Chapter 8

“Dennis Quigg,” she said slowly, weighing each word, her eyes riveted on his face, “ye're a very sharp young man; ye're so very sharp that I wonder ye've gone so long without cuttin' yerself, But one thing I tell ye, an' that is, if ye keep on the way ye're a-goin' ye'll land where you belong, and that's up the river in a potato-bug suit of clothes. Turn yer head this way, Quigg. Did ye niver in yer whole life think there was somethin' worth the havin' in bein' honest an' clean an' square, an' holdin' yer head up like a man, instead of skulkin' round like a thief? What ye're up to this mornin' I don't know yet, but I want to tell ye it 's the wrong time o' day for ye to make calls, and the night's not much better, unless ye're particularly invited.”

Quigg smothered a curse and turned on his heel toward the village. When he reached O'Leary's, Dempsey of the Executive Committee met him at the door. He and McGaw had spent the whole morning in devising plans to keep Tom out of the board-room.

Quigg's report was not reassuring. She would be paid her insurance money, he said, and would certainly be at the meeting that night.

The three adjourned to the room over the bar. McGaw began pacing the floor, his long arms hooked behind his back. He had passed a sleepless night, and every hour now added to his anxiety. His face was a dull gray yellow, and his eyes were sunken. Now and then he would tug at his collar nervously. As he walked he clutched his fingers, burying the nails in the palms, the red hair on his wrists bristling like spiders' legs. Dempsey sat at the table watching him calmly out of the corner of his eye.

After a pause Quigg leaned over, his lips close to Dempsey's ear. Then he drew a plan on the back of an old wine-list. It marked the position of the door in Tom's stable, and that of a path which ran across lots and was concealed from her house by a low fence. Dempsey studied it a moment, nodding at Quigg's whispered explanations, and passed it to McGaw, repeating Quigg's words. McGaw stopped and bent his head. A dull gleam flashed out of his smouldering eyes. The lines of his face hardened and his jaw tightened. For some minutes he stood irresolute, gazing vacantly over the budding trees through the window. Then he turned sharply, swallowed a brimming glass of raw whiskey, and left the room.

When the sound of his footsteps had died away, Dempsey looked at Quigg meaningly and gave a low laugh.

XIV. BLOSSOM-WEEK

It was “blossom-week,” and every garden and hedge flaunted its bloom in the soft air. All about was the perfume of flowers, the odor of fresh grass, and that peculiar earthy smell of new-made garden beds but lately sprinkled. Behind the hill overlooking the harbor the sun was just sinking into the sea. Some sentinel cedars guarding its crest stood out in clear relief against the golden light. About their tops, in wide circles, swooped a flock of crows.

Gran'pop and Tom sat on the front porch, their chairs touching, his hand on hers. She had been telling him of Quigg's visit that morning. She had changed her dress for a new one. The dress was of brown cloth, and had been made in the village--tight where it should be loose, and loose where it should be tight. She had put it on, she told Pop, to make a creditable appearance before the board that night.

Jennie was flitting in and out between the sitting-room and the garden, her hands full of blossoms, filling the china jars on the mantel: none of them contained Quigg's contribution. Patsy was flat on his back on the small patch of green surrounding the porch, playing circus-elephant with Stumpy, who stood over him with leveled head.

Up the hill, but a few rods away, Cully was grazing the Big Gray--the old horse munching tufts of fresh, sweet grass sprinkled with dandelions. Cully walked beside him. Now and then he lifted one of his legs, examining the hoof critically for possible tender places.

There was nothing the matter with the Gray; the old horse was still sound: but it satisfied Cully to be assured, and it satisfied, too, a certain yearning tenderness in his heart toward his old chum. Once in a while he would pat the Gray's neck, smoothing his ragged, half worn mane, addressing him all the while in words of endearment expressed in a slang positively profane and utterly without meaning except to these two.

Suddenly Jennie's cheek flushed as she came out on the porch. Carl was coming up the path. The young Swede was bareheaded, the short blond curls glistening in the light; his throat was bare too, so that one could see the big muscles in his neck. Jennie always liked him with his throat bare; it reminded her of a hero she had once seen in a play, who stormed a fort and rescued all the starving women.

“Da brown horse seek; batta come to stabble an' see him,” Carl said, going direct to the porch, where he stood in front of Tom, resting one hand on his hip, his eyes never wandering from her face. He knew where Jennie was, but he never looked.

“What's the matter with him?” asked Tom, her thoughts far away at the moment.

“I don' know; he no eat da oats en da box.”

“Will he drink?” said Tom, awakening to the importance of the information.

“Yas; 'mos' two buckets.”

