COMETHUP LEARNS THE TRUTH.

Quite early in the morning, almost before the gray dawn had come stealing across the sky, ’Linda left the inn and set out swiftly for the outer walls of the town. Some of the old glamour of the romantic personality of the dead man was still upon her, some faint pride in him still remained. She wanted to see that statue which had been raised to him, and of which she had caught a glimpse as she drove into the town on the previous day; she wanted to see it when no one else was there, to carry away in her memory the thought of him as he stood thus and looked in all men’s eyes, and so perhaps to wipe away the memory of the poorer, meaner thing she knew him to have been.

A white, heavy mist was blowing across the marshy lands from the sea; as she came up upon the grass-grown old walls the mists were floating and flowing about the statue, hiding and showing it by turns. She went close and looked up at it for a long time.

The sculptor had been happy in striking the characteristic attitude of the man. The figure stood with one hand lightly planted on the hip and the other hanging by the side; the head was thrown back and the face, with the old daring, wilful smile upon it, turned toward the sky. It was strange to see him there, high above her, on the very spot where they had wandered and played together as children. She turned away at last and began slowly to retrace her steps, looking back once or twice at the silent figure above her.

Suddenly she heard quick steps behind her and, turning sharply, saw the figure of a man looming out of the mist. The man came nearer with a half-stealthy movement that frightened her. She was on the point of crying out, and had stopped, scarcely knowing what to do, when the man overtook her in a stride or two, and peered into her face and cried her name. With a great feeling of relief she put out her hand to him.

“Old Medmer Theed!” she exclaimed. “Dear old friend, you startled me for a moment; I could not distinguish you in this mist.”

He paid no heed to what she said; he did not even notice the hand she held out to him. “So he draws you here still,” he muttered half to himself. “It is as I thought; his power is still as great as ever. See”—he leaned toward her and peered into her face—“your face is white and there are tears in your eyes. But it shall end, child; he shall trouble you no more.”

She remembered afterward that he kept one hand behind him, as though he held something in it—something he did not wish her to see. Fearing that some strange, wild thought such as had troubled him in the old days was troubling him again, she spoke soothingly to him and smiled. “Indeed, there is nothing to trouble me,” she said lightly; “all my troubles are ended.”

“Then why do you come here?” he asked suspiciously. “Why should you come here except to meet him? and why should you weep when you meet him?”

“I don’t understand,” she said, looking at him with a puzzled expression. “I have not come here to meet any one; no one is awake yet, save ourselves.”

“Ah! he comes only when others sleep,” muttered the old man. “I was here but yesterday and saw him creeping round here, and watching and waiting. And he has drawn you to him.”

“Tell me what you mean!” she cried. “What have you seen?”

He pointed to the statue towering above them through the mist, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have seen his spirit—the spirit of him they think dead—come down in lonely hours and wait here for you.”

“Oh, no, no!” she cried, startled. “This is only one of your dreams; people can not come back from the dead. Forget all about it, I beg of you; believe me, it is only one of your dreams.”

For answer he suddenly gripped her arm and pointed, with the hand that had been behind him, in the direction of the statue; she saw that he held something in that hand, although she could not see clearly what it was. “Then what is that?” he cried. “See, there he is, waiting still!”

With a cry he sprang forward and dropped on one knee in the roadway, and pointed with his arm. Another figure had appeared from beyond the statue and was standing before it, looking up at it—the tall figure of a man. While ’Linda glanced from the figure back to the old man kneeling in the roadway, she was stunned by a sudden loud report and a blinding flash that seemed to scatter and drive away the mist; and then, in a moment, the figure before the statue turned swiftly round and stumbled and flung up its arms and fell prone before it. She ran to it and, scarcely knowing what she did, turned it over and looked down at the face. And it was the face of Comethup!

