IN WHICH VARNEY, AFTER ALL, REDEEMS HIS PROMISE
From the roaring ovation which followed Peter's brief remarks there
emerged again the sudden, clean-cut silence. Mayor Hare--Mayor by the
narrowest margin in the heaviest vote ever cast in that town--stood upon
the improvised little stand and looked out over the packed square. He
rested one small hand upon the gay-clothed rail, and many people saw
that it quivered. The showy "demonstration" of Peter's planning,
brilliantly launched the moment the count was announced--the imported
brass-band, the triumphal procession with the bugles, the streamers and
the flag-wrapped carriages, and now the rostrum ready set and waiting in
the heart of the dense crowd--all had taken him completely by surprise.
His face showed it; yet he was not thinking of that exactly. All at once
the Mayor's mind had harked back to another moment, not so many days
before, when he had stood in this square to make a speech; and at the
rushing thought of the great contrast between that moment and this,
there rose in him a sense of gratefulness so deep that it took palpable
form, and stuck, suffocatingly, in his throat.
The square swam before his blinded eyes. He took off his glasses and
wiped them frankly. Stiff formality left him, without a nod at parting,
carrying along the "few remarks" he had nervously thrown together in his
Roman progress up Main Street.
"The modesty of the man who has just addressed you," he began
unsteadily, "will deceive no one. You all know what I owe to him--what
our town owes to him. You all know that if I am almost too proud and too
happy to speak at all just now, it is because a kindly chance sent Mr.
Maginnis to Hunston."
Cheers, more cheers, and yet again cheers; cheers running on and on as
though they never meant to stop; spontaneous waves of applause that
meant, what nearly all knew, that Maginnis personally had captured
Hunston, and that his efficiency with a chair-leg had reared him into a
kind of demi-god among certain rough fellows of the baser sort.
The speaker was resuming, not yet through with his tributes. His eye
flitting over the shouting crowd had fallen upon a face.
"I know that both honesty and logic were on the side which Mr. Maginnis,
coming here a stranger, elected to support. But honesty does not always
make a winning cause, nor does logic. What I may call sympathy is often
better than both. The splendid help that we got from Mr. Maginnis
received this supplement. Sympathy came to aid Reform. A brutal outrage
sullied the name of our town--an outrage which, there is sad reason to
believe, was born of politics. The victim of that outrage, and the hero
of that terrible night, is happily with us to-day.... I will not offend
him with any words of praise. But may I not say in the market-place what
is the truism of the committee-room ... that when this gentleman did
what he did, he brought to Reform the sympathy which ... has made me
Mayor of Hunston."
Every eye followed the direction of the speaker's glance and his grave
bow; and by the chance of good position, it happened that nearly all
could see. Upon a dingy porch, a few yards up the Main Street side of
the square, stood a tall, young man leaning on a cane, a wide felt hat
shading a rather badly marked face. And--there was no possibility of any
mistake--it was Jim Hackley's porch that he stood upon, and--yes--it was
Jim Hackley himself, a sober and genial Jim Hackley, who stood by his
side, in intimate pose, and grinning somewhat sheepishly into the glare
of fame which suddenly enveloped him.
What part Hackley had borne in the events to which the orator had
referred was never officially known, but it may be said without
exaggeration that there had been suspicions abroad against him. His
present friendliness with the victim of those events, therefore, seemed
the gauge and symbol of penitence and reconciliation.
It was the first time that Hunston had seen Varney since the night he
was hurt, and the first time that most of Hunston had ever seen him. The
story of his deeds and his sufferings, doubtless considerably
embellished and known to every one, made him a figure of keen popular
interest, and the cheers and hand-clappings now were thunderous,
compelling him to lift his hat again and again. Some even started a
swift descent upon the Hackley residence with the evident intention of
carrying the young man to the stand on their shoulders. But Hackley came
down to his gate to meet them and buffeted them away, explaining loudly,
like an old friend and generally acknowledged sponsor: "He ain't up to
it to-day, boys! Stand back!"
"Go on with your speech," said Peter in a fierce undertone to Hare.
"He's going to faint."
"Let us give honor to whom honor is due," cried Hare, hastily, and so
resumed his remarks.
