The Eye of Dread Part 55

"Is Tillie no goin' to bring in the tea? It's past the hour. I see she grows slack, wantin' me to look after her."

"Ring for it then, Jean. I'm no for leavin' my chair to ring for it."

So Jean pulled the cord and the tea was brought in due time, with hot scones and the unwonted addition of a bowl of roses to grace the tray.

"The posies are a greetin' to ye, Jean; I ordered them mysel'. Weel?

An' so ye ha'na' found him?"

"Oh, sister, my hairt's heavy an' sair. I canna' thole to tell ye."

"But ye maun do't, an' the sooner ye tell't the sooner ye'll ha'e it over."

"He was na' there. Oh, Ellen, Ellen! He'd gone to America! I'm afraid the Elder is right an' Hester has gone home to get her death blow. Why were we so precipitate in lettin' her go?"

"Jean, tell me all aboot it, an' I'll pit my mind to it and help ye think it oot. Don't ye leave oot a thing fra' the time ye left me till the noo."

Slowly Jean poured her sister's tea and handed it to her. "Tak' yer scones while they're hot, Ellen. I went to the place whaur he'd been leevin'. I had the direction all right, but whan I called, I found anither man in possession. The man was an Englishman, so I got on vera weel for the speakin'. It's little I could do with they Frenchmen. He was a dirty like man, an' he was daubin' away at a picture whan I opened the door an' walked in. I said to him, 'Whaur's Richard'--no, no, no. I said to him, calling Richard by the name he's been goin' by, I said, 'Whaur's Robert Kater?' He jumped up an' began figitin' aboot the room, settin' me a chair an' the like, an' I asked again, 'Is this the pentin' room o' Robert Kater?' an' he said, 'It was his room, yes.' Then he asked me was I any kin to him, an' I told him, did he think I would come walkin' into his place the like o' that if I was no kin to him? An' then he began tellin' me a string o' talk an' I could na' mak' head nor tail o't, so I asked again, 'If ye're a friend o'

his, wull ye tell me whaur he's gone?' an' then he said it straight oot, 'To Ameriky,' an' it fair broke my hairt."

For a minute Jean sat and sipped her tea, and wiped the tears from her eyes; then she took up the thread of her story again.

"Then he seemed all at once to bethink himsel' o' something, an' he ran to his coat that was hangin' behind the door on a nail, an' he drew oot a letter fra the pocket, an' here it is.

"'Are ye Robert's Aunt Jean?' he asked, and I tell't him, an', 'Surely,' he said, 'an' I did na' think ye old enough to be his Aunt Jean.' Then he began to excuse himsel' for forgettin' to mail that letter. 'I promised him I would,' he said, 'but ye see, I have na'

been wearin' my best coat since he left, an' that's why. We gave him a banket,' he says, 'an' I wore my best coat to the banket, an' he gave me this an' told me to mail it after he was well away,' an' he says, 'I knew I ought not to put it in this coat pocket, for I'd forget it,'--an' so he ran on; but it was no so good a coat, for the lining was a' torn an' it was gray wi' dust, for I took it an' brushed it an'

mended it mysel' before I left Paris."

Again Jean paused, and taking out her neatly folded handkerchief wiped away the falling tears, and sipped a moment at her tea in silence.

"Tak' ye a bit o' the scones, Jean. Ye'll no help matters by goin'

wi'oot eatin'. If the lad's done a shamefu' like thing, ye'll no help him by greetin'. He maun fall. Ye've done yer best I doot, although mistakenly to try to keep it fra me."

"He was sae bonny, Ellen, and that like his mither 'twould melt the hairt oot o' ye to look on him."

"Ha'e ye no mair to tell me? Surely it never took ye these ten days to find oot what ye ha'e tell't."

"The man was a kind sort o' a body, an' he took me oot to eat wi' him at a cafy, an' he paid it himsel', but I'm thinkin' his purse was sair empty whan he got through wi' it. I could na' help it. Men are vera masterfu' bodies. I made it up to him though, for I bided a day or twa at the hotel, an' went to the room,--the pentin' room whaur I found him--there was whaur he stayed, for he was keepin' things as they were, he said, for the one who was to come into they things--Robert Kater had left there--ye'll find oot aboot them whan ye read the letter--an' I made it as clean as ye'r han' before I left him. He made a dour face whan he came in an' found me at it, but I'm thinkin' he came to like it after a', for I heard him whustlin' to himsel' as I went down the stair after tellin' him good-by.

"Gin ye had seen the dirt I took oot o' that room, Ellen, ye would a'

held up ye'r two han's in horror. There were crusts an' bones behind the pictures standin' against the wa' that the rats an' mice had been gnawin' there, an' there were bottles on a shelf, old an' empty an'

covered wi' cobwebs an' dust, an' the floor was so thick wi' dirt it had to be sc.r.a.pit, an' what wi' old papers an' rags I had a great basket full taken awa--let be a bundle o' shirts that needed mendin'.

I took the shirts to the hotel, an' there I mended them until they were guid enough to wear, an' sent them back. So there was as guid as the price o' the denner he gave me, an' naethin said. Noo read the letter an' ye'll see why I'm greetin'. Richard's gone to Ameriky to perjure his soul. He says it was to gie himsel' up to the law, but from the letter to Hester it's likely his courage failed him. There's naethin' to mak' o't but that--an' he sae bonny an' sweet, like his mither."

Jean Craigmile threw her ap.r.o.n over her head and rocked herself back and forth, while Ellen set down her cup and reluctantly opened the letter--many pages, in a long business envelope. She sighed as she took them out.

"It's a waefu' thing how much trouble an' sorrow a man body brings intil the world wi' him. Noo there's Richard, trailin' sorrow after him whaurever he goes."

