  Thus it happened that the southbound local, which went through at eight-ten, did not acquire Varney as a passenger that night; and his old friend, Elbert Carstairs, did not meet his emissary at nine-thirty, or indeed at any hour that evening. But two travelers for New York did board the local at Hunston, and both of them, as it chanced, repaired to the car provided for smokers, each for his own reasons. One of them straightway lighted a long cigar, which a gentleman had given him that morning, doubtless unwisely, for he was not above twelve years old. The other, who happened to sit in the seat just before him, did not smoke. He was rendered conspicuous by the fact that he wore no hat, and by the deadly pallor of his face, relieved only by a reddening bump beneath the right eye. His clothes also were dirty and disheveled till he seemed scarcely the superior in elegance of the little ragamuffin behind him. So that it was not surprising that the amiable conductor, standing by for the tickets and struck by the obvious likeness, should have observed: "Your son's pretty young to be a-smokin' seegars, ain't he?" Mr. Stanhope, not knowing what this remark meant, and caring less, answered with a cold stare, though inwardly he cursed the man for his fatuous impertinence. That done, he relapsed dully into his own thoughts, which were all of the house he had scurried from, terrified by Peter's cry, half an hour before…. In that house, in Mr. Stanhope's own deserted bed, Varney lay at his ease, as quiet as a statued man. Over the bed, industriously at work, hung the keen-faced town doctor, whom Hare had gotten with a speed which passed all understanding. At the foot of the bed stood Peter Maginnis, his face like the face of a carven image. At the very moment when the garrulous conductor was trying to foist off poor little Tommy Orrick upon Mr. Stanhope, the old doctor raised his head. "He's not dead yet. An excellent chance I should say." Peter's face did not change. His hand tightened on the foot-board till his nails whitened. It was as though he had pulled a signal cord which ran unseen under the bed-clothes and rung a mysterious bell in some remote corner of his friend's head. Varney immediately opened one eye, let it rest on Peter and said in a clear voice: "You all right, Peter?" That done he relapsed immediately into unconsciousness again. The doctor took out a large handkerchief, wiped his brow and smiled. Peter, his quick relief like a storm of joy, went downstairs to tell his friends of the Reform Committee, and do a thousand other things. By nine o'clock the town was ringing with the wild story, and in the still watches of the later night the telegraph flung it to far places, to be read in wonder next morning in a million homes. Overnight, the great eye of the country turned like an unwinking searchlight upon the dingy town by the Hudson where happened to dwell Mrs. Elbert Carstairs and her only daughter, Mary. And all the world read how two men who were doubles had strangely met in a lonely house with a drunken mob outside; how one of them, who had earned the mob, turned the other out to face it; how the son of a famous captain of industry had shamed the Berserkers in his passionate muscularity: how one "double" had fled to save his skin and how the other, battered almost beyond recognition, now lay trembling between life and death. In Hunston, there followed next day a whirl of police activity, of which the net results were tame in the extreme. Of all the fierce band which had stormed the house of Mr. Stanhope, only poor old Orrick and Mr. British, the bookseller—he who had been pulled out senseless from under the beams of the porch—were identified. Mr. British flatly and resolutely declined to testify as to who his comrades were, and old Sam Orrick, terrified though he was by prospective horrors of the law, loyally perjured his immortal soul by swearing that the men were all strangers to him and that he believed them to be visitors from another city. The count against these two proved to be only assault and battery, though for three days and nights it was a toss of the coin whether they would not have to answer for a graver charge. Peter's joy had soon proved premature and the doctor's smile faded in unexpected bewilderment. The sick man did not improve in the least. Delirium followed hard upon deadly stupor and there seemed no rousing him from either. The yellow cottage with the trampled flower-beds and smashed windows, which looked so bare-faced with its front porch shaved away, had passed to Peter for the moment by right of conquest. In it everything that conducted to the comfort of ill man had been quickly and lavishly installed. Everybody was wonderfully kind and thoughtful. Mrs. Marne, who reached the cottage with Mrs. Carstairs half an hour after the doctor the first night, and had done wonders before the nurses arrived, was simply invaluable. Hare came night and morning, horribly formal and ill at ease, begging for something to do. Flowers and inquiries from total strangers were an hourly occurrence. From Charlie Hammerton came a quart of magnificent Scotch, followed on the second day