All this while Michael had been in daily communication with Sam, as
well as with Will French, who with Hester’s help had kept the rooms in
the alley going, though they reported that the head had been sorely
missed.
Sam had reported daily progress with the house and about two weeks
before Michael’s release from quarantine announced that everything was
done, even to the papering of the walls and oiling of the floors.
A fire had been burning in the furnace and fireplaces for several
weeks, so the plaster was thoroughly dry, and it was Michael’s plan
that Starr and her father were to go straight down to the farm as soon
as they were free to leave the house.
To this end Hester and Will had been given daily commissions to
purchase this and that needful article of furniture, until now at last
Michael felt that the house would be habitable for Starr and her
precious invalid.
During the entire winter Michael had pleased himself in purchasing rugs
here and there, and charming, fitting, furniture for the house he was
building. A great many things,—the important things,—had already been
selected, and Michael knew he could trust Hester’s taste for the rest.
For some reason he had never said much to Starr about either Hester or
Will, perhaps because they had always seemed to him to belong to one
another, and thus were somewhat set apart from his own life.
But one morning, Starr, coming into the library where Michael was
telephoning Hester about some last purchases she was making, overheard
these words: “All right Hester, you’ll know best of course, but I think
you better make it a dozen instead of a half. It’s better to have too
many than too few; and we might have company, you know.”
Now, of course, Starr couldn’t possibly be supposed to know that it was
a question of dishes that was being discussed so intimately. In fact,
she did not stop to think what they were talking about; she only knew
that he had called this other girl “Hester”; and she suddenly became
aware that during all these weeks of pleasant intercourse, although she
had addressed him as Michael, he had carefully avoided using any name
at all for her, except on one or two occasions, substituting pronouns
wherever possible. She had not noticed this before, but when she heard
that “Hester” in his pleasant tones, her heart, brought the fact before
her at once for invoice. Who was this girl Hester? And why was she
Hestered so carelessly as though he had a right? Could it be possible
that Michael was engaged to her? Why had she never thought of it
before? Of course it would be perfectly natural. This other girl had
been down in his dear alley, working shoulder to shoulder with him all
these years, and it was a matter of course that he must love her,
Starr’s bright morning that but a moment before had been filled with so
much sunshine seemed suddenly to cloud over with a blackness that
blotted out all the joy; and though she strove to hide it even from
herself, her spirit was heavy with something she did not understand.
That evening Michael came into the library unexpectedly. He had been
out in the kitchen helping Morton to open a box that was refractory. He
found the room entirely dark, and thought he heard a soft sound like
sobbing in one corner of the room.
“Starr!” he said. “Starr, is that you?” nor knew that he had called her
by her name, though she knew it very well indeed. She kept quite still
for an instant, and then she rose from the little crumpled heap in the
corner of the leather couch where she had dropped for a minute in the
dark to cry out the strange ache of her heart when she thought Michael
was safely in the kitchen for a while.
“Why, yes, Michael!” she said, and her voice sounded choky, though she
was struggling to make it natural.
Michael stepped to the doorway and turned on the hall lights so that he
could dimly see her little figure standing in the shadow. Then he came
over toward her, his whole heart yearning over her, but a mighty
control set upon himself.
“What is the matter—dear?” He breathed the last word almost under his
breath. He actually did not realize that he had spoken it aloud. It
seemed to envelope her with a deep tenderness. It broke her partial
self-control entirely and she sobbed again for a minute before she
could speak.
Oh, if he but dared to take that dear form into his arms and comfort
her! If he but dared! But he had no right!
Michael stood still and struggled with his heart, standing quite near
her, yet not touching her.
“Oh, my dear!” he breathed to himself, in an agony of love and
self-restraint. But she did not hear the breath. She was engaged in a
struggle of her own, and she seemed to remember that Hester-girl, and
know her duty. She must not let him see how she felt, not for anything
in the world. He was kind and tender. He had always been. He had denied
himself and come here to stay with them in their need because of his
gratitude toward her father for all he had done for him; and he had
breathed that “dear” as he would have done to any little child of the
tenement whom he found in trouble. Oh, she understood, even while she
let the word comfort her lonely heart. Why, oh why had she been left to
trifle with a handsome scoundrel? Why hadn’t she been worthy to have
won the love of a great man like this one?
