CHAPTER XXI
THE FATE OF THE "MIWAKA"
"So this isn't your house, Judah?"
"No, Alan; this is an Indian's house, but it is not mine. It is AdamEnos' house. He and his wife went somewhere else when you needed this."
"He helped to bring me here then?"
"No, Alan. They were alone here--she and Adam's wife. When she foundyou, they brought you here--more than a mile along the beach. Twowomen!"
Alan choked as he put down the little porcupine quill box which hadstarted this line of inquiry. Whatever questions he had asked of Judahor of Sherrill these last few days had brought him very quickly back toher. Moved by some intuitive certainty regarding Spearman, she hadcome north; she had not thought of peril to herself; she had struggledalone across dangerous ice in storm--a girl brought up as she had been!She had found him--Alan--with life almost extinct upon the beach; sheand the Indian woman, Wassaquam had just said, had brought him alongthe shore. How had they managed that, he wondered; they had somehowgot him to this house which, in his ignorance of exactly where he wasupon the mainland, he had thought must be Wassaquam's; she had gone toget help-- His throat closed up, and his eyes filled as he thought ofthis.
In the week during which he had been cared for here, Alan had not seenConstance; but there had been a peculiar and exciting alteration inSherrill's manner toward him, he had felt; it was something more thanmerely liking for him that Sherrill had showed, and Sherrill had spokenof her to him as Constance, not, as he had called her always before,"Miss Sherrill" or "my daughter." Alan had had dreams which had seemedimpossible of fulfilment, of dedicating his life and all that he couldmake of it to her; now Sherrill's manner had brought to him somethinglike awe, as of something quite incredible.
When he had believed that disgrace was his--disgrace because he wasBenjamin Corvet's son--he had hidden, or tried to hide, his feelingtoward her; he knew now that he was not Corvet's son; Spearman had shothis father, Corvet had said. But he could not be certain yet who hisfather was or what revelation regarding himself might now be given.Could he dare to betray that he was thinking of Constance as--as hecould not keep from thinking? He dared not without daring to dreamthat Sherrill's manner meant that she could care for him; and that hecould not presume. What she had undergone for him--her venture aloneup the beach and that dreadful contest which had taken place betweenher and Spearman--must remain circumstances which he had learned butfrom which he could not yet take conclusions.
He turned to the Indian.
"Has anything more been heard of Spearman, Judah?"
"Only this, Alan; he crossed the Straits the next day upon the ferrythere. In Mackinaw City he bought liquor at a bar and took it withhim; he asked there about trains into the northwest. He has gone,leaving all he had. What else could he do?"
Alan crossed the little cabin and looked out the window over thesnow-covered slope, where the bright sun was shining. It was verystill without; there was no motion at all in the pines toward theice-bound shore; and the shadow of the wood smoke rising from the cabinchimney made almost a straight line across the snow. Snow had coveredany tracks that there had been upon the beach where those who had beenin the boat with him had been found dead. He had known that this mustbe; he had believed them beyond aid when he had tried for the shore tosummon help for them and for himself. The other boat, which hadcarried survivors of the wreck, blown farther to the south, had beenable to gain the shore of North Fox Island; and as these men had notbeen so long exposed before they were brought to shelter, four menlived. Sherrill had told him their names; they were the mate, theassistant engineer, a deckhand and Father Perron, the priest who hadbeen a passenger but who had stayed with the crew till the last.Benjamin Corvet had perished in the wreckage of the cars.
As Alan went back to his chair, the Indian watched him and seemed notdispleased.
"You feel good now, Alan?" Wassaquam asked.
"Almost like myself, Judah."
"That is right then. It was thought you would be like that to-day."He looked at the long shadows and at the height of the early morningsun, estimating the time of day. "A sled is coming soon now."
"We're going to leave here, Judah?"
"Yes, Alan."
Was he going to see her then? Excitement stirred him, and he turned toWassaquam to ask that; but suddenly he hesitated and did not inquire.