by a pile of clippings from the Gazette's exchanges which must have gratified the injured man extremely if only he had been able to read them. His own leading article, headed "Laurence Varney, Hero," Editor Hammerton modestly suppressed. By the hand of sad-faced McTosh came a hideous floral piece, in fact, a red, white, and blue star, bearing the label "From the sorrowing crew of the Cypriani." Mrs. Carstairs, whose emotions at the time were hardly fully understood in the yellow cottage, called daily and sent beautiful roses and chicken jelly. The roses faded and the chicken jelly was considerably enjoyed by the nurses. But from Mrs. Carstairs's daughter, whose filial relations had invoked all these things, there came neither flower nor word. The fight had taken place upon a Thursday night. On Friday, the Hunston doctor, at his wits' end, had asked for a consultation. On Saturday, the great doctor from the city had spent an hour in the sick-room, first examining the patient in a bodily way, and then prodding him with a tireless stream of questions, however futile—anything to make him talk. At the end of that time he had whispered awhile with the town doctor and drawn Peter into the study downstairs. "What's the matter with him, Mr. Maginnis?" he asked abruptly. "Matter?" echoed Peter. "Wasn't he beaten to a pulp?" "Kicks don't kill a man with that kind of physique. What has he got on his mind?" "I don't know," said Peter, miserably. "The last time I saw him—" "Find out," said the great doctor, briefly. "If you don't, he may die. He seems to have had a shock of some kind. You must work upon that line. There is nothing the matter with his body that he can't throw off. But he will not get well unless you put the idea into his head that he must." And glancing at his watch, he bowed stiffly, and was whirled away to the station. Peter was utterly at a loss. He had no idea what had taken Varney up the road to Stanhope's that afternoon, much less of any shock that could conceivably have come to him. But he set himself to find out. By the next morning, partly through inquiry, partly through patching two and two together, he had worked out a theory. Guesswork, of course, was rather dangerous in a delicate matter such as this; but the doctor's report after breakfast had been the very worst yet. Peter never faltered. He picked up his hat from the study table, in front of which he had been figuring these things out, and started down the hall. Mrs. Marne was sitting quietly on the bottom step of the stairway, her dark head in her hands; and Peter was glad to see her. "I've found out a little about that," said Peter, in a low voice. "I believe it was—to see Miss Carstairs that he came up the road that day." "Yes," said Mrs. Marne. "I have heard that too." "She struck me," said Peter, "as a nice little girl. Probably she doesn't understand the situation. I am going to see her now." "She won't see you," said Mrs. Marne. "Yes, she will," said Peter quietly, and started for the door. But Mrs. Marne caught him by the hand, protectingly, like an elder sister, and drew him into the parlor and shut the door. Half an hour later Peter came out and went up the stairs. At the landing he paused to take off his shoes, and went on up in his stocking feet. It was Sunday morning, near eleven o'clock, a brilliant morning all sun and wind. The far church bells of Hunston were ringing on the clear air like chimes from another world. Never afterward could Peter hear the Sunday bells without thinking of that moment. At the door, he met Miss Nevin, the day-nurse, coming out. She said she was going to telephone the doctor. Peter slipped into the darkened room and shut the door noiselessly behind him. After a moment, he tipped over to the bed and sat down in the nurse's chair, silently. The bed looked very fresh and white and unrumpled, and that was because the injured man had for two days lain almost wholly quiet. The thin coverlet defined his long frame perfectly. Many bandages about the limbs and trunk made it look grotesquely bumpy and misshapen. One arm, wrapped from shoulder to finger-tip was outside the coverlet; now and then the hand, which was muffled large as a boxing-glove, moved a little. Cloths ran slantwise about chin, brow, and head, leaving only breathing space and one eye uncovered. Presently, as he became more used to the darkness, Peter observed that the eye was open and regarding him incuriously: and he started in some confusion. "Do you feel much pain now, old chap?" he began rather huskily. "Pain?" repeated Varney, vaguely. "No, I don't feel any pain." "No pain! That's fine!" said Peter with lying cheerfulness, for he knew that this deadness to sensation was the worst feature in the case. "That—left leg is rather badly bruised, it seems. I was a little afraid that might be troubling you some." Silence. "Did Miss Nevin show you all your flowers? They 've just been pouring in all day every day. We could turn florists to-day without spending a penny for stock. Couldn't we, Larry, eh?" "Yes," said Varney laboriously. "We could." "Everybody has been so kind," continued Peter, desperately, "that upon my word it's hard to