Part 4

“It wasn’t true--I’ll tell you all about it when we are safe--safe and far from this dreadful place.”

We traveled hours before we were on the highway. The damp but invigorating air had restored me and the child seemed possessed of unusual endurance. I espied in the distance a small farm house. A light was shining through a window on the side. The thought came to me that, although it was still dark, perhaps they were preparing breakfast. “Ellen,” I said, “before we go further we must have something to eat.”

“Bread and milk will do,” she answered.

“Let us inquire here,” I rejoined.

“But suppose Uncle Albert should follow us?”

“Now that we are out of that hornet’s nest I rather wish he would. I must meet him face to face and have this out!”

“No, Don Compie, please! please! he might get me again,” she pleaded. “I would much rather die.” She clung to my arm tightly as we made our way to the farm house. I knocked, the door was opened by a kindly faced, stooped-shouldered old man in his shirt sleeves. I told him my daughter and I had met with an accident about five miles back in the country, and were walking to the nearest garage--would he accommodate us with a little breakfast. He looked at me long and searchingly--I say long, perhaps it was only a second; then as if satisfied with the examination, he said yes, if we didn’t mind cooking the bacon, he could give us some bread, milk and apple-butter. But his wife had died two months ago, and his boys had already gone to the field to plough and were waiting for him; so there was no one to wait on us. “But just make yourselves at home,” he added, as he shuffled about in thick soled boots, pouring what was left from a can of milk into an earthen pitcher, and placing a large loaf of bread before us. “Them automobiles,” and he shook his head disgustedly, “when they make up their minds to stop, thir’s just no way setten thim up again, is thir? No, sir, gimme a pair of mules any day, they’re stidier.”

“My engine went wrong this time, and I simply can’t get the thing started. I’ll have to be towed in, I’m afraid.”

“Just shut the door when you get done, and if you want water you can fetch it from the pump yonder.”

I took pains to thank him and pay him for his hospitality, and promised to close up carefully.

Ellen, minus a hat, sat with her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, while the old man moved about putting things a bit in order, as he called it, before he left. “Since the missus died, I have to look after everything inside and outside.” This he said as he brushed the crumbs from the preceding breakfast on to the floor, and then swept crumbs, dirt and all out of the door.

After he disappeared down the hill, behind the pump, Ellen raised her eyes appealingly to mine. “What am I to do, Don Compie?” This was the name she had given me when she was a baby and could not say John Constable. Her mother, too, had called me by it in later years, to distinguish me from her husband.

As I have said, it was seven years since I left for Europe in one last effort to forget her, whom fortune decreed I could not possess. When I left little Ellen was just a child, almost a baby. But now she was blooming into womanhood.

“Ellen, dear,” I asked sympathetically, “do you feel strong enough to tell me of the death of mother and daddy? Were you in the motor with them at the time of the accident, or just how did it happen?”

“No,” she answered slowly, and unrestrained tears flowed freely down the pale cheeks, “they were alone with Peter the chauffeur, returning from Upper Falls. Peter turned into the railing of the bridge to avoid another machine, which was coming very fast--the railing gave way, Peter jumped and escaped injury, but mother and daddy were caught under the car. Daddy was dead when they found him, but mother lived almost a day.”

I had grown callous to suffering and trouble as I approached middle age, but my heart was touched as it never had been before. I slowly patted the white hand in an effort to disclose my feelings, but I’m afraid the child has never known the depth of them to this day.

“You see,” she continued bravely, “it was because daddy died first that mother’s will and not his became valid, and in it she left everything, including the home at Pine Grove where Uncle Albert lives, to me. Daddy bought it in just recently, because Uncle Albert had mortgaged it so heavily that it was to be sold and daddy wanted to keep it in the family.

“Uncle Albert was furious when he heard mother had made you my guardian. He begged and begged me to marry him. I was raging, and threatened to write you all about it. Then he lured me to the country. He wrote that he was very ill, and I believed him. Watkins told me everything immediately. He said Uncle Albert had sent you a fake telegram, and he had seen him put something in the whiskey, but he, Watkins, had filled it with water, so it would not hurt you. I was frantic--every exit in the wing of the house where I was imprisoned was locked. Dear, dear, I was frantic--about midnight I seemed to feel mother’s presence beside me impelling me to go to your assistance. I heard something that sounded like a pebble hit the glass in my window. At first I was afraid to look out. It was Watkins, and he threw me a rope. I quickly tied one end to the radiator, and made my escape. As I flew through the corridor I felt a hand clutch me. It was Uncle Albert. He told me he would kill me if I let you know we were in the house. Then--in this terrible second of desperation you found me.”

“The brute,” I muttered between my teeth. “He wired me to come and help search for you--that you had eloped with a man who wanted your fortune, but that he had a clue and wanted me to help solve it.”

