Chapter 9

A LETTER FROM GILL'S MOTHER.

Lizzi recovered soon after she was placed in her bed. Gret Reed had aided the physician, and was the first person Lizzi saw when her eyes dreamily opened. They closed again at once, for from downstairs Gill's voice reached her ears, and she knew he was safe. She was ill (she would laugh at the word) but a day.

When the excitement over her had subsided, wondering inquiries as to the origin of the fire began to be voiced. Gill was called to account for going to bed with his clothes on.

"I was working late at the books," he said, "it being the end of the month, and I got so sleepy and tired that I just pulled off my coat and threw myself on the bed and fell asleep."

Colonel Hornberger believed him, and no one had reason to suspect him.

The origin of the fire remained a mystery, but the loss occasioned by the destruction of the store was severe upon the Three Sisters people. Colonel Hornberger set out at once for the city to buy a new stock, first making arrangements with the proprietors of the nearest store to supply his employés with necessities. The Colonel took Gill with him.

Before departing, the latter called upon Lizzi and, in the presence of her family, feelingly expressed his gratitude for the heroic rescue of his unworthy life. He depreciated himself modestly, and the McAnays thought him very unassuming. Lizzi put up her hand in glad protest as she heard his graceful sentences, conveying to her a deeper meaning than thankfulness.

"When I come back," was their promise, "then," they said to her, "I shall acknowledge you as my wife, Lizzi."

The Colonel was expeditious, and soon returned with a large stock of goods, some of which were stored in the warehouse at the station; the balance was placed upon the shelves of the temporary building that had been erected in his absence. For a few days Gill was very busy, and his visits to Lizzi were only short calls.

One evening he came early, evidently with the intention of making a visit. Soon he and Lizzi were left alone together.

"I have had a letter from mother, Lizzi," Gill said eagerly, but his tone was not loud. "Such a letter about you and the fire, and I am sure all I have to do is to go and see her, and she will be only too glad to receive you as her daughter."

Lizzi stood still. Her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst, and the color deepened on her cheek. She had few tricks. Her honest nature expressed itself simply. She was glad, and her face and posture were the manifestations of her joy. She was one of the few persons with whom words at times have too deep meaning to be uttered, and whose actions are the sole exponents of their feeling.

Gill said quietly:

"Sit down, dear, and I will read you the letter."

But she could not do so without giving vent to her feelings, which she did in the very undramatic act of poking the fire. She did it vigorously, and the click of the metal stove doors as she closed them was a "There now" to her mood. Then she sat down ready to listen. He began at once.

"'My dear son, doubly precious to me because of your nearness to a horrible death, give my love to the brave girl who saved you to me. Some day she may know from the anguish of her own heart over a child's peril how much I mean when I say I am grateful to her. Words cannot be stronger than that. If she is ever a mother, she will learn that it is the parent's love alone that endures in all its sensitiveness.

"'But I am jealous, weakly, selfishly jealous of the grand girl of whom you write so admiringly. It seems to me I detect in your sentences the evidence that she has dethroned me in your heart, where until now I flatter myself I have been first.

"'You say she is beautiful, womanly; that her great physical strength does not detract from her femininity; that she is always a modest, gentle woman. I am glad to know it, and if you love her I cannot be so cruel as to execute the threat I wrote so fiercely some time ago, when I guessed you were losing your heart. I guess again, John: Lizzi is the woman you wrote of then. But come home; come and tell me about her who has saved your life, and against whom I have not the heart to hurl my former threat.

YOUR FOND MOTHER.'"

Lizzi took the letter and looked at it. The beautiful, clear writing was the same as that of the other letter, which had led to her secret marriage. Now the obstacles to the acknowledgment of that ceremony were, or soon would be, removed. She clasped her hands, enfolding in them the letter, and sat still, listening to her heart beating a reveillé for the sunrise of certainty. She had been living in the night of doubt. She had been afraid of this formidable mother, who wrote so beautifully and coldly, but now this fear was banished, and love, reciprocally grateful, took its place. Her heart went out to the fond, yet jealous, mother who had written so yieldingly of her. This mother had clung so determinedly to her son, but now she loosed her grasp on him that he might tend whither he would, because his way led to her, Lizzi.

She was flattered by the manner in which Gill had written to his mother of her. "For," she reasoned, "a man will be honest with his mother."

"Go, John," she said simply. "Your mother should know before the world does."

"I think it best, Lizzi. I shall come back in two weeks unless something happens to me."

"Don't say that, John, or you can't go. If anything should happen to you, death would happen to me."

She kissed him. Her kiss was fire to his blood. He caught her in a passionate embrace. His lack of reverence wounded her. She shrank from his touch, which for the first time seemed coarse. Instinctively he understood and released her.

The next day he departed for his mother's residence.