Maybe in spite of their tameless days
Of outcast liberty,
They're sick at heart for the homely ways
Where their gathered brothers be.
And oft at night, when the plains fall dark
And hills loom large and dim,
For the shepherd's voice they mutely hark,
And their souls go out to him.
Meanwhile "Black sheep! black sheep!" we cry,
Safe in the inner fold:
And maybe they hear, and wonder why,
And marvel, out in the cold.
—Richard Burton.
Gillespie was smoking his pipe on the boat-house steps. He had come over from the village in his own launch, which tossed placidly beside mine. Ijima stepped forward promptly with a lantern as I ran out upon the planking of the pier.
"Jump into my launch, Gillespie, and be in a hurry!" and to my relief he obeyed without his usual parley. Ijima cast us off, the engine sputtered a moment, and then the launch got away. I bade Gillespie steer, and when we were free of the pier told him to head for the Tippecanoe.
The handful of stars that had brightened against the sky had been a real shock, and I accused myself in severe terms for having left Arthur Holbrook alone. As we swept into the open Glenarm House stood forth from the encircling wood, marked by the bright lights of the terrace where Miss Pat had, with so much composure and in so few words, made comedy of my attempt to shield Helen. I had certainly taken chances, but I had reckoned only with a man's wits, which, to say the least, are not a woman's; and I had contrived a new situation and had now incurred the wrath and indignation of three women where there had been but one before! In throwing off my coat my hand touched the envelope containing the forged notes which I had thrust into my pocket before dinner, and the contact sobered me; there was still a chance for me to be of use. But at the thought of what might be occurring at the house-boat on the Tippecanoe I forced the launch's speed to the limit. Gillespie still maintained silence, grimly clenching his empty pipe. He now roused himself and bawled at me:
"Did you ever meet the coroner of this county?"
"No!" I shouted.
"Well, you will—coming down! You'll blow up in about three minutes."
I did not slow down until we reached Battle Orchard, where it was necessary to feel our way across the shallow channel. Here I shut off the power and paddled with an oar.
As we floated by the island a lantern flashed at the water's edge and disappeared. But my first errand was at the canoe-maker's; the whereabouts of Helen and the Stiletto were questions that must wait.
We were soon creeping along the margin of the second lake seeking the creek, whose intake quickly lay hold of us.
"We'll land just inside, on the west bank, Gillespie." A moment later we jumped out and secured the launch. I wrapped our lantern in Gillespie's coat, and ran up the bank to the path. At the top I turned and spoke to him.
"You'll have to trust me. I don't know what may be happening here, but surely our interests are the same to-night."
He caught me roughly by the arm.
"If this means any injury to Helen—"
"No! It is for her!" And he followed silently at my heels toward Red Gate.
The calm of the summer night lay upon the creek that babbled drowsily in its bed. We seemed to have this corner of the world to ourselves, and the thump of our feet in the path broke heavily on the night silence. As we crossed the lower end of the garden I saw the cottage mistily outlined among the trees near the highway, and, remembering Gillespie's unfamiliarity with the place, I checked my pace to guide him. I caught a glimpse of the lights of the house-boat below.
The voices of two men in loud debate rang out sharply upon us through the open windows of the house-boat as we crept down upon the deck. Then followed the sound of blows, and the rattle of furniture knocked about, and as we reached the door a lamp fell with a crash and the place was dark. We seemed to strike matches at the same instant, and as they blazed upon their sticks we looked down upon Arthur Holbrook, who lay sprawling with his arms outflung on the floor, and over him stood his brother with hands clenched, his face twitching.
"I have killed him—I have killed him!" he muttered several times in a low whisper. "I had to do it. There was no other way."
My blood went cold at the thought that we were too late. Gillespie was fumbling about, striking matches, and I was somewhat reassured by the sound of my own voice as I called him.
"There are candles at the side—make a light, Gillespie."
And soon we were taking account of one another in the soft candle-light.
"I must go," said Henry huskily, looking stupidly down upon his brother, who lay quite still, his head resting on his arm.
"You will stay," I said; and I stood beside him while Gillespie filled a pail at the creek and laved Arthur's wrists and temples with cool water. We worked a quarter of an hour before he gave any signs of life; but when he opened his eyes Henry flung himself down in a chair and mopped his forehead.
"He is not dead," he said, grinning foolishly.
"Where is Helen?" I demanded.
"She's safe," he replied cunningly, nodding his head. "I suppose Pat has sent you to take her back. She may go, if you have brought my money." Cunning and greed, and the marks of drink, had made his face repulsive. Gillespie got Arthur to his feet a moment later, and I gave him brandy from a flask in the cupboard. His brother's restoration seemed now to amuse Henry.
