The young editor was a little startled. The man he had just quitted
certainly was not dangerous looking, and yet, remembering what his
son had said, there WERE homicidal possibilities. “Look here,” he said
quickly, “he's not there NOW. Why don't you seize the opportunity to
slip into the house, make peace with your mother and sisters, and get
them to intercede with your father when he returns?”
“Thar ain't any mother; she died afore I left. My sister Almiry's a
little girl--though that's four years ago and mebbee she's growed.
My brothers and me didn't pull together much. But I was thinkin' that
mebbee YOU might go in thar for me first, and see how the land lays;
then sorter tell 'em 'bout me in your takin', chipper, easy way;
make 'em laugh, and when you've squared 'em--I'll be hangin' round
outside--you kin call ME in. Don't you see?”
The young editor DID see. Ridiculous as the proposal would have seemed
to him an hour ago, it now appeared practical, and even commended itself
to his taste. His name was well known in the county and his mediation
might be effective. Perhaps his vanity was slightly flattered by his
companion's faith in him; perhaps he was not free from a certain human
curiosity to know the rest; perhaps he was more interested than he cared
to confess in the helpless home-seeker beside him.
“But you must tell me something more of yourself, and your fortune and
prospects. They'll be sure to ask questions.”
“Mebbee they won't. But you can say I've done well--made my pile over
in Australia, and ain't comin' on THEM. Remember--say I 'ain't comin' on
them'!”
The editor nodded, and then, as if fearful of letting his present
impulse cool, ran off towards the house.
It was large and respectable looking, and augured well for the present
fortunes of the Wilkes's. The editor had determined to attack the
citadel on its weaker, feminine side, and when the front door was opened
to his knock, asked to see Miss Almira Wilkes. The Irish servant showed
him into a comfortable looking sitting-room, and in another moment with
a quick rustle of skirts in the passage a very pretty girl impulsively
entered. From the first flash of her keen blue eyes the editor--a fair
student of the sex--conceived the idea that she had expected somebody
else; from the second that she was an arrant flirt, and did not intend
to be disappointed. This much was in his favor.
Spurred by her provoking eyes and the novel situation, he stated his
business with an airy lightness and humor that seemed to justify
his late companion's estimate of his powers. But even in his cynical
attitude he was unprepared for the girl's reception of his news. He had
expected some indignation or even harshness towards this man whom he was
beginning to consider as a kind of detrimental outcast or prodigal, but
he was astounded at the complete and utter indifference--the frank and
heartless unconcern--with which she heard of his return. When she had
followed the narrator rather than his story to the end, she languidly
called her brothers from the adjoining room. “This gentleman, Mr. Grey,
of the 'Argus,' has come across Jim--and Jim is calculating to come here
and see father.”
The two brothers stared at Grey, slightly shrugged their shoulders with
the same utter absence of fraternal sympathy or concern which the girl
had shown, and said nothing.
“One moment,” said Grey a little warmly; “I have no desire to penetrate
family secrets, but would you mind telling me if there is any grave
reason why he should not come. Was there any scandalous conduct,
unpardonable offense--let us even say--any criminal act on his part
which makes his return to this roof impossible?”
The three looked at each other with a dull surprise that ended in a
vacant wondering smile. “No, no,” they said in one voice. “No, only”--
“Only what?” asked Grey impatiently.
“Dad just hates him!”
“Like pizon,” smiled Almira.
The young editor rose with a slight increase of color. “Look here,” said
the girl, whose dimples had deepened as she keenly surveyed him, as
if detecting some amorous artifice under his show of interest for her
brother. “Dad's gone down to the sheepfold and won't be back for an
hour. Yo' might bring--YO' FRIEND--in.”
“He ain't wantin' anything? Ain't dead broke? nor nothin', eh?”
suggested one of the brothers dubiously.
Grey hastened to assure them of Jim's absolute solvency, and even
enlarged considerably on his Australian fortune. They looked relieved
but not interested.
“Go and fetch him,” said the witch, archly hovering near Grey with
dancing eyes; “and mind YO' come back, too!”
Grey hesitated a moment and then passed out in the dark porch. A
dripping figure emerged from the trees opposite. It was Jim.
“Your sister and brothers will see you,” said Grey hastily, to avoid
embarrassing details. “HE won't be here for an hour. But I'd advise you
to make the most of your time, and get the good-will of your sister.”
He would have drawn back to let the prodigal pass in alone, but the man
appealingly seized his arm, and Grey was obliged to re-enter with him.
He noticed, however, that he breathed hard.
They turned slightly towards their relative, but did not offer to
shake hands with him, nor did he with them. He sat down sideways on an
unoffered chair. “The old house got burnt!” he said, wiping his lips,
and then drying his wet hair with his handkerchief.
As the remark was addressed to no one in particular it was some seconds
before the elder brother replied: “Yes.”
“Almira's growed.”
Again no one felt called upon to answer, and Almira glanced archly at
the young editor as if he might have added: “and improved.”
“You've done well?” returned one of the brothers tentatively.
“Yes, I'm all right,” said Jim.