Peter's melancholy prediction, though it spread quickly among the crowd
after Varney left the porch, was quite unfounded. Varney had not the
least idea of fainting. At Hare's tribute, which was as unexpected as he
felt it to be totally undeserved, and the sudden rain of eyes upon him,
an unaccountable dizziness had seized him, while he stood reluctantly
bowing; he had thrust out his hand and caught hold of the post. This
blackness passed as quickly as it had come. The next instant he felt as
fit a man as ever; and to the tender requests of his host, Mr. Hackley,
that he should withdraw into the house for a "leetle rest-up," he
returned a laughing refusal. For this was his last appearance in
Hunston, as well as his first in recent days, and very strongly did he
desire to make it testify to his warm interest in the town's great day
and the personal triumph of his friend, Peter Maginnis.
What removed Varney so abruptly from the Hackley porch and the public
view was the sudden fulfilment of quite another prediction of Peter's:
the one about the return to Hunston of the gum-shod Mr. Higginson.
The news came without warning. At just the moment when the Mayor
replunged into his interrupted oratory, Varney became aware that a low,
anxious voice behind him was insistently calling his name. He turned,
and saw the figure of a man standing in Hackley's entryway, just inside
the door; he had evidently slipped in from the rear; and now, catching
the young man's eye, he began mysteriously beckoning and making signs.
"Kin I speak to you a minute, Mr. Varney?" he called in the same
dramatic whisper.
Varney, in some surprise, advanced to the doorway and stepped inside the
entry after the stranger--a poorly dressed fellow with an unshaven chin
and a collarless neck.
"Well? What do you want, my man? And how do you know my name?"
At that the man gave the air of exploding, though his voice remained
only a whisper, at once apologetic and immensely reproachful.
"_Know_ your _name_, sir! Why, _excuse_ me for usin' it so free, but I
guess there ain't nobody in Hunston don't know _you_, Mr. Varney! Why,
Mr. Varney, my six-year-old kid c'd pick you right out o' that crowd out
there, same as 't was her pa, what with seein' your picture in the
papers an' all, an' I guess there ain't anything you'd ever want in
_Hunston_ you couldn't have just for the trouble o' namin' it."
The random assertion struck some of the blood from the young man's
cheek, but he said good-humoredly: "Well, I'm glad to hear it. But tell
me who you are, and what I can do for you."
The man's face, which had grown rather loose and mobile, instantly
became business-like and alert.
"I'm 'Lije Stobo, Mr. Varney--Hackley'll tell you. I was hired a week
ago by Mr. Maginnis to watch trains for a certain party kind of expected
to show up here." His voice, already very low, dropped several tones
lower, as he hurriedly went on: "Well, Mr. Varney, the party come in on
Number 14 just now. It ain't five minutes ago since he stepped down on
the deepo platform--disguised in some pretty good glad rags, he was, but
o' course we spotted him right off, and--"
"Higginson?"
The man nodded. "My partner was with me--Callery--and we shadows our
party to the Palace Hotel where he takes Room 41 and sneaks upstairs.
Callery's sitting in the lobby now, and I runs out to take the tip to
Mr. Maginnis--but Lord bless you, Mr. Varney--" He pointed out the open
door in the direction of the little speaker's stand where Peter sat
impregnably walled in on all sides by dense human masses. "It might be
an hour before I could get to him through _that_. I was up against it,
f'r he'd sure kill me if I let our party give us the slip again, and
then I heard 'em all cheerin' you, and thinks I, _there's_ my man,
and--"
Varney interrupted gratefully but briskly.
"You did exactly right, Mr. Stobo. I have long been anxious to see
Mr.--that is, this party. In fact," he added, putting on his hat with
significant firmness, "it is because of some business that I have with
this party that Mr. Maginnis asked you to look out for him."
Mr. Stobo's eyes ardently approved the young man's readiness for
"trouble."
"Well, _sir_--that's took a load off'n my mind, I tell you! I'll just
skip on--will I, Mr. Varney?--and try to get the tip to Mr. Maginnis, as
my orders was. He was _that set_ on interviewin' this here party--but
Lor', he'd give him to you, same's himself. Only--are you _sure_ you're
feelin' up to it to-day, Mr. Varney? If mebbe you'd let me'r Callery go
along now, just in case, y' know--"
Varney gave an answer which Mr. Stobo found completely reassuring. At
the same time, he rapidly produced his pocket-book and pulled out a bill
of alluring complexion.
"I owe you a great deal for bringing me this information, Mr.
Stobo--more than I can repay. But perhaps you would let me--"
He stopped suddenly, for the man had started backing off down the
entryway, a dull unaccustomed color showing in his grimy face.