"It was a mere love-tap. You're tougher than you look, Arthur. It's the simple life down here in the woods. My own nerves are all gone." He turned to me with the air of dominating the situation. "I'm glad you've come, you and our friend of button fame. Rivals, gentlemen? A friendly rivalry for my daughter's hand flatters the house of Holbrook. Between ourselves I favor you, Mr. Donovan; the button-making business is profitable, but damned vulgar. Now, Helen—"
"That will do!"—and I clapped my hand on his shoulder roughly. "I have business with you. Your sister is ready to settle with you; but she wishes to see Arthur first."
"No—no! She must not see him!" He leaped forward and caught hold of me. "She must not see him!"—and his cowardly fear angered me anew.
"You will do, Mr. Holbrook, very much as I tell you in this matter. I intend that your sister shall see her brother Arthur to-night, and time flies. This last play of yours, this flimsy trick of kidnapping, was sprung at a very unfortunate moment. It has delayed the settlement and done a grave injury to your daughter."
"Helen would have it; it was her idea!"
"If you speak of your daughter again in such a way I will break your neck and throw you into the creek!"
He stared a moment, then laughed aloud.
"So you are the one—are you? I really thought it was Buttons."
"I am the one, Mr. Holbrook. And now I am going to take your brother to your sister. She has asked for him, and she is waiting."
Arthur Holbrook came gravely toward us, and I have never been so struck with pity for a man as I was for him. There was a red circle on his brow where Henry's knuckles had cut, but his eyes showed no anger; they were even kind with the tenderness that lies in the eyes of women who have suffered. He advanced a step nearer his brother and spoke slowly and distinctly.
"You have nothing to fear, Henry. I shall tell her nothing."
"But"—Henry glanced uneasily from Gillespie to me—"Gillespie's notes. They are here among you somewhere. You shall not give them to Pat. If she knew—"
"If she knew you would not get a cent," I said, wishing him to know that I knew.
He whirled upon me hotly.
"You tricked Helen to get them, and now, by God! I want them! I want them!" And he struck at me crazily. I knocked his arm away, but he flung himself upon me, clasping me with his arms. I caught his wrists and held him for a moment. I wished to be done with him and off to Glenarm with Arthur; and he wasted time.
"I have that packet you sent Helen to get—I have it—still unopened! Your secret is as safe with me, Mr. Holbrook, as that other secret of yours with your Italian body-guard."
His face went white, then gray, and he would have fallen if I had not kept hold of him.
"Will you not be decent—reasonable—sane—for an hour, till we can present you as an honorable man to your sister? If you will not, your sailor shall deliver you to the law with his own hands. You delay matters—can't you see that we are your friends, that we are trying to protect you, that we are ready to lie to your sister that we may be rid of you?"
I was beside myself with rage and impatient that time must be wasted on him. I did not hear steps on the deck, or Gillespie's quick warning, and I had begun again, still holding Henry Holbrook close to me with one hand.
"We expect to deceive your sister—we will lie to her—lie to her—lie to her—"
"For God's sake, stop!" cried Arthur Holbrook, clutching my arm.
I flung round and faced Miss Pat and Rosalind. They stood for a moment in the doorway; then Miss Pat advanced slowly toward us where we formed a little semi-circle, and as I dropped Henry's wrists the brothers stood side by side. Arthur took a step forward, half murmuring his sister's name; then he drew back and waited, his head bowed, his hands thrust into the side pockets of his coat. In the dead quiet I heard the babble of the creek outside, and when Miss Pat spoke her voice seemed to steal off and mingle with the subdued murmur of the stream.
"Gentlemen, what is it you wish to lie to me about?"
A brave little smile played about Miss Pat's lips. She stood there in the light of the candles, all in white as I had left her on the terrace of Glenarm, in her lace cap, with only a light shawl about her shoulders. I felt that the situation might yet be saved, and I was about to speak when Henry, with some wild notion of justifying himself, broke out stridently:
"Yes; they meant to lie to you! They plotted against me and hounded me when I wished to see you peaceably and to make amends. They have now charged me with murder; they are ready to swear away my honor, my life. I am glad you are here that you may see for yourself how they are against me."
He broke off a little grandly, as though convinced by his own words.
"Yes; father speaks the truth, as Mr. Donovan can tell you!"