Wassaquam brought the mackinaw and cap which Alan had worn on Number25; he took from the bed the new blankets which had been furnished bySherrill. They waited until a farmer appeared driving a team hitchedto a low, wide-runnered sled. The Indian settled Alan on the sled, andthey drove off.
The farmer looked frequently at Alan with curious interest; the sunshone down, dazzling, and felt almost warm in the still air.Wassaquam, with regard for the frostbite from which Alan had beensuffering, bundled up the blankets around him; but Alan put them downreassuringly. They traveled south along the shore, rounded into LittleTraverse Bay, and the houses of Harbor Point appeared among theirpines. Alan could see plainly that these were snow-weighted andboarded up without sign of occupation; but he saw that the Sherrillhouse was open; smoke rose from the chimney, and the windows winkedwith the reflection of a red blaze within. He was so sure that thiswas their destination that he started to throw off the robes.
"Nobody there now," Wassaquam indicated the house. "At Petoskey; we goon there."
The sled proceeded across the edge of the bay to the little city; evenbefore leaving the bay ice, Alan saw Constance and her father; theywere walking at the water front near to the railway station, and theycame out on the ice as they recognized the occupants of the sled.
Alan felt himself alternately weak and roused to strength as he sawher. The sled halted and, as she approached, he stepped down. Theireyes encountered, and hers looked away; a sudden shyness, which senthis heart leaping, had come over her. He wanted to speak to her, tomake some recognition to her of what she had done, but he did not dareto trust his voice; and she seemed to understand that. He turned toSherrill instead. An engine and tender coupled to a single car stoodat the railway station.
"We're going to Chicago?" he inquired of Sherrill.
"Not yet, Alan--to St. Ignace. Father Perron--the priest, youknow--went to St. Ignace as soon as he recovered from his exposure. Hesent word to me that he wished to see me at my convenience; I told himthat we would go to him as soon as you were able."
"He sent no other word than that?"
"Only that he had a very grave communication to make to us."
Alan did not ask more; at mention of Father Perron he had seemed tofeel himself once more among the crashing, charging freight cars on theferry and to see Benjamin Corvet, pinned amid the wreckage and speakinginto the ear of the priest.
Father Perron, walking up and down upon the docks close to the railwaystation at St. Ignace, where the tracks end without bumper or blockingof any kind above the waters of the lake, was watching south directlyacross the Straits. It was mid-afternoon and the ice-crusher _Ste.Marie_, which had been expected at St. Ignace about this time, wasstill some four miles out. During the storm of the week before, thefloes had jammed into that narrow neck between the great lakes ofMichigan and Huron until, men said, the Straits were ice-filled to thebottom; but the _Ste. Marie_ and the _St. Ignace_ had plied steadilyback and forth.
Through a stretch where the ice-crusher now was the floes had changedposition, or new ice was blocking the channel; for the _Ste. Marie_,having stopped, was backing; now her funnels shot forth fresh smoke,and she charged ahead. The priest clenched his hands as the steamermet the shock and her third propeller--the one beneath her bow--suckedthe water out from under the floe and left it without support; she metthe ice barrier, crashed some of it aside; she broke through, recoiled,halted, charged, climbed up the ice and broke through again. As shedrew nearer now in her approach, the priest walked back toward therailway station.
It was not merely a confessional which
Father Perron had taken from thelips of the dying man on Number 25; it was an accusation of crimeagainst another man as well; and the confession and accusation both hadbeen made, not only to gain forgiveness from God, but to right terriblewrongs. If the confession left some things unexplained, it did notlack confirmation; the priest had learned enough to be certain that itwas no hallucination of madness. He had been charged definitely torepeat what had been told him to the persons he was now going to meet;so he watched expectantly as the _Ste. Marie_ made its landing. Atrain of freight cars was upon the ferry, but a single passenger coachwas among them, and the switching engine brought this off first. Atall, handsome man whom Father Perron thought must be the Mr. Sherrillwith whom he had communicated appeared upon the car platform; the youngman from Number 25 followed him, and the two helped down a young andbeautiful girl.