“It's fever he's got,” she said, turning to Pop. “I thought that yisterday noon when I sees him a-workin'. All right, Carl; I'll be down before I go to the board meetin'. And see here, Carl; ye'd better git ready to go wid me. I'll start in a couple o' hours. Will it suit ye, Gran'pop, if Carl goes with me?”--patting her father's shoulder. “If ye keep on a-worritin' I'll hev to hire a cop to follow me round.”

Carl lingered for a moment on the steps. Perhaps Tom had some further orders; perhaps, too, Jennie would come out again. Involuntarily his eye wandered toward the open door, and then he turned to go. Jennie's heart sprang up in her throat. She had seen from behind the curtains the shade of disappointment that crossed her lover's face. She could suffer herself, but she could not see Carl unhappy. In an instant she was beside her mother. Anything to keep Carl--she did not care what.

“Oh, Carl, will you bring the ladder so I can reach the long branches?” she said, her quick wit helping her with a subterfuge.

Carl turned and glanced at Tom. He felt the look in her face and could read her thoughts.

If Tom had heard Jennie she never moved. This affair must end in some way, she said to herself. Why had she not sent him away long before? How could she do it now when he had risked his life to save Patsy?

Then she answered firmly, still without turning her head, “No, Jennie; there won't be time. Carl must get ready to”--

Pop laid his hand on hers.

“There's plinty o' toime, Mary. Ye'll git the ladder behint the kitchen door, Carl. I hed it ther' mesilf this mornin'.”

Carl found the ladder, steadied it against the tree, and guided Jennie's little feet till they reached the topmost round, holding on to her skirts so that she should not fall. Above their heads the branches twined and interlaced, shedding their sweetest blossoms over their happy upturned faces. The old man's eyes lightened as he watched them for some moments; then, turning to Tom, his voice full of tenderness, he said:--

“Carl's a foine lad, Mary; ye'll do no better for Jinnie.”

Tom did not answer; her eyes were on the cedars where the crows were flying, black silhouettes against the yellow sky.

“Did I shtop ye an' break yer heart whin ye wint off wid yer own Tom? What wuz he but an honest lad thet loved ye, an' he wid not a pinny in his pocket but the fare that brought ye both to the new counthry.”

Tom's eyes filled. She could not see the cedars now. All the hill was swimming in light.

“Oi hev watched Carl sence he fust come, Mary. It's a good mither some'er's as has lost a foine b'y. W'u'dn't ye be lonely yersilf ef ye'd come here wid nobody to touch yer hand?”

Tom shivered and covered her face. Who was more lonely than she--she who had hungered for the same companionship that she was denying Jennie; she who had longed for somebody to stand between her and the world, some hand to touch, some arm to lean on; she who must play the man always--the man and the mother too!

Pop went on, stroking her strong, firm hand with his stiff, shriveled fingers. He never looked at her; his face was now too turned toward the dying sun.

“Do ye remimber the day ye left me in the ould counthry, Mary, wid yer own Tom; an' how I walked wid ye to the turnin' of the road? It wuz spring thin, an' the hedges all white wid blossoms. Look at thim two over there, Mary, wid their arms full o' flowers. Don't be breakin' their hearts, child.”

Tom turned and slipped her arm around the old man's neck, her head sinking on his shoulder. The tears were under her eyelids; her heart was bursting; only her pride sustained her. Then in a half-whispered voice, like a child telling its troubles, she said:--

“Ye don't know--ye don't know, Gran'pop. The dear God knows it's not on account of meself. It's Tom I'm thinkin' of night an' day--me Tom, me Tom. She's his child as well as mine. If he could only help me! He wanted such great things for Jennie. It ud be easier if he hadn't saved Patsy. Don't speak to me ag'in about it, father dear; it hurts me.”

The old man rose from his chair and walked slowly into the house. All his talks with his daughter ended in this way. It was always what Tom would have thought. Why should a poor crazy cripple like her husband, shut up in an asylum, make trouble for Jennie?

When the light faded and the trees grew indistinct in the gloom, Tom still sat where Pop had left her. Soon the shadows fell in the little valley, and the hill beyond the cedars lost itself in the deepening haze that now crept in from the tranquil sea.

Carl's voice calling to Cully to take in the Gray roused her to consciousness. She pushed back her chair, stood for an instant watching Carl romping with Patsy, and then walked slowly toward the stable.

By the time she reached the water-trough her old manner had returned. Her step became once more elastic and firm; her strong will asserted itself. She had work to do, and at once. In two hours the board would meet. She needed all her energies and resources. The lovers must wait; she could not decide any question for them now.

As she passed the stable window a man in a fur cap raised his head cautiously above the low fence and shrank back into the shadow.