"But ye mind it came from Katherine first, marryin' wi' Larry Kildene an' rinnin' awa' wi' him," replied Jean.

"It was Larry hunt.i.t her oot whaur she had been brought for safety."

They both sat in silence while Ellen read the letter to the very end.

At last, with a long, indrawn sigh, she spoke.

"It's no like a lad that could write sic a letter, to perjure his soul. No won'er ye greet, Jean. He's gi'en ye everything he possesses, wi' one o' the twa pictures in the Salon! Think o't! An' a' he got fra' the ones he sold, except enough to take him to America. Ye canna'

tak' it."

"No. I ha'e gi'en them to the Englishman wha' has his room. I could na' tak them." Jean continued to sway back and forth with her ap.r.o.n over her head.

"Ye ha'e gi'en them awa'! All they pictures pented by yer ain niece's son! An' twa' accept.i.t by the Salon! Child, child! I'd no think it o'

ye." Ellen leaned forward in her chair reprovingly, with the letter crushed in her lap.

"I told him to keep them safe, as he was doin', an' if he got no word fra' me after sax months,--he was to bide in the room wi' them--they were his."

"Weel, ye're wiser than I thought ye."

For a long time they sat in silence, until at last Ellen took up the letter to read it again, and began with the date at the head.

"Jean," she cried, holding it out to her sister and pointing to the date with shaking finger. "Wull ye look at that noo! Are we both daft?

It's no possible for him to ha' gotten there before that letter was written to Hester. Look ye, Jean! Look ye! Here 'tis the third day o'

June it was written by his own hand."

"Count it oot, Ellen, count it oot! Here's the calendar almanac. Noo we'll ha'e it. It's twa weeks since Hester an' I left an' she got the letter the day before that, an' that's fifteen days--"

"An' it takes twa weeks mair for a boat to cross the ocean, an' that gives fourteen days mair before that letter to Hester was written, an'

three days fra' Liverpool here, pits it back to seventeen days,--an'

fifteen days--mak's thirty-two days,--an' here' it's nearin' the last o' June--"

"Jean! Whan Hester's frien' was writin' that letter to Hester, Richard was just sailin' fra France! Thank the Lord!"

"Thank the Lord!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed her sister, fervently. "Ellen, it's you for havin' the head to think it oot, thank the Lord!" And now the dear soul wept again for very gladness.

Ellen folded her hands in her lap complaisantly and nodded her head.

"Ye've a good head, yersel', Jean, but ye aye let yersel' get excitet.

Noo, it's only for us to bide in peace an' quiet an' know that the earth is the Lord's an' the fullness thereof until we hear fra'

Hester."

"An' may the Lord pit it in her hairt to write soon!"

While the good Craigmiles of Aberdeen were composing themselves to the hopeful view that Ellen's discovery of the date had given them, Larry Kildene and Amalia were seated in a car, luxurious for that day, speeding eastward over the desert across which Amalia and her father and mother had fled in fear and privation so short a time before. She gazed through the plate-gla.s.s windows and watched the quivering heat waves rising from the burning sands. Well she knew those terrible plains! She saw the bleaching bones of animals that had fallen by the way, even as their own had fallen, and her eyes filled. She remembered how Harry King had come to them one day, riding on his yellow horse--riding out of the setting sun toward them, and how his companionship had comforted them and his courage and help had saved them more than once,--and how, had it not been for him, their bones, too, might be lying there now, whitening in the heat. Oh, Harry, Harry King! She who had once crossed those very plains behind a jaded team now felt that the rushing train was crawling like a snail.

Larry Kildene, seated facing her and watching her, leaned forward and touched her hand. "We're going at an awful pace," he said. "To think of ever crossing these plains with the speed of the wind!"

She smiled a wan smile. "Yes, that is so. But it still is very slowly we go when I measure with my thoughts the swiftness. In my thoughts we should fly--fly!"

"It will be only three days to Chicago from here, and then one night at a hotel to rest and clean up, and the next day we are there--in Leauvite--think of it! We're an hour late by the schedule, so better think of something else. We'll reach an eating station soon. Get ready, for there will be a rush, and we'll not have a chance for a good meal again for no one knows how long. Maybe you're not hungry, but I could eat a mule. I like this, do you know, traveling in comfort! To think of me--going home to save Peter's bank!" He chuckled to himself a moment; then resumed: "And that's equivalent to saving the man's life. Well, it's a poor way for a man to go through life, able to see no way but his own way. It narrows his vision and shortens his reach--for, see, let him find his way closed to him, and whoop!

he's at an end."

Again Larry sat and watched her, as he silently chuckled over his present situation. Again he reached out and patted her hand, and again she smiled at him, but he knew where her thoughts were. Harry King had been gone but a short time when Madam Manovska, in spite of Amalia's watchfulness, wandered away for the last time. On this occasion she did not go toward the fall, but went along the trail toward the plains below. It was nearly evening when she eluded Amalia and left the cabin. Frantically they searched for her all night, riding through the darkness, carrying torches and calling in all directions, as far as they supposed her feet could have carried her, but did not find her until early morning, lying peacefully under a little scrub pine, far down the trail. By her side lay her husband's worn coat, with the lining torn away, and a small heap of ashes and charred papers. She had been destroying the doc.u.ments he had guarded so long. She would not leave them to witness against him. Tenderly they took her up and carried her back to the cabin and laid her in her bunk, but she only babbled of "Paul," telling happily that she had seen him, and that he was coming up the trail after her, and that now they would live on the mountain in peace and go no more to Poland--and quickly after that she dropped to sleep again and never woke. She was with "Paul" at last.