They recognized the priest by his dress and came toward him at once.
"Mr. Sherrill?" Father Perron inquired.
Sherrill assented, taking the priest's hand and introducing hisdaughter.
"I am glad to see you safe, Mr. Stafford." The priest had turned toAlan. "We have thanks to offer up for that, you and I!"
"I am his son, then! I thought that must be so."
Alan trembled at the priest's sign of confirmation. There was no shockof surprise in this; he had suspected ever since August, when CaptainStafford's watch and the wedding ring had so strangely come toConstance, that he might be Stafford's son. His inquiries had broughthim, at that time, to St. Ignace, as Father Perron's had brought himnow; but he had not been able to establish proof of any connectionbetween himself and the baby son of Captain Stafford who had been bornin that town.
He looked at Constance, as they followed the priest to the motor whichwas waiting to take them to the house of old Father Benitot, whoseguest Father Perron was; she was very quiet. What would that gravestatement which Father Perron was to make to them mean to him--to Alan?Would further knowledge about that father whom he had not known, butwhose blood was his and whose name he now must bear, bring pride orshame to him?
A bell was tolling somewhere, as they followed the priest into FatherBenitot's small, bare room which had been prepared for their interview.Father Perron went to a desk and took therefrom some notes which he hadmade. He did not seem, as he looked through these notes, to berefreshing his memory; rather he seemed to be seeking something whichthe notes did not supply; for he put them back and reclosed the desk.
"What I have," he said, speaking more particularly to Sherrill, "is theterrible, not fully coherent statement of a dying man. It has given menames--also it has given me facts. But isolated. It does not givewhat came before or what came after; therefore, it does not make plain.I hope that, as Benjamin Corvet's partner, you can furnish what I lack."
"What is it you want to know?" Sherrill asked.
"What were the relations between Benjamin Corvet and Captain Stafford?"
Sherrill thought a moment.
"Corvet," he replied, "was a very able man; he had insight and mentalgrasp--and he had the fault which sometimes goes with those, ahesitancy of action. Stafford was an able man too, considerablyyounger than Corvet. We, ship owners of the lakes, have not the worldto trade in, Father Perron, as they have upon the sea; if you observeour great shipping lines you will find that they have, it would seem,apportioned among themselves the traffic of the lakes; each line hasits own connections and its own ports. But this did not come throughagreement, but through conflict; the strong have survived and made adivision of the traffic; the weak have died. Twenty years ago, whenthis conflict of competing interests was at its height, Corvet was thehead of one line, Stafford was head of another, and the two lines hadvery much the same connections and competed for the same cargoes."
"I begin to see!" Father Perron exclaimed. "Please go on."
"In the early nineties both lines still were young; Stafford had, Ibelieve, two ships; Corvet had three."
"So few? Yes; it grows plainer!"
"In 1894, Stafford managed a stroke which, if fate had not intervened,must have assured the ultimate extinction of Corvet's line or itsabsorption into Stafford's. Stafford gained as his partner FranklinRamsdell, a wealthy man whom he had convinced that the lake trafficoffered chances of great profit; and this connection supplied him withthe capital whose lack had been hampering him, as it was stillhampering Corvet. The new firm--Stafford and Ramsdell--projected theconstruction, with Ramsdell's money, of a number of great steelfreighters. The first of these--the _Miwaka_, a test ship whoseexperience was to guide them in the construction of the rest--waslaunched in the fall of 1895, and was lost on its maiden trip with bothStafford and Ramsdell aboard. The Stafford and Ramsdell interestscould not survive the death of both owners and disappeared from thelakes. Is this what you wanted to know?"
The priest nodded. Alan leaned tensely forward, watching; what he hadheard seemed to have increased and deepened the priest's feeling overwhat he had to tell and to have aided his comprehension of it.
