 CHAPTER 31 Robert Cater's Success Hello. So it's here. Robert Cater stood by a much littered table and looked down on a few papers and envelopes which someone had laid there during his absence. All day long he had been wandering about the streets of Paris, waiting, passing the time as he could in his impatience, hoping for the communication contained in one of these very envelopes. Now that it had come, he felt himself struck with a singular weakness and did not seize it and tear it open. Instead he stood before the table, his hands in his pockets, and whistled softly. He made the tour of the studio several times, pausing now and then to turn a canvas about, apparently as if he would criticize it, looking at it but not regarding it, only absently turning one and another as if it were a habit with him to do so. Then returning to the table he stirred the envelopes apart with one finger and finally separated one from the rest, bearing an official seal and with it a small package carefully secured in bearing the same seal. But he did not open either. Yes, it's here. And that's the one, he said. But he spoke to himself, for there was no one else in the room. He moved away wearily, keeping the packet in his hand, but leaving the envelope on the table and hung his hat upon a point of an easel and wiped his damp brow. As he did so he lifted the dark brown hair from his temple showing a jagged scar. Quickly, as if with an habitual touch, he rearranged the thick, soft lock so that the scar was covered and mounting a dais, seated himself on a great, throne-like chair covered with a royal tiger skin, the head of the tiger mounted high with glittering eyes and fangs showing rested on the floor between his feet, and there holding the small packet in his hand. His elbows resting on the arms of the throne. He sat with head dropped forward and shoulders lifted and eyes fixed on the tiger's head. For a long time he sat thus in the darkening room. At last it grew quite dark. Only the great skylight over his head showed a defined outline. The young man had had no dinner and no supper, for his pockets were empty and his last zoo gone. If he had opened the envelopes he would have found money and more than money, for he would have learned that the doors of the salon had opened to him and the highest metal awarded him, and that for which he had toiled and waited and hoped for which he had staked his last effort and sacrificed everything was one. He was recognized, and all Paris would quickly know it, and not only Paris but all the world. But when he would open the envelope his hands fell slack, and there it still lay on the table concealed by the darkness. Down three flights of stairs in the court a strange and motley group were collecting, some bearing candles all masked, some fantastically dressed and others only concealed by the dominoes. The stairs went up on the outer wall of this inner court past the windows of the basement occupied by the concierge and his wife and pretty daughter, and entered the building on the first floor above. By this arrangement the concierge could always see from his window who mounted them. Look, Mama! The pretty daughter stood peering out, her face framed in the white muslin curtains. Look! See the students! Aha! But they are droll! Come away, Mafil. But the owl and the ape there, they seem on very good terms. I wonder if they go to the room of Moser Ketir. I think so. For one, the ghost in white, he's a little lame like the Englishman who goes always to the room of Moser. Abbe imbecile, away with you, pig! The ape had suddenly approached his ugly face to the face framed in the white muslin curtains on the other side of the window and made exaggerated motions of an embrace. The wife of the concierge snatched her daughter away and drew the curtains close. Foolish child, why do you stand and watch the rude fellows? This is what you get by it. I've told you to keep your eyes within. But I love to see them so droll they are! Stillfully the fantastic creatures began to climb the stairs, one, two, three flights traversing a long hall at the end of each flight and turning to climb again. The expense of keeping a light on each floor for the corridors was not allowed in this building and they moved along in the darkness but for the flickering light of the few candles carried among them. As they neared the top, they grew more stealthy and kept close together on the landing outside the studio door. One stooped and listened at the keyhole, then tried to look through it. Not there? whispered another. No light, was the whispered reply. They spoke now in French, now in English. He has heard us and hid himself. He's a strange man, this scotchman. He did not attend the vernossage nor the presentation of prizes. Yet he wins the highest. The owl stretched out an arm, bare and muscular from under his wing, and tried the door very gently. It was not locked and he thrust his head within, then reached back and took a candle from the ghost. This will give light enough, put out the rest of yours and make no noise. Thus in the darkness they crept into the studio and gathered around the table. There they saw the unopened envelopes. He's not here. He does not know, said one and another. Where can he be? He has taken a panic and fled. I told you so, said the ghost. Ah, here he is! Behold! The hamlet of our ghost! Wake! Hamlet! Your father's spirit has arrived! cried one in English with a very French accent. They now gathered before the Diaz, shouting and cheering in both English and French. One brought the envelopes on a pallet and presented them. The young man gazed at them, stupidly at first, then with a feverish gleam in his eyes, but did not take them. Yes, I found them when I came in, but they're... not for me. They're addressed to you, Robert Cater, and the news is published and you leave them here unopened. He does not know. I told you so. You have the packet in your hand. Open it! Take it from him and decorate him. He's in a dream. It is the great meadow. We will wake him. They began to cheer and cheer again. Each after the manner of the character he had assumed. The ass braided, the owl hooted, the ghost groaned, the ape leapt on the back of the throne whereon the young man still sat, and seized him by the hair, chattering idiotically after a manner of apes, and began to wag his head back and forth. In the midst of the uproar, Demosthenes stepped forward and took the envelopes from the pallet, and, tearing them open, began reading them aloud by the light of a candle held for him by Lady Macbeth, who now and then interrupted with the remark that her little hand was stained with blood, stretching forth an enormous hairy hand for their inspection. But as Demosthenes read on, the uproar ceased, and all listened with courteous attention. The ape leapt down from the back of the throne. The owl ceased hooting, and all were silent, until the second envelope had been opened, and the contents made known, that his exhibit had been purchased by the salon. Robert Cater, you are at the top. We congratulate you. To be recognized by the salon d'artiste Francis, it is to be recognized and honored by all the world. They came forward with kindly and sincere words, and the young man stood to receive them. But reeling and swaying, weary with emotion, and faint with hunger, were you not going to the mask? I was weary, I had not thought. Then wake up and go, we come for you. I have no costume. Ah, that is nothing, make one, it is easy. He sits there like his own soul, enveloped in gloom. Come, I will be your David, cried one, and snatched a guitar, and began strumming it wildly. While the company scattered and searched the studio for materials with which to create for him a costume for the mask, the ghost came limping up to the young man, who had seated himself again wearily on the throne, and spoke to him quietly. The tides turned, Cater. Wake up to it. You're clear of the breakers. The two pictures you were going to destroy are sold. I brought those Americans here while you were away and showed them. I told you they'd take something as soon as you were admitted. Here's the money. Robert Cater raised himself, looking in the eyes of his friend, and took the bank notes, as if he were not aware what they really might be. I say, you've enough to keep you for a year if you don't throw it away. Count it. I doubled your price, and they took them at the price I made. Look at these. Then Robert Cater looked at them with glittering eyes, and his shaking hand shut upon them, crushing the bank notes in a tight grip. We'll half