Tom threw open the door and felt along the sill for the lantern and matches. They were not in their accustomed place. The man crouched, ran noiselessly toward the rear entrance, and crept in behind a stall. Tom laid her hand on the haunches of the horse and began rolling back his blanket. The man drew himself up slowly until his shoulders were on a level with the planking. Tom moved a step and turned her face. The man raised his arm, whirled a hammer high in the air, and brought it down upon her head.

When Cully led the Big Gray into his stall, a moment later, he stepped into a pool of blood.

XV. IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH

At the appointed hour the Board of Trustees met in the hall over the post-office. The usual loungers filled the room--members of the Union, and others who had counted on a piece of the highway pie when it was cut. Dempsey, Crimmins, and Quigg sat outside the rail, against the wall. They were waiting for McGaw, who had not been seen since the afternoon.

The president was in his accustomed place. The five gentlemen of leisure, the veterinary surgeon, and the other trustees occupied their several chairs. The roll had been called, and every man had answered to his name. The occasion being one of much importance, a full board was required.

As the minute-hand neared the hour of nine Dempsey became uneasy. He started every time a new-comer mounted the stairs. Where was McGaw? No one had seen him since he swallowed the tumblerful of whiskey and disappeared from O'Leary's, a few hours before.

The president rapped for order, and announced that the board was ready to sign the contract with Thomas Grogan for the hauling and delivery of the broken stone required for public highways.

There was no response.

“Is Mrs. Grogan here?” asked the president, looking over the room and waiting for a reply.

“Is any one here who represents her?” he repeated, after a pause, rising in his seat as he spoke.

No one answered. The only sound heard in the room was that of the heavy step of a man mounting the stairs.

“Is there any one here who can speak for Mrs. Thomas Grogan?” called the president again, in a louder voice.

“I can,” said the man with the heavy tread, who proved to be the foreman at the brewery. “She won't live till mornin'; one of her horses kicked her and broke her skull, so McGaw told me.”

“Broke her skull! My God! man, how do you know?” demanded the president, his voice trembling with excitement.

Every man's face was now turned toward the new-comer; a momentary thrill of horror ran through the assemblage.

“I heard it at the druggist's. One of her boys was over for medicine. Dr. Mason sewed up her head. He was drivin' by, on his way to Quarantine, when it happened.”

“What Dr. Mason?” asked a trustee, eager for details.

“The man what used to be at Quarantine seven years ago. He's app'inted ag'in.”

Dempsey caught up his hat and hurriedly left the room, followed by Quigg and Crimmins. McGaw, he said to himself, as he ran downstairs, must be blind drunk, not to come to the meeting, “----him! What if he gives everything away!” he added aloud.

“This news is awful,” said the president. “I am very sorry for Mrs. Grogan and her children--she was a fine woman. It is a serious matter, too, for the village. The highway work ought to commence at once; the roads need it. We may now have to advertise again. That would delay everything for a month.”

“Well, there's other bids,” said another trustee,--one of the gentlemen of leisure,--ignoring the president's sympathy, and hopeful now of a possible slice on his own account. “What's the matter with McGaw's proposal? There's not much difference in the price. Perhaps he would come down to the Grogan figure. Is Mr. McGaw here, or anybody who can speak for him?”

Justice Rowan sat against the wall. The overzealous trustee had exactly expressed his own wishes and anxieties. He wanted McGaw's chances settled at once. If they failed, there was Rowan's own brother who might come in for the work, the justice sharing of course in the profits.

“In the absence of me client,” said Rowan, looking about the room, and drawing in his breath with an important air, “I suppose I can ripresint him. I think, however, that if your honorable boord will go on with the other business before you, Mr. McGaw will be on hand in half an hour himself. In the meantime I will hunt him up.”

“I move,” said the Scotch surgeon, in a voice that showed how deeply he had been affected, “that the whole matter be laid on the table for a week, until we know for certain whether poor Mrs. Grogan is killed or not. I can hardly credit it. It is very seldom that a horse kicks a woman.”

Nobody having seconded this motion, the chair did not put it. The fact was that every man was afraid to move. The majority of the trustees, who favored McGaw, were in the dark as to what effect Tom's death would have upon the bids. The law might require readvertising and hence a new competition, and perhaps somebody much worse for them than Tom might turn up and take the work--somebody living outside of the village. Then none of them would get a finger in the pie. Worse than all, the cutting of it might have to be referred to the corporation counsel, Judge Bowker. What his opinion would be was past finding out. He was beyond the reach of “pulls,” and followed the law to the letter.

The minority--a minority of two, the president and the veterinary surgeon--began to distrust the spirit of McGaw's adherents. It looked to the president as if a “deal” were in the air.

The Scotchman, practical, sober-minded, sensible man as he was, had old-fashioned ideas of honesty and fair play. He had liked Tom from the first time he saw her,--he had looked after her stables professionally,--and he did not intend to see her, dead or alive, thrown out, without making a fight for her.