"His name was Caleb Stafford," Father Perron began. "(This is whatBenjamin Corvet told to me, when he was dying under the wreckage on theferry.) 'He was as fair and able a man as the lakes ever knew. I hadmy will of most men in the lake trade in those days; but I could nothave my will of him. With all the lakes to trade in, he had to pickout for his that traffic which I already had chosen for my own. But Ifought him fair, Father--I fought him fair, and I would have continuedto do that to the end.
"'I was at Manistee, Father, in the end of the season--December fifthof 1895. The ice had begun to form very early that year and wasalready bad; there was cold and a high gale. I had laid up one of myships at Manistee, and I was crossing that night upon a tug toManitowoc, where another was to be laid up. I had still a third onelading upon the northern peninsula at Manistique for a last trip which,if it could be made, would mean a good profit from a season which sofar, because of Stafford's competition, had been only fair. Afterleaving Manistee, it grew still more cold, and I was afraid the icewould close in on her and keep her where she was, so I determined to gonorth that night and see that she got out. None knew, Father, exceptthose aboard the tug, that I had made that change.
"'At midnight, Father, to westward of the Foxes, we heard the fourblasts of a steamer in distress--the four long blasts which havesounded in my soul ever since! We turned toward where we saw thesteamer's lights; we went nearer and, Father, it was his great, newship--the _Miwaka_! We had heard two days before that she had passedthe Soo; we had not known more than that of where she was. She hadbroken her new shaft, Father, and was intact except for that, buthelpless in the rising sea...'"
The priest broke off. "The _Miwaka_! I did not understand all thatthat had meant to him until just now--the new ship of the rival line,whose building meant for him failure and defeat!
"There is no higher duty than the rescue of those in peril at sea.He--Benjamin Corvet, who told me this--swore to me that, at thebeginning none upon the tug had any thought except to give aid. Asmall line was drifted down to the tug and to this a hawser wasattached which they hauled aboard. There happened then the first ofthose events which led those upon the tug into doing a great wrong.He--Benjamin Corvet--had taken charge of the wheel of the tug; threemen were handling the hawser in ice and washing water at the stern.The whistle accidentally blew, which those on the _Miwaka_ understoodto mean that the hawser had been secured, so they drew in the slack;the hawser, tightened unexpectedly by the pitching of the sea, caughtand crushed the captain and deckhand of the tug and threw them into thesea.
"Because they were short-handed now upon the tug, and also becauseconsultation was necessary over what was to be done, the young owner ofthe _Miwaka_, Captain Stafford, came down the hawser onto the tug afterthe line had been put straight. He came to the wheelhouse, whereBenjamin Corvet was, and they consulted. Then Benjamin Corvet learnedthat the other owner was aboard the new ship as well--Ramsdell--the manwhose money you have
just told me had built this and was soon to buildother ships. I did not understand before why learning that affectedhim so much.
"'Stafford wanted us' (this is what Benjamin Corvet said) 'to tow himup the lake; I would not do that, but I agreed to tow him toManistique. The night was dark, Father--no snow, but frightful windwhich had been increasing until it now sent the waves washing clearacross the tug. We had gone north an hour when, low upon the water tomy right, I saw a light, and there came to me the whistling of a buoywhich told me that we were passing nearer than I would have wished,even in daytime, to windward of Boulder Reef. There are, Father, nopeople on that reef; its sides of ragged rock go straight down fortyfathoms into the lake.
"'I looked at the man with me in the wheelhouse--at Stafford--and hatedhim! I put my head out at the wheelhouse door and looked back at thelights at the new, great steamer, following safe and straight at theend of its towline. I thought of my two men upon the tug who had beencrushed by clumsiness of those on board that ship; and how my own shipshad had a name for never losing a man and that name would be lost nowbecause of the carelessness of Stafford's men! And the sound of theshoal brought the evil thought to me. Suppose I had not happenedacross his ship; would it have gone upon some reef like this and beenlost? I thought that if now the hawser should break, I would be rid ofthat ship and perhaps of the owner who was on board as well. We couldnot pick up the tow line again so close to the reef. The steamer woulddrift down upon the rocks--'"
Father Perron hesitated an instant. "I bear witness," he saidsolemnly, "that Benjamin Corvet assured me--his priest--that it wasonly a thought; the evil act which it suggested was something which hewould not do or even think of doing. But he spoke something of whatwas in his mind to Stafford, for he said:
"'I must look like a fool to you to keep on towing your ship!'