These thoughts rushed through her brain so rapidly that they were not
formulated at all. Not until hours afterward did she know they had been
thought; but afterwards she sorted them out and put them in array
before her troubled heart.
A minute she struggled with her tears, and then in a sweet little
voice, like a tired, naughty child she broke out:
“Oh, Michael, you’ve been so good to me—to us, I mean—staying here all
these weeks and not showing a bit of impatience when you had all that
great work in the world to do—and I’ve just been thinking how perfectly
horrid I was to you last winter—the things I said and wrote to you—and
how I treated you when you were trying to save me from an awful fate!
I’m so ashamed, and so thankful! It all came over me tonight what I
owed you, and I can’t ever thank you. Can you forgive me for the horrid
way I acted, and for passing you on the street that Sunday without
speaking to you—I’m so ashamed! Will you forgive me?”
She put out her little hands with a pathetic motion toward him in the
half light of the room, and he took them in both his great warm ones
and held them in his firm grasp, his whole frame thrilling with her
sweet touch. “Forgive you, little Starr!” he breathed—“I never blamed
you—” And there is no telling what might not have happened if the
doctor had not just then unexpectedly arrived to perfect the
arrangements for their going to the farm.
When Michael returned from letting the doctor out, Starr had fled
upstairs to her room; when they met the next morning it was with the
bustle of preparation upon them; and each cast shy smiling glances
toward the other. Starr knew that she was forgiven, but she also knew
that there was a wall reared between them that had not been there
before, and her heart ached with the knowledge. Nevertheless, it was a
happy morning, and one could not be absolutely miserable in the company
of Michael, with a father who was recovering rapidly, and the prospect
of seeing him and going with him into the beautiful out-of-doors within
a few hours.
Michael went about the work of preparing to go with a look of solemn
joy. Solemn because he felt that the wonderful companionship he had had
alone with Starr was so soon to end. Joyful because he could be with
her still and know she had passed through the danger of the terrible
disease and come safely out of the shadow with her beauty as vivid as
ever. Besides, he might always serve her, and they were friends now,
not enemies—that was a great deal!
The little world of Old Orchard stood on tiptoe that lovely spring
morning when the party came down. The winding road that led to the
cottage was arched all over with bursting bloom, for the apple trees
had done their best at decorating for the occasion and made a wondrous
canopy of pink and white for Starr to see as she passed under.
Not a soul was in sight as they drove up to the cottage save Sam,
standing respectfully to receive them in front of the piazza, and
Lizzie, vanishing around the corner of the cottage with her pretty boy
toddling after—for Lizzie had come down to be a waitress at Rose
Cottage for the summer;—but every soul on the farm was watching at a
safe distance. For Sam, without breathing a word, had managed to convey
to them all the knowledge that those who were coming as their guests
were beloved of Michael, their angel-hearted man. As though it had been
a great ceremony they stood in silent, adoring groups behind a row of
thick hedges and watched them arrive, each one glorying in the beauty
of her whom in their hearts they called “the boss’s girl.”
The room stood wide and inviting to receive them. There was a fire of
logs on the great hearth, and a deep leather chair drawn up before it,
with a smaller rocker at one side, and a sumptuous leather coach for
the invalid just to the side of the fireplace, where the light of the
flames would not strike the eyes, yet the warmth would reach him. Soft
greens and browns were blended in the silk pillows that were piled on
the couch and on the seats that appeared here and there about the walls
as if they grew by nature. The book-case was filled with Michael’s
favorites, Will French had seen to this, and a few were scattered on
the big table where a green shaded lamp of unique design, a freshly cut
magazine, and a chair drawn at just the right angle suggested a
pleasant hour in the evening. There were two or three pictures—these
Michael had selected at intervals as he learned to know more about art
from his study at the exhibitions.
