times indeed. In spite of her bravest efforts the rent fell hopelessly
in arrears. For a time her pride kept her away from the Shrimplins, who
might have helped her. To go to the little lamplighter's was to hear
bitter truths about her husband; Mr. Shrimplin's denunciations were
especially fierce and scathing, for here he felt that righteousness was
all on his side and that in abusing the absconding Joe he was performing
a moral act.
But at last Nellie's fortunes reached a crisis. An obdurate landlord set
her few poor belongings in the gutter. Even in the most prosperous days
their roof-tree had flourished but precariously and now it was down and
level with the dust; seeing which Mrs. Montgomery placed her youngest in
the ancient vehicle which had trundled all that generation of
Montgomerys, drew her apron before her eyes and wept. But quickly
rallying to the need for immediate action she swallowed her pride and
sent Arthur in quest of his uncle, who was well fitted by sobriety,
industry and thrift, to cope with such a crisis.
Mr. Shrimplin's only weaknesses were such as spring from an eager
childlike vanity, and a nature as shy as a fawn's of whatever held even
a suggestion of danger. To Custer he could brag of crimes he had never
committed, but an unpaid butcher's bill would have robbed him of his
sleep; also he wore a very tender heart in his narrow chest, though he
did his best to hide it by assuming a bold and hardy air and by
garnishing his conversation with what he counted the very flower of a
brutal worldly cynicism.
Thus it was that when Arthur had found his uncle and had stated his
case, Mr. Shrimplin instantly summoned to his aid all his redoubtable
powers of speech and fell to cursing the recreant husband and father.
Having eased himself in this manner, and not wishing Arthur to be
entirely unmindful of his vast superiority, he called the boy's
attention to the undeniable fact that he, Shrimplin, could have been
kicked out of doors and Joe Montgomery would not have lifted a hand to
save him. Yet all this while the little lamplighter, with the boy at his
heels, was moving rapidly across the flats.
From the town end of the bridge, youthful eyes had descried his coming
and the word was quickly passed that the uncle of all the little
Montgomerys was approaching, presumably with philanthropic intent. This
rumor instantly stimulated an interest on the part of the adult
population, an interest which had somewhat languished owing to the
incapacity of human nature to sustain an emotional climax for any
considerable length of time. Untidy women and idle-looking men with the
rust of inaction consuming them, quickly appeared on the scene, and when
the little lamplighter descended from the railway tracks it was to be
greeted with something like an ovation at the hands of his
sister-in-law's neighbors.
His ears caught the murmur of approval that passed from lip to lip and
out of the very tail of his bleached eyes he noted the expression of
satisfaction that was on every face. Even the previously obdurate
landlord met him with words of apology and conciliation. It was a happy
moment for Mr. Shrimplin, but not by so much as the flicker of an
eyelash did he betray that this was so. He had considered himself such a
public character since the night of the McBride murder that he now
deemed it incumbent to preserve a stoic manner; the admiration of his
fellows could win nothing from the sternness of his nature, so he
ignored the neighbors, while he was barely civil to the landlord. The
big roll of bills which, with something of a flourish, he produced from
the pocket of his greasy overalls, settled the rent, and the neighbors
noted with bated breath that the size of this roll was not perceptibly
diminished by the transaction.
Presently Mr. Shrimplin found himself standing alone with Nellie; the
landlord had departed with his money, while the neighbors, having
devoted the greater part of the day to a sympathetic interest in Mrs.
Montgomery's fortunes, now had leisure for their own affairs.
"Why didn't you send for me sooner?" demanded the little man with some
asperity. "No sense in having your things put out like this when you
only got to put them back again!"
"If Joe was only here this would never have happened!" said Mrs.
Montgomery, giving way to copious tears.
But Mr. Shrimplin seemed not so sure of this. The settling of the
handy-man's difficulties had been one of the few extravagances he had
permitted himself. His glance now fell on the small occupant of the
decrepit baby carriage, and he gave a start of astonishment.
"Lord!" he ejaculated, pointing to the child. "You don't mean to tell me
that's yours, too?"
"Three weeks next Sunday," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Another one,--well, I don't wonder you've kept still about it! What's
the use of bringing children into the world when you can't half take
care of 'em?"
"I didn't keep still about it,--only I had so much to worry me!" said
Nellie, with a shadowy sort of resentment at the little lamplighter's
words and manner.
"It's a nice-looking baby!" admitted Mr. Shrimplin, relenting.