"They stared, he told me, into one another's eyes, and Stafford grewuneasy.
"'We'd have been all right,' he answered, 'until we had got help, ifyou'd left us where we were!' He too listened to the sound of the buoyand of the water dashing on the shoal. 'You are taking us too close,'he said--'too close!' He went aft then to look at the tow line."
Father Perron's voice ceased; what he had to tell now made his facewhiten as he arranged it in his memory. Alan leaned forward a littleand then, with an effort, sat straight. Constance turned and gazed athim; but he dared not look at her. He felt her hand warm upon his; itrested there a moment and moved away.
"There was a third man in the wheelhouse when these things werespoken," Father Perron said, "the mate of the ship which had been laidup at Manistee."
"Henry Spearman," Sherrill supplied.
"That is the name. Benjamin Corvet told me of that man that he wasyoung, determined, brutal, and set upon getting position and wealth forhimself by any means. He watched Corvet and Stafford while they werespeaking, and he too listened to the shoal until Stafford had comeback; then he went aft.
"'I looked at him, Father,' Benjamin Corvet said to me, 'and I let himgo--not knowing. He came back and looked at me once more, and wentagain to the stern; Stafford had been watching him as well as I, and hesprang away from me now and scrambled after him. The tug leapedsuddenly; there was no longer any tow holding it back, for the hawserhad parted; and I knew, Father, the reason was that Spearman had cut it!
"'I rang for the engine to be slowed, and I left the wheel and wentaft; some struggle was going on at the stern of the tug; a flash camefrom there and the cracking of a shot. Suddenly all was light about meas, aware of the breaking of the hawser and alarmed by the shot, thesearchlight of the _Miwaka_ turned upon the tug. The cut end of thehawser was still upon the tug, and Spearman had been trying to clearthis when Stafford attacked him; they fought, and Stafford struckSpearman down. He turned and cried out against me--accusing me ofhaving ordered Spearman to cut the line. He held up the cut end towardRamsdell on the _Miwaka_ and cried out to him and showed by pointingthat it had been cut. Blood was running from the hand with which hepointed, for he had been shot by Spearman; and now again and a secondand a third time, from where he lay upon the deck, Spearman fired. Thesecond of those shots killed the engineer who had rushed out where Iwas on the deck; the third shot went through Stafford's head. The_Miwaka_ was drifting down upon the reef; her whistle sounded again andagain the four long blasts. The fireman, who had followed the engineerup from below, fawned on me! I was safe for all of him, he said; Icould trust Luke--Luke would not tell! He too thought I had orderedthe doing of that thing!
"'From the _Miwaka_, Ramsdell yelled curses at me, threatening me forwhat he thought that I had done! I looked at Spearman as he got upfrom the deck, and I read the thought that had been in him; he hadbelieved that he could cut the hawser in the dark, none seeing, andthat our word that it had been broken would have as much strength asany accusation Stafford could make. He had known that to share asecret such as that with me would "make" him on the lakes; for the lossof the _Miwaka_ would cripple Stafford and Ramsdell and strengthen me;and he could make me share with him whatever success I made. ButStafford had surprised him at the hawser and had seen.
"'I moved to denounce him, Father, as I realized this; I moved--butstopped. He had made himself safe against accusation by me!None--none ever would believe that he had done this except by my order,if he should claim that; and he made plain that he was going to claimthat. He called me a fool and defied me. Luke--even my own man, theonly one left on the tug with us--believed it! And there was murder init now, with Stafford dying there upon the deck and with the certaintythat all those on the _Miwaka_ could not be saved. I felt the noose asif it had been already tied about my neck! And I had done no wrong,Father! I had only thought wrong!
