The night was rainy and a fierce wind was blowing. The Major and his
wife were by the fire in the sitting-room, when there came a heavy tread
upon the porch, but the knock that fell upon the door was gentle. They
knew who had come, and the door was opened for Jim Taylor. Quietly he
responded to their greeting, and with both hands he took off his slouch
hat, went to the fireplace and over the blaze shook it.
"Put myself in mind of a wet dog," he said. "Didn't think to shake
outside. How are you all getting along?"
He was looking at Mrs. Cranceford, but the Major answered him. "In the
same old way. Tilt that cat out of the rocking-chair and sit down."
"Have you heard of the death of Mrs. Wash Sanders?" Mrs. Cranceford
asked, fearing that the Major might get ahead of her with this piece of
news, but all along determined that he should not.
"No, I haven't," he said; but his want of surprise was not satisfying,
and Mrs. Cranceford said: "I mean Mrs. Wash Sanders."
"Yes, I know; but this is the first I've heard of it. I came from the
boat right up here. So the poor woman's dead? She never knew anything
but hard work. How long was she sick? Shouldn't think she could take the
time to be sick long, poor soul."
"She was not in bed more than two days. It was awful, the way she
suffered. And all the time Wash was whining that he couldn't eat
anything, as if anybody cared. I never was so provoked at a man in my
life. I'd like to know who cares whether he eats another bite or not.
Actually, I believe he thought the neighbors had come to sympathize with
him instead of to nurse his wife. And when she was dead he went about
blubbering that he couldn't live but a few days."
"He'll outlive us all," said the Major. "He told us yesterday that he
was threatened with convulsions, and Gid swore that a convulsion was
about the last thing he ought to fear, that he was too lazy to entertain
such an exertion."
In this talk Jim felt not even the slightest interest. He wanted to talk
about Louise. But not in Mrs. Cranceford's manner nor in her eyes when
she looked straight at him was there a hint that Tom had told her that
the girl had been seen. Perhaps the boy had decided to elect him to this
unenviable office. The Major asked him about his trip, but he answered
as if he cared not what he said; but when shortly afterward the Major
went out, Taylor's unconcern fell from him and he stood up and in
tremulous anxiousness looked at Mrs. Cranceford, expecting her to say
something. Surely Tom had told her nothing, for she quietly smiled at
him as he stood there, awkwardly and distressfully fumbling with
himself.
"I have a letter from her," she said.
Taylor sat down hard. "A letter from her!"
"Yes; received it this morning."
"But has Tom told you anything?"
"Yes; everything."
"And she has written to you since then?"
"Yes; I will show you." On a corner of the mantel-piece was a work-box,
and unlocking it, she took out a letter and handed it to him. "Read it,"
she said, "and if you hear the Major coming, put it away. Some
references in it would have to be explained, and so I have decided not
to let him see it."
He took the letter, and standing where the light from the hanging lamp
fell brightest, read the following:
"My Dear Mother:--By this time Tom must have told you of our meeting.
And what a meeting it was. He was worse than an orang-outang, but I must
say that I admire his courage, and I struggled to help him when he was
in the thick of his fight, but my friends tore me away, realizing that
flight was our only redemption. Of course you will wonder why I was in
such a place, and I don't know that I can explain in a satisfactory
manner to you, and surely not to father. I would have introduced Tom to
my friends had he given me time, but it appears that he was in too much
of a hurry to attend upon the demands of politeness. Fight was boiling
in his blood and it had to bubble out. Mother, I was with a slumming
party. Do you know what a slumming party is? It is a number of
respectable people whom curiosity leads into the resorts of crime and
vice. Society thinks that it makes one wiser, and that to know the
aspect of depravity does not make one less innocent. But I know that you
will not approve of a slumming party, and I cannot say that I do. The
Rev. H. Markham, whose sermons you must have read, was with me. As the
champion of virtue he has planned and executed an invasion of the haunts
of iniquity, and his weekly discourses here are very popular,
particularly with women. Well, he was sitting beside me, and I have
since thought that it must have been a great shock to his dignity when
Tom struck him; but his greatest solicitude was the fear that the
occurrence might be spread by the newspapers, and to keep it out was his
first care. That night on business I left the city, and I write this in
a quiet, Arcadian neighborhood. It is with pleasure that I feel myself a
success in the work which I have chosen. What work? you naturally ask.
But that is my secret, and I must hold it just a little longer."
Here several lines were erased and a fresh start taken. "I have longed
to look upon the dear faces at home; but mingled with my love is a
pride. I am determined to make something of myself. Simply to be an
honest, patient, upright woman, in love with her home, is no longer
enough. Life demands more than this, or at least woman demands it of
life. And to be somebody calls for sacrifice as well as ability and
determination. Absence from home is my sacrifice, and what my effort is
you shall know in due time. It will surprise you, and in this to me will
lie a delight. My associates tell me that I am different from anyone
else, but this difference they put down as an individuality, and success
in my field is won only by the individual. Within two weeks from this
day I shall be with you, and then my little ant-hill of mystery will be
torn to pieces. I am going to show you all how I love you; I am going to
prove to you that what has appeared odd and unlady-like were but
leadings to my development."
More lines were erased, and then the letter thus proceeded:
"For some time I have had it in mind to make Sallie Pruitt a present,
but as I have no idea as to what she might like best, I enclose twenty
dollars, which you will please give to her. Do you see my hero often? I
think of him, dream of him, and my heart will never know a perfect home
until his love has built a mansion for it."
The letter was fluttering in the giant's hand. "Who--who--what does she
mean?"
"She means you, stupid!" Mrs. Cranceford cried.
He looked up, dazed; he put out his hand, he grabbed his hat, he
snatched the door open and was out in the wind and the rain.