When the contractor was out of sight John sank limply into a chair on
the porch. The part he had played against his emotions had told on him.
Not the hardest day of physical toil could have so wrought upon his
nerves. Cavanaugh's steady tread was dying out in the distance. Afar off
a dog was baying. Suddenly, across the street against a scraggy growth
of sassafras-bushes, he saw something white moving. He thought that it
might be a dog, a sheep, or a calf. It moved again. It was coming toward
him. It approached the gate. It was Dora, and she timidly raised the
latch and crept into the yard.
"Don't get mad, brother John," she pleaded. "I saw him come. I was
hidden over there in the bushes. I couldn't go to sleep to save my life.
I tried."
He was too much undone to protest. Moreover, there was a dumb,
shrinking, animal-like worship in her tone and mien that watered the
feverish waste within him. For the first time in his life he wanted to
take the barefooted child into his lap and fondle her. He longed for a
closer contact with her pitying warmth. To see her weep in his behalf
would help; her childish tears would balm his wounds.
"Come in, kid," he said, gently. "I didn't mean to be rough to-night.
You must overlook it. I was out of sorts--a fool to be so, but I was."
She sat down on the door-step, her eyes glued on him.
"What did he say?" she inquired. "I want to know. Is she coming back to
you?"
"No, she's gone for good, kid," he answered. "But don't you bother; it
is all right."
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Stay on here in this house? I'll
cook and clean for you, if you do. You can get another wife. If she
wouldn't stay I'd let her go. There are plenty of others. Was she after
some other fellow, brother John?"
"Oh no, no!" he jerked out. "It is not that. Don't you understand? But I
see you don't. How could you?"
"You didn't say whether you are going to stay on here in this house or
not," the child pursued. "That is the main thing."
Suddenly he leaned forward and stared straight at her. "Listen, kid," he
began. "I tried you once and you kept my secret, so I know I can trust
you. If I now tell you something I don't want a soul to know, will you
promise to keep it?"
"Yes, yes," she agreed. "I won't tell, brother John. I'd cut out my
tongue first."
"You see, I don't want Sam to know," John went on. "I don't want my
mother or Jane to know--or Tilly, or any one alive. It is important. Sam
will be as much surprised as any of them. Kid, I've made up my mind to
pack my grip and catch the four-o'clock north-bound train. I'm going to
cut this thing out forever. I'll cover my tracks. Not a living soul
shall know where I am. I've thought it all out, and it is the only thing
to do."
Dora was silent. He saw her fixed gaze shift itself from his eyes to the
gate. Then he noted that her little hands were raised to her face. She
was softly crying. He heard a low sob, and it cut through him like a
gapped and rusty blade. He was surprised. He had never seen her like
that before. "What is the matter?" he inquired. But she did not answer,
and he saw that she was making a strong effort to control her emotion,
as if she realized that it was distinctly out of place there and then.
But he had determined to understand her better, and he went and sat
beside her on the step. He took her hand and tried to fondle it, but, as
if ashamed of her weakness, she drew it away and continued to sob,
swallow, and quiver.
"I see, you don't want your brother John to go away. Is that it, kid?"
"Yes," she muttered, nodded, and then remained silent, her face tightly
covered by her hands.
He stood up. He went to the fence and took some steps along it
irresolutely. Suddenly he stood facing her, his arms folded as Cavanaugh
had seen him stand studying the masonry he was building, an arch, a
pillar, or cornice.
"Why haven't I thought of it before?" he reflected. "It would be a crime
to leave the poor little mouse over there. She doesn't know what is in
store for her, but her eyes will be opened some day, as mine are,
and--and what has come to me may come to her. And who knows? It might
hurt the poor little mite every bit as bad. I wonder if she-- I
wonder--" He went back and sat by her side.
"Listen, Dora," he began. "I've got to go--there is no way out of
it--but I don't want to leave you like this. I didn't know till to-day
how much I care for you. You seem, somehow, like a real sister. Say,
I'll tell you--how about this? Come, go with me. I don't know where yet,
but away off somewhere where we can start out right. I want to send you
to school and give you a chance."
"Oh, you don't mean it--you _can't_ mean _that_!" and she uncovered her
face and sat staring, her quivering lips parted. Impulsively she put
one of her hands against his breast, and with the other slowly wiped her
wet eyes.
"Yes, I mean it, and there is no time to lose," he went on, gravely. "I
want it settled, and when we are once on that train all this will be cut
out forever. It will be better for me, and for you, and for Tilly."