"'So long as one lived among those on the _Miwaka_ who had seen whatwas done, I knew I would be hanged; yet I would have saved them if Icould. But, in my comprehension of what this meant, I only stared atStafford where he lay and then at Spearman, and I let him get controlof the tug. The tug, whose wheel I had lashed, heading her into thewaves, had been moving slowly. Spearman pushed me aside and went tothe wheelhouse; he sent Luke to the engines, and from that moment Lukewas his. He turned the tug about to where we still saw the lights ofthe _Miwaka_. The steamer had struck upon the reef; she hung there fora time; and Spearman--he had the wheel and Luke, at his orders, was atthe engine--held the tug off and we beat slowly to and fro until the_Miwaka_ slipped off and sank. Some had gone down with her, no doubt;but two boats had got off, carrying lights. They saw the tugapproaching and cried out and stretched their hands to us; but Spearmanstopped the tug. They rowed towards us then, but when they got near,Spearman moved the tug away from them, and then again stopped. Theycried out again and rowed toward us; again he moved the tug away, andthen they understood and stopped rowing and cried curses at us. Oneboat soon drifted far away; we knew of its capsizing by theextinguishing of its light. The other capsized near to where we were.Those in it who had no lifebelts and could not swim, sank first. Somecould swim and, for a while they fought the waves.'"
Alan, as he listened, ceased consciously to separate the priest's voicefrom the sensations running through him. His father was Stafford,dying at Corvet's feet while Corvet watched the death of the crew ofthe _Miwaka_; Alan himself, a child, was floating with a lifebelt amongthose struggling in the water whom Spearman and Corvet were watchingdie. Memory; was it that which now had come to him? No; rather it wasa realization of all the truths which the priest's words were bringingtogether and arranging rightly for him.
He, a child, saved by Corvet from the water because he could not bearwitness, seemed to be on that tug, sea-swept and clad in ice, crouchingbeside the form of his father while Corvet stood aghast--Corvet, stillhearing the long blasts of distress from the steamer which was gone,still hearing the screams of the men who were drowned. Then, when allwere gone who could tell, Spearman turned the tug to Manitowoc.... Nowagain the priest's voice became audible to Alan.
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Alan's father died in the morning. All day they stayed out in thestorm, avoiding vessels. They dared not throw Stafford's bodyoverboard or that of the engineer, because, if found, the bullet holeswould have aroused inquiry. When night came again, they had taken thetwo ashore at some wild spot and buried them; to make identificationharder, they had taken the things that they had with them and buriedthem somewhere else. The child--Alan--Corvet had smuggled ashore andsent away; he had told Spearman later that the child had died.
"Peace--rest!" Father Perron said in a deep voice. "Peace to the dead!"
But for the living there had been no peace. Spearman had forced Corvetto make him his partner; Corvet had tried to take up his life again,but had not been able. His wife, aware that something was wrong withhim, had learned enough so that she had left him. Luke had come andcome and come again for blackmail, and Corvet had paid him. Corvetgrew rich; those connected with him prospered; but with Corvet livedalways the ghosts of those he had watched die with the _Miwaka_--ofthose who would have prospered with Stafford except for what had beendone. Corvet had secretly sought and followed the fate of the kin ofthose people who had been murdered to benefit him; he found some oftheir families destroyed; he found almost all poor and struggling. Andthough Corvet paid Luke to keep the crime from disclosure, yet Corvetswore to himself to confess it all and make such restitution as hecould. But each time that the day he had appointed with himselfarrived, he put it off and off and paid Luke again and again. Spearmanknew of his intention and sometimes kept him from it. But Corvet hadmade one close friend; and when that friend's daughter, for whom Corvetcared now most of all in the world, had been about to marry Spearman,Corvet defied the cost to himself, and he gained strength to opposeSpearman. So he had written to Stafford's son to come; he had preparedfor confession and restitution; but, after he had done this and whilehe waited, something had seemed to break in his brain; too long preyedupon by terrible memories, and the ghosts of those who had gone, and bythe echo of their voices crying to him from the water, Corvet hadwandered away; he had come back, under the name of one of those whom hehad wronged, to the lake life from which he had sprung. Only now andthen, for a few hours, he had intervals when he remembered all; in oneof these he had dug up the watch and the ring and other things which hehad taken from Captain Stafford's pockets and written to himselfdirections of what to do with them, when his mind again failed.