"It's a boy, see--he's got his father's eyes and nose--"
"I don't know about the eyes, but the nose is a durn sight whiter than
Joe's! Maybe, though, when it's Joe's age it will use the same brand of
paint."
"What you got it in for Joe for? He never done nothing to you!" said
Joe's wife, with palpable offense.
"He ought to be stood up and lammed over the head with a club!" observed
Mr. Shrimplin, with considerable acrimony of tone. "You'd have thought
that being a witness would have made a man out of Joe if anything
would,--and how does he act? Why, he lights out; he gets to be good for
something beside soaking up whisky and spoiling his insides, and he
skips the town; now if that ain't a devil of a way for him to act, I'd
like to know what you call it!"
"He was a good man--" declared Mrs. Montgomery with conviction. "A good
man, but unfortunate!"
"Well, if he suits you, Nellie--"
"He does!"
"I'm glad of it," retorted Mr. Shrimplin, taking a chew of tobacco. "For
I don't reckon he'd ever suit any one else!"
"You and none of my family never liked Joe!" said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Well, why should we?" demanded Mr. Shrimplin impatiently.
"Your wife,--my own sister, too,--said he should never darken her door,
and he was that proud he never did! You couldn't have dragged him
there!" said Mrs. Montgomery, and the ready tears dimmed her eyes.
"And you couldn't have dragged him away quick enough if he had a-come!
Now don't you get tearful over Joe, you can't call him no prodigal; his
veal's tough old beef by this time! But I never had nothing in
particular against him more than I thought he ought to be kicked clean
off the face of the earth!" said Mr. Shrimplin, rolling his drooping
flaxen mustache fiercely between his stubby thumb and its neighboring
forefinger.
Such personal relations as the little lamplighter had sustained with the
handy-man had invariably been of the most friendly and pacific
description. Esteeming Joe a gentleman of uncertain habits, and of
criminal instincts that might at any moment be translated into vigorous
action, Mr. Shrimplin had always been at much pains to placate him. In
the heat of the moment, however, all this was forgotten, and Mr.
Shrimplin's love of decency and rectitude promptly asserted itself.
"It's easy enough to pick flaws in a popular good-looking man like Joe!"
said Mrs. Montgomery, with whom time and absence had been at work, also,
and to such an extent that the first dim glint of a halo was beginning
to fix itself about the curly red head of her delinquent spouse.
"And a whole lot of good them good looks of his has done you, Nellie,"
rejoined Mr. Shrimplin, with a little cackle of mirth.
"He never even seen his youngest!" said Mrs. Montgomery, giving
completely away to tears at this moving thought of the handy-man's
deprivation.
"I reckon he could even stand that," observed Mr. Shrimplin unfeelingly.
"I bet he never knowed 'em apart."
"Why he was just wrapped up in them and me,--just wrapped up!" cried
Mrs. Montgomery.
"Well, he had a blame curious way of showing it; no one would ever have
suspected it of him!" said Mr. Shrimplin.
"I guess this wouldn't have happened if his own folks had had more faith
in Joe, that's what wore on him,--I seen it wear on him!" declared Mrs.
Montgomery, in a tone of melancholy conviction.
"In the main I'm a truthful man, Nellie,--I wish to be anyhow; and I'll
tell you honest I was never able to see much in Joe aside from his good
looks, which I know he had, now that you call them to mind. No,--I think
a coat of tar and feathers would be about the thing for Joe; he's the
sort of bird to wear that kind of plumage. My opinion is that you've
seen the last of him; no sense in your thinking otherwise, because
you're just leaving yourself open to disappointment!"
Yet Mr. Shrimplin remained to reinstate Mrs. Montgomery in her home. It
was his expert hands that set up the cracked and rusted kitchen stove,
and arranged the scanty and battered furniture in the several rooms. Nor
was he satisfied to do merely this, for he presently despatched Arthur
into town after an excellent assortment of groceries. All the while,
however, he neglected no opportunity to elaborate for Nellie's benefit
his opinions concerning the handy-man's utter worthlessness. At length
this good Samaritan paused from his labors, and regaling himself with a
fresh chew of tobacco and a parting gibe at Joe, set briskly off for his
own home.
The street lamps demanded his immediate attention, and it was not until
his day's work was finished that he found opportunity to tell Mrs.
Shrimplin of these straits to which Nellie had been reduced. He
concluded by reiterating his opinion that her sister had seen the last
of Joe.
