Part 39 (2/2)

But Dr. Lavendar held up his hand and William was silent.

”Hold your tongue;” said Benjamin Wright. ”Lavendar knows I don't like lies. Yes; my fault. I've done it again. Second time. Second time.

Simmons! Get these--gentlemen some--whiskey.”

Simmons, his yellow jaws mumbling with terror, looked at Dr. Lavendar, who nodded. But even as the old man got himself together, the brain flagged; William saw the twist come across the mouth, and the eyes blink and fix.

It was not a very severe shock, and after the first moments of alarm, the doctor said quietly; ”He is not dying.”

But he was, of course, perfectly helpless and silenced; his miserable eyes seemed to watch them, fixedly, as they carried him to his bed, and did what little could be done; but he could make no demand, and offer no explanation.

It was not until late in the afternoon that William King had time to go to the Stuffed Animal House. He had had a gravely absorbing day; not only because of the Wrights' pitiful demands upon his time, but because of the necessary explanations and evasions to Old Chester. To his wife evasions were impossible, he gave her an exact statement of the facts as he knew them. Martha, listening, and wiping her eyes, was shocked into fairness and sympathy.

”But, William, she was not to blame!”

”That's what I told her.”

”Poor thing!” said Martha; ”why, I feel as if I ought to go right up and comfort her.”

”No, no; it isn't necessary,” William said. ”I'll go, on my way to The Top.”

Mrs. King drew back, coldly, and sympathy wavered into common sense.

”Well, perhaps it's just as well you should. I'm afraid I couldn't make her feel that she had no responsibility at all,--as you seem to think. That's one thing about me, I may not be perfect, but I am sincere; I think she ought to have stopped Sam's love-making months ago!--Unless perhaps she returned it?” Martha ended, in a tone that made William redden with silent anger. But he forgot his anger and everything else when he came into the long parlor at the Stuffed Animal House, late that afternoon.

”I've thought of you all day,” he said, taking Helena's hand and looking pitifully into her face. It was strangely changed. Something was stamped into it that had never been there before.... Weeks ago, a hurricane of anger had uprooted content and vanity and left confusion behind it. But there was no confusion now; it had cleared into terror.

William found her walking restlessly up and down; she gave him a look, and then stood quite still, shrinking a little to one side, as if she expected a blow. Something in that frightened, sidewise att.i.tude made him hesitate to tell her of Benjamin Wright; she hardly knew the old gentleman, but it would startle her, the doctor reasoned. And yet, when very carefully, almost casually, he said that Mr. Wright had had a slight shock--”his life is not in danger just now,” said William, ”but he can't speak;”--she lifted her head and looked at him, drawing a full breath, as if eased of some burdening thought.

”Will he ever speak?” she said.

”I don't know; I think so. But probably it is the beginning of the end; poor old man!”

”Poor old man,” she repeated mechanically; ”poor old man!”

”I haven't told Dr. Lavendar about--last night,” William said; ”but if you have no objection I would like to just hint at--at a reason. He would know how entirely blameless you were.”

”Oh, no! please, please, don't!” she said. And William King winced at his own clumsiness; her reticence made him feel as if he had been guilty of an impropriety, almost of an indelicacy.

After a pause he said gently, that he hoped she would sit with Mrs.

King and himself at the funeral on Wednesday.

Helena caught her hands together convulsively; ”_I_ go? Oh, no, no! I am not going.”

The doctor was greatly distressed. ”I know it is hard for you, but I'm afraid Samuel and his wife will be so hurt if you don't come. They know the boy was fond of you--you were always so good to him. I don't like to urge you, because I know it pains you but--”

”Oh, I can't--I can't!”

She turned so white that William had not the heart to say anything more. But that same kind heart ached so for the father and mother, that he was grateful to her when he saw her on Wednesday, among the people gathering at the church. ”Just like her unselfishness!” he said to himself.

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