And for Spearman, strong against all that assailed Corvet, there hadbeen always the terror of the Indian Drum--the Drum which had beatshort for the _Miwaka_, the Drum which had known that one was saved!That story came from some hint which Luke had spread, Corvet thought;but Spearman, born near by the Drum, believed that the Drum had knownand that the Drum had tried to tell; all through the years Spearman haddreaded the Drum which had tried to betray him.
So it was by the Drum that, in the end, Spearman was broken.
The priest's voice had stopped, as Alan slowly realized; he heardSherrill's voice speaking to him.
"It was a trust that he left you, Alan; I thought it must be that--atrust for those who suffered by the loss of your father's ship. Idon't know yet how it can be fulfilled; and we must think of that."
"That's how I understand it," Alan said.
Fuller consciousness of what Father Perron's story meant to him wasflowing through him now. Wrong, great wrong there had been, as he hadknown there must be; but it had not been as he had feared, for he andhis had been among the wronged ones. The name--the new name that hadcome to him--he knew what that must be: Robert Alan Stafford; and therewas no shadow on it. He was the son of an honest man and a good woman;he was clean and free; free to think as he was thinking now of the girlbeside him; and to hope that she was thinking so of him.
Through the tumult in his soul he became aware of physical feelingsagain, and of Sherrill's hand put upon his shoulder in a cordial,friendly grasp. Then another hand, small and firm, touched his, and hefelt its warm, tightening grasp upon his fingers; he looked up, and hiseyes filled and hers, he saw, were brimming too.
They walked together, later in the day, up the hill to the small, whitehouse which had been Caleb Stafford's. Alan had seen the house beforebut, not knowing then whether the man who had owned it had or had notbeen his father, he had merely looked at it from the outside. Therehad been a small garden filled with flowers before it then; now yardand roofs were buried deep in snow. The woman who came to the door waswilling to show them through the house; it had only five rooms. One ofthose upon the second floor was so much larger and pleasanter than therest that they became quite sure that it was the one in which Alan hadbeen born, and where his young mother soon afterward had died.
They were very quiet as they stood looking about.
"I wish we could have known her," Constance said.
The woman, who had showed them about, had gone to another room and leftthem alone.
"There seems to have been no picture of her and nothing of hers lefthere that any one can tell me about; but," Alan choked, "it's good tobe able to think of her as I can now."
"I know," Constance said. "When you were away, I used to think of youas finding out about her and--and I wanted to be with you. I'm gladI'm with you now, though you don't need me any more!"
"Not need you!"
"I mean--no one can say anything against her now!"
Alan drew nearer her, trembling.
"I can never thank you--I can never tell you what you did for me,believing in--her and in me, no matter how things looked. And then,coming up here as you did--for me!"
"Yes, it was for you, Alan!"
"Constance!" He caught her. She let him hold her; then, stillclinging to him, she put him a little away.
"The night before you came to the Point last summer, Alan, he--he hadjust come and asked me again. I'd promised; but we motored thatevening to his place and--there were sunflowers there, and I knew thatnight I couldn't love him."
"Because of the sunflowers?"
"Sunflower houses, Alan, they made me think of; do you remember?"
"Remember!"
The woman was returning to them now and, perhaps, it was as well; fornot yet, he knew, could he ask her all that he wished; what hadhappened was too recent yet for that. But to him, Spearman--half madand fleeing from the haunts of men--was beginning to be like one whohad never been; and he knew she shared this feeling. The light in herdeep eyes was telling him already what her answer to him would be; andlife stretched forth before him full of love and happiness and hope.
THE END
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