"I don't know why you say that!" was Mrs. Shrimplin's unexpected
rejoinder.
"Ain't I got mighty good reason to say it?" asked her husband. "Don't
you know, and ain't every one always said Joe was just too low to live?
I'd like to know if it wasn't you said he should never set his foot
inside your door?"
"I might say it again, and then I mightn't," rejoined Mrs. Shrimplin,
with aggravating composure.
Two days later when the Shrimplins were at breakfast Mrs. Montgomery
walked in on them. Her face was streaked with the traces of recent
tears, but there was the light of happy vindication in her eyes, and a
soiled and crumpled letter in her hand.
"Mercy, Nellie!" exclaimed her sister. "What's the matter now?"
"Matter? Why, I'm so happy I just don't know what to do! I've heard from
my Joe!"
Mrs. Shrimplin rested her hands on her hips and surveyed Nellie with
eyes that seemed to hold pity and contempt in about equal proportion.
"You've heard from Joe! Well, if he was my husband he'd have heard from
me long ago!" she said.
And it occurred to Mr. Shrimplin that his wife was wonderfully
consistent in her inconsistencies.
"Well, and what have _you_ got against Joe?" demanded Mrs. Montgomery
with ready anger.
"She ain't got nothing new, Nellie!" said Mr. Shrimplin, desirous of
preserving the peace.
"Well, she's mighty quick to misjudge him! Look!" and she drew from the
envelope she held in her hand a dirty greenback. "He's sent me twenty
dollars--my man has! Does that look like he'd forgotten me or his
children?" protested Nellie, in a voice of happy triumph.
"I'll bet it's counterfeit; I'd go slow on trying to pass it," said Mr.
Shrimplin when he had somewhat recovered from the shock of the sudden
announcement.
It was plain that Nellie had never thought of any such possibility as
this, for the light died out of her eyes.
"How can I find out whether it's good or not?" she faltered.
"Let me look at it!" said Mr. Shrimplin.
Mrs. Montgomery placed the bill in his hands. Her face was keen and
pinched with anxiety as she awaited the little man's verdict.
"It's genu-ine all right," he at length admitted grudgingly.
"I knew it was!" cried Nellie, her miserable suspicions put at rest.
"Well, you'd better spend it quick and get some good of it before old
Joe comes back and wants the change!" advised Mr. Shrimplin.
"What does he say?" questioned Mrs. Shrimplin.
"He don't say a word, there was nothing but the bill."
"Well, maybe it wasn't Joe sent it after all!" said the little
lamplighter.
"The writing on the envelope's his, I'd know it anywhere. I guess he
couldn't trust himself to write; but he'll come back, my man will! Maybe
he's on his way now!" exclaimed Nellie.
"Ain't there no postmark?" asked Mrs. Shrimplin.
"Why, I never thought to look!"
But Nellie's face fell when she did look.
"It was mailed at Denver!" she said, in an awe-struck voice.
Her man seemed at the very ends of the earth, and his return became a
doubtful thing.
"Well, I wouldn't talk about this to the police or anybody; they ain't
been able to find Joe, and I wouldn't be the one to tell them where he's
at!" advised Mr. Shrimplin.
"They've stopped coming to the house," said Nellie.
But she looked inquiringly at Mr. Shrimplin. Where the police were
concerned she had faith in his masculine understanding; Joe had always
seemed to know a great deal about the police, she remembered.
"I reckon old Joe had his own reasons for skipping out, and they must
have looked good to him. No, I can't see that you are bound to help the
police; the police ain't helped you." And Mr. Shrimplin returned to the
scrutiny of the bill in his hand.
That was the profound mystery. No one knew better than he that Joe was
not given to such prodigal generosity; neither were twenty-dollar bills
frequent with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE CAT AND THE MOUSE
Mr. Gilmore, having yielded once again to temptation, found himself at
Marshall Langham's door. He asked for the lawyer, but was informed he
was not at home, a fact of which Mr. Gilmore was perfectly well aware,
since he had parted from him not twenty minutes before at the
court-house steps. Mrs. Langham was at home, however, and at this
welcome information the gambler, smiling, strode into the hall.
From the parlor, Evelyn heard his voice. She had found him amusing in
the first days of their acquaintance, and possibly she might again find
him diverting, but this afternoon he had chosen ill for his call. She
was quite sure she detested him. For the first time she measured him by
standards of which he could know nothing, and found no good thing in
him. What had Marsh meant when he forced this most undesirable
acquaintance on her!