“Oh!” breathed Starr. “How lovely! It is a real home!” and the thought
struck her that it would probably be Michael’s and Hester’s some day.
However, she would not let shadows come spoiling her good time now, for
it _was_ her good time and she had a right to it; and she too was happy
in the thought that she and Michael were friends, the kind of friends
that can never be enemies again.
The invalid sank into the cushions of the couch with a pleased light in
his eyes and said: “Son, this is all right. I’m glad you bought the
farm,” and Michael turned with a look of love to the man who had been
the only father he had ever known. It was good, good to be reconciled
with him, and to know that he was on the road to health once more.
The doctor who had come down with them looked about with satisfaction.
“I don’t see but you are fixed,” he said to Endicott. “I wouldn’t mind
being in your shoes myself. Wish I could stay and help you enjoy
yourself. If I had a pair of children like those I’d give up work and
come buy a farm alongside, and settle down for life.”
The days at the farm passed in a sort of charmed existence for Starr
and her father. Everything they needed seemed to come as if by magic.
Every wish of Starr’s was anticipated, and she was waited upon
devotedly by Lizzie, who never by so much as a look tried to win
recognition. Starr, however, always keen in her remembrances, knew and
appreciated this.
After the first two days Michael was back and forth in the city. His
business, which had been steadily growing before his temporary
retirement from the world, had piled up and was awaiting his attention.
His work in the alley called loudly for him every night, yet he managed
to come down to the farm often and spent all his Sundays there.
It was one Saturday evening about three weeks after their arrival at
the farm, when they were all seated cosily in the living room of the
cottage, the invalid resting on the couch in the shadow, Starr seated
close beside him, the firelight glowing on her face, her hand in her
father’s; and Michael by the table with, a fresh magazine which he was
about to read to them, that a knock came at the door.
Opening the door, Michael found Sam standing on the piazza, and another
dark form huddled behind Him.
“Come out here, can’t yer, Buck’s here!” whispered Sam.
“Buck!” Michael spoke the word with a joyful ring that thrilled Starr’s
heart with sympathy as she sat listening, her ears alert with interest.
“I’m so glad! So glad!” said Michael’s voice again, vibrant with real
welcome. “Come in, Buck, I’ve a friend in here who knows all about you.
No, don’t be afraid. You’re perfectly safe. What? Through the windows?
Well, we’ll turn the light out and sit in the firelight. You can go
over in that corner by the fireplace. No one will see you. The shades
are down.”
Michael’s voice was low, and he stood within the doorway, but Starr,
because she understood the need, heard every word.
There was dissent in a low whisper outside, and then Sam’s voice
growled, “Go on in, Buck, ef he says so.” and Buck reluctantly entered,
followed by Sam.
Buck was respectably dressed in an old suit of Sam’s, with his hands
and face carefully washed and his hair combed. Sam had imbibed ideas
and was not slow to impart them. But Buck stood dark and frowning
against the closed door, his hunted eyes like black coals in a setting
of snow, went furtively around the room in restless vigilance. His body
wore the habitual air of crouching alertness. He started slightly when
anyone moved or spoke to him. Michael went quickly over to the table
and turned down the lamp.
“You won’t mind sitting in the firelight, will you?” he said to Starr
in a low tone, and her eyes told him that she understood.
“Come over here, Buck,” said Michael motioning toward the sheltered
corner on the other side of the fireplace from where Starr was sitting.
“This is one of my friends, Miss Endicott, Mr. Endicott. Will you
excuse us if we sit here and talk a few minutes? Miss Endicott, you
remember my telling you of Buck?”
Starr with sudden inspiration born of the moment, got up and went over
to where the dark-browed Buck stood frowning and embarrassed in the
chimney corner and put out her little roseleaf of a hand to him. Buck
looked at it in dismay and did not stir.
“Why don’t yer shake?” whispered Sam.