"But Aunt Jane--" Dora faltered, letting her hand slide slowly down his
shirt-front till it lay in her lap. "She needs me and--"
"You will have to leave her for good and all," he said. "You must decide
between her and me. At any rate, she is doing nothing for you, and I am
willing to work for you. It is odd, kid, but, now I come to think of it,
I want you with me. It seems like leaving would be easier along with
you."
"I don't know what to do," the world-old child said, undecidedly, but
her eyes were dry, the sobs had left her voice.
"Then do as I say," he threw out firmly. "Go home and get your best
dress on and your shoes and stockings, and some hat or other. Don't
bother about a valise. I have two, and we'll stop on the road somewhere
and I'll buy you some clothes. We are to be brother and sister, you
know. From this on you are Dora Trott."
The child was still undecided, though her face was lighted with growing
expectation. "Oh, it would be nice--scrumptious!" she half laughed, "but
your ma and Aunt Jane--"
"Forget them!" he ordered, sharply. "They are not thinking of you
to-night, are they? Huh! I guess not! Hurry! Get your things and come
back. I'll be ready. We'll have to walk to the station, and I don't want
to meet anybody on the way, either. We may have to take the back and
side streets, and cut through an alley or two."
"May I bring my doll?" she asked. "I don't want to leave her."
"I'll get you a new one--never mind it," he answered, impatiently,
stifling one of his old oaths.
"But I want her. I love her and she'd miss me. They would kick her about
over there."
"Then bring her. I'll pack her away somewhere. Get a move on you. See
how quick you can be."
"I'll hurry," Dora said, now completely resigned to his will. "I'll be
ready in time."
When she had passed out at the gate he went into the bedroom, lighted
the gas, and began to pack his clothes into two valises, leaving room
for Dora's use.
"It is the thing to do," he argued. "I can't leave the poor little rat
over there with those women. She needs attention. She is not strong and
they are working her to death. Great God! she might grow up and be like
them! Who knows? How could she keep from it? Who would be there to warn
her? I was ignorant till it was too late. So would she be. No, this is
the right thing to do. I'll adopt a sister. Huh! what a joke when they
say I'm just a boy! But I'll do it. As for Tilly, she will now be doubly
free. The old man can claim desertion. He can add that charge to his
complaints in court. If I had some way to make everybody think I was
dead, that would be even better. The main thing is for her to
forget--wipe out and start in fresh, and she would do it quicker if she
thought I was under the sod. Any woman would. Then she would marry
again. I know who she will marry--" He winced, shuddered, and pressed
down on the things he was packing. "She will end up by marrying Joel
Eperson. I'd lay heavy stakes on that. My God! I can't find fault with
him--not now, anyway! He is white to the bottom, that fellow. I have to
admit it. He bore up like a man, though I was robbing him. I slid in
between him and her after she had become the poor devil's very life.
Then, then--I have to admit that, too--he never would have got her into
this awful mess. He has too much sense for that--sense or honor, which?
Well, well, they say turn about is fair play, and old, patient Joel will
get his innings. He'll--he'll come home to her after his day's work.
He'll take her in his-- O my God!" John stood motionless. The old
primitive fires were kindling in his blood. Had the room been dark his
eyes might have gleamed like those of a tiger. He sat down on the bed.
He was quivering and his heart was pounding like a trip-hammer.
Presently he mastered himself and resumed his packing. "Don't be a fool,
John Trott," he said, sharply. "You are up against it. Be a man, if it
is in you."
Here the open closet caught his attention. One of Tilly's dresses hung
in view, and he took it into his hands reverently. A pair of worn shoes
lay on the floor. He picked up one of them. It was so small that he
could have hidden it in his pocket. He turned it over in his great hand.
His throbbing fingers caressed the soft leather. She would never need
it. Why not put it in with his things? He started to do so. He made
space for it in one corner of a valise, and then, all at once
exclaiming, "What t'ell!" he threw it back into the closet and continued
to swear at himself in low, vexed tones.
Dora was entering at the front. She seldom wore her shoes, and, as she
now had them on, she used her feet clumsily and made a great clatter in
the hall.
"'Sh! for God's sake!" he cried, angrily, and then he turned his
impatience off with an apologetic laugh. "Never mind, kid. Make all the
noise you want. It won't do any harm. Are you ready? Give me that doll."
She handed it to him roughly wrapped in a newspaper. "Don't mash her!"
she pleaded. "Her face is soft as putty in warm weather."
"There, there!" he laughed, "she will be all right. As snug as a bug in
a rug. Now, let's go."