"You didn't mean it, Mr. Varney! Why, how'd I look my missus in the
face--let alone myself--and tell her I took money off'n _you_--"
He disappeared out of the back door, and Varney, feeling uncomfortable
and disproportionately touched, put his spurned bill back in his
pocket. Hackley, now perceiving that his guest's visitor was gone,
turned his back on the speechmaking and hurried forward solicitously.
"I could 'a' hit that Stobo sneakin' in a-botherin' and a-'noyin' you,"
he said in tones of great sympathy. "I know how it is, Mr. Varney. Bit
of a inverlid myself, I am--no health and no constitootion whatsomever,
sir. Feelin' a leetle stiddier now, are you? Better lie down on my
parlor sofy a while and git rested up nice, hadn't ye?--many's the day
I've lazied there, Lord knows, tryin' f'r to coddle my strength back."
Varney regretfully declined the offer. In fact, he must be going at
once, he said, as he had a rather important business engagement; and
would Mr. Hackley kindly show him the quiet back-exit to the street and
the outer world?
Hackley, a tireless host, re-urged the charms of his sofy and cool
well-water for invalids; but his guest remained politely firm. So there,
on the little rear veranda, the two men parted with mutual esteem:
Varney expressing sincere thanks for all Mr. Hackley's courtesies;
Hackley compassionate over Mr. Varney's impaired constitution, but
boggling over what regrets might haply betray him into the grip of the
law's long arm.
Varney traversed the clothes-hung backyard, came out into the dingy
alley, and made rapidly for the cross-street, where a string of
carriages showed that "the quality" of Hunston was not without interest
in the day's proceedings. He did not see the carriages; to himself he
seemed suddenly to walk in a great and silent solitude. There was noise
enough about him, in all conscience, for every sentence that fell from
Hare's lips was punctuated by a salvo; but the tumult beat itself to
stillness against the closed fastness of his mind.
Under his eye, half way down the block to which he drew near, rose the
weatherworn flank of the Palace Hotel. Somewhere within the ugly pile
was his mortal enemy Higginson, trapped to his reckoning at last. Within
five minutes they two would stand face to face; and he had long since
promised himself that Higginson would remember the meeting for as long
as he lived. A moment ago, the thought had filled him with a strange
exhilaration: the prospect of a final accounting with the intriguing
fly-by-night who had wronged him past all forgiveness had set his blood
to leaping. But, exactly because that wrong went so deep, his
pleasurable excitement ebbed faster than it had mounted. The wound that
he had had from Higginson was one that no vengeance would heal. And with
the recurrence of this knowledge his battle-joy flickered and went out
like a spent match, and the little alley was a war-list no longer but a
stretch without end of dry and dusty years....
"I was lookin' for yer, Mist' Varney," said a husky, abashed voice.
Varney stared down at the small apparition before him with momentary
unrecognition.
"Why--Tommy! Heaven bless us! Where did you spring from, boy?"
Tommy's eyes fell in awe, but sure enough, he was sticking out his
small flipper in salutation. In fact, he had shaken hands a number of
times since that first memorable occasion, and, in his way, was
gradually beginning to catch the spirit of the thing.
"Kem up on the two-forty-five. Wit' Hauser's band. Got a loan of t'ree
bucks off a frien'."
"The mischief you did! Where do you find friends like that nowadays? But
what on earth made you pop back here? To hear Hauser's play and see all
the fireworks?"
Tommy examined his toe with affected interest and shook his head.
"What then? Don't you like it in New York?"
"Yasser. Noo York's all right, it is." And reluctantly he added: "You
be'n sick, ain't you? Thought I'd come and see how you was makin' it.
Come afore now, on'y I couldn't get next to de price."
"Tommy," said Varney, snuggling the boy's left hand into his own right
and resuming the promenade, "you're a mighty good friend to me."
They emerged into the street where a double line of vehicles, some of
them gay with bright hats and parasols, flanked the curb on either side,
and Varney turned north, his back to the square, unconscious of the many
curious glances that were flung at him as he passed.
"Tommy," said Varney, "I'm bound for the hotel on business, but I'm not
going to pull you away from all the fun--"
"Wut, that? That ain't no fun, sir."
"Don't you suppose I know fun when I meet it in the road, you little
rascal? You stay here till it's all over and then I want you to come
down to the yacht, and we'll have some dinner. Then I'll put you up for
the night and to-morrow morning we'll go to New York together, eh? How's
that?"