it. Share and share alike, he whispered, staring at the ghost without counting it. As for this, his finger touched the decoration on his breast. It is given to a, you won't take half? Then I'll throw them away. I'll take them all until you're sane enough to know what you're doing. Give them to me. He took them back, and crept quietly, ghostlike, about the room, until he found a receptacle in which he knew they would be safe. Then, removing one hundred francs from the amount, he brought it back and thrust it in his friend's pocket. There, that's enough for you to throw away on us tonight. Why are you taking off your decoration? Leave it where it is, it's yours. Yes, I suppose it is. Robert Cater brushed his hands across his eyes, and stepped down from the throne. Then, lifting his head and shoulders as if he threw off a burden, he leaped from the desk, and with one long howl, began an Indian war dance. He was the center of life, of the hilarious crowd from that moment. The selection of materials had been made, a curtain of royal purple hung behind the throne, and this they threw around him as a toga, then crowned him as Mark Antony. They found for him also a tunic of soft wool, and with a strip of gold braid they converted a pair of sheepskin bedroom slippers into sandals, bound on his feet, over his short socks. I say, Mark Antony never wore things like these, he shouted, Give me a mask, I'll not wear these things without a mask. He snatched at the head of the owl, who ducked under his arm and escaped. Go then. This is better, Mark, the illustrious, as an ass. He made a die for the head of his braying friend and barely missed him. Come, we waste time. Cleopatra awaits him at Lafouschette d'Or. All our Cleopatra's await us there. Shirley? Shirley. Madame Lecharn is there, and the sisters, Luce and Bertha, all are there, and with them one very beautiful blonde, whom you have never seen. She is for you, you cold Scotsman, that stone within you which you call a heart. Tonight it will melt. You have everything planned, then. Everything is made ready. Look here. Wait, my friends. I haven't expressed myself yet. They were preparing to lift him above their heads. I wish to say that you are all to share my good fortune and allow—wait for the champagne. You can see it then with more force. I say, hold on. I ask you to. So we do. We hold on. Now up. So. He was born in triumph, down the stairs, and out on the street, and away to the sign of the golden fork, and seated at the head of the table in a small banquet room, opening off from the balcony at one side, where the feast had been ordered and prepared, was awaiting them. A group of masked young women, gathered on the balcony, pelted them with flowers as they passed beneath it, and when the men were all seated, they trooped out and each slid into their appointed place, still masked. Then came a confusion of tongues, badinage, repartee, wit, undiluted by discretion, and rippling laughter as one mask after another was tore off. Ah! How glad I am to be rid of it! I was suffocating! said a soft voice at Robert Cader's side. He looked down quickly into a pair of clear, red-brown eyes, eyes into which he had never looked before. Then we are both content that it is off, he smiled as he spoke. She glanced up at him, then down and away. When she lifted her eyes an instant later again to his face, he was no longer regarding her. She was peaked, and quickly began conversing with the man on her left, the one who had removed her mask. It is no use, your smile, mademoiselle. He is impervious that man. He has no sense, or he could not turn his eyes away. I like the best the impervious ones. With a light ripple of laughter she turned again to her right. Mosire has forgotten. Forgotten? Robert was mystified, until he realized in the instant that she was pretending to a former acquaintance. Could I forget, mademoiselle? Permit me! he lifted his glass. To your eyes, and to your memory, he said, and drank it off. After that he became the gayest of them all, and the merriment never flagged. He ate heartily, for he was very hungry. But he drank sparingly. His brain seemed supplied with intellectual missiles which he hurled right and left. But when they struck it was only to send out a rain of sparks like the balls of holiday fireworks that explode in a fountain of brilliance, and hurt no one. Mosire is so gay, said the soft voice of the blonde at his side. Are we not here for that? To enjoy ourselves? Ah, if I could but believe that you remember me. Is it possible, mademoiselle, thinks herself one to be so easily forgotten? Mosire, tell me the truth. She glanced up, archly. I have one very good reason for asking. You are very beautiful. But that is so banal, that remark. You complain that I tell you the truth when you ask it? You have so often heard it that the telling becomes banal. Shall I continue? But it is of yourself that I would hear. So then it is as I feared. It is you that has forgotten. They were interrupted at that moment, for he was called upon for a story, and he related one of his life as a soldier, a little incident but very pleasing. They called upon him for another and another. The hour grew late, and at last the banqueters rose and began to remask and assume their various characters. What are you, Mosire, with that very strange dress that you wear? A Roman or a Greek? Asked his companion. I really don't know, a sort of nondescript. I did not choose my costume. It was made up for me by my friends. They called me Mark Antony, but that was because they did not know what else to call me. But they promised me Cleopatra, if I would come with them. They would have done better to call you Petrarch, for I am Laura. But I would never have taken that part. I could make a very decent sort of ass of myself, but not a poet. What a very terrible voice your Lady Macbeth has. Yes, but she was a terror, you know. Shall we follow the rest? They all trooped out of the cafe. And Fiakars were called to take them to the house where the mask was held. The women were placed in their respective carriages, but the men walked. At the door of the house, as they entered the ballroom, they reunited. But again were soon scattered. Robert Cater wondered about searching here and there for his very elusive Laura, so slim and elegant in her white and gold draperies, who seemed to be greatly in demand. He saw many whom he recognized, some by their carriage, some by their voices. But Laura baffled him. Had he ever seen her before? He could not remember. He would not have forgotten her, never. No, she was amusing herself with him. Moceer does not dance? It was a Spanish gypsy with her lace mantilla, and the inevitable red rose in her hair. But he knew the voice. It was that of a little model he sometimes employed. I dance, yes, but I will only take you out on the dance floor, my little Julie. I know you never fear. I will take you out on the dance floor. But one condition. It is granted before I know it. Then tell me, who is she just passing? The one whose clothing is so so as if she would pose for the hush, Julie, the one in white and gold. I asked if it were she. Yes. I know her very well, for I saw a gentleman unmask her on the balcony above there to kiss her. It is she who dances so wonderfully at the opera-comique. You have seen her, Mlle. Elfe. Ah, come, let us dance. It is the most perfect waltz. At the close of the waltz the owl came and took the little gypsy away from Robert, and a moment later he heard the mellifilus voice of his companion of the banquet. I am so weary, Mosire, take me away where we may refresh ourselves. The red-brown eyes looked pleadingly into his, and their slender fingers rested on his arm, and together they wandered to a corner of poems, where he seated her, and brought her cool wine, jelly, and other confections. She thanked him sweetly, and drooping. She rested her head upon her hand, and her arm on the arm of her chair. So dull they are, these fits, and the people. Bah, they are dull to the point of despair. She was a dream of gold and white, as she sat there. The red-gold hair and the red-brown eyes, and the soft gold and white draperies, too clinging, as the little gypsy had indicated, but beautiful as a gold and white lily. He sat beside her and gazed on her dreamily, but in a manner too detached. She was not pleased, and she sighed. Take a refreshment, mademoiselle. You will feel better. I will bring you wine. What will you have? Oh, you men who always think that to eat and drink something alone can refresh. Have you never a sadness? Very often, mademoiselle, then