Jack strode out into the night, his mind in a whirl. No sense of elation
over the money had possession of him. All his thoughts were on Isaac.
What manner of man was this Jew? he kept asking himself in a sort of
stunned surprise, who could handle his shears like a journeyman, talk
like a savant, spend money like a prince, and still keep the heart of a
child? Whoever heard of such an act of kindness; and so spontaneous and
direct; reading his heart, sympathizing with him in his troubles--as his
friend would have done--as his own father might have done.
And with the thought of Cohen's supreme instantaneous response there
followed with a rush of shame and self-humiliation that of his own
narrow-mindedness, his mean prejudices, his hatred of the race, his
questionings of Peter's intimacy, and his frequent comments on their
acquaintance--the one thing he could never understand in his beloved
mentor. Again Isaac's words rang in his ears. “Is it because I am a Jew?
Who taught you such nonsense? Not your Uncle Peter--he loves me. I love
him.” And with them arose the vision of the man stretched to his full
height, the light of the lamp glinting on his moist forehead, his
bead-like eyes flashing in the rush of his anger.
As to the sacrifice both he and Ruth had just made, and it was now
final, this no longer troubled him. He had already weighed for her every
side of the question, taking especial pains to discuss each phase of the
subject, even going so far as to disagree with MacFarlane's opinion
as to the worthlessness of the ore lands. But the dear child had never
wavered.
“No!--I don't care,” she had answered with a toss of her head. “Let the
land go if there is no other way. We can get on without it, my darling,
and these poor people cannot.” She had not, of course, if the truth must
be told, weighed any of the consequences of what their double sacrifice
might entail, nor had she realized the long years of work which might
ensue, or the self-denial and constant anxiety attending its repayment.
Practical questions on so large a scale had been outside the range of
her experience. Hers was the spirit of Joan of old, who reckoned nothing
of value but her ideal.
Nor can we blame her. When your cheeks are twin roses; your hair black
as a crow's wing and fine as silk; and your teeth--not one missing--so
many seed pearls peeping from pomegranate lips; when your blood goes
skipping and bubbling through your veins; when at night you sleep like
a baby, and at morn you spring from your bed in the joy of another day;
when there are two strong brown hands and two strong arms, and a great,
loving, honest heart every bit your own; and when, too, there are crisp
autumn afternoons to come, with gold and brown for a carpet, and long
winter evenings, the fire-light dancing on the overhead rafters; and
'way--'way--beyond this--somewhere in the far future there rises a
slender spire holding a chime of bells, and beneath it a deep-toned
organ--when this, I say, is, or will be, your own--the gold of the
Indies is but so much tinkling brass, and Cleopatra's diadem a mere
bauble with which to quiet a child.
It was not until he was nearing Corklesville that the sense of the money
really came to him. He knew what it would mean to Ruth and what her eyes
would hold of gladness and relief. Suddenly there sprang to his lips an
unbidden laugh, a spontaneous overflow from the joy of his heart; the
first he had uttered for days. Ruth should know first. He would take her
in his arms and tell her to hunt in all his pockets, and then he would
kiss her and place the package in her hands. And then the two would go
to Corinne. It would be late, and she would be in bed, perhaps, but that
made no difference. Ruth would steal noiselessly upstairs; past where
Garry lay, the flowers heaped upon his coffin, and Corinne would learn
the glad tidings before to-morrow's sun. At last the ghost which had
haunted them all these days was banished; her child would be safe, and
Corinne would no longer have to hide her head.
Once more the precious package became the dominant thought. Ten bonds!
More than enough! What would McGowan say now? What would his Uncle
Arthur say? He slipped his hand under his coat fondling the wrapper,
caressing it as a lover does a long-delayed letter, as a prisoner does a
key which is to turn darkness into light, as a hunted man a weapon which
may save his life.
It did not take Jack many minutes we may be sure to hurry from the
station to Ruth's home. There it all happened just as he had planned and
schemed it should--even to the kiss and the hunting for the package of
bonds, and Ruth's cry of joy, and the walk through the starlight night
to Corinne's, and the finding her upstairs; except that the poor woman
was not yet in bed.
“Who gave it to you, Jack?” Corinne asked in a tired voice.
“A friend of Uncle Peter's.”
“You mean Mr. Grayson?”
“Yes.”
There was no outburst, no cry of gratitude, no flood of long-pent-up
tears. The storm had so crushed and bruised this plant that many days
must elapse before it would again lift its leaves from the mud.
“It was very good of Mr. Grayson, Jack,” was all she said in answer, and
then relapsed into the apathy which had been hers since the hour when
the details of her husband's dishonesty had dropped from his lips.
Poor girl! she had no delusions to sustain her. She knew right from
wrong. Emotions never misled her. In her earlier years she and her
mother had been accustomed to look things squarely in the face, and
to work out their own careers; a game of chance, it is true, until her
mother's marriage with the elder Breen; but they had both been honest
careers, and they had owed no man a penny. Garry had fought the battle
for her within the last few years, and in return she had loved him as
much as she was able to love anybody but she had loved him as a man of
honor, not as a thief. Now he had lied to her, had refused to listen to
her pleadings, and the end had come. What was there left, and to whom
should she now turn--she without a penny to her name--except to her
stepfather, who had insulted and despised her. She had even been
compelled to seek help from Ruth and Jack; and now at last to accept it
from Mr. Grayson--he almost a stranger. These were the thoughts which,
like strange nightmares, swept across her tired brain, taking grewsome
shapes, each one more horrible than its predecessor.