“Don’t you see,” she replied, “he had carefully planned to poison you, and then he was going to force me to marry him, for without father he had absolutely no means of support.”

“And he was taking the line of least resistance,” I thought--“the line that leads to nowhere.”

“Heavens, what do you think he was going to do with me, Don Compie?”

I never recall having seen such a look of appeal and terror registered upon the face of any other person in my life.

“My little Ellen,” said I, holding the two hands firmly in my own, “do you know I loved your mother very dearly? I always wanted the right to protect her, but it was denied me--your daddy won out. She is gone, but you are left. Will you trust yourself to my care?”

She answered with a look that meant more than words--a look that I would have given my soul to have had from another twenty years before.

We washed the dishes, closed the old man’s door and started toward our destination, for I had resolved to find Ellen comfortable quarters with a companion before I finished the affair with Albert.

The rain had ceased and there was a peculiarly clear, cool freshness in the atmosphere for a day in August. The hills that surrounded the farm house made clear scallops of green against a pure blue background, and it was hard to believe that turmoil and trouble could exist in such quiet, pleasant surroundings.

We were commenting upon the peacefulness of the scene when an ambulance approached over the hill before us. The road was unusually rough and narrow, a typical country road edged with chinquapin bushes and dogwood trees, whose leaves had already started to turn scarlet, hiding clusters of berries beneath them.

The ambulance swayed from side to side and heeded not the ruts or stones in its wake. As “coming events cast their shadows before,” I was quite confident of its destination. I motioned to the driver who gave me a sharp glance and held the horses in a walk just long enough to inform me quickly of their errand.

“To Mr. Albert Wilbur’s,” was the answer to my question.

“Dead?” I asked.

“Don’t know, a servant ’phoned that he had tried to commit suicide.”

“Take us back, we’re related,” I said.

We returned to the house from which we had fled--to find that the two shots, which the misguided man had fired, had done their work only too well. There remained but the frame of him who had given nothing and taken all.

As for myself, I was left alone in the world with this gentle, naïve child, and I prayed each day that she would be more generous with her love than her mother had been--and she was.

It was like a gift from heaven sent to heal a wounded and longing heart.

THE REPORTER.

I made the journey in a motor painted grey--a stylish one upholstered in velvet, and there were things inside to blow and touch for convenience. Be not disillusioned--it did not belong to me. It and the chauffeur were loaned for the occasion by my married sister. Yes, of course, married, because I believe that was what she married for. Anyway, I sat back in this rapidly moving equipage, looking, I believe, very comfortable, but feeling, I am sure, very--now just how did I feel, not very, but “ante turban trepidat.” I was shaky and overcome with the same feeling that one has when about to make his first public speech, or at least as I imagine one would feel. However, we had reached the outskirts of the city; the air was pungent with ozone and there was a wafting fragrance of woods--just woods.

I carried the directions of my destination in my hand, written on a slip of white paper. “Keep straight ahead on Falls Road, turn west from Lake Avenue to first road running north; then turn east. First house to the right,” the paper read. We had ridden but a short distance after leaving the city--entirely too short for me to compose myself, when the first house to the right began distinctly to outline itself on the horizon. The feeling of trepidation which possessed me intensified itself as we drove up to the door and stopped. Two dogs appeared and barked, but did not approach me. I say they did not approach me, yet the only thing I was entirely certain of that second was a black crepe that hung from the door; it appeared blacker than black, because a bunch of snow white roses unrelieved by green leaves caught the folds and held them.

My fingers shook in an endeavor to separate one of my visiting cards from the pasty tissues that divided them, but they stuck closer than a mustard plaster. Before I was ready the door was opened by a neatly dressed, middle-aged colored woman. Without glancing at me or my card she informed me that Professor Symonds could not be seen.

But I insisted I must, I really must see him. She then scrutinized me closely, she looked me through and through, and I saw she was completely fooled. I was suffocated with shame when I thought of my subterfuge, for I had attired myself in deep mourning--an outfit left from a recent period of mourning after my brother’s death, as was also my black-edged card.

“But, honey, he’s ’tirely done give out. I knows he won’t see no-body.”

“I’ve come so far, do inquire,” I pleaded.

“Well, jess you wait here and I’ll see. He’s right in there,” she said, pointing to a room nearby with her head.

“Mayn’t I just go in, he’ll not mind,” I lied.

“You sure, Miss?” the look in her eyes adding force to the question.

“Quite sure.”

I followed her as she turned the knob on the sacred door and announced me. She opened it a bit wider. I was close behind, and before anything else happened I was in.

