Hundred and
Eighty-first Street. I've hung about them a good deal. If we can get
there unnoticed we can be taken across in a row-boat or small
launch--easy enough to pretend to be camping out over there. Hundreds
are doing it this summer. We could take a car up, Subway or surface, but
I think we ought to make for the river-front and do it afoot. It is a
long walk, but it is safe."
"It suits me," Charles agreed, and side by side they continued in their
westward course.
Reaching Broadway, they walked northward till they came to Fiftieth
Street; then they turned to the river-front. It was a fine night. The
Albany excursion-boats, brilliantly lighted, were passing. Hundreds of
smaller craft, yachts, sailboats, launches, and canoes, dotted the
surface of the broad stream, and from some of them came strains of band
music, the strident notes of a clarinet, merry voices singing to the
accompaniment of stringed instruments.
"Fine! Fine!" Mason kept muttering. "We ought to have done this before.
You can't beat it at this time of the year."
They were passing a small restaurant and Mason paused. "We've got to
eat," he laughed. "I like the looks of this snug joint. What do you
say?"
Charles consented. The haunting sense of danger was gone. He was hungry.
They went in. The hour was too late, the single attendant said, for
anything to be served except sandwiches and coffee. They ordered a
supply, drank two cups of coffee each, and ate their sandwiches as they
walked on.
They were soon in the neighborhood of Columbia University and Grant's
Tomb. The moonlight on the river, the abrupt cliffs of the Palisades
beyond, on the top of which gleamed the lights of an amusement park,
drew Charles into a reminiscent mood which suddenly became painful in
the extreme. He told himself that it was no wonder that Mason could be
cheerful. He had a home and relatives to whom he could return when he
wished, but with Charles the wide world was his only home. He was so
bound by his promise to his brother that he could not reveal his entire
past even to Mason, who had proved himself worthy of all confidence.
Remorse over his ill-spent, dissipated youth was all but gone, for
something told him that he was fully atoning for all the mistakes of the
past. It was William he was saving, yes, and William's good wife and
sweet child growing into promising girlhood. After all, what did it
matter what became of him? Nothing, he thought, and with the reflection
came a vast sense of peace and freedom from care. He was a man without
home or kin now, but what did it matter? All sorts of interesting things
could happen to a world-wanderer like himself. He could tell no one who
he was or where he was from, but surely he need not be unhappy. Indeed,
whenever he thought of William's escape from disgrace and death by his
own hand, and realized that his vicarious sacrifice had made possible
that escape, he felt wondrously happy.
It was midnight when they reached the boat-house where Mason intended to
secure passage across the river. It was a long, narrow, two-story
building, with a float at one end and a dance-hall on the upper floor.
The hall was lighted up and a dance was in progress. Through the windows
they could see the young couples waltzing.
"Glad it is going on," Mason said, reflectively.
"Our chance is all the better to get across. Some of these fellows live
in tents on the Jersey shore and may be going back to-night. Stay down
here on the float and I'll nose about. I know the owner of the house
fairly well."
Charles sat on a bench on the float. The vast sheet of water was smooth.
The larger boats were no longer in sight. Now and then a canoe holding a
pair of lovers drifted by, or a sailboat almost be-calmed. The sound of
a piano and a violin came through the raised windows of the dance-hall,
and the low swishing of sliding and tripping feet, merry laughter and
jesting, loud orders for drinks or cigars in the bar. Presently Mason
came back. Charles saw at a glance that he was pleased over something.
"Boat-house man says he will take us across in a few minutes for a
dollar. Cheap enough. He thinks we are out for a hike on the other side.
He has a launch. He has to wait till the dance is over. It is breaking
up now."
This was true, for the couples came down the stairs and began to get
into canoes and launches. The sight of the lovers drew Charles's
thoughts back to himself again. Why had he not thought of it before?
Love and marriage were the things he could never expect to enjoy, and
yet they now seemed to be essential to life. How lovely was the girl
with the golden hair and brown eyes who laughed so joyously as her
escort tripped over a coil of rope and all but fell into the water! And
what a giant of a creature was the man himself as he lifted the slender
girl in his arms and playfully shook her to silence her amused twitting.
