The news of MacFarlane's expected departure soon became known in the
village. There were not many people to say good-by, the inhabitants
having seen but little of the engineer and still less of his daughter,
except as she flew past, in a mad gallop, on her brown mare, her hair
sometimes down her back. The pastor of the new church came, however, to
express his regrets, and to thank Mr. MacFarlane for his interest in the
church building. He also took occasion to say many complimentary things
about Garry, extolling him for the wonderful manner in which that
brilliant young architect had kept within the sum set apart by the
trustees for its construction, and for the skill with which the work was
being done, adding that as a slight reward for such devotion the church
trustees had made Mr. Minott treasurer of the building fund, believing
that in this way all disputes could the better be avoided,--one of some
importance having already arisen (here the reverend gentleman lowered
his voice) in which Mr. McGowan, he was sorry to say, who was building
the masonry, had attempted an overcharge which only Mr. Minott's
watchful eye could have detected, adding, with a glance over his
shoulder, that the collapse of the embankment had undermined the
contractor's reputation quite as much as the freshet had his culvert, at
which MacFarlane smiled but made no reply.
Corinne also came to express her regrets, bringing with her a scrap of
an infant in a teetering baby carriage, the whole presided over by a
nurse in a blue dress, white cap, and white apron, the ends reaching to
her feet: not the Corinne, the Scribe is pained to say, who, in the old
days would twist her head and stamp her little feet and have her way in
everything. But a woman terribly shrunken, with deep lines in her face
and under her eyes. Jack, man-like, did not notice the change, but Ruth
did.
After the baby had been duly admired, Ruth tossing it in her arms until
it crowed, Corinne being too tired for much enthusiasm, had sent it
home, Ruth escorting it herself to the garden gate.
“I am sorry you are going,” Corinne said in Ruth's absence. “I suppose
we must stay on here until Garry finishes the new church. I haven't seen
much of Ruth,--or of you, either, Jack. But I don't see much of anybody
now,--not even of Garry. He never gets home until midnight, or even
later, if the train is behind time, and it generally is.”
“Then he must have lots of new work,” cried Jack in a cheerful tone. “He
told me the last time I saw him on the train that he expected some big
warehouse job.”
Corinne looked out of the window and fingered the handle of her parasol.
“I don't believe that is what keeps him in town, Jack,” she said slowly.
“I hoped you would come and see him last Sunday. Did Garry give you my
message? I heard you were at home to-day, and that is why I came.”
“No, he never said a single word about it or I would have come, of
course. What do you think, then, keeps him in town so late?” Something
in her voice made Jack leave his own and take a seat beside her. “Tell
me, Corinne. I'll do anything I can for Garry and you too. What is it?”
“I don't know, Jack,--I wish I did. He has changed lately. When I
went to his room the other night he was walking the floor; he said
he couldn't sleep, and the next morning when he didn't come down to
breakfast I went up and found him in a half stupor. I had hard work to
wake him. Don't tell Ruth,--I don't want anybody but you to know, but
I wish you'd come and see him. I've nobody else to turn to,--won't you,
Jack?”
“Come! of course I'll come, Corinne,--now,--this minute, if he's home,
or to-night, or any time you say. Suppose I go back with you and wait.
Garry's working too hard, that's it,--he was always that way, puts his
whole soul into anything he gets interested in and never lets up until
it's accomplished.” He waited for some reply, but she was still toying
with the handle of her parasol. Her mind had not been on his proffered
help,--she had not heard him, in fact.
“And, Jack,” she went on in the same heart-broken tone through which an
unbidden sob seemed to struggle.
“Yes, I am listening, Corinne,--what is it?”
“I want you to forgive me for the way I have always treated you. I
have--”
“Why, Corinne, what nonsense! Don't you bother your head about such--”
“Yes, but I do, and it is because I have never done anything but be ugly
to you. When you lived with us I--”
“But we were children then, Corinne, and neither of us knew any better.
I won't hear one word of such nonsense. Why, my dear girl--“he had
taken her hand as she spoke and the pair rested on his knee--“do you
think I am--No--you are too sensible a woman to think anything of the
kind. But that is not it, Corinne--something worries you;” he asked
suddenly with a quick glance at her face. “What is it? You shall have
the best in me, and Ruth will help too.”
Her fingers closed over his. The touch of the young fellow, so full of
buoyant strength and hope and happiness, seemed to put new life into
her.
“I don't know, Jack.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “There may not be
anything, yet I live under an awful terror. Don't ask me;--only tell me
you will help me if I need you. I have nobody else--my stepfather almost
turned me out of his office when I went to see him the other day,--my
mother doesn't care. She has only been here half a dozen times, and that
was when baby was born. Hush,--here comes Ruth,--she must not know.”
“But she MUST know, Corinne. I never have any secrets from Ruth, and
don't you have any either. Ruth couldn't be anything but kind to you
and she never misunderstands, and she is so helpful. Here she is. Ruth,
dear, we were just waiting for you. Corinne is nervous and depressed,
and imagines all sorts of things, one of which is that we don't care for
her: and I've just told her that we do?”
Ruth looked into Jack's eyes as if to get his meaning--she must always
get her cue from him now--she was entirely unconscious of the cause of
it all, or why Corinne should feel so, but if Jack thought Corinne was
suffering and that she wanted comforting, all she had was at Corinne's
and Jack's disposal. With a quick movement she leaned forward and laid
her hand on Corinne's shoulder.
“Why, you dear Corinne,--Jack and I are not like that. What has gone
wrong,--tell me,” she urged.
For a brief instant Corinne made no answer. Once she tried to speak but
the words died in her throat. Then, lifting up her hands appealingly,
she faltered out:
“I only said that I--Oh, Ruth!--I am so wretched!” and sank back on the
lounge in an agony of tears.