"You wanted to see Marsh?" she asked, as she gave him her hand.
"That will keep," said Gilmore cheerfully. "May I stay?" he added.
"If you wish," she answered indifferently.
She felt a sense of shame at his presence there. Everything about her
seemed to sink to his level, which was a very low level, she was sure.
These afternoon calls were a recent feature of their intimacy. Before
Gilmore came, she had been thinking for the hundredth time of John
North--the man she had once loved and now hated, but in whose honor she
had such confidence that she knew he would face death rather than
compromise her. In spite of the fact that he had scorned her, had thrown
her aside for another, she had had on his account many a soul-rending
struggle with her conscience, with her better self. She knew that a word
from her, and his prison doors would open to a free world. Time and
again this word had trembled on her lips unuttered. She knew also that
it was not hate of North that kept her silent. It was an intangible,
unformed, unthoughtout fear of what might follow after. North, she knew,
was innocent; who then was guilty? She closed her eyes and shut her
lips. That North would ultimately clear himself she never seriously
doubted, and yet the burden of her secret was intolerable. In her
present mood, she was accessible to every passing influence, and to-day
it was Gilmore's fate to find her both penitent and rebellious, but he
could not know this, he only knew that she was quieter than usual.
He seated himself at her side, and his eyes, eager and animated, fed on
her beauty. He had come to the belief that only the lightest barriers
stood between himself and Evelyn Langham, and it was a question in his
mind of just how much he would be willing to sacrifice for her sake. He
boasted nothing in the way of position or reputation, and no act of his
could possibly add to the disfavor in which he was already held; but to
leave Mount Hope meant certain definite financial losses; this had
served as a check on his ardor, for where money was concerned Gilmore
was cautious. But his passion was coming to be the supreme thing in his
life; a fortunate chance had placed him where he now stood in relation
to her, and chance again, as unkind as it had been kind, might separate
them. The set of Gilmore's heavy jaws became tense with this thought and
with the ruthless strength of his purpose. He would shake down one
sensation for Mount Hope before he got away,--and he would not go alone.
"I suppose you were at the trial to-day?" Evelyn said.
"Yes, I was there for a little while this afternoon," he answered. "It's
rather tame yet, they're still fussing over the jury."
"How is Jack bearing it?" she asked.
Her question seemed to depress Gilmore.
"Why do you care about how he takes it? I don't suppose he sees any fun
in it,--he didn't look to me as if he did," he said slowly.
"But how did he _seem_ to you?"
"Oh, he's got nerve enough, if that's what you mean!"
"Poor Jack!" she murmured softly.
"If you're curious, why don't you go take a look at poor Jack? He'll be
there all right for the next few weeks," said the gambler, watching her
narrowly.
"I'm afraid Marsh might object."
At this Gilmore threw back his head and laughed.
"Excuse _me_!" he said; and in explanation of his sudden mirth, he
added: "The idea of your trotting out Marsh to me!"
"I'm not trotting him out to you,--as you call it," Evelyn said quietly,
but her small foot tapped the floor. She intended presently to rid
herself of Gilmore for all time.
"Yes, but I was afraid you were going to."
"You mustn't speak to me as you do; I have done nothing to give you the
privilege."
Gilmore did not seem at all abashed at this reproof.
"If you want to go to the trial I'll take you, and I'll agree to make it
all right with Marsh afterward; what do you say?" he asked.
Evelyn smiled brightly, but she did not explain to him the utter
impossibility of their appearing in public together either at the North
trial or anywhere else for the matter of that; there were bounds set
even to her reckless disregard of what Mount Hope held to be right and
proper.
"Oh, no, you're very kind, but I don't think I should care to see poor
Jack now."
She gave a little shiver of horror as if at the mere idea. This was for
the gambler, but her real feeling was far deeper than he, suspicious as
he was, could possibly know.
"Why do you 'poor Jack' him to me?" said Gilmore sullenly.
Evelyn opened her fine eyes in apparent astonishment.
"He is one of my oldest friends. I have known him all my life!" she
said.
"Well, one's friends should keep out of the sort of trouble he's made
for himself," observed Gilmore in surly tones.
"Yes,--perhaps--" answered Evelyn absently.
"Look here, I don't want to talk to you about North anyhow; can't we hit
on some other topic?" asked Gilmore.
It maddened him even to think of the part the accused man had played in
her life.
