Part 3 (1/2)

She was naturally a worrier in a sweet-natured way, but he had always been patient with her little weakness; some men are, with anxious women.

”No,” he smiled, but rather feebly; ”you've missed it again. The boy is saved. St. Clair's got hold of him. I'll talk presently, Mary--not just now.”

In fact, he would say no more till he had bathed and taken food. He looked so exhausted that she brought his breakfast to his bed, serving it with her own hands, and asking no questions at all; for, although she worried, she was wise. She sent for the baby, too--a big baby, three years old--and Chester enfolded the chin of the child in his slender brown hand silently.

Then he said: ”Lock the door, Mary. I've something to tell you.”

When she had drawn the bra.s.s bolt and returned, somewhat pale herself with wonder and alarm, to the side of the bed, her husband spoke abruptly:

”Mary, you've got to know it--may as well have it over. I found this pinned on the stable wall. It was the Aurora that ran over the--that--that poor little fellow.”

His hand shook as he laid the piece of paper in her own. And while she read it he covered his face; for he was greatly over-worn, and the strain which he had undergone seemed now to have leaped again with the spring of a creature that one supposes one has left lifeless behind.

Mrs. Chester read the writing and laid it down. It ran like this:

MR. CHESTER:

Sir,--Ime goin away while I can. It was me run over that boy while you was in town. I took Her out for a spin. I let Her out some racin with another one in the Willows an he got under Her someways. I see it in the papers so I was afraid of manslorter. Ime awful cut up about it so Ime goin to lite out while I can.

Your obedient servant, THOMAS.

The eyes of the husband and wife met silently. She was the first to speak.

”Do they know?”

Chester shook his head.

”You'll tell them, of course?”

”I haven't made up my mind.”

The baby was jabbering loudly on the bed--he was very noisy; it was not easy for her to hear what was said.

”I'm sure you ought to tell them!” she cried, pa.s.sionately.

”Perhaps so. But I'd like to think it over.”

A subtle terror slid over her face. ”What can they do to you? I don't know about such things. Is there any--law?”

”Laws enough--laws in plenty. But I'm not answerable for the crimes of my chauffeur. It's only a question of damages.”

The wife of the rich man drew a long breath. ”Oh, if it's nothing but _money_!”

”Not that it would make any difference if they _could_ touch me,” he continued, with a proud motion of his tired head. ”It's purely a question of feeling--it's a question of right within a right, Mary.

It's to do what is really kind by these people-- Why, Mary, if you could have seen it! From beginning to end it was the most beautiful, the most wonderful thing. Nothing of the kind ever happened to me before. Mary, if an angel from the throne of G.o.d had done it--they couldn't have felt--they couldn't have treated me--it was enough to make a fellow a better man the rest of his days. Why, it was worth _living_ for, I tell you! ... And now to let them know...”

Hurlburt Chester was very tired, as we say. He choked, and hid his pale face in his pillow. And his wife laid hers beside it and cried--as women do--without pretending that she didn't. But the baby laughed aloud. And then there drove through the father's mind the repeated phrase which followed the race of the ”Roarer” all the way from Beverly to Annisquam:

”What if it were Bert?”