It was dark that evening when John arrived home. As he opened the gate
he was surprised to see that the cottage was not lighted. That was
indeed strange, for Tilly was usually in the kitchen or the dining-room
at that hour. The next remarkable thing was the fact that the key was in
the lock. He felt it and heard it rattle as he caught the door-knob. The
hall was dark and silent. He went in hurriedly. What could have
happened? Where could she be? He called out: "Tilly! Tilly!" but there
was no response. A gray cat that belonged to the Carrols came and rubbed
against his ankles as he stood in the kitchen. He lighted the gas. How
odd! for there lay the unwashed breakfast-dishes, the uncleaned
coffee-pot, and in the dining-room the breakfast table-cloth had not
been removed. He put down his dinner-pail, and, with a great fear
clutching his breast, a fear he could not have defined, he went into the
sitting-room. Nothing here was out of place, and he turned into the
bedroom. It was dark, and with unsteady hands he struck a match. It
broke. A blazing globule fell to the mat. He swore impatiently and
extinguished it with his foot. He struck another and lighted the gas.
The open door of the closet, now empty, met his eyes. A crushed hat-box
lay on the floor, the bureau drawers were wide open and contained but a
few things. He looked for Tilly's trunk. It was gone. Then he began to
look everywhere for some written communication, lighting all the
gas-jets to facilitate his search. Then he gave it up. He went about
extinguishing the gas as aimlessly and mechanically as a sleepwalker,
unaware of the things he was touching.
He went out on the porch. He stepped down into the yard. Verbal
expression of no sort was formed in his consciousness, for the pall of
comprehension had not yet quite enveloped him. Something yet of hope
might blaze forth out of his gloom. Ah, perhaps she had received a
telegram from home that some one was ill and had not had time to inform
him. Yes, it might be that--that and not the other--not the damnable,
sinister conceit that somehow seemed to emerge from the home of his
mother and come crawling like a designing monster across the intervening
spaces toward him. He went to the gate and clutched it with the strong
hand which all that day had lifted mortar and bricks till his muscles
were sore. Then he heard the sound of wheels. A horse and cab were
approaching from the direction of the town.
"Ah, a message is coming!" he cried, a vast rising relief driving the
words from him.
"Is dat you, Mr. Trott?" The cabman was reining his horse in at the
gate.
"Yes. What is it?" John went out to the cab and stood breathlessly
waiting for the negro to speak.
"Why, yo' wife tol' me ter tell you, sir, dat--but, bless me if I wasn't
so rattled dat I hardly remember what it was she said."
"My wife, my wife, what about her?"
"Why, I done fetch 'er father here, sir, dis morning," the man went on
in stammering tones. "He was rampagin' up 'n' down de Square, askin'
whar you was. He had a gun an' was out er his head. Dar wasn't no
policeman about, en' nobody else knowed how ter handle him. He sure was
dangerous! Seems like he done hear about--well, you know--about yo' ma,
an' Miss Jane Holder, an'--an' de high jinks over dar night after night,
an' fines, drinks, poker an' all dat. He didn't talk to me, sir, but
some of de white folks dat he saw in de stores said he claimed dat you
abdicated his young daughter 'fo' she was old enough ter decide fer
herself. I didn't want ter fetch 'im here, for blood was in his eyes,
but I was afraid not to, wid him settin' behind me wid dat gun in his
pocket, so I driv' him over, knowin' you was out in der country at work
an' safe fer a while, anyway."
"But my wife--my wife?" John all but pleaded. "What about her?"
"I don't know 'cept she tuck 'im inside an' sorter quieted 'im down and
tol' 'im she wanted to go home ter her ma. Some a de white folks up-town
say she didn't know what she was gettin' her foot into down here nohow,
an', now she found out, she was glad ernough to get away. One an' all
say she is plumb decent herself, just er plain country girl wid good
up-bringin'. Some of 'em is b'ilin' mad at you an' yo' boss."
John stifled a rising groan. "Damn you," he said, "cut all that out and
tell me if my wife left any message for me."
"Yes, sir, she did--now I remember, but she had ter give it ter me on de
sly, an' I didn't git all of it. She said tell you she had ter go--dat
she had stood it as long as she could, an'--oh yes, she said fer you not
ter dare ter show yo'se'f up dar at 'er ol' home."
"And have they left town?" John asked, with strange calmness.
"Oh yes, sir! Dey tuck de twelve-ten train."
"That will do." John motioned for him to go. "I understand."
The negro turned his horse around and started back to town. John stood
stock-still, his eyes on the cab disappearing in the gloom. He had stood
that way for several minutes when a small hand was slipped into his from
behind, and, looking around, he saw the soiled face and matted hair of
Dora Boyles.
"Brother John," she faltered, "has Tilly left you--really--really left
you?"
He dropped her hand and shoved her from him. "Go home!" he cried. "Go
home, and don't bother me!"