But Tommy said: "Nawser. We can't go yet. Somebody sent me to bring you.
We got a car'dge here--"
"A carriage?"
"A victori'," emphasized Tommy.
"A victoria! All this on three bucks, Tommy! Well, well! You are the
spender, though."
"Here's _our_ victori'!" said Tommy proudly.
They halted abruptly before an open carriage ... a victoria, indeed: a
handsome double victoria, all polished dark wood and blue upholstery and
shining nickeled harness, and sleek bay horses. This he saw in the first
flash, wondering by what miracle Tommy Orrick had secured control of so
glorious an equipage. And then ... there was the pretty edge of a
furbelowed skirt upon the carriage-floor ... a dainty patent-leather toe
upon the foot-rest ... an unrolling panorama of white-gloved hands, pale
buff dress, great plumed hat, eyes not seen yet known to be blue to
match the upholstery ... an exquisite lady sitting in the victoria. And
this lady had recognized his presence, first with a faint frightened
"Oh!" and then with a movement of those great hat-plumes which was
beyond all doubt or cavil a bow ... a bow of proper and civil greeting.
For him that meeting was stunning in its entire unexpectedness. The
landscape went off in protest, exploded in pyrotechnic marvels; the
earth spun and cavorted; the solar system was disrupted and planets ran
amuck with din unbelievable. But he was used to these cataclysms now,
and out of the roar of breakage he heard a voice much like his own
saying pleasantly:
"Tommy refers to this calmly as _his_ carriage, Miss Carstairs. See what
a week of New York has done for him. Where did he disappear to--did you
notice? A great day it has been"--in the rising inflection of
farewell--"hasn't it?"
Came out of space in answer, like a fluttering bird from nowhere, a
voice that had once seemed music in his ears:
"I sent him ... to look for you. They said that you were ... ill.
Perhaps you would let us drive you to the river?"
"And make you miss the speech?" continued this easy and agreeable young
man, whom Laurence Varney, a great distance off, stood dumbly and
watched from the swirling void with a certain remote admiration. "Of
course not. I was never better in my life and the walk will be pleasant
on so nice an afternoon. But thank you very much."
Again his tone held the faint inflection of finality, of leave-taking.
Came again the voice like tossed chimes out of space:
"Then ... won't you stay and hear the end? It would please Mr. Hare.
From this carriage ... you can see and hear everything very well."
"Thank you," said the debonair spirit, rather carelessly--while
Laurence Varney, off in another world, clutched at the invitation,
fought for it, lied, thieved, prayed, lived and died for it--"I'm afraid
I must go on now."
"There is something I wanted to say. And ... a message."
A shuffling of the cosmos, a shrieking readjustment of the universe, and
he found himself sitting on a blue upholstered seat staring at two great
golden moons, which later on turned out to be, after all, mere burnished
buttons upon a coachman's purple back.
So, not for the first time, the sudden meeting with a lady knocked from
the young man's head all recollection of his enemy. And if their parting
had taken place in the entire privacy of a country road, their
re-meeting, certainly, was in the fullest view of the many. Only,
luckily, nobody chanced to be looking, or within eavesdropping distance;
and even the coachman presently removed himself to stand at his horses'
restive heads. Tommy's carriage happened to be the last one in the line.
Behind it the street was a desert. Before it was nothing but a packed
army of backs.
"I did not know that you were here until Mr. Hare spoke. And they all
began to look...."
"Mr. Hackley especially invited me to share his porch ..." and the other
Varney, not the one who sat so stiff and mute, desperate eyes glued on
the far horizon, but the easy, negligent Varney, gay dare-devil that he
was, actually achieved a pleasant laugh. "I must show you his note. It's
been a long time since I have had anything to please me so much."
He unfolded and held out into the blue empyrean a rather soiled bit of
paper, which a small white-gloved hand descended from heaven like a dove
and took. Then, presumably, this was duly read:
MR. VARNEY. dear sir: Announcment of Election will
be made in the Squair this p.m. around 6 p.m. Would
feel onered if you would come to my Poarch where everthink
can be seen & heard & no crouding, Josle ect.
