The Broken Gate Part 15

He did not know that a new chair also had been purchased, and that he himself was sitting in it at that very time. In short, he knew nothing of the many sacrifices needful even for these inexpensive things about him. He did not know that marvel of the widow's cruse, filled against dire need by the hand of merciful Providence.

"It's all right, Mother," said he, toying with his fork; "fine, fine."

"Coffee strong enough, Don?" She looked at him anxiously. Usually she made it weak for herself.

"Oh, they never let us have it at all when we're training, mother," said he, "and not strong at any time. I know the simple life." He smiled as best he might.

"I have lived it here, too, Don," said she slowly, "because I couldn't well help it. I don't suppose anybody likes it when it's too simple. I like things nice, so much. I've always longed to travel. You know, Don, I hear of people going over to Europe, and I'm guilty of the sin of envy. I live right here in this little place all the time--I've done so all my life. I've scarcely been out of this town in twenty years. If I could see pictures--if I could go to see the great actors--if I could see a real theater--just once, Don--you don't know how happy I'd be. And I'm sure there must be more beautiful countries than this. Still"--and here she sighed--"Miss Julia and I have lived quite a life together--in the books, the magazines--pictures too, sometimes."

He looked at her dumbly now, trying to understand the steady heroism of a life such as hers. The real character of his own mother never yet fully had impressed itself upon him. Don Lane was a college graduate, but now for the first time in his life he was beginning to think.

"One thing," she added, "I'd never do. I'd never pretend to be what I was not--I didn't ever pretend to have what I didn't have. You see me, Don, and my life, pretty much as we are."

"And all this has been for me?"

"Yes," simply. "But although we grew up apart, I don't think I could endure it if I thought we really were to part--if you would leave me now.

"I was half hoping," she went on musingly, "that you could find it in your heart to stay here in this town."

He shook his head. "Impossible! That's one thing you really mustn't ask of me."

"Yes, I feared you would think of it in that way! But, as for me, this is my place--I've made my bed here, and I must lie in it. I know the people of this town--I know what they'll all do to me now. You see, you don't know these things yet."

"No," said he, "but you and Miss Julia both will be paid back--the money part of it--some time. As for me, I'm not going to have any home."

She sat silent for quite a time, the meager breakfast now being ended for both.

"Oh, can't you forget her, Don? Can't you give her up?" she said finally.

"I can't forget her, Mother, but I'll have to give her up. It all happened there on the car--just at once--in public."

"I'm glad you never kissed her, Don," said she. "You're both so young."

She shook her head slowly as she went on. "Love has to be loved in any case. That means--I suppose it means--that for the very young, if it be not one, it may later be another."

He only smiled bitterly at this. "It all comes to the same thing in any case," said he. "I'll have to tell her what I know, and we'll have to part. It would be the same with any other woman, if there could be any other. There can't be."

"I've been frank with you, Don, and I don't know whether to be glad or sorry for that. I'd love nothing so much in the world as to see you happily married--but nothing in the world could so much hurt me as to see you marry Anne Oglesby."

"No fear of it!"

"You'll tell her?"

"Yes. Today."

CHAPTER X

THE MURDER

Once more the strident call of the telephone broke in, and Aurora Lane stepped aside.

"It's Miss Julia," said she excitedly, turning upon her son eyes suddenly grown large. "Why, it's something awful! Don--a terrible thing has happened--last night."

"What's wrong--what's happened?" he demanded.

"Mr. Tarbush--the city marshal--why, you know--he was killed--murdered--last night--found this morning! It was about one o'clock, as near as they can tell, Miss Julia says. It's all over town."

An exclamation left the young man's lips. "What's that? Murdered?"

"Yes, yes--wait----" She spoke on into the telephone. "Yes, Julia, Don and I were just at breakfast--no, we've not been on the street yet--one o'clock, you said? That was when we were just coming home from the library!"

"Mother," said Don, "that's right! It must have been just about one o'clock, wasn't it?"

She looked at him steadily for a time, as she dropped the receiver, her own face a trifle pale. "Yes--we hadn't gone to sleep at the time it happened. He was killed right in front of his own house, Miss Julia says."

"And where is that?--you see, I don't know much about the town."

"Beyond the square, about three blocks from the farther corner--the little house with the low fence in front, and the deep front yard."

"We didn't pa.s.s that when we came up from the station?"

"No, we came another street. But, Don----"

"Yes?"

"When you were running last night, you must have pa.s.sed right close to there! You didn't see anything strange?"

"Of course not! I'd have looked into it. I don't recall that particular house.

"Well," he added, after a moment's silence, "in spite of all that happened yesterday between him and us, I'm not going to call him anything but a good man--now."

She looked at him strangely--studied his face steadily.

"I'll be going out now, I think--I'm going to run over to see Julia for a time. Please don't go out on the street, Don. Stay right here. We got into trouble enough yesterday."

"You needn't fear," said he. "There's nothing and n.o.body in this town I want to see. I'll be glad when I shake the dust of it off my feet--when I once get squared away in my own business you shall leave this place and live with me."

And then, as there came to him again and again the antic.i.p.ated pain of parting with the one he himself loved, he came up to his mother and put his arms once more upon her shoulders. Again her hands found his hair.

She cast a quick glance about her, as though in his defense.

"Don," said she, "I think I'll never get over thinking of you as just a boy, a little boy."

He tried to smile. "Pity you didn't drown me in the pool yonder," said he.

It was the most cruel thing he could have found to say, although he spoke only in his own bitterness, careless, as a man so often is, of a woman's hurts. But she left him without comment; and soon he had resumed his own restless walking up and down in the narrow quarters which seemed to him such a prison.