pick and choose. If I were asked to say who had really been kindest—let me see—yes, I'd name—Mrs. Carstairs. Flowers and something to eat, some little dainty or delicacy, twice a day. The fact is, old chap, to put it plainly, though I don't want to distress you, you know—she is blaming herself about this. Blaming herself greatly." "She oughtn't to do that," said Varney after a time. "Of course she ought n't to. Yet it's natural enough in a way. Of course, I'm blaming myself, too—like the mischief—I'd had so many warnings, you know. Little Hare is blaming himself. And Mr. Carstairs—poor old fellow! I'll show you his letters when—the light's a little better for reading. They're fine, honestly. Of course, he wanted to come on right away, but I wouldn't let him." Silence again. "So you see how many of us," continued Peter, nearing his awkward climax, "have been worried, personally, about this—trouble. And how much, well—how much—happiness is bound up in your getting well. And by the way—I declare I nearly forgot Miss Carstairs—I declare!" There was a long silence, which Peter resolved not to break. Through the shuttered window, the distant bells chimed faintly into the room. The sick man's stray arm moved restlessly on the coverlet, but otherwise he lay quite still. At length Varney said: "When did you see Miss Carstairs? She hasn't—been here—?" But poor Peter's errand was not so easy as that. He had no glad shaft of promise with which to pierce that deadly Nessus-coat of apathy. "She couldn't come here, old chap," said Peter, very gravely. "You hadn't heard, of course. Miss Carstairs is very ill." "Miss Carstairs is very ill," repeated Varney, not inquiringly, but like a child saying over a lesson. "Awfully ill," said Peter encouragingly. "It seems that she came home Thursday night a little after seven, looking very pale and badly, but insisting that there was nothing the matter. She sat upstairs with her mother until about eight, when somebody called her down to the telephone. Well, she didn't come back. So after a while Mrs. Carstairs sent down to find out why. The maid found her in the hall—in fact, on the floor, I believe. She had fainted, you know. Yes—that was it. Fainted dead away—poor little girl." After what seemed an eternity of waiting, Varney asked: "What was it—do you know? At the telephone?" "Yes. It was Mrs. Marne. She called up Miss Carstairs in the first excitement of—of your accident, it seems, and I'm afraid she gave a very exaggerated and alarming account, you know. They put her to bed," continued Peter clearing his throat, "and there she's been ever since. The great shock, you know. Mrs. Marne saw her this morning—the first time she had been admitted. It's all quite sad. Quite sad. We'll talk of it again when—you're feeling a bit stronger." Varney, who had lain like a statue for two days and nights, had begun moving a little under the coverlet, stirring first one swathed leg, then the other, as though seeking vainly to shift his position. Now he said at once: "I want to hear now." Peter gave a deep sigh. He thought, and rightly, that this was the best thing that had happened yet. "Well, it's all very strange, Larry. When I said that it was the shock of the accident that had made her ill, I did not tell the whole truth. It seems that she is suffering from a terrible hallucination about it. She feels in some strange way that the responsibility for all this—is hers. She told Mrs. Marne that she was responsible for your being on the road that night, and that she had been unfair about something or other, and that but for that the—trouble would never have happened. I don't pretend to understand it. But feeling as she does now—if anything were to—to go wrong, the poor child would count herself—she would count herself—" "Don't!" said Varney very clearly and distinctly. His face looked all at once so ghastly that Peter's heart stopped beating. He thought in a horrible flash that the end had come, and that he, Peter Maginnis, had brought it by tearing at the worst wound his friend had. His clumsy diplomacy fell from him as at the last trump. He dropped on his knees beside the bed with a groan. "For God's sake, Larry, don't leave that mark to a child like her. But Varney had pulled his arms free and was clutching wildly at his head-bandages with heavily swathed fingers. "You needn't worry about me," he said in a sharp anguished voice. "Great He recovered with a speed which puzzled the old Hunston doctor even more than his previous lethargy had done. Five days later he was well enough to be lifted downstairs to the small back piazza, and here he lay blanketed up in a reclining chair for half the sunny afternoon. A bundle of letters and telegrams lay on his covered knees; and going slowly through them, he came presently to one from Elbert Carstairs, arrived only that morning: "MY DEAR BOY:Words are feeble things at their best, and I know of none that would convey to you my great joy at the news that you are out of danger. By the same mail, I have learned that my other dear sick one in Hunston is quite herself again, and I say to God in gratitude upon my knees that my cup is full." A pause in