She fell back a yard or so and stood staring at him. "I won't go till
you tell me," she said, stubbornly. "I started over here this morning to
show Tilly my doll and get her to help me dress it. I saw that
crazy-looking old man come in a cab and take her and her trunk away. She
was white--oh, she was as white as a sheet, and so pitiful-looking!"
"Go home, I tell you! Go home!" John gulped and snarled like a man
goaded at once by grief and physical pain. "Go home, I tell you! Leave
me alone!"
"I suppose that means she _has_ left," the child reasoned aloud. "Well,
brother John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, because I liked her awfully well.
But I'm not surprised. Aunt Jane told your ma yesterday--and it made her
mad. My! didn't the old girl rip and snort? Aunt Jane told her this
thing would happen sooner or later. She said no woman alive could stay
cooped up in a little box like this very long and not have a single soul
go near her, and you off all day."
John laid his hand roughly on the child's shoulder and smothered an
oath of fury. "You go home!" he panted. "If you don't, I'll--"
"You'll do nothing!" The child smiled fearlessly. "Your bark is worse
than your bite, brother John. But I'm going. I'll come back, though.
I'll be over to clean up and cook something for you. You won't come back
to our old shack, I know."
When she had left he went into the cottage, but he did not light the gas
again. The darkness seemed more suitable to his mood. He sat down on the
edge of his and Tilly's bed. His massive hand sank into her pillow. It
was past his supper hour, but he had no desire to eat. The sheer thought
of the kitchen where his young wife had worked, somehow suggested her
death. A little round metal clock on the mantel was ticking sharply. He
got up and wound it, as usual, at that hour. He went into the
sitting-room. Here he sat down, lurched forward in unconscious weakness,
and then, swearing impatiently, he steadied himself. He remained there
only a minute. Rising, he went into the dining-room, felt about, as a
blind man might, for a chair, and sank into it. Crossing his arms on the
table, he rested his head on them. Had he been a weaker man he might
have pitied himself. He had always contended that a man who could not
bear pain and adversity had a "yellow streak" in him. He had once had a
painful operation performed without an anesthetic, and he now told
himself that he simply must master the things within and without him
which had combined to overthrow him. He ground his teeth together. He
clenched his fingers till the nails of some of them broke.
He closed his eyes. He tried to imagine that he was becoming drowsy and
that he would soon sleep, but a thousand pictures floated through his
brain and dug themselves in like burrowing animals. Chief among them was
a view of Whaley striding about the Square, uttering slobbering
anathemas against him. Another scene was that of Tilly's receiving the
revelation he himself had shrunk from making. He saw the blight fall on
her bonny face and her calm and inevitable consent to abandon him
forever. And yet how could he bear _that_--exactly _that_? He groaned
against the smooth surface of the table. He was ashamed of his frailty,
for the mastery of himself seemed farther off, almost an impossibility.
The iron latch of the gate clicked. A heavy step grated on the gravel
walk. He sat up straight and listened. The cast-iron door-bell rang.
There was a pause, then a step sounded in the hall. Some one was
entering unbidden and stalking into the house.
"Oh, John--Johnny, my boy! Where are you?" It was Cavanaugh's voice
filled with fluttering grief, tenderness, dismay.
"Here I am!" John did not rise. "Here, in the dining-room."
"But the light--the light. Why don't you--"
Cavanaugh broke off as he stood in the doorway. He paused there for a
moment, as if wondering what state a light would reveal the crouched
form of his friend to be in.
"I don't want a light, Sam," John muttered. "You can have one if you
want it. Here are some matches--but, no, I'll light up. When I came in I
was so tired that I sat down here a minute, and--well, I must have--have
dropped asleep. But what the hell's the use to lie to _you_?" He struck
a match and held it to the gas-jet over the table beneath the gaudy
porcelain shade. His writhing face, in the sudden flare of light, was
white, holding a tint even of green. He sank back into his chair. "No,
I won't lie, Sam. Besides, if you haven't already heard you will soon
enough."
"I _have_ heard," Cavanaugh admitted. "I heard it at home from a
neighbor. Then I went to the Square to make sure, and--"
"I know. It's town talk, a delicious tidbit for women and loafers," John
sneered. "Well, well, it is done, Sam. It has happened, and that is all
there is to it."
"I hurried over to see you and talk with you," Cavanaugh went on. "I
don't know what step you want to take."
"I'll take none," John answered, grimly. "You don't think I want to kill
anybody, do you? She is his daughter, and he had her before I got her. I
tell you there is no fight in me, Sam. I can fight, as you know, when it
has to be done, but there is no call for it in this case. Knowing Tilly
as I know her, and now knowing my own plight as it has been made plain
to me since I brought her here, I would think any man a damned idiot
that would allow his daughter to marry me. God! God! No, never! Sam,
Sam, I never found fault with you before, but you ought to have told me.
By God! you ought to have opened my damned sightless eyes!"
