John Ward, Preacher Part 44

Gifford started. "Sit down a moment," he said, waving aside d.i.c.k's hand.

"Surely you are not leaving Ashurst for any length of time?"

"Length of time?" answered the other, laughing. "Well, I rather think so.

I expect to go abroad next month."

A curious desire came into Gifford Woodhouse's strong hands to take this boy by the throat, and shake him until his ceaseless smile was torn to pieces. Instead of that, however, he folded his arms, and stood looking down at his companion in silence.

d.i.c.k had seated himself again, and was twirling his wet umbrella round and round by the shiny end of one of the ribs. "Yes," he said, "this is a long good-by to Ashurst."

"Mr. Forsythe," said Gifford, with an edge of anger in his voice which could not have escaped even a more indifferent ear than d.i.c.k's, "may I ask if Dr. Howe knows of your plans?"

d.i.c.k looked up, with a sudden ugly shadow coming across the sunny brightness of his face. "I don't know what I've done to deserve this concern on your part, Mr. Woodhouse; but, since you ask, I have no objection to saying that Dr. Howe does not particularly interest himself in my affairs. I don't know whether he's aware of my plans, and I care less."

He rose, and stood grasping his wet umbrella mid-ways, looking defiantly into Gifford's face. It was singular how instantly, in some wordless way, he appreciated that he had been blamed.

Gifford began to speak in the slow, measured tone which showed how he was guarding his words. "You may not care for his interest," he said, "but you can scarcely expect that he would not notice your absence."

"I cannot see that my movements are of so much importance to Dr. Howe,"

d.i.c.k answered, "and he certainly has never taken it upon himself to meddle in my affairs to the extent of asking me about them."

"Nevertheless," said Gifford, with ominous gentleness, "he must feel--surprise at your departure. That your business should take you away at this time, Mr. Forsythe, is unfortunate."

"I know my business, at least," cried the other loudly, his voice trembling with anger, "and I'm capable of attending to it without suggestions from you! I'll trouble you to speak plainly, instead of hinting. What right have you to question my leaving Ashurst?"

"No right," Gifford said calmly.

"Why don't you speak out like a man?" Forsythe demanded with a burst of rage, striking the table with his fist. "What do you mean by your d.a.m.ned impudence? So you dare to question my conduct to Lois Howe, do you?--you confounded prig!"

"Be silent!" Gifford said between his teeth. "Gentlemen do not introduce the name of a woman into their discussions. You forgot yourself. It is unnecessary to pursue this subject. I have nothing more to say."

"But I have more to say. Who gave you the right to speak to me? The lady herself? She must be indeed distressed to choose you for a messenger."

Gifford did not answer; for a moment the dark room was very still, except for the beating rain and the tapping of the ivy at the south window.

"Or perhaps," he went on, a sneer curling his handsome mouth, "you will comfort her yourself, instead? Well, you're welcome."

Gifford's hands clenched on the back of the chair in front of him. "Sir,"

he said, "this place protects you, and you know it."

But d.i.c.k Forsythe was beside himself with anger. He laughed insultingly.

"I'll not detain you any longer. Doubtless you will wish to go to the rectory to-night. But I'm afraid, even though I'm obliging enough to leave Ashurst, you will have no"--He did not finish his sentence. Gifford Woodhouse's hand closed like a vise upon his collar. There were no words.

d.i.c.k's struggles were as useless as beating against a rock; his maddest efforts could not shake off that relentless hand. Gifford half pushed, half carried, him to the door, and in another moment d.i.c.k Forsythe found himself flung like a snapping cur in the mud and rain of Mr. Denner's garden.

He gathered himself up, and saw Gifford standing in the doorway, as though to offer him a chance of revenge.

"d.a.m.n you!" he screamed, furious with pa.s.sion. "I'll pay you for this!

I--I"--He choked with rage, and shook his fist at the motionless figure on the steps. Then, trembling with impotent fury, oaths stumbling upon his lips, he turned and rushed into the gathering darkness.