what do you do? I eat and drink, mademoiselle. Try it. Oh, you strange man from the cold north. You make me shiver. Touch my hand. See, you have made me cold. Cold? You are a flame from the crown of gold on your head, to your shoes of gold. Now that you are become a success, monsieur, what will you do? To you is given the heart's desire. She toyed with the quivering jelly, merely tasting it. It, too, was golden in hue, and the golden lights danced in the heart of it. A great success? I am dreaming. It is so new to me that I do not believe it. You are very clever, monsieur. You never tell your thoughts. I asked if you remembered me, and you answered in a riddle. I knew you did not, for you never saw me before. Did I ever see you dance? Ah, there you are again, to see me dance, in a great audience, one of many. That does not count. You but pretended. He leaned forward, looking steadily in her eyes. Did I but pretend, when I said, I never could forget you? Ha, memoiselle, you are too modest. She was maddened that she could not peek him to a more ardent manner, but gave no sign by so much as a quiver of an eyelid. She only turned her profile toward him, indifferently. He noticed the pickwaint line of her lips and chin and throat, and the tones of her delicate skin. Did I not also tell you the truth, when you asked me? And you rewarded me by calling me banal. And I was right. You, who are so clever, could think of something better to say. She gave him a quick glance, and he said, and placed a quivering morsel of jelly between her lips. But you are so very strange to me. Tell me, were you never in love? That is a question I may not answer. He still smiled, but it was merely the continuation of the smile he had worn before she shot that last arrow. He still looked in her eyes, but she knew he was not seeing her. Then he rallied and laughed. Come, question for question. Were you never in love? Or out of love, let us say? Oh, me? She lifted her shoulders delicately. Me. I am in love now, at this moment. You do not treat me well. You have not danced with me once. No. You have been dancing always and fully occupied. How could I? Ah, you have not learned. To dance with me. You must take me. Not stand one side and wait. Are you engaged for the next? But yes, it is no matter. I will dance with you. He will be consoled. She laughed, showing her beautiful, even teeth. I make you a confession. I said to him, I will dance it with you, unless the cold mossier asks me. Then I will dance with him, for it will do him good. Robert Cader rose and stood a moment, looking through the palms. The silken folds of his toga fell gracefully around him, and he held his head high. Then he withdrew his eyes from the distance and turned them again on her, the gold and white being at his feet. And she seemed to him no longer human, but a phantom from which he must flee, but if he might do so courteously, for he knew her to be no phantom, and he could not be other than courteous. Will you accept from me my laurel crown? He took the chaplet from his head and laid it at her feet. Then lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed the tips of her pink fingers, bowing low before her. I go to send you wine, console your partner, it is better so, for I too am in love. He smiled upon her as he had smiled at first, and was gone walking out through the crowd. The weird, fantastic, bizarre company, as if he were no part of them. One and another greeted him as he passed, but he did not seem to hear them. He called a waiter and ordered wine to be taken to Mademoiselle Fay, and quickly was gone. They saw him no more. It was nearly morning, a drizzling rain was falling, and the air was chill after the heat of the crowded ballroom. He drew it into his lungs in deep drafts, glad to be out in the freshness and to feel the cool rain on his forehead. He threw off his encumbering toga, and walked in his tunic with bare throat and bare knees, and carried the toga over one arm, and swung the other bare arm free. He walked with his head held high, for he was seeing visions, and heard a far distant call. Now at last he might choose his path. He had not failed, but with that call from afar. What should he do? Should he answer it? Was it only a call from out his own heart, a passing feudal call luring him back? Of one thing he was sure. There was the painting on which he had labored and staked his all, now hanging in the salon. He could see it. One of his visions realized, David and Saul. The deep rich shadows, the throne, the tiger skin, the sandaled feet of the remorseful king, resting on the great fanged and leering head, the eyes of the king looking hungrily out from under his foreboding brows, the cruel lips pressed tightly together, and the lithe thin hands grasping the carved arms of the throne in fierce restraint. All this in the deep shadows between the majestic carved columns, their bases concealed by the rich carpet covering the deos, and their tops lost in the brooding darkness above, the lowering darkness of purple gloom that only served to reveal the sinister outlines of the somber, sorrowful, suffering king. While he indulged the one pure passion left him, listening, gazing from the shadows out into the light, seeing nothing, only listening, and before him standing in the one ray of light, clothed only in his tunic of white and his sandals, a human jewel of radiant color and slender strength, a godlike conception of youth and grace, his harp before him, the lilies crushed under his feet that he had torn from the strings, which his fingers touched caressingly, with sunlight on his crown of golden, curling hair, and the light of the stars in his eyes. David, the strong, the simple, the trusting, the god-fearing youth, as Robert Cater saw him, looking back through the ages. Ah, now he could live, now he could create, work he had been recognized and rewarded, dust and ashes, dust and ashes, the hope of his life realized, the goblet raised to his lips and the draught bitter, the call falling upon his heart, imperative, beseeching. What did it mean? Slowly and heavily, he mounted the stairs to his studio, and there fumbled about in the darkness and the confusion left by his admiring comrades until he found candles and made a light. He was cold and his light-clothing clung to him wet and chilling as grave clothes. He tore them off and got into things that were warm and dry, and wrapping himself in an old dressing gown of flannel he sat down to think. He took the money his friend had brought him and counted it over. Good old Ben Howard, half of it must go to him, of course, and here were finished canvases, quite as good as the ones that had sold. Ben might turn them to as good an account as the others. Yes, here was enough to carry him through a year, and leave him leisure to paint unhampered by the necessity of making pot boilers for a bear living. Tell me, were you never in love? That soft insinuating voice haunted him against his will. In love, what did she know of love? The divine passion, love, fame. Neither were possible to him. He bowed his head upon the table, hiding his face, crushing the banknotes beneath his arms. Deep in his soul, the eye of his own conscience regarded him. An outcast, hiding under an assumed name, covering the scar above his temple with a falling lock of hair seldom lifted. And deep in his soul, a memory of love. Oh, God, dust and ashes. Dust and ashes. He rose, and taking his candle with him, opened a door leading from the studio up a short flight of steps to a little cupboard of a sleeping room. Here he cast himself on the bed and closed his eyes. He must sleep. But no, he could not. After a time of restless tossing, he got up and drew an old portmanteau from the closet and threw the contents out on his bed. From among them he picked up the thing he sought and sat on the edge of his bed with it in his hands, turning it over and regarding it, tying and untying the worn, frayed but still bright ribbons, which had once been the cherry-colored hair ribbons of little Betty Ballard. Suddenly he rose and lifted his head high in his old, rather imperious way, put out his candle, and looked through the small, dusty pains of his window. It was day, early dawn. He was jaded and weary, but he would try no longer to sleep. He must act and shake off sentimentalism. Yes, he must act. He bathed and dressed with care, and then in haste, as if life depended on hurry, he packed the portmanteau and stepped briskly into the studio, looking all about, noting everything as if taking stock of it all, then sat