Will call at your Yot with horse and Bugy around 5 p.m.
this p.m. if agreble though you don't nead no eskort anywairs
in Hunston, the Unfortunit mistaik having been
diskovered. Noing your intrest in our Poltix will add
that I voated for Mister Hair, first think this a.m. with
sorro for the Past and hoapes for your Speady convlessense,
Resp.
J. HACKLEY.
S.P.--Should you come to my Poarch all would no as
bygorns was bygorns.
"Wasn't that kind of him?" he asked when the note had again come down
into the ornamental lap, which was the upper line of his range of
vision. "And thoughtful. But then everybody has been so wonderfully kind
to me. I think I shall remember Hunston as altogether the kindest town I
ever saw."
There was quite a silence after that.
"I am like Jim," came the voice beside him, troubled chimes waving
bravely, "in having wronged you by ... an unfortunate mistake. You have
forgiven him, haven't you ... let by-gones be by-gones? Can you do as
much ... for me?"
"Don't," he begged with sudden hoarseness--and there the mannersome
insouciant Varney waved an easy hand and blew himself away, like the
rascally light o' heels he was--"I have to ask forgiveness of you--not
give it," he said.
"You have much to forgive. That day in the road--I was angry. I was not
just ... not fair. I am mortified to remember ... what I said to you."
His heart contracted for the trouble in her voice; his spirit made
obeisance to the courage which carried her so perfectly through that
pretty suit for pardon; but for himself--
"There is not one thing--believe me--that your goodness can reproach
itself for--not one thing for you to be sorry for. If you have forgiven
me now--for all that you had to forgive--I go away quite happy."
His first easy composure, which far outmatched her own, had unsteadied
her. His wasted and scarred face, which she had been quite unprepared
for, had shocked her inexpressibly. And now there was this new thought
knocking at the door of her mind--that he was going away quite happy.
"There was something else I wanted to tell you ... if you could wait a
moment ... some news."
He turned toward her with a movement of pleasant interest, meant to
verify his recent gallant promise; but he turned so quickly that his
face had no time to come into the kindly conspiracy, and no triumph of
hyperbole could have described its look as happy.
"Yes? Good news, I hope?"
"I won't ... be cowardly and let you think that this was accidental ...
my seeing you ... and telling you that I'm sorry. We--we were going to
drive down to the yacht ... after the speeches were over. I don't
understand it all yet, but this afternoon a great thing happened. There
came a letter from my father ... and everything is all settled now. He
... wants my mother ... more than me, now. Why shouldn't I tell you? It
is what I have longed for ... prayed for every night ... for twelve
years. We are going to New York--to-morrow--to see my father."
His great gladness at that made him forget himself entirely, and for the
first time he could look at her.
"Why, I can't _tell_ you how glad I am! How tremendously happy that
makes me!"
She sat back in her cushioned seat, still as a sculptured lady, hands
clasped on her silken lap, eyes gone off down the street, though not for
vision, to where Hare was thundering a splendid peroration. He had
already become aware, without looking at her, that she was richly and
beautifully dressed; but he was hardly prepared for the effect which
such a setting would have upon her face. For all his conjuring of
memory, he had forgotten that she looked quite like that....
"Yes ... it makes me happy, too. And my mother wants to ask you--no, I
do--that is, both of us want to ask you--if you won't allow us to go
down ... in the yacht?"
Misunderstanding, the senseless world started mad antics again; but
Intelligence, which saw more clearly, reached out a long arm and jerked
it firmly back on its feet.
"Allow you! It's exactly what I'd like most _immensely_. She's all ready
for you--I'll have my things off her in no time--catch the eight-ten
to-night and go straight to congratulate Uncle Elbert. How great to see
him so happy! I 'll run right down to the yacht this minute and attend
to it."
"There is nothing to attend to ... is there? You said she was all ready.
Of course we could not let you--leave her. We could not go in the yacht
... unless you will go with us."
But speech stuck in his throat like a bone gone wrong. She would get no
help from him; that was evident. If suffering had wrought miracles of
absolution, she alone could make that plain.
"You came to Hunston ... to take me to my father ... didn't you?" said
Mary Carstairs. "Why ... won't you do it?"
A fugitive wave of pallor ran up her cheek, leaving its white trail
behind. She knew now that she had said the last word to him that she
could say, and that if he wanted to go away, he must go. The heavy
curtain of her lashes fell, veiling her eyes ... but, as it chanced,
fell slowly. He had turned at her words, very quickly; he caught the
curtain half-drawn, and a look come and gone like an arrow had shot
through those windows into the lit place beyond.
