The Incendiary Part 34

The learned doctor made no reply, so they left him shuffling away in search of a restaurant.

"I do hope Judge Dunder will allow the will," she said; and it took the whole ride to explain the why of this hope to her eager auditor.

At Woodlawn they were directed to Hemlock grove and wandered among its dark trees, peace-breathing in themselves, but haunted for them by the vague pervasive shadow of a tragedy. The hut was too far for Walter's strength, so they turned off at an angle, following a footpath which they knew would lead to some road. Once or twice they heard a murmur of voices, seeming to come from the left. It was very deep and indistinct and not unlike the mooing of a cow. But her bell would have tinkled if it had really been a stray tenant of the milk-shed.

"What is it, Walter?" asked Emily. It had sounded again, this time more humanly and close to their ears. They had been moving toward it unawares.

Walter only clutched her arm in answer.

"Look!" he said, and she saw his eyes white with distension of the lids. "It is the oaf."

Through a parting in the boughs Emily saw the sight. There was a little cemetery near by, unpretending but neat with scattered headstones. In the midst of it, kneeling with his forehead bared and his eyes up-lifted, was the human monster who had woven himself into their life so terribly. What was he doing? Should she run? Her first impulse was to fly, but a fascination held her. The oaf's face was averted and they were screened from his gaze.

Looked at now, the creature's countenance was less repulsive than she had thought. Emily had only seen it convulsed with murderous pa.s.sion, and those who had described it to her had beheld it under similar circ.u.mstances. Yet at best it was horribly misshapen.

"Is he crying?" asked Walter. Strange to say, the oaf seemed to be shedding tears and the quick sympathy went out from Emily's bosom, in spite of the past.

"Hark!"

Emily pulled Walter back, as he leaned forward too eagerly to catch what he was saying.

The oaf moaned in a guttural tone that swelled to its close, crescendo. Then he threw himself on the mound before which he knelt.

It was a grave. No headstone covered it. The mourners of the dead who house there were either forgetful or poor. But strange little bunches of withered wild flowers were strewn upon it. And a heap of fresher flowers lay at one side. What was the monster doing?

With his fingers he scooped out hollows in the earth, then lifted the cut daisies and b.u.t.tercups he had brought, with many a late violet and honeysuckle, and laid their stalks one by one in the cavities. Holding them in place, he propped them up with the loosened earth, till all along the narrow mound there was a bloom of red and yellow and blue. Then the oaf rose and looked down upon his work, with a childish pleasure.

"Does he think they will grow that way?" asked Walter, but Emily put her finger on her lips. The oaf began muttering in a low, indistinct murmur, like one soothing a child.

Suddenly he drew his soiled hands across his brow. The streaks of earth added to his hideousness and his expression had changed. Some new current of thought was in his mind. He ground his teeth, as Walter had seen him in s.h.a.garach's office, and roared with fists clenched at some invisible adversary.

"Run, run," called Walter, dragging Emily with him along the little footpath--on, on. They could hear their own footsteps echoed behind, but the roars did not appear to be gaining on them.

"Faster! Faster!" urged Emily, as Walter weakened. The briers scratched her dress, the boughs brushed in her face, but what were these to the monster behind them? She dared not turn, lest his fierce eyes should be glaring into hers and his grimy hands clutch at her flying hair.

"I cannot keep up," cried Walter breathing hard, when they had covered a quarter of a mile.

"Oh, Walter, try!" cried Emily, dragging him in her turn.

"I cannot. I can only walk. He is not behind us," he added. Emily slowed up and peeped around timidly. The expected image did not confront her. The woods had a less lonely look here, but they were perfectly still.

"Have we escaped him?" she said, all flushed and out of breath. Without the wings of fear, she could not have run a third of the distance.

Walter held his breath to listen before he answered. There was not a stir in the woods save the sighing of the leaves.

"Let us walk on fast," he said, and Emily was glad to moderate her pace. But they had not proceeded twenty steps, when again she started off, dragging Walter by the hand. This time the sound was on their right. The oaf had crossed the path and was tearing through the woods. With the advantage of the smooth path they might outstrip him and get to the road, where succor could be had.

"Oh, I cannot go farther," cried Emily, fainting. "Leave me, Walter, and bring help as soon as you can." The elastic sinews of the boy had recovered their strength and he was now the fresher of the two.

"Only a little farther, Miss Barlow. I can see the road through the trees."

The pursuer seemed to have slowed his own pace to a walk. Once they caught a glimpse of his form. He was not aiming at them straight but slantingly toward the road, as if he would head them off. At present he was almost abreast and gaining.