There was another speechless interval. Even the conversational Grey felt
under some unhallowed spell of silence that he could not break.
“I see the old well is there yet,” said Jim, wiping his lips again.
“Where dad was once goin' to chuck you down for givin' him back talk,”
said the younger brother casually.
To Mr. Grey's relief and yet astonishment, Jim burst into a loud laugh
and rubbed his legs. “That's so--how old times DO come back!”
“And,” said the bright-eyed Almira, “there's that old butternut-tree that
you shinned up one day when we set the hounds on you. Goodness! how you
scooted!”
Again Jim laughed loudly and nodded. “Yes, the same old butternut. How
you DO remember, Almira?” This admiringly.
“And don't you remember Delia Short?” continued Almira, pleased at the
admiration, and perhaps a little exalted at the singular attention which
the young editor was giving to those cheerful reminiscences. “She, you
know, you was reg'larly sick after, so that we always allowed she kinder
turned yo' brain afore you went away! Well! all the while you were
courtin' her it appears she was secretly married to Jo--yo' friend--Jo
Stacy. Lord! there was a talk about that! and about yo' all along
thinkin' yo' had chances! Yo' friend here,” with an arch glance at Grey,
“who's allus puttin' folks in the newspapers, orter get a hold on that!”
Jim again laughed louder than the others, and rubbed his lips. Grey,
however, offered only the tribute of a peculiar smile and walked to the
window. “You say your father will return in an hour?” he said, turning
to the elder brother.
“Yes, unless he kept on to Watson's.”
“Where?” said Jim suddenly.
It struck Grey that his voice had changed--or rather that he was now
speaking for the first time in his natural tone.
“Watson's, just over the bridge,” explained his brother. “If he went
there he won't be back till ten.”
Jim picked up his India rubber cape and hat, said, “I reckon I'll just
take a turn outside until he gets back,” and walked towards the door.
None of his relatives moved nor seemed to offer any opposition. Grey
followed him quickly. “I'll go with you,” he said.
“No,” returned Jim with singular earnestness. “You stay here and keep
'em up cheerful like this. They're doing all this for YOU, you know;
Almiry's just this chipper only on your account.”
Seeing the young man was inflexible, Grey returned grimly to the room,
but not until he had noticed, with some surprise, that Jim, immediately
on leaving the house, darted off at a quick run through the rain and
darkness. Preoccupied with this, and perhaps still influenced by the
tone of the previous conversation, he did not respond readily to the
fair Almira's conversational advances, and was speedily left to a seat
by the fire alone. At the end of ten minutes he regretted he had ever
come; when half an hour had passed he wondered if he had not better try
to reach the Summit alone. With the lapse of an hour he began to feel
uneasy at Jim's prolonged absence in spite of the cold indifference
of the household. Suddenly he heard stamping in the porch, a muttered
exclamation, and the voices of the two brothers in the hall. “Why, dad!
what's up? Yo' look half drowned!”
The door opened upon the sodden, steaming figure of the old man whom he
had met on the road, followed by the two sons. But he was evidently
more occupied and possessed by some mental passion than by his physical
discomfort. Yet strong and dominant over both, he threw off his wet coat
and waistcoat as he entered, and marched directly to the fire. Utterly
ignoring the presence of a stranger, he suddenly turned and faced his
family.
“Half drowned. Yes! and I might have been hull drowned for that matter.
The back water of the Fork is all over Watson's, and the bridge is gone.
I stumbled onto this end of it in the dark, and went off, head first,
into twenty feet of water! Tried to fight my way out, but the current
was agin me. I'd bin down twice, and was going down for the third
time, when somebody grabbed me by the scruff o' my neck and under the
arm--so!--and swam me to the bank! When I scrambled up I sez: 'I can't
see your face,' sez I, 'I don't know who you are,' sez I, 'but I reckon
you're a white man and clear grit,' sez I, 'and there's my hand on it!'
And he grabs it and sez, 'We're quits,' and scooted out o' my sight.
And,” continued the old man staring at their faces and raising his voice
almost to a scream, “who do you think it was? Why, THAT SNEAKIN' HOUND
OF A BROTHER OF YOURS--JIM! Jim! the scallawag that I booted outer the
ranch five years ago, crawlin', writhin' back again after all these
years to insult his old father's gray hairs! And some of you--by
God--once thought that I was hard on him!”
*****
The sun was shining brightly the next morning as the young editor halted
the up coach in the now dried hollow. As he was clambering to a seat
beside the driver, his elbow was jogged at the window. Looking down he
saw the face of Jim.
“We had a gay talk last night, remembering old times, didn't we?” said
the prodigal cheerfully.
“Yes, but--where are you going now?”
“Back to Australia, I reckon! But it was mighty good to drop in on the
old homestead once more!”
“Rather,” said the editor, clinging to the window and lingering in
mid-air to the manifest impatience of Yuba Bill; “but I say--look
here!--were you QUITE satisfied?”
Jim's hand tightened around the young editor's as he answered
cheerfully, “Yes.” But his face was turned away from the window.