Part 22 (2/2)
”I know. I was there, right beside you. I 'eard it. But it 'll come out right, some way.”
There was a moment of silence, then a gripping fear at the heart of Fairchild.
”Just how crazy is she, Harry?”
”'Er? Plumb daft! Of course, as Mother 'Oward says, there 's times when she 's straight--but they don't last long. And, if she 'd given 'er testimony in writing, Mother 'Oward says it all might 'ave been different, and we 'd not 'ave 'ad anything to worry about.”
”In writing?”
”Yes, she 's 'arfway sane then. It seems 'er mind 's disconnected, some wye. I don't know 'ow--Mother 'Oward 's got the 'ole lingo, and everybody in town knows about it. Whenever anybody wants to get anything real straight from Crazy Laura, they make 'er write it. That part of 'er brain seems all right. She remembers everything she does then and 'ow crazy it is, and tells you all about it.”
”But why did n't Farrell insist upon that tonight?”
”'E could n't have gotten 'er to do it. And n.o.body can get 'er to do it as long has Squint's around--so Mother 'Oward says. 'E 's got a influence about 'im. And she does exactly what 'e 'll sye--all 'e 's got to do is to look at 'er. Notice 'ow fl.u.s.tered up she got when the coroner asked 'er about that book?”
”I wonder what it would really tell?”
Harry chuckled.
”n.o.body knows. n.o.body 's ever seen it. Not even Squint Rodaine.
That's the one thing she 's got the strength to keep from 'im--I guess it's a part of 'er right brain that tells 'er to keep it a secret! I 'm going to bed now. So 're you. And you 're going to sleep. Good night.”
He went out of the room then, and Fairchild, obedient to the big Cornishman's command, sought rest. But it was a hard struggle.
Morning came, and he joined Harry at breakfast, facing the curious glances of the other boarders, staving off their inquiries and their illy couched consolations. For, in spite of the fact that it was not voiced in so many words, the conviction was present that Crazy Laura had told at least a semblance of the truth, and that the dovetailing incidents of the past fitted into a well-connected story for which there must be some foundation. Moreover, in the corner were Blindeye Bozeman and Taylor Bill, hurrying through their breakfast that they might go to their work in the Silver Queen, Squint Rodaine's mine, less than a furlong from the ill-boding Blue Poppy. Fairchild could see that they were talking about him, their eyes turned often in his direction; once Taylor Bill nodded and sneered as he answered some remark of his companion. The blood went hot in Fairchild's brain. He rose from the table, hands clenched, muscles tensed, only to find himself drawn back by the strong grasp of Harry. The big Cornishman whispered to him as he took his seat again:
”It 'll only make more trouble. I know 'ow you feel--but 'old in.
'Old in!”
It was an admonition which Fairchild was forced to repeat to himself more than once that morning as he walked uptown with Harry, to face the gaze of the street loafers, to be plied with questions, and to strive his best to fence away from them. There were those who were plainly curious; there were others who professed not to believe the testimony and who talked loudly of action against the coroner for having introduced the evidence of a woman known by every one to be lacking in balanced mentality. There were others who, by their remarks, showed that they were concealing the real truth of their thoughts and only using a cloak of interest to guide them to other food for the carrion proclivities of their minds. To all of them Fairchild and Harry made the same reply: that they had nothing to say, that they had given all the information possible on the witness stand during the inquest, and that there was nothing further forthcoming.
And it was while he made this statement for the hundredth time that Fairchild saw Anita Richmond going to the post-office with the rest of the usual crowd, following the arrival of the morning train. Again she pa.s.sed him without speaking, but her glance did not seem so cold as it had been on the morning that he had seen her with Rodaine, nor did the lack of recognition appear as easily simulated. That she knew what had happened and the charge that had been made against his father, Fairchild did not doubt. That she knew he had read the ”personal” in the _Bugle_ was as easily determined. Between them was a gulf--caused by what Fairchild could only guess--a gulf which he could not essay to cross, and which she, for some reason, would not. But there was nothing that could stop him from watching her, with hungry eyes which followed her until she had disappeared in the doorway of the post-office, eyes which believed they detected a listlessness in her walk and a slight droop to the usually erect little shoulders, eyes which were sure of one thing: that the smile was gone from the lips, that upon her features were the lines and hollows of sleeplessness, and the unmistakable lack of l.u.s.ter and color which told him that she was not happy. Even the masculine mentality of Fairchild could discern that. But it could not answer the question which the decision brought.
She had become engaged to a man whom she had given evidence of hating.
She had refused to recognize Fairchild, whom she had appeared to like.
She had cast her lot with the Rodaines--and she was unhappy. Beyond that, everything was blank to Fairchild.
An hour later Harry, wandering by the younger man's side, strove for words and at last uttered them.
”I know it's disagreeable,” came finally. ”But it's necessary. You 'ave n't quit?”
”Quit what?”
”The mine. You 're going to keep on, ain't you?”
Fairchild gritted his teeth and was silent. The answer needed strength. Finally it came.
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