"There is the road and a cottage," said Walter, but the pursuer was ahead of them now, running swiftly. They could see him leap the wall only ten paces off, just as they emerged from the footpath. Bewildered and spent, Emily turned the wrong way and ran straight into the arms of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.

"Turnpike toll!" exclaimed the manikin, deliriously prolonging the accidental embrace, while Emily strove to tear herself away in a flurry of amazement, horror and disgust.

"Let her alone!" cried Walter, clutching at Kennedy's neck. But the manikin took no account of the boy, merely cuffing him over the ears, and endeavoring to force a kiss upon Emily.

"Forgive me, Emily--Miss Barlow," he said at last, while she stood flaming like a rose with indignation. "Forgive me if I press my suit too ardently----"

But he was not afforded an opportunity to continue his amorous speech. Walter Riley possessed a spirit which rose against cuffing. Weak and weary as he was, he drew off after a moment's survey, to get the import of the conversation, and sent the manikin spinning with a blow that brought blood drops from his nose. Kennedy felt the trickling organ in momentary confusion, but before his idol he could not show the white feather.

Whack! Whack! He brought his cane--bulldog end for a handle--down on the boy's shoulder, neck and head--bursting the bandages over his still acutely tender burns. Walter clinched, but Kennedy threw him off and continued his caning. Even Emily's intercession only brought her a smart rap over the fingers with which she tried to grasp his weapon.

"You brute!" she exclaimed, and threw herself between Kennedy and the boy. But help from another quarter was at hand. A tall, lithe form vaulted a neighboring wall and the swish of a horsewhip cut the air. It must have cut something else, for Kennedy hopped and turned, and presently was capering with as much agility as if the ground were redhot iron. Emily could hear the repeated swishes and the manikin's supplications, but she did not look up. She was stroking Walter's forehead. The boy had fainted in her arms.

"It's me, Harry. It's Kennedy. Don't you know me?"

This cry caused her to turn.

"It's a coward. Run."

Emily had heard the voice only once before, in that eventful ride to Hillsborough; but she would have known Harry Arnold instantly from his photograph. How broad-chested he was! How superb! Yet there was something feverish in his excitement now. He came toward her, raising his hat.

"I have to apologize for a slight acquaintance with that blackguard, which led me to refuse at first to credit his conduct. Otherwise I might have been of a.s.sistance earlier."

"Slight acquaintance? You owe me twelve hundred and by George you'll pay it," snarled Kennedy, moving away. Harry never turned.

"The boy has fainted. He must come up to the house."

The "cottage" in view, then, was the Arnold house. A carriage stood in front of the terrace at the head of the gravel drive which led up from the turnpike. Harry had probably just arrived home from an afternoon spin through the suburbs.

"Thank you, Mr. Arnold----" Emily stopped, but the mischief was out. Harry had lifted the unconscious boy tenderly in his strong arms and was carrying him up the drive. He turned and smiled, showing his beautiful teeth, but, seeing Emily's confusion, did not speak the words that were on his lips. Inside the house he called for Indigo.

"Some wine," he ordered.

"And a little sweet oil, if you have it," added Emily; for the neck bandage had been torn away and the vitriol burn was bleeding from one of Kennedy's blows.

"This is Walter Riley," said Emily, at last recovering from her embarra.s.sment, "Mr. s.h.a.garach's clerk, who was a.s.saulted about ten days ago."

She studied Harry's face as she bathed the tender part with the sweet oil and poor, sick-eyed Walter revived under the wine. But there was no expression other than one of surprise crossed with sympathy.

"And yourself, may I ask?"

"I am Miss Barlow."

Harry's astonishment reached a climax at this, but he was too well bred to display it.

"I am delighted to have you for my guest, Miss Barlow. It is unfortunate that my mother is not at home. We have both admired your efforts in behalf of Rob. And Miss March was just speaking of you."

By the time that Walter was ready to go home, Emily had fixed with feminine absoluteness her opinion about Harry's innocence.

But then she was under a heavy debt to Harry. He had rid her once for all of the impertinences of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE HEEL OF ACHILLES.

"I shall be compelled to alter my theory at one point," said s.h.a.garach.

"Yet your general conviction remains unchanged?"

"Absolutely. Your cousin is capable of the crime. A powerful motive was present. We have traced him to the door of the room. What factor is wanting?"

"I cannot believe it of Harry," said Robert, shaking his head doubtfully. "But what has occurred to cause you to reconstruct your theory?"

"My interview with Dr. Whipple, his physician."

"Harry was ill at the time, I believe?"

"He is able to prove an alibi."

