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Young yet, but gifted, as girls of her class often are, with the
nicest instincts and purest aspirations, she showed the elevation
of her thoughts both in her glance and the poise with which she
awaited events. Sweetwater watched her with admiration as she
superintended the unloading of the wagon and the disposal of the
various boxes on the floor within; but as nothing she said during
the process was calculated to afford the least enlightenment in
regard to their contents, he presently wearied of his inaction and
turned back towards the highway, comforting himself with the
reflection that in a few short hours he would have her to himself
when nothing but a blunder on his part should hinder him from
sounding her young mind and getting such answers to his questions
as the affair in which he was so deeply interested, demanded.
XXVI
SWEETWATER RETURNS
"You see me again, Miss Scott. I hope that yesterday's intrusion
has not prejudiced you against me."
"I have no prejudices," was her simple but firm reply. "I am only
hurried and very anxious. The doctor is with Mr. Brotherson just
now; but he has several other equally sick patients to visit and I
dare not keep him here too long."
"Then you will welcome my abruptness. Miss Scott, here is a letter
from Mr. Challoner. It will explain my position. As you will see,
his only desire is to establish the fact that his daughter did not
commit suicide. She was all he had in the world, and the thought
that she could, for any reason, take her own life is unbearable to
him. Indeed, he will not believe she did so, evidence or no
evidence. May I ask if you agree with him? You have seen Miss
Challoner, I believe. Do you think she was the woman to plunge a
dagger in her heart in a place as public as a hotel reception room?"
"No, Mr. Sweetwater. I'm a poor working girl, with very little
education and almost no knowledge of the world and such ladies as
she. But something tells me for all that, that she was too nice to
do this. I saw her once and it made me want to be quiet and kind
and beautiful like her. I never shall think she did anything so
horrible. Nor will Mr. Brotherson ever believe it. He could not
and live. You see, I am talking to you as if you knew him,--the
kind of man he is and just how he feels towards Miss Challoner. He
is--" Her voice trailed off and a look, uncommon and almost elevated,
illumined her face. "I will not tell you what he is; you will know,
if you ever see him."
"If the favourable opinion of a whole town makes a good fellow, he
ought to be of the best," returned Sweetwater, with his most honest
smile. "I hear but one story of him wherever I turn."
"There is but one story to tell," she smiled, and her head drooped
softly, but with no air of self-consciousness.
Sweetwater watched her for a moment, and then remarked: "I'm going
to take one thing for granted; that you are as anxious as we are to
clear Miss Challoner's memory."
"O yes, O yes."
"More than that, that you are ready and eager to help us. Your
very looks show that."
"You are right; I would do anything to help you. But what can
a girl like me do? Nothing; nothing. I know too little. Mr.
Challoner must see that when you tell him I'm only the daughter
of a foreman."
"And a friend of Mr. Brotherson," supplemented Sweetwater.
"Yes," she smiled, "he would want me to say so. But that's his
goodness. I don't deserve the honour."
"His friend and therefore his confidante," Sweetwater continued.
"He has talked to you about Miss Challoner?"
"He had to. There was nobody else to whom he could talk; and then,
I had seen her and could understand."
"Where did you see her?"
"In New York. I was there once with father, who took me to see her.
I think she had asked Mr. Brotherson to send his little friend to
her hotel if ever we came to New York."
"That was some time ago?"
"We were there in June."
"And you have corresponded ever since with Miss Challoner?"
"She has been good enough to write, and I have ventured at times
to answer her."
The suspicion which might have come to some men found no harbour in
Sweetwater's mind. This young girl was beautiful, there was no
denying that, beautiful in a somewhat startling and quite unusual
way; but there was nothing in her bearing, nothing in Miss
Challoner's letters to indicate that she had been a cause for
jealousy in the New York lady's mind. He, therefore, ignored this
possibility, pursuing his inquiry along the direct lines he had
already laid out for himself. Smiling a little, but in a very
earnest fashion, he pointed to the letter she still held and quietly
said:
"Remember that I'm not speaking for myself, Miss Scott, when I seem
a little too persistent and inquiring. You have corresponded with
Miss Challoner; you have been told the fact of her secret engagement
to Mr. Brotherson and you have been witness to his conduct and manner
for the whole time he has been separated from her. Do you, when you
think of it carefully, recall anything in the whole story of this
romance which would throw light upon the cruel tragedy which has so
unexpectedly ended it? Anything, Miss Scott? Straws show which way
the stream flows."
