Part 29 (1/2)

”Keep this for me, auntie, dear,” I said, and my voice trembled. She took it from my hand.

”All right, Phil, I'll keep it. You are not at the end of things, dearie. You are only at the beginning. I'll keep this. It is only keeping, remember.” She pointed to a stain on the unopened note, the round little blot only a tear can make. ”It isn't yours, I know.”

It was the first touch of comfort I had felt. However slender the thread, Hope will find it strong to cling to. Rachel's visit ended that day. Self-centred always, she treated me as one who had been foolish, but whom she considered her admirer still. It was not in her nature to be rejected. She shaped things to fit her vanity, and forgot what could not be controlled. I refused to allow myself to be alone with her again.

n.o.body was ever so tied to a woman's presence as I kept myself by Aunt Candace so long as I remained in the house.

My father, I knew, was grieved and indignant. With all my fair promises and pretended loyalty I seemed to be an idle trifler. How could my relation to Lettie Conlow be explained away in the light of this visit from a handsome cultured young lady, who had had an a.s.surance of welcome or she would not have come. He loved Marjie as the daughter of his dearest friend. He had longed to call her, ”daughter,” and I had foolishly thrown away a precious prize.

Serious, too, was my reckless neglect of business. I had disregarded his request to manage a grave matter. Instead of going alone to the cabin, I had gone off with a pretty girl and reported that I had found nothing.

”Did you go near the cabin?” He drove the question square at me, and I had sullenly answered, ”No, sir.” Clearly I needed more discipline than the easy life in Springvale was giving me. I went down to the office in the afternoon, hoping for something, I hardly knew what. He was alone, and I asked for a few words with him. Somehow I seemed more of a man to myself than I had ever felt before in his presence.

”Father,” I began. ”When the sea did its worst for you--fifteen years ago--you came to the frontier here, and somehow you found peace. You have done your part in the making of the lawless Territory into a law-abiding State, this portion of it at least. The frontier moves westward rapidly now.”

”Well?” he queried.

”I have lost--not by the sea--but, well, I've lost. I want to go to the frontier too. I must get away from here. The Plains--somewhere--may help me.”

”But why leave here?” he asked. After all, the father-heart was yearning to keep his son.

”Why did you leave Ma.s.sachusetts?” I could not say Rockport. I hated the sound of the name.

”Where will you go, my boy?” He spoke with deepest sorrow, and love mingled in his tones.

”Out to the Saline Country. They need strong men out there. I must have been made to defend the weak.” It was not a boast, but the frank expression of my young manhood's ideal. ”Your friend Mr. Morton urged me to come. May I go to him? It may be I can find my place out in that treeless open land; that there will come to me, as it came to you, the help that comes from helping others.”

Oh, I had fought my battle well. I was come into a man's estate now and had put away childish things.

My father sitting before me took both my hands in his.

”My son, you are all I have. You cannot long deceive me. I have trusted you always. I love you even unto the depths of disgrace. Tell me truly, have you done wrong? I will soon know it. Tell me now.”

”Father,” I held his hands and looked steadily into his eyes. ”I have no act to conceal from you, nor any other living soul. I must leave here because I cannot stay and see--Father, Marjie is lost to me. I do not know why.”

”Well, find out.” He spoke cheerily.

”It is no use. She has changed, and you know her father's firmness. She is his mental image.”

”There is no stain somewhere, no folly of idle flirtation, no weakness?

I hear much of you and Lettie.”

”Father, I have done nothing to make me ashamed. Last night when I fought my battle to the finish, for the first time in my life I knew my mother was with me. Somehow it was her will guiding me. I know my place.

I cannot stay here. I will go where the unprotected need a strength like mine.”

The stage had stopped at the courthouse door, and Rachel Melrose ran up the steps and entered the outer office. My father went out to meet her.

”Are you leaving us?” he asked kindly.

”Yes, I had only a day or two that I could spend here. But where is Philip?”