"Here you are, young feller!" It was the boat-house keeper drawing his
little launch alongside the float. "I'll spin you over in five minutes
on water like this. You guys are taking an early start for a hike."
"Obliged to do it," Mason fibbed, with a straight face. "We have to
catch some chaps at Alpine before they start in the morning. All right.
We are ready."
The tiny engine began to rattle. The boat glided away from the float and
was soon under way. Looking back at the almost deserted boat-house
Charles had a sense of safety from pursuit that was very soothing. He
saw, too, that the same thought was evidently in Mason's mind, for he
was very easy in his manner and had much to say to the boatman in regard
to fishing and boating. They landed at a little pier almost directly
opposite the boat-house. Mason paid the fare and the boatman left them.
"Smooth, smooth! Slick, slick!" Mason chuckled. "We are safe now. What
do you say; shall we lie down here and take a nap till morning, or go
right on? It is six of one and a half-dozen of the other?"
"It is all the same to me," Charles replied. "I am not really tired."
"I am not, either," Mason said. "I'll tell you, though, that my choice
would be to hike it by night. I've been over the road once before, and
if we go now we will not be noticed by a single soul, while in the
daytime we might accidentally be seen by some one on the lookout for
you. It is a stiff climb to the top, but let's make it and go on to
Newark. We'll get jobs. I'm absolutely sure of it, from what that fellow
told me in Union Square. They happen to be very short on help. Well, it
will mean three square meals a day, plenty of outdoor exercise, and a
bunk to sleep in over rattling car-trucks, I'm going to take to it like
a fish to water."
"I shall like it, too," Charles declared, and they set out for the road
leading up the Palisades to the level country above. The joyous mood of
his companion communicated itself to Charles, and he felt very
light-hearted. The warm sense of a new existence tingled over him. He
felt all but imponderable as he strode along by his friend in the clear
moonlight and the bracing air from the river.
PART II
CHAPTER I
It was the beginning of the month of May, one year later. The two
friends were still boon companions. They had joined the force of
canvasmen of the circus and menagerie at Newark, gone with the
organization to California, and were now in the mountains of Georgia,
where the company was billed to exhibit and perform at the town of
Carlin.
Their long train reached the place at three o'clock in the morning, drew
up on a side-track near the circus-grounds, and the canvasmen were
gruffly ordered out of their bunks to go to work. Charles and Mason
slept opposite each other, and now stood dressing in their rough clothes
in the dim light of a dusky oil-lantern at the end of the car.
"Dog's life, eh?" Mason said, recalling a remark Charles had made the
night before.
"That and nothing else," Charles muttered; "I've had enough, for my
part."
"Well, I have, too," Mason admitted, "and I'm ready to call it off. But
I think I ought to stick till we get back to New York."
"I'm not sure that I ought to go back there," Charles said, in a more
guarded tone, as they went down the narrow aisle to the door.
"Oh, I see what you mean," Mason said, "and after all, you may be dead
right about it. But what would you do if you called it off right here
to-day, as I know you are thinking of doing?"
But, somewhat to his surprise, Charles made no response. It was as if he
had not heard the question, so deeply was he absorbed in thought. There
was no time for further conversation. The foreman drove them like sheep
to the work of unloading the canvas, ropes, and stakes, and the hasty
erection of the tents. Seat-building, ring-digging, stake-driving with
heavy sledge-hammers, kept them busy till after sunup. Then it was all
over. They were permitted to go to the dining-tent set aside for the
"razor-backs," as the canvasmen were called, to get their breakfast; and
then they were free to sleep or amuse themselves till ten o'clock, when
they were expected to get ready for the street procession. An event was
due to-day which occurred only once a month, and that was the payment of
wages, so, after breakfast, they joined the string of men waiting their
turn at the windowed wagon of the paymaster to get their money. Mason
got his first, and Charles found him waiting for him after he had been
paid.
"What's up now--sleep?" Mason inquired.
"I thought I'd look around the town," Charles replied. "I'm tired, of
course, but I don't feel sleepy."
"I'll go with you," Mason smiled. "I'm trying to get on to your curves.
You mystify me to-day. I've never seen you look like you do now. What
has happened?"
