Part 16 (1/2)

His two visitors stood waiting, somewhat awkwardly, for him to turn again toward them, but he did not do so. At last Mr. Morrissey plucked up courage to break in on his host's reverie.

”I--I think we understand you now, colonel,” he said. ”We'll go elsewhere and do the best we can.”

Colonel Butler faced away from the window and came back into the room.

”Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said. ”My mind was temporarily occupied by a thought that has come to me in this matter. Upon further consideration it occurs to me that it may be expedient for me to yield on this occasion to Mr. Walker's request, and visit him in person. In the meantime you may suspend operations. I will advise you later of the outcome of my plans.”

”You are undoubtedly wise, colonel,” replied Mr. Morrissey, ”to make a further effort to secure this particular tree. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?”

”Undoubtedly!” replied Mr. Campbell with some warmth.

So the matter was left in that way. Colonel Butler was to inform his agents what, if anything, he had been able to accomplish by means of a personal interview with Mr. Walker, always a.s.suming that he should finally and definitely decide to seek such an interview. And Mr.

Hubert Morrissey and Mr. Frank Campbell bowed themselves out of Colonel Butler's presence.

While the cause of this sudden change of att.i.tude on Colonel Butler's part remained a mystery to his two visitors, it was, in reality, not far to seek. For, as he looked out at his window that March morning, he saw, not the bare trees on the lawn, not the brown hedge or the beaten roadway; he saw, out somewhere among the snow-covered fields, laboring as a farmer's boy, enduring the privations of a humble home, and the limitations of a narrow environment, the lad who for a dozen years had been his solace and his pride, the light and the life of Bannerhall. How sadly he missed the boy, no one, save perhaps his faithful daughter, had any conception. And she knew it, not because of any word of complaint that had escaped his lips, but because every look and mood and motion told her the story. He would not send for his grandson; he would not ask him to come back; he would not force him to come. It was a piece of childish folly on the boy's part no doubt, this going away; due to his impetuous nature and his immature years; but, he had made his bed, now let him lie in it till he should come to a realization of what he had done, and, like the prodigal son of old, should come back of his own accord, and ask to be forgiven.

Yet the days went by, and the weeks grew long, and no prodigal returned. There was no abatement of determination on the grandfather's part, but the idea grew slowly in his mind that if by some chance, far removed from even the suspicion of design, they should encounter each other, he and the boy, face to face, in the village street, on the open road, in field or farm-house, something might be said or done that would lead to the longed-for reconciliation. It was the practical application of this thought that led to his change of att.i.tude that morning in the presence of his visitors. He would have a legitimate errand to the home of Enos Walker. The incidental opportunities that might lie in the path of such an errand properly fulfilled, were not to be lightly ignored nor peremptorily dismissed. At any rate the matter was worth careful consideration. He considered it, and made his decision.

That afternoon, after his daughter Millicent had gone down into the village in entire ignorance of any purpose that he might have had to leave the house, he ordered his horse and cutter for a drive. Later he changed the order, and directed that his team and two-seated sleigh be brought to the door. It had occurred to him that there was a bare possibility that he might have a pa.s.senger on his return trip. Then he arrayed himself in knee-high rubber boots, a heavy overcoat, and a fur cap. At three o'clock he entered his sleigh and directed his driver to proceed with all reasonable haste to Cobb's Corners.

Out in the country where the winds of winter had piled the snow into long heaps, the beaten track was getting soft, and it was necessary to exercise some care in order to prevent the horses from slumping through the drifts to the road-bed. And on the westerly slope of Baldwin's Hill the ground in the middle of the road was bare for at least forty rods. But, from that point on, whether his progress was fast or slow, Colonel Butler scrutinized the way ahead of him, and the farm-houses that he pa.s.sed, with painstaking care. He was not looking for any spruce tree here, no matter how straight and tall. But if haply some farmer's boy should be out on an errand for the master of the farm, it would be inexcusable to pa.s.s him negligently by; that was all. And yet his vigilance met with no reward. He had not caught the remotest glimpse of such a boy when his sleigh drew up at Enos Walker's gate.

The unusual jingling of bells brought Sarah Butler and her sister to the window of the sitting-room to see who it was that was bringing such a flood of tinkling music up the road.

”For the land sakes!” exclaimed the sister; ”it's Richard Butler, and he's stopping here. I bet a cookie he's come after Pen.”

But Pen's mother did not respond. Her heart was beating too fast, she could not speak.

”You've got to go to the door, Sarah,” continued the sister; ”I'm not dressed.”

Colonel Butler was already on his way up the path, and, a moment later, his knock was heard at the door. It was opened by Sarah Butler who stood there facing him with outward calmness. Evidently the colonel had not antic.i.p.ated seeing her, and, for the moment, he was apparently disconcerted. But he recovered himself at once and inquired courteously if Mr. Walker was at home. It was the third time in his life that he had spoken to his daughter-in-law. The first time was when she returned from her bridal trip, and the interview on that occasion had been brief and decisive. The second time was when her husband was lying dead in the modest home to which he had taken her.

Now he had spoken to her again, and this time there was no bitterness in his tone nor iciness in his manner.

”Yes,” she replied; ”father is somewhere about. If you will please come in and be seated I will try to find him.”

He followed her into the sitting-room, and took the chair that she placed for him.

”I beg that you will not put yourself to too much trouble,” he said, ”in trying to find him; although I desire to see him on a somewhat important errand.”

”It will not be the slightest trouble,” she a.s.sured him.

But, as she turned to go, he added as though a new thought had come to him:

”Perhaps you have some young person about the premises whom you could send out in search of Mr. Walker, and thus save yourself the effort of finding him.”

”No,” she replied. ”There is no young person here. I will go myself.

It will take but a minute or two.”

It was a feeble attempt on his part, and it had been quickly foiled.

So there was nothing for him to do but to sit quietly in the chair that had been placed for him, and await the coming of Enos Walker.