the reading here. The long hand of the nurse's clock on the window-sill had crawled half around the dial before Varney raised the letter again from his blanketed lap: "There is much in my heart to tell you, much to beg your forgiveness for, but I shall keep it to say to you face to face. Just now the keenest point in my grief is that all this suffering I have brought upon you has been worse than unnecessary. Light has come to me in these sleepless nights, and I see now that there was a much better way to seek what I sought, a far happier path." The letter slipped down upon the swathed knees again, and he lay staring at the blown and sunny tree-tops. Presently the door at his side opened; a man started to come through it, stopped short, and stood motionless on the threshold. Varney slowly turned his head. In the doorway, to his dim surprise, stood Mr. Stanhope's man, Henry, bowing, unobtrusive, apologetic, ready to efface himself at a gesture like the well-trained servant he was. "Why—is that you, Henry?" "Harskin' your pardon for the hintrusion, sir," said Henry with a wooden face. "I didn't know you were 'ere, sir. 'Opin' you are feeling improved to-day, sir—if you please, Hi'll withdraw—" "Henry," said Varney, "that is no way for you to speak to me—after the way you stood up for me that night. Come here." And he disentangled from his covers and held out a rather maimed-looking hand. Then he saw the soul of the man whip through the livery of the menial like a knife, and Henry, stumbling forward with a working face, clasped that hand proudly in his strong white one: only he dropped on one knee to do it, as if to show that, though gentlemen might be pleased to show him kindness now and then, he perfectly understood that he was not as they. "Ho, sir," he broke out in a tone very different from his well-controlled voice of service, "I never seen a pluckier thing done, nor a gamer fight put up. You make me too proud, sir, with your 'and—man to man … I was shamed, sir, till I couldn't bear it when I came to and learned that I 'ad not stayed with you, sir, to the end. Three of them closed in on me, sir, and harskin' your pardon, sir, I was whippin' hof 'em to standstill when one of them tripped me from be'ind, sir,—" "Stand up, Henry," said Varney, rather agitated, "like the man you are." Henry stood up, with a jerky "Thank you, sir," striving with momentary ill-success to get a lackey's mask back upon that quivering face. "I'll always remember you," said Varney with some difficulty, "as a good and brave man. I don't think I'll ever forget how you disobeyed an order—to try to save me. And now tell me—what became of your master?" "'E's in the village, sir," said Henry rather bothered by his throat "In the village?" repeated Varney, surprised. "Mr. Stanhope is in "Mr. Stanhope!" said Henry with an insufferable contemptuousness for which he at once apologized. "Harskin' your pardon, sir—I thought you inquired for my master. Mr. Stanhope, I 'ave 'eard, sir, has sailed for Europe." "Well, who's your master, then?" "Mr. Maginnis is my master, sir." Varney deliberated on this, and slowly smiled. "Well, you've got a good one, Henry." "Thank you, sir. That's 'im now, sir. I 'ear 'is motor in the road. If you'll excuse me, sir—I'll go and let 'im in." And he bowed and went away, only pausing in the entry to attend a moment to his blurred eyes with the back of a supple hand. Peter stepped out into the porch with a cheery greeting and dropped into a rocking-chair, looking worn and tired. The instant his heavy anxiety over Varney was relieved, he had thrown himself back into the fight for reform with a desperate vigor which entirely eclipsed all his previous efforts. "We-ell," he said in answer to Varney's question, "we're humping along—just humping along. Time's so confoundedly short, though. You know, Larry, this business the other night is proving the best card we've got. Fact. I haven't tried to tell you how worked up the people have been about your—accident, and how most of them don't stand for it for a minute. It's pretty well understood around town that politics was back of it all in some way, though nobody can state a single fact, and I've scoured the town for evidence without finding a scrap. Anyway, it's the solemn fact, and the committee can prove it, that that feeling is bringing over a lot of votes that we never could have reached otherwise with a long distance 'phone." "Praise be that they're coming over, anyhow." "This fight," continued Peter, absorbedly, "is confoundedly interesting because it is typical of what's going on all over the country. Hunston is just a dingy little microcosm of the whole United States of America. You can't blame these poor beggars here much, afraid of their jobs as they are. It takes courage to make a break for virtue when the devil's holding you by your bread and meat. But—well, I'd hate like the mischief to lose, particularly since we've managed to come in for such a beautiful lot of lime-light. You know this fight is being watched all over the country, since that trouble? And hang it, it does make a difference when the Associated Press carries half a column about you