Then with a grunt of astonishment Buck put out his rough hand and
underwent the unique experience of holding a lady’s hand in his. The
hunted eyes looked up startled to Starr’s and like a flash he saw a
thought. It was as if her eyes knew Browning’s poem and could express
his thought to Buck in language he could understand:
“All I could never be,
All men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.”
Somehow, Starr, with her smile and her eyes, and her gentle manner,
unknowingly conveyed that thought to Buck! Poor, neglected, sinful
Buck! And Michael, looking on, knew what she had done, and blessed her
in his heart.
Buck sat down in the chimney corner, half in shadow with the lights
from the great log flaring over his face. The shades were all drawn
down, the doors were closed. He was surrounded by friendly faces. For a
few minutes the hunted eyes ceased their roving round the room, and
rested on Starr’s sweet face as she sat quietly, holding her father’s
hand. It was a sight such as poor Buck’s eyes had never rested upon in
the whole of his checkered existence, and for the moment he let the
sweet wonder of it filter into his dark, scarred soul, with blessed
healing. Then he looked from Starr to Michael’s fine face near by,
tender with the joy of Buck’s coming, anxious with what might be the
outcome; and for a moment the heavy lines in forehead and brow that
Buck had worn since babyhood softened with a tender look. Perhaps ’tis
given, once to even the dullest soul to see, no matter how low fallen,
just what he might have been.
They had been sitting thus for about fifteen minutes, quietly talking.
Michael intended to take Buck upstairs soon and question him, but,
first he wanted time to think what he must do. Then suddenly a loud
knock startled them all, and as Michael rose to go to the door there
followed him the resounding clatter of the tongs falling on the hearth.
A voice with a knife edge to it cut through the room and made them all
shiver.
“Good evening, Mr. Endicott!” it said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but
I’ve come on a most unpleasant errand. We’re after an escaped criminal,
and he was seen to enter your door a few minutes ago. Of course I know
your goodness of heart. You take ’em all in, but this one is a jail
bird! You’ll excuse me if I take him off your hands. I’ll try to do it
as quietly and neatly as possible.”
The big, blustery voice ceased and Michael, looking at the sinister
gleam of dull metal in the hands of the men who accompanied the county
sheriff, knew that the crisis was upon him. The man, impatient, was
already pushing past him into the room. It was of no sort of use to
resist. He flung the door wide and turned with the saddest look Starr
thought she ever had seen on the face of a man:
“I know,” he said, and his voice was filled with sorrow, “I know—but—he
was one whom I loved!”
“Wasted love! Mr. Endicott. Wasted love. Not one of ’em worth it!”
blustered the big man walking in.
Then Michael turned and faced the group around the fireplace and
looking from one to another turned white with amazement, for Buck was
not among them!
Starr sat beside her father in just the same attitude she had held
throughout the last fifteen minutes, his hand in hers, her face turned,
startled, toward the door, and something inscrutable in her eyes. Sam
stood close beside the fireplace, the tongs which he had just picked up
in his hands, and a look of sullen rage upon his face. Nowhere in the
whole wide room was there a sign of Buck, and there seemed no spot
where he could hide. The door into the dining-room was on the opposite
wall, and behind it the cheerful clatter of the clearing off of the
table could be plainly heard. If Buck had escaped that way there would
have been an outcry from Morton or the maid. Every window had its shade
closely drawn.
The sheriff looked suspiciously at Michael whose blank face plainly
showed he had no part in making way with the outlaw. The men behind him
looked sharply round and finished with a curious gaze at Starr. Starr,
rightly interpreting the scene, rose to the occasion.
“Would they like to look behind this couch?” she said moving quickly to
the other side of the fireplace over toward the window, with a warning
glance toward Sam.
Then while the men began a fruitless search around the room, looking in
the chimney closet, and behind the furniture, she took up her stand
beside the corner window.
It had been Michael’s thoughtfulness that had arranged that all the
windows should have springs worked by the pressing of a button like
some car windows, so that a touch would send them up at will.