down with pen and paper, to write. The letter was a long one. It took time and thought. When he was nearly through with it, Ben Howard lagged wearily in. Hello. Why didn't you wait for me? What did you clear out for and leave me in the lurch? Fresh as a daisy, you are, old chap, and I'm done for dead. You're not scientific in your pleasures, Robert Cater lifted his eyes and looked at his friend. Are you alive enough to hear me and remember what I say? Will you do something for me? Shall I tell you now, or will you breakfast first? Breakfast. He looked disgustedly around him. I'm sorry, you drink too much. Listen, Ben. I'll tell you what I mean to do, and what I wish you to do for me. And you remember all you can of it, will you? You must do it for me now, for you'll be asleep soon, and this will be the last I shall see of you ever. I'm leaving in two hours, as soon as I've breakfasted. What's that? Hold on! Ben Howard sprang up and darting behind a screen where they washed their brushes. He dashed cold water over his head and came back, tumbling himself. I'm fit now. I did drink too much champagne, but I'll sleep it off. Now, fire away. What's up? In two hours I'll be en route for the coast, and tomorrow I'll take passage for home on the first boat. Robert closed and sealed the long letter he had been writing and tossed it on the table. I want this mailed one week from today. Put it in your pocket, so you won't lose it among the rubbish here. One week from today it must be mailed. It's to my great aunt, Jean Craigmile, who gave me the money to set up here the first year. I've paid that up, last week with my last so, and with interest. By rights, she should have whatever there is of any value. For if it were not for her help, there would not have been a thing here anyway. And I have no one else to whom to leave it. So see that this letter is mailed without fail. Will you? The Englishman stood now thoroughly awake, gazing at him, unable to make common sense out of Robert's remarks. But what's up? What are you leaving things to anybody for? You're not on your deathbed. I'm going home. Don't you see? Why don't you take the letter to her yourself if you're going home? Not there, man. Not to Scotland. Your home's there? I've allowed you to think so. Robert forced himself to talk calmly. In truth, I have no home. But the place I call home by courtesy is where I was brought up, in America. You... you don't... yes, it's time you knew this. I've been leading a double life, and I'm done with it. I committed a crime, and I'm living under an assumed name. There is no such man as Robert Cater that I know of on Earth, nor ever was. My name is, no matter, I'm going back to the place where I killed my best friend to give myself up, to imprisonment. I do not know to what, maybe death, but it will end my torture of mind. Now you know why I could not go to the vernissage to be treated. Well, I could not go, that's all. Nor could I accept the honors given me under a name, not my own. All the time I've lived in Paris I've been hiding, and this thing has been following me. Although my occupation seems to have been the best cover I could have had, yet my soul has known no peace. Always, always, night and day, my own conscience has been watching and accusing me, an eye of dread, steadily gazing down into my soul and seeing my sin deep, deep in my heart. I could not hide from it. I would have given up before, only that I wished to make good in something before I stepped down and out. I've done it. He put his hand heavily on Ben Howard's shoulder. I've had a revelation this night. The lesson of my life is learned at last. It is that there is but one road to freedom and life for me. And that road leads to a prison. It leads to a prison, maybe worse. But it leads me to freedom. From the thing that haunts me, that watches me and drives me, I may write you from that place, which I will call home. Were you ever in love? The abruptness of the question sent Ben Howard stammering again. He seized Robert's hand in both his own and held to it. I, I, I, old chap, I, no, were you? Yes. I've heard the call of her voice in my heart. And I'm gone. Now, Ben, stop your, well, I'm not going to preach to you, you of all men, but do something worthwhile. I've need a part of the money you got for me to get back on, and pay a bill or two, and the rest I leave to you. There, where you put it, you'll find it. Will you live here and take care of these things for me until my good aunt, Jean Craigmile, writes you? She'll tell you what to do with them. And more than likely, she'll take you under her wing, anyway. Work, man, work. This place is yours for the present. Perhaps for a good while. And you'll have a chance to make good. If I could live on that money for a year, as you yourself said, you can live on half of it for half a year. And in that time you can get ahead. Work. He seized his portman, too, and was gone. Before Ben Howard could gather his scattered senses, or make reply. End of Chapter 31. Recording by Sandra Estenson. Chapter 32 of The Eye of Dread. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sandra Estenson. The Eye of Dread by Payne Erskine. Chapter 32 The Prisoner Harry King did not at once consult an attorney. For Milton Hibbard, the only one he knew or cared to call upon for his defense, was an old friend of the Elders, and had been retained by him to assist the district attorney at the trial. The other two lawyers in Lovitt, one of whom was the district attorney himself, were strangers to him. Twice he sent messages to the Elder after his return, begging him to come to him, never dreaming that they could be unheeded. But to the second only was any reply sent, and then it was but a cursory line. Legal steps will be taken to secure justice for you, whoever you are. To his friends he sent no messages. Their sympathy could only mean sorrow for them, if they believed in him, and hurt to his own soul, if they distrusted him. And he suffered enough. So he lay there in the clean, bare cell, and was glad that it was clean and held no traces of former occupants. The walls smelled of lime in their freshly plastered surfaces, and the floor had the pleasant odor of new pine. His life passed in review before him from boyhood up. It had been a happy life, until the tragedy brought into it by his own anger and violence. But since that time it had been one long nightmare of remorse, heightened by fear, until he had met Amalia. And after that it had been one unremitting strife between love and duty, delight in her mind and her touch, in her every movement, and in his own soul despair unfathomable. Now at last it was to end in public exposure, imprisonment, disgrace. A peculiar apathy of peace seemed to end the lopium. There was no longer hope to entice, no further struggle to be waged against the terror of fear or the joy of love or the horror of remorse. All seemed gone from him. Even to the vague interest in things transpiring in the world. He had only a puzzled feeling concerning his arrest. Things had not proceeded as he had planned. If the elder would but come to him, all would be right. He tried to analyze his feelings, and the thought that possessed him most was wonder at the strange vacuity of the condition of emotionlessness. Was it that he had so suffered that he was no longer capable of feeling? What was feeling? What was emotion? And life without either emotion or feeling or caring to feel. What would it be? Valueless. Empty space. Nothing left but bodily hunger, bodily thirst, bodily weariness. A lifetime for his years were not yet half spent. A lifetime at Wapom. And work for the body, but vacuity for the mind. Maybe sometimes memories. Even thinking thus, he seemed to have lost the power to feel sadness. Confusion reigned within him, and yet he found himself powerless to correlate his thoughts or suggest reasons for the strange happenings of the last few days. It seemed to him that it was in a dream wherein reason played no part. In the indictment he was arraigned for the murder of Peter Craigmile, Jr., as Richard killed Dean. And yet he had seen his cousin lying dead before him. During all the years that had passed, since he had fled from that sight. In battle he had seen men clubbed with the butt end of a musket, fall dead with wounded temples. Even as he had seen his cousin, stark, inert, lifeless, he had felt the strange insane rage to kill that he had seen in others and marveled at. And now, after he had felt and done it, he was arrested as the man he had slain. All the morning he paced his cell and tried to force