They were now entering the main street of the town, at the foot of which
the circus-grounds were situated. Green hills encircled the place and
beyond rose the mountain ranges and towering peaks. The spring air was
quite invigorating; the scene in the early sunlight appeared very
beautiful and seductive.
"I was going to mention it to you," Charles said. "I ought to have done
so sooner. You see, in a way, it concerns my old trouble, and I've been
trying to forget that."
"Oh, well, don't mention it, then," Mason said, sympathetically. "I know
how you feel about it."
"But I must tell you this and be done with it," Charles went on. "Last
night as we were loading I heard two of our gang talking on the quiet.
It seems that some expert bank robbers are with us, using us as a
shield. In fact, they are on the force itself. Telegrams have been sent
out, and we may all have to stand an examination such as we went through
in New Orleans. That was enough for me. It seemed to me that I got
through that last ordeal by the very skin of my teeth. I can't answer
all those questions again--I simply can't. It is different with you. You
have a straight tale to tell, but I haven't!"
"Where did they think the examination would be made?" Mason wanted to
know.
"Next stop--Chattanooga."
"Ah, I see," Mason mused, "and, as you have been paid off--"
"If I am going to quit, now's the time," Charles answered, gravely. "I
don't want to part from you, but really we are not situated alike. You
have been homesick for the last three months. You cannot hide it. You
are always talking of your people."
Mason blushed visibly. "Well, so are you homesick. I wish I could see
that fellow Mike you are always talking about. I know every story by
heart that the Mick ever told, and the little girl and your brother and
his wife--why, you think about them as often as I do about my folks."
Charles made no denial. They were passing one of the churches of the
town. It was an old brick building with ivy growing on the walls, a
beautiful sward about it. The front doors were open. They paused and
looked in. A negro sexton was sweeping the floor near the pulpit. Mason
was for moving on, but his friend seemed to linger.
As they left, Charles said, frankly: "I'm not a member of any church and
I have no religious creed, but if I lived in this town I'd want to come
here every Sunday morning and sit back somewhere in the rear and listen,
and get into contact with the people, real people--not the sort we've
been traveling with for nearly a year. O God! I'm weary of it--weary,
weary! I want a home of some sort. You have one that you can go to. I
haven't, but I want to make one. Strange idea, isn't it? But I want it."
Mason laid his hand on his friend's arm gently, tenderly. "Poor old
chap!" he said. "I understand you better now. And you think you could
make a permanent home for yourself in a place like this?"
"Something tells me to stop here--right here, old man. Something seems
to say that it is to be my home for all the rest of my life. Ever since
we turned northward I've felt uneasy. I've not slept so well. I've
dreamed of disaster up there. I've not heard from home once since we
left New York. I've seen no paper. I don't know what they think of me.
Some of my people may be dead. I don't know. I don't dare to think of
it. I want to blot it all out, for it no longer pertains to me."
"I see," Mason said, gloomily. "Well, you must be your own judge and I
must be mine. Somehow I can't dig the homesick feeling out of myself. I
thought I could stick to the gang till we got back to New York, but, as
I have my pay, and some more besides, if you quit I'll follow suit and
travel first-class, like a gentleman, back to New York, where I'll stop
a while before going home. Have you made up your mind?"
"Yes, fully," Charles answered. "I'll find something to do. I'd like to
work on a farm. Out in the country my life could be even more private
and secluded than here in a town like this. See those hills? They seem
made for me, old man. They seem to have fallen from the eternal blue
overhead. They will shelter me. I'll work and sleep and forget. The
inhabitants will never know who I am, but I'll like them. I'll serve
them, and perhaps they will like me a little after a while. The manager
can easily fill my place."
"Well, then, it is settled," said Mason, with a deep breath. "It seems
strange to think of parting with a pal like you, and I guess it means
for good and all. You don't intend ever to see your folks again?"
"My relatives, no," Charles said. "I've thought often of writing back to
dear old Mike, but don't think it would be quite safe. If I had any way
of communicating with him other than the mails I would let him know
where I am. I could trust him with my life."
"How about letting me go to Boston? I could see him on the quiet and
tell him about you."
"No, that would be out of your way," Charles protested. "Never mind. It
is better as it is. I'd like to hear from Mike, but he belongs to the
past with all the rest. Let's go to the car and pack."