Only Sam saw Starr’s hand slide under the curtain a second, and
unfasten the catch at the top; then quickly down and touch the button
in the window sill. The window went up without a noise, and in a moment
more the curtain was moving out gently puffed by the soft spring
breeze, and Starr had gone back to her father’s side. “I cannot
understand it,” said Michael, “he was here a moment ago!”
The sheriff who had been nosing about the fireplace turned and came
over to the window, sliding up the shade with a motion and looking out
into the dark orchard.
“H’m! That’s where he went, boys,” he said. “After him quick! We ought
to have had a watch at each window as well as at the back. Thank you,
Mr. Endicott! Sorry to have troubled you. Good night!” and the sheriff
clattered after his men.
Sam quickly pulled down the window, fastening it, and turned a look of
almost worshipful understanding on Starr.
“Isn’t that fire getting pretty hot for such a warm night?” said Starr
pushing back the hair from her forehead and bright cheeks. “Sam,
suppose you get a little water and pour over that log. I think we will
not need any more fire tonight anyway.”
And Sam, quickly hastened to obey, his mouth stretching in a broad grin
as he went out the door.
“She’d make a peach of a burglar,” he remarked to himself as he filled
a bucket with water and hurried back with it to the fire.
Michael, in his strait betwixt law and love, was deeply troubled and
had followed the men out into the dark orchard.
“Daddy, I think you’d better get up to your room. This excitement has
been too much for you,” said Starr decidedly.
But Mr. Endicott demurred. He had been interested in the little drama
that had been enacted before him, and he wanted to sit up and see the
end of it. He was inclined to blame Michael for bringing such a fellow
into Starr’s presence.
But Starr laughingly bundled him off to bed and sat for an hour reading
to him, her heart all the time in a flutter to know how things came
out, wondering if Sam surely understood, and put out the fire; and if
it would be safe for her to give him any broader hint.
At midnight, Michael lay broad awake with troubled spirit, wondering
over and over if there was anything he might have done for Buck if he
had only done it in time—anything that would have been right to do.
Softly, cautiously a man stole out of the darkness of the orchard until
he came and stood close to the old chimney, and then, softly stealing
on the midnight summer air there came a peculiar sibilant sound, clear,
piercing, yet blending with the night, and leaving no trace behind of
its origin. One couldn’t tell from whence it came. But Michael, keeping
vigil, heard, and rose upon his elbow, alert, listening. Was that Buck
calling him? It came again, softer this time, but distinct. Michael
sprang from his bed and began hastily throwing on his garments. That
call should never go unanswered!
Stealthily, in the light of the low, late moon, a dark figure stole
forth from the old chimney top, climbed down on the ladder that had
been silently tilted against it, helped to lay the ladder back
innocently in the deep grass again, and joining the figure on the
ground crept away toward the river where waited a boat.
Buck lay down, in the bottom of the boat, covered with a piece of
sacking, and Sam took up the oars, when a long, sibilant whistle like a
night bird floated keenly through the air. Buck started up and turned
suspicious eyes on Sam:
“What’s that?”
“It’s Mikky, I reckon,” said Sam softly, reverently. “He couldn’t
sleep. He’s huntin’ yer!”
Buck lay down with a sound that was almost a moan and the boat took up
its silent glide toward safety.
“It’s fierce ter leave him this ’a’way!” muttered Buck, “Yous tell him,
won’t yer, an’ her—she’s a ly-dy, she is. She’s all white! Tell her
Buck’ll do ez much fer her some day ef he ever gits the chanct.”
“In doin’ fer her you’d be doin’ fer him, I spekullate,” said Sam after
a long pause.
“So?” said Buck
“So,” answered Sam. And that was the way Sam told Buck of the identity
of Starr.
Now Starr, from her darkened window beside the great chimney, had
watched the whole thing. She waited until she saw Michael come slowly,
sadly back from his fruitless search through the mist before the
dawning, alone, with bowed head; and her heart ached for the problem
that was filling him with sorrow.