his thoughts to work out the solution. But none presented itself. Was he the victim of some strange form of insanity that caused him to lose his identity and believe himself another man? Drunken men he had seen under the delusion that all the rest of the world were drunken and they alone sober. Palm madness, madness. At least he was sane and knew himself. And this was a confusion brought about by those who had undertaken his arrest. He would wait for the elder to come. And in the meantime live in his memories. Thinking of Amalia. And so awaken in himself one living emotion, sacred and truly sane. In the sweetness of such thinking alone he seemed to live. He drew the little ivory crucifix from his bosom and looked at it. The Christ who bore our sins and griefs. And again, Amalia's words came to him. If they keep you forever in prison still forever are you free. In snatches her words repeated themselves over in his mind as he gazed. If you have the Christ in your heart so are you high lifted above the sin. If I see you no more here in paradise yet will I see you. And there it will be joy, great joy. For it is the love that is all of life and all of eternity and lives lives. Bertrand Ballard and his wife and daughter stood in the small room opening off from the corridor that led to the rear of the courthouse where was the jail waiting for the jailer to bring his keys from his office. And, waiting thus, Betty turned her eyes beseechingly on her father, and for the first time since her talk with her mother in the studio opened her lips to speak to him. She was very pale, but she did not tremble, and her voice had the quality of determination. Bertrand had yielded the point and had taken her to the jail against his own judgment, taking Mary with him to forestall the chance of Betty's seeing the young man alone. Surely he thought she will not ask to have her mother excluded from the interview. I don't want anyone, not even you or or mother, to go in with me. My child be wise and be guided. Yes, father, but I want to go in alone. She slipped her hand in her mother's, but still looked in her father's eyes. I must go in alone, father. You don't understand. But mother does. This young man may be an imposter. It is almost unmaidantly for you to wish to go in there alone. Mary, but Mary hesitated and trusted to her daughter's intuition. Betty, explain yourself, was all she said. Suppose it was father, or you thought it might be father, and a terrible thing were hanging over him and you had not seen him for all this time, and he were in there and I were you. Wouldn't you ask to see him first alone? Would you stop for one moment to think about being proper? What do I care? If he is an imposter, I shall know it. In one moment I shall know it. I just want to see him alone. It is because he has suffered so long. That is why he has come like this. If they aren't accusing him wrongfully, and I—he will tell me the truth. If he is Richard, I will know it. If I came in and stood beside him blindfolded, I will call you in a moment, stand by the door, and let me see him alone. The jailer returned, alert and important, shaking his keys in his hand. This way, please. In the moment's pause of unlocking, Betty again turned upon her father, her eyes glowing in the dim light of the corridor, with wide, sorrowful gaze, large and irresistibly earnest. Bertrand glanced from her to his wife, who slightly nodded her head. Then he said to the surprised jailer, We will wait here. My daughter may be able to recognize him. Call us quickly, dear, if you have reason to change your mind. The heavy door was closed behind her, and the key turned in the lock. Harry King loomed large and tall in the small room, standing with his back to the door and his face lifted to the small window, where he could see a patch of the blue sky and white, scutting clouds. For the moment his spirit was not in that cell, it was free and on top of a mountain, looking into the clear eyes of a woman who loved him. He was so wrapped in his vision that he did not hear the grating of the key in the lock, and Betty stood, abashed, with her back to the door, feeling that she was gazing on a stranger. Relieved against the square of light, his hair looked darker than she remembered Peter's ever having been, as dark as Richard's, but that rough neglected beard also dark, and the tanned skin did not bring either young man to her mind. The pause was but for a moment, when he became aware that he was not alone and turned and saw her there. Betty, oh Betty, you have come to help me. He walked toward her slowly, hardly believing his eyes, and held out both hands. If I can, who are you? She took his hands in hers and walked around him, turning his face to the light. Her breath came and went quickly, and a round spot now burned on one of her cheeks, and her face seemed to be only two great pathetic eyes. Do I need to tell you, Betty? Once we thought we loved each other. Did we, Betty? I don't, don't know, Peter. Oh, Peter, you're alive. Peter, Richard didn't kill you. She did not cry out, but spoke the words with a low intensity that thrilled him, and then she threw her arms about his neck and burst into tears. He didn't do it. You are alive. Peter, he didn't kill you. I knew he didn't do it. They all thought he did, and, and your father, he has almost broken his bank, just, just hunting for Richard to, to have him hung. And, oh, Peter, I have lived in horror for fear he would, would and he never could, Betty. I have come home to atone. I have come home to give myself up. I killed Richard, my cousin, my best friend. I struck him in hate and saw him lying dead. All the time they were hunting him, it was I they should have hunted. I can't understand it. Did they take his dead body for mine? Or how was it that they did not know he was struck down and murdered? They must have taken his body for mine, or he must have fallen over. But he didn't, for I saw him lying dead as I struck him. All these years the eye of vengeance has been upon me, and my crime has haunted me. I have seen him lying so dead. God, God, Betty still clung to him and sobbed incoherently. No, no, Peter, it was you who were drowned. They found all your things and saw where you had been pushed over and, but you weren't drowned. They only thought it. They believed it. He put his hand to his head as if to brush away the confusion which staggered him. Yes, Richard lay dead, and they found him. But why did they hunt for him? An eye, eye, living. Why didn't they hunt me, and he dead and lying there? Why did they hunt him? But my father would believe the worst of him, rather than to see himself disgraced in his son. Don't cry, little Betty, don't cry. You had too much to bear. Sit here beside me, and I'll tell you about it. That's why I came back. But if you weren't drowned, why, why didn't you come home and say so? Didn't you ever see the papers on how they were hunting Richard all over the world? I knew you were dead, because I knew you would never be so cruel as to leave everyone in doubt and your father in sorrow just because he had quarreled with you. It might have killed your mother if the elder had let her know. I can't tell you all my reasons, Betty. Mostly they were cowards' reasons. I did my best to leave evidence that I had been pushed over the bluff because it seemed the only way to hide myself. I did my best to make them think me dead and never thought anyone could be harmed by it because I knew him to be dead. So I just thought we would both be dead, so far as the world would know. It is for you, dear. I learned on that fatal night that you did not love me. That was another coward's reason why I wished to be dead to you all. He began pacing the room and Betty sat on the edge of the narrow jail bed stand and watched him with tearful eyes. It was true, Betty. You did not really love me. Peter, didn't you ever see the papers? Didn't you ever know all about the search for you and how he disappeared too? Oh, Peter. And it was supposed he killed you and pushed you over the bluff and then ran away. Oh, Peter. But it was kept out of the home paper by the elder so your mother should not know. And Peter, didn't you know Richard lived, lived, lived? He lifted his clasped hands above his head and they trembled. Lived? Betty, say it again. Yes, Peter. I saw him and I know. Oh, God. Make me know it. Make me understand. He fell on his knees beside her and hid his face in the scant jail bedding and his frame shook with dry sobs. I was a coward. I told you that. I thought myself a murderer and all this time my