"Don't! don't! my boy!" Cavanaugh cried, huskily. "You are breaking my
heart. I wanted you with me. I saw how you two loved one another, and I
thought I was acting right. I--I couldn't pull the bad conduct of others
between you and that sweet little girl. I am not satisfied to let it
rest as it is, either. You may not want to take any steps, but it is my
duty to try to do something."
"Something? What the hell could you or any one do?"
"Well, I'll tell you what struck me, my dear boy. I'm going up to
Cranston to-night and see how the land lies. I don't intend to rest idle
and know no more than I've picked up in the wild talk of men on the
streets up-town and a stupid negro cab-driver. This is a serious matter,
and I have a big duty to perform."
"It won't do any good," John groaned, softly, and he shook his head.
"I've been thinking it all over. I began to get my eyes open as soon as
we got here. I've been a fool--a boy, a blind boy, at that, and what has
happened to-day is not such a great surprise. You needn't go up there
and beg for me, Sam. Say what you will, I am not worthy of her--that's
the whole damned truth in a nutshell."
"Not worthy of her?" Cavanaugh protested. "How ridiculous, my boy!"
"No, I'm not. I don't know a man that is, but I'm sure that _I_ never
can be. Do you know that in meeting me and marrying me as she did that
sweet child never had a fair deal? Other girls not as good as she is
have married men with plenty of means, not a--a stain on them, with
respectable friends and honorable blood-kin. But what have I done--my
God! what have I done? Sam, I've committed a crime. No matter how I
felt--how much I wanted her--I had no sort of right to her. No man has a
right to lay a filthy load like mine on unsuspecting, frail shoulders.
It is done, but if I could undo it and make her as free as she was
when--when I first saw her up there, I'd do it if it plunged me into the
eternal hell of flames her daddy believes in."
Cavanaugh's sympathies were wrung dry. He sat blinking as if every word
from his protege were a blow well aimed at him. Once he started to
speak, but his voice broke and he desisted, sitting with his arms
grimly folded, his legs awkwardly crossed, a broad, dust-coated shoe
poised in mid-air.
"Maybe I ought to have had a talk with you--_maybe_," he finally said.
"I--I prayed over it, John, but no light seemed to come to justify me in
judging anybody in the matter--not your poor, misguided mother even, for
our Lord and Saviour told us not to judge her sort. As I interpret Him,
He said them that judged was the ones that needed judgment most of all.
So on that I acted. My wife saw it a little bit different at first, but
she finally said I was right, and sanctioned it. It seems to me that
your ma is--is what she is just on the outside, anyway. The other day
out at the work, after she had said all that in hot passion, it seemed
to me that I noticed a look of shame and regret in her face, like she
realized she had gone too far. You may remember that me and her stepped
to one side just before she left, and--well, she started to cry. She did
that, John, and it meant a lot. I was seeing her with her veil off--as
you might say--I was looking beneath the paint, powder, and coming
wrinkles. You know I knew her when she was a girl. I must speak plain.
She was a beauty then, and that was her ruin, for all the hellish
designs of the sharpest of men was centered on her. Your pa was clean,
straight as a die, and loved her, but he was helpless. She loved
attention and would have it. She fell. It had to come. It meant your
pa's ruin, and it meant this blight that is on you and Tilly now; but,
my boy, I stand here as a confident witness before God Almighty and
state that nothing but good can come out of it in the long run. Peace
out of the turmoil; joy out of the shame and grief; the fragrance of
Elysian fields out of the moral stench under your mother's roof."
"Good?" John sniffed. "Sam, don't talk to me of a God--yours or any
other man's. When you have been where I am now, you'll know more about
God than you do. God? God? God? You say he is everywhere. He's here
to-night, isn't he? Here in this room? There in the kitchen where she
left the dishes unwashed? Here where she left the door unlocked and ran
away, disgusted with me for leading her into such a mess."
"Hush, hush, my boy!" entreated Cavanaugh, a dry sob rasping his throat.
"Don't say any more! It is almost time for my train. I'm going up there
to-night and see what can be done. Tilly will talk to me. What could she
say here to these strangers? Now, don't go to work to-morrow. Things
will move along all right for one day without us, and you won't feel
like working, anyhow. I'll get back to-morrow night at ten o'clock. Wait
for me here."
The grim silence which now brooded over John gave consent, and Cavanaugh
rose and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't give up," he said. "I'm
sure I'll bring back good news. God will see to that."
"I'll wait for you, Sam," John consented, "but it won't be as you hope.
There is no God to see to anything. God didn't help my father, did he?
Neither will he help me. The whole thing is blind chance. 'Lead us not
into temptation'! What a pitiful prayer! My mother, you say, was led in
when she was not more than a girl. Were the designing men on her track
God's agents, and is my fate, and my young wife's, a part of some plan
laid in heaven?"
"Wait, wait!" Cavanaugh reached down and took John's inert hand and
pressed it. "I'll see you to-morrow night."