CHAPTER XXXVIII
OLD PHOTOGRAPHS
In the days that followed, John Saxton knew again the heartache andloneliness which he had known before Warry Raridan came into his life.He had lost the first real friend he had ever had, and his days wereonce more empty of light and cheer. His work still engrossed him, but itfailed to bring him the happiness which he had found in it when he andWarry discussed its perplexities together. His memory sought its oldruts again; the hardship and failure of his years in Wyoming were likefresh wounds. He talked to no one except Bishop Delafield, who hadreasoned him out of his self-indictment for Warry's death. He did notknow that his own part in the recovery of Grant Porter, as BishopDelafield described it, was touched with a fine and generous courage,and he would have resented it if he had known.
Warry was constantly in his thoughts; but he thought much of Evelyn too;through all the years to come, he told himself, he would remember themand they would be his ideals. Echoes of the gossip which connectedWarry's name and Evelyn's reached him, and he felt no shock that suchsurmises should be afloat. Warry and he had understood each other; theyhad talked of Evelyn frequently; Warry had come to him often with theconfidences of a despairing lover, and John had encouraged and consoledhim. He predicted his ultimate success; it had always seemed to him aninevitable thing that Warry and Evelyn should marry.
Three weeks passed before he saw her, and then he went to her with anexcuse for his visit in his mind and heart. Warry had left a will inwhich the bulk of his property--and it was a respectable fortune--wasgiven for the endowment of a hospital for children. Saxton was named asexecutor and as a trustee of the fund thus set apart. Warry had nevermentioned the matter to any one; he had probably never thought of itvery seriously, and John wished to talk to Evelyn about it.
It seemed strange that the Porter drawing-room was the same, wheneverything else had changed; he had not been there since the afternoonwhen he walked home with Evelyn through the cold. He despised himselffor that now; it was an act of disloyalty to Warry; but he would now bemore loyal to the dead than he had been to the living.
As they talked together he saw no change in her; and he felt himselfwondering what manner of change it was that he had expected to find. Hehad heard of people who aged suddenly with grief, but Evelyn was thesame, save for a greater composure, a more subdued note of manner andvoice. She bent forward in her deep interest in what he told her ofWarry's bequest. He wished her help, and asked for it as if it were herright to give it. Surely no one had a better claim than she, he thought.
"It is so like Warry," she said. "It will be a beautiful memorial, andthere is enough to do it very handsomely."
"He liked things to be done well," said John. He marveled that she couldspeak of it so quietly. Failure and grief possessed his eyes, and Evelynwas conscious of a deepening of the pathos she had always seen and feltin him, as he sat talking of his dead friend. She pitied him, and wasobedient to his evident wish to talk of Warry.
John spoke of Warry's last photographs, and Evelyn went and brought anumber which he had never seen. Several of them dated back to Warry'sboyhood. They were odd and interesting--boyish pictures which thespectacles made appear preternaturally old. One of these, that Johnliked particularly, Evelyn asked him to take, and his face lighted withpleasure when she made it plain that she wished him to have it. She toldof some of Warry's pranks in their childhood, and they laughed over themwith guarded mirth.
"It was wonderful that so many kinds of people were fond of Warry," saidEvelyn. "He never tried to please, and yet no man in town ever had somany friends."
"It's like genius, I suppose," said John. "It's something in people thatwins admiration. No one can define it or explain it. I think, though,"he added in a lower tone, "I know how it was in my own case. I hadalways wanted a friend like him to take me out of myself and help me;but a man like Warry had never come my way before; and if he had hewould probably have been in a hurry."
He laughed and then was very grave. "But Warry always had time for me."At his last words he looked up at her and saw tears shining in her eyes.
"Oh, forgive me--forgive me!" he cried. "It must--I know it must hurtyou to talk of him. But I couldn't help it. I thought you mustunderstand what he meant to me. Dear old Warry!"
He held in his hand the little card photograph she had given him, and herose and thrust it into his pocket.
"He was a charming, gentle spirit," said Evelyn. "It will mean a greatdeal to us that we knew him. You meant a great deal to him, Mr. Saxton.You helped him. It was--" She halted, confused, and had evidentlyintended to say more. The color suddenly mounted to her face. She didnot offer him her hand which he had stepped forward to take, and hedropped his own, which he had half extended.
"Good night." Her eyes followed him to the hall.
On his way home--he still lived at the club--John reviewed, sentence bysentence, his talk with Evelyn. He had not expected her to speak sofrankly of Warry; but, he told himself, it was like her. He touched thephotograph she had given him, and held it up as he passed under an arclamp to be sure of it. He was surprised that she had given it to him; hedid not think a girl would give away a rare picture of a dead lover,which must have a peculiar sacredness for her. Then he was angry withhimself for a thought that criticised her. She had given it to himbecause he was Warry's friend!
When he reached his room he put the photograph of Warry on his table andtook another similar card from a drawer. It was the little picture ofEvelyn which he had often seen on Warry's dressing-table. It showed herstanding by a tall chair; her hair hung in long braids. It was verygirlish and quaint; but it was unmistakably Evelyn.
Warry in his will had directed that John should have such of hispersonal effects as he might choose; the remainder he was to destroy orsell. John chose a few of the books that Warry had liked best, and thepicture. He put it down now beside the photograph of Warry. They borethe name of the same photographer, and had probably been taken in thesame year. He lighted his pipe and tramped back and forth across thefloor, occasionally stopping at his desk to look at the cards carefully.He had no right to Evelyn Porter's picture, he told himself. He wastaking advantage of his dead friend's kindness to appropriate it. Hewould not destroy it; he would give it to some one--to Mrs. Whipple, toEvelyn herself! Yes, it should be to Evelyn; and having reached thisconclusion, he put the two pictures away together and went to bed.
The next day he was called away unexpectedly to Colorado to close a saleof the Neponset Trust Company's interest in the irrigation company. Thecall came inopportunely, as the plans for the reorganization of theTraction Company were not yet perfected; but the matter was urgent, andFenton told him to go. There was not time, he assured himself, to returnthe photograph before leaving, so he carried both the little cards awaywith him, with a half-formed intention of sending Evelyn's to her fromDenver; but when he returned to Clarkson he still carried thephotographs in his pocket.
The Main Chance Page 38