terrible thought has driven me. Lived? I never killed him. God, Betty, say it again. Betty sat still for a moment, shaken at first with a feeling of resentment that he had made them all suffer so and Richard most of all. Then she was overwhelmed with pity for him and with a glad tenderness it was all over. The sorrow had been real but it had all been needless. She placed her hand on his head, then knelt beside him and put her arm around his neck and drew his head to her bosom, mother-wise. For the deep mother heart in her was awakened and thus she told him all the story and how Richard had come to her broken and repentant and what had been said between them. When they rose from their knees it was as if they had been praying and at the same time giving thanks and you thought they would find him lying there dead and know you had killed him and hunt you down for a murderer? Yes. Poor Peter. So you pushed that great stone out of the edge of the bluff into the river to make them think you'd fallen over and drowned and threw your things down too to make it seem as if you both were dead. Yes. Oh, Peter, what a terrible mistake! How you must have suffered! Yes, as cowards suffer. They stood for a moment with clasped hands looking into each other's eyes. Then it was true what Richard told me. You did not love me, Betty. He had grown calm and he spoke very tenderly. We must all have the truth now and conceal nothing. Not quite true. I thought I did. You were so handsome. I was only a child then and I thought I loved you or that I ought to for any girl would. I was so romantic in those days and you had been wounded and it was like a romance. And then, and then, and then Richard came and I knew in one instant I had done wrong and that I loved him and oh I felt myself so wicked. No, Betty, dear. It was all. It was not fair to you. I would have been true to you, Peter. You would have never known. But after Richard came and told me that he had killed you, I felt as if I had killed you too. I did like you, Peter. I did. I will do whatever is right. Then it was not in vain that we have all suffered. We have been saved from doing each other wrong. Everything will come right now. All that is needed is for Father to hear what you have told me and he will come and take me out of here. Where is Richard? No one knows. Not even you, Betty? No. He's dropped out of the world as completely as you did. Well, it will be all right anyway. Father will withdraw his charge and did you say his bank was going to pieces? He must have help. I can help him. You can help him, Betty. How? Then Peter told Betty how he had found Richard's father in his mountain retreat and that she must write to him. If there is any danger of the banks going, write for me till Larry killed Dean. Father never would appeal to him if he lost everything in the world so we must do it. As soon as I am out of here we can save him. Already he felt himself a new man and spoke hopefully and cheerfully. He little knew the struggle still before him. Peter, father and mother are out there in the corridor waiting. I was to call them. I made them let me come in alone. Oh, call them, call them. I don't think they will know you as I did with that great beard on your face. We'll see. We'll see. When Bertrand and Mary entered, they stood for a moment aghast, seeing little likeness to either of the young men in the developed and bronzed specimen of manhood before them, but they greeted him warmly, eager to find him Peter, and in their manner he missed nothing of their old time kindliness. You are greatly changed, Peter, Jr. You look more like Richard killed Dean than you ever did before in your life, said Mary. Yes, but when we see Richard we may find that a change has taken place in him also and they will stand in their own shoes hereafter. Since the burden has been lifted from my soul and I know that he lives, I could sing and shout aloud here in this cell. Imprisonment, even death, means nothing to me now. All will come right before we know it. That is just the way Richard would act and speak. No wonder you have been taken for him, said Bertrand. Yes, he was always more buoyant than I. Maybe we have both changed, but I hope he has not. I loved my friend. As they walked home together, Mary Ballard said, now Peter ought to be released right away. Certainly he will be as soon as the elder realizes the truth. How he has changed, though, his face shows the mark of sorrow, those drooping, sensitive lines about his mouth they were never there before, and they are the lines of suffering. They touched my heart. I wish Hester were at home. She ought to be written to. I'll do it as soon as I get home. Peter is handsomer than he was, in spite of the lines, and as you say, he does look more like his cousin than he used to because of them, I think. Richard always had a debonair way with him, but he had that little sensitive droop to the lips. Not so marked as Peter's is now, but you remember, Mary, like his mother's. Oh, mother, don't you think Richard could be found? Betty's voice trailed sorrowfully over the words. She was thinking how he had suffered all this time, and wishing her heart could reach out to him and call him back to her. He must be, dear, if he lives. Oh, yes, he'll be found. It can be published that Peter Jr. has returned, and that will bring him after a while. Peter's physique seems to have changed as well as his face. Did you notice that backward swing of the shoulders, so like his cousins, when he said, I could sing and shout here in this cell? And the way he lifted his head and smile, that beard is a horrible disguise. I must send a barber to him. He must be himself again. Oh, yes, do. He stands so straight and steps so easily. His lameness seems to have quite gone, said Mary joyously. But at that Bertrand paused in his walk and looked at her, then glancing at Betty walking slowly on before. He laid his fingers to his lips, and took his wife's arm, and they said no more until they reached home, and Betty was in her room. I simply can't think of Bertrand. I see Peter in him. It is Peter. Of course he's like Richard. They were always alike. And that makes him all the more Peter. No other man would have that likeness, and it goes to show that he is Peter. My dear, unless the elders see him as we see him, the thing will have to be tried out in the courts. Unless we can find Richard. Hester ought to be here. She could set them right in a moment. Trust a mother to know her own boy. I'll write her immediately. I'll—but you have no authority, Mary. No authority? She's my friend. I have a right to do my duty by her, and can so put it that it will not be such a shock to her, as it inevitably will be, if matters go wrong. Or Peter should be kept in prison for lack of evidence, or for too much evidence. She'll have to know sooner or later. Bertrand said no more against this. For was not Mary often quite right? I'll see to it that he has a barber and try to persuade the elder to see him. That may settle it without any trouble. If not, I must see that he has a good lawyer to help in his defense. If that savage old man remains stubborn, Hester must be here. If the thing goes to trial, Betty will have to appear against him. Well, it mustn't go to trial. That's all. That night two letters went out from Lovett, one to Hester Craig-Mile at Aberdeen, Scotland, and one to the other end of the earth, where Larry Kildeen waited for news of Harry King. There on the mountaintop. On the first of each month, Larry rode down to the nearest point where letters could be sent, making a three-days trip on horseback. His first trip brought nothing, because Harry had not sent his first letter in time to reach the station before Larry was well on his way back up the mountain. He would not delay his return, for fear of leaving the two women too long alone. After Harry's departure, Madame Manovska had grown restless, and once had wandered so far away as to cause them great alarm and a long search, when she was found sitting close to the fall, apparently two-week and two days to move. This had so awakened Amalia's fears that she never allowed her mother to leave the cabin alone, but always, on one pretext or another, accompanied her. The situation was a difficult one for them all. If Amalia took her mother away to some town, as she wished to do, she feared for Madame Manovska's sanity when she could not find her husband. And still, when she tried to tell her mother of her father's death, she could not convince her of its truth. For a while she would seem to understand and believe it. But after a night's rest she would go back to the old weary repetition of going to her husband and his need of her. Then it was all to go over again, day after day. Until at last Amalia gave up and allowed her mother the comfort of her belief. But all the more she had to invent pretexts for keeping her on the mountain. So she accepted Larry's kindly advice and his earnestly offered hospitality and his comforting companionship, and remained, as per force, there was nothing else for her to do. END OF CHAPTER 32 Chapter 33 of The Eye of Dread. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Eye of Dread by Payne Ertskin. Chapter 33. Hester Cragmorel receives her letter. The letters reached their opposite destinations at about the same time. The one to Amalia closely buttoned in Larry's pocket, and the short one to himself, which he read and re-read as his horse quickly climbed the trail, were halfway up the mountain when the post boy delivered Hester Cragmiles out the door of the sedate brick house belonging to the Cragmiles of Aberdeen. Peter Jr.'s mother and two elderly women, his grand-aunt, were seated in the dignified parlour taking afternoon tea when the housemaid brought Hester her letter. Resued from Peter, maybe? asked the elder of the two aunts. No, Aunt Helen, I think it is from a friend. It's strange now that Peter's no written before this, said the younger, leaning forward eagerly. Will you read it dear? We'll be waiting to know if there's a word about him till. There may be, Aunt Jean. Hester set her cup of tea down untasted, and began to open her letter. For take your tea first, Hester. Jean's an impatient body. That's too bad of you, Jean. Her toast's getting cold. Oh, there's no matter at all, Aunt Helen. I'll take it as soon as I see if he's home all right. Yes, my friend says my husband has been home for three days and is well. That's good. No, you're satisfied. Lay it by and take your tea. And Hester's smilingly laid it by and took her tea. For Mary Ballard had said nothing on the first page to start on her friend's serenity. Jean Cragmirel, however, still looked eagerly at the letter, as it laid on the chair at Hester's side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert and as young as Peter Jr.'s father, for all she was his aunt, and now she apologised for her eagerness, by saying as she often did. You mind he's there like my brother, then my nephew, for we all used to play together. Peter, Catherine and me, we were a friends. She was like a sister and he like a brother. Oh, well, we're old, no. The sister looked at her fondly. You're no so old, Jean, but you might be older. It's like I might have been the mother of her. For I mind the time when she was laid in my arms and my fire till me. I was to a care for her like my aim. And, but for I, I would never learn, too. And wife would know, asked Jean quickly. I had you to care for, child. Do you know understand? Jean laughed merrily. She's been calling me, child, for sixty-five years, she said. Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean's was a little braver with ribbons than Ellen's. Small lavender bows were set in the frill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were not tied, but fell down on the soft white mole-hankerchief that crossed over her bosom. I mind when Peter married you, Hester, said Ellen. I was farewell to having bring you here on his wedding journey, and she should have done so. But we'd not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years I'd be waiting to see you. Well, it was good of him to leave you by with a bit, and go over without you, said Jean. It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it. Hester's eyes glistened, and her face grew tender and soft. To the world, the elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and addictive, but Hester knew the tenderness in which none but she believed. Ellen said the disappearance of their son. He had been gentle and most lovingly watchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old critical restraint on their thoughts and actions, to a solicitous care for her comfort. Studying her slightest wishes with almost appealing thoughtfulness to gratify them. And why, before no allow it, there's nothing so good for a man as letting him be kind to you, even if he is an elder in the Kirk. I'm thinking Peter's ain't other than that such as good for Hester. What else, he? Out of your mind? Give her a draper whiskey, Jean, Hester. While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietly resumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat starving straight before her. The pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward pale, with her eyes fixed on space, as if they looked on some awful side. Hester, Hester, what is it? Is there a bit of bad news for you in the letter? Here, take a sip of this tea, dear. Tack it, Aster. Twirl it, and yuck, whatever's until, cry Jean, holding to Hester's lip the ever-ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wall covered behind her, and poured out in a glass. Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help, did not seize her directions and ejaculations, last been into the broadest Scotch of her girlhood under excitement. It was the way with both women. Tell us what hell is she, dear? Maybe it's no so bad. Give me the letter, Jean, and I'll see what's in it. Bring for a bell or two, and we'll get her to the couch. But Hester caught Jean's go, and would not let her go to the bell cord, which hung in the far corner of the room. No, don't call her. I'll lie down a moment, and we'll talk this over. She clung to the letter, and would not let it out of her hand, but rose and walked rearly to the couch, unassisted, and lay down, closing her eyes. After a minute, and Ellen, I'll tell you, I must think, I must think. So she lay quietly, gathering all her force to consider, and meet, what she must, as her way was. While Jean sat beside, stroking her hand, and saying sweet, comforting words in her broad scotch. There's no guilt as a jackal wassy, dear, for strengthening. The art, when you add a bit of shock, is no your mom, Peter? No, we'll thank the Lord for that. No, take him, and it's up for you, and taste it. Will you know the air in the letter, love? To a savior telling her, Hester passively took the whiskey as she was bid, and presently sat up and finished reading the letter. Peter has been hiding something from me for three years, and now, yes and no, he's either way with them knights. When the day comes, they will reveal, is only the mare to their shame, exclaimed Ellen. Oh, but it's all mixed up, and my best friend doesn't know the truth. Yes, take the letter, and Ellen, and read it yourself. She held out the pages with a shaking hand, and Jean took them over to her sister, who slowly read them in silence. Ah, Lord, as I tell she, it's no so bad, she said at last. What's the trouble, Ellen, don't keep us waiting. Bitch, you impatient child, you're always so easily excited. I wouldn't read the letter again to get the gist out, but it's like this. The eldest being of the opinion in all these three years, at his own son was most fondly murdered, and he may have been killed, but he was no murdered, cried Jean excitedly. I'll tell you to us purely by accident. She paused, and suddenly clapped both hands over her mouth, and rocked herself back and forth, as if she had made some eagerness blunder. Then, ganglore, were you telling? It's door to both waiting. Give me the letter, and let me read it for myself. Let me tell, as I munt out, you man not keeping interrupting. Jean has no order in her brain. She eyepits the last first and the first last. There's the op' for a letter and a geared aim from your friend, and it tells you your son's leading and no murder. Thank the Lord, I have I said it, ejaculated Jean fervently. I ye have said it. Child, what mean ye? Ye have penned nothing, won't it? But Jean would not be set down. She leaned forward with glistening eyes. I have I said it. I have I said it. Give me the letter, Ellen. But Ellen only turned compositely, and resumed her interpretation of the letter to Hester, who sat looking with dazed expression from one end to the other. It all comes about from Peter's being a stubborn man, and he only changed the opinion he's held for three years, wrote a struggle. Here comes this boy back and says, I'm Peter Junior and your son. And his father says to him, Ye know my son, for my son was murdered, and ye Richard Kildine, one murdered him, and know it's for ye to go home, Hester, and bring Peter