"Why have you and Marsh turned against him?" she asked.
The gambler considered for an instant.
"Do you really want to know? Well, you see he wasn't square; that does a
man up quicker than anything else."
"I don't believe it!" she cried.
"It's so,--ask Marsh; we found him to be an all-right crook; then's when
we quit him," he said, nodding and smiling grimly.
There was something in his manner which warned her that his real meaning
was intentionally obscured. She remembered that Marsh had once boasted
of having proof that she was in North's rooms the afternoon of the
murder and it flashed across her mind that if any one really knew of her
presence there it was Gilmore himself. She studied him furtively, and
she observed that his black waxed mustache shaded a pair of lips that
wore a mirthless smile, and what had at first been no more than an
undefined suspicion grew into a certainty. Gilmore shifted uneasily in
his chair. He felt that since their last meeting he had lost ground with
her.
"What's the matter,--why do you keep me at arm's length; what have I
done, anyhow?" he asked impatiently.
"Do I keep you at arm's length? Well, perhaps you need to be kept
there," she said.
"You should know what brings me here,--why it is I can't keep away--"
"How should I know, unless you tell me?" she said softly.
Gilmore bent toward her, his eyes lustrous with suppressed feeling.
"Isn't that another of your little jokes, Evelyn? Do you really want me
to tell you?"
"I am dying with curiosity!"
Voice and manner seemed to encourage, and the gambler felt his heart
leap within him.
"Well, I guess it's principally to see you!" he muttered, but his lips
quivered with emotion.
She laughed.
"Just see how mistaken one may be, Andy; I thought all along it was
Marsh!"
At her use of his Christian name his heavy face became radiant. His
purposes were usually allied to an admirable directness of speech that
never left one long in doubt as to his full meaning.
"Look here, aren't you about sick of Marsh?" he asked. "How long are you
going to stand for this sort of thing? You have a right to expect
something better than he has to offer you!"
She met the glance of his burning black eyes with undisturbed serenity,
but a cruel smile had come again to the corners of her mouth. She was
preparing to settle her score with Gilmore in a fashion he would not
soon forget. One of her hands rested on the arm of her chair, and the
gambler's ringed fingers closed about it; but apparently she was unaware
of this; at least she did not seek to withdraw it.
"By God, you're pretty!" he cried.
"What do you mean?" she asked quietly.
"Mean,--don't you know that I love you? Have I got to make it plain that
I care for you,--that you are everything to me?" he asked, bending
toward her.
"So you care a great deal about me, do you, Andy?" she asked slowly.
"I like to hear you call me that!" he said with a deep breath.
"What is it, Andy--what do you want?" she continued.
"You--you!" he said hoarsely; his face was white, he had come to the end
of long days of hope and doubt; he had battered down every obstacle that
stood in his path and he was telling her of his love, nor did she seem
unwilling to hear him. "You are the whole thing to me! I have loved you
always--ever since I first saw you! Tell me you'll quit this place with
me--I swear I'll make you happy--"
His face was very close to hers, and guessing his purpose she snatched
away her hand. Then she laughed.
As the sound of her merriment fell on Gilmore's startled ears, there
swiftly came to him the consciousness that something was wrong.
"You and your love-making are very funny, Mr. Gilmore; but there is one
thing you don't seem to understand. There is such a thing as taste in
selection even when it has ceased to be a matter of morals. I don't like
you, Mr. Gilmore. You amused me, but you are merely tiresome now."
She spoke with deliberate contempt, and his face turned white and then
scarlet, as if under the sting of a lash.
"If you were a man--" he began, infuriated by the insolence of her
speech.
"If I were a man I should be quite able to take care of myself.
Understand, I am seeing you for the last time--"
"Yes, by God, you are!" he cried.
His face was ashen. He had come to his feet, shaken and uncertain. It
was as if each word of hers had been a stab.
"I am glad we can agree so perfectly on that point. Will you kindly
close the hail door as you go out?"
She turned from him and took up a book from the table at her elbow.
Gilmore moved toward the door, but paused irresolutely. His first
feeling of furious rage was now tempered by a sense of coming loss. This
was to be the end; he was never to see her again! He swung about on his
heel. She was already turning the leaves of her book, apparently
oblivious of his presence.
"Am I to believe you--" he faltered.
She looked up and her eyes met his. There was nothing in her glance to
indicate that she comprehended the depth of his suffering.
"Yes," she said, with a drawing in of her full lips.