CRUMBLED CASTLES
Fearing what she might think of him for dealing with a man like
Hutchinson, he dared not tell her just how the knowledge had come to
him; but he swore it was true, that he knew it was true, and begged her
to believe him.
“And, though he has denied it, he is Paul Hazelton. They have the
absolute proof, and Mike Riley holds a letter of his that will bar him
from baseball in the Northern League. There’ll be a meeting called this
very week, and he’ll be suspended.”
“I do not believe it, I told you not to speak to me again about him
until you could show proof that――”
“I can! I have it here!”
Exultantly he produced the letter and photograph; the latter he held
before her eyes, and she looked at it, speechless.
“The picture of Paul Hazelton, of Princeton,” he said. “Does it
resemble Mr. Tom Locke?”
“Where――where did you get it?” she asked in a husky whisper, taking it
from his hand with nerveless fingers that nearly let it fall.
“I told you I had sent to a friend, asking him to get Hazelton’s
picture for me. He went to Princeton for it; here’s the name of the
Princeton photographer on it.”
She had hoped that there might be some doubt; that, even though the
photograph resembled Locke, there might be some question as to whether
it was not the counterfeit presentment of a person who looked like him.
But, with it before her eyes, that hope sank and died; it was the man.
Watching her face, King felt certain he had won at last. He took the
picture, and placed the open letter in her hands. She tried to read
it, but the lines ran into a blurred mass, and finally, with a choking
sensation in her throat, she handed it back, endeavoring to keep him
from seeing how hard she was hit.
He sought to crush back and control his exultation; did his best to
prevent any touch of it from creeping into his voice.
“While I am sorry, Janet, that you were deceived, even for a minute, by
the fellow, I am also glad that no real harm has been done. He has been
exposed in time. I knew from the first that he lied brazenly when he
denied that he was Hazelton, but he certainly can assume a plausible
manner which might fool almost anybody. Henry Cope knew, all along,
that he was not what he represented himself to be, but, on account of
Riley’s claim, and to protect Hazelton, he would not tell the truth.
It is useless for him to hold back any longer. I hope you do not blame
me, Janet; I’m sure you won’t when you have time to think it all over
calmly. I care for you more――much more――than I have ever let you know,
and for that reason I――”
“Please don’t say anything more to me now,” she entreated, her voice
low but steady. “You were right.”
Half turning away, she put out her hand; he seized it quickly, and
found it cold.
“I’ll not say anything more now,” he breathed, close to her shoulder,
holding the hand fast in his grasp; “but some time, Janet――some time
when you are ready to listen――I’ll have something more to say.”
On the street he swung off with a free, vigorous stride, his heart
beating high. He had won; he was sure of it. The knowledge of her
interest in the man, which he had feared might develop into something
deeper, had led him to realize the full extent of his own regard for
her. She was a poor clergyman’s daughter, and he was the son of Cyrus
King, but the little god had winged his arrow straight, and the wound
was deliciously deep.
Twenty minutes after King left, Janet, having donned hat and wrap, came
out and walked swiftly down the street. Her face was chill and sad; she
was deserted by hope; yet she would see Henry Cope.
Behind his counter, the grocer peered at her over his glasses.
“Mornin’, Janet,” he said cheerfully. “’Nother ruther nice day.”
“Mr. Cope, I’d like to speak with you a moment privately.”
Surprised, he took note of her pallor and the girl’s troubled look. Her
voice had an unusual sound. Pushing up his spectacles, he came from
behind the counter.
“Step inter my office,” he invited.
In the office he urged her to sit down, saying she looked tired; but
she preferred to stand.
“I’ll bother you only a minute,” she said.
“No bother at all――no bother. What can I do? Anything the matter?”
“I have come to ask you, confidentially, about――about the man who is
called Tom Locke.” She half turned her head away.
“Eh? Oh, him? What you want t’ know?”
“Mr. Cope, I want you to tell me the truth. You need not fear that I
will repeat anything you say. You have always been my friend, and now,
as such, I ask you to answer my question. I hope you’ll not refuse or
put me off.”
“You bet I’ve alwus been your friend, little girl,” he returned
earnestly. “What’s the question?”
“You engaged Mr. Locke for the baseball team, and you know who he is.
They are saying he is a Princeton College man by the name of Hazelton.
Tell me, Mr. Cope, if that is true.”
“Now, what makes the difference who he is?” spluttered the grocer,
frowning. “I’m bein’ pestered to death about him.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pester you. I gave you my word I would not
repeat anything you told me, but if you will not answer my question――”
“Hold on, Janet; I ain’t said I wouldn’t answer it. I know you won’t
tell if you say ye won’t, and, anyhow, it’s beginnin’ to look like he’d
have to sail under his own colors before long. Yes, Miss Janet, he’s
Paul Hazelton. I agreed t’ keep mum ’bout it so’s he wouldn’t git inter
a mess ’bout pitchin’ for his college; but what’s the use, with Mike
Riley raisin’ high jinks an’ claimin’ he’s got a holt on the boy, and
even settin’ the newspapers to buzzin’? I’m ruther sorry for Hazelton,
but I s’pose he knew he was takin’ a chance when he come here.”
“That’s all,” said the girl; “thank you. Now, I hope you’ll not tell
anybody that I came to you to inquire about him?”
“Not a peep, little girl. He’s a mighty nice feller, I’ll say that fer
him. Don’t seem to have no bad habits, an’ goes t’ church, an’――”
But she did not wait to hear him enumerate the virtues of the man who
had looked straight into her eyes and lied without a tremor; the man
who was proud of his conquests with the fair sex, and had boasted that
he would amuse himself with her while in Kingsbridge. What a despicable
creature the fellow was! She left the store.
On the way back home, Janet passed several persons without noticing
them at all, but she kept her face set with the fixed purpose of
preventing any one who saw her from imagining that she was fighting
back a flood of tears. Glad that her father was out for a morning
walk, she avoided the maid, hurried to her room, locked the door, and
permitted the flood to burst the restraining gates.
After a time, having “cried it out,” she sat in an easy-chair near the
window, watching a mother robin on her nest in the tree outside.
She was not thinking of the robin, however; she was thinking of
yesterday and the meeting in the woods――a day she had thought the
happiest of her life. She was thinking of the manner in which Locke
had looked at her with those clear, honest brown eyes, and how she had
thrilled beneath that look. She was thinking of his voice as, sitting
on the log and leaning toward her, he had quoted the words of Bassanio,
causing the heart, now cold and heavy in her breast, to leap and throb
until it seemed that he must hear its joyous beating.
No man had ever stirred her like that, and something told her that no
other man could so stir her again. And all the time he had been playing
with her――amusing himself!
That day, “the happiest of her life,” was a day to regret; a day to
forget――if she could forget it. Would the sun ever again shine as
brightly? Would the woods ever seem so shadowy cool and inviting? Would
the flowers ever be so fair and sweet?
She had loved the world and everything in it, and her blood had danced
in her veins, and her feet had longed to dance, despite it being the
Sabbath day; her very soul had seemed to sing with a joy as wide as
eternity.
Now the sun was shining outside her window, but there was something
gone from its golden glamour; her blood that had danced flowed chill
in her body, and her heart was full with a pain too great for it to
contain.
“A dream,” she whispered dully――“nothing but a dream. It is over!”