She was vehement, instantly vehement, in her disclaimer.
"I can answer at once," said she, "because I have thought of nothing
else for all these weeks. Here all was well. Mr. Brotherson was
hopeful and happy and believed in her happiness and willingness to
wait for his success. And this success was coming so fast! Oh,
how can we ever tell him! How can we ever answer his questions even,
or keep him satisfied and calm until he is strong enough to hear the
truth. I've had to acknowledge already that I have had no letter
from her for weeks. She never wrote to him directly, you know, and
she never sent him messages, but he knew that a letter to me, was
also a letter to him and I can see that he is troubled by this long
silence, though he says I was right not to let her know of his
illness and that I must continue to keep her in ignorance of it till
he is quite well again and can write to her himself. It is hard to
hear him talk like this and not look sad or frightened."
Sweetwater remembered Miss Challoner's last letter, and wished he
had it here to give her. In default of this, he said:
"Perhaps this not hearing may act in the way of a preparation for
the shock which must come to him sooner or later. Let us hope so,
Miss Scott."
Her eyes filled.
"Nothing can prepare him," said she. Then added, with a yearning
accent, "I wish I were older or had more experience. I should not
feel so helpless. But the gratitude I owe him will give me strength
when I need it most. Only I wish the suffering might be mine rather
than his."
Unconscious of any self-betrayal, she lifted her eyes, startling
Sweetwater by the beauty of her look. "I don't think I'm so sorry
for Oswald Brotherson," he murmured to himself as he left her. "He's
a more fortunate man than he knows, however deeply he may feel the
loss of his first sweetheart."
That evening the disappointed Sweetwater took the train for New
York. He had failed to advance the case in hand one whit, yet the
countenance he showed Mr. Gryce at their first interview was not
a wholly gloomy one.
"Fifty dollars to the bad!" was his first laconic greeting. "All
I have learned is comprised in these two statements. The second
O. B. is a fine fellow; and not intentionally the cause of our
tragedy. He does not even know about it. He's down with the fever
at present and they haven't told him. When he's better we may hear
something; but I doubt even that."
"Tell me about it."
Sweetwater complied; and such is the unconsciousness with which we
often encounter the pivotal circumstance upon which our future or
the future of our most cherished undertaking hangs, he omitted
from his story, the sole discovery which was of any real importance
in the unravelling of the mystery in which they were so deeply
concerned. He said nothing of his walk in the woods or of what he
saw there.
"A meagre haul," he remarked at the close.
"But that's as it should be, if you and I are right in our
impressions and the clew to this mystery lies here in the character
and daring of Orlando Brotherson. That's why I'm not down in the
mouth. Which goes to show what a grip my prejudices have on me."
"As prejudiced as a bulldog."
"Exactly. By the way, what news of the gentleman I've just
mentioned? Is he as serene in my absence as when under my eye?"
"More so; he looks like a man on the verge of triumph. But I fear
the triumph he anticipates has nothing to do with our affairs. All
his time and thought is taken up with his invention."
"You discourage me, sir. And now to see Mr. Challoner. Small
comfort can I carry him."
XXVII
THE IMAGE OF DREAD
In the comfortable little sitting-room of the Scott cottage Doris
stood, looking eagerly from the window which gave upon the road.
Behind her on the other side of the room, could be seen through a
partly opened door, a neatly spread bed, with a hand lying quietly
on the patched coverlet. It was a strong looking hand which, even
when quiescent, conveyed the idea of purpose and vitality. As
Doris said, the fingers never curled up languidly, but always with
the hint of a clench. Several weeks had passed since the departure
of Sweetwater and the invalid was fast gaining strength. To-morrow,
he would be up.
Was Doris thinking of him? Undoubtedly, for her eyes often flashed
his way; but her main attention was fixed upon the road, though no
one was in sight at the moment. Some one had passed for whose
return she looked; some one whom, if she had been asked to describe,
she would have called a tall, fine-looking man of middle age, of a
cultivated appearance seldom seen in this small manufacturing town;
seldom seen, possibly, in any town. He had glanced up at the window
as he went by, in a manner too marked not to excite her curiosity.
