"I know how tired you are," said Ariel, as he came back into the room.
"I shall not keep you long."
"Ah, please do!" he returned, quickly, beginning to fumble with the
shade of a student-lamp at one end of the desk.
"Let me do that," she said. "Sit down." He obeyed at once, and
watched her as she lit the lamp, and, stretching upon tiptoe, turned
out the gas. "No," she continued, seated again and looking across the
desk at him, "I wanted to see you at the first possible opportunity,
but what I have to say--"
"Wait," he interrupted. "Let me tell you why I did not come yesterday."
"You need not tell me. I know." She glanced at the chair which had
been occupied by Mrs. Fear. "I knew last night that they had sent for
you."
"You did?" he exclaimed. "Ah, I understand. Sam Warden must have told
you."
"Yes," she said. "It was he; and I have been wondering ever since how
he heard of it. He knew last night, but there was nothing in the
papers this morning; and until I came here I heard no one else speak of
it; yet Canaan is not large."
Joe laughed. "It wouldn't seem strange if you lived with the Canaan
that I do. Sam had been down-town during the afternoon and had met
friends; the colored people are a good deal like a freemasonry, you
know. A great many knew last night all about what had happened, and
had their theories about what might happen to-day in case the two men
met. Still, you see, those who knew, also knew just what people not to
tell. The Tocsin is the only newspaper worth the name here; but even
if the Tocsin had known of the trouble, it wouldn't have been likely to
mention it. That's a thing I don't understand." He frowned and rubbed
the back of his head. "There's something underneath it. For more than
a year the Tocsin hasn't spoken of Beaver Beach. I'd like to know why."
"Joe," she said, slowly, "tell me something truly. A man said to me
yesterday that he found life here insufferable. Do you find it so?"
"Why, no!" he answered, surprised.
"Do you hate Canaan?"
"Certainly not."
"You don't find it dull, provincial, unsympathetic?"
He laughed cheerily. "Well, there's this," he explained: "I have an
advantage over your friend. I see a more interesting side of things
probably. The people I live among are pretty thorough cosmopolites in a
way, and the life I lead--"
"I think I begin to understand a little about the life you lead," she
interrupted. "Then you don't complain of Canaan?"
"Of course not."
She threw him a quick, bright, happy look, then glanced again at the
chair in which Mrs. Fear had sat. "Joe," she said, "last night I heard
the people singing in the houses, the old Sunday-evening way. It 'took
me back so'!"
"Yes, it would. And something else: there's one hymn they sing more
than any other; it's Canaan's favorite. Do you know what it is?"
"Is it 'Rescue the Perishing'?"
"That's it. 'Rescue the Perishing'!" he cried, and repeating the words
again, gave forth a peal of laughter so hearty that it brought tears to
his eyes. "'RESCUE THE PERISHING'!"
At first she did not understand his laughter, but, after a moment, she
did, and joined her own to it, though with a certain tremulousness.
"It IS funny, isn't it?" said Joe, wiping the moisture from his eyes.
Then all trace of mirth left him. "Is it really YOU, sitting here and
laughing with me, Ariel?"
"It seems to be," she answered, in a low voice. "I'm not at all sure."
"You didn't think, yesterday afternoon," he began, almost in a
whisper,--"you didn't think that I had failed to come because I--" He
grew very red, and shifted the sentence awkwardly: "I was afraid you
might think that I was--that I didn't come because I might have been
the same way again that I was when--when I met you at the station?"
"Oh no!" she answered, gently. "No. I knew better."
"And do you know," he faltered, "that that is all over? That it can
never happen again?"
"Yes, I know it," she returned, quickly.
"Then you know a little of what I owe you."
"No, no," she protested.
"Yes," he said. "You've made that change in me already. It wasn't
hard--it won't be--though it might have been if--if you hadn't come
soon."
"Tell me something," she demanded. "If these people had not sent for
you yesterday, would you have come to Judge Pike's house to see me?
You said you would try." She laughed a little, and looked away from
him. "I want to know if you would have come."
There was a silence, and in spite of her averted glance she knew that
he was looking at her steadily. Finally, "Don't you know?" he said.
She shook her head and blushed faintly.
"Don't you know?" he repeated.
She looked up and met his eyes, and thereupon both became very grave.
"Yes, I do," she answered. "You would have come. When you left me at
the gate and went away, you were afraid. But you would have come."
"Yes,--I'd have come. You are right. I was afraid at first; but I
knew," he went on, rapidly, "that you would have come to the gate to
meet me."
"You understood that?" she cried, her eyes sparkling and her face
flushing happily.
"Yes. I knew that you wouldn't have asked me to come," he said, with a
catch in his voice which was half chuckle, half groan, "if you hadn't
meant to take care of me! And it came to me that you would know how to
do it."
She leaned back in her chair, and again they laughed together, but only
for a moment, becoming serious and very quiet almost instantly.
"I haven't thanked you for the roses," he said.
"Oh yes, you did. When you first looked at them!"
"So I did," he whispered. "I'm glad you saw. To find them here took my
breath away--and to find you with them--"
"I brought them this morning, you know."
"Would you have come if you had not understood why I failed yesterday?"
"Oh yes, I think so," she returned, the fine edge of a smile upon her
lips. "For a time last evening, before I heard what had happened, I
thought you were too frightened a friend to bother about."
He made a little ejaculation, partly joyful, partly sad.
"And yet," she went on, "I think that I should have come this morning,
after all, even if you had a poorer excuse for your absence, because,
you see, I came on business."
"You did?"
"That's why I've come again. That makes it respectable for me to be
here now, doesn't it?--for me to have come out alone after dark without
their knowing it? I'm here as your client, Joe."
"Why?" he asked.
She did not answer at once, but picked up a pen from beneath her hand
on the desk, and turning it, meditatively felt its point with her
forefinger before she said slowly, "Are most men careful of other
people's--well, of other people's money?"
"You mean Martin Pike?" he asked.
"Yes. I want you to take charge of everything I have for me."
He bent a frowning regard upon the lamp-shade. "You ought to look after
your own property," he said. "You surely have plenty of time."
"You mean--you mean you won't help me?" she returned, with intentional
pathos.
"Ariel!" he laughed, shortly, in answer; then asked, "What makes you
think Judge Pike isn't trustworthy?"
"Nothing very definite perhaps, unless it was his look when I told him
that I meant to ask you to take charge of things for me."
"He's been rather hard pressed this year, I think," said Joe. "You
might be right--if he could have found a way. I hope he hasn't."
"I'm afraid," she began, gayly, "that I know very little of my own
affairs. He sent me a draft every three months, with receipts and
other things to sign and return to him. I haven't the faintest notion
of what I own--except the old house and some money from the income that
I hadn't used and brought with me. Judge Pike has all the
papers--everything."