“I move,” said he, “that the president appoint a committee of this board to jump into the nearest wagon, drive to Mrs. Grogan's, and find out whether she is still alive. If she's dead, that settles it; but if she's alive, I will protest against anything being done about this matter for ten days. It won't take twenty minutes to find out; meantime we can take up the unfinished business of the last meeting.”

One of the gentlemen of leisure seconded this motion; it was carried unanimously, and this gentleman of leisure was himself appointed courier and left the room in a hurry. He had hardly reached the street when he was back again, followed closely by Dempsey, Quigg, Crimmins, Justice Rowan, and, last of all, fumbling with his fur cap, deathly pale, and entirely sober--Dan McGaw.

“There's no use of my going,” said the courier trustee, taking his seat. “Grogan won't live an hour, if she ain't dead now. She had a sick horse that wanted looking after, and she went into the stable without a light, and he let drive, and broke her skull. She's got a gash the length of your hand--wasn't that it, Mr. McGaw?”

McGaw nodded his head.

“Yes; that's about it,” he said. The voice seemed to come from his stomach, it was so hollow.

“Did you see her, Mr. McGaw?” asked the Scotchman in a positive tone.

“How c'u'd I be a-seein' her whin I been in New Yorruk 'mos' all day? D' ye think I'm runnin' roun' to ivery stable in the place? I wuz a-comin' 'cross lots whin I heared it. They says the horse had blin' staggers.”

“How do you know, then?” asked the Scotchman suspiciously. “Who told you the horse kicked her?”

“Well, I dunno; I think it wuz some un”--

Dempsey looked at him and knit his brow. McGaw stopped.

“Don't you know enough of a horse to know he couldn't kick with blind staggers?” insisted the Scotchman.

McGaw did not answer.

“Does anybody know any of the facts connected with this dreadful accident to Mrs. Grogan?” asked the president. “Have you heard anything, Mr. Quigg?”

Mr. Quigg had heard absolutely nothing, and had not seen Mrs. Grogan for months. Mr. Crimmins was equally ignorant, and so were several other gentlemen. Here a voice came from the back of the room.

“I met Dr. Mason, sir, an hour ago, after he had attended Tom Grogan. He was on his way to Quarantine in his buggy. He said he left her insensible after dressin' the wound. He thought she might not live till mornin'.”

“May I ask your name, sir?” asked the president in a courteous tone.

“Peter Lathers. I am yardmaster at the U. S. Lighthouse Depot.”

The title, and the calm way in which Lathers spoke, convinced the president and the room. Everybody realized that Tom's life hung by a thread. The Scotchman still had a lingering doubt. He also wished to clear up the blind-staggers theory.

“Did he say how she was hurt?” asked the Scotchman.

“Yes. He said he was a-drivin' by when they picked her up, and he was dead sure that somebody had hid in the stable and knocked her on the head with a club.”

McGaw steadied himself with his hand and grasped the seat of his chair. The sweat was rolling from his face. He seemed afraid to look up, lest some other eye might catch his own and read his thoughts. If he had only seen Lathers come in!

Lathers's announcement, coupled with the Scotchman's well-known knowledge of equine diseases discrediting the blind-staggers theory, produced a profound sensation. Heads were put together, and low whispers were heard. Dempsey, Quigg, and Crimmins did not move a muscle.

The Scotchman again broke the silence.

“There seems to be no question, gentlemen, that the poor woman is badly hurt; but she is still alive, and while she breathes we have no right to take this work from her. It's not decent to serve a woman so; and I think, too, it's illegal. I again move that the whole matter be laid upon the table.”

This motion was not put, nobody seconding it.

Then Justice Rowan rose. The speech of the justice was seasoned with a brogue as delicate in flavor as the garlic in a Spanish salad.

“Mr. Prisident and Gintlemen of the Honorable Boord of Village Trustees,” said the justice, throwing back his coat. The elaborate opening compelled attention at once. Such courtesies were too seldom heard in their deliberations, thought the members, as they lay back in their chairs to listen.

“No wan can be moore pained than meself that so estimable a woman as Mrs. Grogan--a woman who fills so honorably her every station in life--should at this moment be stricken down either by the hand of an assassin or the hoof of a horse. Such acts in a law-abidin' community like Rockville bring with them the deepest detistation and the profoundest sympathy. No wan, I am sure, is more touched by her misforchune than me worthy friend Mr. Daniel McGaw, who by this direct interposition of Providence is foorced into the position of being compelled to assert his rights befoore your honorable body, with full assurance that there is no tribunal in the land to which he could apply which would lend a more willing ear.”

It was this sort of thing that made Rowan popular.