I could have sworn that it was Rosalind who spoke; but there by Rosalind's side in the doorway stood Helen. Her head was lifted, and she faced us all with her figure tense, her eyes blazing. Rosalind drew away a little, and I saw Gillespie touch her hand. It was as though a quicker sense than sight had on the instant undeceived him; but he did not look at Rosalind; his eyes were upon the angry girl who was about to speak again. Miss Pat glanced about, and her eyes rested on me.
"Larry, what were the lies you were going to tell me?" she asked, and smiled again.
"They were about father; he wished to involve him in dishonor. But he shall not, he shall not!" cried Helen.
"Is that true, Larry?" asked Miss Pat.
"I have done the best I could," I replied evasively.
Miss Pat scrutinized us all slowly as though studying our faces for the truth. Then she repeated:
"But if either of my said sons shall have teen touched by dishonor through his own act, as honor is accounted, reckoned and valued among men—" and ceased abruptly, looking from Arthur to Henry. "What was the truth about Gillespie?" she asked.
And Arthur would have spoken. I saw the word that would have saved his brother formed upon his lips.
Miss Pat alone seemed unmoved; I saw her hand open and shut at her side as she controlled herself, but her face was calm and her voice was steady when she turned appealingly to the canoe-maker.
"What is the truth, Arthur?" she asked quietly.
"Why go into this now? Why not let bygones be bygones?"—and for a moment I thought I had checked the swift current. It was Helen I wished to save now, from herself, from the avalanche she seemed doomed to bring down upon her head.
"I will hear what you have to say, Arthur," said Miss Pat; and I knew that there was no arresting the tide. I snatched out the sealed envelope and turned with it to Arthur Holbrook; and he took it into his hands and turned it over quietly, though his hands trembled.
"Tell me the truth, gentlemen!"—and Miss Pat's voice thrilled now with anger.
"Trickery, more trickery; those were stolen from Helen!" blurted Henry, his eyes on the envelope; but we were waiting for the canoe-maker to speak, and Henry's words rang emptily in the shop.
Arthur looked at his brother; then he faced his sister.
"Henry is not guilty," he said calmly.
He turned with a quick gesture and thrust the envelope into the flame of one of the candles; but Helen sprang forward and caught away the blazing packet and smothered the flame between her hands.
"We will keep the proof," she said in a tone of triumph; and I knew then how completely she had believed in her father.
"I don't know what is in that packet," said Gillespie slowly, speaking for the first time. "It has never been opened. My lawyer told me that father had sworn to a statement about the trouble with Holbrook Brothers and placed it with the notes. My father was a peculiar man in some ways," continued Gillespie, embarrassed by the attention that was now riveted upon him. "His lawyer told me that I was to open that package—before—before marrying into"—and he grew red and stammered helplessly, with his eyes on the floor—"before marrying into the Holbrook family. I gave up that packet"—and he hesitated, coloring, and turning from Helen to Rosalind—"by mistake. But it's mine, and I demand it now."
"I wish Aunt Pat to open the envelope," said Rosalind, very white.
Henry turned a look of appeal upon his brother; but Miss Pat took the envelope from Helen and tore it open; and we stood by as though we waited for death or watched earth fall upon a grave. She bent down to one of the candles nearest her and took out the notes, which were wrapped in a sheet of legal cap. A red seal brightened in the light, and we heard the slight rattle of the paper in her tremulous fingers as she read. Suddenly a tear flashed upon the white sheet. When she had quite finished she gathered Gillespie's statement and the notes in her hand and turned and gave them to Henry; but she did not speak to him or meet his eyes. She crossed to where Arthur stood beside me, his head bowed, and as she advanced he turned away; but her arms stole over his shoulders and she said "Arthur" once, and again very softly.
"I think," she said, turning toward us all, with her sweet dignity, her brave air, that touched me as at first and always, beyond any words of mine to describe, but strong and beautiful and sweet and thrilling through me now, like bugles blown at dawn; "I think that we do well, Arthur, to give Henry his money."
And now it was Arthur's voice that rose in the shop; and it seemed that he spoke of his brother as of one who was afar off. We listened with painful intentness to this man who had suffered much and given much, and who still, in his simple heart, asked no praise for what he had done.
"He was so strong, and I was weak; and I did for him what I could. And what I gave, I gave freely, for it is not often in this world that the weak may help the strong. He had the gifts, Pat, that I had not, and troops of friends; and he had ambitions that in my weakness I was not capable of; so I had not much to give. But what I had, Pat, I gave to him; I went to Gillespie and confessed; I took the blame; and I came here and worked with my hands—with my hands—" And he extended them as though the proof were asked; and kept repeating, between, his sobs, "With my hands."