John slept but little that night. There must have been a deep
undercurrent of sentiment in his make-up, despite his practical type of
mind, for the sight of everything Tilly had touched gave him infinite
pain. He waked frequently through the night, and even while sleeping was
tossed and torn by innumerable tantalizing dreams. He was awake at
sunup, and again the lonely mental spectator of the clouded panorama of
the day before.
There was a sound of pans and pots being handled in the kitchen, and he
got up and went to the kitchen door. It was Dora making a fire in the
range. She glanced up, saw him, smiled sheepishly, and lowered her head.
"There is nobody over home," she explained, apologetically. "They went
off last night to be gone two days--another trip to Atlanta with old
Roly-poly and some more. Aunt Jane was sick, but she dressed and went,
all the same. I came over to cook your breakfast, wash the dishes, and
do up the house. Why shouldn't I? There is nothing to do at home."
He said nothing, but as he turned away a faint sense of gratitude seemed
to enter the aching void within him. A little later she called him to
the dining-room. He had eaten no supper the night before, and his
physical being demanded nourishment. He sat down and the child waited on
him. The coffee was good and bracing, the eggs and steak were prepared
to his taste, the toast brown and crisp.
Somehow he now regarded Dora with pity. How frail, wan, and anemic she
looked! How thin and bloodless her hands and cheeks! She had the making
of a good woman in her, but she, too, was losing her chance. How sad!
How pitiful!
"You work too hard," he suddenly said, and he wondered if that touch of
refined consideration for another had come from his contact with his
wife. "You are too little and young. Sit down yourself and eat."
She shrugged her peaked shoulders and laughed. "I'm not hungry. I'm not
a bit hungry here lately. The only thing I care for is syrup and bread,
and they say too much of that as a regular diet will get you down in the
long run."
He stared, his impulse toward her betterment oozing out of him. The
whistles of the factories reminded him that he was not to work that
day--that he was not to return at dark to Tilly, as had been his wont,
and he rose and went back to the bedroom. What was to take place? Why,
the day would drag by and Cavanaugh would return with some verdict or
other--some report that would settle his fate forever.
Leaving Dora at work in the kitchen, he went outside. Desiring not to
meet any one, he made his way to the nearest wooded hillside beyond his
mother's house and the bleak, white-capped cemetery. From that coign of
vantage he saw the town stretched out beneath him. He found a great
moss-grown boulder and half lay, half sat on it. The sun climbed higher
and higher; the din of the town and its industries beat in his ears, the
buzz of a planing-mill, the clang of hammered iron. He ought not to
have attempted to pass that particular day in absolute solitude and
inactivity, but he knew naught of his own psychology. He watched for the
coming and going of trains, telling himself again and again that
Cavanaugh's return would decide his fate forever. What would he be
informed? How could he face the thing that he had told Cavanaugh
actually was to happen--that Tilly and he were to be parted forever?
At noon he crept down the hill, keeping himself hidden till the way was
clear, then he hastened across the open to the cottage. The child, still
there, had given it a semblance of order, and his lunch was on the
table. She refused to sit with him, though he asked her in a tone that
was full of consideration and that odd, abashed tenderness for her which
seemed to be rooting in the loam of pained humility which filled him.
"I want to know, brother John," she said, her deep-sunken eyes staring
earnestly--"I want to know if you think she is coming back?"
He gulped down his hot coffee, and as he replaced his cup in his saucer
he said, with a touch of his old fatalistic recklessness: "I don't know.
I think not. Sam is up there to-day to--to see about it. He will be back
to-night. I don't know. I'm leaving it all to him, and--and to--her."
Later, as he sat and smoked in the parlor he tried to read the daily
newspaper that had been left at his door, but even the boldest
head-lines foiled to catch and rivet his attention. Taking a hammer and
nails, he went into the back yard to repair a fence; but he had scarcely
started to lift the first plank into place when the incongruity of the
thing clutched him as in a vise. What was he doing? Why was he thinking
of a thing so inconsequential as that? And for whom was he putting the
fence to rights? With an oath born of sheer bleak agony, he threw the
hammer from him and dropped the nails and plank to the ground. He had
loved the place; he and Tilly had called it their "Cottage of Delight";
he had thought he would keep it in order, and even improve it, but all
that was gone. He went back to the hillside. He watched the afternoon
melt away, saw the sun go down into a bed of crimson and pink and the
filmy cloud-curtains being drawn about the molten sleeper.
It was growing dark when he went back to the cottage. Dora was in the
kitchen, preparing his supper. He was vaguely angered by her attention
to him. He appreciated her doglike fidelity, but it made him impatient,
for she was too small, young, and weak to do all that she was doing.
"You must go home," he blurted out, standing in the doorway and
surveying her. "I'm able to look out for myself. I'm not hungry, anyway,
now, for you have filled me up to the neck."
She smiled wistfully. There was a smudge of soot on her nose which gave
her face a grotesque look. Her bare legs and feet were dust-coated and
scrawny.