"I could only do that," he began unsteadily--"I--you know how it is with
me.... To the longest day I live--I'll love you ... with every breath I
draw. I could not do that--unless ... Will you marry me?"
The stillness about them then was like a tangible thing, measureless and
infinite. But into it faltered almost at once that voice like silver
bells.
"If you're _perfectly sure_ you want me to," said Mary faintly.
Her eyes met his in a wonderful union, divinely sealed the promise of
her lips, stamped it forever and ever with a heavenly stamp....
The bay horses curveted and pranced, the coachman sprang to his seat, a
big red motor backed, snorted, honked, and whizzed past them. The
speechmaking was over. The little line of gay carriages, breaking itself
into pieces, was maneuvering for rights of way homeward. The bay horses,
turning, too, were caught in the press and must needs go slowly: so that
the whole vivid pageant might have been but the ordered setting for this
moment--for Laurence Varney and the girl he had sworn to carry home to
her father....
In the square, the lingering crowd, attuned to cheering, was summoning
one name after another to noisy felicitation. Out of the tumult rose one
persistent voice, clamoring a changeless request. Yes, it was Hackley's
voice, very near, evidently on his own front porch, and he was saying
over and over: "Lemme ask you! Lemme ask you!" And about the moment the
victoria--Tommy's victori' (Tommy himself, if the truth be known, riding
snugly on the back springs at that very moment)--got safely put about,
Mr. Hackley secured what public notice he required and divulged the
nature of his request.
"_Fellers, what's the matter with Varney_?"
Instantly a thousand voices pulverized the man's fatuous anxiety. Hard
after, as the gallant slogan swept on to make assurance doubly sure,
they gave back the name in a roar like the rush of waters....
But the man for whom all the voices strained themselves did not hear
their doubt-destroying response, tumultuous though it was. Another
voice, close beside him, had taken up that refrain, making all others
inaudible, a shy, glad, whispering voice of chimes.
"_He's all right_."
The common words were glorified by that voice, made over into a sweet
and solemn benediction. He sat very silent, humbled and awed by the
revealed visage of his own great happiness. At last she found courage to
venture a look at him; and she saw that over his pale and disfigured
face there had come a kind of glory, the joy of sudden peace out of
pain.
Soon he spoke; and his words at first seemed to her very far afield,
though there was that in his unsteadied voice which reassured her beyond
speech.
"Would you mind stopping at the hotel--only a minute? I--have an old
enemy there, and I feel that I _must_ see him."
"Oh, no, no!--must you? Oh, please--I can't let you go now! And I am
afraid--afraid of what might happen--"
She stopped on that, somehow gathering without looking at him that she
had not followed his thought.
"I want to take him by the hand," said Varney, "and tell him that it's
all right now."
There was a light carriage-robe about them, for the vanished sun had
left the breath of autumn in the air; and beneath it her hand, from
which the white glove had been stripped, touched and was suddenly
gathered into his own. A glorious tremble shot through his body; and now
he could turn his shining face fully toward her.
"You aren't thinking that I could keep an enemy _to-day_!"
As the carriage stopped before the hotel entrance, he added:
"And I must tell him not to bother Peter any more. You see, Peter's a
fine man, but he hasn't got my reasons for being--in love with all the
world. I--I--I hate to go. Our first parting has come soon. But--this is
a duty, and--and--good-bye!"
She never forgot the look upon his face.
"Good-bye. And oh! would you please _hurry_?"
With an herculean effort he detached himself from the carriage and
rushed into the hotel. The same bored-looking clerk was sitting behind
the desk, paring the same nails with the same office scissors. But this
time, at sight of Varney, he sprang instantly to his feet, all smiles
and eagerness to serve.
"Why, _good_ evening, Mr. Varney! Well, sir! You're lookin' better'n we
expected, and I tell you Hunston's mighty glad to see you up and about
again."
Varney marveled how he had ever formed such a mean opinion of the clerk,
whom he now saw to be a decidedly likable young man.
"Thank you--thank you! It's a wonderful little city--Hunston--wonderful!
Try a few of these cigars--that's right; fill your pocket. And would you
be good enough to send my card up to Mr. Higginson? Perhaps I'd better
write just a line--"
"Mr. Higginson's in the small parlor, Mr. Varney--straight down the
corridor. Yes, sir! Just came down and went in--I think he saw you
coming--"
"And ran away again? Why, bless me, what's the old chap afraid of?"