She had a dim, wild, despairing hope that she might be dreaming; that the gray morning and the stone figure at the foot of which she knelt, and the man whose head was propped upon her arm, and the wild old figure standing weeping and beating its breast beside her might all be shadows in a dream she would wake to forget. But when she heard the voice of the man in her arms she knew that it was all true.

“’Linda! God is very merciful—and all the world he builds for us is very, very right—and very sweet. But a moment ago, as I stood there, with nothing to hope for—hold me closer and look into my eyes—I prayed for death. And see—in a moment it comes—swiftly, too. I don’t—don’t understand, but it’s all—all very right, isn’t it?”

“Dear,” she whispered, “can’t we do anything? Tell me—you are not—not really hurt?”

He smiled up at her with the smile she knew and remembered so well. “We must not—must not lie to each other now,” he said, “because there is so little time. I am dying——No, don’t turn your face away; keep your arms tight about me. He did not—did not know; don’t let them—harm him. Quick—there is little time; tell me—why you are here. Have you left her?”

“I am going—going abroad with her. I came here to see the old place again for the last time.”

“God is very good,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I might have died—without seeing you.” He stirred a little in her arms and tried weakly to thrust her away. “Now, you—you must go; you must leave me, dear. You must go—back to her.”

“No, no,” she cried, holding him closer. “I will not leave you now.”

“You must—you must. And take him with you. Hide him; don’t let them harm him. Oh, why torture me now? Do me this one—one last service. Go back—back to her; keep this from her. Tell her—some day—that I died—you need not—tell her—anything else. Will you go?”

“I can not, I can not!” she cried, weeping.

“You must—or you will undo—all I have tried—so hard to do. Don’t you understand?” He raised his eyes to the statue above them. “See—he smiles above us. You must leave me here. Here is my—resting place—here my fitting—monument. Leave me—here.” His eyes were closing again; his hands were groping for hers.

She bent nearer to him, kissed him on the lips, and whispered: “Listen. I will do all you wish, because—because I love you. Can you hear me?”

He smiled and gripped her hands more tightly. Bending to him again, she caught the whisper as she touched his lips: “God—is very good.” And then his eyes closed, and he died.

For a little time she sat holding him in her arms; then resolutely—remembering her promise—she got up and laid him gently at the foot of the statue, and caught the old man by the hand and ran down the hill toward the town. All was quiet. She noticed, as they went along swiftly, that the old man, who still carried the pistol in his hand, had lost the old strong dominant look from his face and was weak and passive as a child. She took the pistol from him, shuddering a little as she touched it, and hid it in her dress; took him to the door of his shop and thrust him in, and bade him, as she left him, be silent and to tell no one of his dreams. As she came out into the little street again, shaking from head to foot and striving to master her tears, the old man ran after her. He was smiling foolishly.

“I dreamt there was blood upon him; but that—that was long ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes; long ago,” she whispered hurriedly. “Go back, and tell no one your dream.”

Fortunately she had ordered a carriage very early, that she might drive to Deal in time to meet Miss Carlaw. She kept her veil down as she entered the inn and got away from it as quickly as possible, refusing anything to eat. She scarcely dared speak to any one lest she should betray her agitation. Safely in the carriage at last, she knew that she must pass almost within sight of the spot where the statue stood with the dead man lying at its foot; it seemed horrible to have to go away and leave him there—dead—to be found by strangers. And then, with another burst of tears, she remembered how he had smiled as he died, and how she had promised to keep all knowledge of it from the old woman. Humbled and broken and afraid, she clasped her hands before her face and prayed silently for strength to keep that promise to him at least. She was grateful to think, for the first time, when she reached Deal that her companion was blind and could not see her face. Miss Carlaw, guessing perhaps that her visit to the old place had awakened sorrowful memories, said but little to her and left her to herself when, after reaching Dover, they took the night boat for Calais.

And while most of the passengers were asleep ’Linda crept on deck and stole to the side of the vessel and dropped the heavy, old-fashioned pistol into the sea.