"I want to be here when Mr. Cavanaugh comes back," she contended, almost
defiantly, a shadow of rigid doggedness in her eyes.
"But you can't," he retorted with irritation. "It will be late at night
and you should be in bed."
"I want to know what he has to say," Dora persisted, putting more wood
into the range. "Tilly was nice and good to me, and I want to know if
she is coming back. Besides--besides, _you_ want her."
"You can't sit up around here," he said, firmly. "You've got to go
home."
She said nothing. He thought he had offended her and was sorry for it,
but when supper was over he prevailed upon her to go. "Poor little rat!"
he mused, as he stood at the gate and watched her vanish in the night.
"She's never had a chance, and she'll never have one. Huh! Sam's God and
old Whaley's is busy counting the hairs of her head and no harm will
ever come to her--oh no, none at all!"
John paced back and forth in the little front yard. Eight o'clock came;
nine; ten, and a little later he heard the whistle of the south-bound
train as it drew near the town. The last street-car for the night would
be leaving the Square in a few minutes. Cavanaugh would take it. He
seldom rode in a cab, and time was too valuable for him to walk
to-night.
The minutes passed. Presently he heard the rumble of the little car as
it crossed an elevated trestle a half-mile away, then he saw its lighted
windows flitting through the pines and oaks which bordered its tracks.
It paused at the terminus. John heard the driver ordering his horse
around to the other end, and he retreated into the house. Sam should not
catch him there watching as if life or death hung on his report. It was
one thing to feel a thing, and another to show it like weak women who
weep openly for the dead, or men who cry out in pain like spoiled
children. He went into the parlor and sat down. The outer night was very
still, so still that he heard Cavanaugh's heavy tread when he was yet
some distance away. Thump, thump, thump! John found himself counting the
steps.
"Why am I like this?" he questioned himself. "If it is to be, it _is_ to
be, and that is the end of it. I can bear it. Why not? Why shouldn't a
man bear anything that comes his way--anything, anything, even--even
_this_?"
Cavanaugh was at the gate now. He was noiselessly opening and closing it
as if fearful of waking some one asleep in the house.
"Is that you, Sam?" John called out from the parlor.
"Yes, yes, my boy, it is me. I--I thought you might be in bed," and the
contractor now tiptoed into the hall and stood in the parlor doorway.
"Oh no, I thought I'd wait up," John replied. "Like a fool, I didn't
work to-day, and you see I'm not so tired as I usually am. Come in. Got
a match? I'll light the gas. I didn't light it because it is warm
to-night and I was smoking. Did you bring any cigars with you? I've hung
on to my pipe all day and wouldn't mind a change."
"No, I plumb forgot," Cavanaugh answered. "I had to hurry to get my
train. I didn't go about any of the stores, either--too many idle
gossipmongers hanging about. Don't light up for me. I--I-- We can talk
just as well without that. I really ought to be at home. I just thought
I'd stop by and--and--"
He went no farther. John heard him feeling about for a chair and saw his
dim bulk sink into it. There was no doubting the man's agitation, and
why was he agitated? John thought he knew, and bared his mental breast
to the hot iron of revelation.
"You say you didn't go out to the work to-day?" Cavanaugh said,
irrelevantly enough to explain his mien and mood.
"No, I ought to have gone, but I didn't. I was a fool to hang around
here like this, eating my head off and making a smoke-house of my lungs.
It is the first day off I've had for a long time."
This remark was followed by silence. Cavanaugh broke it with a slowly
released sigh. "I may as well tell you what I did," he faltered.
"You can't tell me anything I don't know already," John quickly
interposed. "Remember, Sam, that I told you last night--"
"I know, but I wasn't satisfied to let it rest there. I'm not satisfied
yet to--to let it rest even where it is now. I'm not done with it by a
long shot. I--I'm going back up there in--in a few days. I've got to
look deeper into the law dealing with such extraordinary cases as--"
"The law?" John leaned back in his chair in a swift gesture of contempt.
"What the hell has the law got to do with it, Sam? Law, I say, law! Did
you ever hear of any justice dealt out by the law? Don't talk law to me.
Tell me, man to man, what you did up there."
"What I did? Why, my boy"--Cavanaugh was floundering about in search for
a word, a phrase with which to meet the blunt attack on his
resources--"I did all I could think to do."
"Well, out with it, Sam. I know it went against me. There is no use
beating about the bush. You saw Tilly, and she said--"
"Oh no, I didn't see her, my boy!" The contractor leaned eagerly upon
the denial, small as it was. "I tried to, but it was impossible. She is
housed up at home like a prisoner. John, Whaley is in a dangerous mood.
I was advised not to go near the house. I started there anyway, but the
sheriff stopped me--gave me orders to stay away. I don't know how to--to
make it all plain to you, John. You see, I love Tilly and you so much
that--that this thing cuts deep. It has almost knocked out my faith in a
just Providence."
John leaned forward; his hands hung between his knees and he clasped
them near the floor. He uttered a ghastly laugh meant to show
indifference, but which missed its mark. "You are beating about the
bush," he said, huskily, and another rasping laugh issued. "Out with it.