Would he look up again when he came back? She was waiting there
to see. Why, she did not know. She was not used to indulging in
petty suppositions of this kind; her life was too busy, her
anxieties too keen. The great dread looming ever before her,--the
dread of that hour when she must speak,--left her very little heart
for anything dissociated with this coming event. For a girl of
seventeen she was unusually thoughtful. Life had been hard in this
little cottage since her mother died, or rather she had felt its
responsibilities keenly.
Life itself could not be hard where Oswald Brotherson lived; neither
to man, nor woman. The cheer of some natures possesses a divine
faculty. If it can help no other way, it does so by the aid of its
own light. Such was the character of this man's temperament. The
cottage was a happy place; only--she never fathomed the depths of
that only. If in these days she essayed at times to do so, she gave
full credit to the Dread which rose ever before her--rose like a
ghost! She, Doris, led by inscrutable Fate, was waiting to hurt him
who hurt nobody; whose mere presence was a blessing.
But her interest had been caught to-day, caught by this stranger,
and when during her eager watch the small messenger from the Works
came to the door with the usual daily supply of books and magazines
for the patient, she stepped out on the porch to speak to him and
to point out the gentleman who was now rapidly returning from his
stroll up the road.
"Who is that, Johnny?" she asked. "You know everybody who comes to
town. What is the name of the gentleman you see coming?"
The boy looked, searched his memory, not without some show of
misgiving.
"A queer name," he admitted at last. "I never heard the likes of it
here before. Shally something. Shally--Shally--"
"Challoner?"
"Yes, that's it. How could you guess? He's from New York. Nobody
knows why he's here. Don't seem to have no business."
"Well, never mind. Run on, Johnny. And don't forget to come
earlier to-morrow; Mr. Brotherson gets tired waiting."
"Does he? I'll come quick then; quick as I can run." And he sped
off at a pace which promised well for the morrow.
Challoner! There was but one Challoner in the world for Doris
Scott,--Edith's father. Was this he? It must be, or why this
haunting sense of something half remembered as she caught a glimpse
of his face. Edith's father! and he was approaching, approaching
rapidly, on his way back to town. Would he stop this time? As the
possibility struck her, she trembled and drew back, entering the
house, but pausing in the hall with her ear turned to the road.
She had not closed the door; something within--a hope or a dread
--had prevented that. Would he take it as an invitation to come
in? No, no; she was not ready for such an encounter yet. He might
speak Edith's name; Oswald might hear and--with a gasp she
recognised the closeness of his step; heard it lag, almost halt just
where the path to the house ran into the roadside. But it passed
on. He was not going to force an interview yet. She could hear him
retreating further and further away. The event was not for this day,
thank God! She would have one night at least in which to prepare
herself.
With a sense of relief so great that she realised, for one shocked
moment, the full extent of her fears, she hastened back into the
sitting-room, with her collection of books and pamphlets. A low
voice greeted her. It came from the adjoining room.
"Doris, come here, sweet child. I want you."
How she would have bounded joyously at the summons, had not that
Dread raised its bony finger in every call from that dearly loved
voice. As it was, her feet moved slowly, lingering at the sound.
But they carried her to his side at last, and once there, she smiled.
"See what an armful," she cried in joyous greeting, as she held out
the bundle she had brought. "You will be amused all day. Only, do
not tire yourself."
"I do not want the papers, Doris; not yet. There's something else
which must come first. Doris, I have decided to let you write to
her. I'm so much better now, she will not feel alarmed. I must
--must get a word from her. I'm starving for it. I lie here and
can think of nothing else. A message--one little message of six
short words would set me on my feet again. So get your paper and
pen, dear child, and write her one of your prettiest letters."
Had he loved her, he would have perceived the chill which shook
her whole body, as he spoke. But his first thought, his penetrating
thought, was not for her and he saw only the answering glance, the
patient smile. She had not expected him to see more. She knew that
she was quite safe from the divining look; otherwise, he would have
known her secret long ago.
"I'm ready," said she. But she did not lay down her bundle. She
was not ready for her task, poor child. She quailed before it. She
quailed so much that she feared to stir lest he should see that she
had no command over her movements.