He started gayly down the dim hall to the right of the desk, swinging
his stick and humming to himself; and presently became aware that a man
was following silently at his elbow.
"It's me--Callery," said the man apologetically, as Varney turned. "I--I
'll just be here, Mr. Varney, you know, if anything's wanted."
Varney laughed again. "You're mighty good to me, Mr. Callery," he said
cordially--"you and Mr. Stobo--I can't tell you how much I appreciate
it. But it isn't a bit of use, you know! I'm positively not going to
kill anybody to-day."
"Yes, sir," said Callery. "Here's the door, Mr. Varney."
"This one?"
"Yes, sir. He come runnin' down the steps, spoke a word to the clerk,
and then he dodges down here and slams the door behind him. Seen you
through the window, I guess--"
"Well, I'll just step in and have a look at him, Mr. Gallery. Excuse me
a minute."
He rapped on the closed door and called in a loud cheery voice: "Mr.
Higginson."
"Come in," said a voice from within--a rather agitated voice which had a
curiously familiar ring in the young man's ears.
Varney swung open the door, stepped into the small parlor, and (greatly
to the disappointment of Mr. Gallery) closed the door behind him.
In the middle of the room, staring nervously toward the door, stood a
handsome elderly gentleman, of distinguished presence and clothes of a
rather notable perfection. At sight of him the young man's advance
halted in utter bewilderment, and he fell back limply against the shut
door.
But the elderly gentleman came running toward him with a suppressed cry,
and seizing the young man's hand disarmingly in both his own, threw
himself almost hysterically upon his apologia.
"Can you forgive me, my boy? Ah, I'll confess that I've dreaded this
meeting, while longing for it, too! You look badly--ah, very
badly!--yet--not bitter, not resentful--thank God, not unhappy! My boy,
can you find it in your heart to forgive an old man who has suffered
deeply for his sins?"
Out of his whirling confusion, his insane sense of the world suddenly
gone upside down and the familiar order stood upon its head, the young
man laughed dazedly. But he kept tight hold of the old one's hand, and
fell to patting it with wild reassurance.
"Everything's all right--all right! Yes, indeed, sir. Of course! But I
don't understand--I don't grasp--I came here looking for--Are
you--_you_--Mr. Higginson?"
"Ah, you hadn't guessed then? And yet who could wonder, such a terrible,
frightful mix-up as it all became! You see," the old gentleman hurried
on, lowering his gaze, yet already recovering something of his normal
composure, "you had scarcely started before I--I became strangely uneasy
over the--seriousness of the matter and the possible consequences,
and--and decided that I had best come on myself in--in a private manner,
merely to have an eye on things. Believe me, that was all I meant. But I
did not dare let you know that I was here, even in that way, having
promised you that I would not interfere, and besides--I feared that you
might think I had--ah--withheld the full facts about--her age."
In an access of nervous self-consciousness, the old man's voice trailed
to an uncertain pause; and Varney comforted him with a burst of
bewildered laughter.
"Forgive my glassy stare--no offence intended, but my head's going
around, Mr. Higginson! It's all still nebulous, you
know--topsy-turvy--incredible! That day of the luncheon, now--the
mysterious warning--the bribe to Ferguson to smash up the yacht--"
A fine flush spread over the old man's face to the roots of his
silvered hair. Yet it was obvious that the young man's unaffected
cordiality had heartened him immensely.
"Well, you see, my dear boy," he began, embarrassedly, "by that time I
had met her--she was so sweet to me from the start--and I began to hope
that such heroic, such painful, measures might not be necessary. Yet
perhaps they would be, after all, and so--ah, I did wrong, I
know--wrong!--and yet--don't you see how inevitably it all came about? I
did not dare communicate with you, begging you to let matters stand a
few days--fearing that upon learning of my presence you would simply
abandon the commission entirely, and God knows you would have been
justified in doing so. Yet I longed to postpone the--the final step,
holding it in reserve, in the ardent hope that it might be avoided
entirely. So I--gave instructions to Ferguson. It was wrong not to trust
you, and oh, I have been punished for it, suffered miserably--"
"_Dear_ sir! I'm so sorry! But that is all past now--all past--and
to-day all's right with the world!"
The old man's hands tightened their earnest clasp. Tears sprang suddenly
into his fine eyes.
