THE DEPARTURE

And now, in addition to Audry’s intelligence, was her kindness. Even in her firmness and certainty she had been kind. Of course she was right, poor Tom saw that. The only rebellion that still persisted in him was rebellion against a fate which could contrive two diverse obligations. But he knew now that the kindly obligations of friendship are as nothing where stern duty is concerned. It was odd how he kept wishing that Whalen were not concerned in this matter, so that he might ask him what he thought about it. He had such a regard for Whalen’s opinions, for the little things Whalen had said in his quizzical way....

Tom passed a restless night, feeling troubled and contemptible. He knew that he would never himself have resolved upon the course which Audry advised, and the more he realized this the deeper was his regard for her nature and her intelligence. She seemed to him to have a kind of second sight, a clear vision which saw things in their true light.

He was going to do as she said. Moreover, her suggestion about the reward had given him a fine idea, an idea which soothed his conscience somewhat and made him feel less despicable. He was going to think of his whole mean performance as something done for Whalen’s sake. He would have felt a little better about this if he could have honestly believed that there was any chance at all of Whalen being innocent. Well, anyway, he would do his stern duty—Audry was right.

And he would take the reward, too. Every cent of that money would go to help Whalen— Dyker—in his trial. If he refused help coming from such a source, well then, Tom would—no he wouldn’t—yes he would—he would buy the Goodfellow and use it for charity. There were lots of scout troops of poor boys; he would take them on outings; it should be their boat, not his....

He asked Ferris’ permission to be absent for a day, perhaps a couple of days. It made him feel mean, contemptible, to see Ferris so generous, and friendly and openhearted; it seemed a reproach. He went into the kitchen of the cottage to say “So long,” to Miranda, and he envied her that she was so carefree, crooning an outlandish song. He loitered and balked at starting. Audry was there, hustling about with graceful, girlish efficiency, putting away dishes. She seemed not to notice him, but Tom construed this as a sign of the confidence she reposed in him.

He spoke as if they had had no talk the night before. “I’m going down the mountain,” he said; “going to take a day or two off.”

“Are you going to Temple Camp?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I’ll be back to-morrow night, I guess.”

She held out her hand cordially and said goodbye. “You’ve got a nice day for a tramp,” she said.

He started down the south slope of the mountain intending to go through Woodstock and trust to getting a lift to Kingston. He balked at forming any further plan in his mind. He would probably go to a police station, maybe to the prosecutor’s office, he did not know. All he knew was that it was low, contemptible, this being a good citizen. Maybe he would go on to Albany and call on Mr. Borden Merrick, nephew of the murdered man, who had continued the offer of a reward. Perhaps he would—no, the matter wasn’t in his hands. Well, he guessed he would go to a police station....

Down the mountainside he came on Whalen and Fairgreaves. They were standing near a hole which had been dug for a pole. He had thought they were working elsewhere.

Sitting with his back against a tree nearby was Billy the sailor smoking a pipe, preliminary to starting work. His absurd little hat was cocked forward and it gave him a look of swaggering indifference, which bespoke his liberal code of conduct. He looked too seasoned and sophisticated to be subjected to arguments by young ladies. It made Tom feel a little mean and false to look at him. Whalen wore his canvas smock. He looked up at Tom with his weary, pleasant smile. Fairgreaves delivered himself of a magnificent gesture of salutation. “Going forth into the world upon your travels?” he asked.

“Just for a day or so,” Tom said. He did not pause for he could not speak with Whalen. The pleasant little group made him sick at heart. As he tramped down the road he thought, perhaps he only fancied, that Whalen’s gaze followed him curiously, inquiringly.

“Don’t take any bad money from good people,” Billy the sailor called....

It was a hot, dry day, just past the zenith of summer. The dust was thick on the stony road and the bordering woods showed the effects of the drought which had continued from the day of the memorable storm. A few withered leaves had fallen before their time as a result of the arid spell. The grassy ridges along the narrow, enclosed road looked rusty. Tom’s shoes were gray with dust as he made his way disconsolately down the mountain.

After a little while he came to Mead’s Mountain House, spacious, white and cool looking in its pleasant clearing on the mountainside. Summer boarders sat upon its spacious veranda and children played about the grounds. The fine old place seemed high enough without going higher.

A man in a golf suit called to Tom and asked him how the work was going up the mountain and he answered half-heartedly that things were going all right.

“They going to be open for business next season?” the man persisted.

“Guess so,” called Tom abstractedly.

Another seemingly interminable stretch of steep and dusty mountain road brought him to Reynolds’ at the foot of the mountain. Here an elderly woman with bobbed hair and a young man in a blue velveteen jacket and a streaming yellow scarf bespoke the proximity of Woodstock.

He saw more of these artists and intellectual lights as he passed through the village and he was guilty of a momentary treason in wondering what on earth they did to justify the homage of Audry Ferris. They seemed a queer lot, to be cited as “worth while” and constructive. Tom wondered what they constructed.

One of them who stood in the village square gloried in irreconcilable socks, one green and one red. In one of the shop windows he saw specimens of pottery and outlandish pictures. He supposed these were the things they constructed. He thought that cultured Woodstock was a false alarm. Then he bethought him that Audry knew more than he did about such things. And that he ought to be thankful to know such a girl....