every night. Do you remember that first night in Hunston, Larry," he continued, "when you said that our part in the town's affairs must be that of quiet onlookers only? Quiet onlookers! And now everybody in the country is playing quiet onlookers on us. Our names are household words in California, and I'm credibly informed that they're naming babies after you all through the middle West. Funny, isn't it?" Varney assented with a laugh. Presently he said rather constrainedly: "Peter—I want you to tell me a little about that night. Who was caught?" Peter named the two. "They wouldn't testify," he explained, "and I couldn't. Old Orrick was the only man I spotted. He will get punished for assault. I don't see that they've got a case against British. He was knocked out when the porch fell, and he hadn't done a thing then, except yell probably. You can't hang a man for yelling in this State." "No. Did you—you—was anybody killed?" "Bless your heart, no!" cried Peter. "Why, it was only a little old kicking-match and hair-pulling, you know, hardly worse than a college rush." Varney looked suddenly and strangely relieved. "I'm mighty glad to hear that," he said, and presently added: "Have you seen—Smith?" "Smith! He went to New York some days ago. I remember—it was the very day you pulled up and got well. Why, what about him?" "Didn't you know? He was there that night," said Varney. "Right in the thick of it, helping me." "Helping you! Smith!" Varney nodded. "The minute they closed in on me," he said after a moment, "and we all bunched together, I felt that there was somebody in there fighting on my side. Pretty soon I heard a voice in my ear, it said: 'Keep on your pins as long as you can: these dogs'll trample you if they get you down.' I said, 'Is that you, Smith?' and he laughed and said, 'Still on my studies.' Then somebody hit me over the head with something, and I went down and he went with me. He had one arm around me, I remember. I've been thinking, ever since I could think at all, that they might—might have finished him. I believe he saved my life, Smith did." "Well—bully for him!" said Peter slowly, much impressed. "What on earth struck him to do that, do you suppose? Well, well! I'll certainly look that old boy up in New York and shake him by the hand." There was a considerable silence. At just the moment when Varney was about to put another question, Peter opened his mouth and answered it. "However," he said, an irrepressible note of irritation creeping into his honest voice, "even that was not the strangest thing that happened that night. Not by a long shot." Varney's gaze fixed with sudden interest. "Higginson? You don't mean to say that he turned up?" "I do. And got away with it again—confound his soul!" "What happened? Any more dirty work? Did anything get into the papers?" "No—oh, no! You've got that sized up wrong, Larry. He's no yellow journalist or anything like that. He's only the slickest underground worker this town ever saw—with his confounded apologetic, worried-looking mask of a face. As for more dirty work—well, I guess the bloodshed the other night scared him up so—" "But go on and tell me! Where'd you see him? What did you say and—" "Sitting in our front parlor, if you please, like a dear old friend of the family." The remembrance of the way he had been affronted and outwitted chafed Peter's spirit uncontrollably. He rose and began pacing up and down the little porch, hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets. "About an hour after we put you to bed," he exploded, "I slipped downstairs to tell Hare to keep everybody off the place. However, a lot of people had already come in. I glanced in at the parlor and it seemed full of them—Mrs. Carstairs and Mrs. Marne—they were the first to get here after Hare's delegation—Hammerton and another man from the Gazette, the committeemen, and several I'd never laid eyes on before. Well, there in a corner, looking like a hired mourner at a nigger funeral, sat that fellow Higginson. You could have knocked me flat with a pin feather. I'm as sure as I stand here that it was he who worked up that mob for Ryan, and the whole dirty scheme—and then coming around with his tongue in his cheek to inquire after the victim! Can you beat that gall?" "Not easily. What happened?" "They asked me how you were. I told'em. Then I said before the room-full: 'I was very sorry to find you out this afternoon, Mr. Higginson, when I called at your hotel.' The fellow looked white as a sheet and mumbled something I couldn't catch. Well—I couldn't smash him there before all the women, so I said: 'Please don't go away this time until I see you. I'm most anxious to have a little private conversation with you.' Oh, of course that was a mistake—I hate to think about it! But—well, I was a good deal worried just then," he explained, rather sheepishly, "and fact is, for the minute I wasn't thinking very much about Higginson. I needn't add that he had sneaked when I came down again. Had the cheek to leave behind a message with Hare saying he regretted to miss me, but felt it his duty to escort the ladies home." |
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