Professor Symonds looked handsome; that was because he was sitting down. His nose was large, but well shaped. Perhaps, after reflecting somewhat, I should say it was a bit too long. His forehead was just an ordinary forehead. But his eyes--let me see, they were of an indescribable color, and his lashes were very long--either long or his eyes were deeply set. I think it was both that gave me the impression. You see I was only sent to interview him and I tried not to stare. Besides it was his mouth that I wanted to look at, and in fact I am conscious now of having looked too hard, but his mouth was decidedly crooked. When he laughed it was more so, but his teeth were large, white and straight. So on the whole it did not detract from his appearance, but I had a keen inclination to hold his mouth and force him to smile straight. Smile I say, but I had only seen him smile once and then very slightly. What I really wanted to do was to coerce him, but it could not be done; he was thinking--thinking of something that was not conducive to smiles.

He arose slowly to greet me. Arose, as one disturbed most unwillingly. While rising he screwed the top on his fountain pen and leisurely adjusted it to his inside pocket. He received me kindly but with manifest annoyance. His face reddened when I told him my mission, and he walked deliberately away from me after I became seated. This discouraged me, but I noticed to my complete satisfaction that he was not handsome--he was not handsome and his clothes were not a good fit. I was glad of these facts, because when I entered the room there was something in the atmosphere, something intangible about the melancholy figure that excited my sympathy and even made my heart beat quicker. But now I saw plainly from his demeanor--his utter indifference--that he regarded me only as a reporter. This was why I was glad to see he was just a short, homely man.

I said, “I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion at this trying hour. I was compelled to come for an interview.”

“Interview! How extraordinary, when a man’s wife is lying dead.” His air of surprise did not deceive me, for I knew that many reporters had preceded me. But I felt hurt in my whole being at the rebuff. How could I justify myself for having to confront him at this hour--for this indelicate visit. My color rose, I rose, and the temperature rose. For a moment I could not speak; when my voice returned I replied humbly, most humbly, “The editor gave me the assignment, and I try never to fall down on my job. You must know that it is hard--quite as hard for me as it is for you.” I felt all at once the fact that in my effort to succeed in my business I had overlapped conventionalities too rashly.

“Damn editors, they have no feeling for anyone,” he muttered; then asked my pardon. I bowed my head and tried to look more modest than a reporter can look.

I saw now that I had a slight chance of procuring an interview, and strange as it may seem I was beginning to like him again. He was entirely uncommon and the possessor of a face embroidered with lines from study and sorrow, and a composure that was calm but forceful.

Ill at ease as I was I made up my mind to stick and see the thing through. A “scoop” like this for my editor meant more for me than I can explain on paper. I pretended to be moving for the door, but wasn’t; it was only another subterfuge--the forced weapon of a reporter. Such things are not meant to beguile; but they are a slight means of delusion. So unless you are adapted to the use of them do not apply for a reporter’s job.

Professor Symonds slowly walked back from the window, which was not far, because the house was a cottage and the rooms small.

He looked at me squarely, slightly pityingly, for I am sure he was sorry that one so young could be so bold. As for myself I was thinking that perhaps I should live to be an old, old lady--thin scrawny people generally do; but never should I forget with what pride and exultation I had received this assignment. It was first given to Mr. Tyler, our best reporter and our most vivid writer. He failed completely in his efforts to communicate with Professor Symonds, even after he had resorted to detective work. From him it descended step by step to me. Descended most describes the process, for I was a journalist just starting my career and this was the first important piece of work that I had received. Hence my resolution to remain immutable in my decision to stick for the information that my paper so desired. Previous to this affair the majority of my best literary efforts had suffered an evanescence into the world at large. Perhaps John, the janitor, knew of their whereabouts--he always emptied the waste-baskets.

“So you wish me to talk for publication, do you; to lay the facts of my life open to the criticism of the public?”

“No, I--I”----

“Well, I shall do nothing of the kind. The lives of myself and family are entirely my own affair, and no one need count on my giving the papers material with which to fill up their columns.”

“But--but the affair was important.”

“Important or not, it is mine and with me it shall die. It’s a shame, a shame I say, to send young girls to pry into one’s private life.” It was evident that this speech was from one who could suppress his feelings no longer. Nevertheless, I had grown hot and indignant at his words. At the same time I was becoming alarmed at the nearness of the door to me. This in a way prevented my pungent remarks from having the effect they otherwise would have had.

“If I were allowed to choose my assignments, Professor Symonds, I assure you I should not have chosen this one.” This retort was, perhaps, a trifle impudent, considering the fair treatment I had at first received, but it was made without thought, and I was sorry as soon as I realized what I had said.

His speech had caused him remorse, for he was no longer cold and phlegmatic. His attitude of aloofness changed suddenly and completely to fatherly kindness, which made itself felt as he tendered his apologies and again offered me a chair. It was my turn to assume indifference, for I saw now that I was mistress of the situation. I drew myself in, so to speak, smiled a hurt smile and seated myself.