The man who watched without seeing wondered that she stood so still
and spoke so briefly. But only for a moment. He thought he
understood her hesitation, and a look of great earnestness replaced
his former one of grave decision.
"I know that in doing this I am going beyond my sacred compact with
Miss Challoner," he said. "I never thought of illness,--at least,
of illness on my part. I never dreamt that I, always so well, always
so full of life, could know such feebleness as this, feebleness which
is all of the body, Doris, leaving the mind free to dream and long.
Talk of her, child. Tell me all over again just how she looked and
spoke that day you saw her in New York."
"Would it not be better for me to write my letter first? Papa will
be coming soon and Truda can never cook your bird as you like it."
Surprised now by something not quite natural in her manner, he caught
at her hand and held her as she was moving away.
"You are tired," said he. "I've wearied you with my commission and
complaints. Forgive me, dear child, and--"
"You are mistaken," she interrupted softly. "I am not tired; I only
wished to do the important thing first. Shall I get my desk? Do
you really wish me to write?"
"Yes," said he, softly dropping her hand. "I wish you to write. It
will ensure me good sleep, and sleep will make me strong. A few
words, Doris; just a few words."
She nodded; turning quickly away to hide her tears. His smile had
gone to her very soul. It was always a beautiful one, his chief
personal attraction, but at this moment it seemed to concentrate
within it the unspoken fervours and the boundless expectations of
a great love, and she who was the aim and cause of all this
sweetness lay in unresponsive silence in a distant tomb!
But Doris' own smile was not lacking in encouragement and beauty
when she came back a few minutes later and sat down by his side to
write. His melted before it, leaving his eyes very earnest as he
watched her bending figure and the hard-worked little hand at its
unaccustomed task.
"I must give her daily exercises," he decided within himself. "That
look of pain shows how difficult this work is for her. It must be
made easy at any cost to my time. Such beauty calls for
accomplishment. I must not neglect so plain a duty."
Meantime, she was struggling to find words in face of that great
Dread. She had written Dear Miss Challoner and was staring in
horror at the soulless words. Only her sense of duty upheld her.
Gladly would she have torn the sheet in two and rushed away. How
could she add sentences to this hollow phrase, the mere employment
of which seemed a sacrilege. Dear Miss Challoner. Oh, she was
dear, but--
Unconsciously the young head drooped, and the pen slid from her hand.
"I cannot," she murmured, "I cannot think what to say."
"Shall I help you?" came softly from the bed. "I'll try and not
forget that it is Doris writing."
"If you will be so good," she answered, with renewed courage.
"I can put the words down if you will only find them for me."
"Write then. 'Dear Miss Challoner!"
"I have already written that."
"Why do you shudder?"
"I'm cold. I've been cold all day. But never mind that, Mr.
Brotherson. Tell me how to begin my letter."
"This way. 'I've not been able to answer your kind letter, because
I have had to play nurse for some three or four weeks to a very
fretful and exacting patient.' Have you written that?"
"No," said Doris, bending over her desk till her curls fell in a
tangle over her white cheeks. "I do not like to," she protested
at last, with an attempt at naivete which seemed real enough to him.
"Well, leave out the fretful if you must, but keep in the exacting.
I have been exacting, you know."
Silence, broken only by the scratching of the stubborn,
illy-directed pen.
"It's down," she whispered. She said, afterward, that it was like
writing with a ghost looking over one's shoulder.
"Then add, 'Mr. Brotherson has had a slight attack of fever, but he
is getting well fast, and will soon--, Do I run on too quickly?"
"No, no, I can follow."
"But not without losing breath; eh, Doris?"
As he laughed, she smiled. There was a heroism in that smile,
Oswald Brotherson, of which you knew nothing.
"You might speak a little more slowly," she admitted.
Quietly he repeated the last phrase. "'But he is getting well fast
and will soon be ready to take up the management of the Works which
was given him just before he was taken ill.' That will show her
that I am working up," he brightly remarked as Doris carefully
penned the last word. "Of myself you need say nothing more, unless
--" he paused and his face took on a wistful look which Doris dared
not meet; "unless--but no, no, she must think it has been only a
passing indisposition. If she knew I had been really ill, she would
suffer, and perhaps act imprudently or suffer and not dare to act
at all, which might be sadder for her still. Leave it where it is
and begin about yourself. Write a good deal about yourself, so that
she will see that you are not worried and that all is well with us
here. Cannot you do that without assistance? Surely you can tell
her about that last piece of embroidery you showed me. She will be
glad to hear--why, Doris!"
