CHAPTER VII

The fatal accident which Phineas Flathers' misguided patriotism had

precipitated, changed the course of many a life, but to none did it

bring more far-reaching consequences than to the daughter of old Bob

Carsey.

Miss Lady could never clearly recall those first days after her father's

death. They seemed to her a confused nightmare of strange doctors

and nurses, of a strange man hovering between life and death in the

guest-room bed, of strange people coming and going, or sitting in hushed

groups on the stiff horsehair chairs in the hall, waiting for news. Two

facts alone remained fixed in the whirling chaos of unrealities; her

father was dead, and no letter had come from Donald Morley.

Each day when the mail arrived she roused from her apathy, and with

trembling fingers sorted out the letters, going over them again and

again, and never finding the one she sought. Gradually beneath the

poignant grief for her father, came the dull persistent pain of a first

disillusion. The belief and loyalty with which she had started out to

defend Donald began to weaken before his silence. In his trouble she had

been ready to rush to him, to succor and forgive, but he had not called

upon her. Now in her great need, she was calling to him, and he did not

come. Suspicion began to crowd on the heels of doubt.

Had he not acknowledged his instability? Had her father not seen it from

the first? Was his desire to settle down in the country but one of the

whims of which his life seemed made up? Perhaps she herself had

only been a passing fancy, something wanted for the moment, but soon

forgotten. At the end of a week her pride rushed to arms. Whatever

reason he might offer now would come too late.

The sudden plunge from irresponsible girlhood into this mysterious

region of grief and doubt, where one must tread the thorny path alone,

terrified and bewildered her. She did all the last sad, futile things

one can do for the dead; then when all was over, fled from the confusion

at Thornwood, and sought the silence of the woods. Here fierce outbursts

of rebellious grief were followed by hours of apathy when she tramped

for miles, seeing and hearing nothing, but urged on by an insistent

desire to be in motion.

It was at the end of one of these tramps that Noah Wicker found her late

one evening, on the grass by the river, sobbing out her heart at the

spot where the Colonel used to fish.

Noah's words of comfort were as scarce as his other words, so he sat on

a log near by and waited silently until she was ready to go home. At the

stile, where he left her, he handed her a letter.

“I got it at the station this noon,” he said. “Thought I'd be over

earlier, but didn't know if you wanted me.”

She did not hear him, the letter had come! Her fingers thrilled at its

touch, and the warm blood surged to her heart. Without another thought

for Noah, she sped up the walk to the house, where she locked herself

into the living-room. Match after match sputtered and went out in her

nervous fingers, before the lamp was lighted.

He had written! He cared! He was coming! Over and over she whispered the

words to herself. Then she looked at the postmark on the heavy envelope,

and her heart sank. San Francisco! After all he was not coming back!

Her eager finger was at the seal, when her eyes fell upon a briar-wood

pipe that lay on the table beside a half-filled pouch of tobacco. In an

instant she seemed to see a stubby brown hand reaching for it, the quick

spurt of the match, the flare of light on an old weather-beaten face,

then a deep-drawn breath of contentment as the Colonel settled back and

held out his other hand to his little girl.

And her last promise to him had been to do nothing until Donald's name

should be cleared. She could keep her promise now, but could she after

she had read Donald's letter? If the mere touch of it in her hand plead

for him, what would the living words do?

She looked hopelessly around the cheerful, homely room, every foot of

which spoke to her of her father, and of his love for her. On the white

door-frame were penciled the proud records he had made of her height

on each successive birthday. On the walls were pictures of her he had

treasured, from the time she was a round-eyed baby, to the present day.

In the cupboard was a green box containing her first shoes, her little

dresses, her first letter, her baby curls.

Over the harpsichord was a portrait of the Colonel himself, painted

before she was born. It represented a dashing, young sportsman,

surrounded by his pack of hounds. Twenty years ago this gallant hunter

had given up the chase, with many another joy, to minister to her

baby needs, to share her joys and sorrows, and be father, mother,

play-fellow, all in one.

She clasped Donald Morley's letter tightly and closed her eyes. Never

in her short life had she wanted to do anything so desperately as

she wanted to read that letter, and yet the reading of it would mean

breaking a promise to one whom she could never promise anything again.

Her newly awakened love and her sense of justice pleaded hotly for

Donald, but the empty room and her empty heart, and a passionate sense

of loyalty to the dead, spoke mutely for her father.

After all, nothing could justify those long days of silence, that

failure on Donald's part to come to her in her trouble. Her father's

judgment was probably right after all, and it was best she should put an

end to the matter once and for all.

Sobbing like a child, she kissed the letter again and again, and

kneeling by the fire, held it to the flame, and watched it burn to ashes

on the hearth.

After that one dreary week followed another, with the same invasion

of strangers, the same varying reports from the sick room. Gradually,

however, the reports became more favorable, the tension eased, visitors

became less frequent, and Thornwood began to settle down to its normal

state.

[Illustration: She held it to the flame, and watched it burn to ashes on

the hearth]

Owing to the nature of Doctor Queerington's injury, and the severe shock

he had sustained, it was not thought best to move him to the city until

he was stronger. The quiet country house was an excellent place for

convalescence, and under the direction of his trained nurse he could be

allowed to read and write, free from the annoyance that must beset him

when once he returned home.

This arrangement was listlessly agreed to by Miss Lady, who had no plans

for the future, and dreaded another adjustment. She was singularly alone

in the world, and too dazed for the present to know what her next step

should be. The only thing of which she was certain, was that she would

never leave Thornwood.