to his sense, and show him the truth. From nither knows a young boy, and if it's Peter Junior, it's Peter Junior, and Richard Kildine's died. I tell ye, he's no dead, quite Jean's springing to her feet. Bush child, he won't be dead, for any of them's dead, and this is Peter Junior. We dis again, and Ellen said Hester wearily, you'll see that the elder brings a fearful charge against Richard. He thinks Richard is making a false claim, that he is Peter, my boy. Jean sat back in her chair, crying silently, and shrinking into herself, as if she were afraid to say more, and Ellen went on. Listen now, what your friend says, the elder is wrong, for Bertrand, that's her husband, I'm thinking. Yes, Bertrand and Betty, who's Betty, nor? Betty is their daughter, she was to have married my son. Good, so she would know her lover. Betty and I have seen him, she says, and have talked with him, and we know he is Peter Junior, she says. Richard Kildine has disappeared, she says, and yet we know he is living somewhere, and he must be found. We feel the elder will not withdraw the charge, until Richard is located, and what will be like Peter too? And meanwhile, your son Peter will have to lie in jail, where he is now, unless you can clear matters up here, by coming home and identifying him, and that you can surely do, and that's all there a will, there's nothing to go distraught over in the like of that. And here she says, he's a noble, fine-looking man, and you'll be proud of him when you see him. Oh, here's a fine letter, and it's Peter, where his stubbornness has been making a bubble of things. If I weren't alone, I'd go back where ye, and give Peter a peace on my mind. And I'll locate Richard for ye, cry Jean, rising to her feet and wiping away the fast-falling tears, laughing and weeping all in the same moment. Wished, Ellen, it's yours, that's keen's nothing about it, and I tell ye the truth, the know, that I've kept to myself, this long time till my conscience has nigh walked me until my grave. Tuck her, draper, whiskey, Jean, you're flying all door ye eyed. It's neither hysterics, cry Jean, rocking back and forth and patting her hands on her knees, and speaking between laughing and crying. It's the truth at last, that I've been lying, about these free land years, thank the Lord. Jean, is it thankin' the Lord ye are for lyin'? Ellen, ye mind when ye broke your leg, and lyin' the south chamber that land six months? I will, do I mind it? Let ye wear ye interruptin', while I tellt, ye came here. Who came here? Richard the poor lad. He tellt me all about it, how he had a mad anger on him, and tellt his cousin Peter, Jr., when they'd been like brivers, and all their lives, and who he pushed them over the bridge, or a bridge to seek to his death, and who he must further flee from the law, or his uncle's wrath. No, it's— Oh, Jean, cried Hester, despairingly. Don't you see that what you say, only goes to prove my husband right? Yet how could he claim to be Peter? It—it's not like the boy. Richard never, never would. He may have been ought all his hide thinkin', he pushed him over the bridge, and I now much opinion, or the judgment, or a man only way. They never know when to be set, and when to give in. Think shame to yourself, Jean, to be hidin' things from me, the like, or that hand a lyin' to me. He was repented, Elin, ye can attack the power of the Lord in your own hands, and guide me up to the law when he's repented. If ye'd seen him, and heard the words, or him, and seen him great, ye would have hidden in ye a hand, or covered with a mantle, or charity, as I did. Moreover, I saved ye from delighting yourself. Ye mind when that man that Peter sent here to find Richard, came all ye said to him, that Richard had never been here. Ye never knew why for that man wanted Richard, but I knew, and I never tout. And if ye had known what I knew, ye never could have told him what she did so roundly and stent him about his business, with a straight face. And nor were Richard. Ye all in power's pen and pitchers, ye went there to learn to be a penta. I won't get ye the money to go we. There's more of the new black silk dress when she should have bought yourself that year. Ye let me think it went to the doctor, child, child. Yes, sister, I lead to you. It's been a heavy sin on my soul, and ye may well thank the Lord. It's no been on your aim. But hark ye now, it's all come back to me. Here's the twenty-perna gave him, and it's come back by interest. Proudly, Jean drew from her bosom an envelope, containing forty pounds in banknotes. Look ye, oh, ye's don't need it. Again she laughed through her tears. And ye know where he is, and can find him. Yes, Hester, dear I know, he took a new name. It was Robert Cater, he called himself. So there's who's been paid in pitchers. Go, Hester, find your son. And I'll find Richard, Ellen. You'll have to do it with Tilly for a week and a bit. I'm going to Paris to find Richard. Ye'll do NASA thing. Ye'll find him by coast. I'll trust in they letter than nor. Ellen, letters are gangestray, but are no gangestray. Oh, troubled child, it's a sorrowful thing. I'm lame, and cannot go with ye. What are ye doing, Hester? I'm hunting for the newspaper. Don't they put the railroad timetables in the paper over here? Or must I go to the station to inquire about trains? Ye better ask at the station. I'll go with ye. Ye might boggle it by yourself. Win for Tilly, Jean. She can out me all my chair, and get me dressed, while ye're looking after your own packing, Jean. So the masterful old lady immediately bit down to superintendent the hazy departure of those to Hester and Jean. The whole procedure was unprecedented, and wholly out of the normal course of things. But if Judy called, they must go, whether she liked the thought of there going or not. So she sent Tilly to call a cab, and contented herself with bewailing the stubbornness of Peter her nephew. It was I so, when he was a lad playing with Jean and Catherine. Well as ran his fire, Lattice never bring Catherine, and him back to Scotland on a visit. Jean and Catherine won't get in till they liked it, or know. I've watched them mornies the time, when he would ward them up in their play by the hour together, arguing, which should be horse and, which should be driver. And it was always Peter that worn his way with them. Is the cab there, Tilly? Then give me my crutch. Hester, are you ready? Jean, I'll find out for you all about the chains for Dover. You manganjurek, and no loiter by the way. Come, Hester, I thought she ought not to be going about alone. Paris is an awful light place for a woman, body to be going, about alone, but it cannot be helped. What's an old woman like me, we owe you the sound leg and a pair of crutches, to go on sick like a journey. If I could, I'd take you home with me and Ellen. If I were only sure of the outcome of this trouble, I would anyway, but to take you there to a home of sorrows. There, Hester dear, don't you greet, it's my opinion you are going to find your son, and tack him in your arms and smear. You are never the right wife for Peter, I can see that, you're too saft and gentle. I'm thinking her Peter has borne this trouble alone all these years, and suffered, trying to keep the sorrow for me. Yes, dear, yes, Peter told us all about it when he was here, and he bade us not to let your keen a word about it, but to keep from you all knowledge of it. No, it has come to you by way of this letter for your friend, and I'm thinking it's the best way for no, at least you are netting your power to go and maybe save an innocent man, for it's no like a son of our Catholic would be sick like a base coward, as to try to win out from justice by lying himself, until his victims own home, I think know it. Nor I and Ellen, it's unbelievable, and of Richard, no, I loved Richard, he was like my own son to me, and Peter Jr. loved him too. They may have crawled, and even he might, in a moment of anger, he might have killed my boy, but surely you would never do a thing like this. They are making some horrible mistake, or Mary Ballard would never have written me. Nor you're talking sense, keep your courage and never talk in a fiction of all on yourself, until it's first to pour you my providence. Thus good and Ellen, in her neat black bonnet and shawl and black mitts, seated at Hester's side in the cab, holding to her crutches, comforted and admonished her niece, all the way to the station and back, and the next day she bravely bade Jean and Hester both goodbye. And settled herself in her armchair to wait patiently for news from them.