THE CRIMINAL

Then Tom fell to thinking about Anson Dyker and wondering where he had been in that long interval since his crime. He had been to the war, and Tom was glad of that, for his service and his cruel wound seemed like an atonement. But all the while Tom knew that there is no atonement for murder—but one. And the thought made him shudder.

He emerged the next morning, troubled and perplexed after a restless night. It seemed to him that he had lived over the whole drama in which the Dykers and the old village and the great reservoir had played a part. Perhaps he saw the little family’s sorrow and trouble more vividly than he was able to picture that other home in Kingston where blind murder had stalked. Yet he did think of old Henry Merrick and saw him through the haze of time as a kindly old man.

Tom had borne many responsibilities upon his young shoulders but he had never carried such a depressing weight of perplexity as now harassed him. He had kept other people’s secrets, but he had never kept a secret from the state, from the law. His youth and essential simplicity were very strongly manifested in the uneasiness he felt at having to bear the responsibility of such knowledge, and to keep it secret. And in his perplexity, his fondness and admiration for his friend Whalen, deepened to a kindness and sympathy such as he had not felt before.

Whalen had never given him a chance to show his friendship and gratitude. But the matter was out of Whalen’s hands now. He did not know that Tom knew. Tom had an odd feeling that Whalen would be just the sort of person in whom to confide such a secret, just the sort to share it and advise with him.

That was what Tom wanted now—not some one to advise him. Not exactly that. But some one to share the knowledge. He felt a certain boyish fear at knowing this dreadful truth all by himself, and being in the position of outwitting the law. With all his prowess he felt very nervous and very much at sea.

It is to the credit of Mr. Fairgreaves that Tom in his first panic of doubt and uncertainty should have thought of him as a trusty friend. He might have done worse than go to Mr. Fairgreaves. He thought of Ferris and for no very good reason he deferred and then abandoned the thought of taking him into his confidence. He thought of making the trip to Temple Camp and talking with Brent, and what demon of evil prevented him from doing this heaven only knows. The upshot was that he spoke to no one and was greatly troubled. He felt that he was accessory to a crime and oddly this made him feel that he was in some way false to his friend and rescuer.

So he sought Whalen out (he tried always to think of him by that name) and tried to square himself with his own conscience by a certain gentleness of friendship which spoke well for Tom. At such times he sought to reassure himself that Whalen suspected nothing and then he would feel guilty because of his friend’s apparent faith in him.

If Tom had been a little older and a little more sophisticated perhaps he would not have felt the burden of this secret. He might have taken the view that if the government wanted his friend it was for the government to find him. Sometimes he did almost reach this attitude, but always the figure of poor old Henry Merrick loomed before him.

Finally he resolved upon a certain course. He would tell Whalen that he knew his identity and he would speak of the murder and the state’s accusation. Whalen would deny his guilt. Then Tom would accept his denial and promise secrecy. There would be nothing wrong in shielding an innocent man....

So he waited one evening for Whalen to come up from where he was working putting up poles down the mountainside. The other men came along first and as usual Whalen followed a few minutes afterward. He came up the steep road with a spade over his shoulder, looking lonesome and weary. He wore a soiled white canvas jacket or rather smock, which gave him a little the appearance of a foreign peasant.

He looked older than his years even, and Tom had no difficulty in recognizing his resemblance to old Caleb. It was noticeable mainly in a certain strained look, and in an unusual relation of the mouth to the nose. Also he had that far away look which was so eccentric in old Caleb but which in the younger man seemed wistful and to bespeak a certain lonesomeness. On this occasion even his walk suggested old Caleb, except that, oddly, old Caleb was very spry while the younger man seemed weary. Tom’s heart went out to him as he came up the hill.

Tom felt very nervous and ill at ease. He did not know how to begin. He had never felt altogether at ease with Whalen, because Whalen had always treated him as a likable boy. He found it hard to put himself on a level with his friend.

“What have you got there?” Tom asked, referring to something Whalen held in his cupped hand.

“A problem,” Whalen said.

“What do you mean, a problem?” Tom asked, seeing a tiny bird sitting very comfortably on a few wisps of grass in Whalen’s sheltering hand.

“Why birds leave home,” said Whalen.

“It’s a robin,” said Tom.

“A feathered friend,” said Whalen.

Tom had heard Audry Ferris speak of birds as feathered friends and he had a feeling now that this rescuer was poking fun at her phrases. In another moment he was certain of it.

“I’m strong for service,” said Whalen. “Poor little codger, he must have fallen out of his nest.”

“That’s your middle name—rescuing,” said Tom generously.

“Service,” said Whalen.

“She—she couldn’t be any kinder to a bird than you are,” Tom said.

“Who?”

“Oh, you know who. It’s just exactly like you to bother carrying that little—”

“Waif,” said Whalen.

“—Away up from below,” concluded Tom. “What are you going to do with it anyway?”

“Bring it up in the way it should go,” said Whalen.

“You can’t tame a robin,” Tom said.

“He’ll fly away when he gets ready,” said Whalen; “he’ll beat it for the woods and join the bunch. He knows the duties of citizenship, don’t you, Chippy?” And he poked the tiny, delicate bill ever so gently with his finger.

“You’re a boy scout,” he said to Tom. “Do you know how to make mush?”

“For him to eat, you mean?”

“Eh huh.”

That was the end of Tom’s fine resolve to tell Whalen what he knew, to hear the welcome declaration of innocence, and to swear loyalty. The poor little robin had spoiled the whole thing. And the murderer was not just then approachable on any other subject.