Part 42 (1/2)

James McIver called but she would not see him.

When they urged her to retire and rest, she answered always with the same words: ”I must be here when he awakens--I must.”

And they, loving her, understood.

It was as if the a.s.sa.s.sin's hand had torn aside the curtain of material circ.u.mstances and revealed suddenly the realities of their inner lives.

They realized now that this man, who had in their old-house days won the first woman love of his girl playmate, had held that love against all the outward changes that had taken her from him. John and his mother knew, now, why Helen had never said ”Yes” to Jim McIver. Peter Martin and Mary knew why, in Captain Charlie's heart, there had seemed to be no place for any woman save his sister.

At intervals the man on the bed moved uneasily, muttering low words and disconnected fragments of speech. Army words--some of them were--as if his spirit lived for the moment again in the fields of France. At other times the half-formed phrases were of his work--the strike--his home.

Again he spoke his sister's name or murmured, ”Father,” or ”John.” But not once did Helen catch the word she longed to hear him speak. It was as if, even in his unconscious mental wanderings, the man still guarded the name that in secret he had held most dear.

Three times during the day he opened his eyes and looked about--wonderingly at first--then as though he understood. As one contented and at peace, he smiled and drifted again into the shadows.

But now at times his hand went out toward her with a little movement, as though he were feeling for her in the dark.

About midnight he seemed to be sleeping so naturally that they persuaded Helen to rest. At daybreak she was again at her post.

Mrs. Ward and Mary had gone, in their turn, for an hour or two of sorely needed rest. Peter Martin was within call downstairs. John, who was watching with his sister, had left the room for the moment and Helen was at the bedside alone.

Suddenly through the quiet morning air came the deep-toned call of the Mill whistle.

As a soldier awakens at the sound of the morning bugle, Captain Charlie opened his eyes.

Instantly she was bending over him. As he looked up into her face she called his name softly. She saw the light of recognition come into his eyes. She saw the glory of his love.

”Helen,” he said--and again, ”Helen.”

It was as if the death that claimed him had come also for her.

For the first time in many months the voice of the Mill was not heard by the Interpreter in his little hut on the cliff. Above the silent buildings the smoke cloud hung like a pall. From his wheel chair the old basket maker watched the long procession moving slowly down the hill.

There were no uniforms in that procession--no military band with m.u.f.fled drums led that solemn march--no regimental colors in honor of the dead. There were no trappings of war--no martial ceremony. And yet, to the Interpreter, Captain Charlie died in the service of his country as truly as if he had been killed on the field of battle.

Long after the funeral procession had pa.s.sed beyond his sight, the Interpreter sat there at the window, motionless, absorbed in thought.

Twice silent Billy came to stand beside his chair, but he did not heed.

His head was bowed. His great shoulders stooped. His hands were idle.

There was a sound of some one knocking at the door.

The Interpreter did not hear.

The sound was repeated, and this time he raised his head questioningly.

Again it came and the old basket maker called, ”Come in.”

The door opened. Jim McIver entered.

CHAPTER XXVII