I'm able to have a tooth pulled. Go ahead. Get it off your chest, old
man."
"As I said just now," Cavanaugh began again, "I'm going back to Cranston
after--after I get some legal advice down here where there is no public
excitement."
"Excitement?" John said. "What do you mean by public excitement?"
Cavanaugh hesitated again, and John rose and stood towering above him in
the gloom. He repeated his question, and this time there was no pretense
in his tone or mien.
"Well, you know how a narrow-minded, backwoods community like that can
get when it is wrought up high," the contractor said, gingerly. "You
know how they are inclined to make a mountain out of a molehill. I can't
say that I met one cool-headed person up there. Men and women were so
crazy that they were frothing at the mouth. I hate to say it, John, but
they actually threatened me with bodily harm. They asked me if what had
been reported against your poor ma was true, and when I said that most
of it was they wanted to tear me limb from limb. I'll tell you the truth
and be done with it. There is no other way as I see it between friends
such as we are. My boy, a mob was forming to tar-and-feather me. The
sheriff came and warned me. He took me to the junction five miles this
side of town in his buggy and put me on the train. I saw I would harm
your interests if I stayed longer and so I took his advice. He is a
smart man, well versed in the law, and as we drove along he told me
what old Whaley is up to."
"I can guess," John said, grimly, "and, Sam, if I was in his place I'd
do the selfsame thing. He is going to undo this marriage. I know-- I
see. Tilly is just a girl and I didn't tell her or him what to expect
down here. Am I right, Sam?"
Cavanaugh hung fire, then he nodded his head. John could see the tangled
shock of hair moving up and down.
"I knew that would be it," John said, returning to his chair. He sat
down, crossed his legs, and tugged at the strap of one of his shoes. It
broke off and he sat twisting it between his fingers.
"Yes, the sheriff called it 'annulment,'" Cavanaugh resumed, more
calmly. "He said that Whaley would have no trouble putting it through
the court which is in session, now, as it happens. Even the judge is
prejudiced--seems that he had heard of your ma. They ought not to fetch
in religion, but Whaley is going to prove that you are an atheist, so
they say. So you see, my boy, that what is to be done by us must be done
in a big hurry. I am going to see Fisher and Black the first thing in
the morning. They are the best lawyers in the South. I'll be there when
they open the office. I've got money enough to plank down a good
retaining fee. You helped me make it on that court-house. Just think of
it, we are going to win our case in that very building."
"You will not go to those lawyers, Sam."
"You say I won't?"
"No. I'm the one to decide that, and I've already done it."
"What do you mean, my boy? Surely you don't intend to sit quiet and let
a lot of mountain roughnecks--"
"You are hot-headed like the mob up at Cranston," John broke in, and
then made an apparent effort to proceed calmly. He took out his pipe and
began to knock its bowl against the heel of his shoe to prepare it for a
refilling. His nonchalant shrug was that of a thwarted school-boy. His
smile was little more than a grimace which the darkness further
distorted. "You are 'kicking against the pricks.' What is to be has to
be, and if you oppose it you get the worst of it. Besides, you are an
old fogy, Sam--you are out of date, moth-eaten. You have got some sort
of a Romeo love idea in your head. You are trying to make yourself
believe that--that Tilly will be unhappy the rest of her life if--if the
old man wins. Shucks! I know women. How long does a young widow wear
black these days? Old Whaley is right. That Cranston judge is right, the
sheriff, and all the damned mob, too. If death will free a woman from a
long life with a drunkard, the Cranston court can free one from--well,
from what I pulled Tilly into. No, sir, Sam. I am not the man for her. I
can't give her enough of what she ought to have. She deserves
respectability, recognition as a lady in this or any other town. It is a
good thing that it happened so soon. It will blow over all the quicker.
She will--she will feel bad for a while, maybe, but time heals all
wounds. Now go home to your wife, Sam. She is not well, and--"
Cavanaugh stood up. "Yes, I'll go," he faltered, "but I'm going to talk
to Fisher and Black in the morning."
"Don't do it, Sam." John was smoking now. "I refuse to fight this case
before the public. It is bad enough as it is without forcing my poor
little--without forcing Tilly to hear more of it. She is too young and
sensitive to go through it, and I won't let her. If I don't appear it
will go through quietly. I know-- I heard of a case like that. The judge
picked a time when just a few people were present, and it was over right
away."
"John, are you in earnest?" Cavanaugh asked, at the end of his
resources, and he shambled out to the porch.
John followed and stood at his side. "I am, Sam; in fact, I insist on
it. I know Tilly's rights and she shall have them. I owe her a million
apologies. I'm doing all I can do. I wish I could do more. The time will
come, Sam, when she will--will not want to think of me. She will do her
best to forget me and all the rest of the awful mess."
"Hush, hush! I'll see you in the morning, after I've slept on it,"
Cavanaugh said, from the gate. "I don't see how I can give in to you, my
boy. You and Tilly were too happy for it to end like this."