CHAPTER XXXIX
WE SEE WALSH AGAIN
A FORTNIGHT later Wayne cut the twine that held the key of his desk to Walsh’s lamp. The publicity attending his search for Joe at Denbeigh had driven him away, and he had gone quietly back to Pittsburg and taken his place in the glass pilot-house with Walsh. The newspapers had not neglected him; he had spent a small fortune at the Florence colliery in securing the body of a young miner who had been his friend, and the event was not without its spectacular value. When Wayne left Denbeigh a great crowd gathered at the station and cheered him, and there was no suppressing this; and the shame of it was that he could not explain to a public anxious to praise him the truth about Joe’s death—that it was only through loyalty to himself that Joe had gone back to Denbeigh and donned again the miner’s cap—that Joe had sunk his own aims to serve and guard and protect him.
Wayne had taken a room at the Allequippa Club and lodged next to Walsh. He had visited his father both at his office and at home, and he knew from Walsh that the outlook for the Craighill interests was brightening daily.
A few days after his return Wayne dined at the Club with Walsh and Wingfield. Wingfield was almost insufferably arrogant now that Wayne had become a hero, and he took occasion to snub persons who had never seen anything in Wayne but the dissolute son of a distinguished father, and who now declared that Wayne was a good fellow, but that he had been his own worst enemy—and so on. It pleased Wingfield to have men ask him for the facts touching Wayne’s recent exile, and on all inquiries he turned his eye-glasses coldly. People who had been prone to kick Wayne need not trouble themselves to praise him now—this was all they got out of Dick Wingfield as he sipped koumiss in his particular corner of the Allequippa smoking room, and studied the men of Pittsburg with a mild and philosophic eye.
As they drank their coffee to-night a telegram was handed Walsh. He read it slowly.
“Um! I got to go up to your father’s,” he said, and left them a few minutes later.
“That man’s my despair!” sighed Wingfield after Walsh’s stout figure had vanished through the door. “I’d give a good deal to be able to carry off the mysterious as Tom does. With most of us life is just one long explanation; Tom never explains anything—he just says ‘Um!’ and lets us guess.”
Wayne smiled. He was again clean-shaven, as we knew him first, and he was lean and rugged.
“I don’t think Tom can teach you anything, Dick, but what a dear old brick he is! His ways at the office would tickle you; he thinks the hands are all in mortal terror of him, but they’re not—they love him most when he roars the loudest.”
Walsh took a trolley to the East End, and was soon asking for Mrs. Craighill. She sent word that she would be down in a moment, but a quarter of an hour passed before she appeared. Walsh sat grimly waiting; once or twice he drew the telegram from his pocket and scanned it impassively. He was so lost in thought that he did not hear her light step, and he stumbled awkwardly to his feet as she stood before him. She had been weeping, and the smile she gave him was not without its tears. He did not know that for an hour she had hoped he would come, or that his presence gave her a sense of mingled trust and fear. Ever since the day of the sleigh-ride thoughts of him had tantalized her; his kindness to her husband, of which she had been aware, had puzzled her—he had visited the house often for conferences with his former chief.
“I didn’t come to see the Colonel this time; I want to see you alone, Mrs. Craighill.”
“He went to his office after dinner; we shall not be interrupted.”
“It’s an unhappy business that brings me here.”
Her heart beat fast, assailed by vague premonitions.
“Your mother died to-day, quite suddenly, at Burlington. You had heard of it?”
“Yes—to-night, only a little while ago,” she faltered.
“You probably wondered, that afternoon we drove in the park, what I knew of her. I did not tell you then; there was no use in it. I knew what troubled you, and I told you I would help you—and I did.”
“Yes—yes; I remember.”
He sat rigid in his chair, a man without grace of speech or person; and his next words came harshly, without any colour of feeling.
“She was my wife; you are my daughter. Your name is Adelaide Walsh. Some things you probably don’t know. I kept a livery stable in Burlington. When you were five years old she ran off with a man named Pendleton. I didn’t know at first what she carried you away for—but I knew later, when she had finished with Pendleton and you had grown up. I closed out the business I had there and came here; but I kept watching you. I sent her money for your use—and she lived on it. There’s nothing for you to tell me—I know everything you’ve done—what you’ve gone through—the whole business. I might have taken you away from her, but—I’m only Tom Walsh; I wasn’t fit. But I guess she didn’t do you so much harm; I guess you’re a good woman.”
She began to speak, but he stumbled on, like a stubborn schoolboy reciting a hard lesson.
“She’s dead now, and there ain’t nothing to say. She went quick and we don’t need to say anything—you or me. I guess you got to go up to Burlington, and I’ll meet you there. I reckon the Colonel ain’t likely to go—he’d better stay here with his business. It’s our trouble—yours and mine.”
“Oh, why didn’t you tell me!” she cried. “I’ve needed you—I’ve needed you so all these years!”
“I never expected to tell you. It was all too black, too ugly; and I was no good; but knowing how things were going here and seeing you weren’t very happy, I thought I’d better tell you; I thought it might help. I’ve made all the arrangements up there by wire. Don’t you worry about anything.”
He had risen and was lumbering toward the door before she realized that he had finished; but he paused half way, and rubbed his bald head. Then he walked back to her, and said in a low tone, so that she hardly caught the words:
“You don’t need to tell anybody, Adelaide, that I’m your father. It wouldn’t do you any good; I’m just old Tom Walsh and most of the folks around here don’t like me. Better not tell the Colonel, or Wayne or any of ’em; it wouldn’t help you any to have ’em know you’re my daughter.”
“Oh!—oh!” she sobbed; and her arms were about him, holding him fast.
He had said truly that the past held nothing that was not better left to silence; but she knew that her life, which had been the sport of winds, had at last found anchorage. He touched her hair clumsily with his heavy hands.
“You’re a good woman, Addie; you’re a good woman,” he kept repeating, and this seemed all that he could say.