"But oh, I have been richly blest, too--far beyond my deserts! The night
that you were hurt--I came quite unexpectedly face to face with Mrs.
Carstairs at the cottage. We had a long talk that night--a wonderful
talk, which gave me a totally new point of view, brought me new light
and peace. And now--everything is arranged, and if you have truly
forgiven me, I am happy as I never dreamed for happiness again."
"Forgiven you! For what, dear sir? Why, don't you begin to guess yet
what you have done for me?"
He tucked the old man's hand masterfully under his arm, and drew him to
the door.
"God bless you, boy, for what _you've_ done for me and mine.
But--where--where are we going?"
"Out into the world," said Varney, "where Mary Carstairs is waiting for
you and me."
"But--but--I feel extremely nervous--does she know?"
"She is going to know in about thirty seconds, and we are the three
happiest people in America."
"I think," said the old man palely, "that she--she likes me--"
"In less than a minute," said the young one, "she is going to love you."
His voice betrayed him a little on the words, but he instantly recovered
his poise, and, hand on the knob, faced the other with his gayest smile.
"Tell me, Mr. Higginson--_did_ you skip to New York that afternoon, when
Maginnis and I, you know, dashed up here to assassinate you?"
"Yes," replied the handsome old intriguer with a nervous cough, "yes,
I--you see, it had been reported to me that Mr. Maginnis had threatened
to horsewhip me in the public square, after my attempt to buy the paper
and save us all from scandal. So naturally, on the afternoon you
mention, I--I anticipated trouble. However, I quietly returned to
Hunston on the next train back, going, of course, to a different hotel,
a most dreadful little place--"
Varney shouted.
"It's just as Peter said, I declare! You're the noblest plotter of them
all, Mr. Higginson. Dear old Hunston will not look upon your like
again."
The two enemies came out into the corridor arm-in-arm, and advanced in
utter amity to the doorway. And as they walked, Varney's tongue
unloosed, and he spoke his still incredible happiness aloud: only,
because he was not Latin and exuberant, he spoke it according to the
indirect uses of his race.
"That man we passed standing in the hall--the one with the face of
incredulity and chagrin--was old Callery--horribly miffed because you
and I failed to lock in mortal combat. He's a fine fellow, Callery is,
only I imagine he's had a lot of hard luck. Did you ever see a prettier
little hotel than this--I mean, of course, for a town of this size?
_Look_! That's the clerk behind the desk there. An amazingly clever
fellow--you just ought to have seen how sharp he was in knowing where
you were--and that's a _Cypriani_ cigar he's smoking, if you'd like to
know. Jim Hackley's house is just over on the other corner--why, you can
_see_ it from here. I want you to know Hackley, sir! A great big
whimsical fellow with a fist like a ham and a heart like a woman's....
Ah!..."
They emerged from the hotel upon the noisy street, still lively with the
rush of home-goers; and now the two men stood side by side before the
waiting carriage, and Varney's flow of talk had ceased.
From the square there came the shouts of many lingerers, making merry
in the tail of the great day according to their desire. Down either
sidewalk poured a stream of people, laughing, talking, and calling to
each other; the street still rumbled under passing vehicles; the Palace
Hotel, in particular, had become a lodestone and near to Tommy's
victoria much human traffic converged. In truth, it was a public place
where all who wished could see, and many did see. Yet there was nothing
in the little scene to fix the gaze of the casual wayfarer: a young girl
sitting in a well-appointed carriage, and two men, one young and one
old, approaching with bared heads to speak to her. Only a close observer
would have been likely to notice that the old man's cheek was markedly
pale, and that upon the marred face of the younger one there had
descended a strange and solemn look....
For Mary there had been no surprise in seeing the young man come out to
her with the old one on his arm--had he not told her that he went in
peace?--and even the glorious metamorphosis in Mr. Higginson's
appearance quite failed to arrest her attention. She had smoothed his
approach with a welcoming smile and the beginning of a gay greeting; but
her eyes were for her lover. And now as she saw the look on Varney's
face, and became aware of the odd and impressive silence in which he
stood, like one called to officiate at some high ceremony, understanding
incredibly dawned within her, and she was suddenly without speech or
breath. Her little greeting was never finished; all at once her face,
grown wonderfully sweet, was whiter than the old man's own; and the
eyes which she now turned back to him were full and overfull of tears.
"Miss Carstairs," said Varney, not quite steadily, "may I have the great
honor of presenting your father?"
THE END