At the funeral, next day, she presented the same impassive front. Breen
and her mother rode with her in the carriage to the church, and Jack and
Ruth helped her alight, but she might have been made of stone so far
as she evinced either sorrow or interest in what was taking place about
her. And yet nothing had been omitted by friend or foe expressive of the
grief and heart-felt sorrow the occasion demanded. Holker Morris sent a
wreath of roses with a special letter to her, expressing his confidence
in and respect for the man he had brought up from a boy. A committee was
present from the Society of Architects to which Garry belonged; half
a dozen of his old friends from the Magnolia were present, Biffy among
them; the village Council and the Board of Church Trustees came in a
body, and even McGowan felt it incumbent upon him to stand up during the
service and assume the air of one who had been especially bereft. Nor
were the notices in the country and city papers wanting in respect. “One
of our most distinguished citizens--a man who has reached the topmost
round of the ladder,” etc., etc., one editorial began.
It was only when the funeral was over, and she was once more at home,
that she expressed the slightest concern. Then she laid her hand in
Peter's and threw back her heavy crepe veil: “You have saved me from
disgrace, Mr. Grayson,” she said, in a low, monotonous voice, “and my
little boy as well. I try to think that Garry must have been out of his
mind when he took the money. He would not listen to me, and he would not
tell me the truth. Jack is going to pay it back to-morrow, and nobody
will ever know that my husband did wrong; but I couldn't let you go
away without thanking you for having saved us. My stepfather wouldn't
help--nobody would help but you. I don't know why you did it. It seems
so strange. I had given up all hope when Jack came back last night.”
Peter sat perfectly still, his hand on her wrist, where he had placed
it to show by a kindly touch his sympathy for her. Not knowing what her
lips would tell, he had begun to pat the back of her black glove when
she started to speak, as one would quiet a child who pours out its
troubles, but he stopped in amazement as she proceeded. He had not
loaned her a dollar, nor had Jack, as he knew, succeeded in getting a
penny, unless by a miracle he had met some one on the train who had come
to his rescue.
What did the poor woman mean? Disgrace! Trouble! Garry taking money, and
Jack paying it back on Monday! The horror of her husband's sudden
death had undoubtedly turned her mind, distorting some simple business
transaction into a crime, or she would not be thanking him for something
that he had never done. This talk of Jack's could only have been a ruse
to keep up her spirits and give her false strength until she had passed
through the agonizing ordeal of the funeral--he accepting all her
delusions as true--as one does when an insane person is to be coaxed
back into a cell. These thoughts went whirling through his mind, as
Peter watched her face closely, wondering what would be his course. He
had not met her often, yet he could see that she was terribly changed.
He noticed, too, that all through the interview she had not shed a tear.
Yes--there was no question that her mind was unbalanced. The best plan
would be to bring the interview to an end as quickly as possible, so she
should not dwell too long on her sorrow.
“If I have done anything to help you, my dear lady,” he said with gentle
courtesy, rising from his chair and taking her hand again, “or can do
anything for you in the future, I shall be most happy, and you must
certainly let me know. And now, may I not ask you to go upstairs and
lie down. You are greatly fatigued--I assure you I feel for you most
deeply.”
But his mind was still disturbed. Ruth and Jack wondered at his quiet
as he sat beside them on the way back to MacFarlane's--gazing out of
the carriage window, his clean-shaven, placid face at rest, his straight
thin lips close shut. He hardly spoke until they reached the house,
and then it was when he helped Ruth alight. Once inside, however,
he beckoned Jack, and without a word led him alone into MacFarlane's
study--now almost dismantled for the move to Morfordsburg--and closed
the door.
“Mrs. Minott has just told me the most extraordinary thing, Jack--an
unbelievable story. Is she quite sane?”
Jack scanned Peter's face and read the truth. Corinne had evidently told
him everything. This was the severest blow of all.
“She supposed you knew, sir;” answered Jack quietly, further concealment
now being useless.
“Knew what?” Peter was staring at him with wide-open eyes.
“What she told you, sir,” faltered Jack.
The old man threw up his hands in horror.
“What! You really mean to tell me, Jack, that Minott has been stealing?”
Jack bent his head and his eyes sought the floor. He could hardly have
been more ashamed had he himself been the culprit.
“God bless my soul! From whom?”
“The church funds--he was trustee. The meeting is to-morrow, and it
would all have come out.”
A great light broke over Peter--as when a window is opened in a darkened
room in which one has bees stumbling.
“And you have walked the streets trying to beggar yourself, not to help
MacFarlane but to keep Minott out of jail!” Amazement had taken the
place of horror.
“He was my friend, sir--and there are Corinne and the little boy. It is
all over now. I have the money--that is, I have got something to raise
it on.”
“Who gave it to you?” He was still groping, blinded by the revelations,
his gray eyes staring at Jack, his voice trembling, beads of
perspiration moistening his forehead.
“Isaac Cohen. He has given me ten Government bonds. They are in that
drawer behind you. He overheard what I said to you yesterday about
wanting some money, and was waiting for me when I went downstairs. He
gave them to me because he loved you, he said. I am to give him my ore
property as security, although I told him it was of no value.”
Peter made a step forward, stretching out a hand as if to steady
himself. His face grew white then suddenly flushed. His breath seemed to
have left him.
“And Cohen did this!” he gasped--“and you for Minott! Why--why--”
Jack caught him in his arms, thinking he was about to fall.
“No! No! I'm all right,” he cried, patting Jack's shoulder. “It's
you!--you--YOU, my splendid boy! Oh!--how I love you!”