Gifford watched him, and then the door swung shut, and he went back to Mr. Denner's library. His breath was short, and he was tingling with pa.s.sion, but he had no glow of triumph. "I've been a fool," he said,--"I've been a fool! I've made it worse for her. The hound!"

But in spite of his genuine contrition, there was a subtile joy. "He does not love her," he thought, "and she will forget him."

Yet, as he sat there in Mr. Denner's dark library, filled with remorse and unabated rage as well, he began to realize that he had been meddlesome; and he was stung with a sudden sense that it was not honorable to have pushed his questions upon Forsythe. Gifford's relentless justice overtook him. Had he not given Forsythe the right to insult him? Would not he have protected himself against any man's prying?

Gifford blushed hotly in the darkness. "But not to use Lois's name,--not that! Nothing could justify the insult to her!"

Mary came in to lock up, and started with fright at the sight of the dark, still figure. "Lord! it's a ghost!" she cried shrilly.

"I am here, Mary," he said wearily. "I'm going home now."

And so he did, walking doggedly through the storm, with his head bent and his hands in his pockets, forgetful of Miss Deborah's thoughtfulness in the way of rubbers, and only anxious to avoid any kindly interruption from his aunts, which their anxiety concerning damp clothes might occasion. But he could not escape them. Miss Deborah met him at the door with a worried face. "My dear boy!" she said, "no umbrella? Pray go to bed directly, and let me bring you a hot drink. You will surely have a cough to-morrow." But the little lady came back to the parlor with an aggrieved face, for he had answered her with quiet determination not to be fussed over. The sisters heard him walk quickly up-stairs and lock his door. They looked at each other in astonishment.

"He feels it very much," said Miss Ruth.

"Yes," returned Miss Deborah; "he has been sorting the papers all the afternoon. I must go and see Willie to-morrow."

"Oh, I'll do that," Miss Ruth answered. "I cannot help feeling that it is--my place."

"Not at all," replied Miss Deborah firmly; "the miniature shows plainly his sentiments towards me. I know he would wish me to look after Willie.

Indeed, I feel it a sacred duty."

Miss Deborah moved her hands nervously. Mr. Denner's death was too recent for it to be possible to speak of him without agitation.

"Well," said Miss Ruth, "perhaps, after all, you are right, in a way. The miniature is childish. Of course a portrait of himself has a far deeper meaning."

"Ruth Woodhouse," cried the other, "I'm ashamed of you! Didn't you tell me yourself he said it was of no value? And you know how much he thought of the little sister!"

"But that was his modesty," said Miss Ruth eagerly. However, both ladies parted for the night with unaltered convictions, and the younger sister, opening the daguerreotype for one last look by her bedroom candle, murmured to herself, "I wonder what Deborah would think if she knew he said 'Ruth'?"

The Forsythes went away the next morning. Perhaps it was the early start which prevented d.i.c.k from seeing Gifford again, and finishing the so summarily ended quarrel, or possibly it was recollection of the weight of Gifford Woodhouse's hand. Yet he thought he had found a means of revenge.

In spite of the rain, he had gone to the rectory. Helen was writing to her husband, and Dr. Howe was reading. "You'll have to see him in the parlor, Lois," her father said, looking at her over his paper, as Sally announced Mr. Forsythe.

"Oh, father!" she said.

"Nonsense," replied the rector impatiently, "you know him well enough to receive him alone. I can't be interrupted. Run along, child."

"Will you come in, Helen, dear?" she pleaded.

"Yes," Helen said, glancing at her with absent eyes; it was hard to leave the intricacies of a theological argument to think of a girl's lover.

"I'll come soon."

But in a letter to John she forgot every one else, and when Lois went tremblingly out of the room both the rector and his niece lost themselves in their own interests.

"Good-evening, Miss Lois," d.i.c.k said, coming towards her with extended hand.

She could hardly hear her answer for her beating heart.

"I came to say good-by," he went on, his bright blue eyes fastened angrily upon her; but she did not see him.