On one of the first days that Doctor Queerington was allowed to sit up,

she went in to see him. Her first impression in the darkened room was

the kindly clasp of a hand, and a wonderful low voice that spoke words

of comfort. Then gradually she saw the slender, over-serious face of a

middle-aged man, with small eyes somewhat too close together, a broad

intellectual forehead, and a firm, well-formed mouth that seemed a

stranger to smiles.

From that time on she found his room a refuge. He had been the unknown

object of her admiration since she was a child, he was her father's

friend, the last to be with him before his death, and he talked to her

for hours about the great mysteries of life and death. He was the only

person to whom she talked who never seemed to be in doubt.

It was not the first time that the Doctor had proven a consoling

presence in time of affliction. Where others conjectured, or evaded,

he boldly affirmed. The universe to him was an open book, from which he

enjoyed reading aloud.

One morning, six weeks after the accident, Miss Lady came into his room

with a handful of flowers and found him propped up in bed, his books

about him, and a note in his hand.

“I have a communication from my cousin, Mrs. Sequin,” he said with the

polite formality that was habitual to him. “It seems that she is going

to honor me with a visit.”

“Mrs. Sequin?” Miss Lady wheeled so suddenly that she overturned the

vase in which she was arranging the flowers. “Now see what I've done!

I'll fix it, Miss Wuster; don't bother.”

It apparently required little self-control for the trained nurse to

refrain from bothering. She was sitting with her heels firmly hooked

under the rung of a straight-back chair, crocheting with passionate

abandon. Filling hot-water bottles, taking temperatures, feeding

patients, were mere interruptions to her real vocation of converting

spools of linen thread into yards of linen lace.

“She states her intention of coming to see me,” the Doctor continued,

“but I cannot decipher her hieroglyphics sufficiently to find out the

time. Perhaps you can assist me.”

“Is this a D?” asked Miss Lady, looking over his shoulder.

“I judge so; an adaptation of the Greek character. Why the art of

handwriting should be considered obsolete, I am at a loss to--”

“Oh, she says she is coming to-day,” interrupted Miss Lady, “on the

eleven train. I must go down and tell Uncle Jimpson to be at the

station, and have Aunt Caroline put on another plate for dinner.”

“Then what are you going to do, my dear?”

“I was going to the cemetery.”

“You would better come up here instead. In your mental state a person is

very sensitive to environment. You should avoid everything that excites

the emotions. I think you can trust me to know what is best for you just

now?”

“Indeed I can,” Miss Lady said impulsively; “you have helped me more

than anybody. Daddy would be so grateful if he knew.”

“He does know,” announced the Doctor with the finality of one to whom

all things have been revealed. “But we must not discuss these things

now. Miss Wuster has just been reading me the account of young

Dillingham's trial. Perhaps you have been following it?”

“Yes,” said Miss Lady without looking up.

“It is a matter of especial interest to me,” continued the Doctor;

“especial regret I should say. Young Dillingham is engaged to be married

to the daughter of my cousin whom I expect to-day, and the other young

man involved, Donald Morley, is Mrs. Sequin's brother.”

“Well for the life of me,” said Miss Wuster, counting stitches between

her sentences, “I can't see how they got Mr. Dillingham off, unless it

was the way Mr. Gooch said.”

“Who is Mr. Gooch?” asked Miss Lady of the Doctor.

“The gentleman who came to see me yesterday. He is a lawyer and has

followed the case closely. He does not scruple to affirm that the trial

was a farce, one of those legal travesties that sometimes occur when a

scion of a rich and influential family happens to transgress the law. It

seems that the saloon-keeper, who was at first reasonably sure of what

happened, suffered a strange lapse of memory when on the stand. Gooch

thinks he was bought up, but Gooch is fallible where human motives are

involved. His misanthropy invariably colors his judgment.”

“Well, nothing on earth can keep me from thinking that Mr. Dillingham

did the shooting!” declared the nurse with violent partizanship. “Look

at the way he sneaked home, and left the other young man to get a doctor

and help move Sheeley to the hospital. Yes, sir, it's time for your

medicine, just wait 'till I finish this spool and I'll go down and heat

the water.”

“He--he oughtn't to have gone away?” said Miss Lady, looking at the

Doctor interrogatively.

“Donald, you mean? Certainly not, it was most ill-advised, probably some

quixotic idea about not wanting to testify against his friend. If you

knew the boy you would understand what a hot-headed, harum-scarum person

he is. He was my pupil at one time and I grew quite fond of him. He has

ability, undoubted ability, but he is a ship without a rudder; he has

been drifting ever since he was born.”

“This acquittal of Mr. Dillingham puts the blame on--on him, doesn't

it?”

“Naturally. His absence at the trial was undoubtedly one of the

strongest arguments in Dillingham's favor. Mr. Gooch tells me that the

counsel for the defense took especial pains to throw suspicion upon

Donald. The case has been confusing in the extreme, the absence of

witnesses, the failure to establish the ownership of the pistol, the

absurd complication about the slot machine and crowbar,--an absolute

jumble of contradictory evidence. As for Donald Morley's being guilty,

it's absurd! He is not the sort of man who runs away from punishment.”

Miss Lady's heart swelled with gratitude. Of course Donald Morley was

nothing to her now. She had assured herself of that so continuously for

two months that she was beginning to believe it. She knew that he was

wild, reckless and unreliable, that he had failed her in her greatest

need, and that she had put him out of her life forever. But it was good

of the Doctor to take his part!

“I know now what my father meant when he said you were the justest man

he ever knew!” she said timidly, lifting a pair of shining eyes.

“Unfortunately for Donald the Court does not share my opinion. It is not

known even by the family as yet, but Mr. Gooch tells me that Donald has

been indicted by the grand jury.”

“Indicted!”

“Yes, he can never return to Kentucky without standing his trial. It is

a serious affair for him, I fear.”