"A hard obstacle to get over," said Robert.

"But not insurmountable," replied the lawyer. "Dr. Whipple happens to be the most methodical of men. 'At 3:48 p. m., on Sat.u.r.day, June 28, I took Mr. Harry Arnold's pulse in his own room at Woodlawn,' said he, consulting his notes. 'It was eighty-three beats to the minute.'"

"Rather high," said Robert.

"'Abnormal,' Dr. Whipple observed, 'something on his mind, I should say. Overexcitement, worry, the fever of modern life.' His diagnosis was incorrect; but the time is important. The fire was discovered, you remember, at 3:30."

"So Harry couldn't have set it and got to Woodlawn," said Robert, as if sincerely glad.

"Not in his mother's carriage, as I had surmised," said s.h.a.garach. "But an express train leaves the Southern depot at 3:29. It arrives in Woodlawn at 3:45. Harry crossed Broad street from the pa.s.sageway after setting fire to the study--it is barely a minute's walk--there caught the train and reached Woodlawn at 3:45. His house is close to the station. Dr. Whipple found him feverish and with rapid pulse from the excitement of his crime and the hurried escape."

"His mother stated, however, when she called, earlier in the afternoon, that she had left him at home ill," said Robert, thoughtfully.

"She is solicitous about his delicate health," said s.h.a.garach, with almost imperceptible irony. The delicate health of the powerful canoeist, the victorious steeplechaser, need hardly weigh on the most tender mother's mind. This was their last consultation before the trial, and the lawyer shook Robert's hand with a word of encouragement when he left the young man to his hopes and forebodings.

The lawyer turned into a byway which carried him through the Ghetto.

Solomon and Rachel were sitting on their doorsteps, fanning away the heat of the August afternoon.

"There goes s.h.a.garach," said someone.

"He who fawns on the gentiles," said another, "that he may obtain places from them."

"He is ashamed of his father's blood; he will deny his mother," was the taunt of a third.

"Who is it?" asked the boys, flocking up.

"It is s.h.a.garach, who was called an apostate in the Messenger last week."

Jewish boys nearly all learn enough of Hebrew to read the characters. They understood the answer and pa.s.sed it along to their comrades.

"Here comes s.h.a.garach, who was printed among the apostates," they cried, edging near the lawyer, while the older folks prudently contented themselves with pa.s.sing remarks.

s.h.a.garach only turned a deaf ear and a pitying glance upon his misguided people. But as he chanced to look into the window of Silberstein's store, the first page of the Messenger, conspicuously spread out, attracted his attention, and he saw, under a black heading, among a list of "apostates" his own name, with the description "Gentile Judge." The malevolent features of Simon Rabofsky scowled at him from within, but were instantly withdrawn. s.h.a.garach, however, stopped and rung the bell, while the circle around him stared in wonder. Was the pervert going into Nathan Silberstein's house?

There was a long pause before any one answered. The maid who finally came was wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Silberstein," said the lawyer. "I am Meyer s.h.a.garach, of whom you have doubtless heard. I desire to see Simon Rabofsky, who, I perceive, is within."

A great flurry of moving chairs could be heard, as though the convocation was breaking up.

"Bid him not depart." s.h.a.garach was already in the narrow entry, with the door closed behind him, and the stupefied woman in front. "Simon Rabofsky," he cried, after the form which was disappearing through a rear door. It stopped reluctantly.

"I wish to confer with you and with Moses Cohen. He is there. I saw him through the window. The others may go or stay, as they please."

Cohen and Rabofsky stood before s.h.a.garach in the store.

"Sit down. Draw down the curtain," said the lawyer to Mrs. Silberstein, who with her husband and the others stood on the threshold listening.

"'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. As an interpreter of the scriptures, you have met that text, Simon Rabofsky?"

"It is graven on my heart," said the money-lender, with unction.

"Liar, thief and hypocrite!" cried s.h.a.garach, "you are as vindictive as the viper, who stings the hand of his benefactor. Our conference shall be short. I spare your white hairs before these people who respect you. See to it that I walk through this street unmolested and I may forbear for a time to punish you for the perjury you committed and the receipt of stolen articles."

"I had not known the people of Israel so far forgot their good teachings," said Rabofsky, "as to insult a peaceful pa.s.ser-by, like the gentile ruffians."

"Go forth without excuses," said s.h.a.garach sternly.

"I will gladly remind them," said the cowed usurer, leaving the room.

"Moses Cohen, you will retract and apologize in your next issue, or I shall prosecute the Messenger for slander."

"I have only told the truth," answered the young editor, doggedly. "You are no longer a Jew."