Part 25 (1/2)

The negro turned his horse around and started back to town. John stood stock-still, his eyes on the cab disappearing in the gloom. He had stood that way for several minutes when a small hand was slipped into his from behind, and, looking around, he saw the soiled face and matted hair of Dora Boyles.

”Brother John,” she faltered, ”has Tilly left you--really--really left you?”

He dropped her hand and shoved her from him. ”Go home!” he cried. ”Go home, and don't bother me!”

She fell back a yard or so and stood staring at him. ”I won't go till you tell me,” she said, stubbornly. ”I started over here this morning to show Tilly my doll and get her to help me dress it. I saw that crazy-looking old man come in a cab and take her and her trunk away. She was white--oh, she was as white as a sheet, and so pitiful-looking!”

”Go home, I tell you! Go home!” John gulped and snarled like a man goaded at once by grief and physical pain. ”Go home, I tell you! Leave me alone!”

”I suppose that means she _has_ left,” the child reasoned aloud. ”Well, brother John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, because I liked her awfully well.

But I'm not surprised. Aunt Jane told your ma yesterday--and it made her mad. My! didn't the old girl rip and snort? Aunt Jane told her this thing would happen sooner or later. She said no woman alive could stay cooped up in a little box like this very long and not have a single soul go near her, and you off all day.”

John laid his hand roughly on the child's shoulder and smothered an oath of fury. ”You go home!” he panted. ”If you don't, I'll--”

”You'll do nothing!” The child smiled fearlessly. ”Your bark is worse than your bite, brother John. But I'm going. I'll come back, though.

I'll be over to clean up and cook something for you. You won't come back to our old shack, I know.”

When she had left he went into the cottage, but he did not light the gas again. The darkness seemed more suitable to his mood. He sat down on the edge of his and Tilly's bed. His ma.s.sive hand sank into her pillow. It was past his supper hour, but he had no desire to eat. The sheer thought of the kitchen where his young wife had worked, somehow suggested her death. A little round metal clock on the mantel was ticking sharply. He got up and wound it, as usual, at that hour. He went into the sitting-room. Here he sat down, lurched forward in unconscious weakness, and then, swearing impatiently, he steadied himself. He remained there only a minute. Rising, he went into the dining-room, felt about, as a blind man might, for a chair, and sank into it. Crossing his arms on the table, he rested his head on them. Had he been a weaker man he might have pitied himself. He had always contended that a man who could not bear pain and adversity had a ”yellow streak” in him. He had once had a painful operation performed without an anesthetic, and he now told himself that he simply must master the things within and without him which had combined to overthrow him. He ground his teeth together. He clenched his fingers till the nails of some of them broke.

He closed his eyes. He tried to imagine that he was becoming drowsy and that he would soon sleep, but a thousand pictures floated through his brain and dug themselves in like burrowing animals. Chief among them was a view of Whaley striding about the Square, uttering s...o...b..ring anathemas against him. Another scene was that of Tilly's receiving the revelation he himself had shrunk from making. He saw the blight fall on her bonny face and her calm and inevitable consent to abandon him forever. And yet how could he bear _that_--exactly _that_? He groaned against the smooth surface of the table. He was ashamed of his frailty, for the mastery of himself seemed farther off, almost an impossibility.

The iron latch of the gate clicked. A heavy step grated on the gravel walk. He sat up straight and listened. The cast-iron door-bell rang.

There was a pause, then a step sounded in the hall. Some one was entering unbidden and stalking into the house.

”Oh, John--Johnny, my boy! Where are you?” It was Cavanaugh's voice filled with fluttering grief, tenderness, dismay.

”Here I am!” John did not rise. ”Here, in the dining-room.”

”But the light--the light. Why don't you--”

Cavanaugh broke off as he stood in the doorway. He paused there for a moment, as if wondering what state a light would reveal the crouched form of his friend to be in.

”I don't want a light, Sam,” John muttered. ”You can have one if you want it. Here are some matches--but, no, I'll light up. When I came in I was so tired that I sat down here a minute, and--well, I must have--have dropped asleep. But what the h.e.l.l's the use to lie to _you_?” He struck a match and held it to the gas-jet over the table beneath the gaudy porcelain shade. His writhing face, in the sudden flare of light, was white, holding a tint even of green. He sank back into his chair. ”No, I won't lie, Sam. Besides, if you haven't already heard you will soon enough.”

”I _have_ heard,” Cavanaugh admitted. ”I heard it at home from a neighbor. Then I went to the Square to make sure, and--”

”I know. It's town talk, a delicious tidbit for women and loafers,” John sneered. ”Well, well, it is done, Sam. It has happened, and that is all there is to it.”

”I hurried over to see you and talk with you,” Cavanaugh went on. ”I don't know what step you want to take.”

”I'll take none,” John answered, grimly. ”You don't think I want to kill anybody, do you? She is his daughter, and he had her before I got her. I tell you there is no fight in me, Sam. I can fight, as you know, when it has to be done, but there is no call for it in this case. Knowing Tilly as I know her, and now knowing my own plight as it has been made plain to me since I brought her here, I would think any man a d.a.m.ned idiot that would allow his daughter to marry me. G.o.d! G.o.d! No, never! Sam, Sam, I never found fault with you before, but you ought to have told me.

By G.o.d! you ought to have opened my d.a.m.ned sightless eyes!”

”Don't! don't! my boy!” Cavanaugh cried, huskily. ”You are breaking my heart. I wanted you with me. I saw how you two loved one another, and I thought I was acting right. I--I couldn't pull the bad conduct of others between you and that sweet little girl. I am not satisfied to let it rest as it is, either. You may not want to take any steps, but it is my duty to try to do something.”

”Something? What the h.e.l.l could you or any one do?”

”Well, I'll tell you what struck me, my dear boy. I'm going up to Cranston to-night and see how the land lies. I don't intend to rest idle and know no more than I've picked up in the wild talk of men on the streets up-town and a stupid negro cab-driver. This is a serious matter, and I have a big duty to perform.”

”It won't do any good,” John groaned, softly, and he shook his head.