"Oh, Mr. Brotherson," the poor child burst out, "you must let me
cry! I'm so glad to see you better and interested in all sorts of
things. These are not tears of grief. I--I--but I'm forgetting
what the doctor told me. You are growing excited, and I was to see
that you were calm, always calm. I will take my desk away. I will
write the rest in the other room, while you look at the magazines."
"But bring your letter back for me to seal. I want to see it in
its envelope. Oh, Doris, you are a good little girl!"
She shook her head, and hastened to hide herself from him in the
other room; and it was a long time before she came back with the
letter folded and in its envelope. When she did, her face was
composed and her manner natural. She had quite made up her mind
what her duty was and how she was going to perform it.
"Here is the letter," said she, laying it in his outstretched hand.
Then she turned her back. She knew, with a woman's unerring
instinct why he wished to handle it before it went. She felt that
kiss he folded away in it, in every fibre of her aroused and
sympathetic heart, but the hardest part of the ordeal was over and
her eyes beamed softly when she turned again to take it from his
hand and affix the stamp.
"You will mail it yourself?" he asked. "I should like to have you
put it into the box with your own hand."
"I will put it in to-night, after supper," she promised him.
His smile of contentment assured her that this trial of her courage
and self-control was not without one blessed result. He would rest
for several days in the pleasure of what he had done or thought he
had done. She need not cringe before that image of Dread for two,
three days at least. Meanwhile, he would grow strong in body, and
she, perhaps, in spirit. Only one precaution she must take. No
hint of Mr. Challoner's presence in town must reach him. He must be
guarded from a knowledge of that fact as certainly as from the more
serious one which lay behind it.
XXVIII
I HOPE NEVER TO SEE THAT MAN
That this would be a difficult thing to do, Doris was soon to
realise. Mr. Challoner continued to pass the house twice a day
and the time finally came when he ventured up the walk.
Doris was in the window and saw him coming. She slipped softly
out and intercepted him before he had stepped upon the porch. She
had caught up her hat as she passed through the hall, and was
fitting it to her head as he looked up and saw her.
"Miss Scott?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Challoner."
"You know me?" he went on, one foot on the step and one still on
the walk.
Before replying she closed the door behind her. Then as she noted
his surprise she carefully explained:
"Mr. Brotherson, our boarder, is just recovering from typhoid. He
is still weak and acutely susceptible to the least noise. I was
afraid that our voices might disturb him. Do you mind walking a
little way up the road? That is, if your visit was intended for me."
Her flush, the beauty which must have struck even him, but more than
all else her youth, seemed to reconcile him to this unconventional
request. Bowing, he took his foot from the step, saying, as she
joined him:
"Yes, you are the one I wanted to see; that is, to-day. Later, I
hope to have the privilege of a conversation with Mr. Brotherson."
She gave him one quick look, trembling so that he offered her his
arm with a fatherly air.
"I see that you understand my errand here," he proceeded, with a
grave smile, meant as she knew for her encouragement. "I am glad,
because we can go at once to the point. Miss Scott," he continued
in a voice from which he no longer strove to keep back the evidences
of deep feeling, "I have the strongest interest in your patient that
one man can have in another, where there is no personal
acquaintanceship. You who have every reason to understand my
reasons for this, will accept the statement, I hope, as frankly as
it is made."
She nodded. Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not hesitate
to raise them. She had the greatest desire to see the face of the
man who could speak like this to-day, and yet of whose pride and
sense of superiority his daughter had stood in such awe, that she
had laid a seal upon the impulses of her heart, and imposed such
tasks and weary waiting upon her lover. Doris forgot, in meeting
his softened glance and tender, almost wistful, expression, the
changes which can be made by a great grief, and only wondered why
her sweet benefactress had not taken him into her confidence and
thus, possibly, averted the doom which Doris felt had in some way
grown out of this secrecy.
"Why should she have feared the disapproval of this man?" she
inwardly queried, as she cast him a confiding look which pleased
him greatly, as his tone now showed.
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