“I thought you might throw a bit of light on Mr. Milton’s death,” I ventured again.

“The man is dead, why not let it go at that,” he suggested, for by this time he had become docile and his attitude suggested capitulation.

“But don’t you see,” I explained, “it’s my assignment, and I must take back something. If it doesn’t go with me you’ll only be harassed by others. Why not say just what you know?”

“Do you expect newspaper work to get you anywhere?” This was partly to change the subject, and partly to manifest some interest in me.

“Indeed, yes,” I replied, “the practice lays a foundation for better writing. Of course, there are things about it that I hate, such as this, but on the whole it is good for one. You see there is no waiting for an impulse to write, which seldom comes naturally to one. The work is there and it must be done. This forced writing teaches concentration and rapidity, while at the same time it keeps one awake to the movements of the day, nationally and internationally.” This was from my heart, for it was for this reason alone that I had associated myself with the press.

“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps, but it robs girls of their modesty, and it teaches them to exaggerate events.” This brutally frank statement brought me perilously to the verge of tears. At the same time it brought the realization that this particular piece of news--if I succeeded in my purpose--must be reported correctly in every detail--there could be no exaggeration. And I wondered why I cared.

These thoughts must have shown in my eyes. There must have been something about my expression that made my friend sorry for me. I say friend, because I felt from this moment that he was my friend.

“But, of course,” he went on, “there are always exceptions. I know you are one and I hope you will remain one.” I thanked him and renewed my efforts to worm the desired information out of him. He explained that his aversion to newspapers was due to the pain he had but recently suffered from a great sorrow.

“Had I been a rich man instead of a poor professor there would have been no scandal published about my wife.”

“How could you have prevented it?” I asked innocently. I was not innocent, for I had heard much of papers being bought off by advertisers.

“By buying them off.”

“Then the story was true, was it not?”

His face reddened, he realized his admission.

“You are the first reporter who has been permitted to enter this house. I have treated you with courtesy and I trust you will spare me any further humiliation in this affair.” Such an appeal--it came straight from his heart, but how could I befriend him? I felt myself becoming entangled in a desperate situation. All that he said was true, but on the other hand I had been requested to handle the case carefully and procure the interview at any cost.

I had no doubt that I could obtain the story now, Professor Symonds was my victim or my friend, whichever I wished to make of him. The event rested with me; yet I could not forget with what confidence and assurance I had received the assignment together with full directions for finding the house. Where would I end? I played carelessly with the beads around my neck, pulled my hat a little further to the side, pretended to catch my veil tighter, and then smoothed the wrinkles out of the arms of my gloves; but I could not decide which road to take.

Professor Symonds was longing for a friend--a sympathizer. He was dying to talk--to unburden himself, and the moment seemed propitious. He gave an appealing look and without further protest began to talk.

“This is the story. I give it to you. Do with it what you will.” From that second, with me, love took the place of admiration, and I knew that he knew the story was safe.

“It is true that my wife eloped with Milton.” As he uttered these words his emotion overpowered him, and he dropped his head in his hands. It affected me so painfully that I tried to restrain him from harrowing his feelings any further. But it seemed as if he understood the sympathetic attitude of his visitor, and wished to confide in me. He continued:

“But there were circumstances that caused it. She was a good woman, a really good woman, but our tastes were entirely different. She loved the city and its closeness to ‘things’; I loved the country and its freedom from noise. She loved people; I loved solitude. And besides these differences there were things which you are too young to understand.”

I had the natural curiosity of woman and her native diplomacy. So I did not interrupt the continuity of his thoughts.

“Both men and women have strongly developed or even instinctive sex complexes and the physical call of a mate transcends the restrictions that herd instinct places upon our modern society. In other words, it is the elemental appeal that is too strong for the system of barriers society has thrown around modern life. We were congenial, yes, loving and loved, but our natures differed; our habits had not grown together, so our ways parted through no fault of either. Our emotional structures also differed, and the instinctive emotions dominated. Perhaps you will think this explanation incongruous, but I know it to be the truth, and the result of it all is what I am now facing. I see now that my selfishness was chiefly responsible. I was, by nature, the stronger of the two; it was in my power to influence my wife, but we drifted and the realization of the situation came too late.

“In her loneliness she had appealed to Milton and he responded. In him she found a companion with a kindred spirit. They both loved life and what it brought. Now that they are both dead there is only one thing I can do for them, and that is to preserve their reputations, and save them from the disgrace of a disclosure. The public only knows, from the letter found on Milton, that they loved each other; it does not and shall not know more.” His head was bent and his voice filled with anguish.

“If I had only known sooner I believe I could have saved her the tragic end. She was returning to me--returning to me, I am confident, for she had entered the garden before she swallowed the poison.”